by Jo Goodman
"Something wrong, Happy?" he asked.
"Can't think of a thing," the older man said. He leaned his wiry body forward in the saddle. "'Cept for that bit of sass you got in your arms, I'd say we done ourselves as planned. Trust a female to muck up the works."
Ethan's sentiments exactly. "Michael has that way about her." He felt her stiffen in his arms. Did she think he was going to defend her?
"Michael," Happy said, scratching his stubbly cheek thoughtfully. "Odd moniker for a woman. Can't recollect you ever mentioning her or the fact that you was married."
"That's because I haven't mentioned her. Truth is, Happy, tonight's the first time I've seen my wife in four years."
That made an impression on Happy. He shook his head from side to side. "Well, of all the dag-burned luck. No wonder she didn't recognize you when she clamped eyes on you in first class. Four years. That's a damn long time."
Ethan nodded. "I offered to take the reporter out just to get out of her way. I thought I was safe when she fainted. When she saw me outside without the kerchief I knew I couldn't take any chances. Not after killing the reporter."
"Who was he to her?" Happy asked. "Obie said she tried to tell you both something about him before you punched her."
Ethan searched for something to say.
"Drew Beaumont was my fiancé," Michael interjected. In her ear she felt rather than heard Ethan's low hum of disapproval. "When one hasn't heard from one's husband in four years it's not unnatural to suppose he's dead."
"Or hope that he is," Ethan said, cutting her off before she created a story at odds with what he had already told the others. "I walked out on her, Happy. There's no love lost on her side."
"Hard to believe," Happy said. "You two cuddled there like nip and tuck."
"I haven't been given any choice," Michael said coldly.
"That so?" Happy grinned, showing a line of straight but tobacco-stained teeth. "You could ride with me for a while, Miz Stone."
Before Michael could form a proper protest or retract her statement, Ethan agreed to the plan. "She'll be more comfortable with you anyway, Happy. More room on the saddle."
The two men drew their horses close and Michael was summarily transferred from Ethan's mount to Happy's.
"Mind your manners," Ethan said. The words were not as significant as the look he shot her. Michael felt the blue-gray eyes bore right through her. Without another glance in her direction he urged his horse ahead and was out of earshot in a matter of seconds.
"Well," Happy drawled. "This is cozy."
Michael bit her lower lip. "Mm, yes. Cozy is the word." Ethan had done it to punish her. She felt certain he had known she didn't want to go with Happy. He had to have felt her reluctance to be passed around like so much baggage. "How long have you known my husband, Happy? I heard Ethan correctly, didn't I? Your name's Happy."
"It's not my disposition," he said. "Picked up the name when I was greenhorn cowhand. Cut myself in the face with a bullwhip. Can't see the scar much now, what with the stubble and all, so there's no point in lookin'. Doc said I severed a nerve. Cut it clean in two, he said. Folks were like to point out then that I always looked like I was smilin'. Called me Happy. Just seemed to stick. But like I said, Miz Stone, it's not my disposition."
"I'll try to remember that."
"See that you do." Happy took a pouch of tobacco out of his coat pocket, pinched some off with his thumb and forefinger and packed it between his lower lip and gum. "Known your husband nigh on five months now. That's how long he's been ridin' with us. Newest man. You'll understand if that makes me a tad skeptical of what he says or does."
Michael could only summon a murmur. She wondered how long she could stay in the saddle. Even propped against Happy she was finding it difficult to stay upright. Her fingers ached with cold again and Happy hadn't made the same offer to warm them that Ethan had.
"Now Ben up ahead," Happy went on. "Him and me go way back. He's my half-brother. Same mother, different gamblers. He's a Simpson. I'm a McAllister. Obie Long's been with the gang 'bout two years now. Good kid. Not much fer talkin', especially 'round the ladies, but it don't seem to bother them none. Still waters and all that."
Looking ahead on the trail, Michael was able to determine which of the men was Happy's brother. Obie, she knew, was the one who had followed her when she ran out of the train to find Drew. He was riding beside Ethan now. Her eyes scanned the darkness for one more man. "Where's the other?" she asked. "The man who was giving the orders."
