Chasing Adventure

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  A nurse? She hadn’t noticed a lady from where she’d sat. Chagrined at her inattention, Thora shot to her feet in time to see the tall deputy forge a path through the now-hushed crowd, allowing four men and the woman to transport Boris the Bear slung on a blanket.

  The woman walked at the back of the tight-knit group, her hands at the boxer’s head.

  The scenario reminded her of her favorite tales in the Norse Eddas about warriors being walked off the field of battle, suspended on their Viking shields. Those combatants were heroes for the ages. Her thoughts wandered to Balder and Kvasir and the Einherjar, the dead warriors taken by the Valkyries to Valhalla where they fought during the day and feasted each night awaiting Ragnorak, the final destruction—.

  “Make way, folks.”

  The authoritative command from twenty feet away pulled Thora from her musings. The blonde woman, Odette, supported the boxer’s neck, obviously not caring about how that hold positioned his head in relation to her lower body—a scandalous action that Thora considered more endearing.

  Those bearing the boxer moved with a slow cadence, almost like a funeral procession, past the standing spectators. On this occasion, she hoped her morbid comparison would not come to fruition.

  The group veered toward the right, angling for a conveyance resembling a traveling tinker’s wagon—except the outside was painted black with gold that highlighted every curve or inset of wood. Even the wheel spokes were painted gold. I’ll bet an intriguing story could be cajoled from that wagon’s owner. She glanced again at the men carrying the fallen competitor, determining if she recognized any for a future interview.

  Seeing no one familiar, Thora turned to her companions and glanced between the Lyles. “How did a nurse happen to be in the audience? Is that protocol for these types of athletic matches?” Questions fired through her mind. Could a nurse be the heroine of this story? Inherent conflict existed between a healer and a man of battle. A lady of mercy rising from the obscurity of the crowd to come to the rescue of an injured pugilist?

  Thora bounced on her toes, excitement fueling her moves. Oh, have I discovered the heart of my story that previously only languished on the page?

  Thora scrambled in her reticule for another pencil and sketched the vehicle’s silhouette. Then she returned to jotting down notes. “Where will they take him?” An eye injury meant specialized treatment. Such treatment meant large population cities of—

  With a jolt, Thora realized she had no idea of the distance to the closest city where a hospital with such specialized doctors would be located. She’d dozed for much of the train trip and couldn’t remember a city of any size along the route she’d traveled. Would Boris have to be sent as far as Bellevue Hospital in New York?

  “They’ll start with Doc Cameron in Sweetwater Springs. But he’ll probably recommend taking Viktor to Helena or Butte, maybe even Denver.” As he spoke, Percival scribbled notes in his own notebook.

  “Viktor?” Frowning, she shot the journalist a sideways look then continued writing. “I thought his name was Boris.”

  “Stage name.” Bernice leaned close and rested her fingers on Thora’s arm. “I thought that fact was interesting. His real name is Viktor Andrusha.”

  “And I learned he has relatives in a nearby city called Morgan’s Crossing.” Percival nodded as he wrote.

  “Is that so? Where is that town located?”

  “Two days’ ride from here.”

  Sharing facts with a colleague presented a new experience. Back home, Thora’s stories had all been created within the confines of her bedroom. Of course, she’d made trips to the public library to check resources after she’d exhausted those within Father’s numerous volumes. But reference librarians were hardly considered on a par with another writer who shared enthusiasm for getting the details right.

  Thora couldn’t stop scanning the crowd, which was decidedly less agitated, anxious for another sighting of the tall deputy. Moments passed without seeing him, so she turned her focus to the work needed to finalize the background for her story. Her next task would be arranging transportation to the small town to gather the information she needed.

  The next morning, although she sat among mostly strangers, Thora enjoyed the community worship in this quaint country church. The building was nothing like the barn-like structure with the pews situated in an arc before the pulpit she was used to at Plymouth Church. She missed seeing the engraved plaques showing where famous people had once sat. Her favorite one marked the row where Abraham Lincoln shared worship in February, 1860, before giving a famous anti-slavery speech. An event before her time, but her father had attended and shared the story on many occasions.

