Distant Thunder

by Lisa Bingham

  Jordie gulped, cowering beneath the loaded pistol like a cornered rabbit. Daniel Crocker’s reputation had preceded him. “Ruthless” would have been a kind word to use in connection with his work for the Pinkertons. Last summer Jordie had seen the gruesome newspaper photos taken after Crocker apprehended the murderer Mackie Beeb. Beeb had worn a serene expression. Had it not been for the pennies over his eyelids and the bullet hole through his neck, no one would have guessed how swiftly he’d been sent to his Maker.

  Jordie gnawed at the inside of his lip. Why, oh, why, had he agreed to make the deliveries to this man? Nine times out of ten, telegrams meant nothing but bad news. Fear inundated Jordie in sleeting waves. He had the rotten luck to bring sad tidings to a man who appeared as touchy as a grizzly roused from a long winter’s nap.

  “I didn’t mean to get you up—honest!” He took in Daniel’s sleep-mussed hair and stubbled jaw, then noted his bare chest, makeshift bandage, and naked thighs. Silently he thrust a small package and the folded paper into Daniel’s free hand, then backed away.

  “Boy!”

  Jordie froze, standing ramrod stiff next to the flocked paper on the hotel wall. “What?”

  “You deserve something for your trouble.”

  “No! No, no. No trouble at all. No trouble. None. Honest!” Then, scrambling toward the staircase on the far side of the building, he disappeared from view.

  The weapon became too heavy for Daniel to hold. Dropping his arm, he backed into the room and shut the door. Setting the gun and the telegram on the nightstand, he drew the covers over his legs and settled onto the bed. The sheets were speckled with streaks of blood from his restless night.

  Flinging an arm over his eyes to block out the light streaming through his window, he ignored the crumpled scrap of paper waiting for his perusal. He didn’t want to look at it—didn’t need to look at it. No doubt the missive held a summons from Jedidiah Kutter, his superior. Since Daniel had taken a knife in his side while apprehending Grant Dooley and most of his gang, the last thing he wanted to think about was going back to work. This past year he’d been on a horse more often than not. He’d been beaten, shot at, and cursed. He’d traversed most of Wyoming Territory tracking the Dooleys, and most of the Mountain West trailing the Beebs, and if the Dooley gang had been trouble, the Beeb brothers were his personal nightmare. Daniel was tired. Bone weary. Not just of the last few weeks, but of everything: his job, his routine. His life.

  Squeezing his lashes closed, he willed his body to settle into the arms of sleep. But sleep had never come easily to Daniel Crocker, and right now it seemed an impossibility. The presence of the telegram burned into his consciousness.

  “Damn.” He shifted his arm and rolled his head on the pillow. The paper beckoned him like the crooked finger of a practiced whore, promising the sweet fulfillment of his curiosity, yet mocking him with the emptiness of that same fulfillment.

  Knowing he would have no rest until he read the contents, Daniel stretched to take the note between two knuckles. He held it up in the light as if he could read through the paper, then finally tore it open.

  There was no return address, no signature. Just one simple line: “She will take her vows.”

  “ ‘She will take her vows,’ ” he read aloud. He crumpled the telegram in his fist. If he closed his eyes, he could see that bitter October day when he had helped little Susan from the train and handed her over to the care of a special friend, one of the new novices at Saint Francis. He had persuaded himself and her guardians at the orphanage that Susan would need to stay at the academy only a few years in order to receive her education. In the meantime, Belle would watch over her and protect her—something Daniel could no longer do.

  But Susan had not left Saint Francis four years later. She had stayed to begin her ten-year novitiate. In all that time, Daniel had visited her once, on the day of her graduation. He hadn’t seen her since. He’d contented himself with infrequent reports from Belle. This most recent telegram was no different from any other he’d received over the years. Except for the message.

  She will take her vows.

  “Like hell she will,” he ground out between his teeth. He rolled to his feet and reached for his trousers.

  As soon as he’d cleared the building, Jordie ran down the front steps. The man was waiting for him, just as he’d said he would.

  “Well?”

  “I gave him the package; now leave me alone. I’ve got to get back to Mr. Smythe or he’ll have my head.”

  The stranger reached into his pocket and withdrew a twenty dollar gold piece. “For your trouble,” he said.

  Surprised, Jordie reluctantly took it. Twenty dollars was a lot of cash. More than he could make in months and months of running.

  But as he stammered his good-byes and raced down the street, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just been paid blood money.

  Chapter 2

  Denver, Colorado

  January 10, 1885

  In Susan Hurst’s opinion, Saint Francis Academy for Young Ladies became as sterile as a tomb once the girls went to bed. She missed the restless energy and the sound of muffled laughter. She longed for the faint trace of forbidden toilet water that sometimes wafted into the air. But most of all she yearned for the company of another human being.

  As one of the few novices serving at Saint Francis, Susan was given duties that kept her busy long after the sun set in the sky. Most of her assignments required solitude, providing her with the time and opportunity to ruminate over her upcoming admittance into the order. Yet sometimes the loneliness became unbearable.

