by Mary McBride
Again, she nodded. She wanted to believe that more than anything in the world right now.
Gideon, too, nodded grimly. “Just keep me warm, if you can. That’ll help. And if I get out of my head, don’t pay any mind to anything I say.”
“Well, that all depends, doesn’t it?” she answered, forcing a smile. “Maybe you’ll rave about what a wonderful, awe-inspiring person I am and how I ought to be the toast of the territory.”
“I hope I do, darlin’.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “I hope to hell I do.”
* * *
He didn’t though. In the rough bed that Honey had fashioned for him of horse blankets and his saddle, Gideon slept fitfully while Honey built a fire and warmed a pot of water to tend his wound again. This time she remembered to use a fold of her dress to shield her hand from the hot handle, smiling to herself as she recalled Gideon’s patience and tender instructions about how to make coffee, how not to get burned cooking over a campfire. She wasn’t totally useless now, she thought, thanks to him, and she found herself wishing he were awake to appreciate her small success, to be pleased with her and perhaps a bit proud.
But that was silly, she reminded herself. In the first place, Gideon wasn’t concerned with her right now but with his own survival. And in the second place, what difference did it make if he was proud of her or not? She was a burden to him, nothing more, and he planned to ship her back to Santa Fe at the very first opportunity.
When darkness fell, he seemed to enter a deep, peaceful slumber, for which a bone-tired Honey was grateful. She wasn’t aware that she had fallen asleep until a string of curses woke her. The campfire had burned down to glowing coals, but in the moonlight she could see that Gideon had tossed his blanket aside. He lay there now, bathed in sweat and shivering so hard he was almost levitating off the ground.
He pushed her away roughly when she attempted to cover him again.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Honey snapped as she tucked the edges of the blanket beneath his hips. “You told me to keep you warm and I’m damned well going to do it. Now hold still.”
Gideon clamped his fingers around her wrist. His eyes were feverish and bright in the moonlight. “Goddamn you, Cora,” he rasped.
Honey winced and tried to pull out of his iron grasp. “I’m not Cora,” she cried. She wasn’t sure Gideon heard her, much less comprehended her words. Those steely eyes of his were glittering now and his white teeth flashed dangerously.
“Damn you for shedding tears at my trial and knowing the whole time you were going to run off with Dwight. Damn you for sitting there just waiting, praying maybe, for them to put me away.”
“Gideon, I’m not...”
Even in his weakened condition, his grip was crushing Honey’s wrist.
“You were my wife! You were carrying my child, for God’s sake. And it meant nothing to you. Nothing. I could kill you for that.” He wrenched her closer. “For that alone, I could kill you, Cora.”
“Gideon!” Honey shrieked now as much from her own fear as to shock him out of his blind rage. He was staring right at her, but he didn’t know her. “Gideon, stop it. I’m not Cora. It’s me. Look at me. Truly look.”
His eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again the fierce gleam was gone, replaced by a dull glaze. “Ed,” he whispered as his fingers loosened on her wrist. “I thought...I don’t know what I thought.” He drew in a rough breath. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
She smoothed his damp hair from his forehead. “No, you didn’t hurt me. You...you frightened me. Here.” Honey tucked the blanket more tightly beneath him. “You need to keep warm, Gideon. You told me to keep you warm.”
“I’m burning up.”
Honey pressed a torn cloth to his sweat-bathed neck. “Your fever’s probably breaking,” she said softly, hoping it was true as she tried to keep her voice level and soothing. “It’ll be morning soon and you’ll be better. You’ll see.”
His teeth began to chatter and he didn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes open. His head tossed fitfully. “Just get me through the night, Cora. Please. Just see me through this, darlin’.”
Pressing her lips to his fiery forehead, Honey whispered, “I will. I promise you I will.”
* * *
Honey watched the sun rise, a hot orange ball pushing its way through violet banners of clouds. Her arms were still wrapped tightly around the man who was finally, deeply, even peacefully asleep.
