by Jen Turano
“Are you always so argumentative?” he asked.
“I’m rarely argumentative.” She squinted as she caught sight of three horses tied to a tree and immediately tried to angle toward them, which had Norman slowing his pace.
“Is there some part of ‘we’re soon to be set upon by other robbers’ that you’re not comprehending?” he asked.
She nodded toward the horses. “I imagine those are the robbers’ horses. We need to take them.”
“I’m not a horse thief.”
“I hardly think taking horses that don’t belong to us from robbers who most assuredly want to deprive us of our possessions—if not our very lives—makes us horse thieves. Besides, taking their horses will make it all but impossible for them to catch us.”
Shrugging out of Norman’s hold, Beatrix raced toward the horses, untying two of them swiftly and leaping into the saddle of a large chestnut with ease. Taking a second to adjust her skirt to make riding astride more efficient, she shoved her pistol purse into her bag, gathered the reins into a practiced hand, then leaned forward to snag the reins of the horse closest to her, kneeing her horse forward and bringing it to a stop in front of Norman. That man, annoyingly enough, was still standing exactly where she’d left him, shaking his head as his gaze traveled over the horse she’d brought him.
“Need I remind you that we’re in imminent danger?” she asked.
“I’d rather take my chances with the thieves over that dreadful beast.”
“There’s nothing dreadful about this horse, so I’ll thank you to stop dithering and get in the saddle.” She tossed him the reins, which he didn’t bother to catch.
“Ah, thank you, but no.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t find riding horses to be a pleasant pastime.”
“I’m not asking you to accompany me on a leisurely ride through a park. You said yourself that we need to get away from here as quickly as possible. I highly doubt you’ll be able to escape from those men on foot, especially if—”
A gunshot split the air.
Lifting her head, Beatrix discovered a man running toward them, who was, concerningly enough, aiming a pistol at Norman. Snatching her pistol purse from her bag, she fired off a shot that was less than accurate but had the fortunate effect of having the man dive behind one of the train cars.
“Come on,” she yelled to Norman, who, thankfully, jolted into motion. Instead of pulling himself into the saddle, though, he merely flung himself over the horse, his arms dangling over one side and his legs dangling over the other.
“How do you expect to ride like that?”
“I don’t ride horses,” he mumbled. “Haven’t been on one since I was seven and suffered a horrendous accident.”
Another shot from the train robber sent the horse she was on skittering to the left. After reining it in, and after realizing this was not the moment to argue with an unreasonable man, Beatrix urged the horse forward, snatching up the reins of the horse Norman was lying across before she headed for the trees, additional shots ringing out behind her.
For how long she rode, she couldn’t say, although it was at least thirty minutes—thirty minutes in which Norman went from yelping to then grunting before he finally settled into reciting what sounded like an obscure list of numbers.
“You do know,” Beatrix said finally, “what with how you’re all but bellowing out numbers, that you’re making it remarkably easy for one of those thieves to follow us, don’t you? You do recall that we left one horse behind.”
The recitation of numbers ceased. “Simple logic suggests we’re not being followed because I haven’t heard any sound of pursuit. That means the thieves found the satchel I left behind, which was what they were after in the first place, so they have no reason to chase after us.”
Beatrix reined to a stop and turned in the saddle, finding Norman still lying across his horse, his eyes squeezed shut.
“You should have said something about dropping your satchel. I could have swung around and scooped it up before we headed into the trees.”
One of Norman’s eyes opened. “I left it on purpose.”
“Because you wanted to make life easier for those criminals by giving them what they wanted?”
His other eye opened. “Hardly. I gave the thieves what they think they wanted. The research papers in my satchel are altered. I changed some conclusions and mathematical equations, which, in essence, makes the papers worthless.”
“Research papers?”
“I’m a scientist and have been having some breakthroughs with electricity lately. I’m just on my way home from a meeting with some of the greatest minds of the day, and while I spoke with many noble gentlemen at that meeting, there were also many men there who were clearly possessed of unscrupulous natures. That’s why I decided to provide myself with a decoy if someone tried to abscond with the research papers I took with me to discuss in New York.” He gave a wave of his hand. “You may continue forward. I have no desire to be on this horse longer than necessary and can only hope we’ll soon find our way out of this forest and into some manner of civilization.”
“I’ve no idea how to go about finding civilization.”
“Just keep heading north. We’ll run into a road eventually or, if not, Lake Michigan. But now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to distracting myself with division by three.”
“Most people find descending into prayer or singing a cheery song works like a charm when in need of a distraction. I’ve never heard of anyone using mathematics to accomplish that.”
“I’m not most people” was all he said before he closed his eyes and began reciting random numbers again, with a “divided by” and “to the third power” occasionally interrupting his recitation.
“You’re definitely not most people,” Beatrix muttered as she turned in the saddle and kneed her horse forward, pulling Norman’s horse behind her.
