A Western Romance: Paul Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 8) (Taking The High Road Series)

by Morris Fenris

“And jist where would you expect us t’ find him?”

  “That’s the hitch. And that’s why you’re here. We gotta track the man, hunt him down in his lair, get him out where we can talk.”

  Considering, Ferguson pulled a twig from those burning in the fire to re-light his pipe. “I must admit, I figured you might have a more definite spot in mind than the thousand or so miles b’tween here and there. Kind of a big haystack t’ be huntin’ a needle in, doncha think?”

  “I was told,” Paul said quietly, “that the Ferguson team is the best around.”

  “No disputin’ that, son. But even the best needs a little more than some intsy pinprick on a map t’ go by.”

  “He’s testin’ us, Pa.” Teddy had pulled herself upright, arms locked around raised knees, to listen to the conversation. Sweet warm firelight splayed across her face and figure, interspersing umber shadow with golden glow. “He wants to see if we can do what we claim.”

  “Well…that wasn’t exactly what I—”

  “It’s a challenge, all right. Find somebody that’s tryin’ not to be found. With hardly any clues to go on.” Her gray eyes were shining with the thrill of the chase. “Are you a bettin’ man, Paul?”

  Laughing, he tossed out the dregs of his cold coffee. “Not so much, usually. But in this case…”

  An interested lean forward, to meet her gaze straight on. “Whatdja have in mind?”

  “We find this Clemens character, and we win the contest. I’ll decide the stakes.”

  “Ahuh. And if you lose?”

  She shrugged. “Then you get to decide.”

  Paul surveyed her, up and down, with a curious lopsided smile. “Fair enough. Reckon I’ll give me some thought t’ what kinda prize I wanna claim.”

  “Me, too, Mr. Newsman. Me, too.”

  That settled, Teddy rose to begin clearing up the campsite. All the food supplies were neatly packed away and stored, safe from attack by any wandering wildlife. More chunks of wood were added to the fire. Used plates and cutlery went into a small canvas bag, to be taken to the nearby fast-flowing stream and scrubbed clean.

  Time, Paul decided, to pitch in. “Gimme a towel, and I’ll dry the stuff.”

  Teddy almost dropped dead on the spot. “You? Dry?”

  “Sure, why not? I kinda know my way around a campsite, too. Follow me t’ the water; looks like the trail is a bit rough.”

  So, side by side, they knelt to complete what must be done for the morrow. Wash with soap. Scrub. Rinse. It didn’t take long. Not long enough, in Paul’s opinion. He was appreciating the value of a woman’s companionship, even if this one didn’t appear as feminine as most of the women he hobnobbed with. Still, there was that unusual streaky red-gold hair, lopped off at shoulder level, and those phenomenal eyes that reflected moonlight in their silvery depths, and the trim figure with its dips and swells.

  As they returned to the base, she thanked him for his help. “That doesn’t often happen,” she admitted frankly. “Especially from the fellah who’s payin’ our salary.”

  “Seems t’ me,” Paul ruminated, “that there’d oughta be a sharin’ of chores b’tween both sexes, every chance you get. That way, you finish up faster, and then you can unwind t’gether.”

  “H’mmm.” Teddy eyed him pensively.

  Ezra had been checking on the horses and mules, making sure that all was well for the night, and on the packs and equipment. Now he was propped up against his favorite boulder, still sending up a cloud of sheep dip stench from the pipe that should have been put aside and decently interred long ago. “Best part of the day, bar none,” he commented with a great deal of cheer.

  “Well, gentlemen, I beg to differ,” Teddy offered her own opinion. “The best part of the day is when I can chuck these boots and roll up in my blanket, under the stars.”

  Best part would be if you’re not alone in that blanket, flared a glimmer of thought that went zipping through Paul’s brain.

  As startled as if the words had been spoken aloud, he shook his head with dismay. Where in the hell had that come from? This is a damned work expedition, with the story of the century waitin’ at its end. I don’t have time to even think about some female, let alone maybe diddlin’ her with her own paw right alongside. Crap. Must be hornier’n I realized!

  Paul was a breast man. So he could have blamed his horniness on that livery stable glimpse he’d gotten of forbidden fruit, in the form of what appeared to be two intriguing specimens of accessible and pliable female flesh.

