Anita Mills (14 page)

“Nobody got any sleep last night,” she reminded him. “And whether you choose to believe me or not, Mr. McCready, I not only do not have the least notion who those men were, but I also don’t have so much as an inkling of why they are following me,” she declared, returning to the matter at hand. “I cannot fathom what they want with me.”

“Do I really look that gullible to you?”

Seething, she opened her mouth, then shut it until she got control of her temper. “Right now, you look positively stupid. And for your information, there’s nothing even remotely suspect about my motives,” she said, biting off each word precisely. “Papa only had fifteen dollars and ninety-two cents in the bank when he died. There isn’t any money—none.”

“You’re still expecting me to swallow that tale about your wanting to know why he left your mother, I suppose.”

“I don’t care whether you swallow it or not. It’s still the God’s truth. And maybe when I go through his papers, I will at least understand what he was thinking.”

“This lawyer you’re supposedly meeting could’ve mailed everything to you,” he countered. “You yourself said he offered to handle the sale.”

“But I need to
see
the place—can’t you understand that? I want to see the place, and then, maybe then, I’ll know why he chose to live in such a place rather than come home from the war. Before he deserted, he was a hero, Mr. McCready—a
hero.”

“You’re a damned good actress, I’ll give you that.”

“And you, sir, are beneath contempt,” she retorted. “Just because you are in pain, you are determined to take your ill-humor out on me.” Grasping the empty seat in front of her, she pulled herself up and tried to step over his outstretched legs. “You don’t need to say good-bye in Columbus, Mr. McCready,” she said icily. “I shall consider it already done.”

The effect of her speech was lost when the car braked suddenly, causing her to trip over his feet. She stumbled backward and fell into his lap. He groaned as he caught her.

“Watch out,” he muttered, “I’ve got a sore rib there.”

“Believe me, I’d rather be anywhere else,” she said, crawling back into her seat. “I feel as if I’ve descended into the pits of Hades right now. It’s already stifling in here, and we’re stopped again.”

Halfway down the aisle, the conductor leaned over a passenger to peer but a window. Straightening, he announced loudly, “Looks like sheep this time, folks! Whole danged bunch of ’em on the tracks! Got a couple of Mexicans a-trying to herd ’em off.” He added, “Reckon that’d about put us on the Brassfield place.”

It was the last straw for Verena. She was hot, she’d had no sleep, and she was in the middle of a quarrel with the only person she knew in this godforsaken place. Columbus, Texas, was a myth, something beyond reach. Fighting back tears of frustration, she swallowed, then whispered, more to herself than to Matt, “If I were superstitious, I’d think I’ve been cursed by an evil spirit.”

The huskiness in her voice moved him where her anger hadn’t. And he realized he’d been goading her as much for her rejection of his money as for anything else. If she’d taken it, his conscience would have been clear. But she hadn’t, and now he’d be wondering if she even got to San Angelo, or if she’d fallen into the hands of her pursuers somewhere between there and Columbus.

He had no business getting-involved, he argued with himself. He was a fugitive from the law, and he had to take care of his own skin first. But she was a woman alone, and God only knew what those two fellows wanted with her. All he knew for sure was that she’d been shaken by what she’d heard at Eagle Lake. And while he hated to admit it, he knew he couldn’t just abandon her. He had to at least get her on that stage bound for San Angelo. Then she could be someone else’s problem. He could wash his hands of her. Maybe. Or maybe not.

For a moment, he actually considered taking her with him, then he caught himself. Helena, Texas, wasn’t a fit place for an Eastern-bred schoolteacher. It wasn’t even a fit place for him. No, he’d be asking for more trouble than he already had if he showed up there with the lovely Verena in tow. Somebody’d be sure to take a shine to her, he’d be trying to defend her honor, and then there’d be hell to pay.

What he ought to do, he realized, was to see that she got past San Antonio, that she got onto the military-contracted mail wagon bound for Fort Concho. But then he’d have to board the stagecoach with her at Columbus. That could be pretty damned tricky, particularly if those two were meeting the train there. All he needed was for something to happen that’d bring him to the attention of the law, and he’d be headed back to a hangman’s rope.

