by Tess LeSue
“Thought you said you was lost?” Brown Hat drawled.
Tom watched as Sister Emma deflected him, spinning prettily told falsehoods, looking for all the world like she’d just stepped out of church. He wondered if she’d have to do penance for so many lies. Unfortunately, despite all her hard work, the pistoleros weren’t swayed, and Tom and the nuns found themselves under “escort.”
“I’m George,” the fat one introduced himself cheerfully, as they all but herded the women southwest. Sister Emma was looking anxious. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the pommel of her saddle. He couldn’t reassure her because of his goddamn veil.
“Nice to meet you, George. And who’s your friend?” Emma asked, giving his quieter partner a wary look.
“He’s also George.”
Tom’s stomach sank all the way to his toes. George. And George. Hell. The English accent . . . He knew these two. Well, he knew of them. And none of it was good. Judging by the shock on Emma’s face, she’d heard of them too.
“Not . . . English George and Irish George, by any chance?” she asked weakly. Perhaps it was Tom’s imagination, but he thought her voice shook.
Sister Calla gave a squeak when she heard the names. Sister Emma seemed hopeful that he would reply in the negative. But of course he didn’t. That wouldn’t have matched their luck on this trip.
“You’ve heard of us?” The fat fool puffed up at the thought of it. He looked uncannily like a bird as he turned a bright eye on the nuns. But Tom was more concerned with the other George, who had dropped back to ride behind them. Damn it. He wanted to keep them both in his line of sight.
“Oh my.” Anna drained of color. She pulled Winnie closer and kept tight hold of her.
“Don’t let our troublesome reputations deceive you,” fat George continued, puffing up even further—if such a thing was possible. “We are, at heart, gentlemen.”
Tom doubted it.
“That’s a relief, English George.” Sister Emma made the right noises, but Tom could see that she was dubious too. Good. This wasn’t a man to relax around, or to trust.
The fat man gave a jovial laugh, even though his eyes were anything but jovial. “Don’t let the accent fool you, dear sister. I’m Irish George. English George’s over there.”
Tom and Emma both swiveled in the saddle and craned their necks to see English George at the back of their wagon, taking inventory of their belongings.
“So you’re Irish?” Emma was frowning as she watched English George coveting her goods.
“God no.” The fat man cleared his throat as Sister Calla fixed him with a black look. “Forgive my blasphemy, sister.”
Calla pursed her lips, oozing disapproval.
“I’m a Berkshire man.” Irish George turned his attention back to Emma. He clearly preferred her open curiosity to Calla’s brooding disapproval. “I’m from Reading.” He took in her blank face. “In England.”
“But . . . shouldn’t you be called English George, then?”
Irish George laughed, clearly relishing the attention. “When George and I took up together, people were already calling him English George. So to save confusion, I went by Irish George.”
“Even though you’re not Irish?”
Tom slowed his paint until the horse had dropped back to the wagon, so he could ride next to Anna and Winnie. Calla gave him a startled look but nodded when he gestured at Anna and the girl. Both were white with fear, whereas Sister Emma seemed to be coping just fine. In fact, the more Irish George kept talking, the more pep she seemed to have. Tom wasn’t too worried about her or Calla.
He rode stolidly by Anna’s side, and he could see her grow calmer, although she still had a death grip on the child. Winnie radiated fear, and Tom wished he could reassure her, but there was no way without giving the game up. He hoped his presence would help settle her a little.
He listened to Sister Emma conversing with Irish George, who clearly liked a natter. Tom was more concerned about English George, truth be told. From his vantage point next to the wagon, Tom could keep an eye on the man as he rode around them, taking a thorough inventory of their possessions. English George’s rifle was resting loosely across his saddle, but Tom could see he was ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Tom’s mind was racing as he tried to find a way out of this bind. No solutions were forthcoming, bar outright murder. And there was no way he could shoot both of them without the women getting caught in the middle. He’d just have to bide his time for now . . .
“English George didn’t sound very English to me.” Sister Emma was keeping Irish George distracted and amenable at least. She was clearly worried about what English George was up to as much as Tom was, as she kept turning to look back at the wagon.
“Oh, he’s not. I think his folks were Dutch.”
“So why ain’t he called Dutch George?” Sister Emma was sounding increasingly exasperated.
“Because he’s from London.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t English?”
Irish George laughed. “London, Ohio.”
“For the love of . . . Why on earth wouldn’t they call him Ohio George, then?”
“It’s supposed to be funny.”
“Well, it ain’t.” Her nerves were clearly fraying, as she sounded more than a touch irritated. “It’s just plain wrongheaded.” Tom hoped she could keep her composure.
“How old’s the girl?”
Tom had seen English George creeping up on the other side of the wagon, but Anna was startled into a soft scream.
“Hey,” Irish George called back to them, “I promised these ladies we’d be gentlemen, E.G. I hope you’re not making me out to be a liar.”
“He just gave me a shock, that’s all,” Anna said shakily.
“It’s a sin to startle nuns,” Irish George told his partner. Then he laughed. “And if it ain’t, it should be.”
