Bride of the High Country

by Kaki Warner

  “I need to send a wire,” Tait said.

  “Sure. Just fill this out.”

  Taking the tattered notepad the clerk shoved across the counter, Tait began to write.

  Lucinda considered sending a wire to Mrs. Throckmorton, too. She hadn’t done so earlier when they’d stopped in Harrisburg, but now that she had the opportunity, she had reservations. What if Smythe—or whoever was tracking her—traced it back to Cyrus Quincy, her guardian’s contact at the Merchant’s Bank? And then through the banker to Mrs. Throckmorton? That might put her in jeopardy, too, and Lucinda couldn’t risk that.

  She wondered what Tait was writing but refrained from peeking. She wanted to believe he wouldn’t tell Doyle he’d found her, but blind trust was hard for her, especially now, when her life might be at stake.

  Tait finished writing, then offered the paper for her to read. “Let me know if there’s anything I should add.” See? You can trust me, his gaze said.

  She could have shown that she did trust him by returning the wire to him unread. But unable to take that step, she took the paper from his hand.

  No news. Heading to Pittsburgh. Send further instructions by ten P.M. Rylander.

  Short and sweet. The most dangerous, nerve-wracking, astonishing three days of her life boiled down to a few simple words.

  “Do you want me to mention Smythe?” he asked.

  “No.” She returned the note. After the telegram was on its way, Tait told the clerk to bring any responses to him at the Oak Bar Restaurant, then picked up Lucinda’s valise and motioned toward the door. “Shall we?”

  The Oak Bar must have been one of the town’s earliest gathering places. It had that comfortable, slightly worn look of an established eatery that catered more to local patrons than travelers passing through. The paneled walls were cluttered with memorabilia, from drawings of the horseshoe curves west of town to uniform patches worn in the war and photographs detailing the construction of the rail yards, shops, and iron works needed to keep the Pennsylvania Railroad expanding west.

  By the time they took their seats, it was after eight o’clock and there were only a few diners left. Unlike Manhattan, where the streets stayed busy long into the night, railroad towns retired early, it seemed. Their table was near the back, beside a window and separated from the next table by a tall, leafy potted plant. An intimate candlelit setting, more suited to lovers than two near strangers who were still struggling to come to terms with one another.

  As Lucinda removed her bonnet and set it on the corner of the table, Tait opened the menu.

  “The conductor recommended the pork chops,” he said scanning the offerings. “Although he said the buffalo steak was tasty, too.”

  In the end, Lucinda chose roast chicken and Tait ordered the pot roast. It was a quiet meal, neither of them saying much yet enjoying the relaxed atmosphere where they didn’t have to talk over the constant clatter of wheels beneath their feet, or worry about their plates dumping into their laps whenever the train hit a bump. They were finishing dessert when the cashier brought to their table a message that had just been delivered by the telegrapher.

  With some trepidation, Lucinda watched Tait open the envelope. He read the contents in a single glance, then, his face grim, handed the telegram to her.

  Allan Pinkerton taking over. Return on next train. Kerrigan.

  She stared at the clipped sentences, having to read them twice before they made sense. “You’re leaving.” The finality of those two words carried more weight than Lucinda could ever have imagined. When had she come to care so much for the man who had once been her greatest aggravation?

  Looking up, she found him studying her with that intense concentration that only a week ago would have goaded her into saying something she might have later regretted. But now . . .

  Now, she didn’t know what to think. About him. About what she was feeling. About what she should do. She had heard of the Chicago-based Pinkerton National Detective Agency with its dramatic calling card: a wide-open eye with the caption, “We never sleep.” She had read of Allan Pinkerton’s relentless pursuit of the Reno Gang, and knew if Rylander had found her in a day it might be only a matter of hours before they tracked her down. Even now, agents could be halfway between here and Chicago, racing to apprehend her in Pittsburgh.

  With a shaking hand, she passed the telegram back to Tait. “What do I do?”

  “You could go back. Try to work something out with Doyle.”

  She didn’t even have to think about it. “No.”

  “Or I could take the stock certificates back, try to convince him—”

  “No. They’re mine. He gave them to me and I need them.”

  He sighed, clearly as weary of this argument as she was. “They were intended for his wife. No court would ever—”

  “I know what his intent was!” Realizing her sharp retort had drawn the attention of the few remaining diners, she leaned forward in the chair and lowered her voice. “His intent was to use me as a screen for his underhanded dealings. Well, I won’t have it. If he forces me back, I will never sign the shares over to him or let him cast any votes in my name. When I can, I will repay him. That’s the best I can do for now. You may tell him so when you see him.”

  “Lucinda.”

  Fearing he would see her disappointment, she turned her head and looked blindly out the window, but all she could see was the reflection of herself and Tait in the dark glass. She was such a fool. She had actually begun to trust this man. Had even allowed herself to think of him as a friend. Perhaps even more than a friend. But it was obvious that to him it was all about retrieving the stock certificates.

  After a long, tense silence, Tait said, “I’ll wire him back, tell him I found you, and to call off the Pinkertons.”

  “And then what? You drag me to New York against my will?”

