Rising anger threatened to turn her into a complete fool.
“Do you intend to simply stand there like an idiot while your friend terrifies these women and children and takes what little we possess?” Her stare caught his. Imprudent of her, but she wasn’t known for either temerity or common sense.
The two men were cut from the same cloth, one used brute force, while the other had learned to charm. It didn’t make him any the less dangerous.
Easy to see he thought her highly entertaining, however. At least for the moment. “You are all rich Englishmen. You’ll not miss it, and your gold and coins will go to a good cause, I promise. No one will get hurt.”
Again Tyra struggled to arise from her cramped position between the seats, but Wilda forced her down. She would likely want to try on the man’s sweat-stained, shabby hat or play with the gun.
Behind her, poor Mrs. Stanley obviously took all she could stand and let out a high-pitched wail. The keening roused the others, as if they had been awaiting permission to panic. Other women added their cries, a harmony of wild proportions. A baby near the front squalled, Rebecca and Donald Wainscott’s little girl Katrina, yowled for her mama.
A stout man, dressed in a gray suit and black bowler, who had boarded in St. Louis and was not a part of the Victoria group, climbed to his feet and shouted in a stuttering voice, “N-now s-see here, young m-man.”
Ignoring the challenge, Muddy Eyes stuck the barrel of his pistol under the screaming Mrs. Stanley’s nose, and ordered her to shut up. The poor soul fainted dead away, tumbling onto the floor like a huge sack of flour, one corpulent stockinged leg exposed like an obscenity.
He whirled, waving the revolver around in the air. “The rest of you, shut up.”
All obeyed except the baby, whose mother held it close to her breast to muffle its squalls.
Muddy Eyes was not nearly as equitable as her outlaw, who so far had done nothing but exchange verbal thrusts with her. That caused her to attempt to appeal to him one more time.
For a moment he regarded her, eyes glittering dangerously. Clearly he would take only so much. Unable to look away, she met his stare, but remained silent. He swept off his hat, releasing a wave of midnight dark hair, then taunted her with an exaggerated bow and moved toward his partner, passing so close he brushed against her.
An odor of sweat and prairie heat crawled over her like a dark fear gone mad. Yet she could not stop watching him rob these poor people, visiting with them in a friendly tone that caused some to actually respond favorably to his boyish charm.
The oppressive summer afternoon gripped them all, added to the misery and tension.
“Well, little lady, what do ye have fer me?” Muddy Eyes’ gruff demand muffled all hope that everything would somehow be fine.
“I have nothing of value to anyone, sir.” Wilda lifted her chin and set her lips firmly, though her heart thumped so hard he surely could hear. Mama’s tiny gold cross hung in the dampness between her breasts, and she would not give it up. Not ever.
“Put it in here, gal.” He poked her arm with the gun.
The cross was all she had left to remember her dear departed mother. In stubborn silence, she glared into his doughy features. The train lurched, throwing him against her, smothering her with his rank odor of unwashed flesh. The hard cold barrel of the gun pressed between her breasts. Her skin rippled and she shoved away from the distasteful contact, gloved fists clenched to control the trembling. He would shoot her, surely, but he only ripped the delicate chain from around her neck and dropped it into the hat.
Before she could react, Tyra rose from the floor, delicate fists clenched. “You leave her alone, you dreadful man. Can you not see we have nothing? Nothing. Everyone knows we Duncans are poor as church mice.”
Fingers clawed, she launched herself at the man.
The outlaw did exactly the opposite of what Wilda expected. He captured Tyra’s fine wrists and began to laugh. “Look it here, Raines, we got us a wildcat.”
Tyra kicked him in the shins. He hopped backward but didn’t let her go. “Hey, that hurt.”
“Well, then release her, you lout.” Wilda grabbed his arm. “And give me back my cross, you nasty man.”
He shook her off as if she were a pesky insect, shoved her back into the seat and flung Tyra down beside her. “Dang it, Raines. You said this’d be easy.”
The one called Raines grabbed his partner’s arm, raised as if to strike someone, anyone. Turned a metallic gaze on Wilda. “Foolishness must run in the family. I’d advise you settle down and let us take our leave.” To Muddy Eyes, he said, “Leave them be, no need to beat up on women and children.”
