Distant Thunder

by Lisa Bingham

  The chill of the room forced her to move. Unless she lit a fire on the cold grate, the room would prove unbearable throughout the night.

  The kindling box next to her bedside table held a precious cache of crumpled paper, so she went there first. Then, deciding that the room needed whatever cheer she could muster, she reached out to heighten the wick on the lamp.

  Her fingers came away sticky. Wet. Frowning, she glanced down to find them coated with a crimson stain. Though a shred of foreboding wafted into her head, it took several minutes for her brain to grasp its meaning.

  Blood.

  Concern immediately warred with an unaccustomed fear. Susan restlessly searched the room, certain that some other dreadful sight would come leaping to the fore. But her quarters appeared the same as they always had. Small, cramped, and empty.

  Dread filled her heart. She’d turned on Daniel, cowered away from him like a frightened bird, then sent him into the cold without even offering him something to eat or a few minutes’ rest.

  But she hadn’t known that he was injured! If she had, she would have …

  What? His very presence had sucked the air from the room, leaving her shaky and unsure. And when he touched her, she couldn’t think.

  That wasn’t his fault. It was her own. Hers and her stupid, illogical fears. Why couldn’t she find a way to control them or banish them completely?

  Susan’s remorse quickly blossomed into shame. Daniel had needed her help, and she’d failed him. She’d lashed out at him for no more reason than an attack of nerves. Silly, womanish nerves.

  She had to find him. He couldn’t leave like this! Maybe he’d only pricked his finger, but she had to find him and reassure herself. Most of all she had to smooth the harsh words that had passed between them. He would hold true to his promise never to see her again—that man could be as stubborn as a mule when he wanted to be—and she would never forgive herself if they parted in anger.

  Yanking open the door, Susan ran into the dark corridor, searching for his avenue of escape. She thought of logical exits, trying the rear hall and checking each window for clues of tampering. There was no sign of his passage. No matter which way she chose, she found no sign of Daniel Crocker’s visit. He could have vanished into the air around them, if not for the streak of blood that stained her skin.

  He’d scared her. He’d seen the way the fear had dimmed her usual spirit like extinguishing a kerosene lamp, and there hadn’t been anything he could do to stop it.

  Daniel propped his back against the concealing corner between the chapel and the cloister. He squeezed his eyes shut, partly because of the thrumming in his side, but mostly because of what he’d done.

  He’d seen the way Susan reacted to men a hundred times over the last twenty years. As a child, she’d screamed whenever a male entered a room. By adolescence, she’d learned to control herself, but her aversion to a man’s touch and the haunted shadows remained.

  Now for the first time she’d been that way with Daniel. By kissing her he’d scared her even more. He’d been lumped into the same pile as every other male. He’d become a threat.

  Damn.

  Damn, damn, damn! Daniel pushed away from the wall and strode through the echoing halls of the academy, intent on retrieving his horse and leaving this place. He’d come with one single goal in mind: to stop her. But he’d failed. He’d behaved like an idiot. He hadn’t dissuaded Susan from her purpose; he’d pushed her even deeper into her decision—the wrong decision!

  A nun. His little Susan a nun! The knowledge burned like a hot brand, filling him with a bitter irritation he’d never known before—more so after experiencing the sweetness of her lips and the softness of her body. He’d never dreamed he would want her the way a man wanted a woman, but now he couldn’t seem to banish the idea.

  Daniel didn’t have anything against nuns or against the church. He and God hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms lately, but he had no problems with those who were. Eventually he could probably have reconciled himself to Susan’s plans if she had made them for the right reasons. But he knew she was running away.

  If only he could get her to see there was so much more to life than the stone confines of Saint Francis. If only she would give herself a little more time.

  If. What a useless, stupid word. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him now. She wouldn’t listen to reason. Anything he said would only drive her farther away from him.

  Great bloody hell.

