AnUnlikelyHeroAmazon

by Cindy Nord

  Halfway across the congestion, his audacious little minx even had the good sense to wrap her gloved-fingers around his upper arm. Dillon chuckled. And increased his stride.

  After side-stepping porters and locals waiting on new arrivals, Dillon finally flattened his palm against the walnut panel and gave the main door a shove. He had half-a-mind to thank Miss Talmadge for her quick thinking–and even quicker steps–but the rough-hewed panel leading to the metropolis beyond swung wide and stole away his thoughts.

  Despite the late hour, they emerged into a bustling city.

  Flickering gas lights perched atop ornate cast-iron poles illuminated the area in a golden wash, and numerous aromas battered Dillon. The scent of fresh-baked bread and grilled onions rose above those of the trains. He dismissed the growling ache in his empty belly and led his bedraggled companion around rain puddles from a recent shower. With arms interlocked, they crossed the cobbled road, stepped over embedded steel tracks used by horse drawn streetcars, and headed for the closest dining emporium. Two blocks away, the Southern Hotel loomed in the distance, light and shadows dancing across its elegant façade.

  A few passengers from the train trailed behind him. From their conversations he knew they were also eager to enjoy the finest cuisine west of Pittsburgh. The hotel also boasted the cleanest linens in St. Louis for those willing to pay the extravagant cost, which Dillon never elected to do. The madness of the city made him avoid even the luxury of bed sheets for fear of becoming entangled in them. Every time he came through here, the insanity of the city impaled him like a knife to the chest, a potent reminder that wide open spaces would always be his draw.

  The red brick sidewalk fell away beneath his boots as he headed toward the six-story establishment. To his right, pounding hammers and shouting voices radiated from the emerging Grand Avenue Water Tower soaring a hundred feet above the buildings. Construction neared completion on the Corinthian-columned structure. Then, with but a turn of a silver handle, these fancified city folks would have water delivered right from a spigot in their homes.

  God spare me from the contraptions of the wealthy.

  Moments later, he reached the gilded entrance of The Southern. Miss Talmadge dropped her hold around his arm when an attentive doorman nodded at them with a grin. Dillon placed his hand on her upper back, ushered her over the threshold and toward a maître d’.

  Dillon lifted two fingers in the man’s direction. “Two please.”

  The attendant smiled, then escorted them toward the closest empty table. He pulled out their chairs and waited while Alma fussed with her bustled contraption before settling into place. She stowed her parasol beneath her chair.

  Dillon lowered onto the ornately-carved spindle-back opposite his charge.

  The maître d motioned for a waiter before resuming his place near the front of the restaurant.

  The thought of thanking Miss Talmadge for her good sense to hang on to him back in the train depot again flashed in Dillon’s mind. As he opened his mouth to mention so, she tossed her reticule atop the linen tablecloth and leaned forward.

  “I have been sleeping bolt upright for the past three nights,” she rasped. “Why can’t we secure lodgings for the evening? I have plenty of money to pay for our rooms.”

  He had adeptly ignored her earlier request when the train had entered the station, but as she ramped up the tone of her appeal, ignoring her now seemed imprudent. With a sigh, Dillon dropped his hat on the floor beneath his chair, and then straightened, running a hand through his hair. “We’re only changing lines here.”

  “Can’t we change lines tomorrow?” she asked, her question shifting into a more annoying modulation.

  “No. We’re taking the Kansas Pacific across the plains. From there we’re catching the southbound stage at Fort Hays.”

  Her pert mouth tightened. “I must insist we wait for the next train.”

  Dillon squelched the urge to sprint for the nearest exit. “We’ve only got an hour while they take on supplies, Miss Talmadge. Then we’re pulling out for Jefferson City.” A waiter moved past him balancing a tray of libations. Dillon fought the urge to swipe a glass of whiskey off the silver platter.

  “Mister Reed,” she huffed, “a one-day delay will not matter in the least.”

