by Jo Goodman
She glanced around, then spoke to him with urgency. “Don’t crook your finger at me. There are people here who will surely notice.”
“Then don’t act so furtive. I can guarantee they’ll notice that.” He opened the flap on his saddlebag and drew out a pair of tightly rolled dungarees. “Here. Mrs. Easter says they’re clean, and you shouldn’t worry about giving them back. Theo’s just about grown out of them and the younger boys are nowhere near ready to fill them out.”
Rachel made no attempt to reach for the roll of denim he was holding out to her. She stared at it instead. “I’m not taking that.”
“Now, that’s downright churlish, Rachel. Ann Marie’s a Methodist, but you can be sure she’s going to hear about this. Someone will mention that they saw me try handing a thing to you, someone else will say it looked like denim bolster, and a third person will say you shied away from it like it was a copperhead. Mrs. Easter will figure it all out when the story reaches her.” Wyatt consulted his pocket watch. “I’d say that would be at about one thirty, halfway through our meeting with the Calico engineers. That could be just the thing that would distract you.”
Exasperated, Rachel snatched it out of his hand and tucked it under her arm. “I’m only taking it so you’ll stop talking.”
He shrugged. “That works, too, I guess.”
“I don’t know where people in this town come by the idea that you don’t have much to say.”
“Could be on account of I don’t have to explain everything to them. You’re a little slow-witted that way, aren’t you?”
She must be, she decided, because Wyatt didn’t rush to unhitch his horse and mount, and she still didn’t have a blistering retort by the time he was riding away.
John Clay and Samuel Kirby had been hired by the California and Colorado Railroad when the track was still being laid. Rachel didn’t hide the fact that she was fascinated by their stories of the earliest days. Coming through the mountains, they told her, was slow going. Sometimes only a few miles of track could be put down in a day. There were tunnel failures and landslides. Bridges made for a long week, even month, in one place.
While they knew a great deal about the line in general, they understood everything about the Calico Spur. They told her about the schedule, the shifts, the routine maintenance. They explained where problems with the track were most likely to occur. Over the main dinner course of stuffed leg of lamb with currant jelly and sauce, Anna potatoes and lima beans, and raised hominy muffins, Rachel listened to these men speak so affectionately of the No. 473 and the Admiral that they might well have been speaking of the great loves of their life. They knew the temperament of the engines, the exact point to which the boilers could be pushed, the speed for a safe descent to the plateau where Denver stood, and the speed that disregarded every kind of caution but brought the train in on time in spite of an unexpected delay. They knew the location of the water towers and what was required to keep them in good repair. Ready water for the boilers was a necessity if the engines were going to make the climb to Reidsville. A tower lost to disrepair could stop their beloved locomotives.
Rachel was aware that Wyatt acted as the meeting’s conductor. He knew how to raise a point that enabled her to ask just the right question. Her ability to put matters before them plainly seemed to impress Clay and Kirby, but she understood that she was merely accepting Wyatt’s direction or following his lead.
“If it’s all right with you, Miss Bailey,” Sam Kirby said, “I’ll just speak my mind here about somethin’ that’s been weighin’ on us for a time now.”
“Please,” Rachel said. “It would be disagreeable if you didn’t.”
Sam set down his dessert fork and reluctantly pushed away what was left of his slice of cranberry pie. He patted his slightly distended stomach. “My wife doesn’t mind a little extra weight here, but it gets crowded in No. 473’s cab.”
Rachel smiled politely while John Clay, who was as thin as one of the rails he rode, cast a quick look at Sam’s belly and nodded heavily.
“After you were kind enough to invite us to a splendid meal and listen to our tired stories, it’s a rudeness to tell you that John and I weren’t certain we could work for another one of Clinton Maddox’s handpicked successors. We’ve seen what Foster Maddox accomplished in the short time since his grandfather took sick. I don’t know what you know about that, but he fired a lot of good operators up and down the line and replaced them with men answerable to him. There might have been some sense in it from where he was sitting, but for John and me, sitting in the cabs, we couldn’t find the sense of it with a map and a compass.”