  At the end of the hall Daniel eased a heavy oak door open and slipped inside with an accustomed silent ease. The thick plank floors muffled his passage as he closed himself into the tiny bedroom. His entry had been so quiet, he would have bet money that the woman kneeling in prayer had not heard his approach. But when he opened his mouth to speak, she held up a restraining hand and continued, “God bless Sister Mary Catherine, Sister Mary Simon, and our dear reverend mother. Bless Susan, Millie, and Max …”

  Impatient at the delay, Daniel prepared to leave, but her next words stopped him: “And God bless Daniel and help him not to make a fool of himself any more than he already has.”

  Leaning against the wall, Daniel bowed his head and waited, knowing that the woman would say her piece, one way or another. He might as well stay and get the whole thing over with now.

  Sister Mary Margaret finished her prayer, crossed herself, then rose to her feet and turned. After taking one look at him she stated, “You’ve argued.”

  “It was hard not to. Susan refused to listen to reason.”

  “Did you try to reason with her, or did you demand that she comply?”

  Daniel didn’t bother to speak.

  “Just as I thought.” She sighed and began to unfasten the ties that held her veil in place. “It’s my own fault, I suppose. I shouldn’t have sent a man to take care of such a delicate situation.”

  Daniel speared her with an icy glance. “Are you suggesting that I don’t have the skill to drum some sense into her thick skull?”

  “I’m only suggesting that you sometimes lack … tact.” She folded the heavy cloth over the edge of the trunk butted next to her bed and nimbly began removing her wimple.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “She’s determined to go through with this.”

  “I told you that in the telegram.”

  “Damn it, Belle!”

  She ruefully shook her head, a secret smile toying with the corners of her lips. “Why is it that I can avoid my past for years, and with one careless word you bring it all rushing back?”

  “I thought Saint Francis would have drummed the memory of the Starlight Social Club right out of your head.”

  “Some memories can never be dimmed.”

  Looking at her, Daniel barely recognized the girl he’d known so long ago in Pennsylvania. At nine years of age, Daniel had stumbled into the Starlight Social Club looking for food for his baby sister. To his dismay, he’d discovered the establishment was not a café, but a brothel. But Belle, sweet lonely Belle, had taken him under her wing and helped him to hide in the shed behind the house. Two or three times a day, she’d sneaked food and water and milk to his sister and him, until her mother, the madam of the house, had discovered their clandestine activities and punished Belle for depleting the precious wartime rations. Although Daniel had been forced to take his little sister away, he’d kept in touch with his friend and savior. When Belle’s mother sent her to a fancy convent school in Denver, he hadn’t forgotten.

  She drew the wimple from her head, exposing a face with exquisite bone structure that had grown more beautiful over the last twenty years, a long graceful neck, and black, black hair that had been shorn so close to her head that Daniel could see the gleam of scalp through the baby-fine stubble.

  “God, Belle, what have they done to your hair?”

  “I would appreciate it tremendously if you would avoid taking the Lord’s name in
vain.”

  “Aw, sh—”

  “And cursing, too,” she interrupted calmly. When he clamped his mouth shut, she inclined her head in silent approval. “Now tell me what happened. Is Susan still determined to take her vows?”

  “Stubborn would be more like it. Stubborn, pig-headed, and misguided.” He glared accusingly. “You did this.”

  “I?”

  “I brought her to you to learn.”

  “She stayed to teach.”

  “Then you forced her into this decision.”

  “And where were you, Daniel, when she needed answers?” He remained mulishly silent. “Do you really think so little of me? After what we’ve been through?”

  He shifted uncomfortably.

  “I helped you and Annie when you were a little boy. When you ran away from the orphanage years later and followed me to Denver, I hid you here even though I knew it was wrong. I had only just entered the convent, but when you brought Susan to Saint Francis Academy, I watched over her—and continued to do so even after I took my vows. I don’t think I deserve your censure.”

  Some of Daniel’s anger drained away, but not all of it. A portion still lingered in his stomach, coiled and ready to flare at the least provocation.

