Forever and a Day

by Mary McBride

  “Yes, ma’am.” Unable to meet his mother’s fierce gaze, Zack slid out of his chair and stomped out of the dining room.

  He moved like Race, Kate thought as she watched her son walk out the door. He was already nearly as tall as Race. She marveled at how broad he was becoming in the shoulders. His face was showing the first shadows of whiskers, and it wouldn’t be long before his daddy or his Uncle Isaac would be showing the boy how to lather up and shave.

  She sighed as she picked up her methodically buttered wedge of toast. Through the years, she had always been able to cool her son’s hot temper and make him listen to reason, but it wouldn’t be long before Zack stopped listening to her. The boy had grown up not only to look just like his father, she thought, but to act like him as well. Stubborn. Convinced of his own opinions. Determined to do what he wanted to do.

  But it was different somehow with Race, who had been his own boss since the day his father was killed by Indians out on the Santa Fe Trail. He had been three years younger than Zack back then. But Race had had responsibilities he’d had to shoulder. His stubbornness and determination had been channeled into his business, and those qualities had served him well. Plus, Race had always had Isaac Goodman by his side like a dark guardian angel.

  Kate smiled, biting off a corner of the toast. Isaac was still looking out for Race, playing sick to keep him home, to keep him from killing Gideon Summerfield. Zack, on the other hand, if he went off half-cocked as she was afraid he might, had nobody to restrain him. He had his father’s oxlike strength and his mulish streak, all right, but he lacked his father’s skills, the ones Race had learned so early and so well in order to stay alive.

  Kate reached for a second piece of toast. Of course, Race and Zack weren’t the only mules in the family. There was stubborn Honey. Even Kate had been accused of that trait a time or two, though when it came to herself she preferred thinking of it as determination and strength of will.

  If only Honey would come home, she thought. “Daughter, daughter, what are you doing out there?” Kate murmured as her gaze drifted to the window. “What’s keeping you away?”

  She didn’t have to wonder who. Race had described Gideon Summerfield in a single word—wolf. A cold, cautious creature who lived on the fringe of the civilized world. It occurred to her then that perhaps she—rather than Race or Zack—should be the one to go looking for Honey and to bring her back. Certainly a worried and unarmed mother was no threat to Summerfield, to the wolf. If it were Kate who went after Honey, there would be no danger of anybody’s getting killed. She might not be successful in her quest, but she wouldn’t leave a trail of blood in her wake.

  Kate frowned. Except Race would never let her go.

  If he knew.

  She chewed thoughtfully and stared out the window. Race wouldn’t have to know.

  * * *

  “Wake up, bright eyes.”

  Honey struggled to open her sleep-ridden eyes. For a second she didn’t know where she was. Only that the sun was shining down on her. The sun and Gideon’s warm, gray eyes.

  He slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and sat her up. “Come on, Miss Stay-Abed. We’re riding out.”

  She simply sat there, still half-asleep, trying to fit her dazed thoughts together like some kind of jigsaw puzzle.

  Gideon’s fingers began to comb through her hair. “As soon as we get to Cerrillos,” he said softly, “we’ll get you a hairbrush. A new dress wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  Honey looked down at the stained and tattered rags she’d been wearing for days. Her father had never spared any expense in clothing her, and she had always believed she needed elegant dresses to achieve true beauty. But when she raised her eyes to Gideon’s, Honey—in her rags and ratty hair—felt more beautiful than she’d ever felt in her life.

  And then Gideon’s words fit together like puzzle parts in her brain. “Cerrillos?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, still running his slow fingers through her long hair. “I’m taking you back there and then, since I can’t trust you to stay on the train, I’m going to telegraph somebody in your family to come get you.”

  Somebody, Honey thought gloomily. That somebody would undoubtedly be her father, ready to skin her alive for the robbery at his bank, as well as for taking his horse.

  “I’d rather stay with you,” she said. “Couldn’t we just...”

  “No.” Gideon’s fingers withdrew from her tresses, then he lunged to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ve already got your mare saddled. The sooner we get away from here the better.”

