“Makes me glad I’m not famous,” Sheriff Rollins commented half an hour later. They stood in the shade of the awning jutting out from the barber-and-bath shop, watching the undertaker’s men toss the body into the back of a black wagon.
“Don’t let a journalist write a book about you. The lying bastard will paint a target on your back.” He’d known Jed Rollins for years. They had discussed the price of fame a dozen times.
“Arnold Metzger, that’s the man you just shot. If you hadn’t killed him, eventually he would have ended up with a noose around his neck. Not a doubt in anyone’s mind that Metzger’s been involved in three robberies and at least two murders. I can prove it, but not solid enough to satisfy the law. You did me and the citizens of this town a favor.” Sheriff Rollins pursed his lips. “You’re lucky, Cameron. He could have shot your butt. Metzger was handy with a gun.”
“I noticed.”
“This story’s going to get told and exaggerated, and that’s too bad. Every time some idiot draws, that target on your back gets a little bigger.” The sheriff pushed out his hand and they shook. “Damned shame.”
One thing troubled Cameron about the shooting, and he thought about it while he drank a whisky and soaked off the trail dust in a deep, hot tub.
He had hesitated. Not by a lot, but in that fraction of a second he had thought Della’s name and he had cared about dying. A man who hesitated in a shoot-out was a man who was going to get himself killed, sooner rather than later.
There was another thing. Ordinarily he prided himself on cool efficiency, but he’d been angry when he fired. Lately it seemed that he arrived someplace and, before he had time to get his boots shined, everyone knew James Cameron was in town and they wanted a piece of him. At least Arnold Metzger needed killing. As always, that fact offered consolation.
Leaning back against the rim of the tub, he scowled at the steam condensing on the ceiling. He was weary to the bone of the challenges, the gunfights, the life he was living. The peculiarity was that he hadn’t let himself realize or admit it until this trip.
What else was there?
He couldn’t visualize himself living a different life. But did he want to pin on another badge? Men who wore the badge were the loneliest men in the West. Bounty hunting? Riding the plains for weeks on end in search of human refuse?
His choices were limited and, no matter what he chose, it all came down to waiting for the man who was younger and faster on the trigger. That’s how it would end, the only way it could.
Maybe he should head for one of the coasts. He’d considered this before, but not seriously, because eventually the legend would catch up to him.
Besides, his work was here. There was no shortage of killers who needed hanging or shooting, and that’s what he wanted to do: balance his personal scales of justice.
Finally, what was the point of settling down and living forever? He had no family and that wouldn’t change. No one cared if James Cameron lived or died, and that didn’t figure to change, either.
If he hadn’t met Della Ward, he wouldn’t be having this back-and-forth discussion with himself.
That brought him to another question he’d been wrestling. When to tell her the truth. He’d decided to tell her once they reached Atlanta, but he didn’t know if that was the right choice.
There was no guessing what might happen if he told her before they arrived. If he waited until Atlanta, at least he’d be certain about the reunion with her daughter. And if she refused to speak to him again or to return to the West in his company, she’d be in a place where he assumed she knew people who could assist her and help her get started again. These were his arguments when his conscience troubled him.
Meanwhile he would savor every minute with her. He’d store up a lifetime of memories that he could pull out and examine during the long, solitary treks across the Great Plains. And hope like hell that his discipline held until they reached Atlanta.
There was no honor in what he had to tell her or in delay. He didn’t want to say or do anything to make a bad situation worse.
Yet that’s all he thought about. Making it worse by taking her in his arms and adding to his guilt and to her reasons to hate him.
Della didn’t know what Cameron did immediately after leaving her, but she could track his activities later in the day. First, he went to the Santa Fe Ladies Most Elegant Emporium. She knew this because a delivery man from the Santa Fe Ladies Most Elegant Emporium came to the door of the suite to deliver a gown and cape. The gown was cream-colored faille with emerald satin stripes and emerald crepe de chine, matched by a cape of a slightly deeper tone featuring a beautifully draped hood to cover her coiffure.