She continued riding for a good twenty minutes but was forced to stop when a rushing stream spread out in front of her. Turning in the saddle, she found Norman with his eyes firmly closed, his mouth moving rapidly as numbers spilled through his lips. Clearing her throat, which did nothing to attract Norman’s attention, she cleared it again, louder than the first time.
“I could use your opinion right about now,” she was finally forced to call in a voice so loud that it echoed through the trees surrounding them.
Norman opened his eyes. “You don’t strike me as the type of woman who puts much stock in the opinions of others.”
She stiffened in the saddle. “You don’t know me well enough to understand what type of woman I am. And while many people find me to be possessed of a pleasant nature, I have to admit that I’m not currently feeling pleasant thoughts toward you because, forgive me, but you have to be the rudest man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
“I’m not rude, just direct.”
“Whoever told you that bit of ridiculousness was not doing you any favors. And while I normally don’t bother asking rude men their opinions at all, I have no choice at the moment.” She gestured to the stream. “We’ll need to cross this at some point, but I’m not sure which direction I should lead us to find a shallow spot.”
“I’m afraid I have no ready opinion for you because I don’t have a good vantage point from my current position.”
“Perhaps you should consider getting off the horse so you’ll have a better vantage point.”
“But then I’d have to climb back on. I really don’t think I’m up for that type of trauma again today.”
“Get off the horse.”
Norman’s blue eyes narrowed. “Does your husband allow you to get away with speaking to him in such a demanding fashion?”
“I’m not married.”
“Which explains much,” he returned right before he began shifting around on the horse, all but tumbling to the ground a second later. Rising to his feet, he wobbled as if his legs were having a time of it holdin
g him upright.
“What did you mean by that?” Beatrix asked, turning her horse around to face him.
Norman stopped his wobbling. “Mean by what?”
“I believe you said ‘Which explains much’ after I told you I wasn’t married.”
“At the risk of being accused of additional rudeness, I don’t think it would be in my best interest to answer that.”
Beatrix’s lips thinned. “If you’ve forgotten, I still have possession of my pistol purse, and it’s a five shot, which means I still have a few left.”
To her annoyance, Norman smiled. “Because you’re a woman, I doubt you have the stomach to shoot an unarmed man.”
“My stomach has never given me difficulties.”
Norman’s smile faded. “How disconcerting.”
“I imagine it is, and with that settled, what did you mean?”
“You’re very tenacious—which is not a compliment, if you’re wondering—and that also lends credence to the conclusions I’d made about you and your unwedded state.”
Regret over encouraging Norman to explain his statement was immediate, but before she could figure out how to get him to stop, he opened his mouth again.
“Even with your evident problem with a tenacious nature, the main reasons I wasn’t surprised to learn you’re unmarried are this—you’re well past the first blush of youth, and you’re also traveling on your own. Those two circumstances already suggested you’re a confirmed spinster. I’ve now concluded that your spinster state was undoubtedly brought about because you’re an opinionated and impulsive woman, traits that gentlemen find less than appealing in a woman they might be considering marrying.”
“It would have been in your best interest to refuse to answer my question because you’ve just proven without a doubt that you are the rudest man I’ve ever met.”
“Exactly why you shouldn’t have pressed me for a response,” he said calmly before he turned and began moving to the stream, stumbling over a tree branch a second later.
Unfortunately, he then knocked into his horse, which then jolted forward into Beatrix’s horse right as she was beginning to dismount from it.
Losing her balance, she landed on the leaf-strewn ground in a heap of billowing fabric, the pistol purse she’d stowed on her lap for easy access landing with a clunk on the ground a foot away from her. To her utmost horror, a gunshot split the air, and then Norman was flying off his feet, dropping like a stone to the forest floor in the blink of an eye.
Chapter 3
Of anything Mr. Norman Nesbit had been expecting on his journey back to Chicago, being shot—and by a woman no less—hadn’t crossed his mind, one that many people said was one of the most remarkable minds of the day.
He was a man known for presenting the world with a detached and, some might say, emotionless demeanor. However, as he lay on the ground, most likely bleeding to death, he couldn’t deny he was feeling less along the lines of detached and more along the lines of aggravated.
It was beyond curious how it had come about that he’d been thrust into the company of Miss Beatrix Waterbury, a progressive woman if there ever was one, and the type of woman he normally avoided like the plague. He never willingly stayed in the company of women who were incapable of taking sound advice, such as putting away her pistol to protect the innocent, advice Beatrix evidently didn’t believe was sound, even though she’d actually shot him, which proved his advice had been very sound indeed.
Sucking in a breath of much-needed air, which had his chest burning in protest, he released it right as Beatrix materialized above him, her lovely green eyes, something he only just noticed, filled with what seemed to be genuine concern.
Before he could dwell further on that thought, another thought chased it straight away, one that questioned why he was wasting precious time noticing that Beatrix’s eyes were lovely. It was hardly the moment to ponder such nonsensical matters and certainly suggested he might have suffered a blow to the head because it was very unlike him to become distracted by lovely eyes in the first place.
