"But Jesse!" one of the gang objected. "He killed Pete!"
"Pete was a hotheaded young fool," Jesse snapped. "I'd already given the order to pull out. He shouldn't have taken it on himself to throw down on this fella."
"I'm glad you see it that way," Logan said. "I didn't want any killing."
He glanced over at Gillian, who had collapsed on a leather settee and clapped her hands over her ears. She huddled there looking terrified, ready to flinch if more shots rang out. He wanted to tell her it was all right . . . but he didn't know for sure yet if that was true.
"So we're not going to do anything about Pete?" one of the outlaws asked. Logan thought from the voice that the man was Frank James.
"We'll take him and see that he's laid to rest properly," Jesse said. "And maybe the rest of you will remember not to go against my orders in the future."
There was quite a bit of grumbling among the members of the gang, but several of them holstered their guns and picked up the dead man's body to carry it off the train.
Jesse James was the last one off the platform this time. He looked back through the open door at Logan and said, "Just a word of advice, friend. Might be a good idea if you and I didn't cross trails again."
"I'll bear that in mind," Logan said, "but I can't guarantee what fate might take it in its head to do."
"Don't reckon any of us can," Jesse James said. He lifted a hand in a salute of farewell, then was gone.
Logan waited until he heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats from outside and knew the outlaws were riding away. Then he lowered the scattergun. He placed it on the bar and went to the settee where Gillian still waited, trembling. Her eyes were pressed tightly closed.
He sat down beside her and put a hand on her arm. Her eyes flew open and she gasped. Her head jerked from side to side as she looked around the car.
"They're . . . they're gone?" she asked.
Logan nodded and said, "They're gone."
The only sign that the outlaws had been there was a large smear of blood on the floor, but he didn't point that out.
Gillian leaned toward him and threw her arms around his neck. She hugged him and pressed herself close. He felt the little shudders that went through her.
"I was so scared," she whispered. "I thought they were going to kill us. That was Jesse James!"
"I know," Logan said.
"We're lucky to be alive!"
"More than likely," he agreed.
She took him by surprise then, lifting her face to his and kissing him. The soft, warm, insistent pressure of her lips and the feel of her body against his sent a shiver through him. He was as human as the next man, and he responded to her even though he knew she didn't mean anything by what she was doing. She was just scared because of the violence that had come so close to her.
After a moment she pulled back and looked away from him. "Logan," she said, "Mr. Handley . . . I'm so sorry . . ."
"Don't be," he said. "We're alive, and that's the main thing. Believe me, I've come close enough to dying, often enough, to know that."
"I'm sure you have. I . . . I never saw anyone move like that. My eyes couldn't even follow you."
To Logan it had seemed that his reaction was almost painfully slow. He never should have let that outlaw get back in the railroad car to start with. And his shot had beaten the young man's only by a split-second. That had been enough time to save his life, but it was a lot closer than it should have been.
He suspected Gillian wouldn't understand that even if he tried to explain it to her, and at that moment he heard agitated voices approaching outside. He stood up and quickly moved over to the bar. The scattergun still had one loaded barrel if he needed to use it.
He didn't. The conductor and engineer climbed up onto the platform. The blue-uniformed conductor said, "Miss Baldwin, are you all right?"
Of course they were worried about Gillian, Logan thought; none of them wanted to have an important man like Marcus Baldwin angry at them.
Gillian stood up. She was in control of herself again, cool and calm as she said, "Of course I'm all right. Mr. Handley protected me from those terrible men."
"One of the brakemen said he heard some shots from in here." The conductor looked down at the blood on the floor. "What happened?"
"I was forced to shoot one of the outlaws," Logan said.
The engineer asked, "Did he get away?"
Logan shook his head. "No. His friends took his body with them when they rode off."
Both men stared at him. The conductor said, "And they didn't shoot you?"
"That was the James gang," Gillian said before Logan could answer. "Jesse James himself was in here. He ordered his men not to harm Mr. Handley."
