Lisa Plumley (19 page)

Chapter Twelve

F
or a man with his own personal valet, Simon Blackhouse required far too long to answer his own front door—or at least what passed for a front door: his train car’s rear hatch.

Unhappy with that fact, Cade frowned at the gaily painted hatch. He lifted the bottle of mescal he’d brought, waved it in the air, then bellowed, “Blackhouse! Open the damn door!”

Sounds of a hurried conversation drifted toward him from inside the train car. Thumping footfalls could be heard.

The door’s twin locks were disengaged. The door opened.

To Cade’s surprise, Blackhouse himself—he of the angelic blond curls and hellaciously cocksure demeanor—stood there in the entryway. His gaze lit on Cade’s liquor bottle.

“Foster! You’re early. The party’s not for hours yet. But you brought libations, so all is forgiven.” With outright merriment, Blackhouse reached for the mescal. “Thank you.”

Cade held it out of reach. He took a deliberate swig.

“Courtesy demands that you surrender whatever gifts you bring.” Blackhouse appeared puzzled. “That’s what’s done.”

“What do you know about ‘what’s done’? You can’t even manage your own valet.” Tipsily, Cade scowled. “I expected Adams to open the door, not you.”

“Adams is busy preparing for the party later,” Blackhouse told him. “I’m perfectly capable of opening a door by myself.”

“Hmm. And here I thought I’d witnessed a miracle.” With sham concern, Cade peered at him. “Opening a door by yourself is almost akin to work, Blackhouse. Does your hand hurt?”

“My hand is fine.” Blackhouse stifled a swearword. He narrowed his eyes. “Which is more than I can say for you, by the way. What happened? You look as though you picked a fight with your conscience—” here, Blackhouse gave a typically devilish grin “—and then crushed that bothersome nag to smithereens.”

“Very astute of you.” Feeling himself waver slightly, Cade pointed his mescal bottle at his friend. Confidingly, he said, “I’m undoing all the reforming Miss Benson has accomplished on me. So far, I’ve cleaned house in faro, drank a third of this bottle of firewater, flirted with four saloon girls
and
delivered a mighty sockdolager to a mouthy saloon patron who was rude to one of those fine dancing ladies.” Upon remembering that last occurrence, Cade flexed his fingers. He winced. “
My
hand
does
hurt. It’s been a while since I’ve been brawling.”

“I see.” Blackhouse gazed at him with uncharacteristic—and in all likelihood, imaginary—sympathy. His erstwhile benefactor stepped aside. “Well, come inside, then. You won’t find any brawls in here, but in a few hours you
will
find all manner of other distractions. We’ll have drinks and hors d’oeuvres...”

As Blackhouse nattered on describing the evening’s upcoming festivities, Cade listened with half an ear. Clutching his mescal bottle, he entered the train car. It smelled of exotic fragrances, owing to Blackhouse’s enthusiasm for Eastern-influenced objects and incenses. It looked posh, thanks to Blackhouse’s affinity for luxurious fabrics, rare polished woods and expensive metals. It felt safe inside, Cade thought in a nonsensical and probably drunken fashion, as a result of Blackhouse’s insistence on sturdy locks and close-at-hand weaponry. He’d hung multiple knives, one wicked rifle and two—no,
three
—pistols on the train car walls like fine artwork.

Frowning, Cade considered all the firepower on display. Why did Blackhouse—ostensibly a carefree pleasure-seeker with no ties to anyone—need to have a veritable arsenal at the ready?

“...will have music, too, of course,” Blackhouse was saying as he ushered Cade into the train car’s parlor area, “at least whatever this innocuous mountain town can provide for us...”

Cade swallowed more mescal. The liquor seared a path to his gut, joining with the bitterness there to make an unholy brew. After Violet and Reverend Benson had left the stable, Cade had toiled awhile in blind confusion, abrading his hands with fresh calluses and trying to work off the memory of Violet’s words.

I thought I could present the whole thing as another of my charitable accomplishments!
Cade recollected unwillingly.
Just another lonesome soul, brought from darkness into light, saved from demon drink and the perils of gambling...

Violet hadn’t seemed to realize what was wrong with that boastful statement. But Cade had, and he’d worked tirelessly to forget it soon after. His efforts had been stymied by a surprisingly compassionate-seeming Owen Cooper, though, who’d wrestled the pitchfork from Cade’s hands and made him leave.

