A Western Romance: Thomas Yancey Taking the High Road (Book 4) (Taking the High Road series)

by Morris Fenris

  Throughout their meal, the old man had been remarkably taciturn. Withdrawn. Other than the physical effort required to pass over the jar of sorghum or send the bowl of biscuits across the table, he had neither initiated conversation nor augmented it.

  “I reckon fair as fair could be,” he agreed, after a moment.

  “Never got your last name.” Affable enough. No point in being stiff-necked or standoffish.

  Apprehensive, Elizabeth had been watching this interplay, observing the almost visible click as puzzle pieces shifted into place, waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

  No. That would not happen. She would not allow it to happen.

  “Smith,” she said suddenly and sharply.

  Thomas turned toward her, almost lazily. “Beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  “Smith. His name is Baldy Smith.”

  “Ahuh.” That slow, simmering smile again, while he studied her as if she were some newly discovered evening star. A star with blazing blue eyes, tumbled hair, fire-flushed cheeks, and a bosom to fill out every fold of her flannel shirt. “Smith, you say.”

  “Yes. I do say.”

  Carpenter began to climb painfully to his feet. “Lizzie, girl—”

  “You hush, Baldy!” she turned on him. “You just hush.”

  A pause, during which she just knew that her rapid heartbeat must be audible, all the way to the great outdoors. Thomas glanced from one to the other, with a thoughtful expression. Out in the near clearing, under the gathering dusk, came the clang of Cochinay’s axe biting into wood blocks, and Travis’ words of encouragement. Or of levity.

  “All right, then,” said the younger Yancey brother with a decisive nod. “You wanna show me where you keep your dish soap?”

  The woodcutting chores lasted only a little longer, until full dark, before both men came stamping back inside to wash, plead for more hot coffee to warm up their poor abused innards, and eventually settle down for what Thomas called a confab.

  Not only full dark, now, but cold rain slashing hard against the windows, as well. Travis, sprawled on the wolf pelt, affected an ostentatious shiver and inched closer to the fire. “You got yourself a real snug place here, Baldy,” he commented. “’Specially on a night like this. Even our hawses and the mule are set up outa the weather, sweet as you please. Nice as things’re built, I’d reckon you been spendin’ some time here.”

  Win, ensconced once more in his favorite rocker, with a cup of the hot willow bark tea close to hand, looked across at the Marshal. “Your reckonin’ would be correct.”

  Time to get down to business. Thomas caught the girl’s attention with his, “Miss Drayton—”

  “Liz,” she corrected him, from her perch on the river rock hearth.

  She made quite a picture, this outdoorsy miss with streaky hair tumbled down over her shoulders, shirt loosened to display some mighty attractive cleavage, and long legs extended in tight woolen trousers to end with stocking-clad feet.

  Thomas was unsure what to make of her. Worlds apart from the lovely Southern belles of his acquaintance, with their honeyed accents, flirtatious gestures, and their heads full of ringlets but empty of most common sense. As much as they would gloss over and prevaricate around any probing question, he suspected that Miss Elizabeth Drayton would respond directly, coolly, and concisely. And maybe spit in your eye when she was finished, if the situation warranted.

  “Liz. You may call me Liz.”

  He inclined his head. “First names all around. Good enough. You, Coch?”

  A chair dragged forward from the kitchen table and into the group served him just fine. “You may call me Thunder,” he answered with a grin.

  “So long as it ain’t Yellow?” That from Travis, teasingly.

  Leaning forward to drape his forearms across both thighs, Thomas briefly described events leading up to their arrival this afternoon at the cabin. “You got snatched, and your paw contacted President Johnson himself to get us out here. Travis and I are federal U.S. Marshals, and we been on your trail, with the help of Cochinay, here.”

  Elizabeth met her half-brother’s gaze. “He trusted you to do this.”

  “Ahuh. Surprise, surprise.” That the young man’s relationship with his father might have been stormy, at best, over the years, was evident by word and expression. “Maybe from here on, maybe seein’ as how…”

  He was sitting close enough that she could offer him a sympathetic grasp of the hand.

