Boots Under Her Bed

by Jodi Thomas

“Maybe you can, but maybe it won’t be any good.”

  Felicity frowned. “Why in the world would you say—” She stopped suddenly. “My father’s done something, hasn’t he? Has he cut me off?”

  There was no putting sugar on this. “Yes, ma’am. I believe he used those exact words.”

  “You’re working for him?”

  “Not working. Like I said, this is more in the way of a favor.”

  “You abduct women as a favor?”

  “Not as a rule. This is what you would call a special circumstance.”

  “Oh,” she said. “A special circumstance. I would like to hear about that. I surely would.”

  Nat didn’t flinch from the sharp edge of sarcasm in her tone. There didn’t seem any point in shying away from something when it was so deserved. “As a favor to my employer I agreed to meet your father and hear him out. I believe they knew each other well once and cross paths now and again on matters of business and politics.”

  “My father is railroads so there is no question of crossing political paths now and again. It happens all the time. He usually curries the favor of politicians. It is hard to imagine he asked for one.”

  Nat shrugged. “I only know what I was told. If I thought I could help, then my employer said he would be pleased if I did so.”

  “Truly? There was not perhaps some pressure brought to bear? You do not impress as someone who could be intimidated by Edward Ravenwood, so I have to assume my father did not storm and rant and threaten you into helping him. Why are you doing it?”

  Nat considered showing her the photograph in his vest pocket. It was an inadequate explanation at best. How could he tell her that he was moved by it when he hardly understood that reaction himself? What he offered instead was: “The promise of a favor from Edward Ravenwood is worth something. Your father owes me, not my employer.”

  Felicity’s eyes dropped away. She stared at her hands while she smoothed the fabric of her gown over her knees. She did not look at her abductor when she said, “Then he is even craftier than I thought.”

  “Or perhaps more desperate. I witnessed his anxiety.”

  “You mistook embarrassment for anxiety,” she said, stealing a glance at Nat.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I did embarrass him, you know. The wedding guests were seated, all of them turned in my direction. My fiancé was waiting for me. I was on my father’s arm.” This time she shrugged. “And I bolted. Just like that. I remember thinking in the moment before I ran that my feet would not carry me a single step, then I understood it was because I was trying to will them to go in the wrong direction. I had no trouble once I made the decision to retreat. I ran to the waiting carriage, ordered the driver to go to the train station, and grabbed the whip from his hand when he didn’t respond quickly enough. My father shouted for me. I remember that. I didn’t dare turn back. What if something I saw in his face convinced me to return?”

  “This coach was specifically built for your wedding trip, your father said.”

  Felicity touched her cheeks with her fingertips. In contrast to the iciness of her hands, her cheeks were hot. “Yes, that’s so. A gift. Jonathan and I were going to tour the West. I’ve been to Europe, you see, several times, and . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t suppose that’s important.”

  “It might be,” said Nat. The mild prompt was enough for her to go on and confirm his suspicions.

  “It’s just that Jonathan thought Europe was a more appropriate destination. More refined. Cultured. Did you meet him?”

  “Jonathan Harding?” Nat shook his head. “No.”

  “Social conventions are important to him. He is very, um, correct.”

  “Stiff.”

  “I prefer ‘correct.’”

  “All right. Still, he agreed to the western tour.”

  “Jon has always been tolerant of my opinions, but it was my father’s gift, not my arguments, that won him over.”

  Nat had had plenty of opportunity to investigate the sumptuously appointed coach. Everywhere he looked, he could see the evidence of attention to detail. It was there in the carefully beveled walnut wainscoting, the polished brass knobs and rails, and the heavy velvet curtains framing each window. It was an extravagant gesture, but having been invited to the Ravenwood mansion directly across from the park, this railcar was obviously no grander a gift than Edward Ravenwood could afford. What Nat said was, “I see.”

  “Do you, Mr. Church? I don’t love him.”

  “I didn’t think you left him at the altar for any other reason.”

