“Don’t, Bart,” she said in a muffled voice. “I can’t endure any more broken promises.”
“I haven’t broken a single promise since I found you here in Raton,” he answered, but as he spoke the words, he shook his head. “Aw, Rosie, I know darkness hangs like a thunderstorm around us. I’m trying to comfort you, but things look about as bad as they can. I’ve done all I can to run off Ford and his pals, but they’re still in town.”
“Plotting a holdup? If you help them rob a train, Bart, your life is over.”
He shrugged. “Folks know Jesse James’s killer is in town.”
“Do they know you’ve joined him?”
“They know Buck Springfield is an acquaintance.”
“How long before one of the deputies remembers those wanted posters?”
“I’m not worried about that. I’m wondering how long it’ll be before one of Ford’s boys calls me by my real name.”
“If the Pinkerton men tracked me down,” Rosie said, “how long can it be before they follow the trail straight to you?”
Bart was silent a moment. “What about this feller who aims to become your husband? Your pappy locked you up in this room with every intent of taking you back to Kansas City tomorrow to marry you off to that doctor.”
Rosie brushed the tears from her cheeks. “What else can I do? What future can we ever have together?”
With a muffled cry, he pulled her close. “I love you, Rosie. You’re my wife, and I’m not going to let anything come between us. Nothing!”
“How can you say that? What hope do we have?”
“Rosie,” he said, taking her head in his hands and lifting her face to meet his. “Rosie, say you love me. Give me that tonight.”
A wayward tear trickled out of the corner of her eye. “I do love you, Bart. I love you with all my heart. If the darkness comes, Bart, remember that.”
With a groan of anguish, Bart hugged Rosie close. She slipped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. Oh, his breath was warm and sweet, and his skin smelled of rainwater! She tangled her fingers in his hair as he pulled the pins from the soft knot at the nape of her neck.
As the long hours of the night drifted away, they loved each other in the expression of promise and hope that only a husband and wife can know.
Chapter Nineteen
“Laura Rose.” The rattle of a key in the lock sent Rosie bolt upright in bed.
“Oh, no!” she cried in a hoarse whisper.
“What is it, darlin’?” Bart asked, sitting up in a tangle of sheets.
“Hush! It’s my pappy!” Rosie pushed him with all her strength. Bart rolled to the floor and began scrambling under her bed yet again.
“Laura Rose? I expected you to be up and packed by now.” Dr. Vermillion walked into the room just as Bart’s head disappeared below the edge of the bed.
She jerked her sheet up to her neck. “Pappy, you have entered my room without my permission.”
“I beg your pardon,” her father said. “I forget you’re no longer my little Rosie.”
“I’m far from that. I’m twenty, now.”
“Two or twenty, you’ll always be a child to me. Only a parent can understand that.”
“I do understand,” she said, thinking of the baby who even now moved inside her. “More than you know.”
With a chuckle, he shook his head. “We’ll see what comes of your marriage to Dr. Lowell, my dear. Now be dressed in fifteen minutes or we’ll miss the train.”
As he shut the door, Rosie hurried across the room and set a chair beneath the knob. “And stay out,” she added as a final note.
“Rosie, darlin’,” Bart said as he clambered out from under the bed. “That was a close one. I wonder what your pappy would’ve said to finding a man under your bed.”
“Better than in it anyhow.” She couldn’t help smiling, but as quickly as it had started, her smile fell away. “Oh, Bart, my pappy has my life all planned out.”
“Only God can map out a life, Rosie-girl. You stood up to your pappy pretty good if you ask me. It won’t be long before you convince him you’re no longer his little baby. You’re mine.”
“I won’t be if Dr. Lowell marries me. I’ve seen the man. I know his reputation. If he ever gets me alone—”
“No!” Bart caught her by the shoulders. “He’s not ever going to have you to himself, Rosie. No man but me will share your bed. I swear it. Now, get yourself dressed and keep that chair under the doorknob. I’ve got to take care of a few things with the boys, and then—”
“The boys! Bart, you aren’t going back to Bob Ford, are you?”
