A Wanted Man (3 page)

He flashed a set of even teeth. “Promise?” Then he raised his voice to carry throughout the car. “Listen up, folks. Pretty easy, here—anything you got that’s worth anythin’, toss it in the bag as the preacher goes up and down the aisle. Some of our friends are up front with the engineer, and stationed throughout the train just like we were, and all in all it’ll be the smartest thing to get it over with as soon as possible. You can try and hide somethin’, but I wouldn’t. It’ll only make us hafta look for it.” He looked directly at Mrs. Bossidy as he continued, “Come to think of it, go ahead and try.”

Laura tried to nudge Mrs. Bossidy back into place. No luck; she was a lot sturdier than she looked.

“Preacher? Get started.”

Preacher slid one of his guns into the holster hidden beneath his black coat and pulled out a sagging canvas bag. He looked down as he shook it open…and never looked up. The door behind him burst open. He wheeled halfway around as a body rocketed through
the door, driving him down to the floor. One of his guns fired, the blast deafening in the small space. Paneling shattered, bits raining down from the hole where the bullet slammed into the ceiling.

Impressions flashed, too many for Laura to capture: the bland-faced robber spinning to see what had happened at the doorway; Hoxie surging out of his seat, vaulting over the back, and tackling him in the aisle; men leaping from all directions as if they’d been awaiting the opportunity, now unleashed, shouting, arms flailing.

Unthinkingly, Laura shoved Mrs. Bossidy away and stood, craning her neck to see.

Preacher was on the floor, facedown and spread-eagled, a knee on his back and a gun to his head.

It was him.
Him
. The dark man who’d disappeared from the back platform had somehow come through the front door and subdued the robber in an instant.

“G
et down.”
Mrs. Bossidy yanked on her skirt.

“Don’t worry,” Laura told her. “Everything’s under control.”

And indeed it was. A half dozen men surrounded each robber, fists clenched, belatedly prepared to play the hero. It was entirely unnecessary; the dark man had the preacher thoroughly subdued, and Hoxie had apparently knocked the other one out cold.

“Need any help back there?” His voice was low-pitched, smooth as melted chocolate. Laura had expected it to be rough, as harsh-sounding as the rest of him appeared. But it was warm, carefully modulated, the kind of voice made to murmur of love and secret things, a voice that might recite poetry and issue orders with equal ease.

“Nope,” Hoxie answered cheerfully, climbing to his feet. “Two jabs and a left hook and he went down harder’n Glass Jaw Gillespie.” Rocking back on his heels, he cracked his knuckles, more energized than Laura had ever seen him.

The man nodded. “Anyone got some rope?”

No one moved, as if, in the lull following that eruption of intensity, they couldn’t think clearly enough to understand the question.

“How about this?” Laura said at last, moving toward the aisle.

“Laura!”

“Oh, hush,” she said, brushing past Mrs. Bossidy. She worked at the fastening of the sash wrapped around her waist as she threaded her way through the men crowding the aisle and stepped around the limp body on the floor, resisting the most unladylike urge to give him a swift kick as she passed. Now where had that come from? She’d never suspected she had a violent streak, and Mr. Hoxie would likely be more than happy to mete out a bit more punishment should it become necessary.

“Here.” She waved the drift of turquoise silk when she reached the end of the aisle, more breathless than the brief walk warranted, even for her. But she’d had an unusual and exciting experience; an accelerated heartbeat should be excused under such circumstances.

“A scarf?” Keeping the gun in place, the dark stranger sat back a fraction, tilting his head so he could look up at her from beneath the brim of his hat.

His eyes were dark, so dark. Blacker than midnight, twice as compelling, giving absolutely nothing away.
I should have known,
she thought. She’d wondered about his eyes, conjured deep sapphire and gray and a warm, rich brown. And now she couldn’t imagine them any other way. No wonder she never did portraits, if she hadn’t pegged the inevitability of that color right off.

“It’s silk. Very strong. It’ll hold him, don’t worry.”

His gaze dropped to the swath in her hand, the vi
brantly colored fabric rippling because it was so fine that the slightest breeze, even a breath, set it in motion. She held it out to him, waiting.

“It’s too good to be wasted on the likes of him.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He lifted his head slowly, as if noting the thick cream silk of her shirtwaist, abundantly trimmed with hand-knotted lace her mother had imported from Brussels, pausing at the wide glint of gold that encircled her wrist and the swing of heavy sapphire drops at her ears. “Rich girl, hmm?” he asked, so mildly it held no sting.

