Last Chance Cowboys: The Outlaw

by Anna Schmidt

  A rosy flush crept over the landlady’s cheeks. She pursed her lips and fingered her coffee cup. “If you think I might have anything to contribute,” she said softly.

  “Oh, I do!” Amanda exclaimed. “In fact, I am quite sure that each of you here has something of value you could teach the children.”

  It did not escape her notice that the only person who did not looked pleased at her invitation was Seth Grover.

  Three

  That evening when she arrived at the Baxter home at the appointed hour, she had second thoughts. Perhaps it would be best to get better acquainted with the children before extending invitations to others to interact with them.

  Mr. Baxter opened the door before she had a chance to lift the knocker. “Come in,” he said, almost too eagerly, and Amanda realized he was nearly as nervous as she was. He helped her off with her shawl and hung it on the hall tree while she removed her gloves and hat.

  “It is so kind of you to—” she began, but was interrupted by her employer.

  “Not at all. Come meet the children.” He placed his hand lightly on her back—a gesture she found shockingly familiar and uncomfortable—and guided her toward the dining room, where a boy and girl were already seated at a table set for four, but with room enough for a dozen or more. The furnishings were heavily carved pieces, clearly meant to impress.

  “Good evening,” she said as she looked from one twin to the other and smiled.

  They remained seated and sullen, barely glancing her way. From behind her, she heard Mr. Baxter clear his throat, and in unison the twins pushed back their chairs and stood. “Allow me to introduce you. My daughter, Eleanor—Ellie—and my son, Eli. Children, this is Miss Amanda Porterfield.”

  Before Amanda could say anything, Mr. Baxter pulled out the chair at the end of the table and waited for her to be seated. Once she was, he walked to the far end of the table and took his place. A woman of about fifty came through a swinging door as if she had been called. She carried a platter of sliced beef surrounded by vegetables and placed it in front of Mr. Baxter.

  “This is Mrs. Caldwell, our housekeeper,” Mr. Baxter said. While Mrs. Caldwell returned to the kitchen and brought out a basket of bread cut into thick slices, a dish of pickled peppers, and a pitcher of water, Mr. Baxter served a huge portion of food and passed it to Ellie, who passed it to Amanda.

  She prepared to pass it to Eli, but noticed Mrs. Caldwell watching her. The housekeeper shook her head and used only her eyes to convey the message that this was Amanda’s plate, so she set it down and waited. The plate Ellie passed to her brother had twice the portion she’d been served. Ellie’s serving matched Amanda’s.

  Once Mrs. Caldwell took the empty platter and left, both Mr. Baxter and Eli attacked their food as if it might be their last meal. Ellie picked at hers, basically rearranging things on her plate, and only taking a bite when her father glanced her way. From the moment Amanda had arrived, it seemed as if everything about the evening was to be rushed.

  “Where are you children in school now?” she asked as she cut into meat so tender she needed only her fork.

  Both children looked at their father, who finished chewing, dabbed at his mouth with the pristine white napkin, and frowned. “My children are to be in school here with you,” he said. “Did I not make that clear earlier, Miss Porterfield?”

  “I had thought—that is, the word ‘tutor’ would imply someone to help them with studies underway at a regular school.”

  “Our home is their school. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Not at all.” She tried smiling at the children, but they were not looking at her. Eli was tearing into a slice of bread and using it to sop up whatever food remained on his plate, and Ellie looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. “May I ask where we will conduct our lessons?”

  “The library serves adequately, does it not, children?”

  Murmurs of assent with no real enthusiasm.

  Mr. Baxter pushed his plate away, and Mrs. Caldwell magically appeared to remove it. In fact, she removed all the plates without any regard as to how much food still lay on Ellie’s and Amanda’s.

  “My children are behind in their studies, Miss Porterfield. They were coddled by their mother, and that has left them well below the level at which they should be learning. Your job is to bring them up to that level before the end of the term.”

  “But that is only six weeks,” Amanda blurted out. “Surely—”

  “Miss Porterfield, in the autumn, my children will be attending a boarding school back east where their mother’s family resides.”

  It was obvious to Amanda that this was news to the twins. Both heads shot up, and they exchanged a glance of pure horror before once again lowering their eyes as their father explained the plan. “It was always her wish that we return there, but clearly my business will not allow such a move. Therefore, in her memory, I am sending the children. However, they must be prepared to pass the entrance examination.”

  “My sympathies for your loss,” Amanda said softly, and she directed her condolences as much to the children as to their father. “I was not much older than you are now, Ellie and Eli, when my father died suddenly.” Both twins looked at her with something approaching interest for the first time since she’d arrived, so she continued, “He was a very special man. I miss him every day, as I am sure you must miss your mother. Perhaps, once we are better acquainted, you will share some memories you have of her.”

  She glanced at Mr. Baxter, fully expecting to see an expression of gratitude for her kindness, and instead saw something that approached fury. “It is not for you to speak of my wife with the children or anyone else, Miss Porterfield. If you have quite finished, I will show you the library, and then we can have coffee and pie while we discuss your role in my children’s future.”

