West of Paradise (11 page)

“Did I hurt you?” she asked.

“Nah, li’l fists like that ain’t enough to hurt me.” He gave her an easy smile and straightened. “But you do pack a pretty good wallop.”

“I am sorry,” she said again.

“Forget about it. Let’s just get a start.”

Katherine nodded and rolled her blanket up in imitation of Will, packing it behind the saddle of her horse. She donned the hat and gloves, the hated veil, and buttoned herself into the black once more.

Will waited patiently then gave her a hand up before turning to his own horse. The morning’s light was spreading over the plains as they led their horses across the field to the road. Shortly the whole prairie was awash in sun, the tips of the bluestem grass glistening gold.

Katherine arranged her skirts as best she could, aiming for modesty even though if she had her way she’d be wearing proper riding pants and boots, and a helmet for Heaven’s sake. At least there was a bit of a breeze, and throughout most of the morning it kept the heat at bay, making for a relatively pleasant ride. Katherine found herself noticing the surroundings she had ignored.

Not that there was a great deal to see; for the most part there was nothing but prairie grass rippling gold and green, the occasional dirt road snaking away, and a glimpse now and then of a homestead in the distance, the thrust of a chimney or the hard angle of a rooftop. There were sounds, too, birds whose calls she didn’t know, the whisper of the breeze rustling through the grass, and somewhere far beyond her sight, a bell ringing.

School? What would it be like? A single room with a myriad of children? Nothing like the schools she had known.

“We’ll be comin’ into the outskirts of Kansas City come noon,” Will said, drawing her attention. “You ever been there before?”

Katherine shook her head.

“Well, it’s pretty much like anyplace else, folk’ll be curious about strangers, maybe wantin’ news. Best we don’t say much, if you know what I mean.”

“I’ll let you do the talking. I am much too distraught to speak to anyone, what with the loss of our dear, sweet mother.”

“Yeah, right,” Will smirked, remembering the story they had decided upon. “I’ll do my best to put ’em off.”

❧

Will proved to be adept at dissuading inquiry, even managing to look a little grief-stricken himself, Katherine thought. Most people, however, respected the black of mourning and merely nodded sympathetically or passed by without a word.

Katherine hid behind the veil, hating it but thankful it hid the bruise, which was at peak color. As they drew closer to the city she took the opportunity to study everything from the shacks along the outskirts with their dirty, barefoot children and ragged dogs to the cute cottages, manses, and small shops of the inner city. Traffic grew heavier, with fancy carriages and wagons and pedestrians with handcarts all vying for space in the streets.

When they came at last to Union Station there was a crowd of people. Men in suits and women with parasols, children in pantaloons and patent leather, newsboys trying to sell the dailies. There were farmers and cowboys, matrons in prim gowns and ladies dressed in the latest New York fashion. Bustles, Katherine noted; nearly all the women wore bustles and hats of one sort or another. Gloves were also quite popular with the more well-to-do women and she was glad she’d kept hers on.

As the train had not yet arrived they waited in the welcoming shade of the platform, standing at one end and peering down the tracks for sign of the approaching train. They heard it long before they saw it. There was the distant echoing click of the wheels over the tracks and then the high-pitched whistle of the train’s horn, blasting three times before it came around a bend and into view.

To Katherine, it seemed ancient and huge, a massive lumbering piece of machinery with a protruding grille. Smoke billowed out from the engine, smelling of oil and burning wood. It came to a long grinding halt, wheels screeching against the steel tracks. Katherine winced, resisting the urge to put her hands over her ears.

They boarded almost immediately, moving toward the rear of the train, which, according to Will, would be the last section to fill up. Dozens of wooden seats sat facing one another, separated by a narrow aisle. They chose one in the center of the car, setting their belongings on the seat opposite them.

“If the car fills up we’ll have to move ’em,” Will said quietly.

Katherine nodded. She had hoped they might have a private compartment like she’d seen in the old history holos, but Will said that luxury wouldn’t be available until they reached St. Louis. Katherine couldn’t wait to take advantage of it. She had plenty of money, both in bills reproduced perfectly for her trip, as well as an assortment of gems. More than enough to buy some well-deserved comfort, she thought, turning her gaze to the window and her thoughts toward their destination.

Boston was practically home as far as she was concerned. She’d gone to school there, vacationed all along the south shore, and still owned an apartment in Cambridge. But what would home look like now?

