Forever in Texas

by Jodi Thomas

  “You were the only one getting off the train.”

  Light flashed again as she pulled her shirt over her hand. Ford sucked in a quick breath as he saw her body clearly for a second. She was beautiful. Tall and willowy with full breasts pushing up from a plain camisole. Ebony hair tumbled past rounded hips.

  Her beauty washed over him with a sudden flash of fire. “You’re lovely,” he whispered.

  She grabbed his shirt from the bed and pulled it on. “Well, take a good look, mister, ’cause you’ll never be seeing me again. If you’re smart, you’ll forget you saw me now. Anyone who knows me dies.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forget seeing you,” he answered honestly.

  Pulling on his pants, she laughed. “You sound like you’ve never seen a woman undress. I didn’t get a good look at you back there on the street, but I didn’t think you were a boy.” His belt circled her waist twice. “What are you, some kind of priest…or virgin?”

  Ford’s hard jaw turned to granite. “I’m not a priest.” He wasn’t about to discuss his personal life with the thief stealing his clothes. She’d hardly be interested in how few single girls there were in his town compared to the endless number of men.

  At twenty-five, everyone assumed a man had been with several women, even a man like Sanford. He had never admitted or denied anything about his knowledge of women. But this robber in the shadows had asked a question no one else had ever dared. He watched as she picked up his gun and moved toward him.

  “Lie on the bed, facedown, with your hands behind you,” she ordered in a voice that shook with fear.

  He moved slowly, knowing he could fight for the gun when she started to tie his hands. But to do so, he’d have to frighten her more, or maybe even hurt her. “Is this how every guest of the hotel is greeted? Are you the desk clerk’s woman?”

  She pulled his wrist behind him with her free hand. “I’m nobody’s woman, mister. Nobody’s.”

  The cold imprint of the revolver pressed into the center of his back as she tied his hands with a rope she’d been using as her belt. “Thanks for cooperating. I really didn’t want to shoot you.”

  He twisted slightly so he could see her shadow. “Would you have?”

  “All my life I’ve been doing what I had to. I reckon I’d kill you if need be. You’re about my last hope. Before I saw you get off that train I had nowhere to turn.” Something about the darkness made it easy to be honest. “Just once I wish someone would…” She didn’t finish.

  Ford knew how she felt. He’d felt that way every time a woman turned him down for something as harmless as a Sunday walk. “I hope someday someone will do whatever it is you wish for,” he whispered as he watched her open her bag and pull a huge calico cat from the folds.

  “You brought your cat on a robbery!” Ford couldn’t hide his smile.

  “I had nowhere else to leave him.” The woman removed several metal bracelets from her wrists and dropped them into the bag, then fought the calico to get him back inside.

  “Maybe you should think a little harder about this life of crime you’re in. I have no love for cats, and I’ve never known a bandit, but I don’t think they usually travel with pets.”

  “You’d love Sneeze if you got to know him better,” she defended the cat as she locked the animal back into the bag. “Which you won’t, since I’ll never see you again.”

  “I wish you luck, Miss Nobody’s Woman,” he mumbled as he watched her braid her hair and twist it into his hat. Anyone who could love a cat couldn’t be all that bad.

  She knelt by the bed, only a few inches from his face. Her ribs rested lightly against his shoulder. “Thanks, mister.” Her hand touched his back. She spread her fingers wide as she moved across his muscles to the gun.

  “You’re no boy,” she added, turning her hand over, allowing her knuckles to brush against the warmth of his flesh. “These muscles came from years of hard work, I’d guess.”

  Ford closed his eyes, memorizing the way a woman’s touch felt on his bare skin. Her fingers were light, almost caressing, as though she were stealing this feel of him while she had the opportunity.

  “I have to gag you.” She pulled away slowly, replacing his weapon in the holster on the bedpost.

  “I won’t yell out.” Ford hated the thought of having a rag shoved into his mouth. “If you’ll forget the gag, I’ll give you till first light.”

  Her words brushed his face as she moved near again with silent swiftness. “But why?”

  He didn’t answer. She was so close, he could feel the warmth of her even through his thick cotton shirt, which she now wore.