English George didn’t respond. His gaze was riveted on Winnie. He was like a snake staring at its prey. Winnie shrunk back against Anna, and Tom’s finger tightened on the trigger of his pistol.
“How old?” English George repeated in his toneless voice.
“She’s just turned ten.” A thread of anger was shot through the fear in Anna’s voice.
“Why, we’ve been mighty rude, haven’t we?” Sister Emma swept in, turning her horse and trotting back to join them. “We haven’t introduced ourselves! And when you’ve been so kind to us.” She all but inserted her horse between English George and the wagon. Tom didn’t know how she did it, but she had an ability to control a conversation. She kept her voice bright and breezy, but he could see the way her tawny eyes narrowed. Under the naïve charm she was oozing, she was secretly seething.
“I’m Sister Emma,” she said brightly, “and this is Sister Calla and Sister Anna. We’re heading for our new mission at Santa María Magdalena de Buquivaba. The little one here is Winnie; she’s joining our . . . nunhouse.”
“Convent,” Sister Calla interrupted. “We take orphans who have felt the call of God.”
English George spat tobacco juice. It hit the wheel of the wagon. Winnie’s nose wrinkled.
“What about her?” he grunted, jerking his head at Tom.
“Doña . . . Elvira?” Sister Emma turned to look at Tom too.
Elvira? For the love of . . .
“Doña Elvira is a widow.” She was talking fast now. “She was ravaged by the pox that killed her husband.”
The woman was a consummate liar. Tom bet her knees were rubbed raw from all the atoning she had to do at the end of her hard day’s lying.
“As you can imagine, a pox-scarred woman of advancing age has no hope of another marriage.” She had quite a story for Doña Elvira. “And her husband—God rest his soul—left her in penury. So she’s going into seclusion at the . . . convent . . . in Magdalena.”
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss, señora,” Irish George said gallantly, even as his gaze slid over Tom’s black form. Counting the jet beads, probably.
“How scarred is she?” English George asked.
Tom couldn’t wait to hear.
“Dreadfully, I’m afraid.” Emma lowered her voice, ostensibly so Doña Elvira wouldn’t get her tender feelings hurt. “Scarred enough that I’ve seen grown men lose their lunch at the sight of her.”
Tom doubted there was enough penance in the world for all the lies she was telling. She actually seemed to enjoy it. Her green-gold eyes sparkled as she got into her story.
“Shame,” English George grunted, also giving Tom a once-over.
“Still,” Irish George chipped in, “there are so few women out here, she might find a husband. And she has a nice enough form. If she leaves the veil on, a man might not mind.”
Tom could have decked the bastard.
“Perhaps,” Sister Emma agreed, her sharp-cornered mouth twitching, “but I think the man in question might get a rude shock if the veil should ever slip.”
The man in question would get a rude shock even if the veil stayed on, Tom thought sourly.
“The girl’s wasted in a convent.” English George kicked his horse and rode ahead.
Tom almost swore. What did that mean? Nothing good.
“Now, George, remember ladies have sensibilities,” Irish George called after him.
Yes, George, Tom thought as he watched the man fish a spyglass out of his saddlebag and scan the horizon, ladies have sensibilities. Make one move toward that kid, and you’ll find out how keen those sensibilities are.
From the corner of his eye, Tom saw Emma whispering to Calla. Calla nodded and inched closer to Irish George. “You’re very kind to escort us,” Sister Calla gushed, all trace of her earlier disapproval gone. She led him ahead, just out of earshot of the wagon, peppering him with questions about himself. Irish George went along happily enough. He seemed the sort who was content so long as he had an audience.
“What are we going to do?” Sister Emma asked, once they were out of earshot.
“Get rid of them,” Tom said tersely.
“Yes, but how?”
“There’s only one how that I can think of,” he admitted, “and I suspect you ain’t going to like it.”
14
THIS WAS THE worst thing about being a nun. Worse even than wearing the hellish black habit. You had to be good.
She might get away with a little cursing and a little blasphemy, but she certainly wasn’t getting away with murder. Or even assault. Emma scowled at English George’s back. Normally, she’d have no qualms about dealing with men like the Georges quickly, violently if necessary. But now she was a nun. And what kind of nun would leave two men tied up out here? If it weren’t for Tom Slater, she’d be able to do as she liked. There wouldn’t be anyone expecting goodness of her.
She turned her glower on Tom. Damn him. She couldn’t make his face out through the veil, but she just knew he was expecting her to protest. So she had to protest. Because what kind of nun would agree to a plan like his? No kind of nun, that’s what. And he was looking at her, just waiting for her to come out with some kind of nonsense about forgiveness and mercy.
Men. Why did they always back you into a corner? And where was it written that women had to be the voice of reason? She didn’t want to be the voice of reason. She wanted to pull her Colt on the Georges for the way they’d strong-armed everyone. They’d had the nerve to corral the whole party, ignoring every last protest. No one wanted their damn escort! And then they had the gall to size Winnie and Tom up like they were pieces of meat. They were the worst kind of trail scum. And could she shoot them? No. Instead, here she was begging for their lives. It was enough to make a girl scream.
“You can’t kill them,” she said gracelessly, through gritted teeth.
