Zachary and Gideon were walking toward the pond with long strides, both of them unaware, it seemed, that Willow was scrambling through the high grass behind them.
She froze when Vancel Tudd came boldly out of the trees, his gun hand at the ready, his spindly Indian pony walking obediently along behind him. Tudd was a huge man, with a bulbous, misshapen nose and wild brown hair that hung almost to his shoulders. His clothes were of filthy buckskin and his reputation as a marksman was unmatched. He’d sworn to collect the bounty on Steven by whatever means necessary; everybody knew that.
Once a friend of her late stepfather, the outlaw Jay Forbes, Tudd was a feature in Willow Gallagher Marshall’s private nightmares.
“Mornin’, little lady,” he said, with a tip of his battered hat.
Though Gideon stiffened at the revelation of his wife’s presence, he did not look back. “State your name and your business,” he said, his tone frigid.
Tudd smiled. “No need for trouble now,” he said, and then he spat a stream of brown tobacco juice into the shifting green grass. “The name’s Vancel Tudd and I was hopin’, to tell ya the truth, for a glimpse of the lady’s brother.”
Willow shuddered to think that this vile man had been so near her house, watching. Waiting.
What if Steven had gotten wind of her move to the ranch and had taken it into his head to pay her a visit?
“I’ll thank you to stay off my land in the future,” Gideon said, in a hard voice. But there was no sympathy in him for Steven, Willow knew. He wanted to make that enviable catch himself, that was all.
Tudd shrugged, and despite his easy manner, Willow was afraid. In six years this man hadn’t given up seeking Steven and he wasn’t about to throw in his hand and call it quits now. “Didn’t mean to offend,” he said.
Some instinct made Willow draw nearer. Gideon had turned his back on Tudd, apparently satisfied that the matter was closed. And the bounty hunter’s gnarled hand was moving, almost imperceptibly, nearer and nearer the knife in his belt.
“Gideon!” Willow screamed, and he whirled to face Tudd. One of the .45s seemed to leap into her husband’s right hand of some volition all its own.
Tudd slowly lowered his hands, still grinning, his manner so falsely obsequious that Willow’s revulsion grew. “You’re mighty fast, Mr. Marshall,” he observed, spitting again. “Mighty fast.” The small eyes darted to Willow’s flushed face. “Maybe even faster’n Steven Gallagher himself.”
Cold dread washed over Willow’s spirit in a crushing cascade. In that moment, she knew what was most likely to happen when and if her brother and her husband met. Steven would not willingly be captured. There would be a gunfight and one of them would be grievously wounded, perhaps even die.
She stood there in the middle of that grassy expanse of ranch land, one hand clutched to her mouth, watching as Vancel Tudd swung onto his paint pony and rode away without looking back.
“Willow?” The strong, gentle hands that came to her shoulders were not Gideon’s, as they should have been, but Zachary’s. “Willow, are you all right?”
Willow pulled herself free of her brother-in-law’s concerned grasp, staring in frustration and consternation at the cold and unforgiving face of her husband. She made a strangled sound deep in her throat, lifted her skirts, and whirled to run toward the house. Gideon caught up to her in a few strides, grasping her elbow and staying her flight.
Frantic, half-hysterical in the full realization of what this man could do to her family, Willow bared her teeth like a cornered animal and kicked at him as she twisted in his unbreakable hold, trying to break free.
“Gideon,” protested Zachary, from somewhere just outside the range of Willow’s vision. “For God’s sake, what’s come over you? Let her go!”
Gideon loosened his grip, but his eyes never left Willow’s face. “Get out of here, Zachary,” he said. “My wife is in no danger from me and you damn well know it.”
Willow sensed Zachary’s reluctance, but she also knew he was about to leave.
She stared at Gideon, imagining him facing Steven in a shoot-out. The picture was so real that it might have been happening right then; the reports of the bullets thudded against her eardrums and she could actually smell the acrid scent of gunpowder.
“I won’t let you kill my brother!” she cried.
