“And he’s looking for a teacher,” Sheriff Bowman said around a bite of hot apple pie. “Tom declares he’s going to bring our children up to par with every child back east. He says he’ll go to Kansas City to fetch a new teacher if need be, but he’d rather hire a lady right here in Raton.”
“What about Miss Hutchinson?” someone asked.
Rosie was serving at a station near the sheriff’s table. As she poured cups of dark brown Harvey coffee, she leaned toward him to hear.
“Tom wants a married lady,” the sheriff said. “He needs a teacher who’s got roots, a gal who ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“I reckon Mrs. Poole might do a dandy job. Mrs. Poole or Mrs. Bell. Both of them’s got education.”
Rosie had knotted her fingers together behind her back and she wasn’t even trying to wear the Harvey smile. The men were right. Any number of married women in town could take that teaching position.
I’m the best teacher for the job, she wanted to shout. Oh, how could Bart Kingsley just swagger into town and wangle himself a good job? Nobody expected him to be married before hiring him. Well, Rosie was married! Legally married for six years, as a matter of fact.
And her husband was right here in Raton. If Bart could lie his way into town, convince everyone he was someone he wasn’t, get a job and claim land, why couldn’t she get what she wanted the same way? And if Bart—conniver that he was—could toy with her, why couldn’t she use him, too?
Her father had brought her up to be a moral Christian lady, but did that mean she couldn’t have what she deserved? Why shouldn’t she use a man who owed her for all the trouble he’d caused, a man who couldn’t risk anyone tattling to the sheriff about who he really was…a man who belonged to her in the first place?
“Buck!” the stable boss hollered. “A pretty lady wants to see you. Better step to it before she gets away.”
Surprised at the sight of Rosie standing in the doorway, Bart started across the hay-littered barn. He liked his work at the livery. The air was fragrant with well-oiled leather, sweet straw, fresh oats and dusty horses. Sunlight filtered through holes in the roof. It was a good place to be when so much was at stake.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said in greeting. He regretted his appearance—the sleeves of his blue chambray shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he knew his collar was damp. Wondering if he smelled like a horse, Bart brushed bits of straw from his hair.
“Buck, is it?” she asked.
He nodded as his boss headed toward the back storage area. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
She fixed her big brown eyes on him and took a deep breath. “You can do exactly what you promised six years ago before you ran off like a yellow-bellied coward. You can convince Thomas Kilgore that I’m your wife. I want to take a teaching position, and you’re going to help me. After that, I don’t care what you do with yourself.”
Bart rubbed the back of his neck, concerned that Rosie might have gone a little off kilter. “You say you want to be my wife? You want people to know I’m your husband?”
Her eyelashes fluttered a moment. “Just until I’ve earned enough money to buy a house. Meanwhile, you’ll take me out to that homestead you somehow got hold of and set me up comfortably. You’ll earn a lawful, decent living for once in your life. You will do as I ask, or I’ll march right over to Sheriff Bowman and tell him that you’re not Cheyenne Bill’s cousin and your name is not Buck. It’s Bart Kingsley.”
“Now hold on a minute—”
“I’ll tell the sheriff you’re the outlaw he shot that night when the Pinkerton detective was searching Raton. I’ll tell him you used to ride with Jesse James and you robbed three trains. All he has to do to get his fifty-dollar reward is stroll over here to the livery stable and put you under arrest. So you’d better do as I say and take me for your wife without a word of argument.”
Bart worked to hold back a bemused grin. “All right,” he said finally. “Since you put it that way, I reckon I could do what you ask.”
Her eyes widened as if she had expected a protest. Bart leaned one shoulder against the side of a stall and chewed on the end of a piece of hay. How could his little Rosie know that she’d just made his dream come true? He had risked his life by hiding out in the New Mexico wilds while his bullet wound healed. Then he put his neck on the line by confiding in Cheyenne Bill, returning to Raton, taking a job in as public a place as the depot livery stable and staking a homestead claim in Springer.
He’d done it all in the hope that he could someday take Rosie back into his arms forever. He had supposed it would take months, maybe years, to earn her trust. Yet here she was, commanding him to marry her.
