Savage Country

by William W. Johnstone

  Conrad closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath as he recognized Rebel’s voice. Control, he told himself. Calmness and dignity. They would see him through any ordeal. He picked up his napkin from his lap, where he had carefully arranged it, and set it on the table. Then he rose, not being hasty about it, and turned to face her. He was smiling as he said, “Good morning, Miss Callahan. Would you care to join me for breakfast?”

  The invitation clearly took Rebel by surprise. She frowned and said, “What?”

  Conrad motioned elegantly toward the empty chair next to his. He was determined to act as if nothing had happened. If he carried himself in that manner, perhaps other people would then act like nothing had happened too. “Please, join me. You look lovely this morning.”

  That was true. As she had in Lordsburg, she wore a dress instead of her usual range garb, a simple light blue gown that clung to the lines of her body. As she hesitated, Conrad pulled out the chair, and after a second Rebel said under her breath, “Why the hell not?” She sat down.

  As Conrad took his seat, he lifted a hand and signaled to the waiter. “George, another cup of coffee, please.”

  “Coming right up, Mr. Browning!” When he brought the coffee, he asked, “Would the young lady like breakfast too, sir?”

  “She would,” Conrad said without waiting for Rebel to make any comment. “Bring her the same thing I ordered.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s mighty high-handed of you,” Rebel said after George had scurried off to the kitchen. “How do you know I want to eat with you?”

  “I don’t,” Conrad replied. “But I want to eat with you, so I saw no reason not to go ahead and order for you.”

  “You didn’t, eh? What are you going to do if Miss Fancy Pants and her daddy come in and see me sitting here with you? Miss Fancy Pants don’t like me, not even a little bit.”

  “I assume your whimsical sobriquet is in reference to Pamela,” Conrad said smoothly. “If she and Mr. Tarleton come in, I intend to ask them to join us as well.” Bravado, that was the key. “Nothing like an early morning gustatorial assemblage to clear the air, eh?”

  “I get it now,” Rebel said. “You figure nobody can be mad at you if they don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, right?”

  “I assure you—”

  “No, let me assure you,” Rebel said as she leaned forward. “I ain’t forgotten about anything that you did, from kissing me under false pretenses to lying about that woman you plan on marrying to yanking down that partition while I didn’t have no clothes on. I ain’t forgotten, and I sure as hell ain’t forgiven.”

  Conrad tried not to gulp in the face of her wrath. “Really, Rebel,” he said, not quite as smoothly as before, “I thought since you agreed to have breakfast with me—”

  “I’m hungry. That’s all it amounts to. It don’t mean nothing else.”

  “All right.” Conrad tried to regroup. “That’s a start at least—”

  “No, it ain’t. You and me are still finished.”

  He wanted to explain to her that he understood that. Whatever had passed between them on the trail was over and done with. He was going to marry Pamela, and his life was going to proceed on the course he had laid out for himself before Rebel Callahan had ever inserted her frequently annoying but equally beguiling presence into his existence.

  But for some reason, those words didn’t want to come out of his mouth. He looked at Rebel and they froze in his throat. If he told her they were through, that bridge was burned. There would be no rebuilding it.

  And Lord help him, he just wasn’t ready to take that step.

  Before he could say anything, some instinct made him glance toward the arched entrance between the dining room and the lobby. Clark Tarleton stood there regarding Conrad with a cool stare. Pamela wasn’t with him.

  Conrad shot to his feet as Tarleton started to turn away. “Clark!” he called. “Come join us.”

  Stick to the plan, such as it was, he told himself. Act like everything is normal.

  Rather than make a scene, Tarleton came forward slowly into the dining room, but he came grudgingly, with a look of annoyance and embarrassment on his rough-hewn face. He ignored the hand that Conrad thrust out toward him and gave the young man a curt nod instead. “Conrad,” he said.