“Dang it, it’s them beatin’ up on me. She kicked me.” He pointed at Tyra like a pouting little boy. A very dangerous one.
The young outlaw’s emerald gaze slid over her and he executed a curious little bow. “Sorry, ma’am. I do apologize for my friend. Is the child hurt?”
“Her hurt? Hell, she kicked me. And that’n too.”
Encouraged by Raines’ gentleness, Wilda stuck out her chin at Muddy Eyes. “I’ll not apologize, either, you great big bully. I want my cross back.”
Raines laughed and, though muffled by the dusty bandana, the dark hilarity gathered chills along her spine. Danger flared behind those flinty eyes.
Tyra renewed her attack on the unfortunate outlaw. “You overgrown lunk. If I were a man I should challenge you, here and now.”
Raines’ eyes crinkled. “Little spitfire, ain’t you? Ma’am, you’d better put a rein on that one, or she’ll get in deeper than she can wade out.” He held up his pistol. “Girl, this is a gun. It shoots real bullets that kill. You’d best not rile my friend here, or I don’t know if I can keep him bridled. He’s got one of these too.”
Again, Wilda barely comprehended the dialect.
“Nobody tells me what to do,” Tyra said.
“Tyra, behave yourself. Go sit with Rowena.”
The child made a face, but struggled down the aisle of the swaying car, hanging on to the seats as she went.
“And what about you, ma’am? Does anyone tell you what to do?” The young outlaw’s gaze absorbed Wilda, and she couldn’t forget his earlier challenge.
Drawing herself up straight, she glared at him. “No man. Certainly none such as yourself, nor your less than decorous friend. You are impudent, sir, and quite uncivilized, even for this country of yours.”
He laughed heartily. “You English don’t have no room to pick at the way we talk. With all your fancy words. You’d a thought you’d swallowed a persimmon and couldn’t get rid of your pucker. But make no mistake, I’m worse than uncivilized, and you’d do well to remember that.” He tipped his revolting hat, revealing once again the luxurious mane of hair the color of polished mahogany wood.
Coming on the heels of his flirtatious behavior, the words frightened her more than the actions of Muddy Eyes, but he didn’t give her a chance to say so.
“Madame, with your permission I’ll take your leave.” Once more tipping his hat, he turned and shouted at his friend. “We’re done here, let’s skedaddle or we’ll arrive in Hays City in the lap of Sheriff Calumet.”
How disconcerting, the way his hair curled from beneath the soiled hat. Worse was his devil-may-care manner under such frightening circumstances, and then that pointed threat. As if they might see each other again and she should beware. As if, should he be forced to kill her he would do so while laughing. How dare he play games with her after he had as much as threatened to shoot Tyra? Yet, whatever was crawling around in the pit of her stomach was not disgust, but rather a thinly veiled longing to stand too near a fire. She dared not examine the emotion too closely.
A few minutes later, the outlaws were gone, much as they had come, leaping onto their horses led by a companion who rode alongside the moving train. Wilda leaned out the open window, squinted at the smoke and grit from the steam engine until the three figures disappeared against the distant hor
izon. Her heart still thudded so hard she could scarcely breathe. What a country. And what frightening inhabitants. All the more terrifying was the way the outlaw’s mere glance set her on fire in places a Victorian lady never dared consider.
She touched the cleft between her perspiring breasts. How she hated to lose Mama’s cross, but perhaps it was fitting to approach her husband-to-be Blair Prescott with nothing of her old life but memories. All the same, the loss brought tears to her eyes. She brushed them away and refused to give in to a feeling of extreme loneliness that enclosed her in its grasp.
Behind her, Marguerite Chesshire bustled and chattered. Red faced, the woman fanned herself with a handkerchief, and stopped to peer at poor Mrs. Stanley, who had come to her senses and been helped into a seat.
Tut-tutting, Marguerite moved on. “Oh, dear. Dear me. A wonder we weren’t all murdered where we sat. Such a country. Child, child, come in out of that wind. Look at your hair, let me pin it up. You must look your best for Lord Prescott.” Plump fingers patting and poking, she mumbled, “There, and there. That’s much better.”
