The morning after Comfort's last nightmare, Bode didn't visit the jail. He also didn't make an appearance that afternoon. In his absence, a mob stormed the county jail at nightfall, overpowered the police, and made off with all the prisoners through a back door that opened into a narrow alley. The authorities initially blamed the Rangers, but that theory didn't hold up under scrutiny. Not all of the prisoners had ties to the gang, and there were witnesses who reported the prisoners weren't freed as much as they were carried off. The police revised their thinking and looked to the crimps and runners who swarmed the wharf like pirates and engaged in the practice of shanghaiing.
When not one of the prisoners reappeared anywhere in the city in the following two months, it was assumed they'd been pressed into service on one of the ships making a China run. The harbormaster's records indicated that four ships sailed before daybreak:
King's Ransom
of the Barclay Line; Mannering's
Sea Pearl
; the British merchant
Loch Err
; and Black Crowne's flagship,
Artemis Queen
.
The harbormaster stood by his records and his recollection of the night's events, giving a particularly detailed account of how Mr. John Farwell had managed to cause nothing less than chaos when he insisted on a departure schedule that was at odds with what had been agreed upon. Farwell was so damnably adamant that sides were drawn, and the crews of every vessel began shouting curses and threats and waving weapons with the expressed intention of commandeering one another's ships. The harbormaster settled the dispute by holding out a torch and threatening to burn every ship to a hulk unless the masters took control of their men. To punish Farwell, he did a second inspection of the
Artemis Queen
on the pretense that she wasn't yet seaworthy and that releasing her to the open water would risk the life of every man aboard. Farwell had nothing to do but swear and sputter on the pier as the other three merchants were released.
It was the harbormaster's opinion that John Farwell was guilty of being a horse's ass, but he could be acquitted of pressing the city's prisoners into service on Black Crowne ships. Two inspections had revealed nothing.
The direction of Bode's thoughts raised his slight smile, one that didn't go unnoticed by Comfort.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
A chuckle rumbled at the back of his throat. “That John Farwell is a very good man.”
She lowered her glass. “You're thinking about John Farwell? Here? In our bed?”
“Sure. As far as I know, he's the only other man to ever share a bed with my wife.”
Comfort dipped three fingers in her glass and flicked water at him. “You weren't my husband then.”
“That's all you're going to say?”
She set the glass aside, leaned forward, and kissed him full on the mouth. “That's all I'm going to say.”
“Cheeky.” Bode caught her by the elbows when she would have drawn away. “Let me see if I can taste that sass.” What he tasted was her laughter, and that was satisfying in its own right. She was smiling, contented and a little pleased with herself, when he raised the covers and helped her nestle in beside him. They faced each other, he with an elbow raising his head, she with one arm pushed under her pillow. Comfort drew up her knees, and Bode stretched out. Her back was to the firelight so that her face was in shadow, while his features were cast in a bronze glow. She found his hand and threaded her fingers through his.
“I'm not certain why I had the dream tonight,” she said. “I was very happy with how this evening turned out. It doesn't make any sense.”
One of Bode's eyebrows kicked up. “Alexandra can provoke a nightmare even in people who aren't susceptible to them. You need look no further than my mother's visit for the catalyst.”
“She was on her best behavior, Bode. And really, wouldn't it have been more reasonable for me to have had the dream last night when I was anticipating entertaining her?”
“You hardly slept last night,” he reminded her. “I know. I was there. You didn't have time to dream.”
Comfort squeezed his fingers. “I'm sorry. I tossed and turned a lot, didn't I?” She raised his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles when he nodded. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “the next time we invite her to dinner, perhaps we could ask Bram to come as well.”
“I don't think so.”
“All right.” She didn't press. She waited for the tension that she felt in his handclasp to fade. He'd resisted, too, when she first suggested having his mother to dinner. Newt and Tuck offered no objections, but Bode had plenty, although what he mostly said was no. It wasn't that he never saw his mother, only that he visited her as a matter of business. Ever since Jones Prescott assumed the debt for Black Crowne, Bode had been exercising complete control over his mother's spending. Bram no longer received an allowance. Bode invited his brother to work for Black Crowne, but as soon as Bram's leg healed enough for him to be up and around on crutches, he took a position working for the law firm of Wheeler and Sutton, making a clerk's wages, and moved into the apartment above the Black Crowne office once it was clear that Comfort and Bode would not return. He paid rent. Bode remained skeptical of Bram's turn, prepared to learn at any moment that his brother was only playing at assuming duty and a conscience. Perhaps if Newt and Tucker weren't exacting their revenge by letting Bram know at every turn that they were watching him, he would have already begun his descent into gaming and whoring, but Comfort didn't think so.
“I won't bring it up at again,” she said.
“Yes, you will.” His brief smile removed any accusation from his words. “But you'll choose the moment very well. And I might say yes . . . eventually.”
Not only was it the best she could hope for right now, Comfort decided, it was probably for the best. “Alexandra said something this evening that I wasn't certain I understood.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“I think you know, Bode. She said it to you.”
He sensed a trap and proceeded cautiously. “Perhaps you better just tell me what it was.”
She chuckled appreciatively. “I don't know why I thought I could catch more with a net than a pole. Very well. She said it was right and proper what you had done. I had stepped out of the room, so I didn't hear everything that came before, but I heard her mention Mr. Crocker.”
“Oh, that. You and my mother go fishing with the same net. She believes I had something to do with that incident at the jail.”
“Does she? So do my uncles. So do I, actually.”
“Really?”
She searched his face, but he was giving nothing away. He looked vaguely amused. “Really.”
“Mm.” He slipped his fingers from hers and touched her cheek with his knuckle. “You know, if you've been thinking about that this evening, it could explain your nightmare.”