  “She doesn’t belong here.”

  “Maybe not, but if you leave now, who’s going to stop her?” Her words hung poised in the air like a gauntlet being thrown.

  “What am I supposed to do? Sneak into Susan’s room night after night?” He clenched his jaw, fighting a betraying grimace when a spasm of pain gripped his abdomen.

  “That’s hardly necessary when she’ll be traveling to Ashton tomorrow morning for the reunion. The seven o’clock train.” She delved into the deep pocket of her habit and held out a small envelope. “I’ve already purchased your ticket.”

  “I hadn’t planned on attending. It won’t do any good, anyway. She won’t listen to me now.” He remembered how he’d left her; she’d been cold and shaking.

  “Maybe you should try another method of persuasion. If you attended the celebration, you would have ample time to talk to Susan. Work with her—side by side. Become acquainted with the woman she’s become. That’s one of the reasons I sent for you. You’ve been away from her for too long.”

  He snorted in derision, not wanting to admit to himself or to Belle that she was right.

  “She’s offered to decorate the house and help with the children. You should have time to talk with her if you volunteer to assist.”

  Daniel shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that kind of work.”

  Mary Margaret’s eyes twinkled. “As I recall, you were always very good with your hands. You may have been fifteen at the time …”

  He knew she was referring to those weeks he’d spent in Denver after running away from the Reeds and the orphanage. Belle had been a rebellious student at the academy. Filled with defiance against the strictures of the church and the shame of her own background, she had introduced Daniel to a few creative sensual pleasures.

  Some of his shock at her statement must have shown on his face, because she chuckled. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Daniel. I have mended my ways, but I’m not dead. I remember how things used to be between us, though I’m sure most people would be horrified that a nun could have such a checkered past. Especially with a boy nearly five years her junior.”

  A flush teased his cheekbones. “What if Susan refuses to change her mind?”

  Mary Margaret patted his arm and crossed to the door. “Don’t mistake my methods as disapproval of Susan’s intentions, Daniel. I think she’d make a fine nun. But this isn’t a literary club or a tea meeting. This is a spiritual calling. If Susan isn’t comfortable with taking her vows, her service will never give her the fulfillment she deserves. She would be cheating herself. And God.”

  Daniel stepped into the hall, but before she could close the door, he turned and stroked Mary Margaret’s satiny cheek. “Do you ever regret the life you chose?” His eyes flicked to the stubble of her hair.

  Mary Margaret glowed with an inner peace. “I only regret not having accepted it sooner.”

  “And you don’t feel … stifled?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  And Daniel knew by the passionate fervor of her voice that Belle—Sister Mary Margaret—had never cheated anyone with her decision. Not even God.

  Chapter 4

  Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory

  January 10

  “Well? Where is he?” Jedidiah Kutter rose from behind his battered desk and glared at his new underling who had dared to appear for his first day on the job in a suit—a suit for hell’s sake!

  “I-I don’t know, sir.”

  The pimply-faced youngster couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Kutter suspected that the idiot had run away from home, seeking glamour and fame while his parents wondered what could possibly have happened to turn poor Timmy Libbley away from religion, home, and his mother’s cherry pie.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” Kutter growled. “I told you to go to his room and wait in the hall until doomsday if necessary.”

  “But he wasn’t there!”

  “So what are you doing back here so soon?” Kutter shouted, losing all patience with the boy.

  “I-I had the desk clerk let me in. Crocker wasn’t there. His things were gone. All his things. No one’s seen him in a couple of days.”

  “Blast!” Kutter slammed his fist down on the desk, making the chipped enamel cup and a motley assortment of desk supplies dance. “He’s not supposed to go anywhere—anywhere—without notifying someone.” He speared the air with an accusing finger. “Remember that!”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “And don’t stammer. It shows weakness. Makes people think you’ve got a yellow liver. If you plan to be a Pinkerton, you can’t let anyone see you flustered, got that, boy?”

