A Stone Creek Collection Volume 1

by Linda Lael Miller

  Payton considered the idea. “You’d come down there, when you could, and fetch back your horse?”

  Rowdy sighed. “That’s what I intend to do,” he replied, still brushing Paint. “And if you try to steal him, I’ll track you to the far ends of hell. You’ve got my word on that.”

  “Sounds like you care more for this horse than your old pa,” Payton lamented.

  “I’d trust him a sight farther than I would you,” Rowdy said. Damn, he hated to lose that horse, even for a few months. And it was a long trail down to Haven and back, one Pardner couldn’t be asked to undertake again.

  Explaining the black gelding wouldn’t be easy, either. Once Paint and Pappy were gone, he’d say he’d swapped with some cowpoke passing through, but folks were bound to ask themselves, and each other, why he’d done it. Samson was aging, like Pappy, but Paint was in his prime, and Rowdy loved him almost as much as he did Pardner.

  For a moment, he rested his forehead against the gelding’s neck, saying a silent goodbye.

  Pappy, meanwhile, slapped Rowdy on the back and made a stab at fatherly concern. “I’ll leave the horse in Haven,” he said. “You’ve got my word on it.”

  Rowdy glared at him. “He’d better be waiting when I get there, Pa,” he said. “Because I’ll stake you out on an anthill, naked and slathered in honey, if he isn’t.”

  “I believe you,” Pappy said, and he looked like he did.

  “When do you plan on leaving?” Rowdy asked.

  “Tonight, if this thaw holds,” Pappy replied. He looked earnest now, even sincere, and his voice was low and quiet. “You look after Gideon. See he goes to college when the time comes. Ruby and me, we’ve already paid for it, and he can earn his keep doing odd jobs around the school. Don’t let him play deputy past time, or fall in with bad companions.”

  “Bad companions,” Rowdy repeated, raw because his horse was going away and he wasn’t. Because Chessie and Wes were dead before their time, and little Rose, too, and because innocent children like Lydia had stepmothers like Mabel Fairmont. “Now, that’s almost funny, Pa, coming from you.”

  “You’re just bitter,” Pappy accused, disgruntled again. “And it ain’t very becoming, either.”

  “You’re damn right I’m bitter,” Rowdy replied, but he was already weary of sparring with his pa. His mother had been right, years ago, when she’d said there was “no salvation” in arguing with Payton Yarbro. The poor woman, she’d seen salvation everywhere she looked, it seemed, but as far as Rowdy could discern, she’d never quite reached it. Just the same, he wished he’d had the same gift.

  He’d glimpsed his mother’s true salvation once, though—in John T. Rhodes. Trouble was, both of them had been too upright to take what was offered them.

  “Anything you want me to say to your brothers, should I cross paths with them?” Payton asked, eager to ingratiate himself in any way he could.

  “Yeah,” Rowdy answered. “Tell them not to rob trains.”

  * * *

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, just after dawn, Lark awakened to a world so glittery and fresh-skyed that she wanted to sing with sudden joy.

  The snow had softened to slush.

  Exuberant at the weather change, and because she knew now that Autry had not crushed the music out of her soul after all, she crept out of the bedroom behind the kitchen, careful not to awaken Lydia, and found Mrs. Porter and Mai Lee already up and around. Mai Lee was unwrapping a parcel at the table, while Mrs. Porter poured copious amounts of what looked and smelled like rum into a huge bowl of batter.

  “Mr. Porter liked lots of rum in his cake,” she explained.

  Lark was drawn to the package. “What’s this?” she asked, drawing up alongside Mai Lee to look. Inside the sturdy brown-paper wrapping were two little flannel nightgowns and two equally tiny woolen dresses, one brown, one dark blue. Mai Lee must have purchased them the day before, when she was out of the house for several hours.

  For a moment, seeing the dark, practical colors, Lark was reminded of boarding school, and some of the delight she’d felt on waking seeped out of her.

  “For little girl,” Mai Lee said, pleased. “Mrs. Porter, she pay. Put on account at mercantile.”

