According to Hoyle (8 page)

That would have to wait, of course. And it was possible he might be hanged before Baird could get to him. That didn’t sit well with Baird. He wanted to do it himself. He hadn’t anticipated Rose being captured for the killings. It made it easier to find him, but it would be difficult to get to Rose while he was in custody. It would require a little cunning and even more luck.

Baird had to remind himself again that Rose was a secondary concern. His primary goal was to reach the Oil Cake before it sailed.

T
HE
fire was giving off just enough warmth to keep the cold from getting to Flynn and Wash, and the prisoners were safely chained to the wagon wheels not far away. The fire popped and sizzled. It didn’t have the same cheerful smell that a wood fire emitted, but a man made do using cow chips as added fuel. They were trying to conserve their store of wood in case they hit trouble by using whatever they could find to supplement their fire. It was cold enough that Flynn could pretend he had his bandana over his nose and mouth to ward off the chill, and not the pungent odor.

The night was quiet and peaceful, but Wash still seemed restless as they hunkered down against the cold.

“You okay?” Flynn finally asked of him.

“My back’s cold.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow at him questioningly and tried not to smile. He refrained from making any comments about Wash living the easy life back in town for too many months.

“I’m not complaining,” Wash added quickly, huffing at Flynn like he knew what Flynn had been thinking. He gave a nod of his head toward the three prisoners “It’s just, if my back’s cold, they’re
all over
cold.”

Flynn turned and glanced over his shoulder at them. All three of the unfortunate men were curled as tight as a person could get against the cold. Rose and Hudson weren’t bickering for perhaps the first time since leaving Junction City, and none of them were moving save to shiver. Because Rose and Cage were chained to the same wheel, they had scooted together as close as they could, resting their backs against each other and trying to share their body heat.

“They do look cold,” Flynn agreed as he turned back to the fire. He could feel Wash’s eyes on him, and he tilted his head and glanced sideways at the man. Wash stared at him with one eyebrow raised. Even behind the cloth he had over the lower part of his face, Flynn could tell Wash was smirking at him.

“Yeah, all right,” Flynn said to him with a grunt as he tossed the piece of tall grass with which he had been playing into the fire and pushed himself up.

He stomped gracelessly over to their horses and fished two extra bedrolls out of his and Wash’s saddlebags, then walked over to the wagon. Hudson looked up at him and raised his head eagerly, already anticipating the warmth of the wool blanket without giving so much as a promise of good behavior in return first. Flynn made certain to extract such a promise from the man before handing him the blanket, though he didn’t really expect Hudson to honor the agreement.

He then stepped over to the other two with the other blanket in hand. They both looked up at him with the sort of exhaustion that Flynn recognized as stemming from the cold and the long day of travel. They were lucky, Flynn thought to himself uncharitably, that he and Wash weren’t making them walk behind the wagon.

“I only got one,” he told them. “You’re going to have to share or fight it out.”

Rose nodded and Cage merely continued to look up at him sedately as he sat hunched over with his hands tucked up under his arms, his back to Rose’s. Flynn got the feeling that this tattered Army scout was accustomed to getting the short end of the stick without complaining about it. He reminded Flynn of a well-trained horse, always keeping his head down and hoping not to get a spur.

He handed Rose the blanket and was slightly surprised when the man wrapped it around Cage’s shoulders before his own. He pulled the blanket tight and scooted around, putting their shoulders together and getting closer for the warmth. They both lowered their heads again, bowing against the cold prairie night together as they leaned against the wagon wheel behind them.

Flynn stepped away. He watched them curl together with little regard for the derogatory comments Hudson was offering about their behavior. Hudson, Flynn assumed, had never been out on the plains alone. He didn’t know what cold was yet. Flynn had cuddled his horse before for the warmth. He saw nothing wrong with what the two men were doing.

He turned away and headed back to the fire before he could admit to himself that he was slightly jealous of them as well. Just the thought of touching another man in front of someone else in any way other than a friendly handshake made Flynn blush furiously. Oh, he would do it and had done it if it meant staying warm at night. But he would still be embarrassed about it, worrying if he enjoyed it too much.

He wondered how Gabriel Rose had become so comfortable with his reputation for favoring men. Some of the things Hudson had said to the Englishman had made even Flynn want to hit him, just on principle, but Rose had yet to be ruffled. At least not outwardly. Flynn wondered if it was even true, or if Rose just played into the reputation to give himself that added touch of mystery or derring-do. He did have an oddly gentle manner with Cage, though, and the silent man had responded in a way that made Flynn wonder if they had become more friendly while in jail than they were letting on.

He glanced over at the huddle of blankets again. The two men had figured out how to turn their chains so they could lay under the wagon and were now doing so, away from the bite of the wind. Flynn could see nothing but the tops of their heads sticking out from under the wagon. They were curled together under the blanket, both apparently sound asleep as Hudson huddled alone and shivered in the cold.

“Kind of cute, ain’t they?” Wash said to him.

Flynn looked over at him in the light of the fire, meeting his eyes with a slight shiver. He had the sudden urge to blurt out a question he had wanted to ask for ages. It was a perfect opportunity to broach the subject. Over the years, Flynn had built up a sneaking suspicion that Wash wasn’t interested in women, but he couldn’t even form the question correctly in his mind, much less speak it to Wash.

He pushed back the desire to ask and merely nodded, looking away and sighing.

“You okay, friend?” Wash questioned quietly, his tone deliberate and somehow soothing at the same time.

Flynn glanced up at him and twitched his upper body nervously as he gave another nod.

“Something happen in Stillwater you need to talk about?” Wash prodded.