  “It seems as if I should be married,” she said after a moment. “I’m twenty-six, you know.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Of course you would know. Father regularly laments that fact. It stretches credulity that he wouldn’t point it out. My mother was seventeen when she married my father, and her mother was seventeen when she married for the first time and twenty when she married for the second. I try to tell him we are living in different times, but the argument is not persuasive. There is hardly a woman in my set who is not married, widowed, or engaged. Certainly no one with as many prospects as I have had.”

  Felicity sighed. “I am depressing myself. I need a drink.” She stood, tested her balance, and discovered she was steady on her feet. Except for a troubling lapse in her memory, she could identify no other lingering effects of the drug he had given her. “Would you like a whiskey?”

  Nat blinked. This was unexpected. He had found the drinks cabinet but had assumed it was Jonathan Harding who had a taste for spirits. “You haven’t forgotten you recently led a Temperance rally, have you?”

  “Oh, that. Yes, well, that was the impulse of a moment. I heard the ladies chattering from my hotel window, and I was curious. I listened for a while and thought I should lend my expertise to their cause. They had no organization, and I am rather good at it. They had passion of purpose but no plan. It was remarkably easy to take them in hand, and I believe they were grateful.”

  Felicity opened the cabinet, removed a decanter of whiskey, and paused to look at Nat over her shoulder as her hand hovered over the cut-glass tumblers. When he nodded, she took out two and placed them side by side. She poured generously into each and carried them to the round table, where he was still comfortably stretched. She held them out and let him choose before she pulled out the other chair and sat.

  “I have no particular objections to drinking, Mr. Church, but I particularly object to drunks.”

  It was a sentiment worth toasting. Nat Church raised his tumbler a fraction and waited to see if she would join him. She arched an eyebrow, but after a brief hesitation, she did the same. They took their first swallow together. The whiskey went down smoothly, and his mostly empty stomach accepted it without protest.

  Felicity set her tumbler on the tabletop and turned it slowly. “What is the exact nature of the favor you are doing for my father? I am not going to marry Jonathan. I can’t.”

  “Your father has made peace with that.”

  “Truly?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  A small crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Then what . . . ?”

  “This was not your first engagement.”

  Her grip on the tumbler tightened. “I wondered if he shared that. I hope he explained that I ended the two previous engagements before the invitation list was sent. I should seem very cruel otherwise.”

  “He made certain I understood. It seemed important to him that I know you are not heartless by nature. He believes your mother would have taken you in hand.”

  Felicity’s smile was rueful. “He invokes my mother when he is at a loss. She died when I was very young. I only have vague memories of her, and perhaps there is something to what he says if you believe my behavior requires a tempering influence, but I like to think she might have encouraged me to lead with my head and follow my heart.” She sighed softly. “Father was so pleased when I agreed to marry Jon. Genuinely happy. I’ve oft
en wondered if I agreed to the proposal because I knew how much joy it would bring to him. Regardless of my motives, knowing that I would hurt him made it all the more difficult to go back on my promise to Jon.”

  Nat watched as Felicity eased the pressure of her fingertips on the tumbler. She began to turn it again. “Do you remember what you wrote in your last correspondence to your father?”

  His question made her breath catch. “He shared that letter with you? It was personal. It was the explanation I owed him. It was my farewell.”

  Nat glimpsed the sheen of tears in her eyes and sensed the depth of the betrayal she felt. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.

  Felicity said nothing for a long time. She rolled the tumbler between her palms but never lifted it to her mouth. “I wrote that I would rather live by my wits and off the land than sacrifice my name to a man who cared for my money but nothing at all for me.”

  That was the precise phrase Edward Ravenwood had asked him to commit to memory. “Your father believes you meant it.”

  “I did,” she said. “I do.”

  Nat nodded. “Then you understand why you’ve been cut off?”

  Felicity raised her tumbler to her lips and drank deeply. She returned the glass to the table with only a splash of whiskey remaining. “I understand.” Tilting her head to one side, she regarded Nat Church with candid, curious eyes. “Do you think I am spoiled, Mr. Church?”