  Lark’s gaze shot to Mrs. Porter, who lowered her eyes modestly.

  “It was my Christian duty,” the landlady said, blushing. “Nothing more.”

  “It was a very kind thing to do,” Lark said, very softly.

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Porter said, sounding brisk now as she went back to preparing her rum cake. “Mr. Porter always maintained that charity begins at home. ‘Ellie Lou,’ he would say, ‘we must see to those less fortunate than ourselves.’”

  Lark wanted to hug Mrs. Porter in gratitude, but she sensed that the other woman would not welcome such a demonstration, so she simply said, “Thank you.”

  “You’d better hurry,” Mrs. Porter responded, with a little sniff. “You don’t want to be late for school.” At Lark’s hesitation, she added, “Mai Lee and I will tend to Lydia. And you’ve got your supper at the O’Ballivans’ tonight, don’t forget. The road out to their ranch will be muddy, to be sure, but probably no strain on Sam’s team and wagon.”

  Lark’s swooping heart rose skyward again at the reminder of her upcoming visit to Sam and Maddie’s place. Until Mrs. Porter offered to care for Lydia in her absence, she’d been resigned to sending her regrets. “You’re sure you won’t mind—after all, Lydia still needs a great deal of care.”

  “You will go to that supper,” Mrs. Porter said, cordially firm, “because I want to hear all about it when you get back. What was served. Whether there’s real china, or tin plates, like Sam would have used if he was there by himself. What Maddie’s done to that ranch house since she and Sam moved in. Are there curtains on the windows? And especially whether or not she plays Abigail Blackstone’s spinet.”

  “Abigail Blackstone?” Lark frowned, searching her memory, but she didn’t recall ever hearing the name before.

  “The major’s daughter,” Mrs. Porter clarified. Another little sniff followed. “She died very tragically. Abigail was the dearest girl, though she never came to church.”

  Lark’s heart took another dive, steep enough to leave her breathless, but she recovered quickly. She had to, for she had a long day ahead of her, classes to teach, followed by the journey to Sam and Maddie’s ranch and an evening of gaiety.

  She hurried upstairs to her old room to wash and dress and pin up her hair. She would wear her blue silk frock, she decided, even though it was unsuited for teaching. There might not be time to come home and change before Sam came to fetch her after school.

  Forty-five minutes later, she unlocked the schoolhouse door, went inside, humming a song she’d once sung full-voiced, built a fire and proceeded to ring the bell, putting all her weight into pulling the heavy length of rope dangling from the little belfry.

  To her disappointment, only four students came to school.

  Gideon.

  Susan and Mary Sommerville, whose father was the local undertaker.

  And Roland Franks.

  Roland glowered defiantly at Lark as he entered the schoolhouse, stomped over to her desk and set down her lard-tin lunch pail and lesson books with a condemnatory thump.

  She smiled at him, determined to smooth his ruffled feathers and get him to wade through his McGuffy’s Reader again. “Roland,” she said cheerfully, “I’m so glad you changed your mind about coming back to school.”

  “I still think you ought to go to the dance with me,” Roland said, unappeased.

  Gideon sat up a little straighter in the chair behind a desk that was much too small for him. Before, his attention had wandered; now he was obviously listening.

  “I had already accepted an invitation from Marshal Rhodes when you asked me,” Lark lied patiently. “And, besides, it really wouldn’t be right for you and me to socialize. After all, I’m your teacher. Such things simply aren’t done.”

  Roland’s
neck flushed crimson. “A teacher down by Phoenix married my cousin Albert,” he informed her. “Albert was in fifth grade at the time.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lark saw Gideon frown.

  “Be that as it may,” Lark said warmly, “I’m not interested in marriage, Roland—to you or anyone else.”

  “Not even that marshal?” Roland asked suspiciously.

  Gideon sat up even straighter, and a little smile, reminiscent of Rowdy’s, quirked at the corner of his mouth.

  “Not even the marshal,” Lark said. Then some imp of the perverse made her say, “I did hear that Mabel Fairmont was looking for a husband, though.”