  “Well, anyway, Miss—Liz,” Thomas continued, “we sorta stumbled upon this place by accident, t’ tell you the truth. And mighty relieved t’ see you safe and unharmed. Now, if you could just let us know what happened…”

  Her suntanned features crinkled up in a mixture of anxiety and distaste. “Must I?”

  “Well, yes, ma’am. Part of our job is not only to get you back home, but to find and arrest whoever was responsible for stealin’ you away.”

  “In case you were wonderin’,” put in Travis, shifting position to better stare directly at the old outlaw, “that’s a crime, Liz. And the man who did it belongs b’hind bars.”

  “Does he?” Brief silence ensued.

  A sudden onslaught of rain, sounding more frozen than wet, pelted at the windows, while overhead the wind howled over the roof and through the trees. The fire made a leap and bound up the chimney, and a cold draft sent the flames of candles and kerosene lanterns flickering like shadow dancers.

  Elizabeth drew in a deep breath and straightened. “All right, then. I don’t know who kidnapped me.”

  “You what?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  “Miss—Liz—the man left a ransom note behind,” explained Thomas with the utmost patience.

  “A note. Really. Did you see it?”

  Tall and strong and sturdy, he thrust all ten fingers through his dark hair until it stood up like a rooster’s comb. “No. I didn’t see it.”

  “Your paw gave us all the details,” Travis jumped in on the discussion. “Left by some gunslinger in these parts, known as Win Carpenter, and wantin’ $10,000 for your safe return.”

  “Ten thousand dollars!” Elizabeth repeated, aghast. “Is that all? He should have asked for a million. I’m worth that much, at least.”

  Silent and brooding until now, Carpenter chuckled. “I’ll say y’ are, girl. These rhumatiz cures alone could make you rich.”

  She sent a smile across to him, the particular warm and winning smile that could easily break men’s hearts. And melted his like spilled maple syrup.

  “Then can you tell us,” with an air of teeth being gritted and fists clenched, Thomas dragged his listeners back to the subject, “exactly what went on?”

  Leaning her head back against the fireplace wall, she closed her eyes to better recall, and then recount, the experience, slowly and haltingly. “I was out riding early—early that morning…when some man came along, stuck a gun in my ribs, and told me I was being—I was being—shanghai’d.”

  Conscious of the effort she was making, and what it might be costing her, Thomas’ voice was gentle. “And you didn’t recognize him a’tall?”

  “No.” She opened blue eyes blurred by tears.”He was wearing a mask. Well—a bandanna, up over his face. You know, like a bank robber would. And he—he tied my hands over my saddle horn, and he put some awful sort of sack over my head. Used for holding potatoes, by the smell of it. And then we rode. And we rode. And we—”

  “Hey, Tom, ain’t that enough?” interrupted Cochinay with real concern. “You gotta make her live through it again?”

  “Did he—uh—did he try—?”

  “No! Oh, no!” That came out almost as a sob, and she bent forward with her arms around her middle, as if to hold every bit of pain inside.

  Not one male, watching, could feel comfortable in his manhood after that display.

  Finally Thomas gathered up his courage to continue. “Miss—uh—Liz, tell me, what happened to him? How did you get here?”

  �
��Oh. Oh, I—I told him I had to—you know—because—well, being in the saddle for so long, and everything…and he got mad. But he did untie me, so I could—you know.” Her gaze circled the room, seeking solace and belief, until it collided with that of Thomas. For an eternity they simply stared at each other, with an eternity of unspoken thoughts rocketing back and forth.

  “And then?” murmured Travis from the floor.

  “I—I’m not really sure,” she confessed, muddled and faltering. “Everything is—so confused, and it’s hard to remember what all…except, I hit him.”

  “Girl!” exclaimed Cochinay, incredulous. “You hit him?”

  Almost delighted by the implied support, she turned toward her brother. “I did. When I came back from—well, you know—I was carrying a big branch. Since his back was turned to me, I whacked him, hard, and then I jumped onto Caramel, and I took off like a bat out of hell.”

  “And you rode, and you rode, and you rode…” said Thomas, with that one brow raised again.

