Willow: A Novel (No Series) (20 page)

Careful not to awaken her sleeping husband, Willow slid out of his arms and then out of the bed. It had been a full week since the confrontation with Vancel Tudd, and though she had been wildly happy the whole time, Steven had been in her thoughts often. She needed to talk to her brother, to relay Gideon’s message, but aware now that Mr. Tudd would be watching her, she hesitated to approach any of their usual meeting places.

Standing very still, in a pool of moonlight pouring in through the open window, Willow listened hard. The owl cry sounded again and she knew then that she would not have to seek Steven out at all—he had come to her.

But she could have throttled him for taking such a chance, and her motions were quick as she reached for the thin silk wrapper that lay at the foot of the bed. The rustling sound of the fabric caused Gideon to stir in his sleep and mutter something.

The last thing Willow wanted was for her husband to awaken now. “Gideon?” she whispered, as a precaution.

He turned away from her, mumbling and burrowing deeper into his pillow, and the meter of his breathing assured her that he was still sound asleep.

Carefully, Willow left the bedroom, her hair rumpled, her feet bare. Passing through the parlor to the kitchen, she stubbed her toe and had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out in pain.

The back door creaked on its hinges, and Willow opened it very carefully. Although Gideon had given his word that he would not shoot Steven or even seek him out, there was no telling what he would do if he were to awaken and encounter him now.

The yard, the outhouse, and the clothesline took on spectral shapes in the moonlight, and Willow gasped, in spite of herself, when a tall shadow slid across the grass at her feet.

Steven spoke quietly. “Did I scare you, little sister?”

“Shut up!” Willow whispered. “We’re too close to the house—Gideon might hear you.”

With a shrug, Steven caught his sister’s hand and they began walking toward the pond. There, at some distance from the house and shielded from view by trees, should Gideon awaken and look out, they sat down together on
a fallen log and watched the moonlight shift and sparkle on the rippling water for a time.

“Steven,” Willow began finally, “why did you come here? You must know it’s dangerous.”

“I wanted to see you,” he answered blithely.

She turned to face him. “Did you know that Vancel Tudd has been watching me? Gideon caught him right here, not a week ago.”

Even in the darkness, the sparks in Steven’s blue eyes were unmistakable. “Tudd? Here? Willow, did he lay a hand on you?”

“No,” Willow said quickly. She couldn’t help squinting into the darkness, shivering a little. Suppose Tudd was out there, even now? Suppose he was about to pounce? “But, like I said, he’s been watching me. That means he knows that I see you, Steven.”

“I know what it means,” Steven said, tugging lightly at a lock of her hair.

“One would never guess it,” retorted Willow sharply, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. “And will you please shut your mouth and listen to me? I have a message for you, from Gideon.”

Steven’s look was an amused one, almost patronizing. “Oh? And what, pray tell, is that?”

“He won’t try to track you if you agree not to stop any more trains, Steven.”

Steven laid one hand to his chest in feigned gratitude. “I’m overwhelmed. Gosh, Willow, now I’ll be able to sleep at night, my conscience clear.”

Willow’s patience had reached an end; she stretched
out one hand, shoved hard at Steven’s chest and sent him toppling backward off the log. “Idiot!” she scolded, still keeping her voice down, just on general principles. “Gideon isn’t old and slow like Vancel Tudd, and he can shoot, Steven. As well as you can!”

Steven, with typical grace, was rising out of the grass, dusting himself off, and looking almost comically regretful. “No more trains?”

“No more trains, Steven. If you won’t leave them alone for your own good, will you do it for mine?”

Steven swore softly and turned away, his hands on his hips.

“You only steal to get under Papa’s hide anyway,” Willow went on, when he didn’t speak. “Oh, Steven, won’t you please grow up?”

He whirled to face her, the back of one hand affixed dramatically to his forehead. “’Tis much you ask of me, me bonny lass,” he bewailed, in his faultless Scots burr. “But, alas, I’ll be after desistin’ for love of your fair charms!”

Willow didn’t laugh as she might have at another time; she faced her brother and caught his hands in her own. “Steven, I’m serious.
Promise me
you won’t stop another train, ever.”

He cupped gentle hands around her face. “I promise, Button,” he said. And then he kissed her forehead and stepped back from her. “I love you,” he said, and then he was gone.

Willow sat down on the log again and clasped her hands in her lap. She had done all she could to avert
disaster; now there was nothing more to do but wait and pray.

After a long time, the chill of the night began to reach through Willow’s thin wrapper, and she walked slowly back toward the house, her head down. Though there was no light burning in the kitchen, Gideon was up, standing near the stove. His hair was sleep-rumpled and he was naked except for a pair of misbuttoned trousers.

“Coffee?” he asked companionably.

Willow, taken aback, could manage nothing more than a nod. When Gideon calmly poured coffee for both of them and sat down at the table, she followed suit.

“You saw Steven,” he said, after a long silence.

“Yes,” Willow replied, for Gideon had not been asking a question but making a statement.

“And?” Gideon’s spoon clattered as he stirred coarse brown sugar into his coffee.

“And I told him what you said about the trains. He promised not to stop the Central Pacific again.”

“Is he a man of his word, your brother?”

Willow’s cheeks flamed at this quiet challenge, although it seemed like a reasonable thing to ask, given Steven’s criminal history. “Yes!”

