Night Hawk

by Beverly Jenkins

  Both confusion and awe claimed her. “You’re Scottish?”

  “And Black.”

  She remembered him saying he hadn’t known his father but it never occurred to her that he might be foreign born. “How long have you lived in America?”

  “Since I was twenty, so eighteen years.”

  That made him thirty-eight, thirteen years her senior. She found him to be so very interesting she sensed she could question him about himself from now until sunrise and still need days more to ask the rest. Scotland. She’d never met a person of color who hadn’t been born in the United States. How in the world had he gone from being a Scot to a bounty hunter and to a marshal? Sadly, it was yet another question that would go unanswered once they separated. She refocused on the situation at hand. “Are the sleeping arrangements agreeable?”

  “Yes.”

  She wondered if she should be the first to move to the bed or wait and let him take the lead.

  “I’ll sleep closest to the door,” he said to her. He sat down on the edge of the bed and removed his boots.

  She walked over to the side he’d designated as hers and sat to remove her boots as well. When she finished, she turned to him and went still at the sight of the handcuffs he held. His green eyes held no hints of amusement, just purpose.

  She blew out a short exasperated breath and extended her left wrist. He locked the bracelet around it and attached the ring’s twin to his right wrist.

  “No need in getting mad,” he said, leaning over to douse the lamp. They were lying side by side. The chain linking the bracelets was long enough for them both to move comfortably.

  “Who says I’m mad?” she responded crisply.

  “Your eyes do. Even in the dark they’re spitting like summer lightning. Can’t have you running loose terrorizing the countryside.”

  “I’m not a terror.”

  “Tell that to Epps.”

  “He deserved what he got.”

  “Amen, and I deserve to get some sleep and not have to worry about you sneaking past me again.”

  She turned over to face him. “Am I really the first to escape you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will that ruin your reputation somehow?”

  “I’m sure it’ll make a few people laugh, especially after Rand’s done with the telling.”

  “I’m not going to apologize.”

  “Don’t expect you to. Just like I don’t expect you to apologize for slugging Epps the way you did.”

  “When I came out of the facility I was dumbfounded to find him standing there, but when he began yelling and threatening to kill me, all I could think about was how much I detested him, and that I should have been threatening him.”

  “He threatened your life?”

  “Oh yes. Apparently his soldier has had difficulty saluting since being introduced to Lady Pepper Sauce, and he—”

  She didn’t get to finish her words because the marshal was laughing to high heaven. She let the pleasurable sound fill her before mockingly scolding him once more. “You’re laughing again, Marshal.”

  After a few more moments of amusement he quieted. She could see him eyeing her as closely as the darkness would allow. Finally she asked, “Yes?”

  “You’re a wonder, Maggie Freeman.”

  “You’re a wonder yourself. I’d love to be able to wield a gun the way you do.”

  “Why?” He sounded surprised, appalled, she couldn’t tell which.

  “So I could protect myself. I can shoot but not as well as I’d like. Having to protect myself is how I got in this mess in the first place.” She thought back on what he’d said to her at the telegraph office. “Do you think Wells will really let me go free?”

  “I don’t see why not, but the law can be complicated sometimes.”

  “I just want to know one way or the other.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  She yawned. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “I think I’m going to go to sleep now, Marshal.”

  She could feel his eyes moving over her in the darkness as if he were still caught by the wonder he’d just referenced, but eventually he said, “That’s fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  It took her a moment to get comfortable, but once that was accomplished she closed her eyes.

