Never Love a Lawman

by Jo Goodman

  Rose took the bottle and put it to her lips. Her nose wrinkled a little, but it was a mild reaction compared to Foster’s earlier one. She tipped the bottle and her head and swallowed. Her features puckered as though she’d sucked on a lemon, and she shivered slightly in the aftermath, but she remained standing and presented herself as no worse for wear.

  Foster took the bottle back and dismissed Rose. He watched her walk away from him, then turned his attention to Rachel. “I thought you would stop her,” he said.

  Rachel had been on the verge of doing just that, but she doubted Rose would have forgiven her. “Why would I? There’s hardly a person in Reidsville that doesn’t use it regularly this time of the year.” Affecting indifference, Rachel returned to her seat. She smiled coolly at the lawyers, both of whom had turned in their seats to observe. Confident now that Foster had been sufficiently challenged, and could hardly do less than follow Rose’s example, Rachel surreptitiously sought out Rose’s hand and squeezed it.

  Foster lifted the bottle in the manner he might lift a wineglass in preparation of a toast. “Cheers.” Then he drank.

  Rachel tried to gauge how much of the liniment he swallowed, but it was difficult to see through the cobalt glass at her present distance. It seemed to her that he had taken enough to begin to notice the effects within the half hour.

  Foster stoppered the bottle and put it in a drawer. He drew a handkerchief from his jacket and touched it to the corner of each watering eye.

  Watching him, Rose was moved to say, “It settles better in the stomach than it does on the tongue.”

  Grunting softly, Foster shoved the handkerchief out of sight and sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes momentarily and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The sway of the train was like being rocked in a cradle. “Why the hell aren’t we picking up more speed?” he demanded of no one in particular. “It’s downhill to Denver, isn’t it?”

  Wyatt and Will drove the posse hard. Not everyone who volunteered was used to riding at the pace Wyatt set, but no one complained. They had been chosen for more than their riding skills. Catching the train was only the first step. Stopping it, holding it, and getting Rachel and Rose off it accounted for the whole of what they had to do.

  Occasionally a thin cloud of smoke would rise in the distance, evidence of the engine’s progress through the mountains. Wyatt and others gauged their own advance against where they believed the train to be. As the eddy of smoke and ash became thicker and darker, they were able to judge the number of miles that separated them.

  They traveled routes that no train could, trails that were familiar to Wyatt and Will from their weekly rounds of the vast mining property. While Foster’s engine was forced to sometimes take a meandering path because of the steepness of the grade, the posse was able to take a more direct course. They lost time going around the trestle and made it up when they carefully picked their way through an abandoned tunnel.

  “Can we get ahead of them before Brady’s Bend?” Will asked. He anxiously watched a curling ribbon of smoke rise above a long stretch of pines.

  Wyatt tugged on his scarf, tucking it under his chin so Will could hear him. “I don’t think so. Just beyond it, though, we might.”

  “The Bend’s better.”

  “I know.”

  “Let me take a few men. Some of us can ride harder. Faster.”

  “And do what when you get there? You don’t know anything about explosives. You could bury the train. Derail it. We need everyone, Will. Everyone.”

  Rachel and Rose huddled together, sharing their body heat as best they were able. The private car had a stove, but Foster was warm and decided everyone else must be as well. When Mr. Maxwell suggested adding coals for the comfort of the women, Foster ordered him to the next car. His quick departure seemed to indicate that he did not mind going.

  Mr. Dover returned to report that the safe would be ejected from the train when they reached Brady’s Bend. Foster merely raised his hand to indicate approval of the plan and gestured to the accountant to return to his seat. Dover glanced around, his mildly questioning look directed first to Mr. Stuart, then to Rachel and Rose, to provide some indication of what had transpired in his absence. No one spoke.