"Why would he do that?" the conductor asked. The man's eyes suddenly narrowed with suspicion. "Are you and Jesse James friends, mister?"
"Not at all," Logan said. "But he had decided not to rob us, and the man I had to kill went against those orders. He didn't like that, so he and his men took the body and rode off."
The engineer grunted and said, "Not before bendin' a gun barrel over my fireman's head when he tried to jump 'em."
"Not before cleaning out the other passengers and the express car, too," added the conductor. "You folks are lucky."
Logan wasn't sure if the conductor believed him, or if the man still suspected there was some sort of connection between him and Jesse James. If that was the case, there was nothing he could do about it, so he decided not to let it bother him.
Instead he said, "Will we be heading on to Little Rock soon?"
The conductor nodded. "Yeah, the track is clear. A couple of 'em jumped from a cutbank down onto the coal tender, climbed into the cab, and forced Roy to stop. Then the rest came out of the trees on horseback. The varmints are good at what they do, I'll give 'em that."
The conductor and engineer went back to their duties, and a few minutes later the train began to move again, rolling toward Little Rock. Gillian didn't say anything else about the kiss she and Logan had shared, and he didn't bring it up, either.
He already had enough complications in his life without adding to them.
* * *
Marcus Baldwin's man was waiting at the depot in Little Rock, and as soon as the train had stopped, he came aboard the private car followed by half a dozen heavily armed guards. Several local police officers were with him, too. Baldwin obviously had a lot of influence even here in the state capital.
The leader of the group, a tall, bearded man named Hanratty, showed Logan a letter from Baldwin authorizing him to take charge of the payroll. Gillian was acquainted with Hanratty, too, and also verified the man's identity for Logan. In a matter of minutes, Hanratty worked the combination on the safe, swung the heavy door open, and removed two valises from it.
Logan wasn't sorry to see the money go. He had carried out this part of the job successfully.
Now all he had to worry about was Gillian.
They went to the hotel where they would be staying and checked in, then enjoyed a late lunch while porters from the train station delivered Gillian's numerous pieces of luggage. Having sometimes lived out of saddlebags for weeks at a time, Logan was amused by how much the young woman had brought with her to spend one night away from home. She didn't travel light, that was for sure.
After they had eaten, Gillian went back up to the suite to put her hat on again before setting out on her shopping expedition. Logan went with her, of course. He didn't intend to let her out of his sight more than necessary until they got back to Hot Springs.
"You don't have to go with me," she told him. "I'm just going to several different dress shops and milliners. You'd be terribly bored, Logan."
"Your father is paying me to look after you," he said. "I intend to do my job."
"So that's the only reason you'd want to spend time with me? Because you're being paid to do it?"
He could tell by the smile on her face that she was joking, but she seemed genuinely i
nterested in the answer to the question, too. He said, "Of course not. Any man in his right mind would be very happy to spend time with you."
"In that case, I suppose you can come with me after all."
He planned to whether she gave her permission or not, but he was just as glad he didn't have to fight with her over it.
She was right about one thing, though: he was bored. He sat off to the side in the shops, usually in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, and watched while Gillian went through what seemed like every piece of clothing, every hat, every scarf and handkerchief, every bag, in each place. He didn't see the appeal of it, himself, but people had their own interests, he supposed.
The important thing was that she was safe, and when they got back to the hotel that evening, she told him at supper that they would be returning to Hot Springs the next day.
"I was talking to one of my old friends today, Priscilla Danton," Gillian said. "She was Madame Frederique's, remember?"
All the stores blended together in Logan's mind, and since Gillian had seemed to know someone at every one of them, what she said didn't do much to jog his memory. But he nodded and said, "Of course."
"She told me about an interesting place called Michael's that I ought to visit. They have dancing there, Priscilla said, and gambling as well."
"Sounds like a saloon," Logan said with a smile.