But at what cost?
“You might get the fifty-dollar reward yourself,” he said. “Ever thought of that, Rosie?”
“I don’t want fifty dollars. I want that teaching job.” Her brown eyes sparked with determination. “I don’t have much time, so here’s what you’re to do. Come to the House tonight and ask Mrs. Jensen if you can take me to church.”
“Church?” Bart hadn’t been to church in years. As a boy, he’d spent many a Sunday sitting on the church porch listening to the preacher. His pals didn’t cotton to religion—never had seen much good in it. But Bart liked to hear the Bible read out loud. He liked what the preacher said, too.
Although he’d never had the chance to walk the aisle and proclaim himself a Christian, he figured he was one—in his heart anyhow. Of course, riding with the James gang prevented any churchgoing. The way he was living didn’t make Bart any too eager to listen to sermons.
“Reverend Cullen is a good man,” Rosie was saying, “and you need to try to prove you’re moral. You’ll court me every night next week. On Saturday we’ll take the train to Springer. When we come back, we’ll say we’re married.”
“We are married, Rosie.”
She shot him a look of fury. Before she could argue, he continued. “So, when you get that teacher job, you’ll up and walk out on your new husband? What will Mr. Kilgore and the school board say to that?”
“They’ll think I’m such a fine teacher that they won’t care a lick. Anyhow, I’m sure it won’t take you long to go back to your wicked ways, Bart. All you know how to do is rob trains and banks. You’ll get tired of sweating for your pay. A tiny dugout soddy, a field of sugar beets and a job shoveling horse manure won’t hold your interest. Everyone will understand why I left you.”
“What you really want to know is how long it’ll be before I get tired of you, isn’t it, Rosie?”
“You’ve left me twice, and I survived just fine.” She turned away. “I’m sure I can do it again, Bart Kingsley.”
Etta hammered on Rosie’s bedroom door at exactly seven that evening. “Laurie! There’s a man come to call on you. He’s talking to Mrs. Jensen, and you should see him!”
Rosie’s heart slammed into her ribs as she pulled a fringed shawl around her shoulders and opened the door. “I’ve been expecting him,” she said with forced calm. “We spoke today in town, and he asked to accompany me to church tonight.”
“He’s the best-looking fellow I ever saw!”
“Better looking than Stefan?” Rosie hurried down the hall.
“Stefan’s as cute as butter, but this man is so handsome it’s plumb dangerous!”
Rosie took the last step down into the lobby, caught one look at the man who stood waiting for her and realized he was no longer the wild man who had crawled out from under her bed. Bart Kingsley had begged, borrowed or stolen a starched white wing collar that framed his bronzed face. A fine black cutaway jacket and a new pair of trousers completed the transformation.
“Evening, ma’am.” Bart came toward her and held out an arm. “Mrs. Jensen has given me permission to escort you to church.”
Rosie glanced at Mrs. Jensen and noted the high color in the woman’s cheeks. Obviously the starchy matron wasn’t completely immune to the charms of a dashing man.
“Y
ou’ll stay with the others on the way to church,” she told them. “And you’ll have Miss Laura back at the dormitory at nine o’clock sharp.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bart tipped his hat as Rosie slipped her arm through his.
Joining a crowd of young men and women, Rosie and Bart left Harvey House and headed for church. She could feel the hard lump of his biceps beneath his jacket sleeve, and his bay rum scent wafted around her head.
“Nice night,” Bart commented. “It’s a grand moon. Brisk wind down the mountainside sure sets up a chill, doesn’t it?”
Rosie saw he was grinning at his own silly conversation. She rolled her eyes and gave him a sharp jab to the ribs. “It’s windy around here, all right.”
He chuckled as he led her up the steps. But as they entered the sanctuary, he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “You look beautiful tonight, Rosie-girl.”
Without responding, she made her way to the pew where she usually sat. But when she had seated herself, Rosie looked around to find that Bart had vanished. Not again! She whisked out of the pew and marched back up the aisle. Bart wasn’t going to pull this! Not tonight. Sheriff Bowman sat two pews in front of Rosie, and she would just tell him exactly who had escorted her to church.