  “Then I let you escape.”

  She turned back, daring to hope when logic told her it was a reckless plan that might put them both in jeopardy. Doyle might forgive her defection since she had never meant that much to him. But he’d never forgive Tait’s. “Would he believe such a ploy?”

  “For a while.”

  “And when he realizes you lied?”

  He shrugged as if this betrayal of his partner and friend and one of the most ruthless men in Manhattan were a small thing that wouldn’t carry a huge price. “Hopefully, by then it will be too late. And you’ll be safe.”

  She was stunned. “You would do that for me?” Perhaps he did care for her, after all.

  Silence.

  “But why?”

  He sighed and rubbed his fingers over the furrow between his eyes. When he took his hand away, he looked weary and sad and almost . . . defeated. “Because I’m not your enemy, Lucinda. I pray someday you’ll believe that.” Taking his napkin from his lap and dropping it onto the table, he pushed back his chair. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to send a message to the telegraph office.”

  She grabbed his arm before he could rise. “Don’t, Tait. He’ll never forgive you for deceiving him, and you’ll never forgive me for forcing you into it.”

  “You’re not forcing me, Lucinda.”

  “But your friendship with Doyle—”

  “Is not your concern,” he cut in. Then seeing the hurt she wasn’t able to hide, he softened his voice. “But if it eases your conscience, our relationship has been under a strain for a long time. Perhaps this will provide the means I’ve been seeking to end it.”

  She took her hand away. “I fear he’s a vengeful man.”

  “I can take care of myself, Lucinda.” At his unyielding tone, Lucinda realized if the occasion warranted, Tait Rylander could be every bit as dangerous as Doyle Kerrigan. “I’ll settle our bill and send that wire. Or if you’re ready to leave, we can stop by the Wes
tern Union office on the way back to the train.”

  Unwilling to stay in the dining room alone, Lucinda rose with him. Tossing her shawl over her arm, she looped the drawstring of the reticule over her wrist, then picked up her bonnet. “I would like to freshen up,” she said, and walked ahead of him out of the dining room and down the dim hallway leading to the rear of the restaurant and the ladies retiring room by the back exit. At the door, she paused, wondering if he intended to accompany her inside. “If you’d like to settle the bill, I’ll only be a moment.”

  After attending her needs, she loosely knotted the shawl across her shoulders and checked the pins in her upsweep. She debated donning the bonnet but decided against it since Tait seemed to admire her hair. Satisfied, she pushed open the door and stepped into the hall, almost plowing into a figure blocking the hallway.

  A stocky figure. Shorter than Tait. Holding a knife in a hand that was missing the last two fingers.

  “You’ve been a naughty girl, Cathleen. Ready for your punishment?”

  Smythe.

  She whirled, a cry rising in her throat.

  A hard slap knocked her into the wall.

  She staggered, the reticule swinging at her wrist, the bonnet slipping from her grip. Then stinging pain exploded through her scalp as he grabbed a handful of her hair from behind and yanked. Something sharp jabbed into her back.

  “Not a sound, you whore, or I’ll send this knife into your liver.” Kicking open the exit door, he pushed her ahead of him into the alley.

  Cold air swept over her. The reek of rotting food almost made her gag when he thrust her between two trash bins behind the restaurant.

  Fear sent her heart into a frantic rhythm.

  Tait. Where was Tait?

  Shoving her into the wall, Smythe pressed his body against hers from behind. “Ready for some fun, dolly?” Letting go of her hair, but keeping the knife against her side, he slid his deformed hand down and rubbed her bottom.

  She froze, gasping in terror—trapped between the wall and his filthy body, between the past and the present—her mind spiraling back into that of a brutalized twelve-year-old, too frightened to fight and dreading what was to come.

  “You’ll pay for leaving me to burn, you rancid bitch. But first—” He bucked hard against her, driving her into the rough bricks. “A last bit of sport for old time’s sake.”

  Spinning her roughly around, he clamped his hand on her head and shoved her down. “On your knees, whore.”

  Pain shot through her legs when she hit the cobblestones. Only his grip on her hair kept her from falling into him. “You know what I want, Cathleen.” He shoved his crotch into her face. “Do it.”

  She cried out, tried to turn her head away, but he jerked her back. “Make it good and you’ll die easy, whore.”

  “N-No—”

  “Unbutton me!” He jabbed the tip of the knife against her neck. “Now!”

  She lifted her left hand and forced her shaking fingers to work the buttons on his trousers. With her right hand, she dug frantically in the reticule. Her fingers closed over cold metal. Yanking the tiny pepperbox pistol free, she jammed the barrel into his groin.

  He froze.

  “Release my hair!” she choked out.

  “You bitch—”

  She ground the barrel against him. “Now!”

  He let go of her hair.

  With the gun still pressed against his crotch, she sat back on her heels and glared up at him. “Drop the knife.”

  He looked down at the gun. A wobbly sneer split his ugly face. “It ain’t cocked.”

  “You won’t be, either, if you don’t drop the knife into the garbage bin.”

