More Than Meets the Eye

by Karen Witemeyer

Evie nodded, her excitement building. “Yes, ma’am.”

  A pair of rough boots plodded up beside the gray skirt. “Look at a person when you speak to them, girl.” The hard, manly voice made Evie jump.

  What should she do? If she showed her eyes, they might not want her anymore. But if she didn’t look up, they’d think her defiant.

  “Maybe she’s just shy, John,” the gray lady said. Her hand came up to cup Evie’s chin. “My Nellie had such lovely brown eyes. Are your eyes brown?”

  Evie nodded. It wasn’t a lie. She did have a brown eye.

  “Let me see.” The lady pushed Evie’s chin up.

  Maybe she could just show one eye. Evie tried to open her right eye while squeezing her left eye shut, screwing up her mouth in concentration.

  “Quit making faces, girl,” the man barked.

  The sharp tone startled Evie, and she forgot to keep her left eye shut.

  The lady gasped and pulled her hand away. “Her . . . eyes. Miss Woodson, what’s wrong with her eyes?”

  Evie immediately shuttered her gaze, blinking back the tears that rose.

  “Nothing’s wrong with her eyes!” Hamilton rushed to Evie’s side and grabbed her hand. “She can see just fine. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? That they work. My sister’s smart, cheerful, and strong for her size. You’d be getting a deal if you take us both on. You wouldn’t even have to pay me any wages. I’ll work for free if you take Evie, too.”

  “So her eyes won’t ever . . . fix themselves?” The lady in gray stood, backed up a step, then rubbed her arms against a shudder.

  Miss Woodson’s familiar blue skirt came into view. “Hamilton is correct. Evangeline’s vision is not impaired, and she truly is a darling child.”

  “But those eyes are so . . . peculiar.” The woman backed away another step. “They give me the shivers.”

  “That decides it,” Mr. Potter said. “We’ll take the boy. Not the girl. One extra mouth to feed is all I can afford anyway.”

  “Very well.” Miss Woodson sighed. “Mrs. Dougal can assist you with the paper—”

  “No!” Hamilton stomped his foot. “I’ll not go without my sister.”

  Evie stared at him. That fierce voice didn’t sound anything like the kind brother she knew.

  “Don’t sass your betters, boy.” The man pointed a finger in Hamilton’s face.

  “You’re not my better!” Hamilton shoved his nose in the air. “I’m a Pearson. My papa used to hire people like you to work in his factory. People too stupid to do anything more than simple tasks, like planting seeds and watching them grow.”

  “Hamilton!” Miss Woodson’s shocked voice echoed Evie’s disbelief.

  The man glowered, his face turning bright red. “You better watch your mouth, boy.”

  “Or what?” Hamilton challenged. “You’ll whip me? Beat me? Chain me up in your barn? I’d expect nothing less from a man who probably can’t even read.”

  Mr. Potter shook with rage, and Evie worried that her brother had gone too far.

  “He doesn’t mean it.” Miss Woodson placed her hands on Hamilton’s shoulders and pulled him away from the man, who looked like he was about to strike. “He’s just afraid of being separated from his sister.”

  “I do too mean it.” Hamilton jerked away from Miss Woodson’s grip and stepped straight up to the farmer and his wife. “And it’s not just him who’s ignorant. His wife is, too. Why else would she be scared of something as trifling as eyes that are two different colors?”

  The man’s hand fisted.

  Evie lunged for her brother and wrapped her arms around his middle. “Stop, Ham-ton. Stop!”

  “He’s a child, John.” The lady in gray had stepped in front of her husband as well and stared up into his face as she placed a staying hand on his arm.

  “I’ll not tolerate anyone speaking about you that way, Georgia. No matter his age.” He set his wife aside and jabbed his finger into Hamilton’s face. “If you ever speak ill of my wife again, I’ll—”

  Hamilton lurched forward and bit down on the man’s pointed finger.

  The farmer howled, then cuffed Hamilton across the head with his other hand. Hamilton toppled. Evie fell with him. Women screeched. Men yelled. And all Evie could do was hang on to her brother and pray that everything else would go away.