“I see,” Rachel said carefully. “And you’re concerned it will be the same with me.”
“That’s the thing, Miss Bailey. We were real pleased to learn that Foster Maddox wasn’t going to control the spur, but we cooled a little to the idea after we considered what that might mean.”
Rachel looked from Sam to John and back again. “Better the devil you know, gentlemen. Is that it?”
“That occurred to us, yes.”
“And you still feel that way?”
“No, ma’am. No, we don’t. Leastways, I don’t, and John’s been kickin’ me under the table, so I expect he doesn’t feel that way, either. We’re real pleased to be working for you, and if it’s not too forward of us, we’d like to suggest a name to you of someone who can manage the operation day to day and report to you.”
Relieved, but recognizing that she couldn’t show it, Rachel simply nodded. “That certainly was on my agenda. Who did you have in mind for the position?”
“Well, I don’t know that he’ll suit since we learned from the sheriff that he’s a little taken with you, but Abe Dishman’s your man.”
Chapter Eight
“That’s a hell of a thing you’re wearing, Rachel.” Wyatt lifted his hat and raked back his sun-streaked hair as he looked her over. “Damn me if it’s not.”
“Apparently you weren’t listening to Pastor Duun’s sermon, either. He always has a thing or two to say about cursing.” She closed the back door behind her and stepped up to the edge of the small porch. Her stance was stoic as Wyatt continued to examine her from the height advantage of his horse. The fact that his expression was what Miss LaRosa would call squinty-eyed did not dispose Rachel to think kindly toward him. She looked down at herself. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? I put on the trousers, didn’t I?”
Wyatt replaced his hat and patted his gelding to steady it. “It’s hard to tell. Lift up the hem of that gingham sack you’ve got on.”
“It’s a smock.”
“Well, I’m telling you, it’s a fancy sack. Go on, run it up the pole. I promise not to salute.” He quieted his mount again. “Shh, Raider, that look’s aimed at me, not you.” He continued to regard Rachel. “You’re scaring my horse.”
“Will he throw you?”
“Probably not.”
Her mouth flattened, disappointment explicit in the line of it. She raised the red-and-white-checked gingham smock halfway to her knees. The denim trousers, cuffed twice at the ankles, were there for Wyatt to inspect. “See?”
“I do. How are you keeping them up? I forgot about suspenders.”
“I tied some scraps of fabric together and made a belt.”
“I bet that’s pretty.”
Certain that he was making fun of her again, Rachel ignored him and released the hem of her smock. “Can we go?”
Wyatt shook his head, pointing to the article of clothing she had thrown across her shoulders. “Now, what do you call that?”
“It’s a mantle.” She fastened the red silk frog at her throat so the short cape fell over her shoulders and closed. The brocade trim hung just below her waist.
“Uh-huh. It looks as if it might be velvet.”
“It is. It will keep me warm.”
“And the lining. That flash of scarlet I saw when you were closing it, I think that might be satin.”
Rachel’s nostrils flared slightly as she heaved an impatient sigh. “Is it important?”
“Don’t know, but it sure is interesting. Do you have a pair of gloves?” When Rachel produced a pair of butter-soft, red kid gloves from the pocket of her smock, Wyatt quickly put the back of his hand to his mouth and coughed to cover his roar of laughter. “You don’t chop wood in those. Where are your work gloves?”
“They’re too thick. They’ll make me clumsy with the gun. I might shoot you.”
Wyatt thought her eyes gleamed a bit too brightly. He grunted softly. “You won’t be wearing them when you’re handling the gun, but you’ll need them for warmth until then.” He called her back when she started to go. “Wait. Do you have another pair of boots? And maybe a less extravagant bonnet? Something without strawberries on it.”
She clapped a hand on her head. “There’s nothing wrong with my boots or my bonnet.”
