A Wanted Man

by Linda Lael Miller

  Lark opened her mouth. Closed it again.

  Nodded.

  "Speak up!" Nell Baker ordered. "And why are you standing down there on the walk like a ninny?"

  Lark, intimidated at first, gathered her forces and marched up the steps, forcing Miss Baker to make way for her. "I helped take care of Lydia," she said. "A lot of other people did, too—Hon Sing and his wife, Mai Lee, especially. Mrs. Porter and a young man named Gideon Rhodes, too. And I am not a ninny."

  Except with Rowdy, chided the damning voice of Lark's conscience.

  She moved past Lydia's aunt and into the house. Only a single lamp burned in the entryway, glowing dimly on a side table.

  Miss Baker came in, closed the door smartly. "Mrs. Porter," she huffed, in a loud whisper. "Loony as a goose flying north for the winter when the whole flock's headed south."

  Lark set her hands on her hips, prepared to do battle on her landlady's behalf. But before she got a chance to lay into Miss Nell Baker good and proper, Lydia appeared in the dining room doorway behind her, dressed in a somber but costly little black velvet dress, surely provided by her aunt.

  Herbert Fairmont's funeral had been held that afternoon, Lark realized, thunderstruck. She hadn't even remembered when Miss Baker referred to her late brother-in-law, quite callously, as a "block of ice." While she had been thrashing about in Rowdy Rhodes's bed, Lydia had been mourning her father.

  "Aunt Nell says I can have a pony when we get back to Phoenix," Lydia announced. She looked pale and fragile and oddly stalwart, too.

  Lark went to the child, crouched to look into her eyes. "Darling, I'm so sorry I missed your papa's funeral. It was this afternoon, wasn't it?"

  "Lots of people came," Lydia said. "Mabel carried on something terrible, till Aunt Nell put her hands over my ears." She paused. "I guess you had to take care of Gideon. Mrs. Porter said he got shot." Her eyes grew enormous, and her lower lip wobbled. "Is Gideon going to die, like my papa did?"

  Lark took the little girl's hands in hers, squeezed them. "No, sweetheart. Gideon will be fine."

  Lydia leaned close, whispering now. "I still have the letter he wrote for me," she confided. "It's in my new reticule, the one Aunt Nell brought me. If I ever need him, he'll come for me, won't he? Like he said he would?"

  Lark's eyes filled with tears. "Yes," she said. "I'm sure he will."

  "Lydia," Miss Baker said gently, "you're taxing yourself. Let's get you into your cloak, and Evans will carry you out to the carriage."

  "We're going to stay at the Territorial Hotel tonight," Lydia said, clearly impressed. "I've never stayed in a hotel before."

  Lark hugged the child, kissed her cheek, then rose, looking back at Nell Baker.

  Miss Baker took a small, blue woolen cape from where it rested over the stair banister, draped it gently around Lydia's shoulders, raised the hood and fastened the cloth buttons. Kissed her forehead. "You're the image of your mother," she said quietly, "and she was as beautiful as a princess."

  Looking on, Lark knew by the woman's words and manner that Lydia would be safe with her and loved. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

  "Evans!" Nell Baker called. "What are you doing?"

  Evans appeared, dusting the crumbs of Mrs. Porter's rum cake from the front of his fancy coachman's coat. "The lady of the house offered me refreshment," he said, clearly unhurried. "And it would have been rude to refuse."

  "Carry Lydia to the carriage, please," Miss Baker said moderately.

  Evans scooped the little girl up into his arms. "Off to the ball, Cinderella," he said.

  Peering out from under the hood of her new cloak, Lydia waved goodbye over Evans's broad shoulder, and they were gone.

  Lark watched them go, feeling much as she had earlier when Rowdy rode out, figuratively trampling her heart under his horse's hooves. She cared about all her pupils, but she'd come to love Lydia somewhere along the way. Lydia and Gideon and Pardner—and Rowdy.

  Unexpectedly Nell Baker laid a hand on her shoulder. "Lydia is my own dear sister's only child," she said quietly. "I'll raise her well, Miss Morgan, and bless God every day for the gift of doing so."

  Lark swallowed. Nodded.

  Nell smiled. "And she'll never need to send that letter, either," she said.

  "You knew?"

  "I heard her telling Mrs. Porter about it," Nell answered. "He must be quite a young man, this Gideon."