Something moved in Gideon’s hard face, but his grasp on her arm, though still not painful, tightened a little. “Stop it, Willow,” he ordered. “Get ahold of yourself.”
But Willow was seeing new visions now—crazy, kaleidoscopic visions. Steven, dangling at the end of a dirty rope. Both of them, her brother and her husband, lying dead and bleeding in the street. She screamed again, and Gideon gripped her shoulders and shook her, firmly albeit gently.
She pulled free, stumbled backward, toppled to the grass, and when she lost her footing, accidentally bit her lip. She tasted blood on the inside of her mouth.
Terrible pain played in Gideon’s face as he crouched on the ground and reached for her hand, then gasped her name.
She began scooting back from him—get away, get away—rocks and twigs clawing at the palms of her hands. “Don’t touch me, Gideon Marshall. Don’t you touch me!”
Gideon gave a ragged sigh and lowered his hands to his sides. “Willow,” he pleaded, in a tormented whisper. “You’re hurt. Let me help you.”
Shaking her head, Willow scrambled to her feet, desperate to flee this man and the awful, dangerous mistake she’d made by falling in love with him. But as she turned to run, he grabbed her skirts in one hand and hauled her back down so that she toppled into his lap.
“You’re not going anywhere until you calm down,” he said, in a gruff and quiet voice.
She raised both fists to assault him; he caught them in his hands and held them fast.
“Willow,” he said again.
Tears were trickling down Willow’s face by then; she wondered distractedly how long she had been crying. “You can’t shoot Steven!” she sobbed. “I’ll never, never let you shoot Steven!”
“Who says I want to do that?” Gideon asked, still holding her.
Fresh hysteria filled her. She’d seen more than her share of gunplay before she’d gone to live with her father, and the terror was almost overwhelming. “I saw the way you drew that pistol just now—it was as if the thing was already a part of your hand!”
Gideon sighed again and drew Willow close, holding her in his arms as though she were a child. “I promise that I won’t shoot Steven,” he said, very slowly and very clearly. “I won’t even go after him.”
Willow pulled back to look up into his face. Was this man telling her the truth, or was he simply a liar? God help her, since he wasn’t really Lancelot, she had no way to know. She tried to speak, but words were beyond her.
Gideon stilled the impotent motion of her lips with the touch of an index finger. “You have my word, Willow. Unless it means my own life, or yours, I won’t shoot Steven.”
“A-and you won’t look for him?”
Clearly, this last was not so easy for Gideon. Still, his hand came, tender, to cup Willow’s cheek, the thumb smoothing the corner of her mouth. “He has to give me something in return if that’s going to be the agreement, Willow. When you see him again, you tell him that I won’t come after him if he doesn’t stop any more trains.”
With another man, Willow would have denied having any access to Steven, but there would have been no use in it with Gideon. He knew the truth. “I’ll tell him.”
“When you do, make damned sure Vancel Tudd isn’t trotting along behind you.”
Willow nodded, but there was deliberate warning in her eyes, too. “You’d better be telling me the truth, Gideon Marshall. I’m trusting you, though God knows why, and if you betray me . . .”
He arched one eyebrow, and there was a mischievous light in his eyes. “Do you really think I would do that?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” countered Willow. “That’s wh
y you came to Virginia City in the first place, isn’t it?”
“I came to Virginia City for a closer look at my bride,” he said, caressing her cheek.
“Just because you say a thing,” she protested, “that doesn’t make it the truth!”
Gideon sighed philosophically, his arms still tight and strong around her. He propped his chin on top of her head and gave a second sigh. “I guess I have a lot to prove,” he said, after a long time. “And a lot to make up for.”
Willow bit her lower lip and swallowed. It would be so easy to trust him.
But he was still the man who had played a thoughtless trick on her, back in San Francisco. And he was still a railroad magnate, with a vested interest in putting a stop to her brother’s career as an outlaw.
“Gideon—”
His lips touched the tip of her nose just briefly, and there was tenderness in his gruff “What?”