  “Of course. And perhaps the children and I could—”

  “The children are going to their rooms,” Mr. Baxter said. He stood, clearly expecting the twins and Amanda to do the same, and without the slightest word or gesture of affection, he waited for Eli and Ellie to mutter their good nights and leave the room. Once they had, he indicated that Amanda should proceed across the hall to a room where the thick adobe whitewashed walls were lined with bookshelves, and a fire blazed in the hearth that dominated the far corner.

  “Please be seated, Miss Porterfield.”

  For the next half hour, Amanda endured the man’s tour of the space, directed from his seated position. Here were maps she could have the children study. Over there was a selection of reference books, a dictionary and thesaurus and other tomes. On the far wall she would find a selection of the classics of literature. To either side of the fireplace were shelves filled with books on banking and finance and accounting. His collection certainly rivaled the one her parents had assembled back home on the ranch. She felt a twinge of excitement at the availability of so much fodder for her lessons.

  “Is there a section for art and music and…”

  Mr. Baxter frowned and then sighed heavily. “Miss Porterfield, you will have no time for frivolity. The children must learn the basics—the fundamentals. They will need drilling from morning to night.”

  She looked up at the dark ceiling beamed with rough-hewn cedar and overlaid with aspen saplings. “But surely some breaks for exercise and such are in order,” she protested, and saw that by the look on his face, she was digging her way straight out of a job.

  “Young lady, as I have already told you, I have had serious doubts about hiring you, but the fact remains that you are the only possibility, and time is short. Until you have delivered on your assurance that you are up to the job, you should know that other than providing you with room and board at Miss Dooley’s, it is my intent to withhold your actual pay.”

  “You can’t do that,” she blurted.

  He smiled. “Ah, but I ca
n,” he replied. “Do you wish to take this position or not? If not, then let us put an end to it right now.”

  She thought about her earlier joy at the idea of living in a town the size of Tucson on her own. She thought of how her parents had urged her never to back down from a challenge. She thought of those children upstairs being sent off without the dessert that Mrs. Caldwell had brought to the library.

  “I will teach your children, sir,” she said firmly. “But I insist on being paid at least a portion of my salary each week. I will have expenses—incidentals.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Porterfield.” Once again he smiled and reached to pour her more coffee.

  Amanda stood. “And now, sir, thank you for dinner. I look forward to getting better acquainted with your children when I begin our lessons tomorrow. For now, I will say good night.”

  He slowly set the coffeepot back on the heavy silver tray, and she could tell that he was not happy that she had taken control of their meeting. He followed her to the front door where he waited while she retrieved her wrap and gloves. This was a man used to being in charge. He was a man used to deciding when an evening had come to an end. But, Amanda realized, he was also a man who needed her, and that pushed the power to her side of the board—at least for now.

  * * *

  As his time in Tucson wore on, Seth was beginning to think the information he’d been given about the gang heading that way was wrong. In his canvass of the territory outside town, he’d seen no sign of anything unusual. He’d been looking for evidence that a herd of horses was being driven in from the north. The bank robbers would want fresh horses available for their robbery and getaway. He’d also been looking for places in the outlying areas where the train would have to slow to make a curve, allowing robbers to jump onboard, or where a wagon carrying the payload for the fort would come to a near stop to navigate a sharp bend in the trail.

  Although he had identified at least three locations where the robbers might position themselves and make their strike, he’d seen no indication that anyone had rearranged boulders to create a cover, nor had he seen any recent tracks to prove activity in those areas. Unless he could uncover some clue that the Stock brothers and their gang were holed up somewhere outside town, biding their time as they prepared for their next big hit, he probably ought to move on.

  But Lilly’s information was rarely wrong, and the Stock gang had gotten a lot smarter about the jobs they pulled. Most of all, the wanted poster he’d seen confirmed his suspicion that his brother Sam had joined the outfit. Seth was determined to get the kid away from the outlaws.

  The truth was that Sam ought to be in school. He was only fifteen—big for his age and smarter than most. But he had a wild streak that had shown itself almost before he could mount a pony. He had defied their parents, refusing to attend the local school and declaring he would educate himself. He had done just that, devouring the books that lined the shelves of the family’s library back in Chicago, and finding local transplants from the frontier who were willing to teach him how to ride and handle a rope—and a gun. Their mother had dreamed of the day that her youngest son would become a lawyer or a doctor or start a successful business. But Sam had other ideas. One night he’d left home for good, leaving only a note that said he would write.

  He never had. Their mother had begged Seth to track Sam down and bring him home. It was while trying to fulfill that promise that Seth had come to suspect the possibility of his brother having hooked up with the Stock brothers. Hopefully Sam’s role in the gang’s escapades had not gone beyond holding the horses or serving as lookout.