  Lying beside her, Ian heard her slip into sleep but didn’t know whether she was playing possum or not. She’d tricked him before. She lay facing him. He glanced over and wished there was light enough to see her face, not just because he wanted to see if she was awake but so he could feast his eyes on her countenance. He’d called her a wonder but that didn’t begin to describe the woman she was turning out to be. Poor Epps. Ian almost felt sorry for the man. Almost. Hearing that he’d threatened her life made him want to get up and go find the salesman. He buried the idea, however. They had more pressing things on their agenda, and besides, she’d already given Epps more than he could handle; the man would have to be a fool to seek her out again. She was a firecracker. Were she living in Wyoming, her spirited nature would have every eligible male from Laramie to the Tetons lined up at her door. That thought didn’t sit well. He mulled over why and honestly admitted that were circumstances different, he might be one of those men, but she wasn’t fated for him. If everything worked in her favor, more than likely they’d never see each other again, and that bothered him as well.

  Chapter 8

  When Ian opened his eyes, it was still dark. Sometime during the night, Maggie had curled closer and was lying half sprawled atop him. Her head was resting just beneath his chin. Her right arm was across his chest and one leg rode his. Her soft weight felt so good he wanted to pull her even closer, but he was already fully aroused, so he didn’t think that a good idea. A true gentleman would move her back to her side of the bed, but she seemed to be sleeping so peacefully he didn’t have the heart to wake her up. Or at least that’s what he told himself. His physical reaction also brought home how long it had been since he’d awakened next to a woman. She was his prisoner, so he wasn’t supposed to be musing on her warmth, her scent, or the sensual pressure of her leg resting lightly against his groin, but he was fighting a losing battle. He and his late wife, Tilda, had never slept in the same bed. She, like many woman of the era, believed that the only time a husband and wife came together in bed was for marital relations. Tilda hadn’t cared much for the act, so out of respect for her sensibilities he hadn’t approached her very often. Yet and still she’d been the sweetest, most loving person he’d ever met, and because of her he’d given up his outlaw ways in order to win her hand. After her death, he’d shed the easygoing lover of life he’d once been, and a more dour, humorless man had taken his place. He’d become easily irritated, arrogant, and so joyless he rarely laughed, but he had laughed with Maggie, more than he ever remembered doing before. No way would Tilda have punished Epps the way Maggie had, and Tilda would have cut her tongue out before mockingly referring to a man’s “soldier,” let alone recounting the difficulties it was having saluting. Just thinking back on the remark brought on a smile. Although Maggie’d voiced her doubts about ever becoming married, he was certain there was a man somewhere who’d appreciate all that spirit, especially if she proved to be as spirited in bed as she was in life. The thought of her lying beneath him while he made slow, sweet love to her sleep-warmed skin caused his own soldier to rise up again, forcing him to gently shift her clear so he could breathe. He ran his unfettered hand down his face and fought to shake himself free of Maggie Freeman’s powerful spell. In a few days they’d be taking separate paths. He needed to keep that in mind.

  When Maggie opened her eyes, he was lying beside her. Meeting his gaze, she smiled sleepily. “Morning, Marshal.”

  “Morning. How’d you sleep?”

  “Fine, I guess.” She sat up and rubbed at her eyes. “How about you?”

  “Slept well.”

  “I need to go to the facili
ties.”

  He unlocked the bracelets and she left the room.

  When she returned he had his boots on and was brushing his hair. She’d taken a look at herself in the washroom’s mirror and had been correct about how frightening her appearance would be as a result of her encounter with Epps. Her jaw was still slightly bruised and the eye above it was a riot of purples, blacks, and blues. It would be days before her skin and vision cleared up. Her hair was a fright as well. She watched him place his brush back into his saddlebag and wished she had one of her own, but contented herself with trying to tame it with her hands as best she could.

  “Do you want to borrow my brush?”

  His offer made her both embarrassed and grateful. “If you don’t mind?”

  “Here.” And he handed it over.

  A bit self-conscious, she combed her fingers through the braid to free it and applied the brush, while trying not to acknowledge her burgeoning attraction to him. He reached over and gently raised her face so he could assess her eye. ”One quick look in the mirror was all I could take,” she admitted with a self-deprecating smile.

  “You’ll heal up.”

  “I hope so.”

  Maggie held his green eyes and began drowning in them again. She took a hesitant step back. “Um. Let me finish so you can have your brush back.”

