Cloaked (Once Upon a Western Book 1)

by Rachel Kovaciny

  Cloaked

  Cloaked

  Rachel Kovaciny

  White Rook Press

  Woodbridge, VA

  © 2017 by Rachel Kovaciny

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations for the purpose of critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogs are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be misconstrued as real. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Book design by Rachel Kovaciny

  Cover design and illustration by Erika Ohlendorf

  White Rook Press, Woodbridge, Virginia, USA.

  ISBN-10: 1976187346

  ISBN-13: 978-1976187346

  For Larry and our kids, with love and gratitude.

  For Deborah, even though she’s a terrible spy.

  In memory of Alan Ladd.

  Soli Deo gloria.

  Chapter One

  “You see? I’ll be perfectly fine,” Mary Rose O’Brien assured her dutiful chaperone, Mrs. Shaw. She climbed into the stagecoach, took her place on the only empty seat, then smoothed out the skirt of her brown travelling dress to keep it at least somewhat presentable.

  In truth, the stagecoach was more cramped than Mary Rose expected. Two people would barely fit on each wooden bench. If you didn’t know your neighbor well already, you would by the end of the ride. And yet, a man had contrived to fall asleep on the opposite seat, curled up on his back with his dusty boots tipped up against the side. The stage was so small that she might have leaned forward and touched his shoulder without leaving her own seat.

  Mrs. Shaw frowned up at Mary Rose from where she stood in the street, though that didn’t mean she was displeased with Mary Rose, the stagecoach, or anything else in particular. Mrs. Shaw rarely found anything pleasant enough to bother changing her expression. “Ah, but who is that?” She pointed ominously at the sleeping man. He had his arms crossed over his chest and his stained brown hat settled over his face.

  “He’s asleep,” Mary Rose said. “Should I wake him and ask?” While not in the habit of making flippant remarks, she had traveled three wearisome days on a train with only this disapproving widow friend of her parents for company. In all her sixteen years, she had never been so bored by anyone as she had been by Mrs. Shaw.

  Mrs. Shaw looked up at the driver. She had to tilt her head far back to see him, one hand pressed to her hat to keep it in its proper place. Mrs. Shaw was a firm believer in keeping everything and everyone in proper order. “You there!” she called.

  “Yes, ma’am?” the driver drawled with as drawly a drawl as Mary Rose could have imagined. All her dreams for an adventure on the way to Wyoming Territory had so far been thoroughly squelched, but here at last was a man who sounded the way she had expected Westerners would.

  “Who is this man?” demanded Mrs. Shaw.

  “Which one?”

  Mary Rose hadn’t taken special notice of the driver in her hasty excitement to climb aboard, and she certainly couldn’t see the driver from her seat inside the coach. But she could hear him well enough, and she tried to guess from his voice how he would look. A bristling mustache, she decided, and fierce eyebrows. Deep lines around his eyes from squinting into the sun while driving the coach. A six-gun strapped to his leg, maybe. What fun it would be to see if he matched her guesses when she got out at her grandmother’s ranch.

  “The man inside here!”

  “Him. That’s just Hauer.”

  “What I mean to ask is, will my young charge be safe with him?”

  The driver laughed. It wasn’t a chuckle, and it wasn’t a derisive snort, but it combined the two in a rather interesting way. “Lady, she wouldn’t be safer if that was her own father in there.”

  Mrs. Shaw peered inside the coach again. “I don’t know but that I should ride with you the whole way after all, Mary.”

  Mary Rose smiled in her most grown-up way, although inside she groaned at Mrs. Shaw calling her plain ‘Mary.’ “I couldn’t ask you to do that. I’m sure my mother would never expect you to.”

  Behind Mrs. Shaw, a man asked, “Do you have room for one more?”

  Mary Rose ducked a little, the better to see out of the coach window, and beheld a man in a black hat that precisely matched his suit coat. He would not have looked out of place in Illinois, she thought, disappointed. Except his hat. It, at least, was decidedly Western.