  “Why should you help me?” She moved slightly, until the warm cotton touched his arm. “Why should I trust you?”

  “Because,” he said, his words raw with honesty, “I’ve never lied.” He had no answer to give her to the first question. Reason told him to go to the sheriff as soon as she left, but he knew he wouldn’t.

  Lightly, she brushed the hair from his brow. “I think I believe you. I wish I could see your face. You’re quite a gentleman, mister. Maybe the first one I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m glad you can’t see my face,” he responded. “You might understand why I live a priest’s life.” He felt her breathe as the shirt she wore pressed against his side.

  “If you stay quiet till dawn, I’ll always remember you as the handsome man I kissed one night while I robbed him.”

  “Kissed?” Even as he said the word, she lowered her lips to his. At first the touch was light, almost timid. As though he were a breed apart from all she’d ever known and she had to touch him once before she left. But when his mouth parted in welcome, she moved closer, cupping the sides of his face with her hands.

  A storm spread through Ford’s body. All his senses seemed magnified at once. He felt the warmth of her fingers against his day’s growth of beard. The softness of her breast pushed against his arm. She tasted sweeter than honey and brown sugar, with a flavor of wildness he’d never known. He treasured the taste of her like a connoisseur must value priceless wine.

  As if she’d longed to be kissed with such tenderness, she responded willingly, moving her fingers into the thickness of his hair, pressing her mouth harder against his. She might steal his clothes, but not his kiss. That he gave willingly.

  Her head lowered beside his and her body leaned across his shoulder. His strained muscles tightened even more with the feel of her softness washing over him as their kiss deepened.

  When he strained suddenly against the ties binding his hands, she moved away with a sigh of regret. There was no need for words; they both knew he struggled not to free himself, but to be able to hold her.

  Silently, she slipped into his huge coat.

  He wanted to yell “don’t go!”, but a man doesn’t call back a thief. As she buttoned the coat, he saw her outline against the window. Dressed in his clothes, her silhouette became his in the shadowy light.

  “Good-bye, stranger,” she whispered as she moved toward the door with her carpetbag in one hand. “And as my Gypsy mother used to say, ‘may the angels bless your days and the fairies enchant your dreams.’”

  “Good-bye, Nobody’s Woman.”

  In a blink, she disappeared into the night.

  Ford lay still for a long time, then slowly twisted his hands until the binding loosened. He sat up in bed and stared out at the rain.

  I’ve been bewitched, he thought, still feeling the pressure of her lips on his mouth, the touch of her fingers over his back. Part of him wanted to look for her, another part wished she’d been a dream, for he had no room for a woman like her in his life.

  Dawn crept into the room in watery shades of blue. Though the hotel was every bit as dirty as he’d thought it might be, Ford barely noticed. His mind was focused on the memory of a figure he’d seen only in shadow.

  She was the embodiment of every vice he’d fought all his life: dishonest, criminal, wild. But he couldn’t push her image from his
mind. He’d fought hard to never do anything wrong, and now with his silence he’d helped a robber escape.

  Lifting her discarded clothes into the light, he saw the patches and mending on thread-thin cloth. A beggar’s rags. But there was nothing poor about the woman he’d seen in the night. She’d been rich with life, richer maybe than he’d ever be.

  A tap sounded on his door, rattling Ford from his thoughts.

  “Train’s leaving!” the desk clerk’s voice yelled, as if in a hurry to be rid of the hotel’s only guest.

  Ford reached for his hand-tooled leather bag. He’d been so hypnotized, he hadn’t even heard the whistle. In only a few minutes he was dressed and running for the station. He was at the platform before he remembered his ticket was in the breast pocket of his coat.

  Hurriedly, he rummaged in his bag for enough money to buy another ticket and jumped aboard the last passenger car as the train pulled away. Now he hardly noticed the crowds, the smells, the voices, for his thoughts were filled with a beautiful thief he’d never see again.

  Chapter 2

  ICY RAIN PINGED on the top of the passenger cars and melted down the windows, distorting the view of a weak sunrise. Passengers, too tired to even pretend to sleep, grumbled and wiggled on benches they’d once thought of as comfortable. The train whistle sounded in one long, determined blow.

