by Zoë Archer
“They tried to beat me face in!” one driver called out, and a rumbling chorus of agreement followed.
“I ain’t gonna make no deliveries if me face’s beat in,” another added angrily. “An’ who’ll feed me wife an’ kiddies?”
More rumblings, growing in hostility, ensued. The men had to be kept calm, otherwise they could turn more ugly and unpredictable than anything Pryce could devise.
“Compose yourselves,” she said forcefully. Surprisingly, the drivers obeyed her. It rather astonished her that people—men especially—would ever follow her orders, but Olivia was beginning to realize that she had more power than either she or her late husband had given herself credit for.
Gesturing to Will beside her, she said, “This is Mr. Coffin. He is here to help us make sure we make our deliveries on time.”
“’Ow’s ’e gonna do that?” someone demanded.
Will stepped forward and the drivers, some of them outweighing Will by two stone, moved back in deference. He had a natural authority that was difficult to reconcile with his lowly upbringing, and for the first time Olivia wondered if perhaps his origins were less humble than either of them suspected.
“Boys,” he said with a wide, Western smile, “let me introduce you to my good friend Winchester.”
For a country that prided itself on its far-reaching empire, Will marveled that no one had thought to ride shotgun when making dangerous deliveries. Hell, Wells Fargo had been doing it for over thirty years.
“Just have a body sit with you with a rifle across his knee,” he explained to the men gathered around him, “and if anyone tries to bully you, give ’em a taste of what for.”
“I’m not gonna shoot anyone,” a man hollered.
“’Course you ain’t.” Didn’t anyone in England have a lick of sense? So far the only person he’d met who had any brains at all was Lady Olivia Xavier, and he couldn’t fault a gentle-born woman for not knowing the way of guns. “Just give ’em a warning shot across the prow, and they won’t give you any difficulty.”
The men continued to look dubious. “Don’t be a bunch of babies,” he chided them. “These bullies think they’ve got you beat with their heavy sticks, but nothin’ can top a genuine Winchester rifle for convincin’ someone to leave you alone. Hell, you don’t even have to load ’em. Just point and act like you mean it.”
“We can’t arm all these men,” Olivia said quietly beside him. “It would be much too expensive.”
“All it takes is one man with one gun to send the right message. Now,” Will said, addressing the crowd, “who’s it going to be?”
Still, they didn’t move. “Goddamn it,” he growled, “I’ll show you how it’s done.” He pointed a finger at one driver, a big bruiser wearing a bowler hat. “You and me are going to make a delivery.”
The man nodded, even though Will could see him swallow in fear. Nobody knew how to fight a dirty war like this in England. They weren’t familiar with the underhanded tricks and schemes ambitious men used to get what they want. Everything with them was up front, marching in formation like some army from the Revolutionary War. But England had lost that war, while America, hiding behind trees and being sly, had won. And nobody was more crafty than a cowboy. Charles Goodnight hadn’t become a cattle baron by asking please and saying thank you.
As Will went to sit next to the driver, Olivia came over and took hold of his arm. He was priming himself for a tussle, but even getting ready for a fight, her touch managed to unsettle him more than anything else he might face. His stomach immediately took up residence in his lungs when her fingers rested on his sleeve.
“Be careful, Will,” she said softly, and even though the yard was full of noise and movement, each word from her mouth branded onto him. Genuine worry creased between her eyebrows and deepened the violet of her eyes. “If it gets too dangerous, come back. Don’t worry about the delivery. We’ll figure something out.”
He couldn’t help wondering if her concern was for real, or if she was playing him. She already knew that he couldn’t be bought, but he did have a soft spot for helping women—he’d bailed her out once before, why not again?
He had seen plenty of pretty-faced cheats work a man without batting an eye, and learned to spot a fleecer at an early age. He wasn’t anyone’s dupe, not even a fancy woman. But somehow he knew, just looking at Olivia, that she didn’t swindle people, and she wasn’t swindling him. Her worry was for real.