  “Well, that was a disaster.” Lizard Lady’s pronouncement bounced around the interior of the railcar as it rattled down the tracks, taking them back the way they had come. There’d be no more stops. No more chances at finding families.

  “That weren’t no disaster,” Zach said with a grin as he punched Hamilton lightly in the shoulder. “That was brilliant! Well done, Ham-bone. I’m impressed.”

  Hamilton grinned as if he’d just been named king of the mountain. The boys had all chosen to sit together in the back of the railcar, Zach actually making room for Seth on the seat next to him as Hamilton and Evie sat in the rear-facing seat in front of them.

  Evie thought them all crazy to be so proud of themselves for such awful behavior, but she and Hamilton were still together, so she wouldn’t scold them. Lizard Lady had done that enough already.

  The boys recounted the event over and over until Evie grew bored. And sleepy. Being scared wore a girl out, and she’d been more scared today than any day she could remember. The rocking of the train made her eyelids heavy, and her head started to loll toward her chest.

  “Here, Evie.” Hamilton set his back against the window like Zach had done earlier and made room for her to nestle up against his chest.

  She curled up against her big brother and slept until a harsh jolt tossed her onto the floor. Her head bumped against someone’s bony knee, and she cried out as the terrifying sound of braking train wheels screeching against the rails pierced the air.

  Luggage fell from the overhead racks. The sponsors screamed. Hamilton called Evie’s name before he dropped down over her and wrapped his body around hers.

  “Crawl under the seat, Evie, and hold on to the chair legs.”

  She did what he said, hugging the ornate iron leg that connected the bench to the floor with all her might. Then the train slammed into something. Hard. So hard, the force tore Hamilton away from her.

  “Ham-ton!”

  A loud groan rumbled, and the railcar started to tip. Evie wailed her brother’s name.

  “Hold on, Evie! Don’t let go!”

  She did. Until the railcar tipped on its side, throwing her against one of the windowpanes. Metal ripped. Glass shattered. The train tore itself apart as it slid sideways down an embankment. Evie cried, trying to find something to hold on to. The train slid over a rock, the jagged surface knocking out the glass of the window next to Evie’s and bouncing her into the air. Something hard stabbed against her side. She whimpered but grabbed for the hat hook, her little fingers clinging desperately to the metal hanger.

  It seemed to take days for the train to stop its slide. When it did, Evie called for her brother and waited for him to come for her.

  He didn’t come.

  “Ham-ton!” Where was he? Was he hurt? Evie started to cry. He couldn’t be hurt. She needed him. “Ham-ton!”

  Letting go of the hat hook, she got to her hands and knees, then slowly pushed to her feet. “Ham-ton!” She took one step. Then another. Broken glass crunched beneath her shoes. Her legs shook. Her head ached where she’d banged it against the luggage rack. Her eyes searched through tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

  Suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around her.

  She turned, ready to hug her brother tight. Only it wasn’t Hamilton. It was Seth. His chest made a funny noise as he breathed, almost like it was squeaking.

  “You’re hurt.” Evie touched his head where blood matted his hair.

  “It’s all right,” Seth said, holding her close. “Stay here . . . with me . . . Evangeline.” His chest heaved as he gasped between words.

  “I have to find Ham-ton.” She tried to pull away. His skinn
y arms were surprisingly strong, though, and he held her fast.

  “Not yet. You . . . need to wait.”

  He was scaring her. The way his eyes looked at her. Sad. Sorry. The way people had looked at her after Mama and Papa had gone to heaven.

  Evie struggled. “Ham-ton! I want Ham-ton!”

  She stomped Seth’s toes and broke free. She stumbled forward, tripping on a window frame, but grabbed the edge of a sideways bench to keep from falling. Everything was sideways. Crumpled. Broken.

  She spotted Zach hunched over, a giant plate of glass in his hands that he yanked upward and tossed aside.

  “Zach?”

  She was going to ask if he knew where Hamilton was, but when he turned to look at her, his face made her forget her words. He didn’t look mean or tough now. He looked . . . lost.

  “He saved my life,” he mumbled, his stare blank. “Pushed me out of the way and saved my life.” Zach blinked, then seemed to recognize her. He jumped to his feet and tore at his coat as if it had suddenly caught fire. Finally, he flung it from his back and tossed it on top of a pile of something behind him.