  Grudgingly, still stiff with sleep, Honey stood. Well, she had to admit she wasn’t looking forward to spending any more time than she had to with Dwight Samuel and his greasy, leering gang. She followed Gideon down the hill, where it appeared only the dark-bearded outlaw was awake. The rest of the men were still sprawled under their blankets.

  Dwight Samuel touched his hat brim. “Mornin’, Miss Logan.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Samuel,” she said, trying to sound prim as a schoolmarm as she glimpsed the little leer the man’s dark beard couldn’t disguise. Honey felt the color rise in her cheeks. The outlaw’s thoughts were obvious. And why not, after the way she and Gideon had left the campfire the night before? It galled her to feel embarrassed for something she hadn’t even done, to be hung for a sheep rather than a wolf. Or a goat.

  Gideon led the dun mare toward her. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Don’t you forget that telegram now, cousin,” Dwight Samuel said. “We’ll be waiting right here. How long you think it’ll take?”

  As he gave Honey a boost onto the mare’s back, Gideon said, “Two or three days.”

  The bearded outlaw laughed. “Hell, I’ve been in the wrong business all these years, Gid. If I’d known how easy—”

  “I hear you, cousin.” Gideon scowled as he jerked on Honey’s stirrup, fitting its length to her leg. “How’s that?” he asked her.

  “Fine,” she said.

  Gideon swung up on his horse then.

  Dwight Samuel swept his stained hat off his head and pressed it over his heart. “It’s been a real pleasure knowing you, Miss Logan. Do give your daddy my regards. And,” the outlaw said with a chuckle, “tell him Dwight Samuel said `thank you kindly.’”

  While the man stood there laughing, Gideon gave Jonquil a slap on the rump that sent both Honey and the mare off at a furious pace. It was only after several minutes, when they had ridden well out of earshot, that Honey was able to ask, “What did he mean by that? About thanking my father?”

  Gideon shrugged. “Probably just Dwight’s roundabout way of saying he appreciates your looks, bright eyes.” He gave her a slow wink. “Ignorant as my cousin is, he still recognizes a fine woman when he sees one.”

  Honey gave a tiny snort. Gideon was lying to her, she knew, but she didn’t feel like confronting him just then. It was a beautiful morning and she was awake enough now to appreciate it. The sun washed her face with warmth while a gentle breeze played through her hair. Even Jonquil seemed to respond to the loveliness of the day as she trotted along smoothly. There would be time later, Honey decided, to quiz Gideon about his cousin’s odd remark.

  Anyway, there was something else she wanted to discuss with him. He was riding a few paces in front of her, relaxed in the saddle, apparently enjoying the beautiful morning as much as she was.

  “Gideon, I was just wondering,” she began, her voice light and as free of guile as she could manage, “what would happen if you gave all the money back?”

  He laughed as he glanced back over his shoulder at her. “Why, I suppose half a dozen bankers would rush to shake my hand and to tell me what a superior fellow I turned out to be.”

  Honey scowled. He wasn’t supposed to be so cavalier about this. “I’m serious,” she insisted. “What would happen? If you gave the money back, I mean. Would you still be sent to prison?”

  “No.” He angled around in the saddle, facing her. He wasn’t laughin
g anymore. His expression was as dark and serious as she had ever witnessed. “I’m never going back to prison, Ed.”

  “But what if...”

  “Never.”

  Gideon kicked his horse, bolting away from her, and Honey had to make Jonquil pick up her pace in order to keep up with him. She watched his back, no longer relaxed, but tense. Each taut muscle pressed distinctly against the fabric of his shirt. She longed to smooth her hands over that wide expanse, to soothe the tension there. She thought perhaps if he talked about his experiences in prison, if he brought those ghosts out into the sunlight, then they wouldn’t be able to haunt him so.

  After he slowed down, she said, “Tell me about it. I’ve never even seen a one-cell jail.”

  His tone was terse, low. “I hope to hell you never do, bright eyes. Prisons are about as ugly as you’d expect them to be. They tend to make the men inside them ugly, too.”