  "He is," Lark said.

  Nell opened the door, paused briefly on the threshold, ready to leave. "Life is peculiar, isn't it?" she asked reflectively. "Why, from what little I know of Gideon, I wouldn't be one bit surprised if he came knocking at my door, in ten years or so, just to see how Lydia was faring."

  Lark smiled, imagining that faraway day, when Lydia would no longer be a child, but a beautiful young woman. Nell Baker had already gone when she replied, alone in the entryway, "Neither would I."

  Lydia sat obediently on a settee in the lobby of the Territorial Hotel, where she'd never expected to be if she lived to be as old as Noah, and watched as Aunt Nell spoke with the clerk behind the desk. Mr. Evans, meanwhile, carried in reticules and a small trunk, winking at her once, when she sagged a little for missing Miss Morgan, and making her smile.

  "Our best rooms are taken, I'm afraid," Lydia heard the clerk say to Aunt Nell. Then, dropping his voice to a loud whisper, which Lydia clearly heard even though she was some distance away, he added, "Mr. Whitman arrived this afternoon, you see. The railroad Mr. Whitman. He's out at the O'Ballivan place right now, taking a strip off Sam and the major both for not catching the men who robbed his train yesterday morning."

  Just then the big front doors slammed open, and a tall, gray-haired man strode inside, followed by another man dressed much like Mr. Evans. He had shiny black skin.

  Lydia tried not to stare, but she couldn't help it. She didn't take particular notice of the black man—Charlie, who ran the livery stable, was the same color, after all, and so were several of her papa's patients. No, it was the other man who intrigued her. He looked like a big, mean lion, an old one, with his hair bushed out around his head like a mane.

  "Thunderation!" he roared. "Isn't there a decent place to eat in this backwater town?"

  Aunt Nell gave him a long, disapproving look, which he noticed, but ignored.

  Lydia got up off the settee and approached him. Tugged at the sleeve of his coat. "My teacher says it's rude to shout," she said, "in public or in private."

  The lion-man looked down at her, scowling. "Sometimes," he said, "it's the only way to get anything accomplished."

  Lydia shook her head solemnly. "Miss Morgan says it's rude," she insisted.

  "Lydia," Aunt Nell said firmly, turning briefly from her business with the clerk, "sit down."

  "I'll be right with you, Mr. Whitman," the clerk called.

  Lydia returned to the settee, and was surprised and strangely gratified when Mr. Whitman sat down right beside her.

  "And what brings a child like you to the hotel?" he asked her.

  "My papa got buried today," Lydia told him. "And Lark—Miss Morgan, I mean—couldn't be there because she had to take care of Gideon. He got shot trying to keep a horse from trampling people right in the middle of the Cattleman's Hall. I'm going to marry Gideon someday. I've got a letter I can send him from anyplace, if I ever need help, and when he gets it—" She fell silent. Mr. Railroad Whitman looked as though he might be fixing to behave rudely again and yell. His face was all red, and his eyes looked like marbles stuck into the sockets, all gleaming and hard, same as the ones the boys played with at school.

  "Your teacher's name is Lark?" he asked, and though he didn't raise his voice, he splashed spittle in Lydia's face, the way Mabel had sometimes, when she was vexed.

  "I'm not supposed to call her that," Lydia said, watching as Aunt Nell collected keys from the clerk and handed them to Mr. Evans. She hoped she wouldn't have to sleep in a room all by herself; she was afraid she might have bad dreams about h
er papa. Mabel had told her once that sometimes people got buried when they weren't really dead, and then they woke up and tried to claw their way out of the coffin and through six feet of ground, too. "But that's what Marshal Rhodes calls her—Lark, I mean—and I like to say it sometimes because it's so pretty. Don't you think it's pretty, Mr. Railroad?"

  "Lydia," Aunt Nell said, coming to stop in front of where she and the lion-man sat, side by side, "our room is ready."

  Belatedly Mr. Railroad remembered his manners and stood. "Miss Morgan said a gentleman always stands when a lady is present. She made Terran O'Ballivan and Ben Blackstone and all the other boys do it once, at school, even though she'd just come out of the cloakroom."

  Lydia's throat tightened. She was going to miss Terran and Ben, and especially Lark. Not Beaver Franks, though. She hoped she'd never see him again.