“We’ll just tie them up and leave them here.” Tom was barely audible over the wind. His veil swirled around him.
I’ll get the rope, she thought. If there’s one thing whoring had taught her, it was how to tie a man up. But she couldn’t very well tell him that. So she braced herself and did the right thing. The Christian thing. Goddamn it.
“We can’t.” Ugh. It was hard to say the words. Wasn’t it possible that somewhere there were nuns who could tie a man up and leave him to his fate in the wilderness? Especially if he posed a mortal threat to them? Nuns who understood that some situations warranted hard measures? Nuns who had a bit of flexibility over what the right thing might be? Warrior nuns? They must have those? She’d heard of warrior priests—they had those in the crusades. Back in Moke Hill, Justine had a book about them. It was a romantic book that all the girls begged her to read aloud from when business was slow. They particularly liked the swoony bits. But aside from the lord and lady and mooning and swooning, there were knights in it . . . ones who were also priests. Or something. They’d gone rampaging through the Holy Lands. Which apparently was fine, because God wanted it.
So God could be flexible about these things. And surely, if He could see what was going on here, now, God would want her to tie these men up. Emma had enough experience to know thieves when she saw them. Rapists too. And why on earth would God want her and the girls to get robbed and raped? If she didn’t do something, raping and robbing was in the cards. She was sure of it.
“They’ll die if we leave them tied up out here,” she told Tom, not sounding entirely regretful about it. “The likelihood of anyone finding them before they die of thirst is pretty slim.” But maybe someone would . . . And God wouldn’t mind a little self-defense; she was certain of it. Maybe they could find a way to make sure someone found them . . .
But how? And if it didn’t work and they died . . . She didn’t think God would countenance murder. There was a whole commandment about that one. One of the important ones that people actually remembered.
Tom grunted. She got the impression that he didn’t seem too happy about the idea of murder either.
“You ever killed anyone before?” she asked, curious.
“Not that I know of,” he admitted.
Right. Murder wasn’t really in the cards, then. But there must be a way of dealing with the Georges . . . She racked her brains. Everything she thought of led to the very real risk of the Georges dying out here in the middle of nowhere. Or to them tracking Emma down and exacting revenge . . . Neither was ideal. There must be a way. And she’d better find it before they stumbled into the ranchero’s vaqueros and landed in . . . Oh.
“Now don’t get mad . . .” she warned, as excitement zapped through her, “but I think I have a plan.”
He groaned.
“Don’t be like that. It’s a good plan.”
“As good as the one where you asked the Georges for directions?”
She scowled.
“Or as good as the one where you dressed me up like a woman?”
“I’m good at plans,” she said hotly.
“According to who?”
“According to the fact that because of that dress you’re alive right now and not shot through by the Georges. They look the bounty hunting type.” Ha. She had him there. He went all sullen and quiet. Generously, she decided not to rub it in, and instead went back to telling him about her plan. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’ve decided God is on board with the tying up business.” She thought she heard a stifled moan but pressed on. “But I don’t reckon He’d be too happy if we killed them.”
“I bet.”
He wasn’t convinced yet, she could tell. But he would be. She had excellent powers of persuasion. “But if we make sure they don’t die, that’s fine. I think.” She chewed on her lip. “Even though they haven’t actually committed a crime . . . or done anything to us yet . . . except be pushy. And give me a bad feeling.” She si
ghed. “It probably is a sin to tie them up before they’ve actually done anything . . .”
“Think of it like moving a spider out of your bed before it actually bites you,” he suggested dryly.
She liked that. Yes. They were just a couple of spiders that needed moving along. By force. Because spiders didn’t go about moving on their own. And they certainly didn’t respond to sweet talk.
“There’s one thing I’m confused about,” he said.
“What?”
“Why did you say, ‘don’t get mad’? Tying them up was my idea in the first place. You’re just agreeing with me.”
“Oh.” She forced a bright smile. “Because we won’t be leaving them to die. We’re going to take them with us.”
“What?”
“Hush! Look, now you’ve gone and upset Irish George.”
It was true. The fat spider had turned and was frowning back at them.
“Not only did you speak, when you’re supposed to be mute, but you were loud,” Emma scolded Tom. “And you sounded like a man. How am I going to explain that?”
“I can help,” Anna suggested. She and Winnie had been still as mice, listening to every word. “Oh, Mr. George!” she called, in a deep voice. It didn’t really sound like Tom’s voice, but it would probably do. People were inclined to believe their eyes, and Irish George’s eyes told him he was looking at three women and a girl.
Irish George stopped and waited for the wagon to catch up.
“We need to stop for a moment. Winnie’s just told me she needs to go . . . well, you know. I told her to go last time we stopped, but do you think she listened?” Anna did her earnest best to give her voice a mannish timbre.
“Of course,” Irish George said. He was more interested in talking to Calla than listening to Anna. Emma wasn’t surprised. Calla was a very pretty girl, even if she was a nun, and pretty girls were hard to come by on the frontier. Maybe there was some way she could use his attraction to Calla . . .
“What’s going on?” English George was back, spyglass still in hand. He was scowling. It looked to be his fixed expression, judging by the deep ravines of his frown lines.