  But he didn’t. And wouldn’t. His interest in Miss Theodosia Ferguson lay more to the fact that she could converse intelligently and understand nuance, as well as stand on self-reliance, maintain a sense of humor, manage the rigors of the trail, throw together a palatable meal, and, for all he knew, field strip a rifle while licking her weight in bobcats at the same time.

  Good God. He was beginning to feel slightly inferior. Was there anything this girl couldn’t do?

  Fortunately Teddy, with her limited experience having to handle randy males, was blissfully unaware of what was coursing through her client’s mind. And his nice lanky frame, besides, given the sizable lump emanating from the crotch of his trousers.

  She yawned. “Anything else you’re needin’ over there, Pa?”

  “Naw, honey, you took good care of us t’night.” Ezra had removed the malodorous pipe from under his mustaches long enough to gesture at the fire. “Got plenty of wood gathered t’ see us through till dawn, got the coffeepot set up for the mawnin’. Can’t think of nothin’ else.”

  “Well, I can. You boys just hang close here a bit. Got me some private business to take care of.” Hitching at her buckskins, Teddy made one last trip into the bushes some distance away.

  Finally resettled, with boots pulled off and blanket pulled up, as promised, she turned onto her side to watch the flames pooling yellow and blue before drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

  Not so Paul.

  For some time he lay awake, willing overused muscles to relax, contending with the minor aches associated with that overuse, listening to the occasional chilling howl of wolves off on their own hunters’ excursion and the calm hoot of an owl closer to, soaking up the primitive atmosphere that had never failed to fill his soul.

  And putting together a mental list of questions he wanted to ask that elusive desperado, Catamount Clemens, and information he intended to garner. As long as the Ferguson pair could win the bet and get him there.

  V

  Dawn had come creeping in, reaching pale silent fingers of deep pink and purple across the sky. One by one, night stars faded out as daylight brightened their background, then disappeared altogether. Along with sight came sound: the quiet lap of water from several large animals drinking upstream, the mournful call of a turtle dove, the flap of bird wing through the forest’s upper branches. And scent, with pungent damp fog that encroached, shifted, lifted; and pine fragrance, from cedar and fir and the lowering fire.

  Breakfast was an early affair. Ezra hoped to make thirty or so miles today, straight down into the Sierra Nevada range. Once there, the terrain would be much more rugged, not to say even dangerous; and travel would slow to a walk or a crawl.

  Is there any aroma more energizing, more life-affirming, than that of freshly brewed coffee at first rising of the day? The curls of smell literally reached out to tickle Paul’s nostrils and draw him bodily from his blanket.

  “God help me,” he mumbled, “I’ve survived another night.”

  Teddy, already up and about, turned to fling him a look of amusement. “Was there some question you wouldn’t?” she asked politely.

  Yawning, stretching his mighty muscles, he managed to answer something about the fact that there could always be a question. When the boogeymen were roaming, no one was safe.

  “Boogeymen? Story from your childhood?”

  “Betcher boots. My older brothers assured me that boogeymen lived in my wardrobe and under my bed, and I dasn’t set foot
on the floor once I was under the covers, or there’d be hell t’ pay. Well,” he amended that, “they didn’t use the word hell. My mama was a religious woman and wouldn’t allow such a thing t’ be said in her presence.”

  Already pouring coffee from the pot, she handed over a cup for him. “Woulda washed out your mouth with soap, I’ll bet.”

  “Never had the pleasure,” Paul assured her in all seriousness. “I was a good, obedient child. But some of the other’ns, now…”

  Just then, Ezra, having already tended to the animals, came striding through the dew-wet grass, rolling down the sleeves of his shirt. From his morning ablutions at the stream, both bald head and ruddy cheeks shone with infectious good health.

  “Oh, that was you, splashin’ around down there,” noted Paul whimsically. “Figured one of the hawses had fallen int’ the creek.”

  He took a cup from his daughter, plopped down upon his bedroll, and sent the journalist a cursory glance. “You always this bright and sunny, first thing?”

  “Not usually. But then it’s hard t’ tell. I’m not around people much at this hour of the day.”

