The Devil She Knows (2 page)

S
everal of the other passengers came back from using the station's meager facilities.

Were there any flashes of light or blurs of dust on the stages' back trail? No, no signs of anyone tracking those plump targets. But there were still a few hours of daylight left and Apaches were far too canny to let themselves be easily seen.

She needed to tell him about the message soon, so he could make arrangements for handling it.

“Better tell the boss man in Yuma to find another fool if he wants somebody here for next week's run,” Baylor announced, his voice carrying clearly from beside one of the stages.

“You two won't stay? Guess I can't blame you for standing around and waiting for Apaches to plow you under.” The second driver began to examine one of his wheelers' hooves. “Where shall I have the company send your pay?”

Baylor and Kenly silently queried each other over the horses' backs, while Tornado watched alertly.

“Denver,” Kenly uttered at last.

“Colorado?” questioned the first driver. “But Tucson is only a few days' ride south.”

“Past Victorio's band and every savage who wants to join up with him.” The second driver dug a small stone out from his horses' hoof, then let it down. The bay gelding snorted and settled back into his traces, ready to finish the run.

“And the other heathen come out to murder and rob, no matter whether they call themselves Apaches or not.” The first driver poured a ladleful of water over his head. “You're wise men, my friends.”

Baylor spun a store-bought biscuit high into the air, more like a gambler making a bet than a stationmaster delivering rations. The four men snatched it and its brethren up then settled into eating with controlled haste.

“Where is your headmistress now?” Gareth looked at Portia sternly.

“Her love letters to and from the school's chief trustee were
accidentally
released to the press.” Portia tilted her chin in the air, centuries of aristocratic breeding defying him to ask who was responsible.

Gareth grunted acknowledgement, undoubtedly biding his time until he asked her how she'd pulled the feat off. “And you left town.”

“For California by the southern route. I thought the northern route would be watched by Father's men, even though the train is faster.” Her voice was softer than the hoofbeats in the sand behind them, where horses stated their eagerness for the open trail.

Gareth pulled his hat off and slapped the dust off against his leg with unnecessary force.

She smoothed out her skirts, her heart melting yet again. Had there ever been two people more attuned to each other? She hadn't even explicitly mentioned her discomfort at seeing Father. Yet Gareth had reacted violently, smacking his leg as if it were an opponent.

She needed to exchange her news for his and finish up the Donovan & Sons' business quickly.

“What are you doing here?” He shoved his hat back on his head.

Now the nasty part—why she'd detoured south from the more direct, east-west route. Hours of riding in the dusty, dirty coach, her stomach wound tighter than a watchspring, while her fingers tensed and her skin shrank from every pebble spit out from under the wheels, lest it be an Apache bullet.

“Orrin—Uncle William's messenger?” she began in a soft, light voice. The small watch Gareth had given her, supposedly to help her be more punctual, nestled against her throat.

Gareth nodded brusquely, silently urging her to hurry.

“He came down with dysentery in Santa Fe. When I found him like that, I knew I had to bring the
package
myself. He said Uncle William needed it quickly and discreetly, not by the usual route,” she added.

And when the owner of Donovan & Sons, one of the West's top freighting houses, needed something transported immediately for himself, arguments weren't wanted or needed. He and Aunt Viola had reared her after Mother's death and she knew how hard it was to deliver even the most ordinary goods. She'd never thought this item, clearly a trigger for far greater parcels, would be easy.

“How did you convince Orrin to share with you the details of a secret business journey?” Gareth demanded.

“He already knew I was Uncle William's niece. Besides, he was very ill.” She shuddered at the memory of the dedicated courier's weakness. “I only did so because he was certain Uncle William was desperate for it.”

Agreement flashed through Gareth's eyes for an instant.

“I have the package with me,” she announced as quietly as possible.

Package?
Gareth frowned, clearly unprepared for the full details.

She tapped her once slender waist significantly until leather thudded under her jacket.

“Gold?” he mouthed. He braced his thumbs into his gun belt.