Chapter Fourteen
Will’s Story

K
atherine woke suddenly, to the darkness and the sound of the train. She was surprised she’d slept at all. The train was noisy and the seats were hard. She shifted and turned her gaze to the window, barely able to make out the countryside through which they passed; great long stretches of prairie grass that went on forever, distant stands of trees, an occasional homestead sitting in the midst of fields and pasture. There were no lights but for the train and the stars and moon above. The land looked bare and unnatural to her, empty.

Will sat across from her, sleeping, snoring a little. She supposed she should dislike him. After all, he was a criminal, a murderer and a thief. And yet she couldn’t quite find it in herself to do so—even a little. Probably because he was both exceptionally unlucky and unfailingly honest. She remembered his hesitant explanations.

“You left on Tommy’s word that she’d been captured? On the chance you
might
be able to get even?”

“Yep, like an idiot,” Will admitted. “I guess I couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

“Why?”

Will had shrugged.

“Tell me about her. Tell me about Alanna.”

He almost didn’t. He almost shook his head, as if the tale kept better as a secret. But then he gave another shrug and began to speak.

“I met her in Boston. She had just killed some guy. She was goin’ through his pockets and I happened to come across her. I went to go but then she came after me and we got to talkin’. Next thing I know we’re in New York and she’s workin’ in a house, you know, like Sadie’s, only better. She came to see me when she was free, introduced me to people. It was her idea to rob the Adams Express.”

“But she was from Boston?”

“That was the impression I got, along with the fact that she came from money. She had expensive tastes.”

“But if she came from money, what made her decide to rob trains?”

“I think she liked the excitement of it, the possibility that she might be killed. She wasn’t fearful at all, and I never saw anyone steadier with a gun. She wasn’t the best shot but she knew how to take aim and not flinch a bit. And I think she liked it, the killing.”

Katherine shuddered, unable to imagine ever killing anyone. “What happened?”

“Damned if I know. I never saw it coming. As far as I knew we were on our way to San Francisco. Alanna said she knew someone out there. I woke up one morning an’ she was gone.”

“You don’t think she went ahead without you?”

“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch. She used to talk about Boston, sayin’ how she was gonna live high among the mighty, in one of them fancy brick houses with a maid and a butler. I think she headed back there.”

“Do I really look like her?”

Will had studied her for a moment before answering. “Yes, and no,” he said. “There’s . . . well . . . ya know, and I expect you’re a few years younger than she is, but otherwise . . . you look exactly like her, and you’ve got that same disposition.”

“Oh?” Katherine arched a brow. “And what disposition is that?”

“The annoying one that expects everyone else to step aside.”

Katherine bit her tongue.

“That’s the other reason I’m sure she came from money,” Will went on. “An’ of course she always had to have the best of everything.”

“She sounds unpleasant,” Katherine said shortly. “What made you stay with her? Love or money?”

“A bit of both,” Will admitted with a grin. “Money first, I guess. I knew she was smart, a whole lot smarter than me. An’ she could find things out, had a way of gettin’ what she wanted. An’ of course, she stayed with me. I never expected that. I was a nobody. Not a bit respectable. But we got along all right. She never played me like she did everyone else, or at least I didn’t think she did. I spose I just got played a bit longer.”

“And you didn’t quarrel?”

“Nope.”

“And you’re sure she wasn’t mad at you for something?”

“Yep.”

“Then why did she leave you?”

Will gave a shrug. “I guess we can ask her when we find her.”

Before you kill her?
Katherine wanted to ask. But she didn’t, not wanting to think of it. Maybe Will’s anger would cool before they reached Boston. It would be better to turn Alanna in, better for both of them. If Alanna was brought to justice then Katherine’s name could be cleared and she could go home.

The sudden scream of the whistle served to draw her out of her reverie and back onto the train, which rapidly came to a halt. Outside, the skies were beginning to lighten and she could see the station they were coming into. St. Louis. She could have that private compartment now.

❧

Five hours later they were comfortably ensconced and while the style and color left something to be desired, the sofas and chairs were plush in comparison to anything Katherine had yet experienced. She might be layered in petticoats but they had done little to cushion her from the hard wooden seats on the train. Better yet was the additional trunk, which held the results of a brief shopping excursion that had bored Will to tears but cheered Katherine immensely. She held up the cloak, admiring the satin lining and elegant hood, and the three dresses, one formal, two everyday. She had also bought Will two suits, despite his protests.

“I expect Alanna is living well wherever she is, and if we wish to travel in her circle then we must appear equally well to do.”

Will had rolled his eyes and lit up a cigar. “It’s your money.”

Katherine wrinkled her nose. “Do please open a window,” she said, missing modern America’s public smoking ban.