“Yes,” she admitted, just as mild. Though that knowledge often spawned strong reactions from others, from fawning obsequiousness to acid envy, it was merely a fact of her existence to Laura, holding no more emotion than that her hair was brown or that she was left-handed. She had nothing to do with earning her father’s fortune and minimal control over the use of it. She certainly appreciated its existence, since she understood that it made her life much more comfortable than it otherwise might have been; but that was about it. His wealth made some things much simpler and others far more complicated, an immutable part of her life that she’d long ago decided was best simply to accept and otherwise think about as little as possible.

His expression lightened: a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the barest lift of his mouth. About as near as he ever got to a smile, she figured, pleased all out of proportion to be the one who drew it.

His fingers brushed hers. Warm, the rough calluses easily felt through the gossamer fabric, the texture and heat so different from hers that it was hard to believe they were the same thing, just two human hands. And
then he threaded the scarf from her grasp, a quick glide of gauzy fabric.

He glanced down at the prone figure on the floor, then back up at her. “You any good at knots?”

“Not good enough that I want to trust my continued future to it.”

“Okay, then, here.” He flipped the gun around and thrust the butt into her palm. She took it without thinking. “Don’t shoot me.”

“I—” Belatedly realizing what he’d given her, she held it as far away from herself as she could manage. The metal was warm against her palm—his heat, she realized, transmitting itself to her. “I might,” she admitted.

And there was the warming of his expression again, like the barest flicker of sunlight through a cloud-clotted sky. It could be dangerously addictive, she thought, prying that hint of warmth out of him.

The preacher lifted his head an inch. “Didn’t I tell you not to move?” The man put his hand on the would-be robber’s head and shoved. The preacher’s forehead hit the floor with a solid
thunk
. “While she might wing me, too, I really don’t think she’s going to miss you completely from there, do you? At least, I wouldn’t want to bet my neck on it.”

He looped his captive’s hands behind his back, twisting and tying his wrists together with her scarf with such proficiency Laura could only assume he’d tied up a few men in his time.

“Thanks,” he said, and climbed to his feet. “I’m sure we all appreciate the sacrifice.”

Events moved swiftly after that. Someone proffered a handful of the golden cords that held back the heavy swoops of draperies—so they hadn’t needed her scarf after all, she thought with a twinge of disappointment—
and her mysterious hero had the bandit trussed like a chicken in an instant. He didn’t glance her way again, just strode down the aisle as if he owned the place until he stood over the still-unconscious thief that Mr. Hoxie guarded. Laura followed. No, not
followed
, she amended; she returned to her place. That he’d gone there first was merely a coincidence. Laura Hamilton did not follow men around, no matter how interesting they were.

“Nice job,” he said, tossing Hoxie a coil of cording.

“Thank you.” Hoxie tied up his prisoner, yanking his arms around so hard that Laura winced before she remembered the man deserved it.

“There’re bound to be more of them in the other cars.”

Hoxie stood up, more than a head shorter than the mysterious dark man. “Up front, too,” he agreed. “Probably came on horseback.” He inclined his head at the prone bandit. “He said so. From the sound of the shots outside, I figure he told the truth about that at least.”

The man nodded once, unsurprised. Or completely unconcerned. Laura, on the other hand, was getting extremely concerned, if this was heading where she suspected it might.

“Are you with me?” he asked.

Hoxie popped his knuckles and grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Mrs. Bossidy inserted herself between the men, her skirts frothing into the aisle, and rounded on Mr. Hoxie. “You’re not leaving her here alone.”

“Alone? There’re all kinds of people here.”

“Two of whom fully intended to rob or shoot us or Lord only knows what else only moments ago.”

“They’re not going to be causing any more trouble,” Hoxie said in the wheedling, petulant tones of a boy on the verge of having his fun spoiled. “And Hiram’s here.”

“He’s unconscious!”

“Oh, not for long.” Hopefully, he poked Hiram with his toe, drawing no response. “Probably not for long,” he amended.

Apparently unwilling to wait any longer, the stranger spun for the door. Laura blocked his way.

“Excuse me,” he said.

He intended to go charging recklessly into trouble. Alone. “Mr. Hoxie, go with him.” Laura had no way to stop the stranger, but she could at least ensure he was not completely without help.

“Hoxie, stay right where you are.” When Mrs. Bossidy issued orders like that, Laura had always obeyed without question. Gainsaying her felt as odd as it did necessary.

“Mr. Hoxie, which one of us is more likely to go to my father to get you fired?”

“Bossidy,” he answered promptly.

“All right,” Laura admitted. “But if she does so, I’ll go to him and get you rehired. If
I’m
the one to ask, however, she can’t veto me.”

“Miss, there’s no time for this. Please step aside.”

Laura faced her stranger squarely. “Can you use him? No pride, no heroics. Tell me the truth.”

“Yes.”

“Then go,” she said, and stepped aside. “Mr. Hoxie, you too.”

