A Texan’s Honor (30 page)

Finally, she put on the new gown and was able to fasten all the buttons save for two. She was just wondering how to tackle them when a brief knock sounded at her door.

"Miss Ellis? May I escort you to supper?"

"I'm almost ready," she said, opening the door just a crack.

Immediately, Mr. Edison's hand reached for the door, opening it a little farther. "Why, look at you," he said with a smile. "You look pretty as a picture."

"Thank you." She stepped back. "I'll be out in a moment, sir."

"Not now? What else do you need to do?"

Presenting her back to him, she said, "I'm still trying to find a way to fasten two of these buttons."

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, the Marshal looked flustered. "I apologize. I should have realized those buttons would be difficult for you to reach."

"I'm grateful for the gown, sir. It's truly the finest I've ever owned."

"If you would like, I could fasten it for you. I do have some experience—I had a wife and four daughters."

"Four daughters? No wonder you are such a brave man," she teased—just as she noticed his use of the past tense. Had he lost them all?

Eager to leave the awkward situation, she spoke. "If you would be so kind, I would be forever grateful."

She stepped back so he could enter. Then, without another word, she presented her back to him. In the mirror in front of her, she watched him pause, his hands hovering above her skin like he was reluctant to touch her.

His face void of expression, he fastened both buttons. Immediately afterward, he stepped backward, looking anxious to end the intimate task.

"There you are, ma'am," he said as he strode to the compartment's entrance. "Are you ready for dinner now?"

"I am indeed, Mr. Edison." She closed her door and followed him down the gently swaying hallway of the train.

They stepped through two other cars, passing dozens of people along the way, all in various forms of rest or sleep. A few glanced her way when she passed, making her shiver.

As she scanned their faces, Jamie felt a curious sense of déjà vu as she followed Mr. Edison. She hadn't thought she would be so affected by being back on a train, but she was. Suddenly, everyone seemed like a prospective bandit, ready to take them hostage and do harm.

Only when they entered the ornate dining car did she finally breathe easier.

Mr. Edison, in that curiously acute way of his, squeezed lightly on her elbow. "Have strength, my dear. This is a different time and place."

"You know what I'm fearing?"

"I guessed," he said lightly. before turning to the nattily dressed steward waiting by the doorway. "Good evening, Jeremy."

He steward bowed deferentially. "Mr. Edison, we are honored to see you."

Mr. Edison waved off the bow. "I hope our table is ready and that it has a bit of privacy."

"Oh yes, sir. We've saved the table at the very end of the car for you, sir. This has worked well for you in the past. Will it be sufficient this evening?"

"It should be acceptable. Thank you."

Jamie followed Mr. Edison with a sinking feeling. The man was everything proper and charming, but she was quickly realizing that he was perceptive too.

His lovely manners and gentlemanly ways seemed to be merely covering a hard and calculating man underneath. He seemed very much used to getting his way, and used to getting answers—no matter what the cost.

With more than a bit of trepidation, Jamie sat across from Mr. Edison and prepared to be interrogated.

However, he didn't seem to be in any hurry to ask questions. For a good ten minutes, he studied the menu, then ordered steak for them both. He refused the offer of whiskey and instead asked for coffee for both of them.

Little by little, Jamie relaxed. The man's company was easy to be around. His deep, smooth voice was addictive sounding, his polished manners and language a balm on her nerves after being around the rough men of the Walton Gang.

After two bowls of beef consomme arrived and they'd both had a few exploratory sips, he leaned back. "And so, Miss Ellis, I suppose it is time to discuss your captivity and escape."

She swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Tell me what happened. How did you get to be taken hostage? The only female hostage?"

She tried not to feel as if he was finding fault with her surviving. "When the Walton Gang made themselves known, it was as if a beehive had broken up, there was so much confusion."

"Explain yourself."

"Well, first everyone was just sitting, reading, sleeping . . . as everyone is wont to do during train travel." She paused, then looked at him for agreement.

But instead of nodding, his expression was carefully blank. "And then?"

"And then the train slowed, the Walton Gang showed up, and pandemonium broke out. Women were screaming and fainting; men got still or leapt to their feet." She closed her eyes, remembering. "It was terrible."

Once again, images of the armed men taking over the train besieged her. The memories, combined with the all-too-familiar rocking of the train, made it seem like she'd stepped back in time and was going through the whole experience all over again. As tremors coursed through her, Jamie sipped her coffee in an awful attempt to calm her nerves, but it seemed to do no good.

Mr. Edison's gaze seemed to acknowledge her every tremor. Then he continued, his voice emotionless and quiet. "How did you come to be in their custody?"

After the waiter removed their soup bowls, she did her best to explain. "The train stopped. People were running around, then were gathered and told to step forward. I was at the back of the car, and so I ended up standing next to Kent." She shivered at the memory. "He grabbed my arm and told me to stay with him."

One eyebrow rose. "And you did?"

She didn't know if he found fault with her actions or simply wanted clarification. "I had no choice, sir. He had a gun and was gripping my arm." Remembering the scene, she said, "Moments after that, the Walton men started making people get off."

"And people did without a fight?"

"From what I could see, they did. I was still held by Kent."

"And then?"

"And then I found out later that one of the gang members had pulled six men to one side. Will—I mean, Mr. McMillan—tried to let them go, but Scout shook his head, saying Mr. Walton himself wanted hostages in case they needed collateral."

"Scout, as in Scout Proffitt, yes?"