"You must mean Houston. He and Jake took the engine down the tracks a piece. That'll keep the passengers from followin'. The Union Pacific won't know about the holdup until the train's late comin' to Barnesville. Even then they're like to think it's snowbound."
"There won't be anyone following us, will there?" Though Michael tried to keep her voice neutral, a note of despair touched her question.
"Not tonight," Happy said frankly. "Probably not tomorrow either. By the time the locals mount a posse, snow will have covered our tracks."
"What about the railroad? Won't the Union Pacific send men out after you?"
Happy leaned back in his saddle so that he could get a better view of Michael's face. "It don't seem to me, Miz Stone, that you're real pleased about this reunion with Ethan. That pretty much the way of it?"
Michael felt Happy's eyes on her and she avoided looking at him. "That's pretty much the way of it," she repeated softly. "You must know I don't want to be here."
"Can't say that I favor it either, ma'am."
For a moment Michael was hopeful. "You don't? Then you would help me get—"
Happy cut her off. "Don't ask it, Miz Stone. You mistook my meanin'. I sure enough don't want you here, but 'cept fer bein' dead and buried, there really ain't no other place for you."
Michael felt cold in her soul. The shiver that swept through her had little to do with the bitter icy wind swirling around her. "Please," she said lowly, teeth chattering violently, "I want to go back to Ethan."
"Just a bit longer," Happy said. "If you're cold you can put your arms around me the way you did Ethan."
"I'll manage," she said tightly, repulsed by the offer. She crossed her arms in front of her, slipped her hands under her armpits, and tucked her head deeper into the raised collar of her coat and away from the, stinging wind. "You're the one who uncoupled the Chronicle's cars, aren't you?" She fully expected him not to answer or deny the charge. "You killed them."
Happy shrugged off the accusation. "Obie helped, but it was my idea."
Michael was stunned that he would admit it to her so easily. "Why would you tell me that? Or anything else you've said? You must know that—"
Again he interrupted her, this time placing a hand inside her coat and laying it on her thigh. "I figure it this way, Miz Stone: the more you know, the more you know you ain't goin' nowhere. Ethan, bein' your husband and all, probably has it in his mind to protect you. I don't feel honor bound to do the same. You're either with us or agin us. There's no fence-ridin'. With us, you live. Agin us, you die. That plain speakin' enough for you?"
She nodded.
"Good. Now, seein's how you're not exactly warmin' up to me, I'll set you back with Ethan. I can't think there's much point tellin' him about our conversation, can you?"
"No."
Happy smiled. Flakes of tobacco clung to his front teeth. He spit. "Good for you, ma'am. Mebbe you'll stay with us after all."
In a few minutes they caught up with the others. Ethan was deep in a conversation with Obie and Ben until Michael and Happy came within earshot. Michael's transfer to Ethan's mount was done in a brisk, impersonal fashion.
"Think I'll ride on ahead," Happy said. "Kinda look out fer Jake and Houston. Shouldn't be too much longer afore they meet up with us." He kicked his horse and called back over his shoulder. "She's a good handful, Ethan. She fits real nice agin me. Don't know what you were thinkin', leavin' her alone all those years."
Michael fel
t Ethan stiffen slightly at Happy's words but he made no reply.
"Don't mind Happy," Ben said. "He don't mean nothin' by it. Cold's most likely addled his senses a little. I'll just go on up yonder and have a talk with him. Obie, why don't you take up the rear for a while?"
Obie reined in almost immediately and let the others get in front of him. The staggered line of surefooted pack mules followed.
"What did you and Happy find to talk about?" Ethan asked when he and Michael were alone.
Michael had no intention of answering Ethan's questions or even talking to him more than she absolutely had to. She realized that before today she had never experienced fear or fatigue. Now she felt the mind and body numbing effects of each like a paralysis of spine and spirit, and when she slumped against Ethan it was because she couldn't help herself.
