I can’t stop thinking about when he held me, and I felt wonderfully alive. He seemed to want me, but then he pulled away. I know he regrets that first intimacy between us, but something inside of me broke when he left me standing alone, my arms empty of his warmth. It must have been the whiskey. But for that, he would not have kissed me, and I would not have felt this wretched pain. I must dispose of it before it happens again, for I fear the result should he touch me like that once more.
Chapter
8
She was reading when Luke awoke. He glanced across the smoldering campfire, almost half-expecting to see that she’d gone. Instead, she sat fully dressed beneath the one shade tree their camp had to offer, a notebook spread across her lap and a thick volume in her left hand. She read quickly, turning pages with her thumb, pausing occasionally to mark something in her notes. There was an intensity about her that was fascinating to watch, even as her cold aloofness irritated him. Rising to his feet, Luke stretched, trying to gain her attention.
Nothing. She barely glanced up, then her eyes dropped back to her book and she was once more immersed in the words of some poet or philosopher. Luke found himself growing angry. Her coolness only increased his guilt, and made him overwhelmingly aware of the way he’d treated her.
“Good morning,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Hello.”
She dipped down into the book again, answering him only absently, as a clerk would when engaged with a column of figures.
“Any coffee left?”
Amanda shrugged. “I suppose there’s some in the pot. That is, if you didn’t use it all up last night.”
There was no sarcasm in her voice, but Luke knew what she meant. Snatching up the coffeepot, he poured out a cup of the thick, black brew, then glanced around for the whiskey.
The canteen lay just a few feet away. Lifting the metal container, he immediately noticed it was lighter. Damn. He hadn’t realized he’d drunk so much. And today, he could tell he would need a whiskey, just to deal with Amanda.
Luke opened the lid and turned the container over. A single drop spilled out. Shaking it, he stared as another drop sprinkled his coffee, but that was it. The canteen was empty.
“What the hell happened to the whiskey?” he bellowed at Amanda. He had drunk a lot, but not that much.
She looked up, her expression as serene as if she was attending a morning tea. “I dumped it out.”
“You what?”
“You heard me.” She continued in that same, dry, intellectual voice. “I decided that your ill-mannered behavior last night had to be due to some outside influence, particularly since you had made it abundantly clear that our relationship was to be strictly business. You violated the terms last night. My only recourse was to eliminate the source of the problem, if we are to complete this trip successfully.” She indicated the sodden ground beside her.
Luke froze, unable to decide if he should kill her now or later. “Amanda—”
“I think we should be riding.” She placed her books neatly inside her carpetbag, then stood up and faced him. “The sheriff will no doubt catch up to us if we wait much longer. Is there something else you wished to discuss?”
Everything. He hated the pain he saw in her face, pain from what she must have misconstrued as his rejection of her once more. But what could he say? “I didn’t sleep with you, Amanda, not because I don’t want to, but because I’m using you”?
She squared her shoulders and started bravely toward the horse and his heart went out to her.
“Let me help)—” Luke took a step toward the horse, then stopped as she threw him a murderous look.
“No, thank you. As Emerson once said, ‘Every man alone is sincere; at the entrance of a second person hypocrisy begins.
“Fine.” Luke gathered up his belongings, then swung up on his own mount. He was furious, with himself more than Amanda. Snapping on his makeshift reins—a pair of his own suspenders—he started for the trail, barely glancing back to see that she followed. She was there, perched on the horse, her body poker straight and unforgiving.
Thank God they’d be in Wichita that day. And then, the trail.
Sam Haskwell sat at the poker table, idly dropping the gold coins before him into a neat stack. Cold, handsome and ruthless, he’d made a fortune out of doing what occupied him right now—judging other people. “Find out what makes them afraid, what they are hiding, and who they are hiding it from,” a gambler had once told him. Sam thanked the man before he shot him, but never forgot the lesson.
“Hit?” the dealer asked. The other men, cowhands looking to increase their newly acquired pay and businessmen looking for diversion, glanced up expectantly at the dark-haired, moustached Irishman who sat beside them.