Satisfied, Marguerite sighed, lowered herself in the seat across the aisle and mopped her heated face, at last able to speak of what had occurred. “My goodness, so much excitement. I thought my poor heart would stop beating. Do you suppose this sort of thing happens often in this place?”
A few seats away, a tall, lean cowboy who’d scarcely roused himself from his slouch during the robbery, spoke in a slow drawl. “Near as regular as clockwork. The sheriff’s been after them three for a coon’s age. Even gets the army involved on occasion. That there was Calder Raines and a feller known as Baron. Rode with Quantrill, they did. Other one with the horses, Deacon James. Did a little preaching in his time. Them boys ain’t never learned the war is over. Still think they can get back at the Yankees for all they done to the people around these parts. Drives Sheriff Calumet near crazy with didoes such as this.”
Not sure she caught the real meaning of the man’s unfamiliar words, Wilda did catch the young one’s name. Calder. Calder Raines. How American, how western. A real outlaw name. Again she shivered, recalled the warmth of his breath against the pulse at her wrist, the sensual scrutiny that turned to ice so easily.
Marguerite tugged at her sleeve. “Cover your ears, child, and mind your manners. The good Lord knows some of us still possess such a thing.” She shot a fiery glare at the cowboy, but he had turned away to stare out the window, and paid her words no mind at all.
Eager to hear more, Wilda protested. “Don’t you care who those men are?”
The cowboy turned back to face her, went on as if Marguerite’s concern or scolding meant little to him. “Now, Raines, yonder.” He nodded toward the prairie slipping past the window. “Went into the war when he was just a lad of sixteen. After his older brothers was killed. Reckon he didn’t get enough of the fighting, fer it was over within a few months, and him rarin’ to kill him some more Yankees. Rode out west and sure enough found him some more war. Carries a lead ball in his back, I hear, from Palmito. That there was the true last battle of the Civil War, you know. In May it was. A good month after General Lee surrendered. All more’n ten years ago now, but no one can seem to get enough of talking about it. Reckon, though, he made a better soldier than he does an outlaw. Easy to see his heart ain’t in robbing common, ordinary folk.”
His thoughtful expression slid over Wilda. “You’d better take care. They’s gals in ever town willing to hide that one in their beds…and perform deeds not fit for a young lady’s ears as well.”
“Sir,” Marguerite gasped and fanned viciously.
Not deterred, the cowboy went on, appearing amused at the response his tale elicited. “He’s free with his charms, is Calder Raines…and the spoils of his little adventures as well. Gives the most of it away to folks what lost everything in the war. Or so I hear. This place was bloody, right bloody, ma’am. And plenty of suffering. Yes, siree. Reckon that explains the bad reputation of Hays City. Boot Hill’s been filling up fast, yes siree. You English’d do well to remain in Victoria and not set foot there. Cain’t be tamed, that town. Why, they done run off Wild Bill Hickok, one of the best lawmen in these parts.”
Marguerite tut-tutted, her glower darkening. “That’s enough, Wilda. Quite enough. You must stop listening to such talk. And you, sir. I’d appreciate it if you would kindly mind your tongue.”
The cowboy shrugged, and Wilda stared out the window at the empty plains flying by, wondering if it was always so hot and dry and windy in this place called Kansas. And secretly hoping she’d see this Calder Raines again.
The train stopped at Hays City where both Wilda and Tyra leaned against the smoky windows to get a glimpse of all this American wildness proclaimed by their cowboy traveling companion.
“Looks okay to me,” Tyra muttered in a disappointed tone.
“Maybe it only gets wild at night,” Wilda replied.
After a pause, what the cowboy informed one and all was spent informing the sheriff of the robbery, the train moved on, carrying the weary English at last to their final destination. Despite what might await them at the end of this long, tedious journey, Wilda wanted only for it to end so she could solve her problem of being promised to that dark and foreboding Lord Blair Prescott.