  She raised a curious eyebrow. “Then you weren’t treated well?”

  Gideon laughed harshly. “Maybe for a dog! The warden and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye. He was a Union officer during the war, and even though he’d traded in his blue uniform he still had a battle or two to get out of his system. Plus with every lick he took at me, he figured he was getting one in on my cousins.”

  “How cruel. How unfair,” she said.

  “Maybe. But that’s the way it was. The thinking in the prison system is that a man’s spirit has to be broken before it can be healed.”

  Honey sniffed. “Well, obviously they couldn’t break yours.”

  “No,” he said, then added softly, “but they sure as hell tried. I really don’t want to think about it anymore, Ed, honey, much less talk about it.”

  “Please,” she urged. “I’d like to know you better, Gideon. I want to know everything about you.”

  “Everything!” He laughed. “I’m not that interesting, believe me. Just another border state ruffian who got pushed every which way by the war. Without that damn war, my life would have been a lot different.”

  She cocked her head. “What would you be doing today if there hadn’t been a war?”

  Gideon shifted in the saddle, turning toward Honey, and felt his heart quicken at the sweet expression on her face. It wasn’t an idle question. This woman truly seemed to care about his yesterdays. And the light in her eyes told him she cared about his tomorrows, too. Nobody had ever expressed such interest or wide-eyed concern. Gideon felt his throat thicken.

  Swallowing hard, he tried to clear his head, to clear his heart so full now with childish longings and adult desires. He’d never known a woman like Honey Logan, but he told himself that he’d never known a female of quality, a daughter of wealth and promise. Maybe they were different. Maybe at fancy schools they taught these females how to dazzle men with personal questions and fake concern, how to reel in the unsuspecting fools with their big, quizzical eyes and sweet, false-hearted tones. That had to be it. She was merely playing the role she’d been taught. And here he was falling for it like a two-ton elephant. Like an ignorant slip of a kid.

  He pulled back on the reins at the same time that he snagged the mare’s bridle, halting her.

  “What do you want from me?” he snarled.

  Honey’s eyes widened now, not from curiosity but from fright. She had seen Gideon’s face look fierce before, but never quite like this. His eyes were dark, diamond hard. His knuckles were white where he gripped the mare’s bridle, preventing Honey’s escape. She had no idea what she had said to set him off this way, to make him this furious with her.

  “I d-don’t know what you’re t-talking about,” she stammered now.

  “The hell you don’t, bright eyes,” he said as he swept her off Jonquil’s back and hauled her onto his lap.

  “Stop it,” she shrieked. “Gideon, what’s gotten into you?”

  His arms tightened around her, holding her hard against him. His words were a hot rush against her ear. “You. You’ve gotten into me with your big eyes and your well-schooled sympathies. Bankers’ daughters don’t care about thieves, Ed, honey. They don’t give a damn about their yesterdays and they care even less about their tomorrows.”

  “But I...”

  He caught her chin with a viselike grip, turning her face for the full brunt of his gaze. “Maybe you can play your rich boyfriends like fancy violins. Maybe they like it. But I’m not one of your elegant, well-raised boys, Honey. I’m not used to ladies like you who say one thing when they mean another. I’m not some damn yo-yo on a long string that you can just twirl around your little finger.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “What do you want from me?” he shouted. “What do you want from a man who can’t give you anything? From a man who can barely see straight from looking at you or barely walk anymore from tripping over his own confounded heartstrings?”

  “I don’t...I mean... Oh, Gideon, are you? Are you truly tripping over your heartstrings?” She threw her arms around his neck and whispered against his ear. “Oh, I hope you are because I love you so.”

  He closed his eyes, feeling her heart beating against his, breathing in her sweet flowery fragrance, savoring her words and, at the same time, hating himself for his own.