“Sure, Jack. Give me three.” Ignoring their smiles, Haskwell leaned forward, tossing the cards and scraping up the replacements. Born Sean Kelly on an Irish trade ship that New York refused to let dock for fear of tuberculosis, he’d entered Philadelphia as a boy and quickly learned the value of a pseudonymn. Philadelphia had taught him something else. As he watched his family struggle to make a living, hauling brick for the Main Line mansions, Sean had decided that he’d use his one talent to his best advantage.
It was a policeman who’d taught him to shoot, a cocky young Welshman who’d finagled his way onto the force and arrested Sean during the Philadelphia riots. The Welshman, taking pity on a fellow Celt, showed him the intricacies of the western Colt guns. Sean found that he had a good eye, and by the time he was eighteen, had killed his first man and was forced to head west. There, the same talent that would see him hanged in the city made him rich. He was careful not to get caught, to kill anyone who’d seen him shooting. So far, it had worked. Except for that woman who’d written that book…but even she didn’t concern him much. If Winters and Damien had done their job, the girl would be dead even now.
A blonde saloon girl giggled, then placed a full shot of whiskey before him. “You gonna play, handsome?”
Sam grinned, then turned to the men at the table. Three had folded, and the hand had gotten down to himself and a young sapling of a cowboy. The cowboy worked to look confident, though his pale, lashless eyes kept returning to the hand that Haskwell held. Grinning more broadly, Sam tossed in another chip, then displayed his hand.
“Damn.” The cowboy swore, his brogue as thick as Jameson’s whiskey. Haskwell chuckled, then added the young Irishman’s money to his own ample pile. Angry as the other men laughed, and flush full of whiskey, the cowboy got to his feet and drew his gun.
“All right, mister. You’ve been cheatin’. I’ll be wantin’ me money back, nothing else.”
Sam’s smile faded as the bar grew quiet. The boy’s gun trembled and he struggled to keep the barrel trained on Haskwell. The poker dealer stood up, and spoke to the young cowhand.
“Look, son. We don’t want this kind of trouble. No money’s worth it. Do you know who you’re threatening?”
“He’s cheatin’. Look at his face! I just want—”
The shot rang out before the boy finished the sentence. The boy jumped, his own gun discharging harmlessly. His Stetson fell to the floor, circled the boards, then stopped. It had a hole shot right through the middle.
“Next time, laddie, that’ll be your head.” Haskwell spoke quietly, though his tone carried a message that was unmistakable. “Jack, get him out of here.”
The dealer hauled the protesting cowboy out of the saloon, while the piano player resumed his music. The dealer threw the boy out into the street, then returned a moment later and wiped his hands on his pants.
“Sorry, boys. Ready?”
The players nodded, and Sam tossed in a coin. He felt the other men’s eyes on him, and the silent question that followed. He hadn’t killed the boy, and he could have. Why? Because the spaulpeen reminded him of himself at that age, or worse yet, the others he’d left behind?
You’re getting soft, Sean, you are, he berated himself
. It comes with age, this weakening of the heart Angry, he turned over his cards. He’d need to reestablish himself quickly. Before he lost his edge.
Luke was getting out. No question about it—as soon as they got to Wichita and Amanda hooked up with a family on a wagon train, he was going.
The thought comforted him even as the outskirts of the cattle town appeared in the distance, followed by the outlines of buildings silhouetted against the endless horizon. Glancing back, he saw the same disapproving expression on Amanda’s face that he’d seen all morning. Anger razed him, followed by the inevitable guilt. Damned spinster! There she sat, as straight as a child in the first row before a preacher, her hair pulled back and escaping in polished brown curls from her bun. If she wasn’t shaming him with a glance, she was spouting philosopher’s quotes, or spilling out his precious whiskey on the ground. As much as he wanted her land and the chance to start over, he was sick of it.
He’d get Haskwell on his own time and the rest be damned.