  The driver said, “No, sir. I’ve got room for two more,” and laughed his unusual, snorting chuckle at his own joke. “Going far as Buford today. Two dollars in advance.” The stagecoach creaked and leaned to one side when he reached down for the fare.

  “I was told you could stop at the O’Brien ranch on the way,” said the newcomer. Mary Rose had never before seen such a rectangular face. He had a pleasant voice and looked at least thirty.

  The driver answered, “That’s right. Still two dollars. Got a bag?”

  “Just this one.”

  “Toss her up.”

  Amid various muffled thuds and bangs on the roof that Mary Rose assumed meant the man’s bag was getting tied down beside her own small trunk, Mrs. Shaw turned to the stranger. “Pardon me, but I couldn’t help hearing—are you bound for Mrs. Jubilee O’Brien’s ranch?”

  The man removed his hat with a sweeping, elegant motion. “I am indeed, ma’am. Will I have the pleasure of your company on the ride ahead?”

  “Dear me!” Mrs. Shaw sounded flustered. “You’re too kind.”

  Mary Rose prayed silently, vehemently, that Mrs. Shaw would not say yes. Mary Rose was not sure if she could bear having this final leg of her journey also crushed under the weight of her chaperone’s constant disapproval.

  The man smiled. “May I introduce myself? Connor Linden, at your service.”

  “Mrs. Aurelia Shaw. I thank you. And this is my young charge, Miss Mary O’Brien.”

  Mr. Linden inclined his head toward Mary Rose. “My pleasure.”

  Mary Rose thought this stranger one of the best-looking men she had ever seen, even if he was likely twice her age. “Hello,” she replied, glad her voice did not squeak as it was wont to do when she was nervous or excited. She was not accustomed to speaking with unknown men, handsome or not.

  “Am I to understand you are a relation of my employer’s?” he asked her.

  Mrs. Shaw answered before Mary Rose had a chance. “Do you work for Mrs. O’Brien?”

  “I do.” He returned his attention to her, still smiling.

  “Tell me, is it far to her ranch?”

  Mr. Linden looked from Mrs. Shaw to the stagecoach and back. “Mrs. Shaw,” he said most sympathetically, “I think I can guess what you’re about to ask. And yes, I would happily look after your young friend until we reach my employer’s ranch.”

  “Thank you!” Mrs. Shaw gazed at Mr. Linden like he was the answer to a prayer.

  Which, Mary Rose reflected, he might well be, if he delivered her from Mrs. Shaw’s company.

  “You are most welcome.” Mr. Linden patted her shoulder, then opened the stage door. He looked at the sleeping man, then at Mary Rose. “This will be cozy, won’t it?”

  Mary Rose scooted herself into the far corner to make room for him on the seat beside her. He climbed inside, folding his long form like a jackknife to do so.

  Mrs. Shaw said, “Behave yourself, Mary.”

  “I will.” Mary Rose could bre
athe again. If Mrs. Shaw had spoiled her stagecoach ride too, after taking all charm out of the train trip, she might have… well, not cried. Mary Rose had never been a crier. But she would have sulked. Now, however, she could graciously say, “Thank you, Mrs. Shaw. I do hope you have a good trip home.”

  “Goodbye, ma’am,” Mr. Linden chimed in.

  “Yes, yes. Goodbye!” Mrs. Shaw said, more to Mr. Linden than to Mary Rose. With that, she marched away as rapidly as her full black skirts would allow.

  Mary Rose watched Mrs. Shaw’s departure without one single pang of regret.

  Mr. Linden arranged himself on the seat so that there was just enough room left for Mary Rose without the least necessity of their touching more than elbows and shoulders. Unless the stage should jostle them, of course, which she expected it would.

  “I’m sorry there isn’t more room,” Mary Rose said as if the responsibility for the size of the coach rested with her.