“The boots can stay,” he conceded after a second glance at them. They looked dainty because her feet were small, but he recognized they were a sturdy pair from Wickham’s Leather Goods. “Wear the bonnet only if you don’t mind giving up those strawberries to target practice.”
Rachel gave him her back and stomped into the house.
Wyatt stroked his black gelding’s even blacker mane. “You saw her, didn’t you? Was I wrong?” Raider shook his head and snuffled loudly. “That’s right. And if you still had your balls, you would have stood up to her.”
Turning Raider toward the spring, Wyatt followed the path and collected a canteen of cold water while he was waiting for Rachel to reappear. He allowed Raider to take a little water and drank some himself; then he leaned negligently against his horse while he examined his gun.
He was holstering it when he heard Rachel approaching from behind. “I didn’t know it would take so long to choose another bonnet,” he said, taking his time to turn around. “I should have picked one out for—”
Wyatt fell silent for a long moment, incapable of more than a single thought. Rachel was no longer wearing any of the ridiculously unsuitable clothing she’d had on earlier. She’d replaced the bonnet with a black, wide-brimmed felt hat. She wore a sheepskin-lined leather jacket with the collar turned up at the back. He had a glimpse of a white shirt and a dove-gray vest before she finished buttoning her jacket. The black wool trousers she was wearing fit her better than the kid gloves she’d had on earlier. They sure as hell weren’t Theo Easter’s hand-me-down denims, and they sure as hell weren’t cuffed at the ankle. This pair was neatly hemmed and fit closely over her boots, the only items she hadn’t exchanged. He continued to stare at her as she pulled a pair of black leather riding gloves out of her jacket pocket and slipped them on her elegantly turned hands.
“Holy Mother of God.”
“That’s not flattering, Sheriff.”
“Wyatt,” he said absently. “What’s not flattering?”
Rachel’s lip curled derisively as his coolly colored eyes completed a second pass over her. “Do you even know you spoke?”
He blinked. “Mmm?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. You should be thinking twice about letting me near a gun.”
He was, but that was because he was thinking about taking her to bed. “Where did you get those clothes?”
“Is that what you really want to know? Be glad I’ve already spent a winter here and that I learned something about what I need.” She pointed to his horse. “I don’t ride, though, so I hope you meant it when you said we’re not going far.”
“I meant it,” he said, dragging his eyes away from her so she could mount. He held out a hand to her. “C’mon. Put your foot in the stirrup and I’ll pull you up behind me.”
“What about hiking?”
“I might have lied about that.”
Huffing once, Rachel extended her hand. She watched the horse warily while she lifted one foot to the stirrup.
“Don’t watch Raider,” Wyatt told her. “Look at me.”
She did, making a little jump at the same time. He pulled her onto Raider’s back in a single, fluid motion. A small breath escaped her as she came to rest directly behind him. The gelding shuffled back and forth until Wyatt steadied him with some pressure from his knees.
“Hold on to me,” he said over his shoulder.
Rachel stared at his back and wondered what she was supposed to grab. His jacket fit him tautly across the shoulders, and there was almost no give at the waist. Her dilemma was answered when Wyatt reached behind him and brought her hands forward until they practically rested inside his pockets. This had the effect of pressing her hard against his back.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I’d really rather be walking.”
He pretended he hadn’t heard. “Good.”
Behind him, Rachel rolled her eyes before she squeezed them shut and put herself completely in his hands.
Riding with him was not so very different, she discovered, than being held fast in his embrace: he made it safe for her to surrender control.
The epiphany startled her into opening her eyes.
“Are you all right back there?” asked Wyatt.
“Fine.”
“You’re looking around, aren’t you? There’s nowhere else like it.”
Rachel’s cheek brushed against his coat as she nodded. “It’s beautiful. Are we riding toward the mine? I’ve never been there.”
“No, not to the mine. I don’t imagine you’re going to much like it when you do get there. They’ve been blasting and using hydraulic cannons for years now. It scars the land, but that’s what it takes to mine the gold and silver. I’ll take you there, but not today.”
