Willow: A Novel (No Series)

by Linda Lael Miller

  Willow cupped her hands around her coffee mug and allowed herself a brief smile of triumph. Gideon was jealous—he’d admitted it himself—and to be jealous one had to care, at least a little. “I’ll try not to notice how handsome and charming he is,” she said ingenuously, “though, Lord knows, it won’t be easy.”

  “What do you mean, it won’t be easy?” Gideon demanded. His voice was quiet, but there was a smile hiding in his eyes.

  Willow only yawned and stretched her arms high above her head, not about to dignify such a question with an answer. When she started back upstairs, Gideon was quick to follow.

  9

  Daphne Roberts sat stiffly in the train seat, looking out at the seemingly endless prairie. Her backside was sore and her corset was cutting into her right hipbone, and inside her spotless kid gloves, the hollows between her fingers were sweating. Dear Lord, if this was first-class travel, she hated to think what tortures of the damned those poor souls in the cars farther back must be suffering.

  In the aisle seat next to Daphne’s, her cousin Hilda snored loudly and then sat bolt upright, looking around in wild confusion. “Where am I?”

  Daphne was weary of Hilda, after almost a week of rattling along the endless rails leading west, but she was determined to be charitable. After all, if it hadn’t been for Hilda, her father would have escorted her instead. For mercy’s sake, it was a fool’s mission anyway, traveling to this wild and remote place. Gideon was married to another woman and there didn’t seem to be much point in making a great fuss about it.

  Besides, she was missing the Andersons’ lawn party and the bicycle races, and how could Miss Millicent Parnult be expected to finish her new gowns in time for the opera season if Daphne wasn’t there to be fitted on a regular basis?

  She gave an irritated sigh and settled back in the hard seat, intending to feign sleep so that she would not have to endure a spate of Hilda’s chatter. Just as she closed her eyes, however, the train came to a lurching halt and there were gunshots fired outside.

  Hilda, who had been flung into the seat ahead by the impact, was huffing inelegantly and trying to right her bonnet, the brim of which was resting on the tip of her nose.

  At that moment, the door leading into the car ahead burst open and a masked man appeared in the chasm, brandishing a pistol. “This is a robbery, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in cultured tones, “and if you’ll all put your money and other valuables into this bag, I’ll be obliged.”

  “Highwaymen!” cried Hilda, her extra chins quivering.

  “Hush,” muttered Daphne, who was already pulling the bracelet from her wrist. “Do you want to be shot over a few trinkets?”

  The bandit moved calmly along the aisle, helping himself to the contents of purses and pockets and valises. Daphne was glad she’d had the foresight to stitch most of her traveling money into the hem of one of her nightgowns, safely packed away inside a trunk in the baggage car. Indeed, this was a rather colorful experience, all in all; she would recount it at tea parties, she supposed, for the rest of her life.

  And she’d never cared much for the bracelet in the first place.

  But it gave her pause when the highwayman came back to stand in the aisle beside Hilda, and his dark blue eyes assessed Daphne with a brazen languor that made her forget about the glamour and drama of the situation. He reached out, with a gloved hand, past a trembling Hilda, to lift one of Daphne’s raven-black ringlets in his fingers and let it fall back to her shoulder.

  Daphne sat perfectly still, trying not to show the sudden and deep fear she felt.

  There was no telling what would have happened if it hadn’t been for the man bursting through the rear door of the train at just that moment. The clatter drew every head around, including Daphne’s.

  “Drop that gun, Gallagher!” the earnest, middle-aged man ordered hoarsely.

  Instead of obeying, the outlaw trained his weapon on the man’s chest. Daphne caught the silvery glint of a star-shaped badge before the pistol went off and the older man fell face-first into the aisle, blood spraying in every direction.

  Several women screamed and Hilda swooned sideways onto Daphne, nearly crushing her. The outlaw turned and fled, his bag of loot in hand.

  After drawing three or four deep breaths and working her way out from under Hilda, Daphne left her seat to hurry to the back of the car and see what could be done for the marshal.

  * * *

  Gideon slammed the blood-specked badge down on Devlin’s desk with a crash. “Swear me in,” he bit out, in a voice that had to be forced past his clenched jaw.

