Explaining Herself (10 page)

Mama noticed, and laughed.

Papa sighed. "Take the dog with you after dark."

"Duchess?"

The dog, a black-and-tan Alsatian, lifted her head at her name. Though barely a year old, she resembled a small wolf in size and, as she'd shown more than once when protecting the family, in temperament.

She was more Papa's dog than anybody's, since Papa trained her. He disliked allowing a dog in the house at all. But since her mother insisted
—on the dog, on the fishbowl, on the canary, on the three cats that sprawled about even now—he would at least have a
well-behaved
dog in the house.

Not that Victoria thought Duchess would tattle on her, but... how would the dog have reacted when Ross Laramie drew his gun on her, or when the stranger surprised them?

Things could have gone badly
—and not just for Laramie or the stranger. If Victoria got the family dog killed .. .

Such guilt didn't bear considering.

"I think she's happier here with Elise," said Vic
quickly. "She doesn't need to come out just because I feel like walking by the creek."

"Or
in
the creek," murmured Audra, staring at her book.

Victoria surreptitiously kicked her.

Audra surreptitiously kicked her back.

Duchess huffed out a long-suffering sigh, remarkably similar to Papa's, and dropped her head back down again, beneath little Elise's ministrations.

"Duchess loves me," declared Elise, petting the dog's flank with a china doll.

"Reckon you can spare her of an evenin', Elise Michelle," declared Papa firmly
—and that was that. To protest further would be highly suspicious. And futile.

"Yes, sir," said Victoria. "I understand."

Papa stared at her, because she
was
Victoria
—gainfully employed or not—so she repeated for him: "If I'll be out after dark, I'll take Duchess with me."

He nodded and went back to bridle-mending.

"
We
will feel much better, thank you," said Mama, amused. But a great deal amused Mama. "Now, haven't we had enough daughters falling into creeks lately?"

"No, ma'am. I..." She might be the only Garrison daughter who managed to lie successfully, but that didn't mean she
always
succeeded. "I saw something, so I waded in."

With a handsome stock detective, who was dripping wet at the time . . .

Suddenly she had a clever idea
—her very favorite kind. "I thought maybe it was treasure—loot from that train robbery. Do you suppose outlaws ever come this direction?"

Audra looked up from her book, and Elise from the dog. Kitty's fingers faltered to a stop on the piano keys.

"The robbery wasn't even a week's ride away," Vic pointed out. "And I've heard the hoot-owl trail runs right though Johnson County. Do you think desperadoes would ever ride through here?"

"We've had suspicious visits now and then," said Mama, who
—unlike her daughters—hadn't looked up from her sewing. "There was a time half the ranches in the area had Butch Cassidy on their payroll, so he wouldn't
rustle
from them."

Vic guessed it wasn't "Buck Cassidy" after all. "Really? Did Papa?"

Papa, looking from Victoria to her mother and back, seemed annoyed with them both.
"No.
"

"So did he rustle stock from us?"

"Not that we ever caught him at, of course," answered Mama. "But probably. Kitty, I think we've heard enough piano music tonight; why don't you come sit by your father?"

Kitty
obediently
lowered the hinged cover over the piano keys and went to Papa's side. He moved the bridle aside long enough for his second-youngest daughter to climb into his lap, even if she was almost nine years old.

Victoria felt bad. "Kitty, I didn't mean to scare you. You know outlaws would never bother us
—Papa and Duchess wouldn't let them."
Nor would hands like Ross Laramie.
"I was just wondering, is all."

"Was
it treasure, Vic?" asked Elise, pretending her doll was shouting t
h
at into Duchess's ear. "What you saw in the creek?
Was
it?"

Victoria felt increasingly bad about the lie, especially after what she'd said to Ross about not trusting people
—not loving diem like one should. Even if this wasn't a big secret. "No. Just pyrite, so I threw it out."

Audra said, "There's a reason it's called fool's gold."

"Doubt train robbers would've ridden this far with a surplus of gold,"
noted Papa dryly, and did some
thing to make Kitty smile. "Hard on the getaway horses."

"I was just wondering, is all," insisted Victoria.

