A Wanted Man (6 page)

She opened her mouth to respond. And then saw the fine lines of worry that furrowed Mrs. Bossidy’s brow, the icing of silver that threaded her dark hair.

The days when her illness was the worst—the weeks,
the months, she admitted to herself—were mostly a blur to her, a murky drift of memories, spikes of pain softened by the numbing medicines they gave her, all blending into a feverish fog. Those who’d sat by her bedside had likely experienced it far more sharply than she had. And so that memory lived in their minds more fully than it did in hers, and therefore affected their actions more strongly, no matter how much she tried to convince them that those days were long behind her.

“I’ll try and remember,” she promised.

“Now, then.” Mrs. Bossidy whirled to face a less immediate but more potent danger. “You are…” She bared her teeth, an approximation of a smile welcoming as a badger’s snarl.

“Leaving,” Sam said mildly, though inside he felt like doing anything but.
Damn
. Getting around the harridan-companion was going to be the trickiest part. He wondered if it was all men, or merely Sam, that she didn’t like in range of Laura.

He had yet to discover what promised to be the most effective approach, though he’d been making excellent progress. He shouldn’t be so annoyed at the interruption; usually he took minor setbacks in stride. And if he’d enjoyed the time with her, was it such a terrible thing?

No, it wasn’t. It was only if he ever hoped for more than a pleasant but ultimately unimportant interlude that it became a terrible thing.

But her companion, who clearly had more of a guard’s disposition than her official ones, was glowering at him as if she were ready to attack at any moment. He had time to wait and watch; at the rate she was working, they wouldn’t be getting to the Silver Spur anytime soon.

He tipped his hat to Laura and sauntered off.

Laura watched her mysterious man walk away. He appeared in no hurry to get away, but she could detect no reluctance, either. He didn’t have the long canvas coat today, and his clothing fit him well: old, much-washed, comfortable. He seemed easy in his skin, nothing stiff or awkward in his movements.

She figured she had more appreciation of a male form than most inexperienced women. She had studied art, both paint and sculpture. Her mother had objected briefly but she’d refused Laura so many things that she hadn’t been able to deny her daughter this. And nothing she had studied, none of those famous works that depicted the perfection of man, had anything on this one. Except that they’d often worn far fewer clothes, a situation Laura couldn’t help but regret.

“Ahem.”
Mrs. Bossidy placed herself squarely in front of Laura, blocking her view. Unashamedly, Laura lifted herself to tiptoes, craning her neck to see over her companion. Unfortunately, Mrs. Bossidy was taller, had no reluctance about raising to her own toes, and the view through the tufts of ostrich feathers on top of her hat was less than satisfying.

“Spoilsport.”

“Leaving aside the appropriateness of ogling a man in a town square, Laura, you could certainly pick a better candidate than that one.”

Laura gaped at her. “And who on earth would that be? I know my experience is limited, but my goodness…are you telling me he’s
typical
?”

Mrs. Bossidy struggled to maintain her sober nun’s face, but her eyes danced. “All right, so maybe there are few of them that are as, um, interesting to watch walk across a square,” she allowed, then frowned. “That
does not make it appropriate. Nor advisable.”

“Professional interest,” Laura said. He’d finally disappeared around the corner of a building, and Laura dropped back to flat feet with a disappointed sigh.

“Umm-hmm. And since you almost never paint figures in your landscape, and when you do they’re small and distant and purely for scale, as you’ve often told me, does this signal a change in your career?”

“No,” Laura said. Though if she’d ever been tempted…

“He’s not for the likes of you,” Mrs. Bossidy said, not without sympathy. “You know that your father—”

“I know.” Oh, did she know. And even understood.

“What did he want?”

“I—” I don’t know, she almost said. What had he wanted? Surely not just to stand around on a pleasant afternoon and listen to Laura babble. Yet that was exactly what he’d done. “He was interested.” Mrs. Bossidy’s mouth soured. “In the
work
,” Laura clarified quickly.

“Hmm.” She crossed her arms, encased in black poplin edged with a wide white cuff, in front of her, as if confronting a disobedient pupil. “Who is he?”