Feeling better now that he’d decided, Luke rode into town and dismounted his horse outside of the three-story brick saloon. He waited for her to join him, and as she slid from the horse, sending the animal a disdainful glance, he cleared his voice and broke the silence between them.
“Amanda, why don’t you go on and get a room? I’ll ask around about the wagon train.”
She stared at him, knowing what he wasn’t saying. He was leaving her. He refused to look her in the eye as he glanced back toward the saloon, as if already calculating the result of his freedom. None of it meant anything to him; not the night they had once shared, nor the bargain they had made. It wasn’t the first time she’d been shuffled off somewhere, an oddity to be exploited rather than loved. She’d forgotten how much it hurt.
“Where is the hotel?” she asked coldly.
“There’s a couple, but there’s a good boardinghouse at the end of the walk. Just tell Mrs. Mathers I sent you. I’ll make my own arrangements later.” Luke hated the way she stared at him. The sun glinted from her soft brown hair, and that damned curl that escaped from its knot, framing her face. She never looked lovelier—why did he have to pick this time to notice that?
“I see,” Amanda replied. “Goodbye, Luke.” She picked up Aesop and her carpetbag, then started across the street, her head held high and her shoulders squared. The cage started to fall and she scooped it up, trying to balance the rusty metal enclosure along with the bag. People stopped to watch the strange young girl, who was oblivious to everything except her owl.
“Amanda!” Luke started to go to her aid, but the look in her eyes stopped him.
“Please don’t bother on my account,” she said briskly. “I understand how you must feel. Not every man can keep a contract, even if it is what they call a gentleman’s agreement.”
“What?” Luke stared at her incredulously. “Who said—”
“And after you assaulted me last night, and forcibly removed my clothes, I have to assume you’re incapable of keeping your word.”
“Amanda.” Luke forced a smile, his teeth gritted. The crowd grew thicker as Amanda dipped into her bag and replaced her glasses. She looked at him the way a mad scientist examined a specimen about to be tortured. “Will you let me explain?” Luke continued.
“I trusted you,” Amanda said accusingly. Her eyes blazed. “Now I find that I am forced to agree with John Lyly. ‘Children and fools speak true.'” She turned, picked up her things, and marched toward the boardinghouse.
Luke heard the titters of the crowd, then felt their accusing glances as he stalked away to the saloon. Furious, his face flushed with anger, he entered the bar and ordered a whiskey.
He’d made the right decision. And the sooner he was out of this, the better.
Amanda collapsed as soon as she entered the boarding-house bedroom, for once neglecting Aesop and flopping the birdcage onto the floor. My God, she thought, what have I done? She had no doubt that Luke wouldn’t return—she’d seen that look before. It was the same withdrawal she saw on her parents’ faces when they finally decided to send her off to school.
She should have known better than to trust him. Her mind returned to the previous night, and she shivered with regret. She should not have let it happen. They’d had an agreement. Yet, he seemed to want it as much as she did until…Amanda couldn’t bear to think of the rest—it was much too humiliating.
Confused and upset, she did what she always did when life became unbearable. Reaching over the cage, she dipped into her bag and pulled out her notes. There, alone with nothing more than the paper as her witness, she spilled out everything she felt inside. What she thought about Luke, about the trip she would most likely now take alone, and what life was showing her now that she was free. Tears spilled out along with her feelings and she let them, wanting nothing more than to purge all of the roiling sensations she had felt for some time now. She wrote it all down—how she felt when Luke touched her, laughed with her, loved her. Finishing, she fell back against a worn rocking chair, mindless of the scratchy horsehair seat, and slept.
She awoke a short time later. The papers lay around her on the floor, a hurricane of splotched ink and pale white parchment. Picking up a sheet, she cringed at what she’d written, amazed that she had penned so much of her innermost thoughts. Embarrassed, she stuffed the work into the grate and quickly ignited the pile. Slowly, the flames took hold and the paper burned, the notes returning to a safe grey ash. When the fire began to die, she got to her feet. She needed time to think, and the room was beginning to close in on her. She would take a walk, wander around the town, and try to make sense of what she’d written.