Which suggested that she should have a coiffure to cover. She was staring into the mirror, holding loops of hair this way and that when the next knock sounded. This delivery came from Edleston’s Accoutrements. White mid-length gloves and a half dozen hair ornaments to choose from, plus a delicate fan made of parchment and point lace.
Mulvaney’s Shoe Parlor arrived next, bringing green silk evening slippers with sparkles embedded in the heels. The sparkles made the slippers inappropriate and too vulgar for a lady. Or so she would have believed at one time. Now Della loved them. She would have worn the sparkly slippers even if they had pinched a whole lot more than they did. But Cameron had come very close to a good fit.
The next delivery arrived in a package with no store name on the wrapping or on the delivery man’s uniform. When lingerie spilled out of the package, Della understood the discretion, and laughed aloud at the image of stern, aloof James Cameron buying lady’s unmentionables. He hadn’t done as well here as in the other areas. Most of his choices were too plain for a gown as elegant as the one he’d selected. But then he’d erred on the extravagant side with his choice of rose-colored stockings and garters fit for a courtesan.
Della told herself that she couldn’t accept nonperishable gifts from a man. Flowers and sweets were acceptable, and that was about all. However, she kept touching the items laid across the coverlet and wondering if she was applying rules from another age and era, and did it matter in any case?
At this point, she was already beholden to James Cameron for more than she could ever hope to repay. But he’d said it would give him pleasure to buy her a dinner gown. And he’d purchased the items without her being present, so she couldn’t protest. He didn’t expect repayment or want it.
Holding the gown against her body, she studied herself in the mirror. James Cameron was Clarence’s friend. He’d been with Clarence when Clarence died. James Cameron wouldn’t give her a dinner ensemble if he thought for an instant that Clarence would have disapproved.
She really didn’t feel that Clarence would object. Even though it suddenly occurred to her that Clarence had never given her a gift. They’d been apart at gift-giving occasions, and gifts hadn’t been easy to come by during the war. Besides, if Clarence had thought of a gift, at that time in her life Della would rather have received a chunk of beef than something to wear.
It occurred to her that she was seeking justifications to accept this new ensemble because she lusted in her heart to have it. And she did. Oh, she did. A very short while ago she’d told herself that she’d never again own a gown like this or have a place to wear it.
“Damn,” she muttered, holding an ornament against her hair and leaning to the mirror. “Just say thank you. That’s all he wants to hear.”
Not since she was a young girl had she taken such care preparing for a dinner engagement. She wanted James Cameron to take a look at her and gasp. She wanted his pulse to stop. She wanted to mow him down at the knees.
When she realized what she was thinking, she laughed then set about to make it happen.
Women believed they were at their most alluring when all gussied up for a dressy evening. But in Cameron’s eyes, Della was most appealing in everyday garb while performing the everyday chores that took her outside of herself.
Nevertheless,
when she opened the door and he saw her dressed in the finery he’d sent to the suite, he made a sound deep in his throat. She was beautiful. Lovely. His riding and camping companion had undergone a magical transformation. She’d turned into a princess.
“That is exactly the expression I was hoping for,” she said, laughing. “Come inside. I assume you ordered whisky; a boy brought it about twenty minutes ago. I’ve already had a taste, and it’s smoother and better than any whisky we’ve shared so far.” She gave him a side-long glance. “You look wonderful yourself.”
He’d had a shave and ordered his hair cut short to suit the fashion back east, and he’d bought himself some new dress clothes. He still remembered how to knot a formal tie, but he’d forgotten the stiffness of a dress collar.
Della accepted the whisky glass he handed her, then frowned at him as if trying to recall something. “I know,” she said, snapping her fingers. “This is one of the few times I’ve seen you without your pistols.”