  “No rush.”

  She did it quickly anyway and once she was done, she handed it to him. “Thank you.”

  He returned it to the saddlebag and she let out the pent-up breath she’d been holding in response to his nearness. With her hair righted, she then wished she had some clean clothing to change into, but since she didn’t, she’d have to make do with the wrinkled shirt and trousers she’d slept in and been wearing since leaving the Tanner farm.

  He asked, “Ready to see about some breakfast before we head to the train station?”

  “I am. I wonder how much extra we’ll be charged for it?”

  Wearing smiles, they left the room.

  Sitting in the smoking car of the still idling train that was scheduled to stop in Topeka before taking them on to Abilene, Maggie tried not to think about what lay ahead. It wasn’t as if she could simply wave her hand and make all her problems magically disappear. In truth the only option she had was to wait and see what the response to the telegram would be, otherwise she’d drive herself insane worrying. She sighed. Because of her bruised face and eye, she’d drawn stares from the other passengers when she and the marshal boarded the train. Some of the women drew back in shock and glared his way as if holding him responsible for the damage. Maggie’d wanted to come to his defense but he never slowed on his way to the smoking car, so she’d hurried to keep up.

  They were seated at a table near the rear of the car, and like everyone else they were waiting for the train to get under way. There weren’t many others in the car and the atmosphere was subdued, but the layout with its long bar reminded Maggie of a few saloons she’d sung in while working for Epps. At one of the tables a card game was under way. Playing were two dandied-up men she pegged as gamblers, and two nondescript cowboys who were probably going to lose more than they could afford. Sidled up against the gamblers and looking on were a couple of tarted-up women who might or might not be ladies of the night. The train’s whistle blew, signaling departure, and just as the wheels began to move the door to the car opened and a harried-looking Carson Epps rushed inside lugging a large black display case. The marshal was reading his Harper’s. When he glanced up and spied Epps, he turned to Maggie with cool eyes and declared, “If he causes any trouble I’ll be throwing him off the train.”

  She didn’t actually believe that, but she appreciated the thought.

  Epps had no difficulty spotting them in the sparsely occupied space. When his eyes brushed hers, his anger was obvious, as was the contempt he threw at the reading marshal. Maggie didn’t care. Even though she’d come away from their confrontation with a black eye, she’d won the hand and they both knew it.

  But no sooner had the train left the station than Epps began to speak. Maggie wasn’t sure if the blow to his privates had loosened his brain or if he was too mad to remember the marshal’s warning. “Hey, Maggie. You tell your marshal friend that you used to whore for me?”

  She froze.

  Everyone in the car turned his way, including the marshal.

  Epps gave an ugly-sounding laugh. “Bet you didn’t. Did you?”

  Fury and embarrassment made her storm to her feet. “It was one night, Carson. One! And don’t you dare lie and say it was more. Better yet, tell everyone why. Tell them how you took advantage of a nineteen-year-old girl who was addled enough to think you actually loved her. Tell them how you said we needed the money to eat, and that it would be just that one time. Tell them how I put pepper sauce in your rubbers and made you scream like a burned sow! Tell them that, damn you!”

  Hearing her response, the gamblers’ eyes went wide and then they began laughing at Epps. The girls clapped.

  Maggie was so angry she was shaking. Tears of rage stood in her eyes. She hadn’t wanted Bigelow to know about that night, and she wanted to flee because of how he probably viewed her, but to her surprise, he covered her hand for a calming moment and then got to his feet. As he focused attention on the still sneering Epps, the deadly air he exuded soon plunged the car into tense silence.

  “Do you remember the agreement we had, Mr. Epps?”

  “Go to hell Padre or Preacher, or whatever your damn name is, and take that phony badge with you. Nobody believes you’re a marshal except that ignorant squaw. Touch me and I’ll have the conductor put you off. See if I don’t.”

