by Stacy Henrie
After setting his hat on the ground, Essie glanced at him and laughed. The sound reminded him of the stream near his boyhood home. “You look like I must have that first day you found me after the rainstorm.”
He chuckled. “Probably worse.” They sat half a foot apart, the blanket arcing over them.
“Maybe.” She lifted her hand, her eyes clouding with hesitation, before she brushed a clump of damp hair off his forehead. Her fingers felt warm where they skidded across his brow. “That’s better.” Lowering her hand, she trained her gaze on her lap.
The wish to kiss her, right then and there, held him momentarily captive. But then he reminded himself he’d be leading her on. He had no intention of getting involved with a woman—not while outlaws like Fletcher ran free.
Tate cleared his throat. “How long do you think the storm will last?”
“An hour, maybe longer,” Essie said with a shrug. “You never know with these Wyoming storms.” She shivered again.
“Are you still cold?” Without waiting for her reply, he scooted closer to her until their shoulders touched. “Better?”
She dipped her chin in a nod, a smile turning up her mouth. It struck him again how unruffled she could be when confronted with just about any situation. He hadn’t met many women who would be as calm and cheerful in the face of a raging storm.
“How did your interview with Jude go?”
“Fairly well.” She fiddled with the button at the cuff of her dress. The absence of her usual enthusiasm about her interviews alerted him that something was bothering her. He waited for her to voice it and, after a few moments, she whispered, “Did you know he has a little boy?”
Tate guffawed. “Who? Jude?”
“Shh,” Essie said, putting a finger to her mouth. But he doubted anyone could hear them above the storm. “Fletcher knows, but I’m not sure if Jude has told the others.”
“Where is this son of his?”
Essie studied her hands. “He lives with Jude’s sister and her family. But his sister isn’t well. He’s worried if something happens to her that the boy will be farmed out to others. Jude’s wife passed away shortly after the child’s birth.”
Letting out a low whistle, Tate shook his head and swallowed back the question he wanted to ask. Why would Jude choose the life of an outlaw when he had a motherless child to support? But such a query would likely sound suspicious coming from him, since he was supposed to be an outlaw himself. He guessed desperation was likely at the heart of the matter, and that brought a feeling of empathy for the other man. As Essie had pointed out the other night, each of these outlaws was running from a tragic past.
Was that what had motivated Tex to turn to robbery? More important, was running from the past what Tate had done when he had decided to become a detective? He shifted on the hard ground, not liking the direction of his thoughts. His profession was honorable and just—not like these men or his brother’s. But wasn’t he also fleeing from past tragedy, hoping to drown it out with good deeds?
Wasn’t I supposed to be a detective? he silently prayed. Wasn’t that the right course, Lord, after everything that happened with Tex? After I helped drive him to a life of crime?
No definitive answer was forthcoming, other than a sense of uneasiness he wasn’t sure he was ready to face. The only comfort came from the certainty that God would be with him, whenever he figured out the answer.
Once this mission was over, once he’d helped the local law enforcement arrest Fletcher and his gang, then he’d take some time to think things through. Perhaps he just needed a short leave of absence to get his mind clear and focused again. After all, he’d been tracking down outlaws week after week, without any real reprieve, for years.
“Is it still raining?” Essie asked.
Her question tugged his thoughts to the present. Tate peeled back a corner of the blanket and peered out. The rain appeared to have lightened, at least enough that he could see the horses huddled next to each other by the fence. But the wind still roared across the wet prairie.
Tucking the blanket back behind him, he nodded. “I think the rain has eased up, though the storm hasn’t fully blown over yet.”
Essie wrapped her arms around her knees, another shiver making her tremble. “The temperature’s still cold, too.”
The blanket kept them decently warm, but they’d both been soaked before taking shelter. Tate didn’t like the thought of her getting sick. Not minding the excuse to sit even closer, he lifted his arm and placed it around her shoulders. Essie burrowed into his side with a sigh.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
They sat in silence another minute or two, but it wasn’t filled with strain. Tate discovered he rather liked holding her. Her hair smelled of whatever soap she’d washed it with at the ranch, and its softness felt nice against his clean-shaved chin.
