“I don’t know…I just thought that if you wanted to be honorable…a ride is a very honorable thing to do.”
Tim Summers went back to the dance after he left Leslie at the Kincaids’ front door.
“Where’s Cantrell?” he asked of Winslow Breakenridge, who was refilling his glass from the enormous silver punchbowl.
“He was with Sandra for a while—renewing their little love affair. Then he disappeared. Where’s Leslie?”
“She wasn’t feeling well. I took her home. I think Dallas Younger’s showing up here upset her.”
Winslow laughed. “Or Cantrell’s jealousy over Sandra’s obvious infatuation with Younger.”
“Leslie and I are practically engaged. She has no interest in Cantrell, except as a curio. He’s a little different—that’s all.”
“Bully for you. I personally would worry about any girl he showed an interest in.”
“What makes you think he’s showing an interest in Leslie?” Tim demanded.
“Love is blind!” he laughed. “Haven’t you noticed? He calls all the women Trinket except Jennifer Kincaid and Leslie.”
“So?”
Winslow laughed. “A trinket is a pretty bauble of little value…”
Tim searched the dance until he determined that Ward Cantrell was no longer there. He tried to ignore Winslow’s taunting remarks, but there were too many things he couldn’t forget—like the brooding look in Leslie’s eyes whenever she saw the blond outlaw.
He signaled Dallas Younger, and they drifted into a deserted corner where they could speak privately.
“Was Ward Cantrell the man who kidnapped Leslie?”
“Hell yes! You didn’t believe that story of hers, did you?” Younger’s face turned dark with fury.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Tim said, his face grim. It had never occurred to him that she would lie about that. Knowing that she had changed everything—especially his evaluation of her reaction to Cantrell’s presence. It explained why Cantrell had gone to the Kincaids’ as soon as he got out of jail, and Leslie’s reticence about making a commitment to marry him. She was either stringing him along, hoping to snag Cantrell, or trying to make one of them jealous. Or perhaps she knew that Ward Cantrell was a rich man. Maybe little Leslie was a golddigger.
He pulled Sandra aside and whispered instructions to her, then left the party, barely stopping to thank his host, and drove back to the Kincaid mansion. There was no carriage or horse around, and the house was dark. He stationed himself in a heavy grove of trees where he could watch both entrances, concealed by the shadows of the tall trees that shaded the house from the desert sun. He didn’t have long to wait.
Cantrell let himself out the front door and headed, at a brisk walk, back toward Barton Street. Tim didn’t bother to follow. He went directly to his own house, took paper and pen in hand and composed two letters, both basically the same, describing Cantrell in detail and telling the sheriffs of Dodge City, Kansas, and Cheyenne, Wyoming, where they could find Ward Cantrell.
He sealed the envelopes and prepared them for posting first thing in the morning. Then he headed toward town, secure in the knowledge that the letters would go out on the seven o’clock train and would reach their destinations within the week. He only had one more small chore…
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was as if the whole of Arizona conspired to produce a perfect day. The sky was a dazzling blue. Large white mountains of clouds scudded quickly overhead without blotting out the crisp sunshine. The wind on Leslie’s face was cool, pleasant. Even the horse she rode seemed to have developed a perfect gait. The heavy smell of sage hung in the air like incense. Leslie rode astride her horse in a carefully chosen white blouse and a navy blue riding skirt and bolero, with a fashionable hat to protect her face and arms from the sun. She had long ago shed the coat she was wearing when he called for her, so early that only Mrs. Lillian was there to wave good-bye to them. Was there an undertone of approval in Mrs. Lillian’s eagerness to provide them with such a lavish lunch?
Leslie felt freer than she had since coming to this awesome place, no longer intimidated by the mind-boggling size of its deserts and mountains, and strangely accepting of herself and her reasons, still hidden from her, for suggesting this excursion.
Cantrell, riding beside her on Blueberry, was wearing a blue shirt that echoed the blueness of his eyes and complemented the warm teak tones of his skin. He made a lithe, striking figure on the big bay horse, and when he smiled at her, his eyes narrowed with appreciation; it was as if they had become two different people, existing for just this one day.
Ward looked younger, more open. She could almost believe, looking at him, that she’d never known him before. Maybe because he really talked to her. There was no holding back, no falseness between them. Unless this was another kind of falseness. But Leslie didn’t want to think about that possibility.
They stopped in a marvelous tree-shrouded canyon with a wide, shallow river running through it. They were surrounded by bright pink volcanic canyon walls soaring a thousand feet over their heads.
Head propped on her right hand, she lay on a blanket spread over soft grass while he unsaddled the horses so they could graze. Upstream, where the river was divided by a sand bar, a white-tailed deer walked tentatively to the bank and lowered its head to drink from the cold, sweet water.
“What is this called?” she asked when he returned to drop down beside her.
“Aravaipa Canyon. In Apache it means ‘Little Running Water’ because even in August the river doesn’t go dry, like everything else.”
High above, yellow-blossomed century plants dotted the scrub-covered mountainside. On the edge of a pink cliff streaked with black, a rock formation loomed up, looking like a man with pack ready to step up into the sky.