And worse, what she was beginning to feel.
Butch and Damien entered the saloon and exchanged a grin. It was always a good night when Sam was winning, and the thick pile of chips stacked in front of the outlaw could mean little else. Chomping on a cigar, Damien nudged Butch, then sauntered toward the table.
“So life’s not treatin’ you too bad.” Damien gestured to the cards, then grinned at Sam, his yellowed teeth clamped to the cigar like a blunt holder.
Sam glanced up, gave Damien a sharp look, then quietly folded his hand. “I don’t suppose you lads will object if I call it a night, now would you?”
The dealer glanced at the other players, who shook their heads. None of them wanted to tangle with Sam, in spite of the fact that he had most of their money.
“That’s very friendly of you all. I’ll be down later if any of you want to get even. Until then, the whiskey’s on me.”
The tight-lipped smiles loosened, then a cowboy shrugged and slapped Sam on the back. Haskwell gestured to Butch and Damien, then made his way through the crowd to a thick red curtain covering the entrance to the back room.
Inside, he waited for the two men to enter. Instantly, his Irish smile vanished, replaced by a cold sneer that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than displeasure.
“What the hell are you two doing here? Didn’t I tell you not to meet me in public?”
“It was his idea,” Damien sputtered, indicating Butch. “We have news.”
“It had better be good news. I’ve had too many things go wrong the last few weeks. Did you take care of that little matter you were working on?”
Butch and Damien exchanged a glance. “No,” Damien replied. “We lost her.”
“What?” Sam rose from the chair he’d taken, his dark eyes blazing. He struggled to get his anger under control. “I hope this is a joke,” he said softly. “You’ll see I’m not in a funny mood.”
“Calm down,” Butch interjected. “She’s apt to die anyway. The girl’s got a gun with her. Luke something, they call him.”
“Now you listen to me.” Sam’s brogue thickened as he stared the two men down. “I don’t give a damn about a gun. I don’t care if the girl has fifty men helping her. I want her dead.”
“They’re on the trail,” Butch continued quietly. “They have no food, no supplies. They
’ve been run out of town by the sheriff. Not only do they have the law on their backs, but they’ve scarce a horse or water.” Butch grinned. “They won’t make it to Newton at this rate.”
“Fools!” Sam spat, slamming his fist down on a table. “I could make it, and so could you! I’m not paying you to leave her death up to chance! That Fess Tyson woman witnessed me shooting Haines, then wrote about it for chrissakes. All she has to do is show up, and the prosecution would have a field day. I should have shot her in Boston when I had the opportunity, but that landlady stuck to her like glue. Now she’s been warned.” Sam’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Butch and Damien. “Get out of here and don’t come back until you can tell me she’s dead! I want proof that Amanda Edison no longer lives! Do you understand me?”
Damien’s head bobbed quickly. “Yes, boss. We’ll get her, don’t worry.”
“Good. I’m warning you both.” Sam looked from one man’s face to the next. “You return with another story like this one, and it’ll be your last.”
She was gone when he returned. Luke strode into her room, alarmed at the silence that greeted him. Everything else had gone smoothly. The bartender at the saloon assured him that a wagon train would be leaving in the morning, and that they were looking for additional passengers to share the cost. The timing couldn’t be better. Amanda would be out of town before the sheriff or Haskwell could catch up with her. If she was lucky, Haskwell would not be able to trace her—in which case, Amanda would be free. But where was she?
His breathing slowed as he saw her carpetbag and the bird cage. She must have decided to take a walk or go into town for supplies. Amanda would never leave Aesop for any length of time.
Sinking down into a padded rocking chair, Luke waited for her to return. The picture of her walking across that street earlier wouldn’t leave him. He wondered what she was thinking now—if she was crying, or perhaps, even relieved. Glancing impatiently around the room for some other clue as to her whereabouts, he noticed a crumbled paper in the fireplace.
Wild Is the Night Page 9