Caught in the Middle (3 page)

“Once I find the cook I should be back in Pushmataha by tomorrow.” Anne leaned forward with the train’s deceleration. “Don’t fret over me—”

“You saved my life. I’d be singing with the angels if you hadn’t intervened.”

She grunted. “Even angels know not to jump into a gunfight without a gun.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I owe you. Besides, my sister would expect me to accompany you while in town. I’ll cancel my evening plans and help you find this cook of yours. Garber isn’t large—”

The train whistle interrupted him. Anne pulled her hat over her head. She would’ve been quit of the man much sooner if she’d let those yahoos have their way. Instead, he’d spent the whole trip watching her. She adjusted her gun belt. Why did he have to do that—really see her? Most people broke eye
contact when she caught them looking. Either he couldn’t hide his curiosity, or he had no desire to.

“Stop staring.” She stood with the rest of the passengers. “I’m beginning to regret saving your hide.”

His neck tensed against his collar. Evidently he didn’t appreciate the reminder. Still, it didn’t dissuade him from following her off the train. “Too late for regrets. You’re in my town and I can’t have you going around unprotected.”

“You’re going to protect me? You weren’t much help during the holdup.”

Now he was annoyed. He crossed his arms. “But you certainly appreciated my company afterward.”

Anne’s throat closed at the memory of her weakness. Shame on her for having one.

She swung her knapsack over her shoulder to exit the platform. He was dangerous, mostly because he didn’t believe she was. She hadn’t made it two steps when he once again grasped her arm. This time she expected it.

Whirling, she flung his hand away. “You have no right to detain me, Mr. Lovelace. You do not intimidate me.”

A couple of men stepped closer. Whether looking for entertainment or to be of assistance, Anne couldn’t tell, but Mr. Lovelace eyed them warily. The all clear was called as the train left the station. He grimaced.

“I’ve made a mess of things, Mrs. Tillerton. I’ll let you depart, but first, please promise me that should you ever find yourself in a bind, you’ll call on me—Nicholas Lovelace, Lovelace Transportation Specialist, supplier to NTT Railroad. Anyone at the train station can direct you. Will you remember that?”

He was doing it again—looking past her battered clothing
and wind-burned complexion, past his own inconvenience—at what she was trying to disguise. Vulnerability.

Everyone watched for her next move. Well, she’d got what she was after. She’d chased the annoying puppy away.

“My word.” She held out her hand to shake on it like her brothers had taught her, minus the spit in the palm, of course.

His hand engulfed hers, a broad, powerful hand with scraped knuckles that had pummeled a man earlier. The vitality that sprang from his clasp frightened her. What could he do to a woman her size? Anne pulled away quickly. She squinted up at him one last time. How odd that their paths should cross now. All that time in Prairie Lea and he’d never spoken a word to her. Of course, she hadn’t been allowed to speak. Not to anyone.

But no one controlled her now.

She ambled past the station house and studied the river unfurling outside of town. She’d grab some grub and slip away to the outskirts for the night. Better to sleep beneath the stars than at an inn where every creak or footfall would have her checking the lock on the door. And she’d need a good night’s sleep, for tomorrow she’d begin her search.

 3 

Feet propped up on his desk, pencil between his teeth, Nicholas could no more concentrate on the bid before him than he could endure the fit of a ready-made suit. During the holdup, he’d had the best intentions. Instead of shaking in his boots like a dandy, he’d charged into the fray. He hadn’t flinched when death seemed certain, but his salvation at Anne’s hands embarrassed him. His friend Joel would want to hear every last detail, and he’d howl when he heard that Nick owed his life to a buffalo-hunting lass.

Well, if his good friend couldn’t laugh at him, he needed to be taken down a peg—and that’s exactly what this Anne Tillerton had done.

Nick’s assistant rushed into the room, pen still between his fingers, ink smudged on his high forehead. “I’m finished with the monthly report. I can look over the bid now if you want me to.”

“Thanks, Harold.” Nick swung his scuff-less shoes off the polished desk and grasped the half-blank paper. Where had the hour gone? He’d accomplished nothing since the last time Harold had checked on him.

Turning the paper facedown, he threaded his fingers together and adopted a pensive expression. “The main difficulty I foresee in the Karber bid is the transportation of the ties. If we don’t build another sawmill at the base of the Karber railroad, we’ll be paying Mr. Stanford to ship the wooden ties to his competitor.”