"Michael?" Ethan asked. He gave her a little shake but there was no response. He thought at first she was faking. Slipping a gloved hand beneath her coat, Ethan cupped her breast. She didn't stir. He grinned and dropped his hand. His captive had nerves of steel and starch, but she wouldn't have let him touch her if she could have prevented it. Mary Michael Dennehy had fallen deeply asleep.
* * *
Two more hours passed before the party halted for the night. It was the sudden cessation of movement that woke Michael. Groggy and disoriented, she was still aware of the new voices that had joined their group. She had almost immediate recognition of Houston. There was amusement, even civility, in his tone as he spoke, and danger and menace in the slight rasp that edged his words. The other voice drawled deeply and she was able to put a name to it: Jake.
"Your lady's plumb tuckered," Jake Harrity said as Ethan eased Michael down from the saddle. He grinned as Michael slid heavily down the length of Ethan's long frame. She was limp with exhaustion and unsteady on her feet. Ethan had to hold her upright. "Here, I'll see to your horse." He unfastened the bedroll and tossed it on the ground beside Ethan. "You'll need this."
"Thanks, Jake." Ethan slipped one arm beneath Michael's crumbling knees and lifted her high against his chest. He carried her to an outcropping of rocks that gave shelter from the wind on three sides, set her down, and went back for his bedroll and horse blankets. "We've got some tinder for a small fire but it won't provide much warmth. You'll have to share the blankets with me if you expect to get through the night." When she didn't reply, not even whimper in protest, Ethan poked her with his foot. "You're awake, aren't you?"
Michael jerked her leg away. "I'm awake."
"Good." He dropped the bedroll and blankets beside her. "Lay these things out as best you can. I'll see to the fire."
Michael's fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. Tears stung her eyes and lay icy and wet on her cheeks as she forced herself to work against the ache in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Ethan build the small fire at the head of their shelter. When tiny flames began licking at the wood, Michael's last vestige of reason vanished. She scrambled toward the fire on her hands and knees and thrust her hands into the flames.
"What the hell!" Ethan dropped to his knees and pushed Michael away. "Of all the stupid..." His voice trailed away as he stared at her. She was huddled against the cold inner face of their rocky shelter, her head bent low, her shoulders hunched, and her fingers jammed awkwardly in her mouth. He had difficulty remembering the stiff and starchy woman he had first seen in the offices of the Chronicle. "Here," he said roughly, moving toward her, "let me see what fool thing you've done to yourself. You can't put your hands in the fire and not expect to get burned." He pulled her fingers away from her mouth and examined them in the dim light. They weren't burned but Ethan began to suspect the onset of frostbite. "Why the hell didn't you say anything? I would have given you my gloves." She started to pull away at the taut impatience of his tone. "For God's sake, come here! I'm not going to hurt you."
Ben Simpson came upon them. "There some problem here?" he asked, throwing another blanket at their bed. "Thought you might want that. Anything I can do to help?"
"Thanks, Ben. I'll take care of it myself. My wife's gone stupid with cold."
Ben chuckled at that description. "Ain't you the lucky one, gettin' to warm her up and all. Well, I'll be just yonder if you need anything." He disappeared beyond the rocks.
"Would you rather Ben warm you up?" Ethan asked. "No? Then come here so I can do something about it."
Michael didn't move but she was unresisting as Ethan pulled her toward him. He took off his own gloves and placed his hands between hers and blew on her fingers. After a few minutes he carefully levered her hands near the fire. "Not too close," he cautioned. Taking the extra blanket Ben had given them, he pulled it around Michael's shoulders and raised it along the edge to protect her ears. "You should have told me how cold you were. I could have done something about it."
Through chattering teeth Michael said, "I don't want anything from you."
Ethan found the kerchief he had given her earlier and wiped at the tears that lay frozen on her cheeks. "Of course you don't."
Michael briefly closed her eyes, exhaustion taking its toll again. "Don't patronize me," she said quietly. "You killed Drew. Happy admitted he killed the others. Paul, Jim, Bill, and Dave. All of them gone now... because of you and your friends. I don't want anything from you." Her voice dropped to a whisper and then she only seemed to mouth the words. "I want to sleep. I want to die."