She nodded, biting her lip. “Did I do well?” she whispered.

“You did right fine, honey. As well or better than any man.” Nervous as he was of watchers, pride still blazed out of every inch in his body.

She allowed herself a few triumphant dance steps to push back her nagging fears for Uncle William and Aunt Viola.

Gareth shot a quick glance around them, checking for more watchers than the fretful horses. But the other passengers were tucked inside the stages, while the last guard was climbing back onboard.

Kenly whistled a quick warning at him.

“You have to hand it over now. Then you can leave for San Francisco.” Gareth grabbed her elbow and started for the stationhouse, using the same move he'd employed during many of their escapades.

“No.” She dug in her heels, rooting herself deeper than the walls around them. “Where is Uncle William? Orrin told me he'd meet him here.”

For the first time, Gareth's expression grew harder than what she'd seen before and sent her stomach diving into her boots.

“Gareth, talk to me.”

“It's the height of raiding season, Portia. You've got to leave.”

“
What's wrong with Aunt Viola?
”

Silence whipped through the ruins faster than any sandstorm. Even the dog turned to stare at them.

“She had another miscarriage a few days ago.” Gareth's voice was too harsh to belong to him. His hand fell away from Portia's arm like a broken manacle.

“How bad is she?” Portia grabbed Gareth by the lapels and dragged him down to look into her eyes. She and Gareth had always talked to each other, always told each other the truth, ever since she was twelve and he was twenty.

For him to lie to her now was far more terrifying than riding through Apache Pass with a squad of cavalry around her.

Gareth's silver eyes held no more hope than twilight's last rays. He wet his lips.

“Don't you dare try to lie to me now, Gareth Lowell.” She rolled the cloth a little tighter around her knuckles, completely ignoring the crossed cartridge belts.

“When I left her two days ago, I went straight to the big Catholic church and prayed I wouldn't find her in the churchyard when I returned.” Gareth wrapped his big, warm hands around her very cold ones. “I'm sorry I can't tell you better news, honey. But you know she wouldn't want you to be in danger.”

Portia rested her forehead against him, her heart shaking somewhere against her throat. Aunt Viola, who'd opened her home and her heart to a motherless child, who'd always supported and cherished her no matter what mischief she'd gotten into. Aunt Viola, the only mother she had now.

The road ahead was suddenly very clear.

“I must go help her.” She shoved her sobs deep into her belly where they couldn't be heard and drew herself erect. “I'll take the package to Tucson with you.”

“Have you gone mad, Portia? With Victorio's army on the loose, you want to ride across Arizona?”

“I must help save Aunt Viola's life, something neither you nor anybody else can do.” If nothing else and the worst had happened, she could manage the household, while Uncle William dealt with his own ravaging grief. She bit her knuckle to force back a sob.

“Explain yourself, Portia.” Steel would have been friendlier than his eyes.

“Neil and Brian are only little boys, who need somebody to look after them,” Portia continued with barely a tremor in her voice, despite how she'd whitened after a look at his face. “Aunt Viola's maid can either tend to her or the boys, but not both. You know Uncle William has his hands full, running this branch of the business.”

If she assumed—as she must—that Aunt Viola had improved since Gareth left. Portia was the only blood kin Viola had west of the Mississippi and she alone could ease the family's burden.

“But if I'm there, I can take care of Neil and Brian. So Aunt Viola will rest easily and recover more quickly,” Portia finished, desperation leaking through her overly courteous tones.

“Aunt Viola?” Baylor questioned from a step behind Portia. Kenly's long shadow, with the crisp rifle, flanked her on the other side.

“Miss Townsend is Mrs. Donovan's niece,” Gareth announced bluntly.

The stationmaster's imperiousness immediately washed out of Baylor's face to be replaced by stunned horror.

Oh, dear God in heaven, Viola Donovan's condition was common knowledge. Gareth's fear wasn't a beloved foster son's nervous twitches but the frostbite from terror's wind.