Rachel held on tighter as they began to climb. “Is this where you go when you ride out on Thursdays?”
“It’s one of the trails I take.”
She found herself lulled by the quiet, husky timbre of his voice as he pointed out the variety of pines that filled the mountainside. Looking around, she saw that sometimes they stood shoulder to shoulder, like a phalanx of giants set protectively around the mountain, and sometimes, one stood alone in the shadow of a more majestic figure. The ponderosas were particularly impressive, rising as much as one hundred eighty feet above the slopes, with bark like dragon scales. In the far distance, and at a much higher elevation, Rachel could make out the timberline trees, most of them limber pine that found purchase in the rocky soil but grew twisted from exposure to the wind and weather.
As Wyatt told her about the firs and the junipers, the infinite, and yet subtle, diversity of their cones, needles, and seeds, Rachel recalled what Molly had told her about Wyatt: He’s smart as a whip. He knows something about nearly everything.
“You’ve spent a lot of time out here, haven’t you?” she said.
“Every Thursday for the past eight years.”
“More than that, I think. Molly told me about the Rocky Mountain Detective Association. You must be familiar with just about all of these mountains.”
He chuckled. “You’re seriously underestimating the length and breadth of this range, even the part of it that rests here in Colorado, but I know some parts better than others. I’ve taken a lot of photographs out here.”
“Photographs? Really?”
“Hundreds, I imagine, though I never made a count of them.”
Rachel found it easier to move with the horse when she wasn’t thinking too hard about it. She turned her head and rested her chin comfortably against his shoulder, lifting it just a bit when she spoke so she didn’t sound as if she had a stutter. “Where did you learn about photography?”
“I took it up during the war.”
Of all the things he might have said, this answer was the least expected. She did some calculating in her head. “You couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen.”
“Twelve, but there were plenty of others like me, and most of them were fighting. I ended up attaching myself to Mathew Brady and carried tripods and glass plates, drove
the wagon when I had to, and learned whatever he was willing to teach me.”
Rachel had some understanding of what he wasn’t telling her. Following Mathew Brady’s lead would have meant that Wyatt had traipsed over battlefields after they were littered with bodies. He would have sat in the camps in the morning, perhaps listening to men trade stories and watching them write letters home, and even at twelve, he would have known that for some of them it would be the last time they’d do those particular things. At the end of the day, he would have been at the side of the photographers, making a visual record of the fallen.
Wyatt pulled up on the reins as they came upon a clearing beside a fast-running mountain stream. “This’ll do.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You first. I’ll help you down.” He gripped her hand and forearm and took his foot out of the stirrup so she could put a toe in. She levered herself up a bit awkwardly, then swung one leg over Raider and managed to jump to the ground without mishap. “Not too bad. Are you steady?” When she nodded, he moved Raider a few feet away and dismounted. He gave his horse a friendly pat and fastened the reins to a fallen branch. “Do you want a drink?” He held out his canteen to show her that he did not mean liquor.
“No, I’m fine.”
He nodded and replaced the canteen. “I brought a few things to use for target shooting. Why don’t you look over the gun, make yourself comfortable with it, while I set the targets out?” He removed his Colt from the holster and held it out to her. He expected that she might be reluctant, but she walked right up to him and took it out of his hand. “It’s not loaded,” he told her. “Just in case you have any notion about using it before I teach you how.”
“What kind of gun is it?” she asked, turning it over in her hands. “It’s heavy.”
“Some call it a ‘Peacemaker,’ but there’s a variety of those. This one’s a forty-four-caliber Henry rimfire.” He placed an empty coffee tin and three smaller cans on rocks at different heights and distances, then walked back to Rachel, who was removing her gloves. He did the same, stuffing them into his pocket. “I thought this one would be better for you. It has a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel. I left the seven-and-one-half-inch barrel behind because it just didn’t seem like it would suit.”
