by Eli Easton
He turned and steered Miss Fairchild toward the fonda.
Trace didn’t turn around to see if the men followed, but he kept his right hand on the holster of his gun and his ear cocked for the sound of a gun hammer.
Cold-Eyes called out, “We know where to find you, Miss Fairchild! If we decide to renew our conversation.”
Miss Fairchild’s expression didn’t alter, but her arm trembled. Trace’s first assessment had been right. She was more afraid of them than she let on. She had a hell of a poker face.
They reached the wooden sidewalk and turned left toward the fonda. Trace wondered what the hell he was going to do next. He couldn’t take Miss Fairchild back to Flat Bottom with him unless he hired a rig. He’d need a chaperone too, damn it all. A young lady didn’t go traveling alone with a man, not even her fiancé’s brother. And he wasn’t about to cross that line with Clovis’s bride and give Pa cause to rant and rave. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t leave her in Santa Fe. Those two men would be back to harass her the minute he walked away.
Where was her chaperone, anyhow? Had she really been in the same wagon with that Riverton fellow all the way from Missouri? Something didn’t smell right to Trace. But then, nothing about this smelled right.
He glanced at her as they walked past the shops. She clutched her shawl tightly, hiding her figure, so he couldn’t see much. But she was tall for a woman—only a few inches shorter than Trace. Of course, Trace had met tall women in his day, so that wasn’t unheard of. Her gown was ill-fitting and pulled tight across the shoulders. Her high lace collar and red shawl seemed too fancy for the pale green dress. It seemed odd for someone who owned such expensive pieces not to match them up any better. But then, maybe that was the style in the East.
She looked up at him, her expression wary. “Are you really the sheriff of Flat Bottom?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh. I surely appreciate the rescue. You’re my knight in shining armor.” She gave him a coy look from under her lashes.
He returned her look with a scowl, and Miss Fairchild looked away demurely. He didn’t lay great odds on her working out with Clovis, but if she made a habit of flirting with men, especially as pretty a gal as she was, the whole dang thing could be a nightmare. It was a good thing Trace was immune to women himself.
At the fonda, she reached for the front door handle. Trace got there first. She withdrew her hand with an abashed look and let him open the door.
They stepped inside the cool, cream-colored lobby with its pueblo walls and potted palms. It wasn’t as grand as a big-city hotel, but it was cooler than the streets and blessedly peaceful. Only a handful of people were lounging in the chairs or at the front desk.
Miss Fairchild shut her eyes for a moment and sighed. She looked truly shaken.
“I’m sorry ya had such a rude welcome to Santa Fe. Perhaps you’d care to sit down, Miss Fairchild?”
She opened those pretty green eyes and turned to him. “I’m fine, Sheriff . . . I’m sorry. What did you say your name was? I’d like to thank you properly.” She placed a gloved hand on his arm.
Her direct gaze made Trace feel discombobulated again. “Um . . .” What was his name again? “I—Crabtree. Trace Crabtree. But you can call me Sheriff Crabtree. Or just Trace is fine.”
Dear Lord, he was an idiot. Why did Miss Fairchild unnerve him so?
She frowned at him. “Trace Crabtree?”
Make that doubly an idiot. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m Clovis’s brother. I had no idea you were arrivin’, though. Or even that Pa—our father—had, er, set this up.”
“I see.” She withdrew her hand, looking uneasy. “Thank you for coming to my aid, kind sir.”
“Aw. It ain’t no problem at all.” He cleared his throat. “I was thinkin’. We can rest here for a spell, then go to the stables and get a wagon. I’ll see if the hotel has a woman they can send with us. To chaperone.”
Miss Fairchild’s gaze shifted back to Trace, her eyes widening. “Oh, no! You don’t need to trouble yourself on my account. I’d like to rest for a few days. Perhaps if you wouldn’t mind delivering a letter?”
Trace blinked at her. Was she trying to get out of this already? He looked down at himself. He wore his city-going black pants, black vest, and a gray shirt. He thought he was fairly presentable. If she objected to the look of him, poor Clovis was really in trouble. Or maybe it was his gun belts that frightened her?
He shook his head slowly. “No, ma’am. It wouldn’t be wise for you to stay here alone, what with those two men around.”