A shotgun blast tore through his thoughts, jolting him back to reality. He looked down the aisle to where a cowboy had blown a hole in one of the windows, shouting that he wasn’t “waitin’ for no goddamned, stinkin’ sheep!” Somebody behind him, apparently awakened by a shower of broken glass, rose up cursing. As the cowboy swung around, another gunshot rang out, this time from the victim’s forty-five, and the cowboy slumped forward. The shotgun butt struck the floor hard, discharging a second load, spraying the car’s ceiling with buckshot, and everybody around ducked for cover.

Beside Matt, Verena gasped, “Did you see that? He just shot that man!”

“Yeah.” In that moment, he made up his mind. He wasn’t, about to stick around for any investigation. If the cowboy died, there’d be rangers and railroad detectives crawling all over the place at Columbus. Taking advantage of the confusion, he said tersely, “Come on—it’s too damned dangerous in here.” He stood up, caught the shelf above his head, and swung out into the aisle. “Let’s go.”

“What?”

“We’re getting out before all hell breaks loose.” Before she could argue with him, he grasped her arm and pulled her into the aisle. “Hurry up.”

Almost before he got the words out, a dozen guns were drawn as men jumped to take sides in the fracas. White as a sheet despite the heat, the conductor dropped to the floor and crawled in between two empty seats.

Verena hesitated. “But—”

“I’m going,” Matt told her.
“Now.”
Making good on the threat, he wrenched open the back exit. His eyes met hers. “Are you coming or not?”

She cast an almost frantic look over her shoulder as another shot rang out, then she hastened past him onto the small back platform. As the door closed behind her, she felt an immense relief. At least she was safe from stray bullets out here. But Matthew McCready’s next words stunned her.

“Come on—we’ve got to get off while we can.”

“Off!”
she choked out. “Off where?”

“Here. Let’s go.”

“Oh, but I—but there’s nothing here!” she protested.

As a shriek cut through the air, the train jerked into motion, throwing her against the iron rail. Matt eased down onto the small step, then turned back to her.

“I’ll go first, but when I yell to jump, you jump! Otherwise, I can’t catch you!” he shouted over the noise.

“I can’t get off this train!” she protested. “I don’t—”

Either he didn’t hear her, or the sound had drowned her out. Holding on to the small iron railing, he swung out, then dropped to the ground as the engine picked up steam. Running alongside, he yelled, “Now, Rena—jump!”

She looked down at the gravel, seeing the ties moving faster. Hanging on with one hand, she leaned out toward McCready’s outstretched arms. He grabbed her other hand, pulling her, then caught her by the waist as she fell. They rolled down the incline, away from the heavy wheels. She could feel the gravel and taste the dirt as McCready’s body pinned her down.

Feeling her struggle, he heaved himself up to sit while he caught his breath. The last car was now some five or six hundred yards down the track and picking up speed.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?” he asked her.

She looked down to where her dress and petticoat were hiked up, exposing her drawers from mid-thigh downward. “Just my dignity,” she managed. Sitting up, she worked her skirt back down to her ankles before she noted the disappearing train. If she’d been the weepy sort, she would have cried, but she wasn’t—not yet, anyway. Instead, she gave a sigh of resignation.

“Everything I brought with me is in my carpetbag.”

“When we get to Colombus, I’ll pick it up at the depot. If the train gets there before we do, the porter will leave it there.”

Her gaze took in the flock of sheep moving at a right angle to the now-deserted track, and her spirits sank further. Beyond the animals and the two shepherds, there didn’t seem to be anything. No road. No house. Nothing. Just a few hills, some grasslands, and a ridge of trees.

“You know, if I’d had any idea you meant to jump off that train, I would have gotten down on the floor instead,” Verena told Matt with feeling. “I just thought you were putting a steel door between us and the shooting.”

“I had to get off—and so did you.”

“I’d like to hear one good reason why,” she said with asperity. “Now we’re out here without so much as a toothbrush, and we
still
don’t know how to get to Columbus.”

“I can give you two good ones.”

“Well?”

“To start with, right after that train pulls in, there’ll be lawmen all over the place, and everybody in that car will be giving a statement on the shooting.”