Drat,
Laura thought. “I don’t know.”
But I certainly hope I get the chance to find out
.

K
earney was not a large city, as such things went. Thirty-four hundred and growing fast, the mayor had proudly told her, and sure to explode once the Kearney Canal was completed. He had gotten into the habit of stopping by to offer his assistance and, Laura surmised, to ensure that his town was painted in a flattering light.

But though it was not large, neither was it tiny. Yet Laura caught glimpses of her dark man with suspicious regularity.

He did not speak to her again even though, as Laura realized with wry amusement, she was making it easy for him to do so. She set up her easel on a daily basis in obvious and public places, so that anyone who made the slightest effort would have no difficulty finding her. Although he would have to fight through Mrs. Bossidy most of the time, for she stood guard with determination and a scowl that Laura doubted few men would be willing to brave. No more solo shopping trips for Mrs. Bossidy, at least for the time being.

But Laura saw him often. Once, through the plate window of a restaurant as she ate her creamed toast, she glimpsed him striding down the street on a cool, windy day, hatless, his great canvas coat billowing behind him like smoke clouds. He appeared in church, slipping into the last row as the organ strains of the first hymn faded away, catching her eye as she turned at the door’s slam, with that quirk at the corner of his mouth that always made her wonder if he ever truly smiled. Riding by on a fiery red stallion as she worked in front of the courthouse, strolling in front of a saloon as she wheeled by in a rented carriage, arguing politics on the front porch with a storekeeper when she and Mrs. Bossidy arrived to purchase a new scarf.

Laura did not believe it could be coincidental. And the very unpredictability of his appearances kept her on edge, constantly anticipating the next time, the next place, never quite forgetting the possibility that he’d be around the next corner.

They should have left Kearney two days ago. Laura knew she was stalling. There was little else of interest to paint there, and she’d already done studies in more detail than the subjects required. At her present rate they would never finish the journey before the snows clogged the rails over the Sierras. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to give the order to hitch up to the train due to steam through.

“That’s enough.” Mrs. Bossidy froze in midstep. More restless of late, she’d suggested an evening stroll. The sun hovered over the horizon, a coral haze spreading wide, the broad flat surface of the river awash in pink and gold.

“What is it?” Laura asked, still caught by the colors. How
would
she mix that hue? Some carmine, certainly, and—

Mrs. Bossidy snagged her by the elbow, halting Laura’s forward motion. “Let’s go back to the car.”

“But it’s so lovely out.”

“Gnats.” She flapped a hand in front of her face. “Most annoying.”

Gnats? Laura hadn’t felt a one. “You go ahead. The color’s just so lovely. I wonder if perhaps I should have days roll by as the painting follows the rails to allow me to use different skies, dawn and dusk, stormy and clear. Perhaps even all the seasons. It would be a shame not to—” She turned to survey the wide sweep of the river, calculating potential scenes, and Mrs. Bossidy practically threw herself in the way. “What is the matter…oh.”

He was far enough away that there should have been some doubt as to his identity. A dark spear of a figure standing alone on the bridge, the sunset behind him making it impossible to pick out any features—all she could truly see was a tall black outline in front of a brilliant wash of gold and red.

And yet she was certain. She knew the set and breadth of his shoulders, the way he stood with most of his weight on his left foot.

He lifted a hand, a salute that told her he’d been watching them, too. Was it mere politeness or did he recognize them from afar? It seemed impossible to her that he did not know her as easily as she did him. Impossible-seeming, but in reality perfectly likely—she understood her fancies were merely that. They were fun to indulge, had gotten her through many a lonely day, but were not to be relied upon. She was her mother’s daughter in that she enjoyed the rush of heady emotions, but enough of her father’s in that she would not be ruled by them.

She stretched high and waved back, by necessity a quick, broad motion because she knew Mrs. Bossidy would intervene. She did not disappoint, grabbing Laura’s wrist and yanking it down with such speed that Laura couldn’t help but smile.

“Mrs. Bossidy, you are ever predictable,” Laura said.

She frowned. “If you would show a bit more decorum and restraint, I wouldn’t have to be,” she said as she steered Laura away from the river and back toward town.