  Hannah squared her shoulders and kept her hat low as the conductor punched her ticket. She was relieved when he made no attempt at conversation and simply moved to the next passenger. The screams of a crying baby in the seat behind Hannah drowned out Sneeze’s meows from the carpetbag.

  This just might work, Hannah thought as she slid her hand into the bag to calm her cat. He was a great deal of trouble and increased her chances of getting caught, but she couldn’t leave him behind. Sneeze was all she owned, besides the carpetbag and her mother’s thin gold bracelets, which had been hand tooled by a Gypsy grandfather.

  As the cars jerked into action, a piece of bread rolled against Hannah’s boot. She glanced around. Several lunch boxes, probably bought through the windows of the train at the last stop, now cluttered the car’s floor. A graying bite of meat hung out like a tongue from the half-eaten roll at her feet. Hannah hesitantly reached toward the bread, noticing how dirty her hands were, with their broken nails and scratches marked in dried blood. She pulled the meat from the bread and lowered it into the bag for Sneeze. For a long moment she looked at the roll, trying to remember when she’d eaten last.

  Slowly, she lowered the bread back to the floor, shoving it with her boot in the direction of the other trash. The mice would eat tonight, but she’d not finish another’s meal.

  Sneeze relaxed as he ate the meat without any such scruples. Hannah tried to plan her next move, but she couldn’t keep her thoughts off the man she’d left tied up in the hotel room. He’d been calm when she’d robbed him. Now, wrapped in his clothes, she could smell the warm, clean scent of him. The stranger could spare the garments, she figured, and judging from their quality, he must have plenty of money. But she disliked thinking about him heading north without a hat or heavy coat. He’d been a gentleman. He hadn’t sworn or threatened her when she’d robbed him.

  The stranger had been soft-spoken. A type she’d known little of in her life. Until she and her mother settled in Fort Worth, they hadn’t stayed anywhere long enough to get to know anyone.

  Her mother said it was because they had Gypsy blood and were therefore wandering souls. But Hannah knew it was more because her mother worried about Hannah’s father coming after them. Dana Randell told Hannah she’d bundled her up when Hannah was only a month old and escaped from a man who’d refused to marry her and threatened their lives if anyone ever found out about Hannah being his child.

  When Hannah was eight, Dana decided Fort Worth would be as far as they’d run. She found a job cooking in a little café/saloon, where most of the men were rough drifters just looking for a cheap meal and a few drinks before moving on. An old confederate officer named Hickory Wilson owned the place on the outskirts of Fort Worth. He was good enough to give them a room in the back and wages, and unlike some of the men Dana Randell tried to work for, he asked nothing more from his employee. Dana died of a fever when Hannah was twelve; Hickory hardly seemed to notice when the child took over her mother’s chores. Most of the time he asked only to be left alone with his bottle, his memories, and his wounds.

  No matter how much Hannah scrubbed the café area, it always smelled as the train did now—of spoiling food and unwashed bodies. She thought of trying one of the other cars, but guessed they’d be just as dirty and crowded.

  Hannah suddenly wished she were back at the café, that she’d never met Jude Davis…that the killing had never happened. But there was no going back. Ever. Her life was forever changed. Even to the point of committing a crime tonight, something Hannah had never done before. But Jude Davis had been the one evil Hickory Wilson’s old shotgun couldn’t protect her from. Because of him, she’d have to leave Texas as soon as possible and never return.

  She felt bad about robbing the stranger, but it was the only way she’d been able to step on the train without detection. Hannah had merely inconvenienced the man, while his clothing might save her life. She’d seen the yellow slickers on the gunmen and knew her time had run out.

  Snuggling deep into the coat, she realized all her life she’d watched her mother look around corners and step into the shadows when anyone unknown walked near. Now she would do the same thing. Her mother had feared Hannah’s father might find them, but Hannah’s hunters were nameless gunmen Jude had told her worked for the Harwell ranch. He’d said they would make him a great deal of money fast, but all they did was kill him, and Hannah didn’t even know why.