  “Please, come sit down and have some breakfast,” Conrad said, taking Tarleton’s arm and guiding him toward the table where Rebel sat. “I feel like I owe you a meal, since I had to ask you to forgive me for that missed dinner engagement last night.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t feel like dining,” Tarleton said, pausing for a second before he added, “especially after everything that happened.”

  That threw Conrad for an instant. He had hoped against hope that Tarleton was somehow ignorant of the previous night’s events. Obviously, that wasn’t the case.

  “I can explain everything—” he began.

  “I’m sure you can,” Tarleton cut in. “You’ve always been a very glib young man.”

  “Please, sir . . .” For the moment, Conrad forgot that he and Tarleton were business rivals and regarded the older man simply as a prospective father-in-law. He had to make things right somehow.

  Tarleton interrupted him again, though, and said to Rebel, “Miss Callahan, isn’t it? You’re the young lady I’ve heard so much about.”

  She met his gaze squarely and answered, “I reckon I am.” A faint flush tinged her face with red, however. Chances were that anybody who had heard the story would imagine her without her clothes when looking at her, even if only for a second. It was just human nature to do so.

  Conrad knew that he certainly couldn’t get that image out of his brain. He might succeed in forcing her out of his thoughts for a short time, but then when he relaxed his vigilance even for a moment, up she popped again, all wet and sleek and shining....

  Tarleton took Rebel’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Callahan. My name is Clark Tarleton.”

  “Miss Fancy Pants’s daddy?”

  Conrad waited for the explosion, but none came. Instead, Tarleton chuckled and said, “I take it you’re referring to my daughter Pamela. I should be offended, I suppose, but even a father has to be honest. At times, Pamela’s behavior deserves having such a name pinned on her.”

  “Oh.” His graciousness put Rebel off stride, Conrad saw. She said, “I didn’t really mean to insult her.”

  “I know that. It’s just that the two of you are from vastly different worlds. Pamela has been pampered and spoiled her whole life. She has much more in common with young Browning here.”

  “She can have him,” Rebel said with a smile. “I don’t want him.”

  Tarleton sat down in the chair Conrad had occupied, forcing the younger man to go around the table and take another chair. Tarleton still had hold of Rebel’s hand too. Conrad frowned. What in blazes was going on here?

  “As for myself,” Tarleton went on, “even though I lead a life of relative luxury now, I’ve done plenty of hard work in my life.”

  Rebel nodded. “I can tell that.”

  “Once you’ve lived a hardscrabble existence, you never forget it, no matter how much fortune smiles on you. You always remember the struggle, and how you had to be tough to survive.”

  “Damn right,” Rebel said with another nod, more emphatic this time. “Sounds like you and me think a lot alike, Mr. Tarleton, in spite of our differences.”

  “Call me Clark,” Tarleton said with a smile.

  Conrad had to make an effort to keep his jaw from hanging open. The two of them were . . . were flirting with each other! That was insane. Tarleton was old enough to be Rebel’s father. More than old enough.

  “Is your wife back East somewhere?” Rebel asked.

  “My wife passed away many years ago,” Tarleton said with a solemn shake of his head. “I’m a widower.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “The pain has pretty much gone away, l
eaving just the good memories. I will admit, however, that it was a challenge raising Pamela mostly by myself.”

  “Awww,” Rebel said. “I bet it was.”

  This was getting more ludicrous by the second. Conrad happened to know that after Pamela’s mother had died, Pamela had been raised by a series of governesses, tutors, and household servants. Tarleton had spent nearly all of his time in his office or traveling across the country to check on his widespread business interests. The man was a blatant liar.

  But Rebel was smiling now and so was Tarleton, and neither of them was paying any attention to Conrad. In an effort to nip this disturbing trend in the bud, he said, “How is Pamela feeling this morning? Is she going to come down for breakfast?”

  Tarleton glared at him, obviously not pleased with the interruption. “She doesn’t feel well. She’s just going to take coffee in our suite.”

  “Well, I . . . I hope she feels better later,” Conrad said.

  “I wouldn’t count on it anytime soon.”