“And how, exactly, is merely responding to a greeting—across a space of at least two hundred yards, I might add—unrestrained? I’m quite certain that, if I put my mind to it, I could be
far
more unrestrained than that.”

Mrs. Bossidy scowled and marched steadily on, towing Laura in her wake like a miscreant child. As a matter of fact Mrs. Bossidy had dragged her home exactly the same way when Laura was twelve. It was the first time since she’d had the fever that she’d set foot outside the grounds of Sea Haven. She’d pleaded and begged for weeks to be allowed a bit of a trip, a walk down the rocky beach or a trip to the dry goods store. For a child who had once been very active being confined to her rooms but for a religiously monitored hour of fresh air in the garden once a day, and even that only recently granted, the confinement was torture.

It hadn’t been easy. She’d awaited her chance with a patience she’d never before utilized until she’d slipped out the door while the household staff were in a flurry preparing for one of her mother’s parties, this the first since Laura had fallen ill. And then the gate—she would have been foiled right there, except the guard had been distracted by an attractive kitchen maid who,
Laura was pretty sure, was supposed to be peeling rutabagas.

Mrs. Bossidy had caught her five minutes down the road. She hadn’t listened to a single one of Laura’s pleadings, and she hadn’t been all that gentle while she hauled her home.

But she hadn’t told Laura’s parents, either, something which, Laura knew, would have garnered her two burly guards in the guise of “nurses” around the clock until she was, oh, ninety or so.

“I love you,” she told her now, as Mrs. Bossidy hustled her into their car and flicked on the gaslights. “But you’ve gotten a lot more annoying over the past few years.”

“I could say the same about you,” Mrs. Bossidy returned without pause. “It’s a normal part of a female’s maturation, but it would have been better if it had happened when you were fourteen. I thought it fortunate that we’d skipped it at the time. Now it seems it was merely delayed.”

Hands on her hips, she surveyed the beautifully finished car and sighed. “I wish you would have consented to move to the hotel.”

“Why?” Laura untied the wide silk ribbons that secured her bonnet. “It seemed more trouble than it was worth to move. And Father went to such trouble to out-fit this car.”

“We’re going to be heartily sick of it by the time we reach Sacramento.” She shot an impatient glance over her shoulder. “And I thought the whole idea was for you to experience and see as many different things and places as possible.”

“Oh? And that’s why you shoved me away from the bridge as if it were dangerous?”

“It was.”

“I hardly think it was likely to collapse at any second. Or perhaps it was who was
on
the bridge you found threatening?” She
tsked
. “I wouldn’t have thought a mere man would scare you off.”

“He didn’t!” she protested, offended. “It can’t be coincidental, how often the man keeps showing up.”

“I didn’t really believe that it was,” Laura said, smiling despite her best efforts to hide it.

“Laura.” Though it was quickly masked, Laura caught the flash of pity in Mrs. Bossidy’s expression, and her smile faded.

“Are you trying to imply,” Laura said, trying to make light, to prove it didn’t matter, while an ache settled behind her breastbone, “that the man might have ulterior motives?”

“What man doesn’t?” Mrs. Bossidy replied. “Laura, if you were just another girl—another girl
exactly
as you are, with your face and your smile and your sweetness—I am certain that many men would fall victim to your charms. But the bald truth is you are Laura Hamilton. And a man could no more ignore that fact and ensure that his heart was not influenced by it than he could miss noting if you had a blemish the size of a grapefruit on your nose.”

“Point taken,” Laura said, determined to ignore the remains of that stubborn ache. It was not as if that hadn’t occurred to her before Mrs. Bossidy pointed it out. She had just enjoyed…overlooking it for a brief time.

“Laura—”

“I’m fine,” Laura said, and found that it was true. “Fine.”

Mrs. Bossidy shot a glance at the door—for at least the third time since they’d returned.

“Is something the matter?”

“I need to go shopping.”

“Shopping? Now?” It had to be after nine o’clock.

“It’s somewhat of an emergency.” Her hands fluttered. “Female items. Things tend to get, um…erratic, after a certain age.”

Hmm. If Mrs. Bossidy was on the far side of forty, Laura would eat her brushes.

