“I guess you’ve come to collect your father’s cut in the takings,” the man behind the desk went on. “He is due a half share, one thousand dollars. Less than a full share but he took lesser risks. You might like to know that I offered to send a lawyer to defend him. It was his choice to plead guilty.”
For a moment, the words made no sense to Celia. They buzzed around inside her head, like a swarm of bees. And then they stung. Layer by layer, the truth revealed itself to her. She whirled around to look at Roy. He met her gaze without a flinch. The guilty look in his eyes, combined with the hard, closed expression on his face gave her the confirmation she needed.
He had known. Known about her father’s involvement in the crime all along. The understanding swelled in her mind, a sense of betrayal and resentment gathering like a flash flood might gather behind a dam about to break.
“Celia.” Roy’s voice was low, reminding her of his warning.
Don’t speak now, in front of Mr. Smith. This is very important.
She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, reaching back for the straitjacket of a dutiful daughter she had worn for so long, using it as a means to suppress any unruly shows of emotion. Little by little, she conquered her flare of anger, shutting it away.
“Yes,” she said in a strained tone. “I’ve come to collect my father’s...cut in the takings. But I’m sure you understand that I don’t wish to have my name entered in your account book. Mr. Hagan will sign for my share.”
With a polite farewell, she marched out of the room, the heavy velvet skirts swishing around her feet. The way Mr. Smith arose behind the desk confirmed to her that he was a man of position, a man of respect in his real life. Good manners in the presence of a lady seemed instinctive to him, so deeply ingrained that he adhered to them, even while they might jeopardize the effectiveness of his outlaw disguise.
After her abrupt exit, Celia stood irresolute outside the ranch house. She let her gaze drift over the men playing cards at the long table beneath the canopy by the cook shack. Earlier, she had felt threatened by the aura of violence about these men, but now, as she studied them, she imagined her father as one of the crowd.
How had these men ended up outside the law? Perhaps it was not some streak of evil driving them, or greed, or even laziness. Perhaps, as it had been with her father, their only means to provide for their loved ones had been a criminal act.
She could feel the men’s eyes on her, but their attention no longer seemed quite so sinister. Instead, in their hungry glances she recognized the longing of men denied the company of women, denied the chance of a family and home.
Behind her, footsteps thudded on the stone patio. She turned to face the house. Roy was striding toward her, the pockets of his canvas duster dragged down with the weight of something inside. Her gold. Her father’s gold. One thousand dollars’ worth of it.
The thoughts she had worked hard to suppress a few moments ago surged back to the surface, filling her with unspent emotions. Her hands fisted at her sides. She waited until Roy came to a halt in front of her, and then she spoke in a low, harsh voice.
“You knew. You knew all along.”
“I suspected. Couldn’t be certain.”
It built and built inside her, the pressure of those feelings unacknowledged, denied. Her lungs were heaving, her chest rising and falling. There seemed to be a storm going on inside her head, her thoughts in jumbled disarray, as if she feared her own feelings.
“Let it out, Celia,” Roy said quietly. “Let your anger flow. How can you let your love flow if you bottle up the rest of your emotions?”
She closed her eyes. In her mind, she could see her father at the bank, the haughty arrogance of the manager, Mr. Northfield. She could see the bishop, the preacher, and she recalled their misguided fanaticism that had condemned her because of a small childhood injury. She could see the townspeople, so cowardly in their rejection of her.
The strange feeling inside her flared into full existence, like a firecracker exploding, and she faced the emotions that were whirling with such violence inside her. She accepted those emotions, understood them. And refused to feel guilt or shame over them.
Tipping her head back, she burst into a deep, roaring laughter. The sound rippled over the narrow valley. From the corner of her eye, she could see the men pause in their card game and stare at her. A madwoman. That’s what they must be thinking. But she didn’t care. Never again would she lend too much weight to what others thought of her. Never again would she give others the power to rob her of her dignity, to rob her of her self-worth.