  The waiter came up and asked, “You’ll be having breakfast, Mr. Tarleton?”

  “Yes, of course.” Tarleton looked at Rebel. “That is, if the lady will be.”

  “It’s already been ordered,” she assured him, not mentioning the fact that Conrad had ordered it for her.

  “Well, then, bring me my usual, George,” Tarleton told the waiter.

  “Yes, sir, right away.”

  Conrad sighed. His plan to hold on to his dignity and self-control had worked, he supposed. He wasn’t the object of ridicule now. In fact, no one was paying any attention to him at all. He was no longer worthy of notice.

  And to his great surprise, he found that that was even worse.

  Chapter 25

  It was a miserable morning for Conrad. Tarleton offered to show Rebel around Ophir, and to Conrad’s great vexation, she agreed immediately. He supposed they were going to continue their ridiculous flirtation. They were just doing it to spite him, he told himself. Rebel was angry with him over everything that had happened, and Tarleton felt that Conrad had not been properly respectful to Pamela. So they were working out their grudge against him by pretending to be interested in each other. It wasn’t going to work, he vowed.

  But despite his best intentions, he found himself wandering around Ophir, trailing them at a distance, keeping an eye on them instead of going on about his own business. It was maddening.

  The two men Brant had sent into the settlement found Conrad around mid-morning and reported that they had loaded on the packhorses all the supplies they had purchased. “We’ll be gettin’ on back to the camp now,” one of them said.

  Conrad knew they should have been on their way earlier. Probably, they had been sleeping off a night of carousing. However, he couldn’t summon up the mental energy to reprimand them. He simply nodded and said, “From the looks of those clouds over the mountains, there may be a storm brewing. Be careful.”

  “We sure will, Mr. Browning. Anything you want us to tell Mr. Brant or Mr. Morgan?”

  Conrad couldn’t think of any message he wanted to convey. He shook his head wordlessly.

  Tarleton and Rebel had lunch together in the hotel dining room. Conrad watched them go in, and decided he couldn’t stomach sharing another meal with them. He walked down the block to a Chinese restaurant instead.

  But before he could go in, he heard his name called and turned around to see a woman coming toward him on the boardwalk. She was around thirty years old and had bright red hair and a very erect carriage. Conrad recognized her immediately. He lifted a hand to the brim of his hat and nodded politely as he said, “Good morning, Mrs. McShane. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Hello, Mr. Browning,” Allison McShane said. “I heard you were back in town. Do you have any comment for the Ledger about the railroad line? A tentative date perhaps for its arrival?”

  Mrs. Allison McShane was the editor and publisher of the Ophir Ledger, the settlement’s only newspaper. It was unusual for a woman to occupy such a position, but her husband Evan was the one who had started the paper, bringing his wife and young daughter and son to New Mexico Territory a year earlier when Ophir was nothing but a raw, wide-open tent city. Evan McShane had gotten the paper started, and then promptly fallen ill of a particularly virulent fever and died, leaving his wife and children to make their own way in the world. Everyone in town had suspected that Mrs. McShane would take the young’uns and go back to wherever they’d come from, but instead she had decided to keep the newspaper going. As the town had grown and become more respectable, the Ledger had become more successful. Mrs. McShane was well thought of. She was soft-spoken and had impeccable manners. She also had a canny business sense and the nose of a bloodhound when it came to tracking down news. Conrad had no doubt that she knew all about the incident at the bathhouse, even though she wouldn’t write anything about it in the paper. She had more decorum than that. At least he hoped so.

  Now he shook his head in reply to her question and said, “No, I’m afraid not. Construction is progressing as fast as possible, but it’s still too early to say when the railroad will arrive.”

  “Surely you could hazard a guess.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Mrs. McShane smiled. “That’s fine. Thank you anyway.” She started to turn away, then stopped. “By the way, Mr. Browning, I’ve heard rumors that there have been quite a few problems during the construction. Sabotage, Indian attacks, things like that.”

