He settled back and opened the paper. It was unfortunate this Miss Riley knew so much about Striker’s whereabouts. Maybe something had been leaked to the papers. He thumbed through but found nothing except a small paragraph focusing on Mendez’s latest foiled kidnapping attempt.
His mouth quirked.
Mendez didn’t have the success rate he used to. The knowledge almost made him happy. Almost, but not quite, because on the train a grizzled man had caught Trevor’s attention. Though the man pretended to look out a window, Trevor had felt his perusal.
The watcher had looked familiar, the stink of an outlaw settling about his person.
Trevor rubbed his chin. The man had gotten off at an earlier stop, but that didn’t keep his suspicions from being raised.
A clatter diverted his thoughts as a well-used wagon rolled up to the platform. Finally. He grabbed his traveling bag and sauntered over.
“’Bout time, old man.”
“Stock got out.” James, Lou’s cowhand, among other things, grunted and took the satchel from Trevor. He nodded toward the station. “That the girl?”
“Yep.”
They turned to look at Lou’s niece. She must’ve seen James’s arrival because she hesitantly picked her way toward them. Probably reluctant to believe she’d be riding in a wagon, if he had to venture a guess.
“While she’s getting settled I’ll grab some water for the horses,” Trevor told James.
By the time he lugged two pails over, Miss Riley was nowhere to be seen. He plopped the water in front of the team and squared his gaze on James. “Where’d she go?”
“Said she’s got luggage.”
Trevor glanced toward the station. Sure enough, she stumbled off the platform toting the biggest piece of luggage he’d ever seen.
Women.
Biting back annoyance, Trevor walked over to her. Apparently she thought pulling the trunk might work better than lifting it.
“Why don’t you let me handle this?” he said to the back of her head.
The trunk thudded to the ground. Miss Riley fell with it, sprawling in an unladylike heap. Faster than he could draw his Colt revolver, she bounded to her feet and frantically began brushing at her clothes.
“Mr. Cruz…?”
“We have the same destination. Allow me to help you.” He gestured to the trunk.
She stepped aside. “Thank you.”
They walked to the wagon, and he stowed her trunk in the back. He offered her his hand. She took it.
The warmth of her hand was discomfiting. With his help, she climbed easily into the back of the wagon where a blanket lay bundled near the bags, waiting for her.
She smiled down at him, her lips a soft curve in the deepening night, and for a fraction of a second he found himself tempted to smile back.
He released her hand, gave a curt nod and headed to his side of the wagon. Night had arrived and stars filled Oregon’s sky, lighting the vast openness surrounding them. He emptied the buckets and stuck them in the wagon next to Miss Riley, then hopped up to the front.
James snapped the reins. “It’s not proper-like for a lady to be traveling at night with two men. Best get moving before someone sees and starts yapping their mouths.” He spit a stream of tobacco juice toward the ground.
They set out, Miss Riley quiet and still behind him.
Was she thinking about Striker? Making plans to find him for that outlandish interview?
Trevor’s jaw clenched. As long as things remained in his control, Striker would never be found.
Chapter Two
Oregon might not be so awful. As the wagon lurched forward, the deep sea of stars speckling the night sky filled Gracie with awe.
Gracie grabbed a thick blanket and draped it over her shoulders, making sure it bunched behind her back to protect her from the rickety wagon sides. This was the oldest Studebaker she’d ever seen.
Mr. Riley and James sat at the front in silence. For a while the only sound was the occasional snort of a horse, the clop of their hooves and James spitting.
As James drove, Gracie wondered about Uncle Lou. She hoped he was interesting. She and her best friend Connie had discussed all the qualities he might have—humor, irony, mischievousness. Gracie liked to think of him as a funny old man, a little on the heavy side with tufts of hair sprouting from unlikely places. But he couldn’t be too old as he was her father’s little brother and Father was only forty.
Mother didn’t like Uncle Lou, and Father had nothing good to say about him. In fact, now that she thought about it, the reasons for their dislike had never been made clear. She had only heard Uncle Lou was unfitting, a rascal and irresponsible. He must be poor, also. Why else would he pick her up in some outdated wagon when he could send a motor vehicle?
His quirks, however, might very well work in her favor when she unveiled her plan to him.
After five minutes of interminable boredom, she decided to initiate a conversation. “Mr. Cruz, it is coincidental we’re heading the same way. Don’t you find it strange?”
“What I find strange, Miss Riley, is that you were able to keep your mouth closed for more than a minute.”
An odd gargled sound came from James’s direction, and Gracie frowned into the darkness.
“I don’t think it necessary to be so obtuse. Besides, you don’t need to address me as ‘Miss.’ You may use my Christian name. People call me Gracie.” She took a breath. “Do you live near Uncle Lou?”
More noises came from James and his shoulders began shaking uncontrollably. The sound of his hoarse wheezing filled the night air.
Alarm spiked through her, tingling to her fingertips. Was James suffering heart palpitations? She leaped to her feet, despite the bouncing floor, and grabbed the reins from his slack hands. The horses tensed and, sensing a strange driver, began to gallop. A miraculously recovered James jerked the reins from her hands.