Outside of old Jake, nobody had really given two licks about Will. It floored him that this lady, who didn’t really know him from Adam, could care about him at all. No matter what happened, today, tomorrow or whenever, Will didn’t think he could ever forget that.
But that wasn’t the way he liked to show himself to the world. So instead of thanking her as solemnly as he felt, he just grinned and said, “I’ll be fine. By noon, every bank clerk and pot-bellied tycoon will be guzzlin’ Greywell’s beer with their luncheon.”
She tried to return his smile, but she was clearly very troubled. Olivia looked around the yard, and, seeing that no one was watching, pressed a quick kiss to his clean-shaven cheek, before hurrying away.
Lordy, he was a goner.
“Let’s get this wagon rollin’.” He vaulted up beside the driver. He kept his hands tight around the Winchester to keep from reaching up and touching the spot where her lips had pressed against him. Couldn’t get preoccupied just when things were about to get interesting.
He and the driver didn’t talk as they drove across the river and into the city. Some of the places they rode past looked vaguely familiar, but he’d covered a lot of ground on foot over the past few days, and being on the top of a wagon unsettled his orientation. It wasn’t long, though, until they turned down a narrow street behind a saloon. His whole body tensed. The street was still and silent.
Four rowdies stepped out from a doorway and blocked the way. Sure enough, they were holding big clubs. He smiled to himself in relief. He knew how to fight once his enemies had shown their faces. It was the waiting that got to him. As the wagon slowed to a stop, the toughs slapped their clubs in their hands threateningly.
“Didn’t we tell you to turn around?” one snarled.
“Else we’re gonna bash yer ’ead in,” another added.
Will laughed. After everything he’d seen and been through back home, these men were plain amateurs. “With those little sticks?” he chuckled. “Go on and play. Me and my friend have work to do.”
The toughs exchanged looks with one another, clearly not expecting someone to even argue with them let alone try and get through.
“Now what?” one asked another.
“I guess we hit ’im.”
With a shrug, the first man raised his club and started to swing it towards the driver. As he brought it down, there was a loud bang, and then the man held only a few splinters of wood. Eyes round with shock, he looked up and down the barrel of Will’s Winchester, now pointed right at his face.
“This Yellow Boy here’s a repeater.” Will brought down the rifle’s lever then cocked the hammer. The empty cartridge clattered onto the street. With a satisfying click, he brought the lever back up and chambered the next round. “So I can sit here all day and pick you boys off like buzzards. Or you can get lost. You choose.”
Another man took a tentative step forward, but Will brought the Winchester around fast. “Don’t try it, compadre. Although,” he added almost thoughtfully, “you’d be less ugly without a head.”
“I didn’t get paid to get me ’ead blown off,” the man holding the remains of the club said, panicked.
“Me neither,” his companions agreed. Like a flock of startled geese, they took off down the road, honking in fright.
“Be sure to tell Pryce and his other desperados that Lady Xavier don’t cotton to being threatened,” Will shouted after them, standing up in the seat. As he sat back down, he caught the driver’s stunned look. “Just havin’ a little fun.”
“Yo
u’re a crazy son of a bitch,” the driver answered.
“Crazier than you know,” Will grinned, thumping him on the back. He thought about Olivia waiting back at the brewery, and his heart began racing faster than it had been when facing off against the hired guns. “A lot crazier.”
They finished their delivery and sped quickly back to the brewery to report their progress. Just as Will and the driver steered into the yard, Olivia’s carriage came rolling by, then stopped alongside them. Her slim hand opened the window and Will’s breath caught as her lovely, elegant face peered out. He didn’t understand how she could have remained unmarried for so long. Any man of her class with brains should have been pacing outside her door like a hound on the scent as soon as she’d become available again after her husband’s death.