Wondering who that stranger was, by the creek. Wondering how he might know one of our ranch hands. Wondering just what's going on at the Circle-T.

"What if it
was
treasure?" demanded Elise. "What would you buy, Victoria? Would you buy me a bicycle? Would you buy me a camera?"

Victoria already owned the first, and was ordering the second with her wages from the newspaper. Like her mother, she enjoyed newfangled things.

"She'd give it to its rightful owners," said Papa firmly. "There's right, and there's wrong."

And that was that, to his way of thinking.

"Well..." interjected Mama. "Occasionally there's a pretty broad spectrum connecting the two."

Papa scowled at her, clearly annoyed.

"In a few matters," added Mama quickly, her smile broadening. "Personal, relative matters, I mean."

She had not soothed him yet.

"But not," she finished with a dramatically firm nod, "in matters of stolen loot. No, in that there is
clearly
a right and a wrong, Elise. You listen to your father."

Papa continued to glare at her, as if he suspected he was being mocked. And Victoria guessed he was, somewhat.

But the way Mama smiled back at him, as if she'd teased the glare out of him on purpose, held no real disrespect. Victoria watched them, more intrigued than ever now that...

Well.

Her hands tingled where she'd pressed her palms into Ross Laramie's. Her lips tingled, too. He'd fought that kiss so hard, he'd been shaking
—and yet he said he'd liked it.

That made two of them.

Not that she was foolish enough to think herself in love after one kiss! Not the kind of love her parents had.

But it was kind of nice to know she could blush, too.

The Red Light Saloon sat on the outskirts of Sheridan. All the better for Laramie. Men from the Circle-T took more pride in their job than to come this far past the tracks.

Anonymity was all but guaranteed
—and not just for him.

He didn't see Lonny Logan when he first pushed through the swinging doors of the saloon. He didn't expect to. Instead, Laramie made his way past several customers and one buxom whore to the bar long enough to order a rye, then moved to the farthest table from the front he could find, where he sank wearily into a scarred chair.

Damn, but he hurt. It had been a long day.

From habit, he surveyed the room, noted the exits, the back hallway, the stairs up to second-floor rooms. Not a great place to be trapped, should trouble find him, but not the worst, either. For a dump.

Laramie had never much liked saloons, with their noise and booze and desperation. Most rebellious boys
escaped
to the world of saloons and vice. Laramie had been exiled here. Tonight, in particular, the contrast from the willow grove and the pretty lady who'd stood with him, talked to him
—
kissed him
—was downright depressing.

At a familiar whistle, Laramie saw Lonny heading down the stairs, tucking in his shirttails. Had he been watching for Laramie? If so, what had he been doing in the meantime, shirt untucked, that he could stop so quickly?

Laramie tried not to think of the upstairs windows
overlooking the street. He didn't want to contemplate whores in any fashion tonight. It was an insult to nice ladies like Victoria Garrison that such women even existed
—or that men like himself partook of their services.

With a corner table, both men could sit with their backs to the wall. "Howdy," greeted the half-breed outlaw, slumping into a chair, and grinned.
"Feller."

"Thank you for not knowing me." Laramie owed his companion that much, at least.

"Bits of calico as nice as that don't come along every night," agreed Lonny. Laramie tensed at the implication, but that was it. Maybe because this was a Logan, despite the fact that the newspapers were calling them "the Roberts Brothers." Harvey "Kid Curry" Logan was the meanest of them, but Lonny had been known to hold men at gunpoint while Harve had at 'em.

Luckily, all Lonny said was, "Buy you a drink?"

"No, thank you."

"I'm feelin' pretty flush lately." Considering that he and the others had gotten about $30,000 off the Union Pacific, he should be.

"Money gets traced," warned Laramie. "Thanks anyway."

The barmaid brought his rye, and Laramie paid. Lonny pointed at the glass as his own order, then left the subject alone. "When I heard you was in town, I figured I'd warn you. Think twice afore you ride back to New Mexico."

Victoria Garrison had come close, guessing Laramie had come up from Texas. But Texas had better law enforcement than New Mexico, so Laramie had spent his last year on William French's WS Ranch. After getting shot up last month, and deciding he had things to finish before dying, he hadn't much thought about going back.