  With the shades drawn, the gloomy interior of Foster’s private car accurately reflected the mood of the passengers. Rachel did not find herself heartened by the beads of perspiration that she observed on Foster’s upper lip. He was uncomfortable, not unconscious, and it was the latter that had been her goal. Occasionally he would close his eyes, but for the most part he watched her and Rose with an intensity that she found unsettling.

  “Why did you agree to come?” Foster asked suddenly.

  Rachel blinked, surprised that he was addressing her after so long a silence. She couldn’t fathom why he was asking the question now. “I didn’t realize that you were offering me a choice.”

  “Pennway and Barlow said you didn’t argue.” He jabbed a finger in Rose’s direction. “Your fellow whore, on the other hand, raised a number of objections.”

  Rachel felt Rose’s gloved hand press lightly against hers, and she understood it as a warning that she needed to remain reasonable and restrained. She drew a short, calming breath. “I’m weary, Foster. Weary of the conflict between us. My decision to come with you is not motivated by anything more than that and the small, lingering hope that you can be saved from yourself.”

  “Saved? What can that possibly mean?”

  “You’ve surrounded yourself with men who have subjugated their best judgment to your whims.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Stuart cock his head to better hear the conversation. Across the way, Mr. Dover sat up straighter.

  “I have no idea if you chose them for that weakness in their character or merely eroded their will over time. I am actually sympathetic to their position, having found myself in a similar one where you are concerned. The decision to leave rather than surrender my soul was difficult and not without sacrifice, and I certainly do not hold myself up as an example for others to follow. I merely point it out because I’ve had reason to wonder if leaving was the right thing to do. It was clearly the prudent thing, but perhaps it wasn’t right.

  “When Mr. Pennway and Mr. Barlow informed me that I had to accompany them to the train, I knew they had no legal standing to force me. I also knew they would do it because you’d ordered them. Your willingness to resort to abduction, to face charges of the same, was an indication to me of how impaired your thinking had become. The fact that no one among your advisers was stepping forward to put a hold on your actions was equally alarming. I have not been able to determine if their silence is because they’ve abandoned the last vestige of good sense or if they’ve conspired to abandon you.”

  Foster’s gaze rested briefly on his attorney, then moved to his accountant. Neither met his eyes. He returned to Rachel, who met him squarely. “You’re saying that they wanted to see me charged with abduction?”

  “It’s a possibility, isn’t it? But I came willingly, and there are witnesses to that fact, so there can be no charge. The same cannot be said of the bank robbery. Do you see now, Foster? You bought and bullied your closest advisers into saying and doing nothing, but what does it mean? Who can you trust now that everything’s been turned on its head?”

  Foster rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders. Neither action relieved the tightness in his skull. “You make a compelling argument, Rachel, but then you studied at the feet of the master.”

  She sighed and ignored the barb. “I want a resolution to this matter of the mine and the spur. We both know what your grandfather wanted, but if you must have it settled in court, then I have no objection to having the case heard.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she said flatly. “You have no tolerance for waiting, Foster. For anything. If you had been willing to remain in town a few days longer, Judge Wentworth would have arrived from Denver to listen to th
e arguments. We would be done. Done with all of it.”

  “You mean everything would be settled in your favor.”

  “I mean it would be settled. I don’t pretend to be able to predict the outcome, but I believe the law favors my case.”

  He snorted, then winced. He pressed one hand to his temple again. “We’ll see what the court in Sacramento has to say.”

  Rachel shook her head. “No, we won’t. That’s what you’ve failed to understand. I’m not going that far with you.”

  Foster’s mouth thinned, but he did not take issue with her assertion. Instead, he growled a directive at his attorney. “Find out why the hell we’re going so goddamn slow.”

  Will held his mare to a walk, falling back from the others, and raised his field glasses to examine a section of the track below them. Lying not four yards from the rails in the midst of a cluster of boulders and three feet of snow was something that simply didn’t belong. Its flat black color among the gray stone and virgin snow was what caught Will’s eye, but it was the sharp, clean lines of the object that roused his curiosity. It could only be man-made.