  Any meal cooked and served in the great outdoors tastes better than from any kitchen. That must be true; otherwise, why so many picnics, set up at the mercy of insects and weather?

  Both men made short work of the bacon and flapjacks Teddy prepared, finishing the first batch and asking for more. Once again, Paul helped with clean-up chores.

  “I have the feelin’ you’re just tryin’ to get away from Pa’s smelly old pipe,” she grinned at him, as they made their way stream-ward.

  “Guilty. When I saw him haulin’ that damned thing outa his pocket, while he had another cuppa coffee, I knew it was time t’ skedaddle. Is he gonna be smokin’ the whole trip?”

  “Absolutely. Especially,” she paused for a giggle, “if you keep lettin’ on how much you hate it.”

  Another moment of surprise. The giggle might have come from one of those darling little hellions at Nathaniel’s house, sounding light and free and remarkably youthful. Briefly Paul wondered just how much of a childhood young Miss Ferguson had enjoyed, after her mother died and her father kept working on his excursions.

  A good reporter asks questions. How else would he gain information?

  While she washed and he dried, in their last night’s routine, Paul wondered aloud how life had treated her, and whether she had been left much to her own devices during such formative years.

  “Well, I went to school, of course. Got a good bunch of book-learnin’. Ma said we were lucky to have the teacher we did, because she took a lot of pleasure in her work. Miss Rollins loved watchin’ a child’s face when he suddenly got the arithmetic answer he’d been lookin’ for, or a problem suddenly made sense to him.”

  Paul swiped his towel over a plate and set it aside. “Yeah, I had a teacher like that, too. Did a great job with us kids. Taught me everything I know. At least, whatever amount I was able t’ keep inside my head.” He grinned at her.

  She stopped to study him for a moment. “You do that a lot, doncha?”

  “Do what?”

  “Poke fun at yourself.”

  One shoulder lifted in an offhand shrug. “Guess so. Hadn’t really noticed. But I try t’ keep it fair, Teddy. I poke fun at everybody. And after your ma passed, what happened t’ you then?”

  “What, you’re thinkin’ my pa just tied me up on the front porch when he left on his trips and then let me go again when he got home?”

  Even under his black beard, the rush of color showed pinkish-tan. “Well, no. But—”

  Chuckling, Teddy shook her head at him, as if for the misbehavior of a street urchin. “We lived next door to a couple who got to be friends. Mrs. Owen was happy to watch over me whenever Pa had to be away. She made sure my hair was combed, my face was washed, and my clothes were clean. Does that help you feel better about my upbringin’?”

  “Reckon so. Havin’ t’ learn more about girls, myself.”

  “Well, then. In a lotta ways, we’re just like boys. Anyway, when I got to be about sixteen, I’d had enough of education and started workin’ with Pa. It’s been a right good business for both of us, takin’ greenhorns into the mountains.”

  Finished, and running roughshod right over his expected indignant protest of “I ain’t no greenhorn!” she stacked everything into his arms, preparatory to sending him back to camp.

  “Run along with you, now. I wanna take a quick bath here at the creek, before we get started, and I’d like a smidge of privacy.”

  “A smidge, huh?” Wobbling, he lurched to his feet and turned away. “You mighta given me all this stuff t’ carry after I was standin’. See you soon.”

  By the time she returned, looking daybreak-fresh and smelling like lavender, the men had packed up most of their equipment and supplies, ready for transport. It needed only for Paul to take advantage of the creek and its cool water supply.

  Teddy crinkled her nose as he passed by, coming back, sponge-bathed and clean-shaven, to reach for Weedy’s reins. “Bay rum,” she guessed.

  “Bay rum it is. What, you don’t like bay rum?”

  “Better than Pa’s pipe, any time.”

  It was a bonnie day, full of sunshine and good will, with a full-circle view of scenery so stunning as to almost hurt the heart and mist the eyes. At first, every rushing river, every stand of pine, every distant mountain drew attention, to be admired, pointed out, commented upon.