But the moment Rosie set foot on the narrow porch, her heart melted. Bart was sitting on the stoop, his hat in his hands, just as he had when he was a little boy. With his head bowed, he was studying a small wrinkled Bible he had pulled from his pocket.
“Bart?” Rosie whispered. “What on earth are you doing?”
He lifted his head and smiled. “I figured I’d be more comfortable out here. Hope you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. You’re no outcast that you have to hide like this.” She crouched beside him, her blue dress billowing into a pouf. “Please come in and sit with me, Bart.”
“I’m Buck, and I’m a half breed. I won’t be welcome in there, no more than I was in the church back home.”
Rosie laid a hand on his shoulder. “Please,” she whispered. “You look fine tonight. Just fine.”
“Fine clothes don’t change the color of my skin, Rosie-girl. Much as I try to act decent, I don’t know about manners in church and other high-society places. My mama used to say poor people have poor ways. She was right. Now get on back in there where you belong, and I’ll meet you out here after the service.”
Rosie shook her head. She wouldn’t be the obedient little girl any longer. “I’m not going in without you, Bart Kingsley,” she told him. “Now get up and escort me like a gentleman should.”
It was a moment before he clambered to his feet and offered Rosie his arm. As they took their seats, it occurred to her that this was probably the first time in a long while that Bart had obeyed an order he didn’t cotton to. She knew it was the first time ever that he had set foot inside the lily-white walls of a church. But before she had time to ponder all this, he took her hand, wove his fingers through hers and bowed his head in prayer.
Chapter Eight
When the church service ended, Bart wished he could ease right out a side door and escape for a few minutes alone with Rosie. The last thing he wanted was to be hauled to the church door where Reverend Cullen stood shaking hands with everyone.
For one thing, Bart was feeling convicted. From the time he was a boy, he had known preachers could really lay a sinner out—and Reverend Cullen was no exception. After nearly two hours of the minister’s preaching that evening, Bart was squirming in his pew. He envisioned his transgressions stretched out across the heavens like a headline in The Raton Comet. Worse, he pictured God and the angels looking down on him and shaking their heads in disappointment.
Another reason Bart was hoping to bypass the preacher had to do with his uncertainties about trespassing in such a sacred place. If a half-breed Apache hadn’t been wanted in the Kansas City church, what would make Reverend Cullen welcome him now? In spite of his bath, shave and the fancy duds he had borrowed from the owner of the livery stable, Bart knew he looked just as much like an Indian as ever.
The third reason for slipping out of church was to talk to Rosie in private and get to the bottom of her feelings for him. He had never known her to be so downright cold. Miss Prim and Proper was in her element. If the angels were shaking their heads over Bart, they were smiling with pleasure at the uppity Laura Rose.
No doubt Rosie never felt a moment’s conviction all through that sermon. She didn’t have a single thing in her upright life to feel guilty about. As he made his way up the aisle, Bart steeled himself for the disapproval he would read in the preacher’s eyes. Sure, the elderly man had a handshake and kind word for everybody else. But Bart didn’t hold out much hope that he’d get the same treatment. He had seen too many grins dissolve into thin air when he walked into a room.
“Reverend Cullen,” Rosie said as she shook the preacher’s hand. “What a thought-provoking sermon. I was truly moved.”
“All credit goes to the Lord, Miss Laura.”
Rosie turned to Bart, who wished he could disappear. “Reverend Cullen, I’d like you to meet…”
“Buck Springfield,” Bart said.
The preacher stuck out his hand and grabbed Bart’s, giving it a firm shake. “Welcome to Raton, Mr. Springfield. I understand you’re Cheyenne Bill’s cousin.”
Bart glanced at the ceiling, wondering if he could be struck dead for telling two bald-faced lies right inside a church. “That’s right,” he managed. “We’re like family.”
“Splendid! I’ve done my best to lure that gentleman into church. Now that you’re in Raton, perhaps you’ll be able to convince him of the need for spiritual renewal.”