  “That’s quite all right, Miss Mary. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  “It’s Mary Rose.” She had tried for two years now to convince people to address her by her first and middle names together, but her parents and some others like Mrs. Shaw insisted on calling her plain ‘Mary’ all the same. How they could fail to see that ‘Mary Rose’ was a name with real possibility, she could not understand. Besides, five other Marys had gone to school with her, and Mary Rose had tired long ago of sharing her name so liberally. It was almost like sharing her identity, and that would never do.

  “Ah.” He looked her up and down with an appraising air.

  Mary Rose fidgeted. She had never been quite this close to any man she had not known for many years. She almost wished that Mrs. Shaw had not relinquished her chaperoning duties so easily. Perhaps if she sat sideways… but no, then her knees would touch his, and surely that would be even less proper?

  Mr. Linden thrust his right arm out the window and stretched his legs diagonally across the space between the seats until his feet were lodged in front of her skirt. “There. I’m almost as comfortable as that fellow now.” He nodded to the sleeping man.

  “Yes, I see.” Mary Rose wished she could say the same, but she had crammed herself into the corner with her legs tight against the bench. To take her mind off her discomfort, she decided to study the sleeping man.

  Beneath his worn hat she could see a bit of gray-and-brown hair that told her he was not young. And he couldn’t be tall, not if he could fit on the seat that way. His nondescript pants might have once been either white or beige, but now were neither. She tried to conjure up a face for him. Clean-shaven, she thought. A thin face creased from work and weather. The fringed buckskin jacket he wore looked to belong to someone who spent most of his time outdoors.

  Mr. Linden soon intruded on her thoughts. “Miss Mary, your friend failed to mention how you’re related to my employer.” His voice added a note of condescension, sounding the way adults often did when they tried to engage a child in conversation.

  “I’m her granddaughter.”

  “I see! I wasn’t aware she had any relations living nearby.”

  “She doesn’t. That is, my family lives in Illinois. I’m here on a visit.” Mary Rose hoped Mr. Linden would confine himself to this type of mundane conversation. The kind adults had with young people when they had little interest in what they said. She’d had plenty of experience with those. “Have you worked for my grandmother long?”

  “I confess I arrived on the train today.”

  “Why, so did I!”

  “What a lucky coincidence that I should arrive to provide you with a proper escort for your ride. Unless he was meant to accompany you?” Mr. Linden indicated the sleeping man opposite them.

  “No. That is, I don’t know him at all.” Mary Rose was not at all certain that a bold stranger qualified as a proper escort.

  Something thudded against the back of the coach, causing the cabin to rock back and forth on its braces. Outside, the driver said, “Strap it on tight this time. I ain’t got time to go back for a passel of lost letters.” Someone behind the coach replied with several words Mary Rose was glad Mrs. Shaw was not there to hear. Then the stage driver yelled something loud and unintelligible to his team. The stage rattled and groaned, and, with an alarming lurch, they were off.

  Mary Rose had not expected that lurch. Mr. Linden, it seemed, had. Thrown off balance, she fell against him, and before she could right herself, she felt his arm go around her shoulders. His long fingers closed over the top of her own arm.

  Mr. Linden murmured, “Careful now.” Mary Rose thought his voice suddenly low and too familiar.

  “I beg your pardon!” Her voice squeaked on the last syllable. She struggled to pull away and sit upright again. But the stagecoach veered right, keeping her off balance and pressed against his side. Oh, why had she encouraged Mrs. Shaw to stay behind? Her presence would have discouraged such brazen behavior.

  The man on the seat opposite twitched when Mary Rose’s voice squeaked. He tipped back his hat, looked over at them, then sat up with a fluid grace that Mary Rose noticed even in her current predicament. “Good afternoon,” he said.

  Mr. Linden’s grasp changed to properly aiding Mary Rose in her struggle to regain her rightful seat. He asked, “Better now?”

  Flustered, Mary Rose nodded without a word. Had she imagined the overfriendliness in his voice? Had he been trying to help her keep her balance and not, well… not taking advantage of her situation? She knew her imagination frequently added more spice and flavor to her experiences than they in fact held, sometimes without her realizing it.

  The man opposite her observed, “Stage travel takes a bit of getting used to.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Miss Mary Rose O’Brien, I presume?”

