Wilda's Outlaw

by Velda Brotherton

  “Then this might be just what you’d want. It don’t pay much, but there’s a place in the back where you can bed down, so that counts for something. Especially here where rooms for the hired help is at a premium.”

  The situation sounded ideal, but he made as if to think more about it for a spell.

  Two or three men who had lined up behind him grumbled among themselves.

  The man stared at him. “Mister, either you want the job or you don’t. They’s others waiting.”

  Determined to remain friendly and not attract attention, he held up a hand. “Sorry, fellers.” Then to the man behind the desk, “Well, okay.” He thought maybe he’d better ask about the pay so as not to look suspicious. “So, what’s it pay?”

  The man at his back muttered noisily.

  “Ten dollars a month, and lucky to get that.”

  “Hey, you gonna bed down here or just set up a revival?” the bowlegged man behind him asked.

  Any other time or place Calder would’ve whipped the smart aleck’s butt, just on principle. Not today. Not here. Certainly not now. Instead, he took the slip of paper, thanked the man behind the table and left, tightening a cinch on his temper.

  As he rode slowly up the street he studied the new storefronts until he spotted a plate glass window. Black letters proclaimed VICTORIA CITY BANK. Probably the first place they built, so they could stow away all their money. Only rich folks could buy up this much railroad land and build a town out of nothing, then hire others to run things. He intended to see they shared their riches with some of those less fortunate souls still suffering from that damned war. Even if he had to burn this town to the ground. The foreigners had no notion what settlers here had gone through just to keep a small piece of land and feed their families. They’d soon find out that it wasn’t as easy to take over a place as they might think.

  The tall, bald blacksmith introduced himself as Lucas Smith, eagerly showed Calder where to put his horse and store his meager belongings, then put him to work.

  Soon covered in sweat, Calder removed Jim Johnson’s shirt and hung it on a post. He carried coal to the forge and hauled in great chunks of iron from a pile outside the shop. With a pair of long handled tongs he stored Smith’s finished scrollwork still hot from the fire, and generally made himself useful to the man until darkness stopped them for the day. He hadn’t been allowed to forge so much as a piece of iron, and it might have been a good thing. He had never seen such twists and turns of design as Smith put in the decorative pieces. The man was an artist, good as Calder's Pa.

  “These Englishmen are a picky lot,” Smith explained. “They want curlicues on their gates and decorations at their doors. I’ve hammered enough iron into knockers and hitching rails and pokers and fireplace adornment and gates and fences to fill a railroad car, and still the orders come. And that’s to say nothing of repairing broken wagon wheels and other such fittings. And I ain’t got time to teach you. Watch and learn. I need a young man such as you for the heavy toting. You can’t do that, you’re useless to me.”

  “Hey, fine with me. I’ll do what you got for me to do.”

  Calder retired to the small room on the back corner of the shop where he would be allowed to sleep in a bed of straw and find a bit of privacy. His belly growled, and he washed up at a rain barrel out back, put on his shirt and headed for the only eating place he’d seen in town—a restaurant in the hotel near the train depot. A fancy place called The Manor.

  The meal, something called boiled pork and pease pudding, tasted foreign to him, nothing like fatback or salted ham, but he was too hungry to care. These Englishmen had an odd way about them, and they ate funny stuff too. A sweet pudding was offered, but he declined, afraid it would be as bad as that pease pudding served with the main course. Why didn’t they have plain old apple pie or peach cobbler? Maybe he could get Smith to allow him to cook his own meals on the forge after they’d finished up at night. He’d sure admire a hunk of beef, a bowl of beans and a good cup of Arbuckle Coffee to wash away the taste of that gruel the English called food and the pale colored tea they drank.

  Despite the hard work, bad food and straw bed, he slept deeply that night and awoke rested and eager to fit in so no one would be suspicious of him. When he stumbled from his room Smith was loading up a wagon. Didn’t look like he’d have any spare time to check out the bank that day.

  “Get a move on, son. We’ve got some work to do out at Fairhaven. One of them doo-dah English Lord’s places. Fetch that tool bag fer me.”