Cooper couldn’t possibly have understood the demons driving Cade. Yet he’d done everything but shove Cade forcibly out the stable doors. For that intervention, Cade had decided—eventually—to be grateful. At least he had once he’d found himself standing outside Jack Murphy’s saloon...and realized he could rid himself of unwanted “salvation” once and for all.

Hell. He should have known he was nothing more than an altruistic exercise for Violet, Cade told himself now as he followed Blackhouse farther into the train car’s well-appointed depths. No woman as pure as Violet Benson could have loved a man like him—a man full of flaws. What had he been thinking?

He was lucky he’d escaped before he’d fallen even harder.

“...and a high-stakes game, just to whet their appetites,” Blackhouse rambled on. Cade hadn’t heard more than one-tenth of what his friend had been saying, but that didn’t seem to matter to Blackhouse. Even now, he turned with an excited flourish.

“But all those things pale, I’d say, compared with what’s up next.” Confidently, Blackhouse gestured to the settee. “I’d planned this to be a surprise for later. Remember? I mentioned it to you at that dingy stable?” He grimaced. “But now that you’re here, Foster, and in such a sorry state at that...”

Blearily, Cade tried to concentrate. “You can be damnably long-winded, Blackhouse. Come to the point, why don’t you?”

“Fine. But first I’d better take this from you.” With gentle insistence, his friend prized the bottle of mescal from Cade’s grasp. “I wouldn’t want you to drop it in surprise.”

“Surprise?” Vehemently, Cade swore. He wanted his alcohol back. He wanted this charade of pleasantries done. He wanted...

Damnation. He wanted Violet. He wanted her to think of him as a man, not a down-on-his-luck recipient of her benevolent good deeds...not a lonesome drifter needing her angelic embrace.

Angelic.
Blast. She and Blackhouse had that much in common. They’d both become idealized versions of the people they’d started out to be. They’d both lifted themselves. Cade had sunk. For a while, he’d thought Violet was lifting him, too, but now...

“Nothing surprises me,” Cade grumbled. “Not anymore.”

Blackhouse disagreed. “Are you sure about that?”

Cade fired off another expletive. He shouldn’t have come here. Except something Violet had said—something about seeing Whittier today—had pushed him inevitably toward Blackhouse.

Most likely, some pathetic but still-hopeful part of him wanted to take Blackhouse’s triple-the-money offer, Cade knew. Some part of him insisted on hoping that he could still find Whittier in Morrow Creek, get the money he needed to start a new life, impress Violet, make her his...

His pesky, newly awakened optimism had more kick than he’d reckoned on. Annoyed by that, Cade frowned. “Give me my mescal.”

“I’ll give you something even better!” With a flourish born of innate confidence and inborn good manners, Blackhouse waved his arm. His grin widened like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Behold! Your surprise!”

Wearily, Cade glanced in the direction he indicated. A young man sat patiently on the settee, all angular arms and long legs and broad shoulders, wearing a grin that looked several degrees more uncertain than Blackhouse’s. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, and in their depths, Cade glimpsed a million close-held memories—memories that stretched from boyhood till now.

“Hellfire, but you’ve developed a thirst for mescal,” the young man said in a husky, emotion-choked tone. He rose, his gaze fixed firmly on Cade’s face. “I haven’t tried any of that Mexican liquor myself, but I guess I’m going to have to sample some now. If my brother says it’s drinkable—” he stretched out his arms for an embrace “—then I reckon there’ll be no arguing.”

He stood there a moment, leaning markedly on one leg. He kept his arms outstretched, his attitude full of buoyant hope and unabashed optimism—full, in fact, of the selfsame optimism that Cade was currently at war with. This could only be one man.

Cade blinked, still disbelieving. “
Judah?
”

* * *

Hunched on her bed, wrapped in a quilt that her mother had stitched long ago, Violet lugged another leather-bound ledger onto her lap. On the bureau beside her bed, her oil lamp cast a golden glow over the pages. Next to it sat an untouched cup of tea—brought a while ago by her father—and beside it, a jumble of jacks belonging to Tobe. They’d played a few games earlier, but Violet had been unable to keep her mind on the diversion.

All she could think about was Cade—and the way she’d hurt him. It had been an accident, of course, but did that really matter? In the end, he was as wounded as if she’d kicked him on purpose. She might as well have screamed that she didn’t want him—that, just like those foster families who’d passed over Cade and his brother, Judah, she’d found him lacking and unlovable.

