by Mary McBride
Honey bristled. Her mother, in fact, never had told her anything about homemaking. Nor had Honey ever inquired. Their servants did the shopping and the preparing of meals. She had never paid any attention to what was going on in the kitchen—only what came out of it. Again, she felt foolish and irresponsible. Why hadn’t she ever learned any of those skills? she wondered. What good was she if she could only dance and embroider?
She grabbed the package out of Gideon’s hand now. “I can make coffee,” she snarled. “Where’s the damn pot?”
He angled his head toward the campfire and the small metal saucepan beside it.
Pot in fist, Honey trudged back to the creek, filled it and returned, losing only half the water. She tossed in a handful of coffee beans, then set the pot on a flat rock centered among the coals.
“There.” She stood there then, glaring into the liquid as if willing it to boil.
Gideon watched her as he took a bite of one of the dry, sweet biscuits she had bought. It was strange, he thought, that a young woman who had to work for her living didn’t seem to know the first thing about cooking or providing decent food for a meal. But then he figured Miss Edwina Cassidy probably lived with a doting mother who wouldn’t let her daughter lift a dainty finger around the house. Either that, or she simply hadn’t bothered to acquire domestic skills because she had her cap set on marrying some rich old coot who would provide her with servants. For a young woman as beautiful and shapely as Edwina, that was a good possibility. Santa Fe was probably full of rich old bastards who’d be only too glad to make her a wife or a mistress. For all he knew that was precisely why the banker, Logan, had come in such hot and swift pursuit of his little teller.
The biscuit grew even drier in Gideon’s mouth as he watched Edwina and contemplated her future. The thought that that future wouldn’t include him set a dull ache in his heart. For such a hard case, he thought morosely, he was sure acting like a moony kid. Of course her future wouldn’t include him. How could it? He was going to Mexico just as soon as he took care of a couple matters here.
Damn. He had no business thinking about Ed in that way anyway. For all he knew he was still legally married to Cora. And even if he weren’t, he was in no position to be asking a woman to share his future. Hell, he didn’t even know what that future was going to be, other than on the run.
“Your pan’s not heating up right,” she called to him now.
He was looking right at her, Gideon suddenly realized, yet he hadn’t really been aware of her other than in his imagination. He blinked. “What?”
“I said something’s wrong with your pan. This water’s not anywhere near boiling.” She was squatting down now, peering into the saucepan. “Maybe I should move it farther into the fire.”
“Ed! Don’t,” he shouted. But it was too late. She had already grasped the metal handle and then, whisking her burned hand back, had dumped the water onto the fire and the hem of her skirt. White smoke was curling up from the sodden ashes and she was swearing a blue streak when Gideon got to her side.
He grasped the hand she was shaking furiously, opened it and was relieved to see the burn wasn’t as bad as he feared. Her palm was streaked an angry red.
“Why can’t I do anything right?” she wailed. “Useless. That’s all I am. Just plain useless.”
“Shh.” Gideon pressed his lips to the inflamed skin. His gut tightened to see her hurt, and he thought he would have gladly put his own hand in the fire if it would have spared her this pain. “Sssh,” he whispered again. “You’re not useless, bright eyes. You’re just tired. It’s been a long day. A long couple of days.”
Her response was a wet snuffle as Gideon wrapped his arms around her and drew her close against his chest. “Tell you what,” he said against her ear. “I’ll teach you how to fix coffee, and then you’ll never feel useless again.”
“Didn’t I do it right?” she mumbled into his shirt.
“Almost,” he said. “You missed a few of the finer points, sugar, but we’ll fix that. How’s that hand feeling now?” He took a step back, holding her away from him, searching her face for twinges of pain.
“It’s better,” she said, cautiously opening and closing her fist.
“Okay. You wrap the hem of your skirt around your hand, pick up that pan again, and fill it to the brim with water. I’m going to get the fire going, and then I’m going to show you how to make one damn fine pot of coffee.”