  Devlin spared the badge one look and then sat back in his squeaky chair. “Mitch Kroeber?” he asked.

  “The marshal is dead,” Gideon replied, “and I’m going to take his place.”

  “What happened?” Devlin insisted calmly.

  Gideon made a conscious effort to relax, but he was too furious to really accomplish the feat. God damnit, he had made a fair deal with Steven Gallagher, and this was what he got for it. The Central Pacific had been robbed and a good man, Marshal Kroeber, was dead. With great effort, he managed to convey what had happened just outside of town, less than an hour before, in civil tones.

  Devlin swore and pain etched deep lines into his face. “You think Steven did this thing, Gideon?” he rasped, after a long time. “My son is no killer!”

  “I know it was Steven. Everybody in the second car heard Kroeber call the outlaw Gallagher.”

  The judge bolted out of his chair and turned away toward the open window, where lacy white curtains danced in a soft summer breeze. “God damnit, Gideon, that isn’t proof!”

  “It’s proof enough for me—Kroeber would have recognized Steven if he saw him. Now, are you going to swear me in or not?”

  “You’re a deputy U.S. marshal,” Devlin pointed out. “You don’t need poor Mitch’s badge—or my permission—to go after a train robber.”

  Gideon widened his stance. “It’s for Kroeber,” he said quietly.

  “This isn’t your fight!” argued the judge brokenly.

  “It is my fight, Devlin,” Gideon insisted, and pity for the man before him gentled his voice. “It was my train.”

  Misery writhed in his blue eyes as Devlin Gallagher turned to face Gideon. “You’ll bring him in alive?”

  Gideon thought of Willow and ached. “If I possibly can,” he promised hoarsely.

  Gallagher looked down at the badge, then up at his son-in-law’s face. “Raise your right hand,” he muttered.

  * * *

  After depositing a very shaken Hilda at the hotel and sending a wire to San Francisco to apprise her father of their safe arrival—she would save the account of the robbery and that poor man’s murder for when she got back home—Daphne set about getting her most unpleasant duty out of the way. Once she’d faced Gideon and spoken with him, she could get on the train and be back at home in just under a week.

  The rough town of Virginia City filled her senses as she walked toward the livery stable; there were cowboys everywhere, businessmen in dusty suits and bowler hats, pale ladies of the evening trudging through the sunlight. The excitement and newness of the place intrigued Daphne; she had expected more primitive surroundings—log cabins, perhaps, and renegade Indians riding painted ponies.

  She shivered even as perspiration tickled the tender flesh between her shoulder blades. Although she hadn’t mentioned the train robbery in her wire to her father, the horrible memory of the senseless shooting would be with her to her dying day. Until she’d heard the fatal shot and looked into the marshal’s waxen, lifeless face, it had been an adventure.

  At the livery, Daphne rented a horse and buggy—she had been something of a tomboy when she was younger and she could drive or ride with the best of them—and asked for word of Gideon Marshall’s whereabouts. She was informed that he had bought property south of town and was directed to it.

  Shaking off the unnerving feeling the stable man’s frank assessment had
given her, Daphne climbed into the hired rig, took the reins firmly into her hands, and set out for a confrontation she wanted no part of.

  * * *

  Willow dusted the piano with furious effort, knowing that, when that was done, there would be nothing to occupy her for the rest of the day. Despite her love for Gideon, she was tired of straightening bric-a-brac and scrubbing spotless floors just for something to do.

  She visited in town whenever she could, but the prospects there were limited. She dared not call on Dove Triskadden, and her father was seldom at home during the day; he kept an office over the jailhouse and often had cases to try in the town’s small courthouse. Having no real friends besides Maria, who was busy with her own household duties, Willow was at a loss. One could only go into the mercantile and inspect ribbon and fabric so many times and still remain sane.

  The sound of an approaching rig brought Willow’s heart surging into her throat. She prayed that Dove was coming to call; in fact, she was so lonely and bored that she would even have been glad to see Zachary.