"Yes, sir." She stopped when their steaks were delivered. But instead of motioning her to eat, Mr. Edison gestured for her to continue.

Pushing aside the present, she nodded and sank right back into the memory. "Right about then, Kent pulled me forward and asked what he was supposed to do with me."

"And what did Scout say?"

"He got mad because the train had started moving again." With apprehension, Jamie glanced at Mr. Edison. When he nodded, she continued, vowing to do her best to describe how confusing and horrific the situation had been. "See, everyone else thought all the women and children were gone."

"But obviously that was not the case. You were there."

She nodded slowly. "They kept me. Will ordered Kent to put me on one of the benches, and that's where I sat until Mr. Walton arrived."

Almost delicately, Mr. Edison picked up his knife and fork and cut off a small bite of the beef. After a moment's pause, he placed it in his mouth and chewed while she continued to tell her story.

On and on it went. Mr. Edison cut his steak and asked pertinent questions, and she sat, hands in her lap, nervously recounting the longest week of her life.

The recounting seemed to take forever. In no time at all, his plate was clean. And still she talked.

Only when she finally got to the part where he'd taken custody of her did he lean back. "Thank you, Miss Ellis. Your account has been most illuminating. I'm very sorry to have taken you from your meal. Please enjoy it."

And then he got up.

She turned. "Mr. Edison, you're not going to stay?"

He paused in midstride. "I'm afraid not, my dear. I rarely keep company with women anymore. Jeremy here will look out for you though. You mustn't be afraid."

Remembering his use of the past tense, she took a chance. "Your wife and daughters . . . are any of them left?"

His face froze for a brief second before it looked as if he thawed himself with only great effort. "No." After a deep breath, he knocked his knuckles on the table. "Please don't forget to eat your dessert, Miss Ellis. The hummingbird cake is not to be missed."

"No, sir, I won't," she murmured to his back. Because he'd already moved on, his posture straight and stalwart.

Feeling more overwhelmed than ever before, she picked up her knife and fork and finally began eating her steak. She didn't care that it was rather cold.

Twenty minutes later, as she carefully slid her fork through creamy icing, she had to agree that indeed, the hummingbird cake was very delicious.

It was a shame that she was unable to enjoy it.

T
he woman had been as bad off as Scout had insinuated. Though he'd never seen her before, Will felt a sharp lump lodge in his throat as he watched Scout stoically roll the girl in the bedspread and gently carry her out to the funeral director.

When he'd offered to help, Scout had simply glared.

Together, they walked side by side on the streets of Dodge, Will glaring at all who dared to stare, Scout carrying the body in an ivory blanket stained with blood. Neither spoke. No words were necessary—and none would do the situation justice.

When they entered the undertaker's shop, Will had been prepared to use the weight of the U.S. Marshals to induce the elderly man to bury the gal. However, it turned out that no threats were necessary.

All it had taken was a decent amount of money. Scout unrolled bills, one after the other, each one assuring that the undertaker would prepare her body for burial and ask no questions. A few more dollars spent enabled the girl to be buried in the church cemetery immediately, though it would have been far preferable to stow the girl until the spring thaw came.

However, that was the benefit of being Scout Proffitt, Will supposed. There were some people one never refused. A pastor was usually one of them. Notorious outlaws surely came as close seconds.

"Sir, perhaps you'd like to come back in a few hours?" the undertaker asked nervously. "By then I'll have prepared the . . . uh . . . box."

"No, I want to wait."

"Sir, it might take a bit." He ran a hand over his scalp, smoothing the few remaining hairs on it. "Are you sure?"

"Very sure," Scout said, sitting on the one lone chair.

Wringing his hands, the undertaker nodded, and finally approached the girl's body. As Scout watched with eagle eyes, the man lifted the girl off the table, struggled for a brief moment with her weight, then finally carried her out of the room.

When they were alone, Will cleared his throat. "Want me to wait with you?"

"I'd rather be alone, if you don't mind."

"I don't."

Shifting, Scout looked his way. "Are you still willing to go to the preacher?"

"That's where I'm headed now."

"Do whatever it takes, you hear me?"

"I always do," he said. Will waited a moment for Scout to acknowledge him, then turned away when he realized that Scout wasn't with him anymore.

Instead, he was staring off in the distance, looking somewhere else. Lost in thought.

The church was located just one block from the undertaker. Whitewashed and with its several windows, it looked like the beacon of hope and light that it was.

When Will opened the door, the fresh scent of incense and lemon oil infused his senses, bringing him back in time to Houston, Texas, and the church he'd attended with his parents.

That one had been far bigger but had smelled much the same.

Immediately, his heart felt heavy. It had been far too long since he'd been able to be in a place of worship.

On the back pew, he'd found a man in black. Looking younger though no less as haggard and worn-down as the undertaker, the holy man got to his feet when Will approached.

"May I help you, son?"

"I hope so, Pastor. My friend and I have a girl being readied for burial over at the undertaker's. We need you to say some words over her."

"Now? The ground's nearly frozen solid."

"I realize that, but my friend and I will take care of that. My friend doesn't want to leave town without us doing the proper thing for this girl. He wants her buried right."

The pastor smiled slightly. "For him to go to so much trouble, she must be a special woman. Was she your friend's sister or sweetheart?"

Will almost let that slide, then realized that wasn't fair to the girl, to Scout, or to the preacher. The gal was what she was, and from what little Scout had said, it wasn't all of her doing.

"I'm not going to lie to you. I can't lie to a man of the cloth."

"I appreciate that . . . what is the truth?"