  But, eventually, even this spectacular display of God’s majesty must pall, and any landscape, breathtaking or not, must give way to purely prosaic concerns. Time to stop and rest the horses; time to slide to the ground and ease aching bones; time to empty the bladder and fill the belly. An hour or two stopover just before noon was perfectly legitimate and perfectly necessary. Especially since Paul Yancey, funder of the expedition, sincerely seconded any of Ezra’s decrees as to when and where a break was needed.

  Biscuits, for today’s nooning, sprinkled over with sugar and cinnamon or slathered in pan-scraping gravy from choice fried steak, and rice cooked up with some canned tomatoes. And, as always, plenty of hot strong coffee, the Westerner’s cure for whatever ailed you.

  Now replete, settled in the shade and only half-awake, earlier Paul had rifled through his own pack to unearth the small wooden box from Slydell’s Dry Goods. “Wanna try this?” he suggested to Teddy.

  Sniffing as suspiciously at the offering as a cat in new grass, she dipped one finger into the grindings for a taste. “Oh. Tea leaves.”

  “Ahuh. Didn’t know if you liked the stuff or not.”

  A shadow crossed over the face that tried to be so carefully without expression. “Ma drank tea. Every afternoon, she’d sit me down in the kitchen and we’d share a steamin’ pot of tea, while we talked over our day. I’ve missed that.” The shadow fled, chased away by gratitude. “Thanks, Paul. I’d enjoy havin’ real tea again.”

  Huh. Maybe Norah Slydell had known what she was doing, after all.

  The afternoon hours, passing by easily enough on an easy trail through easily attained foothills and open meadowland, alternated between walking and trotting. Although careful watch with every step was kept for anything untoward—rough or dangerous turf, for example, or a sudden attack by some wild animal—Teddy could be inattentive enough to carry on a conversation with their intrepid reporter.

  For one thing, she wanted to know about his career. How had he gotten started writing such interesting adventures, and how had he come in contact with the bandits and crooks he featured?

  “Huh. Well, what got me started come about by pure accident.” Moseying along slowly enough, he had hooked one leg over the saddle horn, for a change in position, and turned toward her. God help him if, for some reason, Weedy decided to bolt.

  With the true gift of a storyteller, Paul recounted the details of that first momentous trip with Matthew, and the results that had led to his success in the journalistic field.

  �
��Hmmph.” For a few silent moments she pondered that, while her father proceeded ahead, whistling tunelessly. At least he wasn’t smoking his pipe. “Funny how things work out, isn’t it? You think fate has a part in what happens to us?”

  “Fate? Dunno, Teddy. I do believe that everything happens for a reason, and that, a lotta times, events intertwine t’ bring us t’ what we might never woulda done otherwise.”

  “Events intertwine.” A sage nod. “I like that. And maybe, whatever fate has planned, we can use our own free will and get around it.”

  Paul laughed. “Good explanation. No flies on your education, young lady.”

  Young lady? Should she take that as an insult, or as a compliment? Something roiled and coiled in her middle, demanding attention, and she slanted a sideways look at him, from those provocative silver-gray eyes. What was there about this honey-tongued charmer from the south, and his easy-going ways and supple, sinewy body, to pique her interest, when no other man had, thus far?

  “And from there, what next?”

  “Next. Well, first time it was my brother Matt. He’s a former Texas Ranger, now a deputy sheriff in San Francisco. After that, I got invited along with my twin brothers, Thomas and Travis. They’re U.S. Marshals, and they’ve done their share of chasin’ bad guys hither and yon.”

  More chronicles of his exploits followed, drawing smiles or frowns, chortles of humor, murmurs of distress. How much was truth, and how much embellished for the sake of his enraptured audience, Teddy would never know. She only knew that his great talent lay in relating a good story, one that would engage the listener, and she was quick to tell him so.

  “Well, now, thank you kindly,” said Paul, pleased. “A writer does like t’ have his words appreciated.”

  “Any more outlaws you’ve helped catch?” She was leaned slightly sideways, toward him, eyes shining.

  “My stars and garters,” he expostulated, grinning. “With all this interest in the criminal element, Miss Ferguson, one would think you mighta been livin’ on the wrong side of the law, yourself.”

  “Hey, I haven’t given you all the details of my checkered past.” Teddy’s arch reply had her surprising even her own somewhat dour temperament.