Her gaze went to the door and she stiffened, but she put on a forced smile. “I’m sure they won’t bother me again. Truly, I’m grateful for your help, but right now, I just want to check in and have some quiet time to myself. I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure your father has made other arrangements on my behalf.”
Her tone was firm. Yup. She was trying to get rid of him, all right. If that didn’t beat all. She really expected him to leave her. Men back East must be spineless creatures if they were this easily ordered about.
Trace pushed his hat back. “I’d like to oblige ya, Miss Fairchild, but that won’t work at all. It would be all kinds of wrong for me to leave ya here. I’m afraid you’ll have to come back to Flat Bottom with me. Today.”
“Nonsense.” Her eyes darted to the stairs and then the windows.
“Now, it’s a three-hour ride in a wagon,” he explained calmly. “So we’ll get there before nightfall. There’s a boardin’ house run by a nice lady named Mrs. Jones. You can stay with her if ya wanna rest up before goin’ on to the ranch.”
“Excuse me,” she said brightly. “I need to find the powder room and neaten up first. If you’ll wait right here, Sheriff. Trace. I won’t be but a weensy moment.” She turned and moved quickly toward the stairs, skirts swishing.
Trace called after her. “Miss Fairchild!”
“Miss Fairchild, is that you?” echoed a voice from behind him.
Trace turned to see Marcy and Wayne coming into the lobby. Marcy was dressed in a tan calico dress and cream shawl, probably the best thing she owned. Wayne, too, was cleaned up. His dirty blond hair was slicked flat on his head like it had died. His large frame was tucked into an uncomfortable-looking old brown suit with a white paper collar. Marcy ran after Miss Fairchild while Wayne strolled up to Trace.
“What’re you doin’ here?” Wayne asked.
“That’s a nice greetin’.”
Wayne just looked at him, waiting for an answer. As the oldest brother, Wayne sometimes had an uppity attitude, like he was in charge. Trace hadn’t liked it when he was little, and he sure didn’t care for it now.
He saw Marcy catch up to Miss Fairchild on the stairs. The two ladies began chatting together.
“I came to town on business,” Trace said. “And I happened to run into Miss Fairchild. Did you know about this? About Pa getting a mail-order bride for Clovis?”
Wayne made a face. “Not until yesterday, when he told me to come fetch her.”
“What the hell was he thinkin’?”
“That no one would marry Clovis,” Wayne said with a shrug.
He opened his chaw packet and put his fingers in. He seemed to think better of it, though, looking around at the fancy lobby. He put it away again with an unhappy frown.
“Well, I can’t see how this can fail to be a disaster,” Trace grumbled.
Wayne regarded Miss Fairchild warily, a frown between his brow. “She looks like a fancy woman.”
“She looks like a lady,” Trace replied, harsher than he meant to. Though why he should feel defensive of Miss Fairchild was anybody’s guess. “I swear, this is Pa’s craziest idea yet.”
“Guess that’s Pa’s business.”
Wayne didn’t seem too worried about it. Maybe Trace was wrong. Maybe Miss Fairchild would be happy as a clam as Clovis’s wife. Anyway, he told himself, Wayne was right. It was Pa’s problem, not his.
“Well, gues
s I’m glad you showed up,” Trace said, rubbing his jaw. “I thought I’d have to rent a rig to take her to the ranch.”
“Nah. I just put our rig up at the stables. Guess I’ll go get it out again. Figured we might have to stay here a week waitin’ for that danged wagon train, but we lucked out. Pa will be glad to save the money.”
“You could spend the night,” Trace suggested. “Since you’re here. Bet Marcy would like it.”
Wayne made a dismissive sound, as if that was the stupidest idea he’d ever heard. “I’ll have the wagon here in ten minutes. Tell the gals to be ready.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left.
Trace watched him go, feeling all kinds of discontented. He realized he was sort of expecting he’d have a chance to talk to Miss Fairchild on the way to Flat Bottom. Ease her into the situation slowly. Give her a hint of what she was in for. But it was too late now.