When Honey got back with the refilled pan, it was nearly dark. The fire was bright and crackling, though, and Gideon was sitting beside it crushing coffee beans between two good-size rocks. The whiskey bottle was leaning against his leg.
He smiled up at her. “First lesson, bright eyes. Grind up the beans.”
As he continued to tutor her in low and gentle tones, Honey found herself mesmerized, and instead of attending to his instructive words, she was listening to the bass pitch and the rich music of his voice.
“There you go,” he said finally, brushing the ground coffee from his hands. “That’ll boil in ten or fifteen minutes and you’ll have yourself some first-class brew. It’d help if we had some eggshells to settle the grounds.” He rubbed his hand across his flat midriff. “A plate of eggs doesn’t sound half-bad right now, does it?”
Honey smiled into his warm, firelit eyes. “Who taught you all this? Your mama? Or maybe it was Cora who...”
“Neither.” He stood up abruptly and turned away. “I’ve been on my own since I was ten. Making coffee was just one of the things I picked up along the way.”
Honey remained by the fire and watched the warming water a while, then walked to where Gideon was leaning back against his saddle. He said nothing when she sat beside him and busied herself with the wrinkles in her skirt.
“How’s your hand?” he asked between swigs from the whiskey bottle.
Honey gave her palm a quick, dismissive glance. “Fine.” She tilted her head and spoke softly. “What happened when you were ten?”
He sighed with rough forbearance, clearly indicating it wasn’t a subject he wanted to discuss. “Our house burned down. My mother didn’t get out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”
Gideon took up the bottle again and a silence lengthened between them, broken only by the sloshing of whiskey and an occasional popping of dry twigs in the fire.
“My papa died the day I was born,” Honey said finally, a faraway note in her voice. “It doesn’t matter how long ago, Gideon, or how young you were. It still hurts.”
He studied her face a moment, opened his mouth to speak, then swigged from the bottle instead. A full five minutes passed before he asked, “So you lived alone with your mama after your father died?”
“She married again,” Honey said, glancing away toward the fire. It was true enough that Ned Cassidy had perished the day she was born, but she felt dishonest now not telling Gideon about her father—her true father, Race Logan. Still, she held her tongue. Bankers and bank robbers, after all, weren’t exactly a good combination. And after her shocking behavior earlier down by the creek, Honey wasn’t all that eager to have Gideon know about her mother’s questionable past.
“Who took care of you after your mother died?” she asked now, trying to turn the conversation back to his past.
“Nobody. Well, my cousins.”
“You lived with them?”
Gideon shook his head. “I rode with them.” He laughed a little drunkenly. “Barely big enough to get my feet in the stirrups. I had a hell of a time keeping up with them, but I did.”
“But who did you live with?”
“I told you. Nobody. I hardly saw the inside of a house till Cora and I...” His voice trailed off. “It was during the war,” he said then. “My cousins were guerrillas. They kept on the move pretty much.”
“Guerrillas,” she murmured. “You mean like Jesse James?”
“No, sugar. Not like Jesse. It was Jesse.”
“Second cousin. On my mama’s side.”
“Good Lord,” Honey breathed.
“That makes me a real bad customer, doesn’t it?” he said, a note of amusement in his voice and a glint in his eyes.
She could only stare at him. It did, in fact, make him seem like a very dangerous character. More dangerous than she’d dared to believe. Yet in her heart she knew this full-fledged desperado was a decent and honorable man. She had seen it time and time again.
“I think you’re a gentleman,” she murmured softly. “Through and through.”
His first instinct was to laugh, but Gideon didn’t. Rather he looked into this beautiful girl’s eyes and felt his heart clench at what he saw there. Trust. Affection. Perhaps even a glimmering of love. He stroked her cheek—so soft and smooth—with his thumb.
“I appreciate that, bright eyes.” He cleared his throat and forced a smile, cocking his head toward the campfire. “Maybe you should check on that coffee, huh?”