  One of the gamblers, a White man with a razor-thin mustache said to his companions in a voice just loud enough to be heard, “That’s the Preacher. Vance Bigelow! I thought I recognized him when he came in here.” He turned to Epps. “Mister, if I were you, I’d fall to my knees right now and start apologizing to the little lady. His name is real, and so is his Bible, but it’s his gun you have to worry about.”

  Maggie could see the others at the table viewing the marshal in a new light.

  Epps was trying to conceal his own reaction but the fear on his face was there for all to see. “Now look, Marshal, uh, sir.”

  By then Bigelow was looming over him, and Epps pleaded, “If you want me to apologize—”

  “Nope. Want you off the train.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said hastily. “At the next stop. I’ll speak to the conductor.”

  “No. Now.”

  Epps stared.

  Bigelow said in a quiet voice, “Maggie, would you open that door behind you, please.”

  Now it was her turn to stare, but she quickly moved to comply. As the rhythmic sounds of the wheels filled the car via the now opened door, the marshal grabbed Epps by the front of his checkered suit coat and dragged him across the space.

  “No!” Epps tried to forestall his fate by setting his feet, but Bigelow was much taller and stronger. The other passengers in the car looked on gleefully as the marshal hustled the twisting, squirming, and cursing Epps out to the platform, picked him up, and tossed him over the rail. Epps’s fading scream could he heard as the marshal returned to grab Epps’s salesman’s case. Once that followed its owner over the side, he closed the door again and sat. Giving Maggie a small smile, he returned to his reading.

  Stunned, she glanced over at the gambler. He touched his hat and commenced dealing out the next hand to his chuckling companions.

  Keeping her voice low, she said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Again, she could only imagine what he must think of her. “I want to explain what happened that night.”

  “You just did.” And there was no judgment in his eyes. “Sometimes life makes us do things we don’t want to. You were young.”

  She thought back on that awful night and confessed softly, “I cried the entire time.”

  His lips tightened. “You don’t h
ave to explain, Maggie. Not to me.”

  She wiped at the tears threatening to fall. “I’m not a whore,” she whispered fiercely.

  “Only person accusing you of that is Epps, and everybody saw what happened to him, so no more worrying.” He reached down to his saddlebag and brought out a well-read newspaper. “Here. Read.”

  Maggie took the offering and did as he asked.

  For the next hour, Maggie pored over the Boston paper. She wondered how a paper from Boston had come to be in his possession, but she felt she’d bothered him enough for the present, so she didn’t ask. Instead she read about a country in Africa called the Ivory Coast being declared a protectorate of France, and she wondered if the African people who lived there had had any say in the matter. On the next page was a notice about the Pemberton Medicine Company down in Georgia changing its name to the Coca Cola Company and she wondered what kind of medicine Coca Cola could be. Reading on, she glanced at a different article about an archduke in Austria found dead with his mistress, a baroness named Mary Vetsera. Below that was a story about the first trainload of oranges from Los Angeles to make its way east by rail. Closer to her heart was reading about the ongoing controversy surrounding the opening up of Indian Territory to White settlers. She shook her head sadly. First the politicians in Washington confiscate all the land belonging to the Native tribes, force the tribes to live in the dusty dry environs of Indian Territory, and now that same government planned to allow settlers to claim that land from the Natives, too. She wondered if it would ever end, and if there would be any tribal members left when it was all said and done. From what she’d heard of the five hundred members of the Kaw tribe sent to Oklahoma back in ’73, presently less than two hundred remained. Her heart ached knowing the tribes would be facing more problems once Indian Territory’s borders were opened, but seemingly none of the rich and powerful cared.

  The newspaper did have something inspiring to report, though. A small article on the bottom of the last page chronicled the efforts of a Black physician named Dr. Daniel Hale Williams who was raising funds to construct a hospital in Chicago that would treat all races. One of his goals was to offer Black nurses the opportunities denied them by other hospitals because of their race. Maggie hoped his dreams would bear fruit.