Portia made a small, pitiful sound and staggered slightly before recovering herself. “I'm sure I can help Aunt Viola,” she reiterated.

The three men regarded her with some sympathy but no gentleness. Sweet words and pretty gestures would solve nothing here.

Then Baylor and Kenly looked at Gareth, silently letting him carry the argument.

“This is one of the worst raiding seasons in years, Portia. Hundreds of savages roam those mountains, every one bent on murder and plunder.”

“Of course, it's war time,” she acknowledged with barely a tremor. Her jaw was sharp and tight above the ornate bow which steadied her hat.

“The only route from here to Tucson is a one, perhaps two day ride across those mountains. We'll be dodging savages every step of the way, especially when we stop for water.”

“I'll manage.” Her backbone was tall and straight, her blue eyes level. “Remember when we went hunting in the Sierra Nevadas and had to outride that blizzard? I'll do very well this time, just as I did then.”

Yes, she had kept her head but blowing snow was almighty different than howling bullets. She crisply told her stomach to stop tying knots like objections.

“Will you hurry up? Daylight's wasting!” the lead driver hollered at them. “We've got to make it through the pass before dark.”

“Do you truly understand, Portia?” Gareth stepped to within an inch of her. “Every one of those heathen will consider you a greater prize than any fancy horse or purse of gold. They will abuse you shamefully and pass you among their friends. You will pray for death.”

She flinched but rallied, coming back to meet him toe to toe. “We'll have to ride fast.”

He caught her chin in his hand.

“Remember how well I know you, Portia. I'd rather haul a box of cartridges through those canyons than you because they'd be of use, rather than a magnet for trouble. If you cause any disturbance, I swear to you on my mother's grave, that I will knock you out and carry you like those cartridges to keep you safe.”

“You're being absurd.” She sniffed and tried to jerk away. Baylor and Kenly came to attention and boxed her in like guardsmen, without touching her.

“Do you promise to behave?” Gareth demanded, his voice deepening to what he'd use with a man.

“That's not necessary.” How dare he demand that sort of guarantee from her? Didn't he trust her after all the years they'd known each other and all the escapades they'd been on together? This ride would be to help Uncle William and Aunt Viola. Shouldn't that be enough?

“Do you swear?”

The three words hung in the hot air, quieting even the drivers.

“You have my word that I will always act as befits a lady.” She gave him what she could. Her lips were a thin, furious line.

Gareth stared down into Portia's blue eyes, wondering what had triggered the switch from worried niece to angry teenager.

It was the best promise he could hope for. God willing it would be enough but his belly trusted it no more than rotgut whiskey.

“Thank you, Portia. You have fifteen minutes to change into whatever boys' clothing lurks in that carpetbag.” He released her and stepped back, while the erstwhile stationmasters returned to their previous relaxed alertness.

“Ten minutes,” she retorted. She stamped her foot but quickly turned the movement into a fast departure for the depot.

“Good luck, you fools!” one stagecoach driver shouted.

Gareth waved back, not bothering to disagree with his new title.

“Yaw!” The two stages pulled out in a tumult of drumming hooves, thundering wheels, and jangling harnesses. Dust stormed over the tiny station, turning it once again into a ruin.

“We're coming with you,” Kenly said quietly.

Gareth snapped his gaze back to the other man. “I thought you two were heading north,” he remarked.

“Bit late in the year for the high country.”

“These old bones can certainly use some hot sun,” Baylor added. “Not to mention mountain riding wouldn't suit my favorite saddle horse.”

“Thank you.” Gareth inclined his head. The odds of taking Portia safely through to Tucson had just increased from miniscule to barely possible.

“Can she truly be ready in ten minutes?” Baylor asked.

“Oh yes, since she said so. She never lies.”

“Can she ride?” Kenly eyed the spare horse, saddled and ready for the absent messenger.

“As well or better than most men.” After he adjusted the gear for her far shorter height, of course. “Plus, she shoots as well as most men. Long gun preferably, though; she hasn't had as much practice with a revolver.”