“The Hohokam used to till this as far as you can see.”
“How?”
“Stone hand tools.”
“What did they grow? Rocks?”
“Grain, vegetables…”
“What happened to them?”
“A number of things. I guess what finally drove them away was a massacre not far from here. Chief Eskiminzin surrendered to the soldiers at Camp Grant, asking that his people be allowed to live peacefully in their old home in the canyon under the soldiers’ protection. They agreed; the Indians settled, and they began to cultivate the lands, until the people of Tucson became upset by reports of wildcat Apache raids on defenseless white settlers. Folks from Tucson got up a big party of men, almost a hundred and fifty whites, Mexicans, and Papago Indians, and rode into Aravaipa and wiped out the entire village—men, women, children, old people—all except for a few children they sold as slaves.”
Leslie shuddered. “Were they punished?”
“No. It raised a storm back east, but the guilty were tried and acquitted by local juries. Guess it showed, more than anything else, that folks were tired of worrying about the Apache.”
“Are we safe here?”
He nodded, smiling at the look of unease that had clouded her lovely face. “That was sixteen, seventeen years ago. The Indians haven’t been much of a threat since the war.”
“You weren’t here then, were you?”
“In April of 1870, I was twelve years old. We lived in New York, on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-seventh Street.”
“Tell me about your family.”
“My mother was beautiful, vivacious, ambitious, and infamous by the time she was twenty-two. She was the second generation of American women of society to make the stage a profession. From what I hear she was damned good at it too, though I have to admit I wasn’t too wrapped up in her accomplishments. I was—don’t be shocked—a little self-centered at that time,” he confessed, a sardonic smile lighting his lean face. “I preferred polo, horse-breeding, and horse-racing—anything at all to do with horses.”
Leslie laughed, “Well, your interest in that area has served you well.”
“Early job training,
with prescience.”
They laughed and it was easy, unstrained camaraderie, as if they had called a truce.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“I’m always hungry.” He grinned. “Suit yourself.”
But he didn’t eat much, while she was famished and showed it by eating two chicken sandwiches, some cheese, a piece of pie, and topping it off with a glass of warm milk that hadn’t quite survived the trip. It had been cold when Mrs. Lillian sealed the quart jar that morning.
“Ohhh, that was wonderful,” she said, sighing.
He leaned against the trunk of a tree and closed his eyes. “Wake me anytime,” he said, chuckling.
Leslie rummaged in a bag she brought with her. “What are you up to now?” he asked drowsily.
“I’m going to draw you…if I can find my charcoal.”
“Sort of a busman’s holiday, huh?”
“Something like that…You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not unless it can be used as evidence against me.”
She laughed, a golden tinkle of notes; he smiled, and for just a second he was the same man who had picked the flower in the garden and handed it to her with a bold flourish. The breath caught in her throat, and she wondered crazily if she would ever forget that one moment when he revealed himself to her. Was she doomed to spend the rest of her life waiting breathlessly for another glimpse? Part of her was irritated that she could so easily be hooked. In the scheme of things, what possible significance could a fleeting glimpse have when measured against all that she knew about him? But today, with her lying on a soft blanket beneath a spread of gnarled oak limbs, under a crisp cloud-filled sky, with a warm breeze on her face, and a full stomach, with the smell of a picnic hovering around them, it was as if the scales had tipped. Leslie could not fully remember anything beyond this moment.
She sketched quickly, doing a caricature that came out quite well actually. She portrayed him with wickedly narrowed eyes, a wide jaw, an exaggerated pout on his lips, and two guns in his hands. They laughed about it, and she lay back to relax. His hand found hers, and her eyes closed. She floated in her own shade of darkness while his lean fingers played over the palm of her hand, explored her fingers, her thumb, then intertwined fully and became still, so that only the tingle of a small pulse, moving like a current from his skin to hers, was noticeable to her. She was moving into uncharted territory now, a small voice warned her, but it was ignored, drowned out by the more insistent hunger in her body. If only he wouldn’t be so tender with her. She could withstand his gruffness and his insolence.
“Tell me about your childhood, Leslie. I have a hard time visualizing you as a child,” he said, his voice husky and low, as he surrounded her hand in his two warm ones.
“I was very boring as a child. I was bossy, generous, and I held grudges. Every mother has a favorite story…My mother said that when I was about two years old she told me not to touch any of the things on the low table in the parlor. She said I looked her in the eye and touched each one. She slapped my hand after each defiant touch, and when I was all done, every single item thoroughly touched and me just as thoroughly punished for it, I lost interest in that table and never bothered it again. What would you call that? Principles? Or the lack thereof? I’m not sure.”
Ward laughed. “I’d call that a well-defined sense of justice. If I ever have another baby…” He stopped with a slight grimace.
Leslie looked at him with a question in her eyes, and he shook his head, a scowl darkening his brow. “You might just as well tell me…If you don’t, I’ll imagine something ten times as bad. I promise you that,” she said softly, reclaiming his hand, since he had let hers go.