“What’re you doing, woman? Are you mad?” His angry voice snapped at her.
Ears burning, she pulled the blanket over herself and huddled on the floor of the wagon. James hadn’t been having a heart attack, only a laughing fit. At her expense. What a rude man. And Mr. Cruz let her stand there and make a fool of herself.
Men from the West had bad manners.
Gracie shifted. Just because no one had taught these two how to act in front of a lady didn’t mean she would forsake her polite upbringing.
The temptation to pout passed. A few moments later she felt brave enough to pop her head out from beneath the heavy blanket. “My apologies, James, for stealing your reins. As I was asking earlier, are you my uncle’s neighbor, Mr. Cruz?”
“I manage things for him. My own home is half a mile from the main house.”
“You said nothing of your relationship at the station.” Silence greeted her comment. Frowning, she studied Mr. Cruz’s profile. He evidently didn’t wish to speak of his personal life.
Well, people were entitled to their secrets. She’d have to take care not to pry. Ignoring the curiosity that made her tongue itch, she forced a jovial tone. “My parents have called Uncle Lou a rascal.”
“Oh, he had his day, missy. He had his day,” James put in.
“I’m surprised he hasn’t provided a female escort. I feel perfectly safe with you but if this happened in Boston, my reputation would suffer.”
“This from the morning wanderer.”
“I didn’t say my reputation was perfect, Mr. Cruz.” Gracie smiled at the thought. Her torch-carrying for Striker had set tongues wagging. Her former beau Hugh disapproved immensely.
“Some say Striker lives out West, despite what you told me, Mr. Cruz. Others hypothesize the villain Mendez roams the Western deserts, too.” She gazed up at the sta
r-studded sky. “Do you suppose I might meet Striker while I’m here?”
“Doubt it,” James said.
Gracie set her chin. Perseverance would be the key. So would the coordinates Connie planned to send.
“You’ll like your uncle, Gracelyn. He doesn’t follow all the rules of society but he’s a good man.” Mr. Cruz turned and looked down at her, his profile outlined by moonlight.
Heart thumping a strange, uneven rhythm, she met his shadowed gaze. For a moment their connection held before he broke it by facing forward. A relief. She could breathe again. He incited such oddness in her.
Thank goodness she’d ended her relationship with Hugh. She’d had none of this attraction for him. In truth, their relationship was based on nothing more than the mutual machinations of their parents. They’d hardly courted before she spotted a betrothal announcement in the local newspaper. Aghast, she’d confronted her parents but they’d waved away her protests in favor of their own agenda.
Just thinking about how Hugh and her parents tried to swindle her into an engagement heated her blood. William and Edith Riley thought Hugh the perfect social match for their sole child, and Hugh’s parents were probably eager for all the money they imagined would come into the family.
Gracie sighed. She hadn’t benefitted by having an on-paper fiancé. Not even a real kiss. He pecked her cheek once before she’d seen the announcement. A most boring experience. She wanted a kiss like Connie had experienced. Connie said kissing was terribly exciting, but risky, and Gracie should wait until she was married to try it out.
But she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to grab life by the steering wheel and drive until she ran out of road. Connie was most likely right, however.
Gracie also wanted to please God. Pleasing Him was of the utmost importance.
“Are you still alive down there?”
“Yes, James. But just barely with all this bouncing around.”
“You almost made five minutes again.”
“The fact that I did not is your fault, you know,” she teased. “I’d really like to hear more about Uncle Lou.”
“Look, missy, ya gotta meet him to know him.” James cackled. “His stories rival a good Tom Swift tale.”
“How intriguing.” She smiled. “I enjoy Twain myself. He’s swell.”
“Silly women,” James muttered.
She waited for Mr. Cruz to speak, curious. But he didn’t say a word. “Mr. Cruz?”
“Gracie, I’ve been traveling all day. You’re a nice girl, but I’m tired and I don’t feel like talking.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “My apologies.” She arranged the blanket to make a pillow out of it and laid her head down. A nice girl indeed.
She was more than a girl—she was a woman. A capable, independent woman who didn’t need to rely on her parents or some unwanted fiancé for survival. And she’d prove it. Her fingers found the hidden pocket in her skirt and she squeezed, relief coursing through her when she heard the rustle of papers. She would find Striker and write an amazing article so the Woman’s Liberator would hire her as an investigative reporter. Then she’d tell Striker what she thought of him.
A man should know when a woman fell madly in love with him.
* * *
Gracie coughed. A cloud of tobacco-stained breath wrenched her from sleep, had her rubbing her eyes. She pulled herself to a sitting position and sneezed.
“We’re here, missy,” James said, straightening away from her. The wagon bounced as he jumped out and rounded to its side.
She rose, letting him help her from the wagon to the ground. Both Mr. Cruz and James had picked her up easily. Perhaps she wasn’t as heavy as she felt.
“What you got in that get-up, missy? Felt like I was unloading a sack of potatoes.” James guffawed.