“Nothing you need to worry about for a while—”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No!” She was going to leave Laura alone? Without being dragged away by a full-grown buffalo? “You stay here. Wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.” She grabbed her bag and dashed out the door.

Mrs. Bossidy was a reasonably good liar, Laura reflected as she pulled away the heavy drape of lush green velvet and peered out the window. The shadows in the train yard were too deep for her to follow Mrs. Bossidy’s black-clad figure, but a few minutes later a light in the other car winked out.

She could do with putting a bit more effort into believably planning the lines she delivered with such aplomb, though. For while there was not a store in existence that had ever been closed to Laura Hamilton, she was not unaware that they typically kept particular business hours. Business hours which likely ended sometime ago.

Female problem, my easel
, Laura thought, and let three minutes pass before she slipped out the door.

She found Mrs. Bossidy quickly enough, waiting—and not patiently—on the other side of the tidy brick
station. She should have chosen to do her nefarious business farther from the train to ensure that there was no chance of any sounds alerting Laura. But Mrs. Bossidy was not the sort to go wandering around in the dark by herself.

There was little light. Only a soft sheen of moonlight that glanced off the tracks and was swallowed up in shadows and the faint, brassy wash of light from the saloon across the street that didn’t quite make it all the way there.

Mrs. Bossidy didn’t wait well. She paced, quick, impatient steps that grew more agitated with each passing second. She didn’t wait quietly, either, punctuating the night with words that would have made Mr. Hoxie proud.

But it didn’t really take that long. Laura hadn’t expected it to be that easy for them. He’d handled himself on the train so well. She knew her father hired only the best, that Mr. Hoxie and Mr. Peel guarded her because he considered them fully qualified for the job. But still…it surprised her when three figures crossed the street no more than perhaps ten minutes after she’d first leaned against the cool, rough brick wall. One short, powerfully compact, another tall and broad. And one between them, just as tall as Hiram but leaner, his steps graceful beside Peel’s lumbering tread.

“What took you so long?” Mrs. Bossidy met them at the edge of the street, drawing all four of them into a thin, cool slice of moonlight.

Laura swallowed a gasp. They had a gun to his head—no, two, one apiece, lethal glints of metal.

Not a flicker of emotion showed on his face: not fear, not anger, not even impatience at being dragged away from wherever they’d found him. Not even sur
prise or curiosity, as if being accosted by armed gunmen was as routine a part of his day as being offered a cup of coffee.

He certainly wasn’t protesting. He moved along with that predator glide as if the guns to his head had nothing to do with it, as if he was going exactly where he wanted.

Mrs. Bossidy met him toe-to-toe. Given the same situation, Laura didn’t think she’d have that much faith in the guards and their guns. He just looked too much at ease. And it couldn’t have just been that the bandits were that inept, could it? Hiram had had enough trouble with them.

“What do you want with Miss Hamilton?” Mrs. Bossidy’s voice was clear and sharp, and Laura was pretty sure she didn’t want to hear the answer, whatever it was.

Years of sneaking around her house served her well. She slipped up behind Mrs. Bossidy without any of them noticing.

“If you wanted to talk to him,” she said over Mrs. Bossidy’s shoulder, “you should have told me. I venture he would have come along without nearly so much trouble if I’d asked him.”

His hands flashed out—a quick spike of movement like a cobra strike, without his gaze wavering in either direction. Moonlight flickered over the metal of the guns, then he had them, one in each hand, pointing at his captors instead of himself, in less time than it took for Laura to suck in a breath.

“Christ!” Peel swore. Mr. Hoxie stood frozen, eyes crossing as he tried to focus them on the barrel an inch from his nose.

“Now then,” he said, settling his gaze on Laura. He
didn’t seem the least bit worried about the two men, not even glancing their way. But Laura suspected if one so much as twitched, he’d have them down just as efficiently as he’d stripped their guns from them. For obviously they’d brought him here so easily because he’d
chosen
to go along with them; he could have stolen their guns anytime he wanted.

“What do I want from Miss Hamilton?” he mused. Laura’s heart stuttered into uneven rhythm. She didn’t even know what she hoped he’d say.