  Two weeks ago, she’d accepted Jude Davis’s proposal, thinking her life would be peaceful if she married. He had a spread east of Fort Worth and needed a wife to help with the place. Hannah needed somewhere to belong. But each night of their engagement, he’d proven himself less kind and more demanding. The night before they were to marry, he’d hurt her with his roughness. When she’d tried to call off the wedding, he’d laughed and slapped her hard as a promise of what was to come.

  She’d cried most of the night, knowing she had no one to protect her against Jude. Hickory Wilson had ignored Hannah’s screams, and she guessed he wouldn’t stop Jude from taking her even if she was fighting. She had no money, no horse, no one to help her, but the bruises told her she couldn’t marry Jude Davis.

  She’d planned to walk away at dawn with nothing but her mother’s old bag and her cat. But when she’d crossed the café, Jude and Hickory were at the bar, drinking and congratulating one another on something they’d done. When Jude saw her, it took him a moment to realize what she planned. He knocked her halfway across the room with his first blow.

  Her screams were drowned out by three men storming the saloon. They wore new canvas slickers unlike any she’d ever seen and carried huge rifles beneath the folds. They fired off several rounds while yelling questions at Jude and Hickory. She rolled beneath a table as they circled the two men and laughingly demanded answers from the corpses.

  While the bullets flew, no one noticed Hannah. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hid her head as though she could disappear completely. The gunfire echoed off the walls and filled the room with smoke.

  Hannah moaned above the train’s rattle as she remembered the sight of Jude tumbling to the floor in a splattering of his own blood.

  “You say something?” an old soldier beside her asked. He still wore his twenty-year-old confederate hat as though the war had just ended. “I don’t hear too good. Been riding these trains too long, I reckon.”

  “No.” Hannah made her voice low. “I didn’t say anything.”

  The old fellow nodded, then turned to the two cowhands next to him and began a long rendition of what this country had been like just after the war. The story was too polished not to have been told ma
ny times.

  Hannah drifted into sleep remembering the way the stranger’s lips had tasted when she’d kissed them. She’d been foolish to kiss him, but there was something so good about the man. A kind of goodness she’d never been near. What had he said…that he never lied?

  Her dreams came slowly, like dark-winged creatures drifting on a silent cloud of nightmares. Dreams of being alone, of fighting battles where winning awarded only momentary safety and losing brought pain too great for tears. Memories of growing through her teens with no one to help celebrate each year’s passing.

  The winter sun was long past noon when Hannah reopened her eyes, but the aging reb was still talking. Now his tale was of the buffalo wars fought hard across the top parts of Texas.

  As the train signaled a stop ahead, the man turned from historian to tour guide. “You fellows don’t want to stop in that little settlement up by the caprock. Folks call the place Saints Roost, ’cause most of the town feels they’ve come to bring religion to the lawless West. Ain’t no drinking, gambling, or anything else fun going on in that place. Heard tell even the railroad isn’t planning to go near there.”

  Though the train was slowing, the old man continued, “See that fellow waiting with a wagon? I’d bet ya two bits he’s come to pick up one of them upstanding saints. I’ve seen him before. Hauls supplies mostly, but meets the train regularly to save folks the cost of the stage. Even talked to a man from Saints Roost a few days ago who made the trip down to Dallas same time as I did. Colston was his name, as I recall. He was hoping to find a schoolteacher, but I don’t reckon he’s had any luck. No woman in her right mind would want to get stuck in a little nowhere town like that with nothing but Bible-thumping Methodists to talk to.”

  As the train heaved to a stop, Hannah watched a lone man jump from the steps of the car in front of them. He carried a finely tooled leather bag, but had no hat or coat to guard against the thin mist of snow that whirled in the air.

  She couldn’t pull her gaze from him. Taller than most men, with powerful muscles beneath his cotton shirt and plain wool pants, he moved like a wild animal, sleek and purposeful. He had to be the man she’d kissed in the hotel, for even now the memory of the way his back had felt warmed her palm. His face was deeply tanned and set hard against the weather, with sharp angles that looked as if they’d been carved out of a wood that wouldn’t give to rounding easily.