He sighed. “I was married about seven years ago. My wife was expecting a baby.” Haltingly at first, and then more easily, he told her about the events in Dodge City, everything. She held his hand, using it to prompt him when he faltered, unaware that she did. She had doubted his honesty before, but not this time. She listened, and a layer of resistance peeled away, like bark off a tree.
“So, you were a captain in the army one day and a hunted fugitive the next? That must have been quite an adjustment.” She was fighting back the urge to fall sobbing into his arms. Part of her needed it. She had listened with much pain and not a little remorse. Her generous nature insisted now that she confess.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve wronged you, Cantrell. If not publicly, then at least in my own mind. I conjured up all sorts of images of you living a life of sloth, irresponsibility.”
“Perhaps I have.”
“Maybe, but it wasn’t your choosing. It’s almost like a fairy tale.”
“Fairy tales have happy endings.”
“How did you know that?”
He laughed. “I went to Harvard, remember. They cover things pretty well. I think they called it English Literature.”
She blushed. “I never really believed you.” She paused. “Tell me. Harvard educations do not come inexpensively. How could you give up a world of privilege and live like a Mexican sheep herder?”
“No choice. You would be surprised what you can do under those circumstances.”
She was remembering her own immersion into his life, the days after he kidnapped her. She nodded. “So you were swooped up in the daily struggle to survive. What did you do at first?”
“Bled a lot,” he said ruefully.
“Were you injured?”
“I was feeling sorry for myself.”
“How did you decide to become an outlaw, I mean, to rob trains, that sort of thing?”
“I got hungry,” he shrugged. “Let’s walk,” he said, coming to his feet with that lithe grace that characterized all his movements, pulling her up with him.
Above what Cantrell called Aravaipa Canyon there was a bend in the creek. Squat, scrubby trees hugged the far shoreline. In the shadow of the canyon wall, the shallow water glistened royal blue in the afternoon shade, silver in the sunlight. Soft grass grew up to the gravel that lined the creek. The Pinaleno Mountains loomed on the north. She remembered the name from their ride around them earlier.
“Look,” he said softly.
She followed his pointing finger and saw a small gray cat padding out to the water about a hundred yards away.
“That’s a bobcat. The mother is not far away.” He watched it until he saw it rejoin the rest of the litter and then, taking her hand, he led her directly to what he wanted her to see. Things his sharp eyes uncovered while she was otherwise occupied.
He showed her a fox’s lair, an eagle’s nest, then led her up a steep hill so they could watch the litter of bobkittens at play. When they were back down the hill, she laughed. “That was wonderful. You’ve had a good life, in spite of everything, haven’t you?”
“I won’t permit it to be otherwise, Leslie. I’m too selfish to waste my life anymore. I’m not willing to spend it being miserable.”
“Me either.”
“So what do you see in Summers?”
She shrugged. “Tim’s intelligent, very handsome, entertaining, and not very demanding.”
“And doesn’t turn up on any wanted posters. That’s important to you, isn’t it? Someone predictable…someone you can take charge of, be in control of…”
“I guess so. I lived with my uncle for a couple of months and experienced what it was like not to be in charge, to be out of control of my life. It was intolerable! But why did you say that? You don’t know me that well.”
“I’ve seen you take charge too many times not to have noticed.”
“Take charge,” she cried. “Like when?”
“You don’t remember?” he chided. “When I tried to send you off to Flagstaff.”
Leslie flushed. “I still don’t see how that…”
“Sure it does. As soon as you got your bearings, within two days of my scooping you off that road, you were calling the shots.”
She grinned, unaccountably proud, but still seeking proof. “Well, y
ou could have misunderstood.”
“My foot! I got the distinct impression that you engineered everything, even when I thought I was seducing you, it turned out to be for your benefit.”
He was more perceptive than she had thought. Pleased far more than she wanted him to know, she shrugged, unable and strangely unwilling to deny his accusations.
“Younger was closing in on you then, wasn’t he?” he asked, his eyes narrowed.
“My uncle wanted me to marry him. Perhaps it did cross my mind that if I were no longer virginal, he might not think me marriage material.”
Raucous birds cried overhead, and Ward hooted with delight. “You’re one in a thousand…Can’t fault your logic. Though I have to admit it piques my vanity a little.”
She laughed. “Good!”
“Good? You’re a heartless little wench.”
“Healthy.”
“True. I never cared for any woman who wasn’t at least as selfish as I.”
“Selfish?”
“Sure. Selfishness is healthy. You’ve got that well-developed sense of your own worth that’s most becoming in a woman.”
“How did you reach this conclusion?”
“I can see it all over you. You’re too busy with your own interests to prostrate yourself at any man’s feet. You paint, you read about painting, you study technique, you tote that little sketch pad with you everywhere you go. You don’t really need people all that much, though you are perfectly charming when you’re with them.”
“You are far more observant than you appear.”
He laughed. “But then I would have to be, wouldn’t I?” he said, mimicking the time she used that same line to insult his intelligence.
“Touché.” She laughed. “I’m curious. What makes my selfishness so attractive to you?”
“Few men have time to be a woman’s whole life.”
“You certainly think of everything, don’t you?”
“Not usually.”
“Is this different for you?”
“Did your mother teach you to be so direct?”
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 32