She swallowed. “What’s going to happen when Daphne arrives?”
For a moment, Gideon stiffened, and Willow thought that he was going to thrust her away from him. Instead, however, he held her closer. “She’ll scream at me, slap my face, probably, and then she’ll get back on the train and go home, her honor avenged.”
“You won’t go with her?”
Gideon’s hand came to Willow’s chin, lifted it. “Is that what all this was really about? You thought I was going to let Daphne take me by the hand and lead me back to the straight and narrow?”
Miserably, Willow nodded. “It did cross my mind,” she said.
Gideon gave a raucous, startling shout of laughter and fell backward into the grass, pulling Willow with him, rolling onto his side to look down at her. And when his amusement had abated a little, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her thoroughly. “Was that the kiss of a man who wants to leave his wife?” he teased.
“It surely wasn’t.” Willow smiled through her tears, and then she wrapped her arms around Gideon’s neck and pulled him downward, so that their lips met again.
* * *
Willow lay wide awake in the darkness, her head resting on Gideon’s shoulder. Far off in the distance, she heard the wail of a train whistle. Or had it been the cry of a night owl?
Careful not to awaken her sleeping husband, Willow slid out of his arms and then out of the bed. It had been a full week since the confrontation with Vancel Tudd, and though she had been wildly happy the whole time, Steven had been in her thoughts often. She needed to talk to her brother, to relay Gideon’s message, but aware now that Mr. Tudd would be watching her, she hesitated to approach any of their usual meeting places.
Standing very still, in a pool of moonlight pouring in through the open window, Willow listened hard. The owl cry sounded again and she knew then that she would not have to seek Steven out at all—he had come to her.
But she could have throttled him for taking such a chance, and her motions were quick as she reached for the thin silk wrapper that lay at the foot of the bed. The rustling sound of the fabric caused Gideon to stir in his sleep and mutter something.
The last thing Willow wanted was for her husband to awaken now. “Gideon?” she whispered, as a precaution.
He turned away from her, mumbling and burrowing deeper into his pillow, and the meter of his breathing assured her that he was still sound asleep.
Carefully, Willow left the bedroom, her hair rumpled, her feet bare. Passing through the parlor to the kitchen, she stubbed her toe and had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out in pain.
The back door creaked on its hinges, and Willow opened it very carefully. Although Gideon had given his word that he would not shoot Steven or even seek him out, there was no telling what he would do if he were to awaken and encounter him now.
The yard, the outhouse, and the clothesline took on spectral shapes in the moonlight, and Willow gasped, in spite of herself, when a tall shadow slid across the grass at her feet.
Steven spoke quietly. “Did I scare you, little sister?”
“Shut up!” Willow whispered. “We’re too close to the house—Gideon might hear you.”
With a shrug, Steven caught his sister’s hand and they began walking toward the pond. There, at some distance from the house and shielded from view by trees, should Gideon awaken and look out, they sat down together on a fallen log and watched the moonlight shift and sparkle on the rippling water for a time.
“Steven,” Willow began finally, “why did you come here? You must know it’s dangerous.”
“I wanted to see you,” he answered blithely.
She turned to face him. “Did you know that Vancel Tudd has been watching me? Gideon caught him right here, not a week ago.”
Even in the darkness, the sparks in Steven’s blue eyes were unmistakable. “Tudd? Here? Willow, did he lay a hand on you?”
“No,” Willow said quickly. She couldn’t help squinting into the darkness, shivering a little. Suppose Tudd was out there, even now? Suppose he was about to pounce? “But, like I said, he’s been watching me. That means he knows that I see you, Steven.”
“I know what it means,” Steven said, tugging lightly at a lock of her hair.
“One would never guess it,” retorted Willow sharply, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. “And will you please shut your mouth and listen to me? I have a message for you, from Gideon.”
Steven’s look was an amused one, almost patronizing. “Oh? And what, pray tell, is that?”