  Arching her back to relieve the weary crick that had settled low in the nape of her neck, she made her way through the night-blackened corridors to her room. Her footsteps echoed against the vaulted ceiling. The frost, condensed on the surface of the stones, lent a bite to the draft that snaked beneath her skirts.

  For nearly thirty years Saint Francis had been the motherhouse of the Ursuline nuns who had founded the academy. During her own association with the institution, Susan had never failed to admire the dedication and commitment of the women who served here. That was why she’d tried so hard to be like them. She wanted to belong to something important. She wanted—craved—a place where she was needed. Yet the doubts would not go away. A hollow spot had appeared in her heart, feeding on itself day by day.

  Perhaps she just needed a rest. There had been so many details to finalize before Susan could leave for a few short weeks to attend a reunion of children who had once stayed in the Benton House Memorial Orphanage. She’d been working from dawn to midnight each evening, preparing lesson plans, outlines, and lecture notes for her substitute. Her shoulders ached, and her head throbbed. But she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of easing her pace. Until tonight, when she’d discovered every possible task was finished and one long empty evening remained before she left for Ashton in the morning. One lonely, never-ending evening.

  Susan rounded the corner and frowned. A finger of light stroked the bottom edge of her chamber door and inched into the hall. Her steps faltered.

  As assistant to Sister Mary Margaret, headmistress of Saint Francis Academy, Susan had the unaccustomed luxury of a private room. Special records and accounts were stored in her desk drawer, so her quarters were kept locked at all times. No one would have a reason to be inside without permission. No one but the mother superior or one of the other nuns accompanying Max, their handyman, who sometimes brought her a bunch of wildflowers or an extra armful of wood.

  Tiptoeing forward, she reached for the handle. The knob remained firmly in place. Whoever waited for her on the other side had locked the door. Neither the mother superior nor Max would have done such a thing.

  Susan dug into the deep pocket of her skirt and removed a worn brass key. As noiselessly as possible, she slid it into place and released the latch. Then, cautiously, she opened the door.

  A glass lamp on the far
side of the room dispelled the darkness, but the wick had been adjusted to a shallow glow. Enough light illuminated the narrow space to reveal that her bed remained tautly made, her pillow fluffed. The single straight-backed chair was unoccupied; her trunks were untouched. No one was there.

  Summoning her courage, Susan stepped inside. She had just cleared the threshold when the door slammed shut behind her and an arm wound itself around her neck, a broad hand clapping over her mouth. Susan instinctively clawed at her captor, her lungs gulping air to scream.

  “Don’t. It’s me.”

  As quickly as the terror had seized her, it drained away. The fingers that had been digging into his arm eased. She knew that voice—the husky, gravelly timbre, the familiar inflection.

  The second he released her, Susan whirled to face him. “Daniel!” It took a few seconds for her to absorb the sight of his lean, angular frame. But what she found made her wince. How long had it been since she’d seen him last? At least ten years and he’d changed so much! His wavy ash blond hair hung past the taut lines of his shoulders. He’d gained twenty pounds in muscle alone, and his body was tempered by time and hard living. The huge calf-skin coat he wore couldn’t mask the strength of his torso and the whipcord length of his thighs.

  “Hello, Susan.”

  “What are you trying to do?” she demanded. “Scare the life right out of me?”

  He shrugged and uncocked his weapon. Susan hadn’t even known it was ready to fire.

  “I left the light on. I wanted to come earlier. But I’m not the sort of person the good sisters would let pass through their gate, let alone visit one of their little lambs.”

  The statement was harshly spoken—and Daniel was right. Most of the sisters at Saint Francis would disapprove of any association with Daniel Crocker. He was a man no delicate woman, especially a novice, admitted to knowing. He cursed; he drank. He’d killed. But the most telling characteristic of all was his eyes. They were angry. Bleak. Long ago they had turned flinty and cold, and no amount of feminine fussing could ever thaw them. Susan didn’t remember when the change had occurred, but Daniel couldn’t have been very old. Tonight they seemed even bleaker.

  “You look awful, Daniel.” The glow from the lamp cruelly outlined the craggy indentations of his cheeks and the square line of his jaw.

  “It’s nice to see you, too.”

  Susan wanted to touch him, soothe the deep furrow of tension that lined his brow, but the stiff way he held his body told her he wouldn’t welcome such an overture. Daniel had never taken to coddling of any sort. Even from her.

  “You don’t look as if you’ve been taking very good care of yourself.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Too busy to sleep?” She noted the weary lines that slashed from his nose to the corners of his mouth. A gray pallor dusted his skin.

  “I’m fine.”

  Susan had a different opinion, but she knew it would be useless to argue. “Why are you here?”

  He’d never visited on her birthday or on a holiday or during a vacation—not once in ten long years. She knew he thought about her. Their childhood bond had not weakened over time. Even now she had the eerie feeling that Daniel had somehow sensed how much she needed him. Her childhood confidant. Her protector. The only male she’d ever allowed herself to trust.

  Daniel stepped toward her, his eyes intent on her face. “I’ve heard some disturbing news.”

  She nervously cleared her throat. “News?”

  “Why didn’t you send word and tell me?”

  She retreated from him. “Tell you?”