  Fairhaven, huh? He’d heard of that place. At the moment he couldn’t recall where. Calder hefted the canvas sling and put it in the back of the wagon. After they loaded the portable forge and anvil, he climbed up on the seat beside Smith.

  “Who’s this Lord?” he asked when they were on their way out of town.

  “A Lord Blair Prescott. He’s built an honest to goodness stone castle a few miles out of town. Calls it Fairhaven. You ain’t seen the like in all your born days, I’ll wager. Limeys.” Smith shook his head, spat the last word like an epitaph, and snapped the lines across the horse’s flanks.

  Despite his reason for being in Victoria, Calder looked forward to seeing a real English castle. He felt blamed good too, after working all the previous afternoon with Smith. A bit sore, but good all the same. His Pa had always said hard work was good for a man, but Calder had never much agreed till now.

  Funny, how he remembered Pa all of a sudden. It wasn't like he wanted to, though. Then he'd have to recall that awful day he'd come on him sprawled in a bramble patch, killed by bushwhackers. And him only fifteen at the time. He shook away the vision of Pa dead like that, and watched the road ahead for first sight of the Englishman’s castle. Maybe he’d remember where he’d heard of this place by the time they got there.

  Chapter Five

  The clatter of hooves and rattle of a wagon distracted Wilda from this distasteful second meeting with Lord Blair. Beyond the window, a vehicle drew up outside the barn and two men leaped down. One, a giant with no hair whatsoever on his head, the other long and lean, with dark hair and a rakish walk—one she wouldn’t soon forget.

  Her outlaw. What was he doing here? In the light of events taking place in the castle, the train robbery had temporarily slipped her mind. And now, outside the window, was one of the men who had pointed a pistol at her. Though she had not seen his face, she recognized the graceful way he moved. Her heart knocked against her ribs.

  “Madame,” Prescott insisted. “I am here, not beyond that window.”

  Regretfully, she dragged her attention back to the pronouncement of her doom. “I’m sorry, Sir. What is it you wish of me?”

  “We must discuss the wedding arrangements, which were made prior to your arrival. All that remains is the fitting of the gown. It has been made for you. Simmons will take you to town this afternoon for that, and you may also shop for your, ahem…unmentionables.”

  It was a wonder he hadn’t purchased those as well. How kind of him to allow her to choose her own drawers and corset. How badly she wanted to tell him so, but again she trapped her tongue between her teeth. His reference to unmentionables brought unwelcome visions. His hands removing her clothes, fingers brushing over her flesh, his mouth committing unthinkable tasks such as she'd only heard whispered about. She shuddered, slid her glance toward the barn once more. Both men had disappeared inside.

  Prescott dropped the paper knife with a clatter, and she jerked, pinned her gaze once more on him. He rose, leaned forward, stiff arms braced on the desktop. “The marriage will be performed here Saturday, fortnight, in the formal dining room, with a reception to follow. Everyone from the village will attend, save the laborers. It will be a celebration and a feast. The first wedding to take place in Victoria City, and it will also be the finest anyone has ever seen. That is, if my wife-to-be can bring herself to concentrate on the ceremonies.”

  Fifteen days. The preening lout. With fists clenched, she listened to what was surel
y the sound of her heart breaking. Or perhaps the closing of a door to any happiness she might have expected with this man. He was abominable. In all her imaginings, she had not expected to hate him so. Had actually hoped she could learn to love him. Sadly, it was already clear that would never happen.

  “Well, what have you to say?”

  She stared past him through the windows and across the barren plain. As barren as her life would be here at Fairhaven. “It sounds…lovely.” She swallowed the sob that crept into her throat. Couldn't help gazing toward the window once again.

  Movement wavered through the wash of unshed tears. The young outlaw exited the barn, climbed onto the wagon and tossed down a bag of what must be tools. The large bald man joined him and they lifted something rather large from the back and carried it to the center of the barnyard. She recalled how the outlaw had tipped his hat at her, green eyes glinting with the sheer joy of his escapade, as if it were some sort of game he played. How agilely he had leapt from the train into the saddle of a running horse. What was he doing here? Perhaps he was going to rob Fairhaven. What a delightful idea that was. She would be pleased to assist him. Perhaps she could convince him to take her up behind him in the saddle, sweep her away.