She yawned now, easing one arm away from Gideon in order to rub her gritty eyes. She knew she should feel exhausted, but she didn’t. Instead she felt strong and almost victorious, for she had indeed seen Gideon Summerfield through a long, terrible night. He had fought her and cursed her. He had called her Cora and damned her to hell and worse. Then, toward the end, he had surrendered to his fever, his pain, his tears and to her comforting hands, and had slipped into a deep, deep sleep.
Honey had spent the rest of the night awake, holding Gideon close, wondering if half of what he’d said was true or if it was just the fever talking. Had his wife been carrying a baby when she’d left him? Had Cora sat in the courtroom, hoping they would find her husband guilty, praying they would send him away? How could that be true? Honey wondered. How could any woman turn her back on a man like Gideon Summerfield, no matter what he had done?
This man, she kept thinking, was good and kind and patient. And each time her mind created a list of his virtues, a single thought kept appearing. This man was married. And his rage at Cora probably meant only one thing. He still loved her. She was, after all, still his wife. Through the long, dark hours of the night, Honey found herself wishing Cora Summerfield had never existed, hoping the woman who had walked out on Gideon had gone so far as to vanish from the face of the earth, and once—Lord forgive her—Honey even wished the woman dead.
As the sun climbed higher, she suspected the worst was over. Gideon’s brow felt cool now. His color had improved. Remembering her brothers’ occasional fevers, she imagined Gideon would wake with a ravenous appetite. He would need a good meal to get his strength back. And all they had left was half a jar of strawberry jam, she thought dolefully. She had rushed out of the emporium in such a panic yesterday she hadn’t gotten any supplies.
She’d have to go back. It would take her a few hours to return to Madrid, she guessed. Riding fast, she could make the round-trip in about four or five hours. Judging from his deep, even breathing at the moment, Gideon would most likely sleep several more hours. Maybe she could even be back before he woke. It would certainly make him feel better to wake to the smell of coffee and maybe even bacon sizzling on the fire.
The mere idea of food brought a twitch to her stomach along with a smile to her lips, but the smile quickly faded. What if she ran into the sheriff in Madrid? How was she going to explain her behavior yesterday? She had, after all, participated in a bank robbery. And even if she could avoid the sheriff, how was she going to pay for this feast she was imagining?
Her eyes lighted on the money bag then and her smile returned. Well, of course. She’d use some of the stolen money to pay for supplies and then she’d turn the rest over to the sheriff. Having found the perfect solution to both problems, Honey eased away from Gideon. After she straightened the blanket over his sleeping form and smoothed his hair back, she kissed him softly, then rose and walked to the bloodstained canvas sack. She opened it and promptly thrust in her hand.
All she could do was stare at the stack of paper in her grasp. She reached in and came up with another fistful, then reached back for a third. Her legs folded beneath her and she sat, dazed.
“Newspaper!” Honey opened her hands and watched as a breeze riffled through the bill-sized scraps and began to blow them away. Tears burned her eyes and a lump hot as a coal formed in her throat. “They shot him for a damn bag of newsprint!”
* * *
All nine members of the Bankers’ Association had gathered in the office of Logan Savings and Loan in Santa Fe. Eight of them
sat fidgeting with their watch fobs, or picking lint from their pant legs, or clearing their throats. The ninth man, Race Logan, sat behind his desk like a monolith. Stern. Immobile. His black eyebrows hovered like storm clouds above his turquoise eyes.
“I’m waiting, gentlemen,” he said, his fingers beginning a slow drumming on the desk top. A drumming slow and weighty as a dirge.
There was another round of throat-clearing and lint-picking, but no one replied until Amos Tarkington stood, tugged at his waistcoat and said, “We were wrong, Race. I think everybody can see that now.”
The others nodded vigorously, continuing to avoid the piercing gaze of the man who sat behind the desk.
Race crossed his arms now. The springs of his swivel chair groaned as he leaned his massive shoulders back. “You’re all mighty quiet for a bunch who had so damn many suggestions the last time we met.”