  “Damn it! Don’t play games. You know exactly what I mean. A nun.” He said the word as if it were dirty.

  So he knew the truth. “How did you find out?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think it does.”

  “Then let’s just say a little angel appeared in the dead of night, perched on my shoulder, and whispered your plans in my ear. Hellfire and damnation, Susan, have you lost your mind?”

  Defiantly, she lifted her chin a notch. “It’s an honorable calling.”

  “Maybe for someone else, but not for you.”

  “I think I’d make a fine nun.”

  “Well, you’re not getting the chance.” He crossed toward the small wooden trunk that Saint Francis Academy had supplied to hold her meager belongings.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Packing. I’m taking you away from here.” He flung open the lid.

  “You are not.”

  In the dimness of the room, his eyes flashed with icy crystals of determination. “Watch me.”

  “I’ll scream.”

  “Fine.” He began pulling petticoats and drawers free. An empty carpetbag she had borrowed for her trip to Ashton lay on the floor, and he scooped it onto the bed and began stuffing it with clothes.

  “Stop it!” An angry blush stained her cheeks. When he returned to the trunk and removed the tray with the intent of rummaging through her outerwear, she batted his hands away and slammed the lid shut. “What in the world has come over you?”

  He leaned close, his nose almost touching hers. “I’m doing what I should have done years ago. I’m taking you away from here.”

  “And just where do you plan on going?”

  “To the orphanage. You can live there from now on.”

  “The orphanage! I don’t need charity. I’m not a child anymore.”

  “You’re sure as hell acting like one.”

  “Why? Because I’ve found a way to support myself? Because I’ve managed to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly without living off the goodness of other people?”

  “No. Because you’re not facing your problems; you’re running away. I knew you were still afraid of men, but I didn’t think you’d take things this far.”

  She gasped as if he’d struck her.

  “It’s perfect, isn’t it? Not a male around, except Max, who might as well be a child. You’ll spend the rest of your life shut inside your precious stone walls with no one to talk to but a gaggle of women.”

  She slapped him hard across the cheek. The crack of flesh meeting flesh ricocheted through the room.

  Daniel’s head snapped back from the force of the blow. When he looked at her, he knew he’d gone a step too far. Susan stood trembling in front of him, her skin glassy white, her dark green eyes wide and haunted.

  Damn. Why hadn’t he been more careful? He’d pushed her past the unspoken emotional boundaries that had been drawn the first day he’d met her, a terrified red-haired little girl. Since Susan was so afraid of men, the neighbors had surmised that she had witnessed the attack on the farm and on her mother, but she’d never volunteered an explanation. She refused to speak of that day, even though it still colored her entire life.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t react. She could have been carved from ivory, so rigid had she become.

  He’d come to dread that look. It made him feel helpless. And mean. Daniel had been hated by a lot of people. He’d grown used to scorn and betrayal, and it rarely affected him. But he couldn’t bear to have Susan gaze at him with hurt or disapproval.

  His own fears had made him reckless. Normally he was able to keep a tight rein on his emotions, but seeing her now, so pale and unhappy, he felt the old familiar urge to make things right, to fix her hurts and right her wrongs. He had to make her see that her decision to enter the sisterhood was a form of desperation, not devotion. He had to keep her from making a mistake she would regret for the rest of her life.

  “Susan?” His voice held an uncharacteristic trace of tenderness. At an early age, Daniel had been forced to fend for himself. He’d developed an instinct for emotional survival. Despite the few happy years he’d experienced at the orphanage, he’d soon grown bitter and cynical. It had been so long since he’d felt any emotion other than anger, he’d forgotten how to be ge
ntle. His feelings had atrophied when he left Susan with the nuns at Saint Francis and joined the cavalry. There he’d been plunged back into the only world where he’d ever belonged. One where pride and a stubborn strength of will bred a generation of men like him: men born to take the brunt of the world’s fury—before giving it back again in full measure.

  He reached out to comfort her, but she jerked back.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said—”

  “I think you’d better go.”

  “Damn it, Susan, you’re too good for this kind of life!”

  “I don’t want you here.”

  “You’re sweet and kind and loving. Don’t shut out the world.”

  “Go away!”

  He knew he should do what she asked. Who was he to tell others how to conduct themselves? He’d had no luck following his own code. But at the mere thought of Susan, his little Susan, locking herself into a convent …

  The minute she took her vows, she would be lost to him completely. Maybe he was being unreasonable. He hadn’t sought her company for over a decade. He’d wanted to. He’d always known he could. He’d kept a record of her progress; he’d thought of her every day. But he kept thinking he would visit sometime in the future, once he’d proven himself and become a better man. But he’d only grown harder and more cynical.

  Now he was faced with the fact that once she became a member of the order, she could no longer be his in any way whatsoever.

  No. He wouldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t. For too long he’d served as Susan’s protector, either in person or through the help of friends. He couldn’t stop playing that role now, even if it meant saving Susan from herself.

  He moved closer to her. “Come with me. Leave Saint Francis. You don’t belong here.” He spoke with silky persuasion, but it didn’t ease her rigid stance.

  “You were the one who brought me here in the first place! Why are you so dead set against my staying?”