Roy reached over to her, curled his hands around her upper arms and gave her a gentle shake. “Celia, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
Her body still shuddering with laughter, she fought to bring her outburst of wicked, petty pleasure over a revenge achieved under control. When she had calmed enough to talk, she met his worried gaze and tried to explain.
“What I feel is not anger. It is something else.” Animated now, the confused thoughts tumbling into place, she went on, “It felt so futile, so wrong, when I thought my father had accepted the blame for someone else’s crime...but now I know there is no injustice in his imprisonment...he did what he thought necessary to provide for me, to secure my future, and he paid the price.”
She paused, her lips curving into a grim smile. “And, in some way, my father’s actions seem like payback to the town for ostracizing me. I know what he did was wrong, I know it was dishonest, but somehow it seems as if he has made fools of them all. Perhaps he has made a fool of me, too, but I can’t help but love him all the more for it.”
As her thoughts formed into words, another idea flickered at the back of her mind. Perhaps she had wished to make a fortune so that she could sashay back to Rock Springs and queen it over the people who had shunned her, as Roy had put it. But there was no longer a need for revenge. Papa had already taken care of it.
Chapter Eleven
It would hurt to let her go. The realization hit Roy hard as he looked down into Celia’s flushed face. Aware of the curious stares of the men, he spun her around on her feet and ushered her into motion. He could feel the tension in her body, could sense the brittle edge of her high spirits. She appeared mentally exhausted. Danger, outlaws with guns, being bodily searched, combined with the startling news about her father must have taken their toll.
“Let’s get you settled.”
Taking her by the elbow, he led her along the path to the nearer of the two cabins. A small adobe structure, it had belonged to Big Kate, the aging whore who had serviced the men at the hideout. Mr. Smith had offered them the use of the cabin, but Roy had no idea if anyone had cleaned up inside after Big Kate had died from the beating she’d received from Lom Curtis.
He left Celia standing a short distance from the entrance. “Wait here.”
Roy tried the door, found it unlocked and went inside. The single room was spotless, bearing no sign of Big Kate’s occupation. Stark, almost like a prison cell, the cramped space contained nothing but a sturdy pine bed with a sagging mattress, a table with a single rickety chair by the glassless window and a big oak chest in the corner.
He lifted the lid on the chest and recognized Big Kate’s clothing, carefully washed and folded. Big Kate, tired of the hard life, had been slovenly and unkempt, drunk much of the time, but the air inside the cabin smelled fresh and the earth floor shone clean.
Miss Gabriela must have scrubbed the interior, one last favor between the only two women at the camp. Roy would have liked to thank her for taking care of the task, but none of the outlaws ever spoke to Miss Gabriela unless she approached them first.
He went to the doorway and waved Celia inside. “Try to make yourself comfortable. I have to go and talk to Dale Hunter. I won’t be long.”
She studied the cramped space. “What about my things?”
�
��I’ll send them over.”
He left her in the cabin and took the path down the slope toward the corrals. After only a few paces, he heard someone calling his name. He turned and saw Joe Saldana hurrying toward him. Roy halted to let the tall Mexican catch up.
Saldana slapped him on the back and grinned, white teeth flashing beneath his drooping moustache. “You take a bullet for the father and win the daughter?”
“She came with me because she had no other choice.” Roy lowered his voice. “And I want to get her out of here again as soon as possible.”
“Good luck, my friend.” Saldana jerked his head in the direction of the ranch house. “I’ve been ordered to keep an eye on you. No one leaves. Not until Mr. Smith has gone back to his honest life and established a credible story to cover his absence.”
“No one?”
“No one except Dale Hunter.”
Roy hid his unease. He contemplated Saldana. “What happened with Miss Gabriela? I thought with Lom Curtis out of the way you might have...I believed you had some affection for her.”
Saldana grew serious. “I do...more than affection...but I can’t give her what she needs. Sure, I could make her laugh, lift her spirits for a while, but her melancholy is too deep for me to heal. She needs a strong man to lean on, someone to mollycoddle her. The Swede is the steady, quiet sort, and he worships her. He can be the protector Miss Gabriela needs. He can give her more than I ever could.”