  Prescott cleared his throat, and she returned her attention to the room. He lowered himself into the chair, leather creaked, and he opened a ledger and fanned one hand in the air. “Well, you may go now. Be ready to leave for your fitting after the midday meal.”

  He did not look at her again, nor did he so much as glance out the window to learn what she found so fascinating. Odious, self-centered man. Head held high, she strode from the sumptuous room without honoring him with a word. Perhaps she would help the outlaw carry away all this distasteful show of wealth.

  In the hallway she glanced longingly toward the front doors. Long streamers of sunlight flowed through the leaded glass windows and splattered on the wide board floors. Escape was all she could think of. With a small cry, she lifted her skirts and hurried across the entry. At the ornate double doors, she didn’t hesitate, but flung them open. Plunged outside into a brisk wind that twisted her heavy skirts and loosened curls of carefully pinned hair.

  Leaned into its embrace, she breathed in the prairie fragrances to clear the tobacco-whiskey odor of the offensive man she would soon marry. Let her thoughts drift away to the handsome outlaw. Was he still here? And why? Perhaps he led a double life and no one but she knew who he really was. How exciting and how dangerous, but why else would he be here in the guise of a workman? She must find out.

  Because she should not, she brazenly lifted her skirts and hurried around the corner of the house toward the barn. Impossible to run in the heavy toilette. She would find the man with the merry eyes, beg him to take her away. Flee with him across the windy prairie. Certainly a totally absurd idea: a vision of her and the handsome outlaw riding across the plains on the back of a magnificent black stallion. But the fantasy suppressed the unsavory thoughts of her upcoming marriage to the dreadful Lord Blair Prescott. Though it sounded more like something Tyra would dream up, she could not rid her mind of the images.

  Nearing the wagon, she slipped into the shadows of the large building. An acrid odor reminiscent of smoke from the locomotive teased her nostrils. The odd contrivance the two men had lifted from the back of the wagon put out enormous heat and released sparks into the wind. Inside its belly was a bed of glowing coals.

  From the structure came a clattering as of something being dropped. She walked toward the gaping door. Though the walls of the barn were framed, the rock-work hadn’t been completed, nor was the roof finished. Sunlight poured through the rafters. When she stepped past the doorway the scent of horses and hay and leather assailed her nostrils.

  The huge man, wearing a stained apron over his bare chest, came close to sending her toppling, grabbed her in a strong grip to keep her upright and let out an exclamation nearly as robust as he himself. He smelled of sweat and smoke, not nearly as unpleasant as had the man she’d just left.

  “Whoa, there young miss. I almost ran you down,” he said with a joviality that endeared him to her.

  She could not take her eyes off his bare skin, gleaming with perspiration. Men did not go about without shirts at St. Ann’s, and so this was a new sight, one she enjoyed immensely “I…I am sorry, I did not see you."

  The man laughed heartily. “That’s quite all right, young miss. It’s not everyday I can have the pleasure of such an unexpected and enjoyable jolting, if you’ll pardon my saying so. And who is it you want to see?” He seemed not at all unsettled to have her catch him only partially dressed.

  Now that he asked, she wasn’t sure she should pursue this. To keep from fleeing, she held herself tightly in check. Her tongue tied itself in knots, not from fright but from giddy anticipation. What would she say to the outlaw if indeed it was truly him she had seen, and not simply her imagination?

  “Hello, there, you’re the man who robbed the train I was on, and I just wanted to say hello?” No, no. That would never do. How about, “I wanted to thank you for not shooting me yesterday when you robbed the train?” That probably would not be proper either.

  The bald man interrupted her reverie. “Well, now, young miss, if you don’t know who you’re looking for, I don’t think I can help you. What did you say your name is?”

  Nervously, she glanced around, still not seeing the young outlaw. She could hardly ask for him.