He watched her—a vision of grace in a wrinkled, raggedy frock out in the middle of nowhere, as beautiful as any lady in any high-toned parlor—move to and from the fire. His heart about melted when she returned, sat back down beside him and sadly confessed, “It boiled over.”
“We didn’t have any cups anyway,” Gideon said. He held the whiskey bottle out to her. “Here. Take a sip. It’ll help you sleep.”
She swallowed, shivered, then handed the bottle back. He put it aside in order to shake out his blanket.
“Lie back, bright eyes, and I’ll tuck you in real good.”
Honey did. She closed her eyes, feeling warm and sleepy and oddly safe. “Are we robbing another bank tomorrow?” she asked.
“We?”
“Well, you know what I mean.” She yawned wearily then.
After adjusting the rough blanket under her chin, Gideon kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep, Ed. Dream of sweet things. Not about robbing banks. You hear me?”
She nodded. “What will you do for a blanket?”
Gideon picked up the whiskey bottle. “This will keep me warm.”
He leaned back and stretched out his legs. After one more long pull from the bottle, he set it aside. Somebody had to watch over the sleeping beauty. He wouldn’t be any good if he were falling-down drunk. He smiled as he watched her tuck up her knees and curl a fist beneath her cheek. Gently, he reached out to lift an errant strand of hair from her forehead.
A gentleman! Gideon closed his eyes and sighed roughly. Hell, he was as far from a gentleman as a man could get. But Edwina Cassidy seemed to believe it. That mattered to him. It mattered more than he could ever let her know.
Chapter Nine
Kate stood in the doorway of Isaac’s room looking at the two men who were as dear to her as life itself. Sometimes, she thought, it was hard remembering she’d had any kind of life at all before Race Logan and Isaac Goodman had happened into Leavenworth, Kansas, all those years ago, and had changed her life forever.
“Thank God,” she murmured now, pulling the sash of her wrapper a little tighter about her waist as she stepped into the room. The lamp was low, and it cast a soft glow across the bed where Isaac lay quiet and still, as he had for two days now ever since collapsing in the kitchen. On the far side of the room, Race slept in a chair with his long legs angled out across the polished wooden floor and his head sagging onto his chest.
Kate touched her husband’s shoulder gently. “Come to bed, love. You’re only going to wear yourself out this way.”
Race rubbed his neck, blinking as he looked at the motionless figure in the bed. “No change, I guess.”
“Not that I can see,” she said. “You go on to bed. I’ll sit with Isaac a while.”
When he levered out of the chair, Kate heard the muffled grunt of pain Race did his best to conceal as he worked his sleep-stiffened muscles and joints. He wasn’t getting any younger—though he was still the handsomest devil on the face of the earth—and the past two nights, sleeping slumped in a chair if he slept at all, had taken a toll on his fifty-four-year-old body.
He reached out now and pulled her into his arms, then nuzzled his warm, whiskery face into her neck. “This is wearing you down, too, love. Watching over Isaac and worrying about Honey.”
“They’re both going to be fine. I know that, Race. I feel it in my heart.”
He sighed. “I hope you’re right, Katie. Lord, I hope you’re right.”
She stepped back and guided him toward the door. “I’m right,” she said firmly. “Now go. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you if there’s any change.”
After Race was gone, Kate pulled a chair close to Isaac’s bed. There was enough light, from the low-burning lamp and from the moonlight that washed through the open window, to see the ebony dips and ridges in the old man’s face. Kate studied the stubby lashes against his grizzled cheeks and the little puffs his lips made as he breathed. She leaned close.
“Now you listen to me, old man,” she whispered. “I’m on to your little scheme. It took me a while, I’ll admit, but I finally figured it out. First there was Doc Cullen, who’s always been able to say what was wrong with somebody even if he hadn’t the least notion, and who’s always more than willing to treat people, even if it’s only with a poultice. But he just threw up his hands over you and hasn’t even bothered coming back. I’ve been asking myself why. Then, this morning I accused the boys of eating all the fried chicken in the cellar. I didn’t believe them when they denied it. But, then, when I was changing your linens I found this.”