  He didn’t move. She could almost see his foul brain trying to calculate if she would really fire before he could plunge the knife into her throat.

  “Do it!” She gave a hard jab that almost doubled him over.

  He dropped the knife into the bin.

  “Now step back,” she ordered, the pistol shaking almost as badly as her voice.

  Cupping himself, he stumbled back. “This ain’t over, Cathleen,” he said in a strained voice. “I found you once and I’ll find you again. And when I do—”

  From inside the restaurant a voice called her name.

  Tait.

  She turned her head to call back when a vicious kick sent her flying.

  “I’ll be back, bitch,” Smythe snarled as he fled into the darkness of the alley.

  She was struggling to rise when the door opened, and suddenly Tait was there. “Jesus, Lucinda. What happened?”

  Lifting her from the hard cobblestones, he stared into her face. “Are you hurt?”

  “H-He was here. He had a knife.”

  She felt his body stiffen. “Smythe?”

  He gathered himself to rise, but she tugged him back. “It’s too late. He’s gone.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  She could hear the panic in his voice, and it almost cracked the brittle shell that was all that held her together. “No. He didn’t hurt me. Thanks to this.” She lifted the hand holding the pepperbox pistol, her fingers shaking so badly she could barely keep a grip on it.

  “You shot him?”

  “I w-would have.” She tried to laugh but it didn’t sound right. “If I had remembered to load it.”

  * * *

  Tait was almost numb with fury. It took all of his control to remain calm enough to get Lucinda back on her feet and help her straighten her clothing.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the bonnet he’d found in the hallway. He’d forgotten it was still in his hand and was unsettled to see that he’d gripped it so tightly the brim was a twisted ruin.

  She tossed it into the garbage bin and pulled the shawl over her head, hiding the red mark he could see forming on her cheekbone.

  They walked back through the restaurant and out onto the street, where he whistled up a cab waiting outside a hotel two doors down. After helping her into the seat, he told the cab to go to the telegraph office, then climbed in beside her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, not knowing what else to say. This was his fault. He should have guarded her better. He knew Smythe was out there. He should never have let her out of his sight.

  “For saving my life?”

  He looked down, his mind still churning with rage. She was smiling up at him, which added to his guilt. “For not teaching you how to load the pistol. For taking you off the train when I knew Smythe was still a threat. For not waiting in the hall while you—”

  “Would you have gone into the lavatory with me, as well?” She said it lightly, but he heard the quaver in her voice. “You were there when I needed you, Tait. And I’m grateful for it.”

  “But I—”

  “Just say, ‘Thank you, Lucinda.’”

  Instead, he pulled her hard against his chest. “If anything had happened to you . . .” He couldn’t finish the thought. Pressing his lips against her hair, he breathed in her flowery scent, his head so overrun with conflicting thoughts and emotions he couldn’t make sense of anything.

  How had he allowed this to happen? When had this woman taken control of his mind and his heart so completely that just the thought of harm coming to her sent him into panic?

  “We’re here.”

  He looked through the small door window and saw they had stopped outside the telegraph office. Reluctantly, he let her go. “You should come in with me.”

  “I’ll be fine with the driver here. Hurry or we’ll miss the train.”

  He hurried, and before the operator had finished tapping out the message, he was climbing back into the buggy.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, using that as an excuse to put his arm around her and pull her against his side.
/>   “Not now.”

  They arrived at the depot as the conductor called the “all aboard.” Another train was waiting on a second track, pointing in the opposite direction. As they crossed the platform toward their Pullman car, Tait studied other returning passengers and the faces in the coach windows but saw no one matching Smythe’s description. He walked Lucinda to the compartment, checked the room, and saw that George had readied both berths and lit the candle sconces. “Do you have an extra key?” he asked. “I don’t want to wake you when I return.”

  Fear flashed over her face. “George only gave me one. Where are you going?”

  “Just down the hall. To allow you some privacy. I won’t be far.”

  He waited until he heard the lock click, then went looking for George.

  “Have you an extra key to our compartment?”

  George unlocked a door built into the wall and lifted a key marked with a three off the hook. As he handed it over, Tait asked if he’d seen the “brother” again.

  The porter hadn’t.

  “He bullied Miss Hathaway in town tonight. If he asks about her or you see him hanging around, let me know.”

  “I will, sir. Is Miss Hathaway all right?”

  “Yes.” But barely, and that realization made it hard to draw a breath. No other woman had ever made him feel this way—desperate, driven, confused. Just the thought of how close he had come to losing her still drove him into a blind panic. It was irrational. Unexplainable. He wanted to shake her, lock her in his arms, bind her to him forever so he could keep her safe.

  “Is there anything I can do, sir?”

  He stared blankly at George, his thoughts leaping ahead to places they shouldn’t. What if he was misreading her actions in the carriage? What if she had only reached out to him in fear?

  But what if it was more than that?

  “Don’t suppose you have any preventatives locked away somewhere.”

  George opened a drawer, rummaged for a moment, and came out with a packet of Dr. Power’s French Preventatives. “Will one packet be sufficient, sir?” he asked, his face carefully blank. “I believe it contains two. They’re reusable.”