  It does to me. His stare locked with hers as he finger-tapped the linen tabletop. “We’re not staying in St. Louis any longer than necessary. The stage out of the fort isn’t always reliable, so I want to get there as quickly as possible.”

  And it can’t come a minute too soon as far as I’m concerned.

  Her expression pinched as she rammed back against her chair. She made a grand display of placing her napkin across her lap. “What supplies does the rail line need, anyway?”

  Dillon stifled his surprise at having won this particular sparing match. “For the train?”

  She answered with a quick nod as she fussed with removing her gloves, then laid them to the side of her reticule.

  “Well…” He drew his own linen cloth across his lap. “Aside from refilling the food stuffs, we’re changing to a train whose locomotive has a bonnet smokestack, which tells me it uses wood for fuel. They’re stocking with split timber and water, as well.”

  Blinking, she stared at him. “Trains have different smoke stacks?”

  Her question seemed genuine. “There are many kinds,” Dillon replied, “but for the most part, straight-stack engines, like the one that brought you from Boston to Washington, uses coal for fuel.” He readjusted his holstered revolver, aligning the Colt along his thigh, careful to avoid brushing his dirty boots against her dress. She was so high-strung right now that if he smudged her hem, she might have a conniption fit right here in the middle of the great metropolis. “The locomotives with bowled stacks like the one we’ll be taking next, use wood for fuel and are covered by metal screens to catch the embers. Wouldn’t do to accidently ignite the wood. A stray spark in the tinder could spell disaster for the whole train.”

  “I see.” She scanned the other diners in the room, then her gaze respeared his. “Why does an army scout know so much about trains?” She leaned back a few inches when a short Chinese waiter arrived.

  Dillon nodded to the man, who smiled and handed them each water-filled glasses before moving on to the next table of diners. “I’ve come this way several times since ‘sixty-eight, delivering correspondence for the colonel and such. Watched them build the majority of the line we’ll be on. If observant, a person learns many things.”

  “I’m quite observant too. Yet, all I know about you is that you scout for the army, you know about locomotive smokestacks, and you detest the wealthy.” She swept an imaginary speck of dust from the linen cloth near her elbow. “Is there anything else I should know about Dillon Reed?”

  He held back a chuckle. This saucy coquette could change her tune in mid-song. “When I think of something else, I’ll let you know.” Her gaze lingered and a surprising rush of pleasure tugged at him.

  “I’m sure you will.” She offered back a quick smile, then sipped from her water glass. A moment later, the waiter returned with menus. She settled the crystal on the tabletop and took the elegantly inked bill of fare from his hand. After glancing down the list of available dishes, she spoke first. “I will have the pheasant. And your oysters in crème sauce sounds delectable, so I will indulge in a small serving of those. And, oh my, the steamed—”

  “We leave in an hour, Miss Talmadge,” Dillon interjected.

  She lowered the menu and glared over the parchment’s crisp edge. “I’m tired of eating like a vagabond. A person could starve to death in your company.”

  “When you’re with your duke, you may dine in high style. Right now, however—” he glanced to the waiter “—bring us both your house special. We’re short on time.” The servant nodded, gathered their menus, and scurried off to the kitchen.

  “How dare you! I am not a child.” She lowered her head, her emotion-choked voice cascading into
a tattered whisper. “Can you not see I am careworn here, Mister Reed? You may well be accustomed to ‘life in the saddle,’ so to speak, but I find this entire episode quite distressing.”

  Dillon exhaled. “As I mentioned would happen, remember?” But, saying I told you so in such a gloating manner didn’t feel as satisfying as he’d hoped. He shoved aside the troublesome thought. “What I see is someone who’s inconvenienced. Nothing more.”

  Another sigh slipped from between her pouting lips. “Why should I bother to explain anything? You are not even listening.”

  “Look.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve a job to do here, and dawdling isn’t part of the agenda. Getting you, unharmed, to Tucson as fast as possible is my top priority.”