“Good. Then our only problem, for the moment, is Tudd. I trust you warned him about that weasel?”

“I did.”

“Excellent. Drink your coffee.”

Willow had no interest in refreshment. “You were awake when I got out of bed, weren’t you? You knew that Steven was here.”

There was a short silence, and then Gideon owned up with a hesitant nod. She felt his eyes touch her in the near darkness surrounding the circle of lantern light in which they sat, but she could not read their expression.

“Why didn’t you follow me, then?” Willow persisted, truly curious.

“I, too, am a man of my word, Willow. Besides, I knew Steven wouldn’t hurt you.”

Willow reached out for her coffee and took a cautious sip. “Thank you, Gideon,” she said.

“For the coffee?”

“For trusting Steven and for trusting me.”

“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Marshall.”

“There is something I do want to mention, as it happens,” said Willow.

“Oh? And what is that?”

“The way you treated Zachary the other day. You were very rude, Gideon. I mean, he is your brother, after all, and you acted as though he and I were carrying on or something.”

“I was the classic jealous husband, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, and without reason, too.”

Gideon sighed. “If I wronged anyone that day, it was you. I remain convinced, however, that Zachary, on the contrary, was almost certainly up to no good.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know Zachary.”

“You don’t mean that he would . . . that he would force himself on me?”

Gideon chortled without humor and shook his head.
“No, he wouldn’t do that. But he is very persuasive, Willow, and you of all people should know how devious he can be.”

Willow cupped her hands around her coffee mug and allowed herself a brief smile of triumph. Gideon was jealous—he’d admitted it himself—and to be jealous one had to care, at least a little. “I’ll try not to notice how handsome and charming he is,” she said ingenuously, “though, Lord knows, it won’t be easy.”

“What do you mean, it won’t be easy?” Gideon demanded. His voice was quiet, but there was a smile hiding in his eyes.

Willow only yawned and stretched her arms high above her head, not about to dignify such a question with an answer. When she started back upstairs, Gideon was quick to follow.

9

Daphne Roberts sat stiffly in the train seat, looking out at the seemingly endless prairie. Her backside was sore and her corset was cutting into her right hipbone, and inside her spotless kid gloves, the hollows between her fingers were sweating. Dear Lord, if this was first-class travel, she hated to think what tortures of the damned those poor souls in the cars farther back must be suffering.

In the aisle seat next to Daphne’s, her cousin Hilda snored loudly and then sat bolt upright, looking around in wild confusion. “Where am I?”

Daphne was weary of Hilda, after almost a week of rattling along the endless rails leading west, but she was determined to be charitable. After all, if it hadn’t been for Hilda, her father would have escorted her instead. For mercy’s sake, it was a fool’s mission anyway, traveling to
this wild and remote place. Gideon was married to another woman and there didn’t seem to be much point in making a great fuss about it.

Besides, she was missing the Andersons’ lawn party and the bicycle races, and how could Miss Millicent Parnult be expected to finish her new gowns in time for the opera season if Daphne wasn’t there to be fitted on a regular basis?

She gave an irritated sigh and settled back in the hard seat, intending to feign sleep so that she would not have to endure a spate of Hilda’s chatter. Just as she closed her eyes, however, the train came to a lurching halt and there were gunshots fired outside.

Hilda, who had been flung into the seat ahead by the impact, was huffing inelegantly and trying to right her bonnet, the brim of which was resting on the tip of her nose.

At that moment, the door leading into the car ahead burst open and a masked man appeared in the chasm, brandishing a pistol. “This is a robbery, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in cultured tones, “and if you’ll all put your money and other valuables into this bag, I’ll be obliged.”

“Highwaymen!” cried Hilda, her extra chins quivering.

“Hush,” muttered Daphne, who was already pulling the bracelet from her wrist. “Do you want to be shot over a few trinkets?”

The bandit moved calmly along the aisle, helping himself to the contents of purses and pockets and valises. Daphne was glad she’d had the foresight to stitch most of her traveling money into the hem of one of her nightgowns,
safely packed away inside a trunk in the baggage car. Indeed, this was a rather colorful experience, all in all; she would recount it at tea parties, she supposed, for the rest of her life.

And she’d never cared much for the bracelet in the first place.

But it gave her pause when the highwayman came back to stand in the aisle beside Hilda, and his dark blue eyes assessed Daphne with a brazen languor that made her forget about the glamour and drama of the situation. He reached out, with a gloved hand, past a trembling Hilda, to lift one of Daphne’s raven-black ringlets in his fingers and let it fall back to her shoulder.

Daphne sat perfectly still, trying not to show the sudden and deep fear she felt.

There was no telling what would have happened if it hadn’t been for the man bursting through the rear door of the train at just that moment. The clatter drew every head around, including Daphne’s.

“Drop that gun, Gallagher!” the earnest, middle-aged man ordered hoarsely.

Instead of obeying, the outlaw trained his weapon on the man’s chest. Daphne caught the silvery glint of a star-shaped badge before the pistol went off and the older man fell face-first into the aisle, blood spraying in every direction.

Several women screamed and Hilda swooned sideways onto Daphne, nearly crushing her. The outlaw turned and fled, his bag of loot in hand.

After drawing three or four deep breaths and working
her way out from under Hilda, Daphne left her seat to hurry to the back of the car and see what could be done for the marshal.