  After smoothing her hair and the skirts of her yellow and white gingham dress, Willow walked to the front door with as much decorum as she could manage. The smile on her face was genuine, until she saw the elegant young woman making her way up the walk.

  The visitor had dark, glistening hair, styled in ringlets that rested on her shoulders, and her clothes were richly tailored, if somewhat travel mussed. Once she drew near enough, Willow realized that this woman’s eyes were the deepest shade of lavender she had ever seen.

  “Daphne,” she said, with resignation, as her caller came up the steps.

  The beautiful visitor smiled, revealing straight white teeth. “Yes,” she answered, in friendly but weary tones. “Are you Gideon’s wife?”

  At the moment, Willow felt more like Gideon’s concubine than his wife. She felt, in fact, like a trespasser, and this in her very own home. “I am,” she answered, wondering how she could talk when her stomach was spinning wildly inside her and her heart was pressing up into the back of her throat. “Won’t you come in?”

  Daphne sighed. “I would be ever so grateful for a cup of strong tea,” she said, following Willow through the immaculate hallway to the kitchen. “I’ve just had the most horrendous experience, you see.”

  Wondering how this woman could speak so calmly and mundanely when she herself was dissolving into a state of sheer panic, Willow gestured for Daphne to take a seat at the table and began to make the requested tea.

  “Do you love Gideon, Willow?” Daphne asked directly, some minutes later, when they had been seated, their cups steaming before them.

  Willow managed a nod, unable to speak because of the lump of dread and shame lodged in her throat.

  Daphne smiled, incredible as it seemed. She was, it appeared, determined to be not only civil about the matter but warm, too. “I see,” she said, sipping her tea and rolling her beautiful eyes in a humorous sort of ecstasy at the taste. “Mercy me, I needed that.”

  Willow couldn’t help returning the smile, though there were tears gathering in her eyes. “I . . . I’m sorry, Daphne,” she struggled to say.

  “Sorry?” echoed Daphne, arching her perfect, featherlike eyebrows.

  “For . . . for . . .” Willow’s words fell away in misery. She’d been about to say that she was sorry for taking Gideon, but she couldn’t quite do it. She loved him, for all their problems and their tempestuous disagreements, and she couldn’t truthfully say that she was sorry for anything.

  “I shall be eternally grateful to you, Willow Marshall,” Daphne said easily, her eyes sparkling.

  Willow nearly choked on the tea she’d just taken in an effort to steady herself. “Grateful?” she croaked, wide-eyed.

  Daphne laughed. “Oh, yes. Gideon is a fine fellow, and he’s handsome, not to mention rich. But marrying him wasn’t my idea or even his. It was Papa’s, with input from Gideon’s mother and his grandfather, of course. I was never actually consulted in the matter, and I doubt that Gideon was, either.”

  Having anticipated an ugly scene of recriminations and possibly even hair pulling, Willow could only gape at Gideon’s former fiancée in amazement.

  Apparently amused by her expression, Daphne laughed again. It was a vibrant, musical sound. “Dear, dear,” she exclaimed. “This is quite a mess, isn’t it?”

  Willow nodded woodenly. “Why on earth did you come all the way to Montana if you didn’t want to be with Gideon?”

  Beneath the rich, rose-colored silk of her dress, the bodice of which was fitted and hand-smocked, Daphne’s shoulders affected an idle and very appealing shrug. “Papa insisted that I come. I do think he thought Gideon and I would fall into each other’s arms and all would be well, like in a fairy tale. I’m here, too, because my father would have given me no peace if I hadn’t and because—well—I wanted to see the wild frontier.”

  Willow was trembling, and she took another gulp of her tea. “You aren’t at all what I expected,” she said. Her relief was fleeting, though, for while Daphne had avowed no romantic interest in Gideon, there was no telling what his reaction would be. He had planned to marry Daphne, and he had said so, straight out. Suppose he put his accidental wife aside to take one on purpose?

  Of course, pride wouldn’t allow Willow to present this possibility aloud, so she thrust her misgivings aside, to deal with later. She was about to ask Daphne about her journey when Gideon suddenly bolted into the house like a raucous wind, roaring his wife’s name.