  This simple structure had its own charms. The long benches facing forward might lack the patina of decades of use, but the parishioners raised their voices in joyful harmony.

  Luck often came Thora’s way. As she thanked Reverend Norton, she overheard someone mention a teamster making a delivery to the mining town. Thora hurried toward a plump, blonde woman who strode next to a man with broad shoulders and sandy-colored hair. “Excuse me, ma’am. I hate to bother you.”

  “Yes?” The woman turned and tilted her head.

  “My name is Thora Alviss, and I heard you mention the freighter.” She glanced over the departing crowd and hoped she wasn’t losing her chance. “Could you point him out?”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Alviss.” Giving a wide smile, she made a shooing motion toward the man.

  “Miss.” He nodded and then squeezed the woman’s hand before walking ahead.

  “I’m Pamela Carter. Oh, I hear an Eastern accent in your voice.” Her brown eyes glowed. “Where are you from?”

  Impatience built, but Thora needed the information so she pasted on a smile. “New York City. I apologize for my abruptness, but I really need to get to Morgan’s Crossing. So, could you show me who the driver is?”

  “Oh, of course.” Missus Carter leaned on tip-toes and gazed at the people standing nearby in small groups talking. “The slight man there with the floppy hat and blond hair beneath.”

  Thora dipped a quick curtsey. “Thank you.” She turned in that direction then looked over her shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Missus Carter.” By now, the man walked several businesses away and Thora had to walk at a fast pace.

  Finally, outside Cobbs’ Mercantile, Thora caught up to the man who walked fast for someone not much taller than she was. As she gulped in breaths, she pressed a hand to her chest. “Uh, excuse me.” She sucked in another breath. “Are you El Davis, the freighter?”

  The slight, blond man turned and nodded. “That’s me.”

  The cool regard in his blue-eyed gaze didn’t appear welcoming. She flashed a friendly smile. “I understand you drive goods to Morgan’s Crossing.”

  “Set out on Tuesday. Got a package for me to carry?”

  “I do…me.” As she pointed at her chest, Thora flashed what she hoped was a winning grin.

  Light eyebrows winged high. “Beg your pardon?”

  “I’d like to be driven there. What’s the fare?”

  “Sorry, freight only.” The man shrugged a slim shoulder and angled away.

  “But—” Thora couldn’t let her hopes end here. What would her personal hero, Nellie Bly, do? Would the intrepid reporter let a simple rule stop her from gathering the facts she needed? No, Nellie would figure out a way that worked. “I must reach Morgan’s Crossing. I could rent a buggy, but I don’t know the way.”

  Mister Davis gave her a long look from bonnet to boot. “Why would a lady such as yourself need to reach a small mining town?”

  Oh, why hadn’t she thought to pack her plainest dresses so she’d blend in better? Already, Thora had endured plenty of curious glances from the townswomen. “I’m a writer.” She reached into her reticule and withdrew the business card printed with her employer’s information. “I write adventure stories featuring women for Warren Brothers Publishing, specifically The Oceanside Library.” />
  “I do enjoy reading those stories.” Mister Davis glanced up, his blue eyes shining, before looking back at the card. “Huh, New York City? You’re sure a long way from home.” He returned the card.

  “True, and I’m a bit out of my depth in getting around out here.” After sliding the card into her reticule, Thora straightened her spine. “I wish to gather information which will help me complete a story based on yesterday’s boxing match. I have a deadline that I cannot miss, even if I am forced to hire a conveyance and travel on my own.”

  “I admire that spirit, miss.” The teamster shuffled his boots and jammed both hands in his back pockets. “Trip takes two days, and travelers shelter overnight in a one-room cabin. Did you know that fact?”

  “Oh.” As much as Thora had already stretched the bounds of her reputation, sharing sleeping space with a man was a concession she would not make. “I understand.”