"Oh, no, it caters to a much better class of people than a mere saloon. It's in one of the fine old houses here and is run by a true gentleman. I'd like to go."
Logan tilted his head to the side and said, "I don't know . . . It doesn't really sound like the sort of place your father would like for you to visit."
"Well, my father's not here, is he?" Gillian snapped. "And I don't know if you've noticed or not, Logan, but I'm a grown woman."
Oh, he had noticed, he thought. He had noticed plenty.
"Of course," she went on, her attitude changing abruptly, "if you'd rather stay in the suite this evening, I'm sure we could think of something to do. I was so impressed by your bravery today, and you were so gallant to defend me and then comfort me when the danger was over . . . I'd certainly like to repay you for all the kindness you've shown me, Logan."
The look in her eyes made it clear that expressing her gratitude could take whatever form he wanted it to. He was tempted, but only for a brief moment. He reminded himself again that he didn't need any extra complications in his life and said, "I don't think that would be a good idea, either. It's been a long day for both of us. I think we should make an early night of it."
Each in their own room in the suite, he thought. He hoped he wouldn't have to spell that out to Gillian. It would be awkward if he did.
She tried pouting, but it didn't work on him. After a few minutes she said, "All right. I suppose I am pretty tired, and it's probably a good idea to get a good night's sleep before that long train ride tomorrow. But if you change your mind . . . you'll know where to find me."
Logan wasn't going to change his mind. He had more sense than that.
At least he hoped he did.
19.
When they were back in the suite, Gillian said good night and vanished into her room. Logan had no reason to stay up and did the same.
He was getting ready for bed and had his shirt off when he heard a noise in the sitting room. Thinking that Gillian might need something, he sighed and pulled his shirt back on, fastening the buttons awkwardly as he went to the door. He opened it and looked into the sitting room.
Before leaving the room earlier, he had blown out the lamps. They were still out, and the room was dark. Enough light came from his bedroom for him to be able to make out the shapes of the furniture, but that was all. He didn't hear anyone moving around.
Yet he would have sworn that he had, a moment earlier, he thought as a frown creased his forehead. Actually, the noise he'd heard had sounded like someone bumping into a piece of furniture in the dark.
"Is anyone there?" he called softly. "Miss Baldwin?"
The rest of the suite was silent now.
Logan stepped over to the dressing table where he had placed the holstered Colt and slid the short-barreled revolver from leather. He returned to the door between the bedroom and sitting room and went through it as quickly as he could so he wouldn't be silhouetted against the light from the bedroom lamp for more than a moment. He went to the door of Gillian's room and rapped on it with the butt of his gun.
"Miss Baldwin? Gillian?"
Still no answer. Logan bit back a curse. If she was playing some sort of trick on him, or trying to lure him into her bedroom so she could seduce him, he was going to feel foolish. But so was she, when she found out it wasn't going to work.
But even if that was what he was dealing with here, he had to be sure she was all right. He had to know where she was.
He grasped the knob with his left hand. It wasn't very strong, but he could turn a doorknob with it.
As he did, he nudged the door open with his right foot. The room beyond was dark. Again, some of the light from his room reached it, but only enough for him to make out where the bed was, not whether anyone was in it. He limped closer and said, "Miss Baldwin, this needs to stop – "
He saw now the lightness of rumpled sheets, but no dark patch of a body lying on them. He reached down with his left hand and ran his palm over the sheets. They were cool and empty.
Gillian wasn't here.
Logan didn't suppress the curse this time. He let it rip. He knew what had happened. He had told her she couldn't go to that gambling den she had mentioned, and she didn't like it when anyone said "No" to her. So she had pretended to go along with him, then slipped out of the room as soon as she got the chance.
She hadn't even waited until it was more likely that he was asleep. That was how sure of herself she was.
Angrily, Logan went back to his room and pulled the rest of his clothes back on. He strapped the Colt's cross-draw rig to his belt and settled his hat on his head. Then he took his cane and headed downstairs.