“Where is she now?”
“The day Lom Curtis died she moved back into her old cabin. She barely comes out. Her bruises have healed, but she has a broken arm. The Swede takes care of her.” Saldana hesitated, looked away into the distance. “When a man loves a woman...truly loves her...sometimes he has to accept that she’ll be better off without him.”
“I know,” Roy said with a sigh. “I know.”
They talked for a moment longer. Saldana filled him in on the details since Mr. Smith had arrived. Never without armed guards to protect him against an attack, Mr. Smith held court inside the ranch house, like a king overseeing his subjects. “He’ll leave as soon as a new leader is in place,” Saldana finished. “My money is on Dale Hunter.”
Roy continued toward the corrals, mulling over what he had heard. So Dale might become the new leader. Baffled, he shook his head. They had known each other for a decade. Until their former outfit had been wiped out in the train robbery, they had never taken an active part in the robberies. He had saddled broken horses for the outlaws, wild mustangs bought from the Navaho traders, and Dale had been in charge of hauling supplies to the hideout. But after they joined the Red Bluff Gang, they’d been given no choice but to participate in the raids.
Roy found Dale by the corrals, watching Dagur and Baldur settle in with the herd. Leaning against the fence, one boot propped on the bottom rail, Dale twisted to look over his shoulder, the raven hair beneath his silver-decorated hat gleaming in the evening sun.
“What is this I hear about you taking over from Lom Curtis?” Roy asked.
Dale returned his attention to the horses. “See how your buckskin stands beside the mare, protecting her from the rest of the herd. You’d do well to observe, amigo, and learn to do the same.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Dale shrugged. “I got my reasons.”
“Anything I should know?”
“To the contrary. The less you know the better.”
Roy hesitated. The way Dale glanced at him, a quick, darting look full of doubt and uncertainty, made Roy suspect something was afoot, something dangerous. “Are you sure you can’t tell me?”
Dale shook his head. “It has to be this way.”
“All right.” Roy’s unease grew. “But remember, I’m your friend.”
“I know.” Dale spoke so quietly that the sudden restless burst of motion from the horses in the corral almost drowned out his voice. “I won’t forget. I know that if it wasn’t for me, you might have broken away from this life before it became too late.”
Roy looked past Dale, into the falling darkness. What could he say to that? It was true. Until last year, when they joined the Red Bluff Gang, Roy could have ridden off, sought a new start. Only Dale could not do the same. He had a federal warrant out on him. At the end of the war, when Sherman’s troops had marched through the South leaving a swath of destruction in their wake, renegade Union soldiers had raped and killed Dale’s sister before burning down the mansion his mother’s family had owned for generations.
Twelve years old at the time, Dale had discovered enough facts to identify the four men responsible for the atrocity. By the time he was eighteen, those men were dead and Dale had become a fugitive. Faced with the choice of seeking an honest life or leaving behind the only friend he had ever known, Roy had elected to stay.
“Regrets?” Dale asked softly.
Roy shrugged. “Regrets never change anything. But I need your help now.”
He told Dale about Celia and her father, how he’d had no choice but to bring her along to the hideout, to collect what was owed to her. “Dale, I’m counting on your friendship. I need you to escort her away from here, whenever you go out next.”
“I’m going for supplies the day after tomorrow, amigo. But I can’t take her with me. Not this time. Don’t ask me why, and don’t tell anyone that you asked. Not unless you want me dead.” Leaning over the corral fence, Dale gestured at the restless animals with one hand. “Watch your horse and learn, amigo. See how he protects the mare. It’s a skill you’ll need.”
“Is there going to be trouble?”