“Rosie, I’ve got to square things with him. What I have in mind won’t take more than an hour, and then I’ll come back here for you.”
“My father will get the hotel to tear down this door, Bart. Once he makes up his mind to do something, he does it. He searched half the continent for me, and he’s bound and determined to take me home. I can’t hold him off for an hour.”
“You have to. Use that gun I gave you if nothing else works.”
“But why can’t you take me with you? What are you going to do?”
He put a finger over her lips. “Don’t ask. If you don’t know what I’m up to, you won’t worry. And you won’t tell your pappy. This business is between me and Bob Ford. I’m going to take care of our future, Rosie—in every which way.”
“But what are you going to do?”
As images of Bart robbing a train flooded through her, Rosie tried to grab him while he pulled on his buckskin jacket and his denim britches. But he was already making for the window, and by the time she reached him, he was halfway out.
“Let me go, Rosie,” he said, taking her hand from his jacket. “It’s got to be this way.”
After kissing the back of her hand, he climbed through the window and skittered down the sloping roof. As she watched him leap down and disappear into a tangle of honeysuckle, she felt a thick lump form in her throat.
“Oh, Bart,” Rosie whispered. “You don’t know what you’ve just asked of me.”
She pushed down the window, and for a long time she stood gazing out at the mesas that ringed the town of Raton. This first day of July, a Sunday, would be blistering hot.
After morning church, children would play marbles and hopscotch in the cool shadows of their homes. Mothers would read from the Bible until their young ones napped. Fathers would drip with sweat as they tended their stock. Dogs would lie panting under wagons, and rattlesnakes would bask on burning stones.
Would this be the day Bart Kingsley robbed a train? Was that how he intended to settle his future with Rosie—in a flurry of bullets, a life on the run and easy money taken from others who had earned it the honest way? Did he think that her love would bind her to him, no matter what he did?
Gazing down at the opened box of cream candies, Rosie tried to picture herself living in such a world. Plenty of other women did, she knew. There was nothing so unusual about falling in love with an outlaw and following him on the trail until the law caught up with him.
Could she do it? Did she love Bart enough? She certainly did love him. There was no question in her mind about that. She certainly didn’t want to go back to Kansas City with her father.
If word about Bob Ford’s schemes got out, and if people learned about Bart’s past, Rosie would lose her teaching position. Traveling with an outlaw gang might be her only choice.
When she considered all the options, one thing took precedence. Her child.
Never, never would she bring a baby into a world of guns and fists, a life of tobacco smoke and whiskey, a home filled with cussing, quarreling and threats. Bart had not been brought up with a father and mother who loved and nurtured him. She was raised by a man who treated his daughter little better than some of his possessions.
But this baby, this innocent life inside her body, deserved the best she had to offer.
As Rosie stood by the window, she knew what her choice m
ust be. There was only one place where this child could receive love, security, nourishment, clothing, education—a future.
Clamping her jaw tight against threatening tears, Rosie began to dress. “Let me go,” Bart had begged. Although he vowed he loved her, he couldn’t escape the truth about himself. He wanted to be set free. He wanted his old ways, the life he knew best—Let me go.
“Yes, Bart,” she whispered as she drew her shawl around her shoulders and pulled the chair out from under the doorknob. “Because I love you so, I’ll let you go.”
At seven forty-five the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe engine pulled out of Raton station. Steam blanketed the windows, and chunks of burning coal shot from the firebox as the train gathered speed on its way to Denver. The whistle blew, and the turning of the wheels settled into a rhythmic click on the tracks.
Rosie sat wedged in the corner of a seat in a passenger car, her eyes shut and her throat working hard to swallow the thick lump lodged in it. As hard as she tried to block all sound, all sight and every sense in her body, she couldn’t help but hear the voices of the men who sat nearby.
“Railroad stocks are up, you know,” a passenger told her father. “I’m thinking of investing some capital myself, and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line has impressed me greatly.”