  Seth joined them. “We need to get . . . her out. Shouldn’t . . . see this.”

  Shouldn’t see what? Evie looked from one boy to the other. What were they hiding from her, and where was her brother?

  “She needs to say good-bye,” Zach argued.

  Say good-bye? To who?

  “Evie?” A weak voice cut through the argument, stilling everyone.

  Hamilton!

  Evie pushed past Zach and found her brother at last. He lay on his back, not moving. Zach’s coat covered him up. She stumbled up to where his head lay and wrapped her arms around his neck. But he didn’t hug her back. Didn’t rub her hair and tell her everything would be all right. He just lay there. Still. Too still.

  “Ham-ton? You gotta get up.” She grabbed his shoulder and tried to pull him into a sitting position. “Get up, Ham-ton!”

  “Easy, princess. You don’t want to hurt him.” Zach crouched beside her and patted her back. It felt awkward and stiff, but it was warm, too. And Evie felt so cold, as if her heart had turned to ice.

  “Zach’s gonna . . . take care of you now,” Hamilton said, struggling to open his eyes. “He made me a promise, and I trust him . . . to keep it. You can trust him . . . too.”

  “I don’t want Zach to take care of me. I want you, Ham-ton!”

  Her brother smiled, or tried to. “I know, Evie, but I can’t stay. I have to . . . go see Mama . . . and Papa.” He coughed, and something red came out of his mouth.

  Terror seized Evie, shaking her from top to bottom. Hamilton couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t!

  Zach helped Hamilton turn his head and wiped away the blood, the tenderness so strange from the rough boy. Once he was done, Hamilton looked at Evie again.

  “I love you, sis. Always . . . and forever.”

  “Don’t leave me, Ham-ton.” Her voice broke as she collapsed on his chest and cried out her heartache. “Don’t leave me.”

  Something gurgled in his lungs; she could hear it beneath the coat. But she also heard voices. Seth and Zach arguing.

  “They’ll never let you stay with her,” Seth was saying. “As soon as we get back to New York, they’ll divide us up again.”

  “That’s why we’re not going to New York.”

  “What?”

  “We’re making a run for it.”

  “But we’re just kids. How can we—?”

  “If you don’t want to come, don’t come. But I made the kid a promise, and I never go back on my word. I’m gettin’ the girl out of here. If I can survive on the streets of New York, I can survive in Texas. We’ll make do.”

  “But they’ll search for us.”

  “So we change our names. Become our own family with our own name.”

  The boys quieted, leaving nothing but the shallow gurgles of her brother’s chest to echo around Evie. Then even that stopped. “Ham-ton,” she moaned, knowing he’d left her.

  “Hamilton’s a good name,” Seth said.

  “Yeah,” Zach answered. “Hamilton it is.”

  1

  July 1894—Pecan Gap, TX

  Logan Fowler dismounted outside the Lucky Lady Saloon, anticipation thrumming in his veins. Seven years. That was how long he’d been waiting to enact justice. Seven years of loss, sacrifice, and preparation. And today represented the beginning of the end—for Zacharias Hamilton.

  “I’ll make it right, Ma,” Logan vowed beneath his breath. He patted his chestnut’s neck before wrapping the reins around the hitching post. “For Pop.”

  Logan tugged his hat brim a little lower on his forehead. The long white scar that slashed diagonally across his left eye from halfway up his brow to a spot close to the top of his ear tended to draw attention, and he’d rather be inconspicuous while gathering information. Not that the scar didn’t have its advantages. Especially in saloons. Looking dangerous gave a man an edge. Demanded respect.

  At only twenty-three, Logan had worked hard to cultivate a stony bearing to match the hard heart he’d spent seven years callousing. He wore a beard to disguise his youth and a gun to keep folks at a distance.

  He squinted toward the west, where the sun still hovered well above the horizon. A mite early for a crowd to have gathered in the saloon, but then, he’d timed his arrival for precisely that outcome. An inveterate gambler like Hamilton wouldn’t bother to put in an appearance until the whiskey had been flowing for a couple hours, softening the brains and the inhibitions of his marks. Which made now the perfect time to collect intelligence.