“It’s all over London,” she said, eyes bright with excitement, “how you fought off those thugs. And you were right. We didn’t need to arm anyone else. All the deliveries are being made right now. We just had two men go instead of one. You have Pryce’s men running scared.”
“Glad to hear it.” He was starting to find he liked pleasing her, and he’d never sought anybody’s favor before. It was definitely time to grab his kit and hit the trail. “Headed home?” He thought to catch a ride back with her and pack up.
She shook her head. “I received word that some more of Pryce’s ruffians are threatening a publican who sells my beer. I’m on my way to the pub to get rid of them.”
He stared. “Alone? Ain’t you takin’ somebody with you?”
“Everyone’s making deliveries,” she explained.
Cursing under his breath, he jumped down from the delivery wagon and pulled open the door to her carriage. “I’ll go,” he said curtly. He jerked his head to indicate she should get out of the carriage. “You stay here.”
“This publican is a very good customer of mine.” She eyed his rifle. “He would be scared out of his wits if we came in, guns blazing, and had a showdown right in his pub. I doubt he would purchase from us in the future,” she added dryly.
“Olivia, I don’t think—”
“It’s not your decision to make.” There was that grit of hers again, giving no quarter. “Greywell’s is my responsibility, and there are some things that I must do myself.”
He tried to argue, but he saw that there would be no quarrelling with her. Short of pulling her bodily out of her carriage, she would insist on coming along. Lady Olivia Xavier didn’t do things with a lick and a promise, he’d give her that. He sat himself down opposite her, shutting the door after him. “Well, if you don’t care a continental, let’s go see the elephant.”
She rapped sharply on the roof of the coach and they were off. “How you talk,” she said with a little smile.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with the way I talk,” he answered. Then, less sure, “Is there?”
“Not a bit.”
Oh, he could sit across from her all day and watch her smile. Prettier than the stars over the mountains, and warmer than summer’s campfire. She could make a man wish for things he had no right wishing for, and the longer he spent in her company the more he began to wish.
There was no time for fancy, though. Before too long, they’d pulled up in front of another saloon—pub, they were called here—and he primed himself for another tussle.
“Leave the gun,” she advised him as they got out of the carriage.
He didn’t like the idea, but did what she asked. If he had to, he knew how to fight with his fists and anything else handy. But she wanted to do this her way, so he’d let her—for now.
They walked into the pub brashly, as pleasant as folks on a Sunday outing, Olivia on his arm and smiling affably. The pub was full of dark wood and brass, with mirrors behind the bar and leather chairs around polished wooden tables. It was a sight finer than any saloon Will had ever seen, a place a gentleman might bend an elbow with his friends rather than a spot some patched-up cowpoke would drink rotgut and find a scarlet lady.
The pub was empty except for the man behind the counter and two beefy thugs leaning across that counter with menace in their eyes. At Olivia’s cheerful, “Good morning,” all three turned to look in her direction.
“M...madam,” the pub keeper stammered, “we are not yet open for business.” Even as fear strained his voice, there was a note of befuddlement in his words, and Will understood that even nice pubs like this one didn’t usually serve highbrow ladies. They just didn’t belong.
“I’m not here for a drink,” she announced and began walking forward. Will dogged her steps. If she was frightened, she didn’t show it. Coming up to the bar, she reached across to shake the pub keeper’s hand. “I am Lady Xavier, owner of Greywell’s Brewery.”
“Fred Cowling,” the publican answered. He shot nervous eyes towards Will and then the thugs looming nearby.
“This is my associate, Will Coffin,” she continued, and Will shook hands, too. Olivia then turned her keen, cool gaze towards Pryce’s hirelings. If Will had thought her approachable in the carriage, now she suddenly looked as icy and unreachable as a queen on a throne. Had he been the unlucky son of a bitch on the business end of that look, he’d have withered away on the spot. It was a stare that was more chilling than any Winchester, Colt, or Gatling Gun.
“Gentlemen,” she said to the toughs, and it was clear by her voice that she considered them anything but, “I have business to attend to with Mr. Cowling, private business.”