  Holding the glasses to his eyes, he tipped his head to the side to study the thing at another angle. It wasn’t entirely visible, but there, just above the snow line, he could make out the first two distinctive gold letters of the Hammer & Schindler safe.

  He dropped the glasses and called to the rest of the posse to hold. He pointed down the hillside and told them what they were all straining to see.

  Andy Miller shook his head in disbelief. “Now, why the hell would they do that?” No one answered what each one of them supposed was the bank teller’s rhetorical question. Their silence prompted him to ask another. “Do you have any idea how much that weighs?”

  “How much?” Sam Walker asked.

  “Dunno.”

  Wyatt intervened. “We have to leave it for now. They’re through the bend. That okay with you Andy?”

  “Sure. It’s bound to be empty.”

  “All right,” Wyatt said. “Let’s go.” He started out, Will beside him again. He glanced over at his deputy. “Good eye, Will.”

  Will shrugged. “I’m thinking I want to go down there and take a look at it.”

  “Why?”

  “I got a bad feeling is all.”

  “Neither Rose nor Rachel is in that safe.”

  Will looked at him, startled. “How’d you know that’s what I was thinking?”

  “Because it went through my mind, too.”

  “So how do you know one of them’s not in it?”

  “Foster needs Rachel,” he said. “And she’d throw herself from the train before she’d allow him to use Rose against her.”

  As soon as Davis Stuart left the car, Rose stood and crossed to the accountant’s side. She put herself on the bench beside him, close enough that her thigh rubbed his as the train turned into another curve.

  Foster observed Mr. Dover’s discomfort but left it to him to do something about it. “Why are you here?” he asked Rose.

  “I fancied a trip to Denver.”

  He didn’t smile. “How are you acquainted with Rachel?”

  “I know just about everyone in town.”

  “I’m sure you do, but I wonder if you would choose to accompany all of them in similar circumstances.”

  “Denver’s real nice.”

  Foster addressed Rachel. “She thinks I have an endless well of patience. Perhaps you should explain.”

  “I thought I had. Perhaps she wasn’t listening when I said you have no tolerance.”

  “I heard you,” said Rose. “I didn’t realize he had no sense of humor.”

  “None at all, I’m afraid.”

  Rose sighed and gave Foster Maddox her most pitying glance. “That is unfortunate. A sense of humor is perhaps a man’s most attractive feature. After the size of his…bank account.”

  Rachel quickly stifled nervous laughter with the back of her hand. Feeling Foster’s sharp glance, she cleared her throat and settled her hands back in her lap.

  Foster shifted his eyes to Rose. “If you believe that,” he said, “then you certainly have misjudged the character…and bank account…of the man beside you. Isn’t that right, Randolph?”

  Mr. Dover raised his head. He offered a faint nod and did not engage anyone’s eyes.

  “Rubbing up against him won’t start a fire, Miss LaRose,” said Foster.

  “LaRosa.”

  “Pardon me. Miss LaRosa.” He ran the knuckle of his forefinger across his upper lip. “I only thought it fair to point out that your effort to turn him is wasted. Randolph is loyal to me.”

  Rachel managed to catch Mr. Dover’s eye. “Is Foster right?” she asked. “It seems as if he might be. You gave him Adele Brownlee easily enough. Did you even hesitate?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Adele Brownlee,” Rachel repeated. “The pretty young woman who sang at the Miner Key? I believe you invited her to have dinner with you at the Commodore. Was your interest earnest, Mr. Dover, or were you expressing the interest of your employer? Acting as a procurer, perhaps.”

  Rose clamped her gloved hand hard just above Mr. Dover’s knee. “Is she right, Randolph? Did you pimp my girl?”

  Affronted, Mr. Dover’s head snapped up.

  “Oh, it’s no good affecting insult at this juncture,” Rose said. “You pimped Adele and then didn’t protect her.”