They should stay somewhere nice, she decided, some place where she could have an actual bath with hot water. She sighed at the thought and almost laughed. Imagine, one of the wealthiest women in the world dying for a hot bath!

“You all right?” Will asked her.

“Fine,” she answered.

He nodded and blew the smoke out through the open window. A few minutes later the train began to move, slowly at first, chug-chugging along, until it picked up speed and began to run along the tracks with a rhythmic clickety-clack.

Chapter Fifteen
Review

J
ack withdrew the envelope from his jacket, removing each clipping one at a time and laying them out in chronological order. The first announced the marriage of Rory McLeod, son of Alastair McLeod, one of the city’s chief benefactors.

The bride was an heiress with a sizeable dowry, and there was a pretty description of the event, the naming of names, and even a picture of the unsmiling couple. The second clipping was from the Boston
Herald,
dated September 6 of 1853, and accompanied by a small grainy picture recognizable as the Liverpool wharf.

The article announced the launching of a newly built clipper ship, the sixth in its line, designed by the famed Robert McKay especially for McLeod Shipping. She was called the
Alanna Rose,
named after the owner’s first grandchild. The third article was from the same paper, eight years later, telling of the tragic loss of the
Alanna Rose
and all her passengers, including the owner’s only son and daughter-in-law.

The last was an obituary, February 22, 1880, for one William H. Shepherd, who left behind his wife, Rose A. and young son, also named William. A small hand-written note had accompanied the clippings:
“Have you guessed what the A stands for?
Silas.”

Why on earth would a respectable girl, an heiress no less, turn to thievery? How could he possibly believe that this girl, this young woman, who could’ve had her heart’s desire, would throw it all away? And for what? To be a whore? A thief? No one would believe it. Even he was having trouble making the pieces fit.

Perhaps it was time to have a sit down with Silas and see what he had to say. And with that thought Jack pulled his hat down over his eyes and stretched his legs out, carefully.

❧

The first time Jack met Silas was late summer, 1879. He had recently bought the Munroe House, a nice federal that had fallen victim to fire.

“It’s haunted you know.”

An old man stood at the gate, his cane tapping the stone, his sharp eyes examining Jack.

“Excuse me?” Jack had asked.

“This place, this house you’ve bought. It’s haunted, didn’t they tell you?”

Jack looked at the house he had just purchased, a house half gutted by fire. It was a fine house nonetheless, with a nice view of the Charles River to the rear and a high wall fronting the street. With a small investment it could be restored, and Jack knew enough about carpentry that he felt up to the task of overseeing such a project.

He shrugged at the old man. “I guess they declined to mention the fact. And you are?”

The man had stepped forward and offered a hand. “Silas Beadle. I’m with
The
Herald
. I wrote about the last family that lived here.”

“Some unfortunate event I imagine,” Jack said.

“A series of unfortunate events, actually. This house has been witness to little else.”

Jack was curious, even if it was a load of shit, and he invited Silas inside.

“You’ll excuse the mess I hope,” Jack said, waving at the crates and covered furniture, soot-covered sills and scorch marks that deteriorated into a shell of a great room with a view of the river.

“Nice view,” Silas acknowledged.

They watched the night fall, listening to the crickets and peepers while fireflies danced at the edge of the property. Silas told Jack about the house, from the time it was built over a hundred years ago to the present day. By the time he was done Jack could see why someone might think the place haunted, or cursed.

But he shrugged and laughed it off. “I’m afraid I don’t believe in ghosts or curses,” he said.

“No, I didn’t think you were the type. But I was curious who bought the place and that was a good opening, don’t you think?”

“You mean none of it’s true?”

“No, no, it’s all true, all the death and burning. It happened as I said. And it was a damned good excuse to come talk to you, don’t you think?”

“Then you plan to write about me?” Jack asked, surprised.

Silas smiled. “Not right now. Maybe never. Mostly I like to collect information.”

“I see,” Jack said, though he really didn’t. And that summed up Silas. Curious and wanting to know everything, always asking questions, finding things out no one else knew and publishing very little of it. He was one of the most revered writers on the east coast, even then.

Jack looked at him now. He’d grown older, grayer, and slower—but he still had those sharp, dark eyes.

“Sit, young fellow,” Silas said. “Sit and have a drink with an old man.”

“You go on,” Jack said, waving the flask away. “I don’t like that shit you drink.”

“Come, come, Jack, you can do better than that. How about ‘putrid swill.’ Much more imaginative than ‘shit,’ don’t you think?”