He was right. Crocker had been hovering at the back of her mind even before she overheard Alexandra's remark to Bode. Alexandra's mere presence had prompted the first inklings. Had Bode suspected that might happen? Probably. “It's more than a little disconcerting that you know me so well.”
“For me, too.”
That made her smile. He traced the shape of it with his fingertip before he tapped her lightly on the chin.
“Put him out of your mind, Comfort.”
Still uncertain, she nodded anyway.
“He's not coming back. Not to San Francisco. Not to California. Not ever.”
Comfort knew it as an absolute truth. Bode's features were no longer shuttered. His candor made him vulnerable, but he returned her steady regard without flinching. “All right,” she said.
“Good.” He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “Sleep.”
She slipped her arms around his neck and lifted her face. Her lips brushed his chin. “Not just yet,” she said. “In a little while, yes, but not just now.”
Her mouth was gentle on his, almost tentative, as though she had never kissed him before, searching out the right way to slant her head and avoid bumping his nose. He kissed her back almost as awkwardly. Soft laughter bubbled up between them.
“I think we would have kissed like that,” she whispered. “The first time, I mean, when I was sixteen and you were going off to war. I've thought about it.”
“Have you?”
“Mm. Why didn't you ask me to dance?”
“You were sixteen and I was going off to war.”
“That's what my uncles said.”
“They were probably relieved.”
Her smile was a shade rueful. “They said that, too.”
Bode fingered the hair at her nape. “You looked as if you wanted to be anywhere but where you were. Do you remember that?”
She nodded, sighing softly. “It's just as well. If you had approached me, I would have run the other way.”
“More likely you would have stabbed me with one of the combs you had in your hair.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, pleased.
“I do.”
He made love to her then, first to the girl she'd been at their introduction, and later to the woman she'd become. By turns he was cautious and caring, deliberate and dangerous. She met him halfway, easy in his arms, playing out the hand he dealt.
She loved him back, her heart full and open, unafraid that she'd come to this pass where she could want him so badly that she ached with it. Long before she understood his intent, he had been waiting for her, watching over her, always just there at the periphery no matter how often she turned her head. He filled her vision now, and that was exactly as it should be.
She looked in his eyes and imagined she saw what was reflected in her own. They were as furtive as thieves in the night, the two of them, trading secretive, knowing glances while they bartered touch for pleasure and guarding their voices to exchange words whispered in passion for laughter.
Afterward, when she rested her head on his shoulder, Bode felt her expel a soft breath. He thought she might say something, but she yawned sleepily instead and closed her eyes. That was all right, then. He idly stroked the arm she slid across his chest and listened to her breathing quiet. He kissed the crown of her head, a slip of a smile touching his lips, and in the stillness of the room it wasn't long before he drifted off to sleep, unapologetically stealing Comfort.
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Wyoming Territory
October 1888
Kellen Coltrane glanced up from his reading to acknowledge the stranger. The interruption annoyed him, but he didn't allow that to show. It was impossible for him not to hear his mother's gentle admonishment at times like this: “There is no reason you cannot remove your nose from a book long enough to be civil.” That's why a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth when he met the eyes of the dead man.
Not that the stranger was dead yet. Just that he soon would be. The man's gaunt face was nearly drained of color, and in spite of the chill in the passenger coach, his skin had the damp sheen of a sickly sweat.
Then there was the blood. It was not immediately evident. The dying man was making some effort to hide his condition, perhaps even from himself, but his posture was listing now, the knees no longer locked to attention. The hand he had pushed inside his coat to cover the wound was insufficient to staunch the flow of blood. A dark crimson bloom had begun to appear on his shirt above the button closures of his vest and coat.
Kellen looked around quickly and saw the man had attracted no particular notice. This passenger car hadn't been overcrowded since Omaha and was down to five other souls since the stop in Cheyenne. There were cars forward where passengers were still seated elbow to elbow. If there was a choice, most people opted to ride as close to the front of the train as possible, where they believed the cars swayed less. Smoke and cinders were inescapable wherever one sat, even in the Union Pacific's most expensive private coaches. For Kellen, his choice of seats hinged on how much conversation and company he wanted. He had moved several times to achieve exactly this much isolation.
Apparently, so had the dead man.
Kellen stood, placed a hand under the stranger's elbow, and slipped his dime novel under the man's coat. “Press this against your wound,” he whispered. “Let me help you sit.”
Summoning enough energy to glance at the book's colorful cover illustration, the man grasped it with bloodstained fingers. “Hate to see Nat Church put to such a use.”
Kellen offered a thin smile. “If you believe the stories, he's seen worse.”
“Oh, I believe. Believe 'em all.”
There was a pause, and Kellen thought he was going to say more, but a weak cough and a spittle of blood on the man's lower lip was all that followed. Kellen eased the man down on the wooden bench and helped him slide into the corner beside the window, the same space Kellen had previously occupied.
Kellen bent low and spoke quietly into the man's ear. “I'm going to get help.”
“No.”
“The conductor passed through here a few minutes ago. He can't be far.”
“No.” This time the objection was more forceful, not easily ignored. He turned his head toward Kellen's lowered one and stared him down. His soft grunt revealed mild surprise and a measure of grudging respect when Kellen didn't blink or back away. “Guess I ain't in a position to argue.”
“That's right.” Kellen started to straighten and move away, but the dying man reached out suddenly and grabbed his wrist. His strength made Kellen hesitate even while it filled him with a greater sense of urgency. Perhaps he had mistaken the hopelessness of the stranger's condition. He looked down at the white-knuckled fingers gripping his wrist. “What is it?”