  "I hope my niece hasn't been a bother," Aunt Nell said, taking Lydia's hand, starting toward the big staircase.

  "Marshal Rhodes?" the man muttered, as though Aunt Nell had not spoken to him at all.

  Lydia looked back at him. "His name is Rowdy," she called. "Not 'Marshal.'"

  Mr. Railroad Whitman looked even more consternated than before. "Wait," he blustered, hastening across the room.

  Aunt Nell paused, and her hand tightened around Lydia's, fair crushing the bones.

  'This woman—your teacher—where does she live?" He said to Lydia. "Here in Stone Creek?"

  Lydia nodded. Perhaps he had children who needed a school to go to and someone kind to teach them. She was eager to help. "She lives at Mrs. Porter's house," she said. "But she was at Rowdy's since clear last night. I'd have had to sleep by myself if Mai Lee hadn't put a cot in my room. Lark missed my papa's funeral, and I almost didn't get to say goodbye to her."

  "Lydia," Aunt Nell said. "Do stop prattling." Her voice was cool as buttermilk fresh from the spring-house when she spoke to the railroad man. "My niece is recovering from a very serious illness, Mr. Whitman, and she has had a trying day. We'll bid you a good evening, now." With that, she turned and started up the stairs in earnest, and Lydia had no choice but to follow, since her hand was still locked inside Aunt Nell's.

  She looked back once, though, over her shoulder, and saw Mr. Whitman turn to his companion, the one dressed like Mr. Evans. The two men conferred, in voices Lydia couldn't hear, and then Mr. Whitman turned right around and went outside, pushing the hotel doors open hard with his outstretched hands.

  Esau hurried after him. "Mr. Whitman, sir," he said hastily. "What is it?"

  "She's here," Autry said, the knowledge buzzing through his middle like a steam-powered mill saw, fit to cut him clean in half.

  Esau blinked, glanced nervously up and down the cold, empty Sunday-night street. "Who is here, sir?"

  Autry drew a deep breath, suddenly famished for air. He filled his lungs, felt revived. Even exhilarated. "My wife, Esau. My wife is right here, in Stone Creek."

  "How do you know that?" Esau asked, moving as though he wanted to take hold of Autry's arm and pull him back into the hotel.

  Autry jabbed a thumb toward the building. "That little girl I was just talking to in there happened to mention that her teacher's name is Lark."

  Esau had been jittery ever since the robbery yesterday morning. "At least come up onto the sidewalk, sir," he fretted. "We could be run down by some passing horseman."

  "Esau," Autry said, "do you see a horseman? Or a horse, for that matter? This is Stone Creek, not Denver."

  Esau appeared willing to concede that they were in no immediate danger of being trampled, but he was still jumpy as a frog in a frying pan. "It's probably just a coincidence," he said. "That the little girl's teacher is called Lark, I mean."

  "How many Larks do you know, Esau?"

  Esau gulped.

  Autry began to pace in front of a horse trough. There was a green scum floating on top of the water. Lark. The kid had clearly said Lark. And she'd mentioned another name Autry knew, too—Rowdy Rhodes.

  The marshal who'd come to Flagstaff with Sam O'Ballivan and the major the day before.

  She lives at Mrs. Porter's house, he heard the child say. But she was at Rowdy's since clear last night—

  Autry seethed, wanting to tear at his hair, wanting to rip the doors off houses, one by one, until he found the Porter place. Until he found Lark.

  So she'd spent the night with the lawman, had she? The one with the train-robber eyes. Damn, but he'd seen those eyes—above the mask of the man who'd entered his railroad car and stripped it of everything valuable.

  "Mr. Whitman," Esau pleaded. "Please come inside, before you catch the pneumonia."

  Images rushed into Autry's beleaguered mind.

  He saw the contemptuous amusement in the azure eyes of the train robber.

  He saw Lark—his Lark—naked, with her golden hair down, whoring with that marshal.

  And his blood seared its way through his veins, thumped in his temples, turned his vision to a fiery haze. He put his hands to the sides of his head, sure it would burst open.

  "Mr. Whitman," Esau pleaded. "Please come inside."

  Autry forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply.

  It was dark out.

  He was overwrought.

  He wanted to be clearheaded when he found Lark. He'd looked for her for so long, spent so much money, suffered an agony of humiliation every time some Denver matron patted his arm and made some pitying remark. He wanted to see her face clearly when she realized he'd caught up to her—not in the glow of a lamp. Not in a stray beam of moonlight. No, he wanted to see her in the clear dazzle of a winter sun.