Jack smiled and shook his head, watching Silas tip the flask back for a long swallow before capping it and putting it away, bottom drawer, under a stack of yellowed clippings.

“I got your envelope,” Jack said.

“Did you now? Well, good enough. Glad to be of some help to such a respectable lawman such as yourself.” He winked.

Jack ignored the jibe. “What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Silas.”

“Big words, Jack. Be careful.”

“Come on, you know what I’m thinking.”

“I know a lot of things,” Silas reminded him. “More than I’ll ever write about. You understand?”

“You’re telling me you’ll never write about any of this?”

“I didn’t say that, but I didn’t last this long by writing about everything I know.”

“Alastair McLeod must be a powerful man.”

“He has influence,” Silas agreed. “Not as much as he did when he was young but he still has friends in high places. Anyway, Jack, you know I’m interested in all kinds of things. You for instance. I don’t bet you have any idea how interesting you are.”

Jack gaped at him.

Silas smiled slyly and went on. “Oh, yes, very interesting. Bounty hunter or gentleman. Which is it? Or maybe a bit of both. I’m not sure. I keep asking myself why a wealthy gentleman would want to risk his life chasing after criminals. And where would a bounty hunter acquire enough money to live as a gentleman? Interesting questions, don’t you think? See, Jack, there’s always interesting questions, and sometimes there’s interesting answers. But that doesn’t mean I have to publish it or delve too deeply. Some things are best left alone.”

Jack was silent, realizing a number of things all at once, not the least of which was that old Silas Beadle was a whole lot smarter than he let on.

“Oh, I did find one more clipping I thought you might enjoy. Recent, too. May.”

Jack took the cut clipping, inspecting it closely, seeing a grainy black and white image of an old man and a young woman standing side by side. Next to the picture was the caption:
Alastair McLeod, of McLeod Shipping, cuts the ribbon to open the new wing on the library on Boylston Street. Standing at his side is his widowed granddaughter, Mrs. Shepherd.

“Mrs. Shepherd,” Jack whispered, instantly recognizing Alanna McLeod.

“Yes.”

“Very interesting.”

“Very. But remember what I said. I rather enjoy our little visits and I wouldn’t want them to come to an untimely end.”

Jack raised a brow. “Don’t worry.”

Silas nodded and Jack took his leave, limping down the stairs and out to the curb where his carriage was waiting.

His driver, George, waited until he was safely within the confines of the cab before starting off. Jack pulled the curtains closed. He had seen the view before and just now he didn’t feel like doing much of anything but closing his eyes.

Home. Munroe House. Certainly it had not been much to look at when he had bought the place. There was only the view to recommend it. But much of its former beauty had been restored. It was not exactly as it had been; not as large, but more than comfortable for a bachelor and his two servants.

It had not been as difficult as he had thought. Foreknowledge had allowed him to make certain investments, which had turned profitable in the short time he’d been here. This in turn had allowed him to live quite well, as a “gentleman,” as Silas had suggested. Jack enjoyed the time he spent in Boston. It was a respite from the sleepless nights, long hours in the saddle, uncomfortable accommodations, and bad food. And when he tired of too much comfort, too much free time, and altogether too much of Mrs. Henry’s good cooking, he investigated the wanted posters Harlan was kind enough to send him periodically.

It was all nearly perfect.

The carriage rolled to a stop and Jack opened the door, not bothering to wait for George. They didn’t stand much on ceremony once they were off the streets. George understood that Jack was different than your ordinary gent, and Jack didn’t ask about the scar that ran down from George’s scalp and across his nose.

Inside, Mrs. Henry had left the larder stocked, fresh candles in the kitchen, the morning’s bread, and the rooms aired and smelling of beeswax. She would be in the apartment she shared with her son, George, knitting or sewing—though what she did with the finished products Jack never knew.

He guessed her to be in her fifties, stocky, plain, but still strong. She didn’t speak much, but she was efficient and seldom asked questions. As far as Jack was concerned, the arrangement was perfect.

Jack made himself a plate of fresh bread and cheese, cold ham from the cellar, and a tall ale. He grabbed a few candles, and walked through the pantry and dining room, off into the alcove that was his library. He lit the lamps and placed the candles on the mantle, drawing the curtains closed.

There was a comfortable armchair in the corner and a table where a book sat, a feather sticking out of it, marking a page. It was an old book, or it would be one day, Jack reminded himself. But now, here, it was newly printed, the leather still supple and soft. He sat down and put his leg on the footstool, taking the book up.