“Probably not a viable option.”

“I wouldn’t think so, but we don’t have the capital available to construct another mill. Either Karber would need to advance us some funds, or we’ll have to request a loan at the bank.”

Harold cupped the nib of his pen, saving the Oriental rug from an inky droplet. “Ask for the advance. You don’t want to pay interest.”

Nicholas smiled. “I thought that once the business was established, I’d never be as excited as I was in the beginning, but every expansion thrills me just the same.”

“Because each contains greater risks . . . and greater rewards.”

“If Karber’s railroad is as profitable as Stanford’s, we’ll be well rewarded indeed.”

Harold tapped the stack of envelopes on the corner of his desk. “You haven’t gone through your mail yet? I thought you’d wonder what the letter from the courthouse is about.”

Another task forgotten during his daydreaming. He slid the stack into his hand and rifled through them. The letter opener sliced through the heavy envelope. Nick’s brows lowered as he read. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Not bad news, I hope.” Harold had given up on his pen and deposited it nib up into his shirt pocket.

Nick flipped the letter over as if the message were written
more clearly on the back. “I’d heard that the county commissioner had died.”

“Richard Garrard?” Harold nodded. “Gored by his bull.”

Nick barely heard him, his mind whirling to make sense of the contents. “According to this it’s the judge’s duty to appoint another commissioner to serve until the next election. He requested that I step in.”

“You? A county commissioner?” Harold’s eyes rolled heavenward. “How can we expand the business if you’re busy scampering around for the county?”

Nick tossed the letter onto his desk. “Which is why I’ll decline. This bid could double our income. We can’t afford to be distracted while stalking the elusive Mr. Karber.”

A door in the front office opened. Harold’s eyes widened. Nicholas took a quick inventory of his office—ferns green and healthy, spittoon hidden behind the velvet drapes, lamps trimmed. The room appeared to be in order for their guest, which was fortunate because Ophelia Stanford noticed everything. Generally this caused Nick no hardship beyond the fact that she expected to be noticed, too.

“Mrs. Stanford,” he bellowed, as if announcing her arrival at the Cotton Festival cotillion.

Her entry was just as grand. Hands clasped gently in front of her, elbows floating a distance from herself as though escorted by a gallant on each side, Mrs. Stanford crossed the Persian rug she’d chosen for his office and presented a cheek for his customary greeting.

He smacked the air, remembering to breathe through his nose so as to avoid the taste of the lilac-scented powder swirling around her.

Harold quietly returned to his office.

“I haven’t finished the report for your husband, but progress looks to be ahead of schedule.” Nicholas ushered her to the leather chair sitting before his desk.

“That’s pleasing news. Is there ample timber for ties, or will we need to purchase lumber?”

Nicholas took the chair opposite her, remembering that she didn’t like to speak to him over his desk. “That depends. Most of the trees along this portion of the route are pine. Some cottonwood grows that could be useful, but even it will need to be replaced in a couple of years. If you use hardwood the expense will be considerably more. On an unproven route, it would be a gamble.”

With precision, Ophelia adjusted the lace at her wrist. “We could build an inferior track of cottonwood and pine and then see if the proceeds merit a larger investment. If this line turns a profit, we build a stronger track parallel and then with switches we’d be able to run both directions, even if the outlet was in bad repair.”

No wonder Mr. Stanford didn’t mind his wife interfering in business. Given the chance, she would’ve been a success without him.

“My thoughts exactly. And once we break through the forest, I’ll have my men go back to the more wooded areas. They won’t be needed to clear the trees, but you’ll need the ties at a faster rate.”

“Sounds like your report is nearly complete, and that’s good because I didn’t come here to discuss business. I came to get a scintillating firsthand report of the train holdup. You can imagine how overcome by curiosity I’ve been since I learned of your adventure.”

Nicholas rested his elbow atop the chair arm. “I suppose you talked to the conductor and the engineer?”

“I haven’t seen their reports yet, but I have heard from some ladies who mentioned a passenger who displayed uncommon heroism. Imagine my surprise when I reconciled the dashing account with my mild-mannered lumber supplier.”

Nicholas snorted. “Mild-mannered? Of all the things I’ve been called—”

“Now, don’t misdirect me. I want a full account. How did the attack start? When were you first aware?”