  She shifted in her seat, piercing him with a blue-eyed glare. “The only danger I’ve met so far is the very likelihood of death from tedium – or quite possibly starvation. Not to mention the fact I’m travelling in near-silence with a brooding troll.” As if she’d already said too much, she fell silent. Light from a twelve-armed crystal gasolier suspended from the ceiling directly above draped gossamer shadows across her bent head.

  Dillon lifted his glass and gulped the liquid, trying to wash away her truthful words. Sonofabitch. This was exactly what he didn’t need. He thumped the empty vessel to the table, the sound lost beneath the swirling music from a quartet of violinists near the back of the room.

  He scanned the diners, stopping on the man who’d bumped into Miss Talmadge back at the depot. Seated with him were the two other men he’d seen on the train.

  At his blatant stare, all three dropped their gazes.

  Yes. You’re watching us.

  But why?

  Dillon swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at his impertinent young charge. Her once-elegant chignon lay in a tangled clump across one shoulder, her previously pert little hat listing to one side. The obnoxious ribbons were limp and entwined with her light tresses. The rosy glow had vanished from her cheeks, and the sparkle he’d noticed earlier in her eyes had now somewhat dimmed. Two weeks of hard travel still awaited them, along with the worst terrain yet to cross. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. If he didn’t start handling her differently, she would break. So, keeping Miss High and Mighty happy, might be in his best interest, after all. Though he refused to slow their pace to Tucson, he’d consider taking a softer approach.

  The fleeting link he’d experienced with her back at the train depot when she’d slipped her arm through his seeped once more into Dillon’s brain. The irksome truth that they fit together well pricked at his nerves. He opened his eyes and their gazes reconnected.

  Christ Almighty, why do they have to be so damned blue?

  Dillon fought to unclench his jaw. “You’re right, Miss Talmadge. I apologize for my…ungentlemanly behavior. We’ve a long way yet to travel, but I’ll do my best to make things a bit easier on you. As long as you understand I make all the decisions.”

  She nodded. And he smiled, then waved the waiter back over to them to inquire, “Do those oysters in crème sauce take longer than ten minutes to prepare?”

  “No sir, they’re simmering in their rich broth even as we speak.”

  “And the pheasant? How long?”

  “Not long at all. It’s fully cooked and kept in the warming ovens for our patrons.”

  “Well, in that case, scratch the lady’s original order. Instead, she’ll have those two items.”

  “Very well, sir.” The waiter smiled at a now-beaming Miss Talmadge. “We’ll get both your orders out straightaway.”

  Dillon slid his gaze back to Alma’s. Checkmate. He nodded. “That’s fine.”

  He glanced to the nearby table with the trio of suspicious men. But, you three better damn-well keep your distance. I’m itchin’ to shoot something, and I don’t mind if it’s you shifty bastards, or not.

  Chapter Six

  Fort Riley, Kansas

  Early Afternoon, two days later…

  Defying the bleakness of the plains, and providing protection to the new rail lines crisscrossing the state, the stalwart fort hugged both sides of the track like an indomitable fist. The fast-growing military outpost, built from timber and native limestone, consisted of barracks, stables, a hospital, and private residences, providing a much-welcomed oasis among infinite grassland.

  Sunshine drifted through the branches of a cottonwood, laying hazy designs across a wooden bench near the corner of the telegraph office. Dillon had heard the spot marked the geographical center of the United States. However interesting that fact, the only thing this meant to him was they still had a long way to travel.

  He pointed to the bench. “This’ll only take a few minutes, Miss Talmadge. Please wait for me here.” His much-too-quiet charge nodded, then settled onto the weathered wood. Her parasol remained aloft, the silk-edged trim tousled in the ever-present wind.

  Dillon stepped onto the boardwalk. “And don’t move,” he added with a growl to ensure he meant business. Her gaze remained focused on the two-story Rale House hotel and eatery nestled among a line of buildings across from her.

  Damn stubborn woman.