“With round-trip tickets to Kansas City at twenty-five dollars, she’ll be bringing in a pretty penny.” Rosie’s father tapped the newspaper in his hand. “You should speak with Mr. W. F. White. He’s the general passenger agent and a good friend of mine. He could give you the inside story.”
“What about this Harvey fellow? I hear he’s taking over restaurants all along the line. Clever idea, if you ask me.”
“Indeed. He used to hire men to service his eating houses, but it seems they haven’t worked out as well as the women he’s using now. Mr. Davis, the hotel proprietor, told me that Raton is where Fred Harvey first hired women. It seems he was having a difficult time keeping his male employees in line. The changeover worked so well, he’s converting all his staff to women.”
“Makes sense, of course,” the other man concluded. “Women belong in roles of servitude. It suits their God-given nature best.”
“Naturally. Of course, Harvey will want to retain his male chefs. I’m told he imports them from the continent.”
“The continent! Maybe the Harvey Houses would make a good investment. You can’t deny he’s positioned to expand.”
Rosie wished she could fade into the upholstery of her seat. It was obvious the men hardly noticed she was there. Having accomplished his aim of rounding her up like a lost cow, her father had switched his focus back to business.
He didn’t even seem to remember that she herself had worked for Fred Harvey and would have an insider’s view of his operation.
Oh, she felt ill again! Though she longed to look outside, she couldn’t bring herself to sit up. It had been terribly difficult to see for the last time the townspeople she loved so dearly.
The hotelkeeper had intercepted her in the foyer with word that a message had come for “Buck.” Rosie had forced a smile and said she’d let him know. But of course she couldn’t. She would never see Bart again. Even if he returned to Kansas City, she couldn’t let him near. Her heart was too fragile and their child’s life too precious.
How difficult it had been to leave the hotel and stand on the railway platform for the last time. Etta had waved at Rosie from inside the dining room, where she was serving breakfast. The baggage boys called her name as they scurried to load the train with trunks and parcels. The owner of the livery stable inquired as to Buck’s health. She gave him a brief greeting as he hurried on.
They were all behind her now—Raton and the people who had brought her the only freedom she’d ever known. Somewhere behind her, Mr. Kilgore and his wife were dressing for church. They would check in on the classroom before climbing into their buggy. Reverend Cullen would be studying his sermon notes.
Cheyenne Bill, now a regular at church, would button on his new white collar and comb his hair the way Rosie had taught him. Mrs. Wade would visit her son Manford’s flower-strewn grave. Tom and Griff would sniff the ground around one of the saloons, then dig beds in the bare dirt and settle in for a long snooze.
It had been a good time, hadn’t it? Rosie thought. In spite of the ups and downs, the uncertainties and worries, she had been happy in Raton. Very happy.
The best and most poignant memories were of her days with Bart Kingsley. She thought of their little homestead. Were the chickens up and scratching in the dirt? Had the morning glories bloomed on the tree by the river? Were jackrabbits peeking through the fencing around her kitchen garden as dew evaporated from the heads of lettuce?
“Butchers’ cattle are scarce this summer,” Dr. Vermillion told the passenger in their car. “Thirty-five to forty dollars, I hear. Milk cows run from thirty to sixty according to quality, and yearlings are going for eighteen to twenty-two. My stock will be up—well up. As a matter of fact, I’m finding myself constantly on the lookout for new investments. I’m considering the purchase of some fine art pieces for the house. I may make an excursion to New York or possibly Paris. I imagine I can solicit any number of suitable traveling companions from my club. The only problem I’ll have is taking time away from my office.”
“I see your visit out west has whetted your appetite for adventure, Dr. Vermillion.”
“A trifle.” The man laughed and Rosie realized what a contrast it was to Bart’s deep chuckle.
They’d had had such fun, teasing each other and laughing—never mind that they were adults and led a responsible life on their farm.