Dale lifted his boot from the bottom rail. He turned around to survey the camp and grinned, cocky and carefree all of a sudden, but Roy could hear the warning in his tone. “Bored, frustrated men. A beautiful woman. Gold and gambling, guns and whiskey. Such an estofado is bound to boil over some time. Watch your woman well, amigo, while the stew simmers. Watch her well.”
* * *
Instead of sending someone along with their bedrolls and saddlebags, Roy took them up himself. Celia was busy beating dust from the worn rag mattress with a stick of wood. He dumped their belongings on the floor inside the front door she’d wedged open with a rock. She glanced over at him, sneezed, nodded her thanks and went on, thump, thump, thump.
It gave him an odd feeling, witnessing such a scene of domesticity. Restless, Roy wandered off to the cook shack. Jarvis, the ancient, bandy-legged cook was stirring his stew, a staple fare in the poorly provisioned outlaw camp. Long ago, the men had given up trying to identify the meat in the spicy concoction—squirrel, horse, coyote, all served equally well to satisfy hunger.
“I’ll put some stew in a clay pot for the lady,” Jarvis said, his faded hazel eyes squinting up at Roy. “I could run it over to her before I feed the men.”
“I’ll take it.”
Patiently, Roy waited while the cook finished his preparations and ladled some of the stew into a pot. The men at the long table had put away their playing cards and Roy could feel them watching him with envy. It heightened that odd sensation inside him, making him edgy and nervous. No one had ever envied him before. He’d never possessed anything of value, anything worth coveting, except perhaps a good horse.
He went back up the slope to the cabin. The sun had dipped below the canyon rim. Twilight muted the landscape, making it appear less stark and barren. The temperature was sinking, the chill of a desert night falling. He could tell that Celia had lit a lantern, for a yellow glow shone from the cabin window.
At the door, he paused, stunned. A flood of childhood memories, an avalanche of hopes and longings hit him, rendering him speechless. In no time at all, Celia had turned the primitive dwelling into a home. Blankets covered the bed. A brightly colored shawl framed the window, like a curtain. Clothes hung from pegs on the wall. The dull light softened the rough surroundings, creating a coz
y atmosphere.
“I took the shawl from the chest, don’t know if I was supposed to... There wasn’t anyone to ask, so I went ahead anyway... What do you think, will it do?”
He looked at her, this beautiful woman sharing a cabin with him, creating home comforts he’d never enjoyed before. His chest tightened and his hands trembled so hard he feared he might spill the stew.
“It looks fine,” he said gruffly, too afraid to let his emotions show. He stepped across the threshold and lowered the clay pot on the table. “I brought supper.”
“Oh?” She pointed at the potbellied stove. “I thought I’d cook for us.”
“Firewood is scarce. It needs to be hauled in. You’ll have to get your meals from the cook shack, but you can light the stove if there is a frost at night.” He shifted on his feet, feeling lost among the forces that pulled him in so many different directions. Not pausing to weigh up his words, he burst into rapid speech. “Mr. Smith has put an embargo on men leaving the valley. You’ll be stuck here for a few days. I’m sorry.”
Celia silenced him with a gesture. “Do you remember my reaction when you first offered me the money from the bank raid? I acted all high-and-mighty, telling you that I’ll not accept your ill-gotten gains. But now we both know the truth. I’m a convict’s daughter, suited to the company of outlaws. Staying a few days will do me no harm.”
“This is a dangerous place for a woman.”
“I know. I’m not a fool.” Celia moved toward him. “But if I’m stuck here, there is something I wish to do. My father told me that the greatest comfort I can offer him is to write to him in Yuma prison and tell him that I’m safely settled in some place where people have no prejudice against me. I shall write and tell him that I’ve received the money from the robbery. It will reassure him that he succeeded in his efforts to secure my future.”
Roy wanted to point out that her future would be far from secure until she had ridden out of the canyon hideout with her bag of gold coins, but he did not wish to alarm her. And right now they needed to eat. The greasy stew would taste even more unpalatable if they left it to get cold. So he merely tightened his fingers around hers and spoke quietly.
The Outlaw and the Runaway Page 16