Ethan stuffed his kerchief back in his own pocket. "You're a piece of work, Miss Dennehy," he said softly, shaking his head from side to side. "Quite a piece of work."
It took him several minutes to get them bedded down for the night. He sheltered Michael with his own body and the blankets, drawing her close inside his open coat and against his chest. Even in her drowsy, semi-conscious state, she was stiff and unyielding, her every muscle tense with cold and fear of his intentions. She shivered into his shoulder and tremors ran the length of her spine.
Michael heard his voice coming to her as if from a great distance. It was quietly encouraging, gentle, and best of all, warm on her face. "Sleep," it said. "Just sleep."
She dreamed she was back in the dining car, playing poker with her friends. She had a mountain of chips in front of her and she had drawn three cards to a full house. Drew was there, disgusted with his turn of luck and asking for an advance of thirty dollars. Michael found herself refusing him again and again in spite of her desire to do otherwise. She wanted to take charge of the dream, refashion it in a way that satisfied her, but she couldn't make it happen. The others started asking her for money as well. Paul and Jim drew caricatures of her smoking a cigar and playing tight-fisted with her winnings. Bill and Dave threatened to report her to Logan Marshall. Happy interrupted the game and drew his gun, promising to kill each reporter in turn, and Michael last. Helpless to stop the grisly chain of events, Michael watched each friend face Happy's gun in turn. When the Colt was leveled at her head she closed her eyes... and woke up screaming.
Or thought she did. At first she wasn't certain if she was awake or still trapped in her nightmare. Ethan Stone was beside her, one of his legs lying heavily across both of hers. The blankets cocooned them and beyond the darkness of her immediate shelter she could hear the crackle and spit of the fire. Except for that sound, nothing moved or rustled. There was no echo of her scream, no stirring in the night from any of the others. She had dreamed the scream just as she had dreamed every improbable exchange during the course of her nightmare.
She was left with one lasting impression as the details of her nightmare began to fade. There had been no one to save her, no one to stop Happy's relentless pursuit of the reporters. It seemed more than the vagaries of a dream. It seemed an omen.
Michael lay very still and pondered escape. Was it possible? Ethan appeared to be deeply asleep, breathing quietly and evenly. She took no comfort in it or in the warmth he offered. She had spoken the truth when she said she wanted nothing from him. It had occurred to her there was so
me price for his protection and though Michael had no clear idea what he might demand, she had no wish to pay.
She raised one corner of the blanket slightly to let in the firelight. The play of shadow across the hard cast of Ethan's features lent him an edge of dangerous mystery. Against her will, Michael felt herself drawn to him as she struggled to bring forward the memory that would set his face in place and time. As had happened previously, it was a fruitless struggle. There was no clear recollection of lightly colored, blue-gray eyes, of a hooded, direct gaze, of thick lashes or sun lines fanning the corners. She could not understand why the dark ebony hair, overlong at the nape with threads of gray at the temple, should be vaguely familiar when it was relatively unremarkable. Frustrated that she could not grasp the tantalizing bit of memory, Michael dropped the blanket back into place around Ethan and cautiously eased herself away from him.
She missed his warmth immediately. In spite of the rocky shelter cold air swirled around her as she sat up. She knew then that while escape from the men was a possibility, her chances of escaping the elements were almost nil. She was stupid with cold, she thought, because knowing that she might freeze to death in the wild mountains of Colorado didn't change her mind about leaving.
Michael carefully searched beneath the blankets for Ethan's discarded gloves. Finding them, she put them on, then removed the uppermost blanket and wrapped it around her head and shoulders. Michael rose slowly, making certain her stiff and unsteady legs would support her before stepping over Ethan and out of the stone shelter.
The fire the others had built and surrounded with their bedrolls and saddle pillows was a mere pile of embers. Michael stood very still, listening to the shuffle of the horses and the restless movements of the pack mules. She knew her capabilities and admitted that she could never ride one of the animals back to the train, even if she could have mounted. She was likely to be thrown from one of the horses and the mules had been uncooperative even for the men who knew how to handle them. Michael saw no alternative save to set out on foot.