  “Why, yes!” Mary Rose tried in vain to recall what the driver had said this man’s name was. Why hadn’t she paid more attention?

  The man said, “Your grandmother sent me to accompany you back from town. I apologize for dozing off. My manners and I part ways at the most inconvenient times. My name is Hauer.” His face and hands were tanned darker than his leather jacket. To Mary Rose’s great excitement, she could now see he wore a belt with a pistol in its holster on one side and some sort of small hatchet on the other. Surely that meant he’d had the sorts of adventures she and her brothers read about in their dime novels. His graying hair and smile wrinkles told Mary Rose he had seen the north side of forty, was perhaps even encroaching on the venerable age of fifty. But the face she had invented for him was all wrong. It wasn’t thin or hard, but pleasant, the face of a man disposed to friendliness.

  Mary Rose said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hauer.”

  “Just Hauer—I’m too plain a man to fancy up with a ‘mister’ tacked onto my name.” He leaned forward and shook her hand. “So you’re Jubilee’s granddaughter. You have a look of her about you.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she answered. “You see, I’ve never met my grandmother before. I’ve never even seen a picture of her.”

  “I know. But don’t you worry—you and she will get on fine.”

  Mary Rose had never been so curious about anyone in her young, inquisitive life as she was about this matriarch. “Do you know her well?”

  “Pretty well. We’ve been friends a lot of years, and I do some work for her now and then.”

  Mr. Linden interposed, “Ah yes, I thought she’d mentioned you in one of her letters. Something to do with the timber, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right.” Hauer switched his clear gaze to the other man, and Mary Rose saw the kindness leave his expression even while his lips remained upturned. “I’m felling some trees for her.”

  Mary Rose asked, “Are you a lumberman?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What sorts of things?” It occurred to Mary Rose that perhaps she had parted ways with her own manners, and she added, “That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Curiosity is no sin.”
Hauer’s eyes were back on her now, and kind again. “Mostly I trap and hunt up in the mountains. But when your grandmother asked for my help clearing land, I came. I worked as a logger when I was young—maybe even young as you. So I know something about felling trees. More than her cowhands, anyhow.”

  Mr. Linden said, “Yes, I’m sure it takes great skill to cut down a tree.” That same patronizing tone had returned. Although it was not directed at her, Mary Rose found it most offensive.

  Hauer answered, “To take one down safely, it does.”

  Mr. Linden did not reply, and the silence that followed Hauer’s statement unnerved Mary Rose. Though her two companions remained seated in the rattling coach, they seemed to be circling each other like two dogs in the street back home. She didn’t know where to look, what to say.

  If only she had taken her book out of her trunk, she could have pretended to read. Instead, Mary Rose was reduced to staring out at the scenery and wondering about her grandmother. Would she welcome Mary Rose? Take her hands and tell her how glad she was that her granddaughter had come for a visit? Not that Mary Rose had any illusions about why her parents had permitted her to make this journey. Her father and her grandmother had not spoken since the day he left home, long before Mary Rose was born. She had never learned why. Now her parents were seeking to mend the rift. Since her grandmother had no other heirs, Mary Rose suspected her mother and father hoped that sending their oldest child to visit would prevent Mrs. Jubilee O’Brien from bequeathing her property to some stranger to spite her absent son. After all, Mary Rose’s grandmother must be nearing sixty by now and could be expected to topple into her grave at any moment.

  Mary Rose hoped her grandmother would not do any such toppling until she had taught Mary Rose how to ride a horse, shown her a good piece of Wyoming, and introduced her to an outlaw, an Indian, and a real Western lawman. She wanted Mrs. Jubilee O’Brien to be as unlike stodgy Mrs. Shaw and Mary Rose’s own decorous mother as possible. Indeed, she knew that the other reason she was allowed to venture off into the reputedly Wild West was that her parents had run out of ideas on how to try to manage her. They thought her fanciful, energetic ways would not attract notice in a place less civilized than Peoria.