Clearly torn, Hoxie shot a furtive glance at Mrs. Bossidy. It was perfectly obvious which of the two ladies frightened him more, and Laura made a mental note to work on a more commanding presence.

But then the stranger strode down the aisle. Hoxie trotted after him.

They stopped at the door. The man eased it open, peering cautiously out. He waved Hoxie through, stepped out himself, and they were gone.

Out there. Where there were horrible men with guns and knives and who knew what other kinds of terrible things.

“Do you think he’ll be all right?”

“Of course he’ll be all right.” Mrs. Bossidy waved her hand in dismissal. “Hoxie’s always all right.”

“No, I—” How terrible of her. She’d known Mr. Hoxie for more than half her life, and she was worrying about a man she had barely met. Hadn’t even
really
met, if it came right down to it.

And it would never do if Mrs. Bossidy got even a whiff of such a thing. If she ever suspected that Laura had a weakness for mysterious, wicked-looking men, she’d have her bundled back to Sea Haven and locked away until she was too old for her clearly lamentable taste in men to matter.

Not that Laura had ever suspected she had a predilection for men such as he. But then, she’d never known any. Novelty, she reflected, always had a certain allure. No doubt that was all there was to it. “But Mr. Hoxie’s not as young as he used to be,” she said, attempting to inject as much innocence and appropriate concern into her voice, failing miserably to her own ears. Prevarication, like flirting and tennis and kissing, was undoubtedly one of the things one must master as an adolescent or be forever poor at.

But Mrs. Bossidy wasn’t attending close enough to notice. She stood, fists on her hips, over Hiram, still slumped in his chair but stirring. His head rolled from
one side to the other, his sun-browned cheek speckled with the imprint of the crushed plush seat back, and his lids fluttered. “Wouldn’t you know it,” she said. “The first opportunity in years for him to earn his pay, and he
sleeps
through it.”

“I don’t think being concussed qualifies as sleeping.”

“Sleeping, concussed. The end result’s the same, isn’t it?” She leaned over and patted him on the cheek, more firmly than was required. “Time to wake up.”

“I think he’s coming around, anyway.”

“Sweetheart, don’t spoil my fun,” she said, and thumped more firmly. “Come on, Mr. Peel. You’re missing everything as usual.”

More gunshots. Five of them, maybe six. Enough to have Laura on the edge of her seat, hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her fingers went numb.

The men in the car had propped the two well-trussed bandits in the corner of the car, where they’d slumped against the wall and glared at the passengers. Now and then a child—brave or dared into it—would sneak up to poke at them, only to be shooed away by their mothers.

Hiram, once roused enough to understand what he’d missed, attempted to go after Mr. Hoxie and the stranger. But when he managed to push himself to his feet, he swayed as woozily as if he stood in a boat instead of a train. Mrs. Bossidy merely gave him a light shove, and he’d dropped back into his chair. “You stay right there. No telling who you might crush if you toppled over in an inconvenient place.”

“Hey.” Palms facing her, he lifted his hands. “Whatever you say. Wouldn’t want you pushing me around.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head, considering. “Laura, what do you think? I do believe he’s got his hands in the
exact
same position as when he was meekly acquiescing to that horrible bandit. You know, the one that Mr. Hoxie dispatched so very efficiently.”

He scowled at her. “Now see here—”

“Oh, just stop it,” Laura snapped, her nerves frayed to a fine thread, her display of temper so rare that they stopped sniping and gaped at her instead.

“Miss Hamilton.” Hiram patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Hoxie’ll be fine. Heck, even if he did get popped with a slug or two, it’d take more than that—”

“Mr. Peel!” Mrs. Bossidy broke in when Laura paled. “If that’s your attempt at cheering her up, God forbid you show up at a funeral and try to comfort the bereaved. You’d have people throwing themselves in the grave in no time.”

He scowled. “I—”

The door flew open, and Hoxie staggered through with a gun in his hand. He’d lost his hat, his jaw was puffing up on one side, and blood smeared the back of his hands. There was a rip in his jacket, and he was grinning like a kid who’d just been shown the candy store and told to “have at it.”

A hum of concern and excitement greeted his arrival. “Not to worry, folks.” He stuck a thumb in his belt, as puffed up as a banty cock set free in a henhouse. “All safe and sound. We’ll be gettin’ under way again shortly.”

Good as his promise, the steam whistle blast drowned out the questions tossed in his direction as he swaggered his way to the middle of the car.

“What happened?” Laura asked, as soon he reached them. She raised to her tiptoes to peer over Mr. Hoxie’s shoulder, but no one else came through the door.

Surely he will come back
, she thought. He’d originally been riding on this car’s platform. And wouldn’t he want
to check on his captives? “Is everything all right?”