He didn’t get a chance to say much to her, either, as they waited with Marcy for the wagon. The silence among the three of them was awkward, and Miss Fairchild seemed determined not to meet his eyes. Her trunk had arrived at the fonda, so Trace manhandled the thing to the back of the wagon for her while Wayne sat in the driver’s seat looking straight ahead. Trace helped Marcy up into the back seat, saw her settled, then turned to help Miss Fairchild.
She placed her hand in his and hiked up her skirt to put her foot on the side board.
She was wearing brown city boots. They were men’s boots. As if in slow motion, Trace’s gaze dropped to their hands. Her hand was large, her grip strong, and her lacy gloves were way too tight. The delicate fabric had split on the side as if they were a few sizes too small.
Her head was down, watching her footing, but then she looked up at him, those green eyes raised heavenward.
He forgot to breathe.
Somehow, Trace pushed with his arm, and she was up on the bench seat. Wayne started the wagon without a good-bye. Marcy was the only one who glanced back at him.
Sheriff Trace Crabtree stood in the dust and watched the wagon drive away. His jaw was dropped down to his chest, and you could have knocked him over with a sneeze. He was in a state of absolute shock.
Miss Rowena Fairchild was a man.
Miss Rowena Fairchild was Robby Riverton.
Chapter Five
Robby fought a desire to panic and do something stupid as the flatbed wagon rolled out of Santa Fe. He had an urge to jump down and run. But with these damned skirts, he’d probably break a leg. Besides, Wayne Crabtree would chase his lunatic future sister-in-law, and then how could Robby explain himself?
No, he couldn’t act in haste. He had to be smarter than a rabbit that ran straight at a pack of dogs. He couldn’t afford to slip up now, not when the Bowery Boys were hanging around. They’d waylaid him on the street, even in his disguise!
It was the second time in twenty-four hours Robby had thought he was a dead man.
It had all gone to hell yesterday. The wagon train had been moseying along the final few miles to Santa Fe. Everyone was in a good mood, buoyed by the prospect of imminent saloons, restaurant cooking, and whores. Most of the wagon train had stopped in Fort Union, so only eleven wagons remained. Robby, aka Nick Smith, had been riding next to Stoltz as he drove the team. He’d been reading out loud from his volume of Shakespeare—the burly blacksmith favored the bloody, war-themed plays like Henry V.
After Rowena departed in Dodge City, Robby spent more time doing chores with, and riding alongside, Stoltz. He’d become friendly with the man. Stoltz was laconic and grim, but he seemed to enjoy the company. Conversations with him where nearly all one-sided, so Robby had come upon the idea of reading out loud to pass the endless miles. It suited them both. Besides, Robby needed to keep his voice in good form.
He missed the stage. Missed the adulation—and challenge—of the audience. But to his surprise, he’d enjoyed the trip. The further they got from Missouri, the more the landscape changed. They’d crossed lush grasslands, lugged the wagons and livestock up and down steep river canyons with ropes, passed gigantic red shelves of rocks and majestic mountains. The land was so wild and so vast. They saw herds of buffalo, comical prairie dogs, and many other animals Robby never imagined existed.
He hadn’t heard a peep from his pursuers since Missouri, and he assumed he was in the clear. But that last day, Stoltz made a grunting noise and nodded his head toward the rear. Robby looked back. Two riders on horseback had come up behind the last wagon and were talking to the driver. They stopped the horses and one of the men got onboard, searching for something or someone.
Robby’s blood turned to ice. He recognized the stovepipe hats and red shirts with suspenders the men wore. Bowery Boys.
Oh God, no. They found me.
The book of Shakespeare fell with a thud to the floor beneath the bench, his fingers lifeless.
“They after you?” Stoltz asked, his voice even.
Robby nodded, terrified.
Stoltz turned his head to peer back at the men, his gaze hardening. “What’re we gonna do?”
We. Stoltz was on his side. Robby was profoundly grateful.
“Tell them I got off a ways back. Maybe, I don’t know, Fort Union? Please.”
Stoltz nodded once. Robby climbed back into the covered wagon.
He knew exactly what he was going to do. He only hoped he had time enough to do it. After Rowena went off with her beau, Robby had discovered she’d left one of her trunks behind, one they’d covered with a cloth and made into a table. It had occurred to Robby he might use her clothes in a pinch, as a disguise. But he hadn’t really expected to need them. Now he hurried to undress.