He touched the pointed ends of his waistcoat. “I’m carrying a small waist pistol. It’s almost a woman’s gun,” he said with a twist of disgust.
“Would you like me to carry it for you?”
She had that sparkle that told him she was teasing. He smiled, enjoying the moment. “The man who sold me these clothes insisted a gun belt would spoil the effect. A gun belt might look good on that dress, though.”
“Thank you, Cameron. I didn’t believe I’d ever again wear a gown like this.” Careful not to disturb any bows or tassels, she ran her fingertips along a pleated drape of emerald crepe de chine. Cameron knew it was crepe de chine only because the saleslady had told him so. “This is lovely.”
He would have commented that the dress fit her as if tailored to suit, but that would have sounded too personal, as if he were examining her bosom and waist. Naturally he’d noticed her bosom and waist, but he wouldn’t go so far as to say he’d actually examined them. Though he would have liked to.
He cleared his throat. “If you’re ready . . .”
“I’ll just fetch my cape and gloves.” She paused before the foyer mirror to arrange the cape’s hood over an elaborate arrangement of curls pinned high on her crown and cascading to the nape of her neck.
These small womanly habits delighted him. When he observed her pinching her cheeks, then stepping back from the mirror to judge the effect, he felt as if he’d caught a glimpse of a mysterious world that many men never got to see. Until Della, he hadn’t observed much of a woman’s private world or guessed the intimacy those glimpses created between a man and a woman.
Outside the hotel, she slipped her gloved hand through his arm, and his muscles involuntarily tightened. “It isn’t far, but I should have ordered a cab,” he said, suddenly aware of her train. The stone walk beneath the bare-branched trees was cracked and dusty, not accommodating to a lady wearing a train and heels. Sparkling heels, he recalled, daring to hope for a glimpse of sparkles and ankles before the evening ended.
She looked up at him, her face framed by the drape of the cape’s hood. “It’s a lovely evening. Dry and not too cold. I don’t mind walking.”
Cameron stared at the dark sweep of her eyelashes and the inviting curve of a half smile. Was she flirting with him? The possibility knocked the air out of his chest. Immediately he told himself he was imagining things, opening himself to wishful thinking.
Or maybe he wasn’t. Ordinarily Della Ward wore the expression of a no-nonsense, capable woman. But tonight she’d wrapped herself in the soft dreaminess he’d observed in her wedding photograph, that aura of mystery and fascination that sketched images in a man’s mind.
Aware of her arm on his sleeve, and the light scent of her perfume, Cameron led her across the plaza toward The Cattle Baron, an opulent restaurant despite the name. During the day the plaza was crowded with vendors selling everything one could think of. At this hour the square became a thoroughfare leading to the cantinas, restaurants, and hotels surrounding the town center.
For at least ten years Cameron had stood alone, watching couples walk along various streets in dozens of towns. Occasionally he’d wondered what they said to each other. How had they found one another and what had drawn them together? Now he noticed a few glances cast his way. Pride squared his shoulders, and he pressed Della’s arm possessively to his side.
“I chose The Cattle Baron because weapons have to be checked at the door,” he explained, leading her inside. When she raised an eyebrow, he shook his head with a humorless smile. “No.” And when asked, he didn’t declare the small gun tucked at his waist, didn’t surrender it. In Cameron’s view, the management’s rule didn’t apply to him. As was his habit, he insisted on a table where he could sit with his back to the silk-papered wall.
“It’s a beautiful room,” Della said softly, her eyes shining. They’d been placed in a corner or she would have been seated facing the wall.
Silver, crystal, white linen, cream-colored candles, and hothouse roses graced each table, Cameron noted absently. Exactly as he recalled from a couple of years ago, when he had dined here with a task force from the governor’s house. As far as he knew, there had never been a shooting at The Cattle Baron.
“Is this a celebration?” Della asked after he’d ordered champagne and oysters.