The clerk at the desk in the lobby looked surprised when Logan asked if he had seen Gillian. "Miss Baldwin?" the man said. He shook his head. "Not at all, sir. I was under the impression she was in her father's regular suite."
"That's where she should be," Logan said. "Can you get buggies in front of the hotel?"
"Of course, although there are fewer at this time of night."
Logan nodded curt thanks and turned toward the hotel's front door.
"Do you need some help, sir?" the clerk called after him.
"Probably," Logan muttered under his breath, but he didn't pause or turn around.
He went outside and leaned on his cane as he waited for a buggy for hire to come along. Several minutes later, a vehicle drawn by a tired-looking horse came along the street and drew up in front of the hotel when Logan waved his cane at the driver.
"You need to go somewhere, mister?" the driver asked in deep, slow tones.
"Do you know a gambling house called Michael's?" Logan asked. "It's supposed to be a pretty fancy place."
"Michael's," the driver repeated. "Can't say as I – Wait a minute. You ain't talkin' about Red Mike's, are you?"
"I don't know. It's supposed to be a place where there's gambling and drinking and dancing, and it's in an old mansion somewhere in town."
"That'd be Red Mike's," the man said. "I ain't sure it'd be a good idea for you to be goin' there, sir. It can get kinda rough, and with you bein' . . . well . . ."
"I know I'm crippled," Logan snapped. He brought his anger under control and went on, "I'm sorry. But this Red Mike's would be a bad place for a young woman to go alone, wouldn't it? A well brought up young woman?"
"Yes, mister, it sure would," the driver said.
Logan reached for the buggy seat. "Take me there," he said.
"You sure about that?"
"I don't have any choice in the matter."
* * *
Logan's anger had subsid
ed somewhat and he was cooler-headed by the time the cab reached the big, old plantation house on the outskirts of Little Rock. The driver explained, "Used to be a fine family owned this place before the war. Some of my kinfolks worked here. Slaves, you know. But they was plenty who had it worse. Then the war come along and wiped 'em out. Carpetbagger fella, Irishman name of Michael Carnahan, came in and took it over, turned it into a place for rich folks to drink and gamble and do whatever unsavory things they took it into their minds to do. Got to be rougher and rougher and some of the rich folks stopped comin'. Now it's mostly just trash, but sometimes somebody from the better classes wanders in. They got that curiosity, you know, 'bout how all them squalid lower class folks live. I've heard some stories . . ."
The driver's voice trailed off, and he shook his head.
"What's your name?" Logan asked.
"They call me Deacon, sir, on account of I been known to preach the word of the Lord when the spirit's on me."
"I appreciate you helping me, Deacon. I'll see to it that you're well paid if you'll wait for me outside the place."
"I can do that," Deacon said. "I can go in with you if you want. Some of the folks in there won't like it, but I'll do it if you need me to."
"The former Confederates, you mean?"
Deacon snorted and said, "Them, too, but mostly them northern carpetbaggers. Didn't take me long after they got here for me to figure out they done hate us worse'n southern folks do. War wasn't much more'n an excuse for them to come in and take over ever'thing from the plantations to the big businesses. Reckon it's good that we ain't slaves no more, but if'n you look around, you'll see that most of us ain't all that much better off. Anyway, you see how come I took to preachin'." He laughed. "I'm just naturally long-winded, I reckon."
"Well, you just wait out here," Logan said as he climbed out of the buggy. "We may have to leave in a hurry. I hope it doesn't come to that, but if it does . . ."
"I'll be ready," Deacon said.
A number of wagons, buggies, carriages, and saddle horses were tied up in front of the plantation house. A few drivers lounged with their vehicles, smoking quirlies. Logan limped past them and went toward the front door, which had a cornice lamp burning on either side of it. The door was open, and he heard music and laughter coming from beyond it.
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