Tarkington sat, and John Firestone leaned forward to speak. “It never occurred to anybody that your daughter would get involved in this, Race. Believe me, if—”
“My daughter is not involved, John,” Race interrupted. “She was abducted the day this bank was robbed. Whatever she’s done, it’s been under duress.”
“Not the way my clerk tells it,” Firestone said. “The lad said she was acting as lookout yesterday. Said your Honey was the one who actually carried the bag out of the bank. He said—”
Race slammed his fist on the desk top. “I don’t give a damn what that trigger-happy idiot said. My daughter does not rob banks.” He met each pair of eyes. “Is that clear, gentlemen?”
“Absolutely.”
“Clear. Yes, that’s clear.”
One by one, grudgingly or otherwise, all the bankers agreed.
Then Amos Tarkington rose once more. “What do you propose we do, Race? Do you want to hire some men or organize some sort of posse?”
Race shook his head and replied, “We’ll stick to the original plan. From all I can tell, that’s what Summerfield appears to be doing. So we’ll wait.”
Eight heads bobbed in agreement.
“We’ll wait,” Race said again in a voice that carried throughout the room and sounded less like a banker making a proclamation than a preacher promising hellfire.
Chapter Eleven
Honey had ridden into Madrid the way Gideon should have the day before—slowly, warily, keeping out of sight as much as possible. She had left Jonquil in back of the emporium, then peered through a rear window to make sure the elderly storekeeper was alone. She had walked into the store quietly, and since there was no good way to explain her tattered and bloodstained dress or her wind-tangled hair, Honey had merely pointed Gideon’s big Colt at the old gentleman and told him precisely what she wanted.
“Ain’t got no bacon,” he replied calmly. “Got that ham hanging up over there.”
“That will have to do,” Honey said, trying to sound equally calm and not to let the man see how badly her hand was shaking from fear as well as the weight of the heavy gun.
He shuffled around behind the counter, taking tins down from shelves, addressing her over one stooped shoulder. “You’re that young gal sent Sheriff Cummings off on that wild-goose chase yesterday, ain’t you, then helped with robbing the bank?”
She remained silent. Admitting her guilt didn’t strike her as such a good idea. And she was guilty. There was no denying it. She was the one who had grabbed up the money sack, after all. Of course, if she had known it was stuffed with newspaper she wouldn’t have bothered.
Taking the ham down by its strings, the storekeeper said, “You and that Summerfield caused quite a stir. Yes, sir. Word’s gotten around right quick, too. There was a fellow in here just this morning asking about the two of you.”
“What fellow?” Honey asked him, dreading the answer. It had to be her father. She glanced quickly over her shoulder as if she expected to see Race Logan himself towering in the doorway while sending her a killing look. Now her voice shook as well as her hands. “Who was asking about us? What did he look like?”
He stuffed the ham in a burlap bag. “Well, now. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Mean-looking character, I’ll tell you. Had a beard blacker than night and a nasty scar running from here to here.” The old man traced his thumb across his cheek.
Honey let out a small sigh of relief. It hadn’t been her father, after all. She decided she had more things to worry about than a black-bearded stranger.
“I believe that’s everything you wanted.” The man pushed the bag across the counter toward her. “Don’t you get twitchy on that trigger, Missy. I ain’t going to shout for the sheriff. You look about half-starved to me so I don’t begrudge you a few vittles.”
“Thanks.” Honey pulled the heavy bag from the counter and turned to the door.
The shopkeeper told her goodbye, then added, “Say, Missy, next time you’re in need of a meal, I’d sure appreciate it if you’d rob old Hiram Quill over in Golden.”
In spite of the crime she had just committed, Honey rode out of town laughing. She had every intention of reimbursing that sweet old codger once she got her hands on some money. Heaven only knew when that would be, though. But at least she had plenty of substantial food now. She was going to fix Gideon the best meal of his life. Not that she knew how to cook any better than a day ago, but determination had to count for something, she figured, even where food was concerned.