  He would wait until morning.

  And when the morning came, he would head for Mrs. Porter's first, then the schoolhouse. If he didn't find her in either of those places, he'd head straight for the marshal's place, damned if he wouldn't.

  Turn over Rowdy Rhodes's bed and see who fell out of it.

  Mrs. Porter sat alone at the kitchen table, her hands folded prayerfully, gazing into empty space. Lark hung up her cloak, went to the stove for the teakettle and pumped water into it. Mai Lee was at Rowdy's, looking after Gideon, and Hon Sing was probably still at the saloon. The house seemed hollow without them.

  "I'll miss Lydia," Lark said, because it was true, and because she wanted to get a conversation started. The change in Mrs. Porter was disturbing, if not alarming. When had it begun?

  "He's going to kill me," Mrs. Porter murmured.

  Lark set the teakettle on the stove with a bang and hurried to the table. "Who, Mrs. Porter?" she asked.

  "I saw him today. After Dr. Fairmont's funeral. He was standing in front of the Territorial Hotel, smoking a cigar. I know he thinks I didn't recognize him, but I did."

  A chill danced down Lark's spine. She pulled a chair close to Mrs. Porter's and gripped the other woman's hand. It felt cold as a corpse's. "Who, Mrs. Porter? Who did you see?"

  Mrs. Porter looked at Lark, blinked, and her eyes cleared a little. "Why, Mr. Porter, of course," she said. "My husband."

  "You saw your husband at the Territorial Hotel?" Lark spoke calmly, but she wished Hon Sing would come home. On the other hand, there probably weren't enough needles in the whole of China to fix what ailed Mrs. Porter.

  The landlady nodded. Tears welled in her eyes. "He looked so handsome," she said. "In spite of all of it, I must admit my heart skipped a beat."

  The teakettle began to rattle slightly on top of the stove.

  "Didn't you speak to him?" Lark asked. The cozy kitchen seemed eerie all of the sudden, and she stopped wishing for Hon Sing's return and longed for Rowdy's instead. Rowdy would know what to do. He'd be able to charm Mrs. Porter out of whatever reverie she'd tumbled into.

  "Speak to him?" Mrs. Porter echoed, befuddled.

  Lark smiled determinedly. "You could have told him about the rum cake you made for his birthday."

  "But I told you, dear," Mrs. Porter argued, her voice light with pleasant indulge
nce now. "He means to kill me. Anyway, the rum cake's all gone."

  "Surely not," Lark said gently, meaning that Mr. Porter could not possibly intend to commit murder. Especially when the victim would be his own wife.

  "Of course it is," Mrs. Porter said. "Gideon ate three pieces, and that Mr. Evans, the one who came to get little Lydia, finished off the rest."

  Lark took a breath. "So much has happened," she said, in her most soothing voice. "Lydia being so sick. Gideon getting shot. You're exhausted, that's all. You'll feel ever so much better in the morning."

  "Wait and see," Mrs. Porter replied. "He'll crush my head with a shovel. Splatter my blood all over the walls." She paused, smiled brightly. "Is the tea ready?"

  It was after nine when the Franks place came into view, a run-down, hardscrabble dirt farm that would probably look worse in the daylight than it did under the moon. Seeing a cluster of horses out front, Rowdy drew rein under a shadow-draped oak tree to consider the situation.

  Wished he'd asked for more than directions, when he stopped at the livery stable on the way out of Stone Creek. He'd only met one Franks, and that was Roland. Now he wondered how many of them there were, and if the shack was some kind of watering hole for other drifters besides Speeks and Moran.

  He'd been so busy thinking about Lark, he'd let some things slip.

  He shifted, stood in the stirrups to stretch his legs and nearly jumped out of his hide when somebody landed behind his saddle, clasped a rock-hard arm around his middle for balance. He was still trying to control the startled horse when a pistol barrel was pressed into the base of his skull.

  "God damn it, Pappy," he growled, hoping the riders at Franks's hadn't heard Paint whinny in alarm. "I hate it when you do shit like that!"

  Payton laughed and lowered the pistol. "You'd better wake up, boy," he said. "Stop mooning over that schoolmarm and pay attention to business, before you get yourself killed."