Gracie shot him a glare and snatched her Dotty bag from his grubby fingers. She glanced around. Mr. Cruz was nowhere to be seen. It was rather rude to not help with the trunk. Then again, he did load it.
Annoyance passing, she looked around with interest. Her breath caught in her throat.
Flat land stretched before her, frosted beneath the lunar glow. Dotting the landscape were trees surrounded by a sea of flowing grasses and scrubs made turquoise by the moon. Long-fingered shadows reached toward rugged mountains on the horizon. A soft breeze fluttered through her hair.
This place felt different than Boston, more arid and vast, yet the pressure in her chest mimicked what she experienced on mornings she dared venture to the harbor. She was overcome with a desire to raise her hands to the heavens and laugh.
“You gonna stand there all night, missy? Bed’s a-calling.”
Gracie turned and followed James to the house, noting with a quiet thrill of relief that it appeared large and modern. She’d been secretly afraid her uncle lived in a shack with an outhouse. She didn’t know if they had outhouses in Oregon, but the West was a more primitive place than Boston. One could never know about these things.
A chill rushed through her and she shivered. “Is it usually this cold in September?”
“We’re heading into winter soon, maybe an early one.”
Although shorter than she, James walked faster, even holding her heavy trunk, and she hurried to catch up to him.
“It’s so dark already. Where’s Mr. Cruz?”
“Trev gets up early so he’s gone to bed down for the night. Lou’s waiting for you. You both talk more than a roomful of women. You’ll get on real well.”
“This is a beautiful home.” Gracie stopped to gaze at the splendid pillars that flanked each end of the porch. “You must see all kinds of animals. Do you have bears here?”
When James snorted loudly, Gracie tamped down her frustration. What a grumpy man.
They climbed the porch stairs, their steps a hollow clumping on the wood. The door looked to be made of heavy oak, with a diamond-shaped glass placed in the middle. Just like home. A sharp, unexpected pain of homesickness squeezed Gracie’s chest. Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She had a plan, and focusing on that was her best course of action.
She turned to James. “Does Uncle Lou own a telephone?”
James grunted and pulled the door open.
“I really need to reach Connie,” she continued, hoping his grunt was not a negative. She absolutely had to obtain those coordinates.
As they moved into the house, warmth embraced Gracie. James turned on the lights. When her eyes adjusted, she saw a young man standing at the end of the hallway, shaggy blond hair framing a handsome face and eyes like sapphires. He strode toward her, and Gracie realized he was not as young as he appeared from afar. Lines wrinkled around his eyes as his mouth curved into a mischievous smile. A light spray of scars pebbled one cheek, though she might not have noticed if she hadn’t been studying him so hard. He was the spitting image of Father, minus the gray hairs and stately air.
“Uncle Lou?”
“You look just like Edith.” He strode forward on long legs, though he stood only an inch or so taller than she, and grasped both her hands. “How was the trip? Not too boring, I hope. And the wagon?”
“Just fine.” She smiled at him. “No one ever told me I look like my mother. Do you really think so?” It was a compliment indeed to resemble a woman as attractive as Edith.
“I thought you were her at first.” He shot her a wide grin, exposing straight white teeth. “Let’s go into the sitting room.” He motioned to a door on her left. James, grumbling about being chauffeur, escaped through a door at the far end of the hall.
Gracie followed her uncle into the sitting room and settled on a couch. She glanced around. Comfort was the first impression she felt, followed by loneliness. The room looked barren of personal mementos. Curiosity stirred.
Gracie reached for a cookie off the platter. “Quite all right. I’m here now.”
“It’s a shame about this influenza going around. But don’t worry, my dear girl. You’ll be safe here.” The crackling flames from the fireplace highlighted an impish twinkle in his eyes. “Now let me tell you of my travels….”
They spent the rest of the evening together, eating as they talked. It didn’t take long for her to realize how alike they were. He talked quite a bit for a man, and she learned he’d owned his ranch for ten years and never intended to live back east again.
Uncle Lou delighted her. She could not fathom why Mother and Father disapproved of him. He regaled her with remarkably funny jokes and adventurous tales. Despite their camaraderie, she held back on unveiling her plans for finding Striker. When the hour grew late, he promised to continue his stories tomorrow and showed her to her room.
Weary, Gracie readied for bed. She grabbed the papers from the inner pocket of her soiled suit and set them on the bed. She washed from a small basin on the dresser, and then donned her undergarments. They were silk and, after the grueling day, their smooth coolness was a luxury that made her sigh. After recording the details of her day onto her notepad, she slid into the welcome comfort of bed. She slipped the articles mentioning Striker beneath her pillow.
Connie thought she was crazy, but Gracie couldn’t help but be intrigued by the elusive government agent. Rumors said he was an older man, and without conscience, but Connie’s cousin reported otherwise. According to her, Striker had rescued her from a band of uncouth men who’d snatched her from her very own backyard in California.
Gracie needed to secure an interview with him if she was ever going to break free from her parents and live her own life.
Snuggling against her pillow, she breathed deeply and prayed for success.
Love on the Range Page 2