As she traveled back up into the hills, Honey kept looking over her shoulder, wondering about the black-bearded man who had been making inquiries earlier in the day. Only now did it occur to her that he might be someone working for her father. Someone hired to find her and to drag her back to Santa Fe.
She touched the gun she carried on her lap. Just let him try. She wouldn’t go back. Not now anyway. She hadn’t recovered the money yet. And she wouldn’t leave Gideon. Not while he was hurt. Not while he needed her. Maybe later...
Jonquil snorted and tossed her head as Honey tugged back on the reins and brought the mare up short. It wasn’t the money anymore that was keeping her with him. The thought nearly took her breath away. It wasn’t the money at all. The thought of leaving Gideon Summerfield—ever—made her heart feel as if somebody had just squeezed some of the life out of it. She’d never see the warm glint in his gray eyes again. Never hear his patient, reassuring voice. Never kiss him again or touch him or feel his hands making her own flesh come alive. If she lived to be a hundred, she thought, there might never be anyone else who could cause those peculiar knots in the pit of her stomach with just a glance. It was for certain no one had ever done it before.
Damnation. Honey shifted in the saddle now, hooking a knee over the horn. She kept forgetting he was married. It was as if she couldn’t truly believe he belonged to somebody else, when... When he ought to belong to her? That was absurd. The man was a bank robber. A criminal. He’d lived on the wrong side of the law since he was ten years old. But then who wouldn’t have turned out that way when he was raised by road agents and thugs?
Jonquil snorted and stamped a hoof, as if to inquire when they would be moving on, but Honey ignored her.
Of course, it might not be too late to change him, she thought. Gideon was, after all, a gentleman in his heart. If she could convince him to turn all the money back in and to stop robbing banks, maybe there was a chance for him to live a different kind of life. A respectable, responsible life.
“Right,” she said out loud, slinging her leg back down and finding the stirrup. “And he’d be bound to live that respectable, responsible life with his wife.”
She gave Jonquil a kick and continued on up into the hills, trying to empty her head of thoughts about Gideon. Don’t even think about him, she told herself. Anyway, it might all be a waste of time. What if he’d taken a turn for the worse after she’d left him this morning? What if he’d bled to death? What if he were calling for her right now and she wasn’t there?
Before Honey was even aware of it, she had the mare running flat out, f
ast as she could. “Faster, Jonquil,” she urged. Suddenly nothing mattered, not the missing money—not her father’s hot pursuit, not Cora or the black-bearded man—but getting back to Gideon.
* * *
Gideon woke with a curse. The sun was like a knife in his slitted eyes, and when he lifted his arm to shade his face, pain shot through his midsection like another bullet.
He hurt like hell, he thought, but at least he was alive. For what that was worth. Lifting his head gingerly, he noted the surroundings. The fire was dead. His horse was still here, bridled, standing over by a clump of broomweed and swishing his tail at flies. Miss Edwina Cassidy, however, was nowhere in sight.
With a sigh, Gideon lowered his head and closed his eyes again. Right then he didn’t have the strength or the energy to worry about her. Maybe she was down by the creek. He imagined her with her skirt all tucked up, exposing pretty white knees and those shapely legs. He groaned out loud as his body tightened from the mere thought of her. Wasn’t he already in enough pain? he wondered morosely.
For a while he drifted in and out of shallow sleep, vaguely worrying about the little bank teller, vaguely dreaming of kissing her mouth, touching her, losing himself deep within her feminine warmth. On the shoals of the dream, Gideon told himself it was all right. He was only dreaming, after all. He could allow himself those pleasures in his dreams because they would never be his in reality.
He had tried to send her back to Santa Fe, and he meant to do it again just as soon as he could. He couldn’t keep her. And then, dreamily, he wondered why not. Why not? She wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to get back home. And it no longer seemed to be the stolen money that was keeping her by his side. She looked at him differently from the way she had in the beginning. At first her big, blue-green eyes had been hard as jade, hot and full of accusations. But of late those eyes had become softer, mistier, replete with warmth. For him.