  “I didn’t know he was going to hurt her.” He seemed late to realize that not only had he spoken aloud but his words damned him. Rattled, he went on quickly. “There was no plan, not the way you make it seem. The invitation to dinner was my own, and she accepted. What happened afterward was—”

  “Shut up, Randolph,” Foster said mildly. He rubbed his eyes. “It’s done with, isn’t it? Let it be. My mother could tell you, that little girl was no better than she—”

  The explosion was loud enough to make the remainder of Foster’s sentence inaudible. He stood clumsily, grabbing the desk for support with both hands while he tried to get his legs under him. His head was finally clear, but his feet felt like anchors.

  Rose was knocked sideways against Mr. Dover, momentarily pinning him to the window. She recovered first and reached around him. Her fingers fumbled for the string on the window shade. She had to shove him forward before she found it. She yanked once and it snapped open.

  “Holy Mother of God,” she whispered.

  Ignoring Foster’s command to stay where she was, Rachel was at Rose’s side in seconds. She set one knee on the bench and bent so she shared the same angled view of the mountain up ahead. She was in time to see the first cascade of white powder slide over the packed snow. It billowed like a summer cloud but moved with the speed of a storm, not merely covering everything in its path, but gathering it to its center so that its power increased exponentially. Rocks appeared like so much flotsam, then were sucked under. Scrub pines lost their mooring and were set adrift.

  Foster lurched to one of the windows and tore the shade aside. His ears registered the sounds as a series of explosions, but his eyes saw that it was the rending and tearing and sliding of the mountainside that was the source of the noise. He searched for something to hold on to when he felt the train begin to shudder as the engineer applied the brakes. He clutched the back of the bench where Mr. Dover and Rose sat and set his feet apart in a sailor’s stance.

  Rachel lost her balance and stumbled sideways before she could grasp the hand that Rose thrust out to her. The train’s momentum carried her forward, and after a few awkward attempts to halt her progress, she fell to her knees. She managed not to slide into the stove, missing it by inches as she threw herself flat to the floor.

  Her body continued to slide as the train vibrated and the brakes screeched. Outside the private car, the avalanche thundered and rolled. She squeezed her eyes closed and protected the crown of her head with her hands, expecting at any moment to be pitched against the wall.

&n
bsp; Rachel waited for her world to still before she opened her eyes. Rose was also on the floor, but she had managed to stay on her knees by hugging the legs of the bench seat. Mr. Dover was slumped forward so that his chin rested on his chest. His spectacles perched crookedly on the bridge of his nose. Blood trickled from his scalp. Tiny shards of glass dusted the shoulders of his coat. Only a few dangerously sharp pieces remained in the window.

  Foster was still on his feet, though visibly shaken. She watched him recover his bearings, then begin to carefully look around. She saw immediately that his concern wasn’t for any of his fellow passengers. He was scanning the floor, searching for the documents that had disappeared from his desk.

  Rachel thought he would fall when he stooped to pick up one of the papers, but he managed to retrieve it without toppling. She rolled on her side and pushed herself up. Rose was crawling on all fours toward her.

  Rachel rose up on her knees and reached for her. They clung together. She whispered in Rose’s ear, “They’ve come for us.”

  Rose nodded. Tears clung to her lashes. She pulled back and gave Rachel a watery smile. “I’ll see to Mr. Dover. You look after Foster Maddox. You certainly have that right.”

  They got to their feet together. Rose leaned over the accountant and began her ministrations while Rachel went to Foster. He was still crouched on the floor, sweeping his hand under the desk to collect more of the documents.

  “Leave them,” she said. “They can’t possibly be so important.”

  He didn’t lift his head to look at her. “You’re wrong.”

  Rachel got out of his way. He was moving with a certain frenzy that she found curious and more than a little alarming. Skirting the desk, she opened the drawer where she’d seen him put the bottle of liniment. It was lying on its side between a ruler and a compass. She pulled it out and shook it a little as she held it up to the light. He had indeed drunk most of it, a fact that led her to believe he had the constitution of a horse.