When was it? Mrs. Tillerton had bolted and he was chasing her. Next thing he knew he was thrown against her so closely he could see the flecks of blue in her gray eyes. He could distinguish each eyelash that curled beneath her brows.

“Who was she?”

Nicholas blinked, bringing Ophelia’s image into sharp focus. “I beg your pardon. I was trying to remember—”

“She must have been beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever caught you in a reverie before.” Ophelia’s narrow lips were pursed. Her head tilted sympathetically. “Straight from the schoolroom, pure white skin plump with youth, dress flounced with more petticoats than she’s seen years. Experience hasn’t taught her to guard her laugh. No depth to prevent her from instant familiarity. I know her well.”

He filled his lungs in a long breath of the lilac cloud.
You don’t know her at all,
he wanted to protest. But prudence restrained him.

“How could I not be distracted with Garber’s fairest aboard?” He swung his foot easily. “Mr. Walcher’s daughter Susan had secured tickets for herself and some companions, little realizing that their lark would encounter violence. Yes, they required my full attention, and regretfully I didn’t foresee the trouble in time to be of assistance.”

“But you assisted Miss Walcher, I understand, and at great peril.”

His foot swung a little faster at the memory, grateful that Miss Walcher preferred the version where he was the rescuer instead of the rescued. “Oh that.” He shrugged. “Instinctual, I suppose. Didn’t realize what I’d done until I felt that pistol barrel against my head.”

Ophelia leaned forward and grasped Nick’s arm. “Don’t ever do that again. To risk your life . . . You must take better care of yourself, Nicholas. Especially now with so much on the horizon.”

Her smile hinted at a great surprise. Nick shifted in his seat. Maybe he should have been more grateful to Mrs. Tillerton for saving his neck, especially when life promised so much.

“Now that you mention it, I did have a surprise awaiting me. It seems that Judge Calloway has appointed me as a county commissioner. Can you imagine? Naturally, I have to turn it down.”

“Turn it down?” Fine lines appeared around Ophelia’s frowning lips. “Whatever for?”

Why had he mentioned it? Oh well. Too late to reverse course. If he signed a contract with Mr. Karber, the Stanfords would know it sooner or later.

“I’m considering an expansion. Mr. Karber mentioned that he was extending his southeast line and could use another crew. I’m meeting with him tomorrow, and I wouldn’t want to take on additional duties that could interfere with my plans.”

Mrs. Stanford rose. She glided to the window behind his desk and gazed upon the street below. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you want to grow. Your ambition was the first quality that attracted us to you, along with your honesty—a
trait desperately needed in government. Perhaps we could find an alternative.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t refuse so hastily. Being appointed to a political office is an honor that could lead to astonishing opportunities. And what if Mr. Karber doesn’t accept your bid and you’ve thrown away this chance for naught?”

“But I intend to expand eventually. The flaws have been worked out of my operation. Why would I stop with only one crew?”

Her lashes quivered as she came to a decision. “Then get another crew, but forget about finding new partners. Ian is planning another line even now. We could use your services there. Without having the trouble of hammering out new terms and expectations, you’ll have plenty of time for your county duties.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like being pushed toward a decision. Besides the increased profit that diversification would bring, he also wanted to lessen his dependence on the NTT Railroad. The Stanfords, Ophelia in particular, could be difficult to please, and Nick could foresee the day when he’d tire of the dance. Still, wasn’t the sure promise of more business better than the gamble of securing new clients? New commissioners would be elected in a few months. Surely he could coast until then, or if he got in over his head, he could always resign before any harm came to his business.

“Another line, you say? When do we break ground?”

Every good hunter knows that the trick to finding game involves predicting where their prey feels most at home. Buffalo,
rabbits, foxes—they all skedaddle to their lair when pursued. Errant cooks would be no different. And Anne was an excellent hunter.

From the moment she spotted the Velvet Palace, Anne knew with disgusted certainty that Tessa called it home. As soon as the bartender finished with his noon customers, she had her question answered, then jaunted up a painted staircase to stand in Tessa’s doorway.

Finding her had been the easy part. Convincing her to return would take patience, and patience wasn’t Anne’s strong suit. If Tessa would only stand still long enough to hear her plea, but she obviously didn’t have time for Anne or for the infant who pulled on her skirt as she preened in the mirror.