  For the second time in the space of half an hour, Willow was alarmed. She forgot all about Daphne and turned in her chair, bracing for the new crisis she knew was about to break over her life.

  Gideon didn’t see Daphne at first; his eyes, fierce and angry, were fixed on Willow’s face. On the lapel of his coat was a star-shaped badge. “Did you or did you not tell your brother to lay off the Central Pacific?” he snapped.

  Willow paled, lifted one hand to her throat. “I told him, Gideon—you know I did.”

  “Then it’s a pity he didn’t listen to you,” Gideon retorted furiously. And his gaze caught on Daphne, stopping at her face.

  “Daphne,” he said, looking more resigned than startled.

  She nodded. “Gideon,” she replied sweetly. “I’d say it’s good to see you again, but . . .”

  The high color in Gideon’s face drained away, though the muscles remained hard and ungiving.

  Willow broke into the conversation rudely. “What has Steven done?” she cried in her desperation.

  “He robbed the morning train, Willow,” Gideon answered coldly, as though he blamed her for the crime as well as Steven. “This time, he added a new touch. He took everything—not just a payroll or a shipment that belonged to Judge Gallagher. And if that wasn’t enough, he shot Mitch Kroeber to death.”

  The room swayed and shifted around Willow, stopping at crazy angles and then moving again. “No,” she choked out. “Steven wouldn’t do that. I know he wouldn’t.”

  “Yes,” Gideon said harshly, and began going through a drawer, most likely rummaging for the bullets he kept there. “He would, Willow, because he did.”

  Willow could see nothing, it seemed, but that polished silver badge. “That’s a lie!” she cried. “Gideon, you know it’s a lie!”

  He had removed his gun belt and begun sliding lethal shells into the casings that lined the outside of it. “I’m afraid it’s all too true, hellcat. And as God is my witness, he’s going to pay for this one, in spades.”

  Willow bolted out of her chair, forgetting Daphne and everything else except that Gideon was preparing to go after her brother with guns. “W-why are you wearing that star, Gideon?” she asked, even though she knew the horrible answer.

  He paused and looked down at the badge with grim, callous humor. “I guess this makes me Marshal Marshall,” he replied.

  Willow grabbed at her husband’s arms. “Gideon, please—”

  He shook free of her, no more consc
ious of Daphne’s presence than she was. “I’m sorry, Willow,” he said gruffly. “I really am. I’ll be back in a few days. It might be a good idea for you to go on into town and stay with Maria and the judge until this is over.”

  “No!” Willow burst out, nearly frantic with fear and foreboding. “I want to go with you!”

  Gideon arched one eyebrow. “Why? So you can lead me away from your brother? Not this time, sweetheart. I’m going to bring him in, either sitting upright in his saddle or draped across it: the choice is his.”

  With that, Gideon left the kitchen by the back door.

  “Fool!” Willow screamed after him. And then she fell into her chair and covered her face with both hands.

  Her sobs brought Daphne out of her chair and around the table to say softly, uncertainly, “Everything will be all right, Willow. Why don’t you do what Gideon said? I’ll take you to town in my buggy and—”

  Willow shook Daphne’s comforting hands from her shoulders. “I don’t want to go to town!” she wailed.

  “Is there someone I can fetch for you, then?” Daphne persisted reasonably. “Your mother or father or—”

  “No!” sobbed Willow, undone.

  Daphne sighed and refilled her own teacup and Willow’s from the china pot on the narrow table next to the stove before returning to her chair. “Then would you mind explaining what’s going on around here?”

  After a few minutes of recovery, Willow told Daphne about the many robberies that had been attributed to Steven Gallagher in the past six years.

  “Mercy,” said Daphne, when the tale was ended. “That must have been your brother I saw—”

  Willow gaped at her guest. “What?”

  “I was on that train, Willow, with my cousin Hilda. We were stopped and a robber came into our car, demanding everyone’s money and watches and things.” She paused and stared sadly at her right wrist. “He took my amethyst bracelet, as a matter of fact. The marshal came in and ordered him to disarm himself and the outlaw shot the poor man dead.”

  “Steven would never do a thing like that!”