  Conrad would have preferred to keep that quiet, but he knew better than to try to keep secrets from Mrs. McShane. Chances were she already knew what was going on, and if he lied about it that would only make things look worse.

  “There have been problems,” he admitted gravely, “but steps are being taken to correct them.”

  “What sort of steps?”

  I brought in my father, who happens to be a notorious gunman with the blood of scores of men on his hands. The thought went through Conrad’s mind, but of course there was no way he could say it. Instead, he just smiled and said, “I’d rather not comment on that right now. Discretion, you know.”

  “Of course.” She smiled. “But would this have anything to do with a man named Frank Morgan?”

  Conrad liked to think he had a good poker face, but he knew his features revealed his surprise at that moment. “Who told you—” he began, then stopped short as he realized she might be trying to trick him into an admission.

  “Frank Morgan is a famous man, Mr. Browning,” Mrs. McShane said. “I would imagine that it’s difficult for him to go anywhere or do anything without word of his actions getting around. What exactly is your connection with him?”

  Conrad took a breath and gathered his thoughts. “He’s an old friend of the family. He also owns stock in the New Mexico, Rio Grande, and Oriental.”

  “So he’s an investor?”

  “You could say that.”

  “A drifting gunman owns part of a railroad? A man who some say is a hired killer?”

  “He’s used his gun for money,” Conrad snapped, “but he’s never been a hired killer. He fought only for causes he believed in.” He wasn’t sure why he was defending Frank, but the words came out before he could stop them.

  “So you’re saying he’s an altruistic gunfighter?”

  “I . . . I just think his reputation has been somewhat overblown. I’ve always found him to be a . . . a gentleman.”

  “A gentleman and a scholar?” There was a mocking tone in the woman’s voice as she asked the question.

  “As a matter of fact,” Conrad said, “I’ve never known him to be without a book or two in his saddlebags. He’s quite well read.”

  “He sounds like a fascinating man. Will he be coming to Ophir? I’d like to interview him.”

  “He may be here at some time.... I don’t really know what his plans are.”

  Allison McShane smiled and nodded. “Well, be sure to introduce him to me if he does come to town. Thank you, Mr. Br
owning. I’ll let you go on about your business now.”

  Conrad tugged on his hat brim again. “Always a pleasure, Mrs. McShane,” he said, even though in this case it certainly hadn’t been.

  He ate lunch, and by the time he came out of the restaurant, the clouds to the south were thick and dark and thunder rumbled in the distance. It was raining down there, Conrad thought, but up here in Ophir the sun was still shining.

  His mood wasn’t very sunny, though. He saw Rebel and Tarleton on the opposite boardwalk, strolling arm in arm.

  To hell with them, he told himself. His frown was as dark as those thunderheads. He had business to conduct, by God, and he wasn’t going to let himself be distracted from it any longer by an old fool and a young hellion.

  * * *

  The railroad was going to need a depot when it arrived in Ophir. Conrad had his eye on a piece of land on the southern outskirts of the settlement that he thought would be a perfect location. He spent the afternoon talking to a local attorney who represented the owner of the property. Conrad knew he would have to pay a pretty penny for the land, probably more than it was actually worth, but he believed in getting what he wanted, no matter what the cost. He also had some discussions with carpenters and stonemasons, since someone would have to build the depot. By the end of the day, nothing had been settled, but Conrad felt that genuine progress had been made. He was in a better mood when he returned to the hotel.

  Pamela Tarleton was waiting for him in the lobby. She stood up from the overstuffed chair where she had been sitting and came toward him. It was too late to back out the door and pretend he hadn’t been coming in, Conrad decided. But Pamela was smiling and didn’t look upset with him, so perhaps everything was all right after all.

  “Conrad, darling,” she said as she took his hand. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

  “I’m sorry, Pamela. Your father said you didn’t feel well this morning, so I spent the day conducting business. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said as she linked her arm with his. “I know you have to take care of these things.”