  With slow, swagger-heavy steps, Logan strode up to the batwing doors and pushed through. He moved just inside the entrance and stood with his back to the wall as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

  A woman with henna-red hair and a bodice that left little to the imagination stood with her hands on her hips atop the small stage at the front of the room, haranguing the piano player about rushing the tempo of her song. A group of four men—farmers, judging by their overalls and serious expressions—sat around a corner table, discussing the necessity of getting a Populist elected to Congress. But it was the man behind the long, polished counter that Logan found most intriguing.

  “Thirsty, mister?” the barkeep asked as Logan approached. He finished drying a tall glass, then used the dish towel to shine up the counter in front of the stool closest to Logan. “Delta County is dry, I’m afraid, but I’ve an assortment of switchels and shrubs, ginger water, sarsaparilla, coffee, or tea. Also got a full menu of food options if you’re in need of a meal.”

  The barrel-chested fellow smiled warmly enough, if cautiously, as he took in Logan’s appearance, but when Logan pushed his hat back and fully exposed his scar, the disgust that registered in the barkeep’s face before he could hide it stirred Logan’s ire.

  “Coffee’s fine.” Logan leaned an elbow on the bar, keeping his body angled so he could see both the barkeep and the door.

  The Lucky Lady was a tame watering hole compared to the dives he’d frequented over the last four years, a necessary training ground for one who wanted to master not only cards but faces—learning to read tells and ferret out cheats. Consorting with the worst scoundrels humanity had to offer also taught a man a thing or two about survival. The recollection of the broken bottle that had been used to decorate his face kept Logan from underestimating anyone in the room. Even the flame-haired songbird making eyes at him as she conspicuously adjusted the scarlet garter holding up her black stocking. Women could be just as treacherous as men.

  The barkeep set a brown ceramic mug on the counter in front of Logan, then retrieved a pot from the stove behind him. As he poured the brew, he peered up at Logan with a questioning arch of his brows. “So, you passin’ through?”

  “Nope. Bought a spread up by the North Sulphur River. Plan to stay a spell.” At least until Zacharias Hamilton got his comeuppance.

  His host eyed him with skepti
cism as he plopped a tin cup onto the counter. A small set of tongs rattled against the rim of the makeshift sugar bowl. “Ya don’t exactly strike me as the farmin’ type.” His gaze darted to the men at the corner table and back.

  Logan shrugged and dropped two cubes of sugar into his coffee. “You got a spoon . . . ?” He drew out the pause, waiting for the barkeep to supply his name.

  “Dunn. Arnold Dunn.” He wiped his hand on his pant leg, then extended it across the bar.

  Logan shook it. “Logan Fowler.”

  Dunn showed no recognition of the name. Not surprising. Seven years ago, the town had been brand-new, barely a post office to its name. Dunn probably hadn’t even been around. It wasn’t until the railroad came through in 1888 that people started flocking to the area. Which made Hamilton’s crime all the more severe. Logan’s father’s land would have tripled in value with the railroad’s arrival, but Hamilton had stolen it from him before that could happen. Had stolen his father’s life as well.

  The barkeep extracted his hand, then found a spoon and set it on the counter next to the mug. As Logan stirred the dissolved sugar into his coffee, he cast a quick glance around the room to ensure no one was paying him any particular attention. Then he casually brought up the topic he most wanted to discuss.

  “You get many high-stakes games in here?”

  Dunn chuckled. “Didn’t call her the Lucky Lady for nuthin’, did I? Highest stakes in town. You a gamblin’ man?”

  Logan took a sip of his coffee, studying the other man. “When properly motivated.”

  “Only go for the rich pots, huh?” Dunn’s mouth curved in a sly grin.

  Logan just sipped his coffee, letting the barkeep think what he would. In truth, Logan despised gambling. Hated the greed that accompanied it, the unnecessary risk, the completely irrational belief that one could actually control fate. He’d learned to count cards, to run probabilities in his head, to read the faces of those sitting at the table around him, but he still lost. Not as often as most, and not more often than he won, but often enough to remind him that control was an illusion. No man controlled fate. God alone claimed that honor.