“Lie perfectly still while I see if I can locate where the bullet struck you,” Beatrix said, interrupting his disconcerting thoughts as she began patting him down, her hands starting at his face, which clearly didn’t have a hole in it, and moving downward.
“Stop that,” he muttered around a hand that was now covering his mouth.
“Don’t argue with me. I’m trying to do a thorough assessment, and you’re disturbing my concentration.”
Before he could muster up an argument, Beatrix ripped open his jacket, popping off buttons in the process. Why she’d chosen such a dramatic manner to open his jacket was curious since it wouldn’t have taken that much longer to simply unbutton it. However, since she was now thumping her hand against his chest, the thumping setting his teeth on edge, he found himself lacking any incentive to question her methods.
Her thumping abruptly stopped. “Why does your chest seem unusually firm, and why is it giving off an odd pealing sound?”
Norman peered through untidy hair that was almost obscuring his view. “I’m wearing plates of steel under my vest that one of my fellow scientists gave me. He’s a metallurgist and is working with different metals, hoping to create a stronger product. He gave me a sample after I met with him in New York.”
“But why are you wearing plates of steel?”
“Thought they would come in handy to protect my research papers, the ones the train robbers really wanted, from any weather elements as I traveled back to Chicago.”
A second later, Beatrix was unbuttoning his vest, something he was grateful about since he was fond of this particular vest and didn’t want its buttons to go the way of the buttons of his jacket. Shoving open the vest after she’d gotten it completely unbuttoned, she let her gaze travel over the steel plate he’d secured around himself with a belt.
“Do you often encounter unexpected weather elements when you travel?” she finally asked.
“No, but that’s not to say I couldn’t have encountered unexpected weather, such as a torrential rainstorm, which could have ruined my papers.”
“But you were traveling on a train, not in an open carriage.”
“I’m not on a train now.”
“True, but it’s not raining.”
“True, but my papers could even now be getting a drenching from the blood I’m most certainly spilling because, if you’ve forgotten, you shot me.”
Her green eyes widened. “I did forget about that. Where do you think the bullet entered?”
Norman frowned. “Not sure.”
“Where’s the greatest pain?”
“My chest.”
That answer had her returning her attention to his chest, or rather to the belt that was keeping the steel plates in place. Divesting him of the belt and the top plate, she peeled away his research papers, then paused when she got to the second steel plate that was lying directly against his shirt. Leaning closer, she plucked the plate off him, turning that plate over and over again as she considered it.
“There’s no hole, and I don’t see any blood on your shirt” was all she said, tossing the plate aside before she picked up the first plate again, which she then brandished in front of him.
“Look, there’s a dent here that suggests the bullet might have ricocheted off this plate.” She tossed the plate to the ground and began patting his jacket down again, causing him to jump when her finger poked him in the side.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Looking for the bullet.” She bent over him, her hair tickling his nose as well as allowing him to get a whiff of her hair, which smelled like lemon mixed with a bit of lime.
“Got it,” she said cheerfully, taking the scent of her hair with her as she straightened, holding a small bullet in her hand. She turned a bright smile on him, drawing his attention to a freckle that rested directly next to her bottom lip. That lip, he realized, was once again moving, which meant she was speak
ing, although what she’d just said, he had no idea.
“I must be suffering from a blow to the head,” he muttered.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” she demanded, tossing the bullet aside and probing his head with her fingers. She lifted his head as she continued feeling around the back of his neck until his head was nestled directly against her bosom, not that she seemed to realize she’d placed him in a spot she probably didn’t want him lingering.
A different scent immediately captured his senses, one that smelled of lilies, sunshine, and . . .
He shook his head as he realized the scent was beginning to muddle thoughts that were unused to being muddled.
“You’re pulling my hair,” he murmured through the fabric his face was pressed up against, a less-than-truthful statement since she was being remarkably gentle with him, but it was the only thing he could think of to get her to release him, which would hopefully have his thoughts returning to fine working order.
She released him abruptly, causing his head to land with a thud against the hard ground and earning a grunt from him in return.
Beatrix winced. “Sorry about that, but you’ll be pleased to learn that your head seems to be fine, as does your chest.” She picked up one of the abandoned steel plates and nodded. “You must make sure to tell that scientist friend of yours that he’s on to something with this steel because it appears that his plate prevented the bullet from hitting your skin.”
“I suppose I should be relieved I’ve not actually been shot.”
“You have been shot, but you aren’t going to die from it.” She caught his eye. “Do know that I didn’t intentionally shoot you, although I didn’t actually shoot you, the ground did. With that said, though, I feel dreadful about the accident and am much relieved to know you’re going to live.”
“I’d feel much relieved if you’d agree to give me that pistol purse of yours so you won’t unintentionally shoot anyone else.”