  Nat took in their plush surroundings before settling on Felicity again. “I think you are privileged, Miss Ravenwood. I can’t say about the other.”

  “That’s fair. You don’t really know me, do you?”

  “No.”

  She sighed softly. “Did you at least pay the hotel before you drugged and abducted me? I was there two nights.”

  “I left money with Joe Pepper to settle the bill.”

  “Good. I will add it to the debt I already owe you. Fifty for my release from jail and another . . . ?” She looked at him expectantly.

  “Twelve.”

  “Very well. I owe you sixty-two dollars.” Now it was Felicity whose eyes roamed the railcar. “Do you have any use for the painting above the bed? The frame is easily worth more than sixty-two dollars, and the painting is the work of Camille Pissarro. The Outer Boulevards. I purchased it in Paris. Jon said looking at it made him think there was something wrong with his eyes. The style is called impressionism. I quite like it.”

  Nat had studied the painting earlier. The application of oils to the canvas was done in a manner that disregarded clearly defined lines. The effect on close examination was a blur of color, but, regarding it from even a short distance, the brushstrokes took form and shape and left no doubt of the artist’s view.

  “I’ve seen something like it in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  “Really?”

  “Careful, Miss Ravenwood. The skepticism in your tone hints at snobbery.” He saw she had the grace to blush, and he let her squirm for a moment. After all, compliments of the mirror above the washstand, Nat knew he was barely on the right side of disreputable. He had washed up while she slept and found a brush to pull through his hair, but his clothes and boots carried a fine layer of dust from days of hard riding to intercept the train. His long leather coat, hat, and saddlebag were still lying over the arm of an overstuffed chair. Caring for his gun had been more important. He was that kind of man. He thought she should probably know.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Your doubt is warranted. I was there to steal a painting, not to admire the gallery.” Nat held her stare. He could see that she was trying to decide whether to believe him. The truth, and the frank manner in which he told it, left her more uncertain than she had been before. It was a reaction he was used to.

  Felicity said, “Does my father know that?”

  “I didn’t tell him.”

  “I don’t know if ignorance explains his trust in you.”

  Nat found he was moved to a smile by her wry tone. “It probably doesn’t.”

  Felicity’s eyes grazed his mouth. The amused slant of his lips did not change, and when she met his eyes, there was something more than darkness there. “What else do you do, Mr. Church, besides stealing paintings and abducting heiresses?”

  “Former heiresses,” he said.

  “Yes. You are right to remind me.”

  Nat finished his drink and pushed his empty glass toward hers. “What I do is not complicated, Miss Ravenwood. I lend a hand where I can. I help people.”

  “Is that how you justify abduction and thievery?”

  “As a rule I don’t justify myself. I see no reason to make an exception now.”

  “That is convenient.”

  He shrugged and watched her mouth flatten disapprovingly. She looked full of starch. Except for the shoe on the table and the other one on her foot, he might have smiled.

  “What are your intentions, Mr. Church?”

  Nat drew in a deep breath. His cheeks puffed slightly when he exhaled slowly. “Well, I saw your hip bath behind the screen over there. I thought I might use that to wash away the grit.” He knuckled the stubble along his jaw. “I figure a shave wouldn’t do me any harm, either. If I time it right, we’ll be stopping for water near Sidney. There’s an eatery at the depot. I’ll order and we can dine here. You’re hungry, aren’t you? I am.”

  “What are your intentions toward me?”

  “Now, see, that’s a different question. I only have what’s called an inkling about it now. I expect that after a bath, a shave, and a decent meal, it will be a fully formed notion.”

  “You’re amusing yourself with me again, aren’t you?”