  “Yes. And I was terribly afraid, because here I was, up here wandering around in the mountains, not a clue as to direction, or even time. And then—just like you—I stumbled upon the cabin. And Baldy took me in, and cared for me. I swear, he saved my life. It was truly a miracle.”

  The Yancey brothers traded an unidentifiable look, the sort particular to twinship. “Ahuh,” Thomas agreed dryly. “Truly a dadblamed miracle.”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth’s radiant smile through tears gave the effect of sunlight slanting through rain. “Thank you, my friend. Good ol’ Baldy.”

  Good ol’ Baldy was sitting still as stone, numbed, befogged, and stricken by disbelief. The girl was an actress, all right, he’d give her that. But what the hell kind of story had she come up with, anyway? How about the truth, instead? He cleared his throat, ready to dispute. “Well, now, that ain’t quite—”

  “Don’t you dare tell them how I cried and carried on,” warned Elizabeth.

  “I wasn’t about to say—”

  “Good. Then we’ll leave it at that, pretending how brave I’ve been through this whole ordeal.” Rising, she swished over to balance herself precariously on the arm of his rocker, with her own arm dropped casually around his stooped and meaty shoulders. A quick brush of her lips against his temple completed the image of loving, appreciative ally.

  Then she looked up to fling a curiously challenging glance at the brothers Marshal. Go on, her tilted chin told Thomas; call me a liar. You see where my allegiance lies.

  And so he did. And silently admitted himself bested, and by a mere girl, at that. Damn. No clear resolution to this case, for sure.

  Well, if nothing else, at least they’d found her, sassy, sound, in one piece, and out of harm’s way. Possibly it was due to the maneuvers of that old man scowling to himself. Who would know but the victim herself?

  Business completed—as much as it would be for now, anyway—the rest of the evening could be given over to lighter conversation and plans for the morrow.

  While Travis threw down the gauntlet to their host to engage in a rousing game of checkers, Cochinay borrowed a lantern to browse amongst Win’s bedroom selection of books. Which left Thomas and Elizabeth, off in the corner away from the badinage and the raucous laughter, somewhat at loose ends.

  “So, you ready t’ head back t’ the ranch, after all you went through?”

  The Marshal, having picked up a piece of lightwood, was beginning to whittle away at it with the blade of his hunting knife, turning things this way and that, concentrating more, apparently, on the task at hand than on the woman sitting beside him. Yet he was intensely aware of her presence, of her movement, of her very breath. Just as, could he but be aware, she was of him.

  “After you did so much to find me, I wouldn’t dare be boorish enough to refuse,” she said politely. “Much as my father must have been worried, I never felt this escapade to be life-threatening. Or anything less than a—well, than an adventure, I guess.”

  “Somethin’ different, outa the routine, huh?”

  He looked up from his whittling to smile at her. The smile did strange, indescribable mischief to her betwixt and betweens; uncomfortable, because uncertain what was happening, she stalled by rearranging herself upon the hearth.

  “Not something I would have chosen.”

  “Oh, for sure not.” Little slivery curls of pine slipped down to the floor as Thomas continued diligently applying himself to whatever he was constructing. As a boy, he had learned the craft of woodworking from his elder brother, Matthew; now, as an adult, he often carved pieces for his brother’s son, Rob.

  Elizabeth’s fascinated blue gaze was following the movements of his hands. Long, slender, capable hands, sprinkled with fine black hair. Hands that could, she thought, wield a dagger or a pistol with equal dexterity; sweetly caress a woman into full arousal with even more. And immediately blushed.

  “Miss Drayton,” he said winningly. “Liz. You don’t really expect me t’ believe that hogwash you tried gettin’ us t’ swallow, now, do you?”

  Startled out of a dreamy fog, her gaze, apprehensive and dismayed, jerked up to his face. “Believe it or not, as you wish.” Enough kernels of truth lay in her story to discount the outright lies. “I’m just concerned about Baldy. He’s old, and his health isn’t good. What will happen to him when I leave?” Glancing over to where a second intense game had picked up when the first was done, she caught the outlaw’s eye and nodded reassuringly.