  Disappointment weighed heavy, and her shoulders drooped. Perhaps she’d ask around town and learn when a family planned to travel in that direction. Although that occasion could take an untold number of days. “I’m sure another way will present itself.”

  “A greenhorn going astray in the territory would weigh on my conscience.” From under the hat brim, he narrowed his blue eyes.

  Hope fluttered in her chest. “I certainly am a greenhorn.”

  “I did Michael Morgan a favor a few months ago and transported his cousin and her daughter. Guess I can make another exception.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’m happy to pay whatever you think is fair.” Thora beamed. “I’ll tell Mister Morgan to consider adding passenger service the very first time I talk to the man.” And Father told me I’d be back on the first return train because I couldn’t solve my own problems.

  One problem handled, but I still have to track down Marshal Renwyck.

  ~**~

  Two days later, the loaded wagon drawn by six pairs of mules trundled along the road. Thora sat on the high seat next to Mister Davis.

  Not yet at the second day’s midday stop outside of Sweetwater Springs, and Thora was bored. She rubbed a hand on her lower back and glanced around at the expansive prairie. The only sign of civilization was the long row of upright poles holding the telegraph’s wire. If only she’d packed her painting supplies. The new sights surrounding her begged to be captured and painted on canvas, even if she hadn’t practiced her skills in a while.

  Barley an hour into yesterday’s the journey, Thora had discovered the freighter to be a taciturn man who didn’t reciprocate idle conversation. Today wasn’t any different. Might as well work on my story. She reached into her satchel for the notepad. “Would you like to hear what I’ve written so far?”

  “If you’ve a mind to read it.”

  What an opportunity. Nobody back home ever wanted to listen to what she’d written. Thora rested the notebook on her lap but that position proved too bouncy. Holding the journal aloft, she started.

  “During an early fall afternoon on a small river-side rise, two boxers like the gladiators of ancient times waged manly combat comparable to Roman competitors.” She shot Mister Davis a sideways glance to check his expression.

  The driver faced forward but gave a sharp nod.

  Seeing no signs the man would cut her off, she refocused on the page. “A roped platform erected in the wilds of Montana Territory, instead of arena walls in the heart of a city, contained the combatants as they toed the line of battle. Two men, with hardened muscles bulging, squared off then tested their pugilistic acumen.” As Thora continued with the details, she checked again for His reaction. “The mighty favorite was laid low and—”

  Mister Davis straightened and glanced over his shoulder. “Rider approaching from behind.” He leaned forward and stretched an arm under the seat. Straightening, he rested a rifle across upraised legs.

  At the sight of the weapon, Thora sucked in a breath.

  “Just being careful.”

  Thora shifted in her seat so she could glance over her shoulder.

  A rider on a gray horse trotted closer.

  The silhouette of his hat and width of his broad shoulders looked familiar. What is he doing out here? “You don’t have anything to worry about. I recognize this person.” Unfortunately. Unbidden, awareness produced a shiver. She closed her notebook. “He’s the deputy from Sweetwater Springs.”

  Moments later, the horse’s hoof beats slowed. The deputy reined in his horse to match the wagon’s pace. “Easy, Blaze. Let’s walk for a while. Good day, Miss Alviss. Davis.” Grinning, he lifted his hat an inch in greeting.

  The driver nodded then turned toward the team.

  “I didn’t realize the boundaries of Sweetwater Springs extended this far, deputy.” Although she tried, Thora couldn’t keep pique from her tone. Just seeing him again reminded her of their last encounter.

  Today, the deputy wore a pale green shirt that highlighted his tanned skin. Although, she should still be angry over his presumptuous action when last they were together, she just couldn’t be. He’d strong-armed her to safety, and then the kiss was probably to prevent what he thought was hysteria. In fact, the kiss supplied details about intimacy she could use in her stories. If only I’d stop dwelling on the sensations in my thoughts.

  He laughed. “Always quick with the answer. If I didn’t know better, Miss Alviss, I’d think you’d discovered my destination and are following me.”