  “Maybe I’ll see if she wants to go to the dance with me,” Roland said, ruminating. The change in his countenance was even more unsettling than his previous aspect had been.

  “Roland, I was merely being—well, I shouldn’t have spoken so lightly of such a serious matter. Mrs. Fairmont just lost her husband, and it would be highly improper to ask her to a dance when she’s barely begun to mourn—”

  As if Mabel Fairmont intended to waste any time mourning.

  “I’ve got to go,” Roland said decisively.

  The Sommerville girls twittered.

  Gideon watched the exchange between Lark and Roland with pensive amusement.

  Roland strode out of the schoolhouse, bent on his mission.

  Lark set her elbows on the top of her desk, buried her face in her hands and groaned aloud.

  Within five minutes, Roland Franks would be pounding on Mrs. Fairmont’s front door, with marriage on his mind.

  What had she done?

  CHAPTER 12

  FOR AUTRY WHITMAN that third train robbery was the final outrageous, insufferable insult.

  When word of it reached him in Denver, he’d ordered his private car coupled behind a locomotive and stormed onboard. Now, on a bright Friday morning, he was steaming southwest, toward Flagstaff, with a trail of passenger and freight cars rattling along the track behind him.

  The passenger cars were emptier than they should have been—word of the holdup had already spread, and folks were afraid to travel. Fewer passengers meant less revenue, a condition soon to be reflected in Autry’s bank balances.

  And that would not do.

  He meant to meet with the Rangers and as many other law enforcement officials as he could corral, which was plenty, given the extent of his influence, political and otherwise, and demand immediate action. By God, this was America, and a man had a right to run a railroad without being molested by a pack of no-account hoodlums and ne’er-do-wells.

  No one treated Autry Whitman like this.

  No one save Lark McCullough.

  Bile seared the back of Autry’s throat, sour and scalding. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glowered out the window at a snowy landscape. He’d have an accounting from her, some fine day in the near future, and it would be a memorable one, too.

  Especially for her.

  Why, he’d found her in a San Francisco show house, cavorting for a lot of seamy strangers in a scanty getup, and he’d been stricken at the sight of her—not with love, Autry didn’t believe in such fatuous sentiments as that—but with the desperate need to possess her. He’d given Cyrus Teede, the owner of the gentleman’s club, twenty-five thousand dollars, and even at that price, Teede had been reluctant to sell.

  He’d known what he had.

  Lark. The golden songbird. The smiling Jezebel. On top of what he’d given Teede, Autry had spent a fortune to outfit her as a decent woman, befitting his station in life. He’d taken her home to Denver, knowing full well what she was, all her clever trickeries aside, and she’d played her part well.

  For a while.

  Then she’d begun the little rebellions. Talking back to him. Wearing blue when he’d specifically told her he liked her best in red. Giving his hard-earned money to street urchins. Finally she’d tried locking him out of her bedroom.

  And he’d thrashed her for it, same as he would a disobedient hound or a balking horse. It was his right as a husband, as head of his household.

  Three days after that, the songbird had flown.

  Autry’s right hand tightened into a fist. He’d find her, that was for certain. Divorce or no divorce, she was still his property. The little chit couldn’t elude him forever—he had too many competent men out searching for her, spanning the whole West like a great, long-fingered hand.

  Autry looked down at his fist.

  He’d told the Pinkertons, and a few private agents, too, that he wanted to find Lark so he could tell her all was forgiven. Set up living arrangements for her, if she wouldn’t come back to him.

  But the truth was a little different.

  Lark had humiliated him, far and wide.

  And she would pay for it.

  Once he’d taken care of business in that upstart cow town, he might even pay a call on an old friend, a local named Ruby Hollister. Ruby was a woman of singular talents, as he recalled, though he hadn’t seen her in many years, and she knew how to lift a man’s spirits.

  Among other things.

  Autry might have smiled in anticipation, if the trail of his thoughts, having turned a bend into the area of female favors, hadn’t led right back to Lark.

  Beautiful, golden-haired Lark, with a singing voice suited to her name.