The men looked at each other, puzzled. Whatever they had been expecting, it wasn’t a slip of a lady telling them to get lost.
“We ain’t finished ’ere,” one said.
“I believe you are,” Olivia insisted, her tone cutting and cold.
“But—”
“If you have any further business of your own to conduct, I suggest you take it up with Mr. Coffin.” Seeing his cue, Will gave his best crazy grin, the kind that said he’d be happy to chew off their ears and use them for target practice. Pryce’s men actually turned white. “He would be delighted to discuss whatever concerns you—outside.”
“’E’s the bloke what nearly shot Jimmy’s ’ead off,” one hissed to the other. They both swallowed audibly.
The publican looked back and forth between Will and Olivia and the thugs, plainly at sea. Olivia, meanwhile, was composed and frosty, a touch impatient for the annoying interlopers to be on their way. Will heard a clock ticking in the silent pub; even the noises from the street had quieted.
“Well?” Olivia demanded icily.
One tough looked at the other and then bolted for the door. “I’m off!”
“Me, too,” his companion cried, running after him.
As their footsteps clattered into the distance, Olivia turned to Mr. Cowling. Her voice warm but businesslike, she said, “Perhaps you should fetch your record books from your office and we may determine if your supply of Greywell’s is enough. I want to keep my customers satisfied.”
The publican nodded readily and scuttled into the back office. As soon as he disappeared, Olivia let out a long, unsteady breath, and her hands were shaking as they clutched her little bag.
“I believe in poker, that is what is called bluffing,” she said with a tremulous smile. She sat down heavily on a nearby stool as though her legs had suddenly given out from under her.
Will shook his head, thunder-struck. “Remind me never to bet against you.”
Chapter Six
Crawcook, Pryce’s valet, finished tying his master’s cravat, adjusting the folds carefully. His master was a demanding one, and would often make Crawcook undo his handiwork and retie the whole thing over again if even the smallest pleat was not perfect.
Fortunately, sir was too distracted today to make even a cursory inspection of his cravat, else Crawcook was certain he would have made him reknot the silk necktie simply to prove that he had the power to make him do so. Sir had been distracted quite a bit lately, and Crawcook was grateful for it.
“Watch fob,�
�� his master demanded, and a case of fine Swiss and Austrian chains was presented for his inspection. After making a selection, Crawcook took the fob and affixed it to the jeweled watchcase sir had received from his father, the earl, after finally completing his studies at university.
Just as the valet was holding out his master’s worsted wool jacket, there came a tap at the door. It was Len Banks, the footman.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Len said with an apologetic shrug, “but there are two...em...gentlemen in your study wishing to speak with you.”
“Tell them I’m busy,” sir snapped.
“They say it is urgent, and will not leave.”
Sir purpled with anger, and Crawcook didn’t envy them being on the receiving end of his master’s wrath, which could be terrible indeed. Instead of having two of the burly underbutlers remove the visitors, sir said hotly, “I’ll be down in a moment.” He shoved his arms into his jacket, tugged irritably on the sleeves, and then strode from the room without another word.
Len and Crawcook exchanged glances, and immediately followed sir. They kept a discrete distance, and then waited for him to go into his study, before sidling up and pressing their ears to the closed door. The heavy wood made it difficult to hear everything, but Crawcook was an adept hand at eavesdropping and was able to make out a goodly amount.
“...what the hell are you talking about?” roared sir.
“...’ad a gun, sir...” a voice answered, and from the sound of it, a voice from Whitechapel.
“...nearly blew me ’ead off, sir,” another voice chimed in. Len and Crawcook glanced at each other and shuddered with glee. Two men from the East End visiting sir—there would be good talk at the servants’ table tonight.
Sir gave another snarl and Crawcook thought he heard something heavy being thrown and hit the wall. “...incompetent! ...disgusting American...trollop of a widow...something else must be done.”