  “A little.” Nat pushed himself upright, nudged the fashion periodical and shoe out of the way, and set his folded hands on the table. “You can still travel anywhere you like, Miss Ravenwood. Your father means for you to have use of this car providing you don’t leave it. Set foot on a platform anywhere, at any time, and the conductor and porters have strict instructions not to let you board again. I gave them those instructions, but I had them in writing from your father. Any or all of them could lose their jobs if they act counter to his wishes.”

  “I think I preferred the Falls Hollow jail.”

  Nat made no comment about the accommodations. “Regardless of what he’s done, your father is still concerned for your safety.”

  “And yet I am sharing my new cell with you.”

  “It is an imperfect world.”

  “Are you my keeper, Mr. Church?”

  “That’s a fair description.”

  “Have I grasped the situation correctly?” she asked. “I have no money and few resources while I am a passenger, yet if I leave the train to look for gainful employment, I will not be permitted to return, even if my search comes to nothing. All the while, you will be living in my empty pockets and, I imagine, making some sort of report to my father.”

  “In a nutshell.”

  “I see.” Felicity stared at her hands. “I think he believes I’ll return to New York without ever having stepped off this train. Perhaps he is not as resigned as you suppose to my elopement and he means to teach me a lesson.”

  “That’s certainly possible.” More than possible, Nat thought. It was likely. She knew it, too. He had already spied a glint in her eye, and it made him uncomfortable. What had Joe Pepper said? You brought this on yourself, Church. God help you.

  Felicity rose from her chair and stood at the washstand so she could observe her reflection in the mirror. She fingered the gold locket at her neck while she turned her head this way and that. She pinched her cheeks and tidied her hair by twisting the long cascade of curls into one fist and securing it to her head with a pearl-studded ebony comb and pick. She smoothed the skirt of her gown and tugged on the sleeves before turning back to Nat and presenting herself for inspection.

  “You mentioned an eating house at the Sidney stop. I think I could be a Harvey girl.”

  Nat groaned inwardly. Harvey girl
s were becoming as ubiquitous along southern train routes as water towers. They were employed exclusively in the eating houses and hotels owned by Fred Harvey, and he had exacting standards.

  “I have read the ads,” said Felicity before Nat spoke. “Mr. Harvey advertises in all the city newspapers.” She quoted from memory. “‘White young women, eighteen to thirty years of age, of good character, attractive and intelligent.’ Is it too vain of me to suppose I meet all of his qualifications?”

  Nat offered a grudging response, most of it under his breath. “You meet them.”

  “That’s good, then, isn’t it? And I could manage on what I’m paid.” Her short laugh was a trifle self-conscious. “I admit the advertisements fascinated me. The promise of adventure and meeting new people all the time, I imagine. Room and board is provided, and the wage is seventeen dollars and fifty cents each month.”

  “Plus tips,” said Nat, and then wondered why he’d mentioned it.

  “Plus tips? I hadn’t realized. That is splendid. I think I should do very well for myself.” When he didn’t say anything, Felicity flushed. She amended her boast. “Or at least well enough.”

  Nat decided to squash this notion before she was off the train with no chance of returning. He’d have no peace in his bath if he thought she was going to get off as soon as the train slowed, and he did not relish the idea of shackling her to the bed again.

  “The eatery in Sidney is not a Harvey establishment.” He saw Felicity’s immediate disappointment was quickly replaced by suspiciousness. Before she asked, he said, “Yes, I’ve eaten there. There’s no hotel. There’s no reason to build one since Sidney is not a town where travelers are inclined to linger. The train will stop for twenty minutes, give or take, and the passengers will scramble to get a hot meal but accept a cold one if it’s all that’s available. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone tip the biscuit shooters. There isn’t time.”

  Felicity’s chin came up. Even though she still wore only one shoe, there was a certain dignity in her step as she walked back to the table. “All right,” she said. Picking up her shoe, she retreated to the bed and sat down to put it on. “There are other establishments along the route. If they aren’t suitable, I know there are Harvey restaurants in Kansas, New Mexico, and Arizona. I can have this car uncoupled and added to a train taking the southwestern rails. That is not against the rules, is it?”