“He won’t try to track you if you agree not to stop any more trains, Steven.”
Steven laid one hand to his chest in feigned gratitude. “I’m overwhelmed. Gosh, Willow, now I’ll be able to sleep at night, my conscience clear.”
Willow’s patience had reached an end; she stretched out one hand, shoved hard at Steven’s chest and sent him toppling backward off the log. “Idiot!” she scolded, still keeping her voice down, just on general principles. “Gideon isn’t old and slow like Vancel Tudd, and he can shoot, Steven. As well as you can!”
Steven, with typical grace, was rising out of the grass, dusting himself off, and looking almost comically regretful. “No more trains?”
“No more trains, Steven. If you won’t leave them alone for your own good, will you do it for mine?”
Steven swore softly and turned away, his hands on his hips.
“You only steal to get under Papa’s hide anyway,” Willow went on, when he didn’t speak. “Oh, Steven, won’t you please grow up?”
He whirled to face her, the back of one hand affixed dramatically to his forehead. “’Tis much you ask of me, me bonny lass,” he bewailed, in his faultless Scots burr. “But, alas, I’ll be after desistin’ for love of your fair charms!”
Willow didn’t laugh as she might have at another time; she faced her brother and caught his hands in her own. “Steven, I’m serious. Promise me you won’t stop another train, ever.”
He cupped gentle hands around her face. “I promise, Button,” he said. And then he kissed her forehead and stepped back from her. “I love you,” he said, and then he was gone.
Willow sat down on the log again and clasped her hands in her lap. She had done all she could to avert disaster; now there was nothing more to do but wait and pray.
After a long time, the chill of the night began to reach through Willow’s thin wrapper, and she walked slowly back toward the house, her head down. Though there was no light burning in the kitchen, Gideon was up, standing near the stove. His hair was sleep-rumpled and he was naked except for a pair of misbuttoned trousers.
“Coffee?” he asked companionably.
Willow, taken aback, could manage nothing more than a nod. When Gideon calmly poured coffee for both of them and sat down at the table, she followed suit.
“You saw Steven,” he said, after a long silence.
“Yes,” Willow replied, for Gideon had not been asking a question but making a statement.
“And?” Gideon’s spoon clattered as he stirred coarse brown sugar into his
coffee.
“And I told him what you said about the trains. He promised not to stop the Central Pacific again.”
“Is he a man of his word, your brother?”
Willow’s cheeks flamed at this quiet challenge, although it seemed like a reasonable thing to ask, given Steven’s criminal history. “Yes!”
“Good. Then our only problem, for the moment, is Tudd. I trust you warned him about that weasel?”
“I did.”
“Excellent. Drink your coffee.”
Willow had no interest in refreshment. “You were awake when I got out of bed, weren’t you? You knew that Steven was here.”
There was a short silence, and then Gideon owned up with a hesitant nod. She felt his eyes touch her in the near darkness surrounding the circle of lantern light in which they sat, but she could not read their expression.
“Why didn’t you follow me, then?” Willow persisted, truly curious.
“I, too, am a man of my word, Willow. Besides, I knew Steven wouldn’t hurt you.”
Willow reached out for her coffee and took a cautious sip. “Thank you, Gideon,” she said.
“For the coffee?”
“For trusting Steven and for trusting me.”
“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Marshall.”
“There is something I do want to mention, as it happens,” said Willow.
“Oh? And what is that?”
“The way you treated Zachary the other day. You were very rude, Gideon. I mean, he is your brother, after all, and you acted as though he and I were carrying on or something.”
“I was the classic jealous husband, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, and without reason, too.”
Gideon sighed. “If I wronged anyone that day, it was you. I remain convinced, however, that Zachary, on the contrary, was almost certainly up to no good.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know Zachary.”
“You don’t mean that he would . . . that he would force himself on me?”
Gideon chortled without humor and shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t do that. But he is very persuasive, Willow, and you of all people should know how devious he can be.”
Willow: A Novel (No Series) Page 14