Oh, those sun-sprinkled days! What would Rosie ever do without them? What would she ever do without Bart? And the child…never to know a good father, one who tickled and romped and played.
Of course she would never marry Dr. Lowell. Rosie’s pregnancy and the ensuing baby would take care of that problem. The esteemed physician with a rumored reputation as a bully would doubtless refuse to consider honoring their arrangement. That alone eased Rosie’s heart.
She squeezed her eyes shut and laid a warm hand on her stomach. Bart would have made a good father, no matter if he had gone back to his outlaw ways. He was a tender and kind man, and he knew just how to ease a troubled spirit. It was true, too, what Bart had promised Rosie. He had protected her. He had provided for her. And he’d kept her secure. He would do the same for a child—she had no doubt about that.
“Hams are running eighteen to twenty cents a pound out here in the territory,” Dr. Vermillion was saying, “and dressed pork is at ten.”
“No!”
“I should say so. If I had my books here, what I couldn’t do! The love of money may be the root of all evil, but it keeps a man climbing to the top, you know.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Rosie’s father joined the other man in laughter as the train chugged into a tunnel and darkness fell over the car. It was a long tunnel, and the intensity of the gloom silenced the passengers and made Rosie open her eyes.
Utter, utter blackness. A shade of ebony she could not recall in the darkest of her dreams. And this was how Bart had described his life without her.
Oh, Bart…
What did it really matter that he had unsavory pals or a wicked past? She recalled Dr. Kohlhouser’s reminder that no one was perfect, not even her pappy. Without Bart, Rosie knew her life would be as bleak and empty as this dark tunnel. Surely God’s hand hadn’t brought them together again only to tear them apart. In Kansas City, she and her baby might be safe, but what joy would there be in a world without Bart? Without love?
“Pappy,” she said, opening her mouth for the first time since the train left the station. “Pappy, I must speak with you.”
“Laura Rose, what is it? This is only a tunnel. Are you afraid?”
She stood, swaying in the darkness. “I’m not afraid. Not at all. And I’ve come to a decision. When the train stops at the
next station, I will get off. I’m going back to Raton where I belong.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her father’s hand clamped over her wrist, but she shook it off. “There are things you don’t know about me, Pappy. Things you can’t understand and never will. For six years you’ve denied the truth that I was already married when Dr. Lowell spoke for me.”
“Laura Rose!” the physician exclaimed as the train emerged from the tunnel. “You are imagining things.”
Rosie saw his face as light filled the car. “I married Bart Kingsley six years ago, and you know it,” she stated firmly. “I’m a married woman, and what’s more I am now carrying his—”
“A holdup!” someone screamed from the front of the car. “It’s a holdup! We’re being robbed!”
“Robbed!” Cries of dismay flooded the car as the passengers scrambled to the windows. The train began to squeal to a halt, and great clouds of steam billowed from beneath the engine.
As it lurched to a sudden stop, the passengers in the crowded car were tossed back and forth, jerked and shaken like rag dolls.
“A holdup! Look—gunmen!” Rosie elbowed her father aside and stuck her head out the window. Sure enough, three men on horses had surrounded the engine. The engineer was climbing down from his station, and the fireman had leaped from the box. Expecting strangers with bandanna-covered faces and armloads of weaponry, Rosie was dismayed to see men she recognized instantly.
“Bob Ford!” she gasped. “And Snort and Fancy! Oh, no—not this train, Bart! Not this train!”
But her hopes died as the door to her car banged open and Bart Kingsley climbed aboard, his six-shooter drawn. Striding past the cowering passengers, he doffed his hat.
“Morning, folks,” he said, handling the gun with an absent air. “Sorry to trouble you. Hey, there, Rosie-girl.”
“Bart!” Wide-eyed she watched him walk toward her, his towering form a startling contrast with the smaller men who hovered protectively around their wives and children. “Bart, don’t do this!”
“Don’t do what?” He stopped, a puzzled expression on his face. “We’ve come to save you, darlin’. Don’t you want to be rescued?”
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