“Shall I tell you a story?” Essie glanced up at him, her hazel eyes bright with anticipation. “To pass the time?”
Tate laughed, though he couldn’t think of anything better. Except maybe kissing the curve of those delightfully pink lips. Clearing his throat, he settled more fully against the cabin wall. “All right. Tell away.”
She rested her cheek against his shirt. Could she hear his heart thumping faster than normal? “Which one?”
Seeing as he hadn’t read any of her stories, he wasn’t partial. He suspected Essie could make the most boring of tales sound mesmerizing. “You pick.”
Her nose wrinkled as she appeared to consider what to share. “Very well. I’ll share the tale of The Indian Warrior’s Bride.”
He smiled. “Sounds intriguing.”
“Oh, it is,” she said, her expression animated.
She began to tell the story about a young woman on her way to Oregon whose wagon train was waylaid by Indians. As he’d expected, Tate found himself caught up not only in the events and characters but also with the charm of Essie’s storytelling. He liked the inflections of her voice and the way her face portrayed the emotions of the moment. After a while, he closed his eyes, allowing her story to take him far away from the soggy Wyoming prairie and the band of outlaws he still needed to apprehend.
It wasn’t until he heard Essie yawning that he came back to reality. Tate opened his eyes to find her fighting sleep. Her words had longer pauses in between them. “And so... Deidra became... White Woman Dancing...and she and... Soaring Eagle—” She yawned again. “She and... Soaring Eagle...lived a long and happy...”
“Life,” Tate murmured with a smile as she finally succumbed to her sleepiness. A short nap didn’t sound too bad. Especially when he had little idea how much longer the storm would last.
Even as he tried to relax and sleep, though, he couldn’t. He was too aware of Essie’s quiet breathing against his chest and her dark brown lashes lying against her smooth cheeks. It seemed strange and bizarre that he hadn’t known her four days ago. In many ways, he felt as if he’d known her for years.
Did she feel the same about him? he wondered. Or did she see him as only an outlaw, a man driven to this life out of selfishness and shame?
Tate squeezed his eyes shut and fisted his free hand against his leg. He wasn’t that person; he wasn’t even an outlaw—if he could just tell her.
He certainly couldn’t have foreseen that his straightforward, albeit dangerous, mission would become so convoluted by the presence of one cheerful dime novelist. He was here to do a job, same as her. Anything more than that wasn’t supposed to factor into his plans.
But it has, he thought with a rueful shake of his head as he relaxed his fingers. And she has.
What was it about Essie that had gotten under his skin? That had allowed her to take up residence inside his once-guarded heart? She was the subject of his thoughts before he fell asleep, when he
woke in the morning and nearly every minute of their daily rides. It wasn’t just because she was pretty, though she was that. She was also kind, intelligent and optimistic to a fault. She liberally gave of her compassion to these outlaws with no expectation in return, and she knew nearly as much as he did about guns and tracking and living by her wits.
If he didn’t know better, he might have thought God had placed his ideal partner directly in his path, quite literally. Tate grinned as he remembered her running smack into him on the train. He’d been more than anxious about completing the train robbery without blowing his cover, and then he’d come face-to-face with Essie’s determination and exuberance. He’d been no match against either.
But surely God hadn’t orchestrated her entrance into his life to introduce him to his bride. Not when Tate felt duty-bound to continue as a Pinkerton detective. His mission wasn’t settling down on a farm somewhere with a wife and family, while his brother and other outlaws continued to take from the innocent.
The smile slipped from his mouth as he gazed down at Essie once more. For the first time in his career, he wanted to quit. He huffed out a breath, feeling the futility of such a hope.
He couldn’t give up his livelihood. He had to make restitution for the past, not look to the future. And yet that future seemed rather bleak and boring without Essie in it.