  “Not likely.” Thora tossed her head. I’m the one with the legitimate reason for traveling in this direction. “How does someone who’s physically ahead be labeled the follower?” She studied the road between the mules’ long ears. A question about the last time they’d spoken. A slight turn of her head showed he’d been watching her. “Tell me, sir. Did you remain with the fallen boxer long enough to learn the extent of his injury?”

  “Doc Cameron didn’t want to make an exact diagnosis.” He leaned a forearm on the saddle horn and twisted to maintain eye contact. “But I watched the private car be attached to the next eastbound train. They were headed to the nearest city with a southbound connection toward Denver.”

  Thora itched to write down the details, but she’d wait until he wasn’t observing her. No need to make him feel more important than he already did. “That poor man. The way he left the contest was rather dramatic.” Shaking her head, she pursed her lips. “I wonder if he’ll ever compete again.”

  “Doc doubted so. Cheer up, Miss Alviss.” He flashed a wide smile. “The boxer and the nurse were married before they left town. Don’t ladies enjoy hearing such news?”

  Thora bit back a sigh over the romantic event, figuring he’d laugh at such a feminine response. The perfect finale to her story. Her fingers itched to write that scene. “A happy ending, indeed. Thank you for sharing the details.” Spending a few moments with him in this setting was definitely more enjoyable than the last occasion. Except for those few moments… Heat flushed her cheeks, and she hoped he didn’t notice.

  “No offense, Davis, but the pace your mules set is too slow for my needs. Good day.” The deputy touched a finger to the brim of his hat then leaned forward. “Hup, Blaze.” He urged the horse into a canter and kicked up dust along the road ahead.

  Watching him for several moment, she reviewed their conversation in her head. “Follow him? Really.” She reached into her satchel for a pencil to jot down the latest details while they were still fresh. “If I was following anyone, I’d be on the trail of the man I traveled west to interview.”

  The driver tilted his head, brows drawn tight. “You came thousands of miles, practically the breadth of the entire country, to interview a single man?”

  In the teamster’s incredulous tone, Thora heard the echoes of her parents’ warnings about her venture being a wild goose chase. But she wasn’t ready to admit they’d been right. “Well, not just any man. I thought if I could interview US Marshal Harte Renwyck, then I would have the material from which to build the male characters for my stories. He�
��s a famous lawman. I have a scrapbook filled with every newspaper article written about him over the past five years. When we stop to eat, I can show you. But I wanted to talk to the man.”

  “You just did.” The driver tilted his head forward.

  “What?” Thora gaped then snapped her mouth shut. Couldn’t be. “No, he’s just the deputy from Sweetwater Springs.”

  “Rode into town barely a week ago and temporarily helped out Sheriff Mather. A lawman with the name of Harte Renwyck.” Mister Davis shook his head, his lips slipping into a smile. “How could you not recognize the man you traveled so far to meet?” He waved his hat ahead then plopped it back on his close-cropped blond hair.

  Thora jerked her head and looked forward, catching only a glimpse of the rider’s back before the horse disappeared down a gully. “I do not believe it. He was right there in town all this time, and I didn’t know.” Even after she’d asked him point-blank about the whereabouts of a U.S. Marshal. Insufferable man!

  El Davis chuckled. “Seems the man didn’t want to be found.”

  Her curiosity piqued, and all sorts of possibilities ran through her mind. Could that be true? Had the marshal somehow been avoiding her? For what reason?

  Now more than ever, she vowed to discover the mystery behind the man named Harte Renwyck.

  Chapter Five

  The next day, Thora stood in front of an oval mirror hanging above the commode with a ceramic pitcher and bowl set. She slid in the last comb to hold back the side strands that always loosened from her braided bun. Turning, she glanced around her rented room at the Morgan’s Crossing Hotel and Boardinghouse. Last night spent in this rented space had been more comfortable than the previous in the one-room travelers’ cabin, holding two sets of bunks beds, a fireplace, and a lantern that hung from the ceiling. A prior traveler left a wooden crate that served as a makeshift table.