  She owed him. He’d rescued her from a seamy environment, willing to overlook all prior sins, and he’d been generous, too. Given her everything a woman could rightly want—starting with the title of Mrs. Autry Whitman—and plenty besides.

  She’d lived in one of the finest mansions in Denver. He’d hired a maid for her, and she’d never so much as washed a dish or made up a bed.

  Her clothes were the best to be had, some sent from as far away as Paris, France. He’d decked her out in jewels, too, and asked only one thing in return—that she stand at his side, in public and private, as his wife.

  Why, he hadn’t even minded when she spurned his advances in the bedroom. There was a considerable difference between their ages—Autry would be seventy in May, while Lark had been just shy of twenty-five when he first laid eyes on her.

  She’d done a lot of living by that time, though.

  He’d known she didn’t love him and, well, his intended assignation with Ruby aside, there were times when he couldn’t do much besides set Lark on his lap and paw at her. She’d endured that for a long while, but Autry was no fool—he’d seen the revulsion in her eyes, even though, in the beginning, she’d tried to hide it.

  When he had been able to attend to his husbandly duties, hoping to God to sire an heir, she’d lain stiff beneath him, like it was an ordeal. Considering where he’d met her, that was harder to take than the rest of it.

  He could have accepted even that, so long as she played the part of an adoring wife in front of Denver society, and he had to admit, she’d done a good job of that—until the day she ran out on him during his best friend’s funeral.

  He closed his eyes, remembering.

  He’d come home after the ceremony expecting consolation, and found her gone. Gone. At first Autry was too stunned to credit it. After some investigation, he discovered that Lark had told Phillips, his manservant, some cock-and-bull story about her sister taking ill, and the damn fool had driven her to the railroad station without a single quibble.

  Trouble was, Lark didn’t have a sister. She didn’t have any family at all.

  Except him.

  Ten days after her departure, Autry had received divorce papers by courier, from some lawyer in San Francisco. Enraged, needing to take the shock out on somebody, Autry had sent Phillips packing, and he’d made sure nobody in Denver would hire him, too.

  Then he’d wired the Pinkertons in California, and had agents dispatched to pick up Lark’s trail there. But the lawyer hadn’t parted with any information at all, save to say Lark had left the city days before and had not shared her intended destination.

  When Autry p
rotested, also by telegram, that he had not agreed to divorce, the lawyer had responded with such immediacy that he might have been standing right in the telegraph office when Autry’s wire arrived.

  “Divorce granted,” the answer said. “Special circumstances. Mrs. Whitman asks nothing in the way of financial restitution and requests that you do not attempt to contact her again.”

  Autry still read that telegram sometimes, in the privacy of his study back in Denver, but only when he’d fortified himself with brandy and ire first.

  “Mrs. Whitman asks nothing in the way of financial restitution.”

  As if he’d have given her one red cent, after what she’d done to him.

  And he most certainly meant to “contact” her. It was only a matter of time until he’d have the satisfaction of doing just that.

  But first he’d deal with those robbers.

  Autry leaned forward slightly in his plush seat, willing the train to go faster.

  * * *

  LARK SENT GIDEON and the Sommerville girls home an hour before school should have let out, but she stayed at her desk instead of going back to Mrs. Porter’s, reading and waiting for Sam O’Ballivan to come and fetch her in a wagon, the way Maddie had said he would.

  At four o’clock she heard the distinctive sounds of a rig and team, clattering up outside.

  Eagerly, smiling a little at the things Mrs. Porter had instructed her to find out, she banked the fire, donned her spare cloak and rushed to the door.

  A buckboard waited outside the gate, pulled by a pair of bay horses, but Mr. O’Ballivan wasn’t holding the reins. Rowdy was.

  The shadow of his hat brim, at which he promptly tugged with a practiced motion of one hand, covered most of his face. His impudent grin was clearly visible, however.

  Lark froze on the schoolhouse steps.

  Rowdy gave a visible sigh, climbed down from the wagon box and paused to open the gate.

  Lark hesitated a few moments longer, then marched toward him, chin high, skirts swirling.

  They met in the path, midway between the gate and the schoolhouse door.