Tightening his hold around her shoulders, Tate rested his jaw lightly against her hair. He might not be free to ever follow his heart, but he would enjoy every minute he did have left basking in the warmth and brightness of Essie’s sunshine.
Chapter Ten
Essie slowly came to consciousness, though she kept her eyes shut. She had little desire to move out from under Tate’s arm. While she hadn’t meant to doze off after telling him a story, she wouldn’t complain about the needed sleep or the strength of his presence next to her. Of course, she was supposed to be keeping her distance, her head kept reminding her. Which she would do once this storm was over. But for now, she’d enjoy feeling safe and cozy at his side.
The sound of the wind had died down and her damp dress had dried considerably. Too soon it would be time to ride again. Just a few more minutes, she thought, listening again to the drumming of his heart beneath his jacket. From the steady rise and fall of his chest, she guessed he’d drifted off, too.
Before she could slip back into the serenity of sleep, someone jerked the blanket off their heads. Cold air smacked Essie’s cheeks, eliciting a gasp from her. Bright light made her blink as she opened her eyes. Beside her, Tate sputtered awake, as well.
“Where is he?” Fletcher hissed at her, his face mottled with anger.
Fear crept over her—she’d never seen the outlaw so enraged. Essie cowed against Tate, grateful when he tensed with protection and gripped her hand in his. “Where is who?” she managed to squeak out.
“Jude! Who else?” Fletcher hollered back. Reaching out, he yanked her to her feet, breaking Tate’s comforting hold. “What did you say to him?”
“N-nothing. I only interviewed him.”
Tate leaped to his feet and tried to place himself between her and Fletcher, but the other man’s fingers still bit into her skin beneath her sleeve. “Calm down, Fletch. What’s going on? Essie and I were waiting out the storm right here, same as you. Same as Jude.”
Fletcher stuck his face into Tate’s, fury burning in his eyes. “Jude didn’t wait out the storm. He up and left.” At last he dropped Essie’s arm and stalked a few yards in one direction, then circled back. “And you know what else? He took the saddlebag with the train money.” His entire body shook with rage, his hands meaty fists at his sides.
“All of it?” Tate asked, glancing at Essie. Something in his gaze worried her as much as Fletcher’s reaction.
The outlaw threw his hat on the ground. “Everything but the few hundred dollars I stowed in my boots.”
Essie made a mental note to write that detail down later. At least Fletcher had been one step ahead of Jude.
“What I want to know,” he said, his voice lower in volume but sounding every bit as ugly and dangerous, “is what you said to him during your little interview, Miss Vanderfair.” Fletcher moved slowly toward her like a wildcat ready to pounce on its prey. “Did he tell you his plan? Did you help him escape?”
Tate edged in front of her again, but Essie put a hand on his arm to stop him this time. His eyebrows lifted in silent question, but she gave a quick shake of her head. She didn’t want the two men coming to fisticuffs; she could handle Fletcher. Especially knowing Tate had her back.
“I asked him nothing but my typical questions, about his past, about his family,” she replied honestly. “He did express concern about his little boy and his sister.”
Silas and Clem exchanged confused glances, confirming what Essie had already suspected. They hadn’t known about Jude’s son.
Fletcher glared at her as though trying to weasel out the lies from the truth. She tipped her chin upward and met his level gaze. There was nothing to hide. She hadn’t been Jude’s accomplice, only a willing listener to his worries. “Did he say if he was plannin’ on seeing them again soon?”
“If he was, he didn’t say so to me.” Essie rubbed her arm where Fletcher’s grip had surely left a mark. “He did seem rather agitated when the interview concluded, but I had no idea that he would leave.” And take the gang’s money with him.
Fletcher scooped up his hat from off the ground and jammed it back on his head. His entire being radiated enraged tension. Essie couldn’t help wondering if Winnifred had ever seen this side of her sweetheart. Or did the outlaw leader maintain a glib demeanor around the Paige family? She had half a mind to write Winnifred a letter, informing the other girl just how her beau acted when crossed.