I had all the “charity” I’ll ever need when I was just a boy.
Of course Cade thought that. He might have experienced poorly given charity, but he’d never encountered real love.

It was Violet’s mistake that he’d somehow confused the two. She’d offered love. He’d experienced charity. Violet had no idea, especially now that they’d parted, how to bridge that gap.

Feeling more distraught than ever, she wrenched open the train-station ledger that Joseph Abernathy had given her. Rows of penciled-in names and dates met her gaze, adrift in a sea of swirling cursive letters and numbers. The task before her suddenly seemed nigh impossible. It would have even if she hadn’t been despairing and upset just then. Who was she to think she could find Tobe’s mother, where others had failed?

Except there had been no others, Violet reminded herself staunchly, forcing herself to rally as she always did, especially when someone needed her. Tobe had not gone to the authorities, she remembered. He’d feared Sheriff Caffey would toss him in his jailhouse or send him to do forced work. He’d worried a “reformer” like Violet would march him onto an orphan train or enlist him in church service. So rather than look to responsible adults for help, Tobe had fended for himself. He’d banded together with vagabond youngsters in similar circumstances, and he’d made himself seem as akin to them as possible, and he’d gotten by somehow.

But that wasn’t good enough anymore. Determined to help him, Violet rubbed her eyes. She refocused on the ledger. If she concentrated hard enough, she would think about finding Tobe’s mother, Mrs. Larkin, and not about Cade. She would grant herself some reprieve from worrying about Cade and maybe do some good in the process. That’s what she always did, wasn’t it?

Sometime later, a knock at her door dragged her away from her records. Drained and gritty-eyed, Violet glanced up. “Yes?”

Her bedroom door creaked open. Adeline Wilson, her very best friend, stuck her head around the door frame. She smiled. “It’s about time you heard me. I’ve been knocking for ages!”

“You have?” Violet blinked. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

“I thought as much. Let me guess—you were engrossed in one of your helpful projects, weren’t you?” With a familiarity born of longtime friendship, Adeline bustled in. Her pretty face was full of empathy as she sat at the edge of the bed; her hands were clutched in worry. “How are you doing? Are you all right?”

“I suppose I will be.” Violet’s tentative smile, already shaky at best, didn’t improve under the pressure of Adeline’s sympathetic expression. “I tried to find Cade to apologize,” she said, having already confided everything to her friend during an earlier talk, “but he wasn’t in his room at the Lorndorff.”

Wide-eyed, Adeline regarded her. “You went to his hotel?”

Violet nodded. “And to the places he’s apprenticed, and even to the saloon. Mrs. Murphy had to escort me, though. My arrival at that last one wasn’t too popular, let me tell you.”

“I’ll bet! Those men can be bullish when they’re drinking.”

“The only place left to try is his friend’s private train car.” Violet explained about Simon Blackhouse, his mysterious existence and his relationship to Cade’s search for Whittier. “Mr. Blackhouse is hosting a party tonight. He’s invited me.”

“I heard about that shindig!” Eagerly, Adeline grabbed her arm. “You should go! You can have fun, forget about Cade—”

“I don’t want to forget about Cade.”

“—and enjoy some of that long-ignored popularity that Mr. Foster’s interest bestowed on you.” Knowingly, Adeline nodded. “That’s what I’d do. Why not? You knew this day was coming, after all. You must have considered what you’d do after—”

“After what?” Violet felt her gaze sharpen. Her heart pounded. “How was I supposed to know this day was coming?”

“Well...” Adeline appeared uncomfortable. “I only meant this isn’t the first time you’ve been disappointed, Violet,” she said gently. “You must have known this fling with the gambler couldn’t possibly last...and planned what you’d do accordingly.”

Now it was Violet’s turn to feel uncomfortable. She made a face, unhappy to realize that even Adeline, her very closest friend, hadn’t believed she and Cade could make a lasting match.

Had
she
believed it herself? Violet wondered suddenly. Or had she blurted out that thoughtless statement about reforming Cade with her charity work as a means of protecting herself?

After all, Violet mused, if the whole world thought she was simply
helping
Cade—not falling vulnerably in love with him—then she wouldn’t be pitied if he didn’t return her feelings.

The notion wasn’t unthinkable—it was only disillusioning. She’d thought she was stronger than that. She’d thought that, with Cade’s help and encouragement, she’d gotten
much
stronger.