“Naw,” Flynn answered, his voice unnervingly hoarse. “It’s just….” He blew a stream of air out that formed a cloud in the cold and then shook his head. “I don’t quite know how to take that one,” he said with a glance back at Rose and Cage, hoping to throw Wash off the scent. “Either of ’em.”

“Why?” Wash asked in a low voice. Again, Flynn heard the warning in his tone that betrayed the fact that Wash might be offended, or at least wary of the subject. It was obviously one to be careful of.

“Don’t rightly know,” Flynn answered gruffly with a shrug, quickly veering away from the topic once more. Wash obviously didn’t appreciate discussing such business no matter which way he was inclined.

Flynn settled back into his own bedroll and pulled his hat low over his eyes, signifying the end of the conversation. He crossed his arms over his chest, wrapping his duster around himself tight to ward off the chill of the night.

He could feel Wash’s eyes on him, watching him expectantly, but he sat motionless, willing himself to sleep and praying that his mind would find a new rail to run on by morning.

Chapter 4

I
T
WAS
midday of their second day of travel when Flynn noticed that they were being followed over the grassy plains. After roughly ten minutes, he halted his horse and stood in the stirrups, turning and peering behind them into the distance.

“How many?” Wash asked as he continued to drive the mule along the trail without slowing or turning to look. His shotgun sat in his lap, ready to use if they needed it.

“One,” Flynn called back. He settled back into his saddle with a shake of his head. “Four-legged,” he added bemusedly as he urged the horse back into a canter that caught him up to the wagon.

“Rider?” Wash asked with a confused frown as Flynn came abreast of him.

Flynn shook his head and smirked. “I think it’s a dog.”

“He would appreciate it if you left some scraps along the way,” Rose told them suddenly.

Flynn turned to look at him and saw that the man was watching their back trail avidly.

“He’s probably thirsty too,” the Englishman added, sounding worried for perhaps the first time Flynn had noticed.

“What?” Flynn asked with a sigh, almost hating to question it but curious despite himself.

“That’s my dog, Marshal.”

Flynn had found that he was beginning to hate the way Rose said the word “marshal.” He didn’t even know why it rubbed him the wrong way. He thought maybe anything Rose did put a burr under his saddle. Just on principle now if for no real reason.

He grumbled and shook his head. “His dog, he says,” he muttered to Wash.

“Like it says in the dime novel?” Wash asked Rose in amusement. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Rose, who tore his eyes away from the trotting dog in the distance and met Wash’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t know,” he answered coldly.

Flynn looked back at him in surprise. The mention of the dime novels had brought the first hint of true anger to Rose’s emotions. He had seemed the type to bask in the limelight of fame, not scorn it. He was becoming increasingly puzzling the more Flynn was exposed to him. It was grating.

“Well, here’s the papers,” Hudson said as he held up the crumpled dime novel Flynn had tossed into the back of the wagon several days before. “See for yourself,” he sneered as he flapped the worn papers around.

Rose looked at the man steadily as the wagon hit a rut and jostled them all. He didn’t seem surprised to see the dime novel seemingly magically produced. In fact, Gabriel “Dusty” Rose, also known as the Desert Flower, didn’t seem to be surprised by much of anything.

Flynn found all that grating, too.

When Rose answered, his voice was quiet and calm, as smooth as honey. “Why don’t
you
read it and find out.”

Flynn knew the chances of Hudson being able to read or write even his own name were slim to none. He looked away and rolled his eyes before he could see Hudson’s response. He heard it, though, and chose to ignore the rest of the sniping.

“Are you going to feel guilty if that dog starves back there?” Wash asked him in a low voice.

“Puppy, really,” Rose supplied, overhearing the question. “He’s just a puppy.”

“Shut up,” Flynn snapped at him without looking back. He glanced over at Wash to see the man smirking at him. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes as he turned his head away. “Yeah, probably,” he answered, dejected.

Wash pulled the mule to a stop and Flynn slowed his horse.

“It’ll give us a chance to water the horses, anyhow,” Wash reasoned with a grin he tried to hide as he set his shotgun on the rickety footboard and tied the reins to the wagon brake.

Flynn dismounted with a disgruntled mutter. “Call your blamed dog, Rose.”

Rose put two fingers to his mouth, the irons pulling his other hand up to his chin along with them, and he let out a ringing whistle that carried impressively across the flat land.

In the distance, a delighted yip could barely be heard, and Flynn squinted and watched the lone figure of the dog begin to race toward them. Beside him, Wash laughed, and Flynn turned away before the prisoners could see his own lips quirk in amusement.

The dog turned out to be a medium-sized, run of the mill, long-haired
mutt
. He appeared to be intelligent, though. Rose insisted that he could not, as the dime novels claimed, steal a man’s gun from his holster, lead a horse with the reins in his mouth, or do anything more than offer companionship and keep him warm at night.

Flynn wasn’t sure he believed him.

“And he can stare at you pitifully until you give him your last bit of food,” Rose offered as he rested his hand irons on the back of the mutt’s neck and rubbed his ears with both hands. The dog’s tail banged against the wooden slats of the wagon in agreement. “But I’m afraid he’s capable of little else.”

“If we start starving, he’s the first thing we eat, got it?” Flynn warned in all seriousness.

Rose nodded and gave the dog’s rump a pat. The dog leaped from the side of the wagon and trotted over to Flynn, sitting down in front of him and looking up at him expectantly, tail wagging.

Flynn groaned and turned away. The dog was just as annoyingly charming as its master.

Wash merely laughed at them both. “He got a name?”

“That’s Koda,” Rose answered as he leaned an elbow against the sideboard and watched them. The dog whipped its head around when he heard his name and stared at Rose as if waiting for a command. “Hello, darling,” Rose drawled to the dog fondly. The dog’s long, fluffy tail began to whap the dusty ground at Flynn’s feet, stirring up a minor dust storm.