  To a certain degree, Seth blamed himself for Sam’s wild streak. He was six years older and so had not been around much to be the kind of influence he might have been. And there was no doubt that his choice of careers had set a poor example for his brother. Seth had gone down a road that his parents never would have imagined for their eldest child. He had refused his father’s offer to take him into the family’s meatpacking business, choosing instead to join Wells Fargo. His mother had been mystified at the decision, even after he had tried to explain that down the road he would have opportunities to move into a well-paying and far less dangerous management position.

  “But if you are concealing your identity, how will you ever meet a proper young lady—one you can marry and build a life with?”

  In those days, marrying had not really been high on Seth’s list of goals for his future. After over two decades of marriage, it seemed to him that his parents were both bored and boring. They were good people, but their love for each other had never seemed close to the kind of passionate devotion that Seth wanted should he ever marry. Oh, he’d had his share of romances, but in every case but one, the relationship had died from lack of fuel to keep the fire going in his long absences while on a case. The one he’d thought would work out had gone sour for entirely different reasons and had almost cost him his career. It still stung that he had so badly misjudged the woman and her true motives.

  All of these thoughts kept Seth alert as he rode out after supper each night to look for campfire smoke, an abandoned miner’s shack that showed signs of occupation, or any evidence of a gang holed up and waiting for their opportunity. This night—like every other night over the last week—had yielded nothing. He stabled his horse and then walked past the saloon, where he could hear raucous laughter and music from a tinny piano. He walked up the deserted street toward the boardinghouse, where a single lamp glowed in the downstairs sitting room window. No doubt Miss Dooley was counting down the seconds until she would lock the front door promptly at eight.

  Seth smiled and wondered how shocked she would be to realize that he had figured out a way to come and go any hour of the day or night and would have no trouble gaining entrance to the house. He removed his Stetson and hung it on the top hook of the hall tree.

  “Evenin’, Miss Dooley,” he said as he started for the stairs. But he stopped, because Miss Dooley was nowhere in sight. It was Amanda who sat at the small desk, her back to him, her head resting on her folded arms.

  Every bone in his body told him to keep climbing those stairs. Told him to go into his room—across the hall from hers—and close the door. Told him not to turn and enter the sitting room and place his hand on her thin shoulder. Not to notice the way her full lips were slightly parted in sleep. Not to look too closely at the perfection of her skin or the way a tendril of her hair fluttered with each breath she took. And definitely not to piggyback on his earlier thoughts about love and romance, or for even one second consider the possibility that a woman like Amanda Porterfield might make a good match for him.

  The second he touched her, she jerked awake, her eyes opening wide with surprise. But not alarm. Seth had noticed that not much seemed to alarm Miss Porterfield.

  “Sorry, just thought you might want to head to your room,” he said.

  She yawned and stretched and glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I have to lock the front door,” she said. As she rose from the chair and searched her pockets for the key, she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper that he recognized as the note he had slipped under her door to warn her about the Baxter kid.

  “Miss Dooley had a stomach ailment and wasn’t feeling well, and I promised…” Having completely forgotten about the note slipped under her door earlier that morning, she unfolded the paper and scanned the message, then refolded it and returned it to her pocket. She pulled the key from a second pocket.

  Seth held out his hand for the key. “Allow me.”

  She hesitated, then placed it in his hand but followed him to the door, as if to be certain he did as he said. He turned the key in the lock, tugged on the door to show that it was indeed secure, and handed back the key. “All safe and sound,” he said as she folded her fingers over the metal.

  They both stared at his larger rough hand covering hers before she pulled away and replaced the key
in her pocket as she returned to the sitting room. To his surprise, she did not gather her books and papers or make any move to extinguish the lamp. Instead, she sat back down at the desk.

  “You’re not going up?” he asked.

  “Not yet. I need to… I have some work to finish. Good night, Mr. Grover.”

  He had been dismissed, and it rankled him. “Good night, Miss Porterfield,” he grumbled, and prepared to leave the room. But he hesitated before climbing the stairs and looked at her—the way she sat so straight in that chair, with her upswept hair coming down in places where her nap had unsettled it. The way she made no movement to enter any notes in the notebook or turn its pages bothered him.

  “That note you just read—was it something to upset you?” He knew exactly what the note said. It was her dismissal that puzzled him.

  She grimaced. “It might have helped to read it earlier in the day. It has to do with the Baxter boy. But then, since you were the author of the note, you know what it says.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know…”

  She smiled and pointed to the register on Miss Dooley’s writing desk where he had signed his name. “You have distinctive handwriting, Mr. Grover.”

  He shrugged, caught. “Ollie said I should warn you.”

  “That was kind of him—and you.”

  Seth reminded himself that he had a job to do, and getting tangled up in her business was at best a distraction, and at worst could be downright dangerous—for her as well as him. The silence between them felt heavy with unspoken possibilities. He was about to leave the room when she asked, “Where do you go at night?”

  He saw it as the invitation he hadn’t realized he’d been looking for—an invitation to return to the room. “Here and there,” he replied as he relaxed into one of the large overstuffed chairs. “What are you working on?” He nodded toward the papers and books spread over the surface of the desk.