Chapter Two
Calder hunkered low in the saddle and urged the big bay into a fast gallop. On either side, Deke and Baron yahooed and spurred their animals. Behind them, the train snaked its way toward Hays City where the robbery would be big news. And no doubt a posse would soon be hot on their trail. He’d been wanted for a long time. By damn, he’d keep it that way. Wanted, not caught. Between his thighs, the rippling muscles of the powerful animal inflamed thoughts of the woman with the fiery hair and temper to match. From what little he knew of Victorians, she was a breed apart. Spoke her mind and deferred to no one. And a beauty to boot, skin like cream and eyes as blue as cornflowers. A handful, he’d bet.
What would she say about the hold-up? How would she describe him? She sure didn’t think much of him. Didn’t matter a lot, though. There were plenty of pretty women around who wouldn’t stir up the kind of trouble that one could, should she set her mind to it.
The bay’s long legs ate up the miles across the deceptively flat prairie, leaving behind his hollering companions. Where the land sloped down into the Smoky River Valley he reined up. As his horse two-stepped down the incline, Baron and Deke caught up. Calder didn’t look back, but studied the road through the valley. Ahead, tucked into a cut-back, a low-slung shack clung to the bank, surrounded by twisted cottonwood trees so as to be hidden from prying eyes. Beside it a spring bubbled from the ground, filled a small bowl, then disappeared back into the earth as if it had never existed.
“You two ride on. I’ll hang about for a while, make sure we lost ’em coming through that shale bed. I’ll be along shortly.”
Sure was good to be close to home, such as it was. Not much to brag about, considering he’d once lived in a huge white house on the banks of the Missouri River. He, his brothers Rafe and Land, and Maw and Paw. Back when days were bright, and peaceful nights were lit by stars. The smells and sounds of river traffic a song to his soul. But that was another time, another life. No use thinking about it, ’cause it was gone. Blasted apart by the war.
The minute he let those memories go, the redhead on the train returned to peck away at him. Her words had cut through the crust he’d built around his heart and soul. Dangerous, coming to this country with that much uppitiness. She’d get herself hurt or killed. A desire to protect her caused a tremor of hope way down deep. Maybe he had kept a little humanity after all. No use in letting those thoughts in either. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could play the happy outlaw with and come away unscathed.
Besides, in this life he’d chosen, there was no time for such nonsense. Especially not with a woman like her.
After about half an hour passed with still no sign of a tracker, he rode dow
n to the river, then followed it a long ways before coming out at the shack. Baron and Deke had put away their horses and sat on the sagging porch.
“You take first watch, Deke.” Without waiting for the man to obey, he dismounted. No question he would do as he was told. That was just Deke. Who was boss of this outfit had been settled years ago, though Baron liked to play the part of boss in public.
“You did good with the horses,” he added, keenly aware of the value of a little praise.
The stocky man, who claimed to be kin to Jesse James—what outlaw didn’t?—nodded and left in silence, as was his way.
Baron he wouldn’t praise, though. His tough-guy shenanigans on the train, and calling him by name, could have serious consequences. But he waited to bring it up until he’d put up his mount and settled with Baron to check the loot in the saddlebags. He dumped out a meager pile of coins, a wad of bills and a double handful of jewelry, mostly men’s watches, a few rings and small brooches. His fingers stirred once again through the gold and silver, stopping on a tiny gold cross, its chain tangled among the rings. The gold felt cool, delicate in his hand. This was hers. Baron had ripped it from her neck and her begging him not to take it. Tears in her eyes, too, like it was more important than just a piece of jewelry. Dammit all, anyway. What had come of his life that he’d stoop to such?
He grunted, dropped the cross in his shirt pocket. Some outlaw he was.
Baron glared at him and grumbled. Poked around in the skimpy valuables. “Hell, look’it that. A few paltry dollars and not enough gold to buy horse feed for a week. We got to find us some better pickin’s, Raines. A bank or a payroll. That, or get out of this business altogether.” Baron slanted him a harsh look. “You keepin’ that gal’s necklace? Worth more than the rest, or you got something else in mind?”
Calder rode his fury hard. “None of your damned business. And you can leave anytime you want. You’re not exactly an asset anymore. Callin' my name out, not once but twice.”
Baron’s broad chest swelled and he drew himself up, brown eyes gazing at the pitiful booty. “Hell. Maybe I’ll go, see how you get along then."
Wilda's Outlaw Page 2