There was a compartment in the floor of the wagon, and he stuffed his own belongings in there while trying to dress himself at the same time. He wished he’d tried on Rowena’s clothes before and adjusted them. It was too late now.
He chose the gown that looked the largest, a pale green silk. But his shoulders were too broad and the sleeves too tight. There was no way he could button up the back. He cast a shawl over himself instead. He couldn’t stuff his big feet into her slippers, so he put his own boots back on. The skirts would hide them. There was a large-rimmed bonnet, thank God. Robby used some pomade to slick back his hair, so it would look like he had a bun. He hadn’t shaved regularly on the wagon train, so he had to do so now, as fast as he could. Fortunately, he’d never been able to grow more than sporadic tuffs of hair, so it wasn’t a time-consuming task. His ears were pricked for sounds. It wouldn’t take them long to search these few wagons.
Lastly, he pulled out his tin of stage makeup and applied pale powder and heavy rouge. A shadow pencil hollowed his cheeks and narrowed his jaw, disguising the shape of his face. He used blue paint on his eyelids. Red lipstick made his lips fuller.
He stared in the small mirror in despair. It was way too much paint. But maybe the Bowery Boys would assume Stoltz was traveling with a strumpet. He couldn’t risk them recognizing him.
Hooves pounded outside. A man yelled at Stoltz to pull up. The wagon swung off the trail, slowed, and stopped. Heart pounding, Robby did one last visual check and then went forward to put on the most important performance of his life.
He sat next to Stoltz and linked their arms together, eyeing the Bowery Boys with wary curiosity. He recognized one of them, an older thug with a thick waist and cold eyes. He’d been in the alley that night. He didn’t recognize the younger man. Both looked capable of gutting him as easily as they’d shuck an oyster.
Thank God for Stoltz’s stoicism. He didn’t bat an eye at the appearance of “Rowena.” He told the Bowery Boys that Nick Smith had gotten off in Fort Union. One of the men searched the back but didn’t come up with anything.
It was only after the men rode off, that Robby reacted to the gravity of the situation. If they’d discovered him, they would have taken him a short way off into this dry, inhospitable landscape, and shot him. Or more likely slit his throat. They would have
left his body for the buzzards and coyotes. Robby’s too-good imagination conjured up the image for him. Lovely.
Sitting next to Stoltz as the team plodded on, Robby began to shake. Without a word, Stoltz handed him a bottle of whiskey.
Now, sitting in the wagon next to Marcy Crabtree, the shakes began again. Robby fought to rein them in.
“Bet you’re real tired,” Marcy said. She was a mousy kind of woman, with dull brown hair and eyes, and so painfully drab she hardly existed at all. There was a bruise on her chin that gave her the look of an urchin.
“Yes. I’m weary to the bone.” Robby affected a shy air.
“We’ll be home by supper,” Marcy offered.
“Thank you.” Robby looked away over the dust and sage.
What was he going to do? He’d hoped to slip away in Santa Fe. Now here he was, in the middle of nowhere, without a single friend or confidant, riding on to what was surely his doom. His new doom, as opposed to that other doom, which he’d barely escaped.
How long could he hide the truth? And what would the Crabtrees do to him when they found out he was not Miss Rowena Fairchild? When he was, in fact, a man? In the stories of the Wild West, men were always getting shot or hung for cheating at cards. This was several magnitudes worse than that.
He eyed the driver, Wayne Crabtree. The man was sullen and kept spitting brown tobacco juice—a disgusting habit. Marcy Crabtree was quiet and listless. This didn’t bode well for the Crabtree family. Except . . . Except there was also the other one.
Sheriff Trace Crabtree.
Now there was an unexpected plot twist. Rowena’s fiancé’s brother? The man had been as unlikely as pixie dust since the moment he’d walked up and challenged the Bowery Boys. He hadn’t shown a spark of fear. He was cool and cordial on the surface, but you could sense an underbelly of deadly steel. Maybe the Bowery Boys hadn’t known what to make of him, or perhaps they hadn’t wanted to take on a lawman on a public street. Or maybe they just hadn’t been sure if Rowena was worth it. But Trace Crabtree had led Robby away as easy as pie.