Kate slid her hand under the mattress now and held up a chicken bone.
“Then,” she continued, her eyes fixed on Isaac’s face, “this afternoon I happened to be standing outside your window looking at my flower bed, when all of a sudden I got to wondering why those flowers would look wet when it hasn’t rained in two weeks. I knew I hadn’t watered them. So I squatted down to look a little closer. And then I knew. You’ve been pissing out the window, you old coot!”
Isaac opened one eye and his mouth slid into a cockeyed grin. “You done found me out, Miz Kate. Doc Cullen said you prob’ly would.”
“I don’t know whether to strangle you or hug you,” she exclaimed. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed his wrinkled forehead, then sat back with her arms crossed. “Now, if you don’t mind my asking, Isaac, why are you putting us through this misery? Race is almost sick with worry and from lack of sleep, as I’m sure you know.”
“He’s why I done it. I couldn’t figure out any other way of keeping Horace here.”
Kate merely lifted an eyebrow. She had learned long ago to trust the former slave’s instincts. Isaac was rarely wrong—about people, about danger.
He continued without being prompted. “When he came home all red-faced and furious ‘cause Miz Honey had stolen his horse, I knew something was wrong. Terrible wrong.”
“What, Isaac?” Kate leaned closer. “What do you mean?”
“If that little girl stole her daddy’s mare to ride off after that Summerfield man, Miz Kate, it’s more than money she’s chasing,” he said. “She’s chasing her heart.”
Kate fingered the edge of her sash. The thought had occurred to her, too, but she had dismissed it—out of fear.
“You don’t know that, Isaac,” she insisted.
He raised a gnarled hand to scratch his bristly chin. “No. But I know you. And I know Horace. And I know that little apple of yours didn’t fall too far from the tree. Miz Honey’s just like her mama and her daddy.” He gazed at Kate solemnly. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“What’s th
e onliest thing in the world would prompt you to steal a horse?”
Kate sighed and let her hands drop helplessly. “To chase after Race Logan,” she admitted.
“Yup,” he said. He nodded his head thoughtfully a moment. “And why do you s’pose that bank robber ain’t sent Miz Honey packing back to Santa Fe? You s’pose he done fallen for those big turquoise eyes of hers and her sweet, quiet disposition?”
Kate nodded with reluctant agreement. It was what she had suspected, but hadn’t wanted to consider. If the thief Race had hired had stolen his daughter’s heart in addition to his bank’s money, Race would explode. He’d never stand for it. On the other hand, Honey was as hot-tempered and headstrong as her father. “Nothing good can come of this, Isaac,” she said softly. “You were smart to do what you did, keeping Race here.”
“I just feel it in my bones.” The old man rocked his head back and forth on the pillow. “If Horace tangles with that robber, Miz Honey’s gonna be right in the middle. We just can’t have that.”
“No, we can’t,” Kate agreed.
Isaac covered her hand with his big, black paw. “Then, if you don’t mind, Miz Kate, I’ll just keep on ailin’ for a while. Won’t help Miz Honey much, but at least it’ll keep Horace close to home.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “You keep on ailing, Isaac. At least till we figure out something else.” Kate sighed. “But please promise me something, will you?”
“What’s that?”
She summoned up a tiny laugh. “Promise me you’ll stop watering my petunias.”
* * *
Trouble, Honey thought. Gideon was asking for it, begging for it, as surely as he was breathing. They had ridden down through the rugged hills that morning until they came to the little coal-mining town of Madrid. Once more, she was bewildered by the casualness with which her companion entered the town. Then her mouth dropped open in astonishment when Gideon drew his roan gelding to a halt in front of the bank, got down and tied the horse to the hitching rail.