“I don’t have anything to hide, Mr. McCready.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But be that as it may, it’ll take a day or two for a ranger or a railroad detective to get everything sorted out. That’s plenty of time for your friends to show up, and unless they’re idiots, they’ll have everything added up by then. Do you want to be there when that happens?”

“They’re not my friends. How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t know them?”

“Until I believe you.”

“Well, I’m not saying it again.” She dared to look up at him. “You know, if anybody who knew you before saw you now, he probably wouldn’t recognize you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a worse-looking eye on anyone.”

“Nobody’s looking for me.”

“Well, somebody must be—you didn’t jump from a moving train on my account, Mr. McCready. You jumped because you didn’t want to face the authorities. And there’s no sense in denying it, because I won’t believe you.”

“You’re too damned suspicious, Rena.”

“
I’m
too suspicious? What about you?”

“You didn’t see me running from Sheriff Goode, did you?”

“I don’t know where you would have run.”

“I didn’t have two fellows looking for me,” he countered.

“Well, I can’t account for that.”

“I know.”

“I suppose it’d be too much to expect you to know where we are,” she observed tiredly.

“The Brassfield place.”

“Yes, well, there doesn’t seem to be much to it.” Turning toward him, she sighed again. “You know, that conductor didn’t seem particularly sure, as I recall. I think he said we
should
just about be to the Brassfield place.”

“I figure those sheep had to come from somewhere.”

“Well, I don’t see any place,” she countered.

“Oh, I expect we’ll have to walk a ways,” he conceded. “I don’t suppose you happen to speak Spanish, do you?”

“I can read the classics in Latin or French, and I can recognize a smattering of Greek, but Spanish wasn’t offered as a subject at the Bancroft Normal School. Why?”

“Because I can count every Spanish word I know on both hands, and a lot of ’em aren’t polite enough to use.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me the first time. And there’s a Mexican kid headed this way.”

Sure enough, one of the shepherds had noticed them, and he was running across the grass toward them, waving a greeting. As he got closer, she could see a friendly, gap-toothed grin. Matt stood up and brushed off his coat and pants with his hands, then reached down for her.

“Turn around, and I’ll see if I can make you presentable,” he offered.

“It’s hopeless—utterly hopeless,” she muttered, surveying the damage. “I think I’ve even torn a piece or two.” A heavy sigh escaped her. “And without my bag, I don’t even have the other skirt.”

“I’ll find you something.”

“I thought we’d already established the impossibility of that yesterday.”

“Just leave it to me.” He started toward the boy, his hands outstretched.

“Donde es
the Brassfields?” he tried hopefully.

“
Sí
…
sí
…”

“Are you quite certain you said that right?” Verena asked behind him.

“Donde esta
Columbus?”

“Sí … sí …”
the boy responded again, bobbing his head.

“The Brassfields or Columbus?”

“
Sí
…
sí
…”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if this is the wrong place,” she said under her breath.

“You want to try it?”

“No.”

“All right, then be patient.
El rancho—Donde esta el rancho?
”

That brought forth a spate of rapid Spanish he couldn’t begin to understand.
“Donde?
Uh
—where
is the Brassfield place?” he shouted.

“If he couldn’t understand you the first time, I don’t think yelling is going to help,” she pointed out. Stepping around Matt, she approached the boy. “Brassfield’s?”

“
Sí.
”

“This is Brassfield’s?”

“
Sí
.”

“I got that much out of him,” Matt muttered.

“Yes, but I’m going to get the direction.” Making a big circle around herself with her hand, she asked, “Brassfield’s?”

“
Sí
?”

“The house?”

“Casa
,” Matt supplied.
“Casa
is house—I know that, anyway.”

“The
casa
—where is the
casa
? Over there?” she asked, pointing to her left.

“
Sí.
”

“I don’t think you’re getting anywhere, if you want my opinion.”

Ignoring him, she pointed to her right.
“Casa?”

The kid shook his head. Coming to stand beside her, he sighted a line directly left of her, then nodded. “Brass-field
casa,”
he said succinctly. Holding out his own hand, he turned in a full circle.
“Rancho.”