“In a way,” he said finally. “Plus I figure I owe you a dinner after the fiasco at the hotel in Rocas.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Cameron.”
“I suppose it is a celebration.” The chandeliers were dim, but they cast enough light to capture the hints of red in her dark hair. Her eyes had turned to liquid in the glow of candlelight. “The journey is almost over.”
Surprise lifted her brow. “It’s a long way from New Mexico to Atlanta.”
“By train it’s only about ten days, depending on weather and mechanical problems.” He shrugged. “The longest part of the trip is behind us.”
“Ten days,” she repeated.
“We’ll stop in St. Louis for a night, then take a different line from there to Atlanta.”
From here on, he wouldn’t have much time alone with her. People would surround them on the train, in the dining car, and they would go to separate sleeping berths. They didn’t often say anything to each other that couldn’t be said before a church congregation, but he preferred being alone with her.
He knew he behaved differently with Della than with other people. Talk came easily, and he’d laughed more in the last weeks than he had in several years. In her company he was able to relax and do pleasant, silly things, like whistle or tell tall tales. He trusted her to the extent of revealing more of his past than he had to anyone else. She brought light into his mind and spirit. Knowing he would leave her was a thought he couldn’t yet examine too closely.
“To you and to your daughter,” he said, touching his champagne glass to hers. Champagne wasn’t a favorite, but ladies seemed to like it, or so he’d been told. “I hope the reunion is everything you want it to be.”
Her breath caught. “I’m not going to talk to Claire. I’m only going to look. We agreed to that.”
“You can take it as far as you like, Della. It’s your choice. Whatever you decide to do will be the right thing.”
Tonight her eyes were more green and gold than brown, her lips seemed wider and softer. Cameron wanted to walk around behind her and remove her hairpins, then catch the weight of her hair in his hands.
She drew her napkin through her fingers then looked up at him. “Only ten more days.” A frown troubled her brow. “The closer we get, the more—I don’t know— nervous and agitated I feel. Almost afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Everything. Afraid that Claire won’t be there. Afraid that she will be there, but confined to a wheelchair or bedridden or terribly ill.” She pressed her fingertips to her lips, her eyes pained. “I’m afraid that she’ll be arrogant and spoiled and that I won’t like her. Or that she won’t like me, that she’ll be annoyed if I at
tempt to speak to her, or politely indifferent. And I don’t know how I would arrange to speak to her if I wanted to. I can’t very well accost her on the street. I think about these things and my stomach gets tight and my mouth goes dry and I think I must have been crazy to do this.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” he said after a minute. “If you truly—”
“No. I want to see her more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I just . . . I’m afraid seeing her won’t be enough.”
“You can—”
“No, Cameron. Tearing up her life isn’t right. I’m selfish, but not that selfish. I won’t do that to her, but heaven help me, I might want to. And that will hurt.”
Her eyes glistened and she blinked hard. If they hadn’t been in a public place, Cameron would have reached for her hand, but they were in public and neither of them favored open displays.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered while he was trying to think of what to do or say. “It shocked me to hear I’m only a week from seeing my baby.”
And he was a week or ten days from turning the look in her eyes to loathing.
“We won’t talk about it. Not tonight.” She sipped the champagne then wrinkled her nose and managed a smile.
She was wearing rose-colored stockings. Cameron cleared his throat and touched his tie. And black garters trimmed with pink roses.
“What did you do after you left the hotel? Did you stop by the sheriff’s office?”
Rose-colored stockings next to the milky white of her thighs. Damn, he shouldn’t do this to himself. He touched his collar, wishing the maître d’ would open a window. When she repeated her question, he looked at her.
“I’ve known Sheriff Rollins for years. He likes knowing who’s in his town. He’s a good chess player.”
He didn’t tell her about shooting Metzger and hoped no one else would. But when she raised an eyebrow and gave him a long, level look, he realized someone already had. He released a breath then admitted there had been some trouble.
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