“What are we gonna do?” Clem ventured to ask, his expression apprehensive. “About the money?”
“There’s nothing to do. That money’s as good as gone,” Tate replied. “We don’t know how long he’s been gone or what direction he went. We’d just be wasting time trying to find him and that cash.”
Fletcher didn’t appear to be listening. Instead he stalked over to the corral fence and gave one of the posts a good kick. The weathered wood was no match for his boot and collapsed to the ground.
“Is that money so important?” Essie asked Tate, her gaze still on Fletcher.
Silas answered her. “We need it to purchase supplies for the winter in Buffalo before it snows. That way we don’t have to leave the hideout again until spring.”
She nodded in acknowledgment as a wave of sadness filled her at the thought of what situations these men frequently found themselves in. Hunted by the law, robbed by one of their own, reduced to live off what they were able to steal. The longer she rode with them, the more their adventurous way of life lost its sheen.
Glancing at Tate, she wondered what he thought of their reduced circumstances. If only he’d give up outlawing and find honest work. Then she wouldn’t have to worry, once they parted ways, about how he’d survive the winter.
“We’ll ride on to Casper,” Fletcher announced, untying his horse. “Then camp north of there.”
“What about our money?” Clem asked as the four of them moved toward the restless horses.
Fletcher scowled at Clem. “It’s long gone, like Tex said. But I got an idea of how to get some more.” Essie’s stomach twisted with uneasiness at his tone and the feeling only grew worse when Fletcher threw her a calculated look. What was he planning?
Tate clearly saw the look, too. “Stick close by me,” he murmured in her ear as he helped her into the saddle.
“I will.”
As they resumed riding north, Essie kept her mount close to Tate’s. She tried to take comfort, as she had earlier, from his presence and the sunshine that turned the rain droplets on the brush and grass in
to glittering jewels. But she couldn’t shake or ignore the knot of anxiety in her middle. Fletcher was planning something and she felt certain she wasn’t going to like it.
* * *
The mood among the group remained tense, though Essie tried to ease it some by telling Tate a couple more stories. The two of them rode at the back, while Clem and Silas kept up with Fletcher at the front. Tate listened to her, and even smiled, but the mood wasn’t the same as it had been while they’d waited out the storm. Every few minutes, a frown would replace his smile. Essie didn’t need any further proof he was also concerned about Fletcher’s plans.
After they’d navigated through the surrounding bluffs, and the buildings of Casper and the river came into view, a palpable excitement charged through the men. Essie’s nervous tension drained away, too, at the signs of civilization. Horses, wagons and people picked their way up and down the muddy streets. And while not as large or populated as Evanston, the town appeared to offer travelers and residents a variety of stores and businesses. Essie spotted a hotel, a newspaper office and a drugstore.
Fletcher veered toward the hitching post beside one building and dismounted. The others followed suit. Essie did her best to keep her hem from dragging in the mud as Tate helped her climb down from her horse and make her way to the sidewalk.
Clem squinted at the storefront from beneath his hat. “What’re we doing at the telegraph office?”
Essie froze in the middle of scraping dirt and horse droppings from her boots. Lifting her head, she locked eyes with Fletcher. The outlaw leader grinned and tipped the brim of his hat to her as if being cordial. “I believe Miss Vanderfair has a telegram to send, don’t you, ma’am?”
Swallowing her suddenly dry throat, she smoothed the front of her dress, schooling her expression to hide her panic. This moment wasn’t supposed to come now—if ever. She’d begun to believe Fletcher had forgotten all about the idea of demanding ransom for her—to her great relief. But she’d underestimated him. Whether he’d been planning such a move all along or this was a new idea spurred on by Jude’s disappearance with their money, she couldn’t say. Either way, she had to comply, especially after witnessing Fletcher’s earlier rage.