  He scanned the street. Kicked up by the perpetual wind, dust devils purled before the livery. Despite the barrenness of the Kansas plains, progress had arrived full force at the post. On the southern end of town, the train depot and huffing smokestacks of several locomotives filled his view. And on the northern end, a line of clapboard homes known as Officer’s Row proclaimed civilization at its best. Green painted picket fences and matching shutters adorned the front of each residence.

  Dillon tucked a smile into the corner of his mouth as he reached for the brass knob of the telegraph office door. All these charming touches belied a grisly truth. Over the distant hills, out of sight but never out of mind, the Cheyenne Nation waited for its moment to avenge the sacred lands the steel-beamed, chugging beasts defiled. Along with a handful of other plains tribes, the Tsitsistas renegades refused to be contained on reservations. And he’d bet a shiny ten dollar gold piece they were even now plotting revenge against the ve'ho'e. The ugly sounding word was a fitting name for their hated enemy the white eyes. Before such an event occurred, Dillon wanted to be long gone. He had enough to worry about with the damn Apaches back home.

  The smell of burnt coffee drifted over him as he stepped into the hazy room. He headed toward the telegrapher, who sat at a counter near the back.

  Dillon settled his saddlebags on the polished wood between them. “Mornin’ Frank.”

  The old man raised his head, pushed wire-rimmed spectacles higher up the bridge of his nose, then glanced at the nearby wall clock. The brass pendulum of the fancy Seth Thomas ticked off two seconds before the grizzled old veteran shot him a smile. “More like mid-afternoon, Reed. How’s Washington?”

  Dillon chuckled, appreciating the man’s always-blunt manner. “Still sweltering, as usual. I heard President Grant just appointed a governor to the District to begin bricking over the dirt roads, adding basic sanitation, and generally modernizing the capitol to match the rest of the big cities back east. They’ve got nearly 150,000 residents now.” He removed his hat, swiped an arm across his forehead, and resettled the Stetson. “Oh, and the powers to be are also building yet another cathedral as a monument to peace and reconciliation.”

  “Yep. Read ‘bout all that right here.” Frank laughed, shuffling the newspaper aside. “Congress wants to move the capitol further west, but Grant won’t hear of it. Progress in action, I’d say.” He laughed again, and tapped the article. “They’re callin’ the cathedral you mentioned the Memorial Evangelical Lutheran Church, after a monk named Martin Luther.” The man snorted. “If you ask me, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than another sainted church to bring about a damned reconciliation in this country.”

  Dillon stifled a laugh and nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Hey, you want a cup of coffee?” The man waved to where a battered pot
hung within a small fireplace at the back of the room. “Brewed it fresh near an hour ago.”

  The old timer may have been a fine sergeant during the war, but his liquefied muck could strip even the turf from a Kansas soddy. “No thanks. Haven’t got time this visit. Catching the next westbound train. You got anything for me from Fort Lowell?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Came in a couple o’ days ago.” The clerk leaned sideways and pulled a slip of paper from a slot in the bank of wooden cubbyholes. He handed over the message.

  Dillon reached for his saddlebags as he scanned the missive from Talmadge. At the colonel’s urgent warning, he pulled up short:

  My niece might be in grave danger. Not sure from whom. Stay on the lookout. ~ Col. T. Talmadge.

  “Damnit!” He jammed the telegraph into his back pocket.

  “Problems?”

  Dillon banked his unease. “Nah. Nothin’ I can’t handle. See you next time I’m through here, Frank.” Shifting his saddlebags across his shoulder, he brushed past a couple of soldiers entering the office on his way out.

  Sonofabitch. The prickly sensation riding his shoulders now made sense. The three men from the train. Dillon glanced toward the bench.

  Empty.

  What the hell? Boots grated pebbles as he surged into the middle of Main Street. Pulse racing, Dillon scanned in a full circle for any sign of the woman. Soldiers milled everywhere. Wagons rattled past him, whirling up thick clouds of dust.

  But Alma Talmadge was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Seven

  A hollow ache unfurled in Dillon’s gut...And I left her sitting there, all alone just ripe for the damn picking.