  “Honey,” he whispered, letting his lips touch her soft hair. There was nothing else he could say. And, sadly, there was nothing he could do. Not now. Not ever. Only send Miss Honey Logan back to her father, back to a man who could care for her properly, the way she deserved.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cerrillos was quiet when Honey and Gideon rode up to the hotel where they had stayed just days before. They didn’t see anyone on the street. Only a few scrawny hounds and a pig, which was rooting through a pile of garbage.

  “Siesta time,” said Honey when Gideon lifted her down from Jonquil’s back.

  He smiled. “That doesn’t sound half-bad.”

  His lazy drawl, coupled with the idea of curling up in the warmth of his arms, sent a quick little shiver the length of Honey’s spine. She raised her eyes to his, but only to witness that warm smile fading to cool purpose. He turned away from her then, removed their gear from the horses and, with one saddlebag draped over each shoulder, ushered Honey inside the small lobby.

  The gangly young clerk at the desk snapped to attention immediately. “Howdy, Mr. Summerfield. Ma’am.” He lifted a key from a hook on the wall behind him. “I got your same room all clean and made up. That the one you want?”

  “That’ll do fine,” Gideon said as he signed the clerk’s register. “The lady will be wanting a nice hot bath.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Honey, who was leaning wearily against the wooden counter, let out a long sigh. “A bath! Lord, I’d almost forgotten there were such things.”

  The first thing she did once they were upstairs in their room was to sit on the bed and bounce. “A bed and a bath!” she exclaimed. “I do believe I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  Gideon slung the saddlebags onto a chair, then just stood there grinning at her. Her sheer joy over such simple pleasures almost made him forget the luxuries she must have been accustomed to. It pleased him to please her, to bring that happy light to her eyes and such a bright smile to her pretty mouth. Even if it was only a lumpy bed in a cheap hotel and the promise of a bath.

  He tamped down on the urge to join her on the bed. Sighing, he walked to the door. “They should be up with the tub and the water soon. Don’t open this to anybody else, Ed.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Telegraph office.”

  Her smile evaporated. “Oh.”

  His hand was on the doorknob now. “Be sure you lock this after I’m gone, all right? Ed, honey? All right?”

  “Yes. I heard you,” she grumbled.

  He had almost closed the door when she called to him. “Watch out for those heartstrings, Gideon. I wouldn’t want you tripping down the stairs.”

  His muffled curse coincided with the click of the door.


  * * *

  The telegraph office was in the squat frame building that also served as the train depot. It wasn’t far from the hotel, and by the time Gideon arrived he had already framed the message he was going to send to Race Logan in Santa Fe. He wrote it out quickly for the stationmaster, but as he handed him the message, a gun clicked at Gideon’s head.

  “Tell him to read that out real loud.”

  When Gideon recognized the voice of the half-breed, Charlie Buck, he shook his head with disgust. He was getting slow-witted, he thought, probably because of Ed. He should have figured Dwight would send somebody after him to ensure that the ransom demand was sent.

  “Read it yourself,” Gideon said.

  “Can’t.” Charlie Buck aimed his pistol at the stationmaster, whose pale face was now glistening with nervous sweat. “Read it.”

  The man glanced at Gideon for permission. After Gideon nodded his assent, the stationmaster cleared his throat and read. “To Race Logan, Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. Your daughter is waiting for you at the hotel in Cerrillos.”

  “Is that all?” Charlie Buck asked.

  Nodding, the man thrust the paper in front of the half-breed’s face. “That’s it. That’s all it says. Ain’t even signed. See.”

  The half-breed didn’t even look at the paper. Instead he turned his dark eyes on Gideon. “Do it proper now.”

  Gideon grabbed the paper from the stationmaster’s trembling hand and snatched the pencil from behind the man’s ear. He turned the paper over and scribbled furiously. “There,” he said, shoving the note across the counter. “Read it to him now.”

  After clearing his throat again, the man read, “Your daughter is at the hotel in Cerrillos. Bring ten thousand dollars if you want to see her alive.”

  Buck’s mouth widened in a smile. “Send it,” he ordered the man.

  Once again the stationmaster looked to Gideon for permission, as if it were Gideon who held him at gunpoint rather than the half-breed.