“I can try, sir.” Bart discovered he was still shaking hands with the minister. “But you know Cheyenne Bill is a hard, hard man.”
Reverend Cullen threw back his head and gave a hearty guffaw. “That he is! And you’re escorting Miss Laura tonight. A fine young woman. You couldn’t have chosen a better lady to court in this entire town.”
“I agree, sir. Well, that was a real nice sermon. Good evening to you.” Bart detached his hand and took Rosie’s. Feeling hot around the collar, he lunged out into the night.
Rosie was fairly running alongside him. “Bart!” she cried. “Slow down. What’s gotten into you?”
He shortened his stride and took a deep breath. “Did you hear what I said? I told him I enjoyed his sermon! He was preaching about sin and eternal damnation.”
Rosie grinned. “I always tell him I like his sermons, even when he’s been pounding the pulpit and shouting about Satan, iniquity and the fires of hell.”
Pondering this, Bart eased to a stroll and tucked Rosie’s arm inside his own. “I never met a preacher who’d welcome a man like me inside his church.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your bloodlines, Bart. And you certainly aren’t responsible for them.”
“But I am for all the other things I’ve done. If Reverend Cullen ever found out about my riding with the James gang and robbing those trains and being wanted in Missouri—”
“He’d treat you the same. He often quotes the Scripture where Jesus told a group of men who wanted to stone an adulterous woman, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Everybody’s done wrong, Bart. Anyhow, it’s a good idea to go to church. People will think you’re honest and upright. If Mr. Kilgore believes I’ve married a decent man, it’ll help me get my job.”
“You’re doing all this hoo-ha with me just so you can teach school, Rosie?”
“Of course. After all I’ve been through, there’s not a man alive who could persuade me to marry him for keeps.”
“Just because you don’t cotton to that doctor your pappy wants you to marry doesn’t mean another man wouldn’t treat you right.”
She glanced at him. “I hope you’re not referring to yourself, Bart Kingsley. You haven’t done one right thing by me since I’ve known you. Now you’ve come to live in my town, and you’ll probably mess things up
for me here, too.”
He stopped and pulled her around to face him. “What makes you so sure I’m going to mess up?”
“You haven’t let me down so far.”
He studied the tops of the cottonwood trees lining the street. Although the air was clean and fresh, his gut was twisted into a knot that grew tighter with every word from Rosie’s mouth. Sure, those big brown eyes called to him. Those sweet, full lips beckoned. Yet Bart knew that when it came to him, Rosie had a chilly streak a mile wide.
“You don’t believe I can lead a straight life?” he asked.
“Frankly, no. The last time you walked the straight and narrow you were seventeen years old. All your adult life you’ve been living on the wrong side of the law. Don’t tell me you can up and change just like that.”
“I reckon I could if I had a reason to.”
She pushed his hands from her shoulders and crossed her arms. “Don’t make me your reason to change, Bart. I remember the sweet words you said about me being the light of your life. Well, listen here. I’m not interested in being your light. If you want to change, go right ahead. I want my freedom and I moved to Raton to claim it.”
“What are you so all-fired hot about, Rosie?”
“You’ve tangled me up as usual. I don’t know why I let you talk me into that wedding nonsense when we were kids. I don’t know why you ran off and left me like you did, or why you tracked me down after six years. I don’t understand any of it!”
“Why don’t you just ask me?”
“Because I don’t trust a word out of your mouth.” Her voice quavered for a moment, as if she were struggling not to cry. “You can go on blaming your mama, your Apache pappy, the boys who teased you, the preacher who wouldn’t let you into church and everyone else for the way you turned out. But you’re an outlaw because you chose to be one!”
“Hush now,” he pulled her close, pressing her head against his shoulder. “You’re going to scare up the sheriff with all this carryin’ on.”
Bart knew he was bad. Gritting his teeth, he stared up at the moon and acknowledged the truth. He was a sinner in league with the devil. And he felt just as mean and nasty as she had made him out to be. A hot flame of bitterness curled through him as he thought about Rosie’s taunts and accusations.
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