  Timmy Libbley nodded as meekly as a choirboy. It was pitiful. Absolutely pitiful. If Kutter couldn’t get Timmy whipped into shape in a week or two, the boy would probably have his fool head shot off by some vengeful, half-crazed grandmother.

  That was another reason why Jedidiah had sent for Daniel Crocker. From the time Crocker had been discharged from the cavalry and had come to work for the Pinkertons, he’d been as cool and mean as a block of ice. Kutter wished he had a dozen more like him. If he did, he could have cut his work in half and retired by now. But no, he had a passel of employees like Timmy Libbley. Mealy-mouthed mama’s boys who were still wet behind the ears.

  “Did they tell you where he went?”

  “No, sir. No one saw him leave. He never even bothered to check out of his room.”

  Kutter squinted at him. “Any signs of foul play?”

  “Some blood on the sheets.”

  “Lots of blood?”

  “Just a bit here and there.”

  Kutter grunted. “Crocker took a knife in his side apprehending Grant Dooley. Let’s hope that’s all it is and they haven’t managed to find him yet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Kutter snatched a paper from the desk and waved it beneath the boy’s chin. “They’ve escaped!”

  “Who, sir?”

  “Don’t you listen? The Dooleys. The Dooleys! Grant Dooley and his brother Marvin escaped from DeMont Prison before they could be tried. That means every scruffy, no-good, lying, cheating Dooley from here to Saint Louis will be converging on the area.” He leaned forward until he stood nose to nose with Libbley. “Know why?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  “Don’t stammer!”

  Libbley snapped to ramrod attention. “No, sir. I-I mean yes, sir!”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Kutter returned to Timmy’s earlier question. “Because we’ve still got one brother—Baby Floyd Dooley, the stupidest namby-pamby Dooley it will ever be your pleasure to meet. Grant Dooley won’t let him hang. Not while that shrew of a woman he calls
a mother is prodding him every step of the way. Unfortunately for us, Baby Floyd was apprehended in Nevada, which means we’ve got to transfer him here to Cheyenne for his trial in two weeks.”

  “The Dooleys will try to get him first.”

  “Hell, yes!” Kutter swung away and crossed to the window. Leaning against the splintered frame, he glared outside. “And that’s not our only problem. We’ve got to find Crocker—and fast. The Dooleys have had a vendetta with him for years; they won’t let him slip away with just a knife wound this time. They’ll spend their time waiting for Baby Floyd’s arrival by hunting Crocker down like a rat in a hole. We’ve got to think of a way to trap the Dooley gang—again—before that happens. Then we can bring Baby Floyd into Cheyenne slick as you please.” His lips thinned. “If we could only …”

  “Use Crocker for bait?” Libbley hesitantly provided when Kutter didn’t continue.

  Jedidiah Kutter lifted his head. Turned. Stared. Then he began to laugh. A rich, booming laugh that rebounded off the rafters and rattled the windowpanes.

  Libbley retreated when the older man advanced, but Jedidiah caught him by the shoulders and shook him in delight, stating, “By dang, we just might make a Pinkerton of you yet!”

  Chapter 5

  The train huddled next to the station, belching great plumes of smoke and steam into the bitter January cold. A fresh layer of powder had fallen the evening before. Huge drifts of snow bordered the track, their windswept mounds already dingy with coal dust.

  Even so, a breathless excitement hung about the eager travelers. Well-dressed matrons in bustles and plumed bonnets milled with farmers in homespun and work boots. Trunks and carpetbags littered the platform, mixed with canvas sacks and wooden crates.

  Susan could barely take in the sights as Sister Mary Margaret, Max, and she plowed through the crowd of passengers. The breeze whipped at the hem of Sister Mary Margaret’s veil, causing the edges to flap like the wings of a great bird. Perhaps that was why the other people who had gathered under the awning shifted to allow her to pass—a feminine Moses parting the sea of humanity so that she and her disciples would not miss their train.