  “Reckon you’ll have t’ ask him that.” A few more translucent spirals of wood slipped silently to the floor. “Baldy. Short for Baldwin, ain’t it? As in, Win Carpenter?”

  Posture stiffened and voice hardened, she informed him that she wouldn’t know about a carpenter. “Smith. His name is Smith, Marshal Yancey.”

  “Ahuh.” Pensive, he studied her as if he very much appreciated what he was looking at. “Miss Drayton. Liz. You’re a mighty attractive young lady. More important, you got a good set of brains in that head of yours, and a good helpin’ of generous heart t’ go along with it. But maybe your loyalty ain’t in the right place.”

  “You don’t have the right to judge anything about my loyalty,” she turned on him fiercely. “I’m all that stands between him and—well, between him and the world, and I won’t have him hurt. Baldy is—he’s very special.”

  And so are you, he wanted to say. But didn’t.

  Instead he held up the finished product, blew off dust and miniscule wood chips, and extended his hand. A mountain lion at rest on its haunches, carved sleek and sure, with the telltale rounded ears and a cat’s long tail.

  “Why—Tom.” Taking it from him, she examined every detail. “What fine work—it’s exquisite. I’m impressed. Very impressed.”

  A nonchalant shrug, but the light in his eyes deepened and darkened with pleasure from her pleasure. “Yeah. If I ever get outta the lawman business, I c’n always take up whittlin’.” Bending, he scooped up the discarded shavings to fling onto the fire. “I saw a lion fend off a grizzly bear, once. Kinda puts me in mind of you. Courage. And grit. It’s yours, Miss Drayton—Liz...if you want it.”

  Touched, she laid her fingers on his wrist. The carving, a mere six inches or so in length, might rather have come gussied up as a Royal Doulton figurine, boxed and wrapped in silk, for all that she made of it. “I do,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. “I absolutely do. Thank you, Marshal.”

  Sleeping arrangements for the night, after the consumption of another hearty late meal and more strong black coffee, were simple: the three unexpected visitors would bunk down in the main room with their boots and bedrolls, while the original occupants would be privileged not to. The privacy of her own bedroom and a plain enameled chamber pot were luxuries Elizabeth was able to enjoy.

  But the others must make do with a hurried trip through the storm’s diminishing rainfall to the outhouse. Each prepared as necessary: ablutions with soothing hot water were done up in turn, candles were extingu
ished and lamp wicks turned down. Wood to keep the fire going all night was stacked handily beside the hearth, with plenty more ranked just outside, on the front porch.

  Then it was bedtime.

  “To sleep, perchance to dream.”

  But how soon to sleep, and of what—or of whom—to dream?

  VIII

  Early morning brought more light than might be expected. White light, reflecting from upper atmosphere to lower, because yesterday’s rain had been transformed by colder temperatures into snow. Huge, innocent-appearing, fluffy flakes, and only an inch or so at that. But certainly a harbinger of what was to come.

  Of the Drayton rescue crew, at the moment only Thomas had stirred out of his blanket. The weak-burning fire needed to be replenished; and, while he was at it, a pot of coffee could be started heating on the cook stove. Then, shivering, he hastened back in his sock feet to bedroll and warmth.

  By last night’s firelight they had discussed the situation, both Yancey brothers and their guide, in soft-pitched tones that would not travel beyond the inner wall. All of them found giant gaping holes in Elizabeth’s tale; none of them believed much of what she had related, so dramatically.

  “Shoulda been an actress on some stage,” snorted Thomas. He was lying flat on his back, ankles crossed, hands stacked beneath his curly head with arms akimbo, staring up at the ceiling while he considered all angles of proceedings from here on.

  “How much d’you figure is true, honest fact?” asked Travis. He had chosen a place to settle nearest the hearth, and was basking in the heat.

  “’Bout maybe half.”

  “Funny thing,” Cochinay added his input. “Remember, when she said she whacked the feller and then took off? Seems t’ me she woulda seen his face then.”

  “No point in askin’, ’cause your sister thinks on her feet. She’d just tell us somethin’ else that wouldn’t make a lick o’ sense—like he was still wearin’ his bandanna, or some such.”