  She cleared her throat. “Oh, I am sorry. I am Wilda Annette Duncan. I only arrived yesterday from England, and I was curious, that is all. I thought I saw someone with you…I thought I might have met him before.”

  “You mean Joshua? My helper. He’s in yonder stall.” Before she could stop him, he shouted, “Joshua, someone here to see you.”

  “Yeah, what is it, Smith?” came the voice she remembered so well.

  Why was she so taken by him? Hearing his voice sent chills up her arms. Probably because of that earlier ridiculous fantasy. What if he saw that desire in her features? Too late to run, though.

  From out of the glaring bars of sunlight pouring through the roof, the younger man strode like some graceful animal. He wore no shirt either, only one of those stained leather aprons like the blacksmith’s. Seeing him like that, bare muscular arms, broad shoulders, chest only barely hidden behind a swath of leather, lit a ball of flame in her stomach. No doubt about it, this was the man who had robbed the train. He’d cut his hair, but it was still a tousled mass of dark curls.

  “Yes, hello?” he said. “Who is it?” Once he had a good look, his eyes went to flint. Like prey under the aim of a hunter’s gun, he appeared ready to flee.

  Blast it all, she could not take her gaze off the fine coils of dark hair above the apron’s front and his skin the color of tea. She could not believe she stood thus, staring speechless at a nearly naked man.

  He relaxed. Something in her manner must have reassured him. “I’m sorry, I remember you, but I don’t know your name.” He appeared to be much too amused, and the statement brought her out of her shameful imaginings.

  How brazen he was, and no longer in the least afraid she would reveal his secret. Was her intent that easy to read?

  “Hello, uh, Joshua. My name is Wilda. I thought I knew you when you arrived, but now I see I was mistaken.”

  He grinned, revealing very white teeth, the canines slightly prominent. Wolfish. “Ah, too bad about that. I would be happy to know a lady such as yourself.” After a moment, when she only continued to stare, he went on. “Wilda, did you say? What a nice name for such a beautiful lady. I’m sure I remember you from somewhere. It’ll come back to me.” Once again he smiled as if daring her to remind him of the robbery, then gestured casually toward the house. “Quite a place. Are you just visiting or are you kin to this fella, Prescott?”

  Again, she wished she had an interpreter for the odd words they used in this country. Kin? What was that? However, she needed no one to explain the desires th
at swelled within her, striking her dumb so she couldn’t reply. A vision of her earlier fantasy overpowered her. On the horse’s back, her behind him, arms locked about his waist, his naked waist, their unclothed bodies pressed together. Moving, touching, rubbing against one another in rhythm with the undulating movement of the great black horse between their legs.

  Heat rose from her breasts to her cheeks. She might have swallowed something alive, something that slithered about tickling all her secret places, bringing them to life as well. Dear God in Heaven, what would the nuns say?

  “Miss Wilda?” he inquired and touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Her flesh jerked under his hand. That he’d actually touched her was shocking. She was not, as he said, okay. She definitely was not, but she could not tell him that. Nor could she tell him what was going on inside her. A sensation she had never before experienced. She wished her mother were alive so she could explain those feelings to her. But then, if her mother were alive, she would not be standing here, would she? What an odd realization. The twists and turns life took were indeed strange.

  She forced herself to carry on a conversation with this man so they would not have to part. “Oh, yes, I am fine. I am so sorry to have interrupted your work. I was looking for…” At a loss for words, she waved an arm around, then began to back away from the heat, the smell, the look of him.

  Without saying anything, he reached out, came close to touching her again. How she wished he would. Even so, her arm felt on fire just being near him.

  The man called Smith interrupted. “Don’t you worry your head none, little miss. Your kind of interruptions are welcome anytime. But we better get back to work before the master of the house finds us lollygagging.”

  “Yes, we wouldn’t want to be caught…lollygagging,” Joshua repeated, winked at her, pulled back his hand.

  Unable to stand the pressures building inside another moment longer, she raced from the barn and out into the scorching heat of the prairie sun, where she leaned against the wagon gasping for air. Under the heavy clothing, her skin was slick and wet.