He'd taken too long keeping his family promises already.

Still he asked, "Why?"

'You hear 'bout that trouble they had the other week?"

The only trouble big enough to reach Wyoming was the holdup of the C
olorado and Southern. "Near Fol
som?"

"That's the one. McGinnis was involved. Word's out he got shot up pretty bad."

Damn.
Laramie liked Mac McGinnis, who more often called himself Elzy Lay. Next to Butch Cassidy
— who went by "Jim Lowe" on the WS—Mac had to be the most popular man in the whole outlaw bunch. Laramie had met them long before his latest stint cow-boying on the WS, working their own cattle and others. They trusted each other, more or less. He'd even been invited to join their more lucrative ventures, banks and trains. So far, he'd had reasons to turn them down.

Until he got past his life's job
—serving justice to the son of a bitch who'd betrayed Julije, Poppa, and Filip—he wasn't much drawn to anything else, including big money.

Keeping company turned dangerous enough. Riding with Butch and Elzy
—or Mac—was what brought Laramie back to Wyoming. Riding with the Logans was what got him shot.

Then again, Lonny had risked his own life to drag Laramie back to Hole-in-the-Wall, down in Johnson County. Better than letting some liquored-up posse lynch him before he'd recovered enough to protest his innocence. With a sheriff dead
—compliments of Harvey Logan—folks might have forgotten why they had a jail and a courthouse.

As Laramie knew, the line between good men and bad men, out on the range, was a tenuous one at best.

Here sat Lonny, calling Laramie "friend" and venturing into town at least partly to warn him off of the WS Ranch.

Laramie could only wonder what the other part was.

So Mac had gone and pissed where they slept. Now folks in New Mexico might connect Laramie to the outlaws.

Speaking of which . . . "Was, uh,
Lowe
involved?"

"Nah. Mac hooked up with some locals for this one."

Well, that was something, anyhow. Butch was likely hurting over it, though. He and Mac were as close as pards could get. If Mac didn't pull out of this, who would Butch turn to as his
Segundo
Longabaugh?

Better than a Logan.

"Guess I'm not going back," said Laramie. He finally took a sip of his rye. It tasted sour and hot
—and soothing. A fake comfort, but better than none at all.

"Finer things around here, eh?" asked Lonny, downing his whiskey as if he liked it. "Like in blue calico?"

Laramie narrowed his eyes in warning. "Unfinished business, is all. Then I'm riding on."

Where to, he had no idea.

"Think you might be up to some fun, then?" asked Lonny.

A burly, blond-haired man pushed through the swinging doors into the saloon, and something about him raised the hair on Laramie's neck. Something familiar.

Still, he challenged Logan, "Fun?"

From the nearby train tracks a long whis
tl
e blew, and Lonny grinned. "Burlington and Missouri fun?"

Laramie swallowed another mouthful of rye, watching the burly blond man from the back, willing him to turn around. Unlike better saloons, there wasn't much of a mirror over this bar.
"Lowe's
breaking promises."

Word was, Cassidy's promise not to pull jobs in Wyoming had gotten him his pardon from Laramie City prison in '96. It was why Laramie believed Butch hadn't been in on the Wilcox job, even if he'd planned it.

"That was only for cattlemen and banks," insisted Lonny. "Anyhow, he's not leaving New Mexico 'til Mac is safe out." Maybe noticing Laramie's distraction, he added, "We can wait 'til she crosses the line to Montana."

Still, Laramie didn't look away from the big, burly guy.
Turn around,
he willed. "Don't tell me this."

It was the safest way to say "not interested" to this kind of offer
—and not just to a Logan.

"C'mon. We're out McGinnis and Lowe. Bob Meeks is doing time in Idaho. We could use a good shooter."

Turn around, damn you.

"I'm busy," murmured Laramie. He had rustlers to track, vengeance to seek. He'd even somehow promised to meet Victoria Garrison by the creek this Friday, to report something
—anything—about this very meeting.

It made for a helluva full plate.

The burly blond man finally turned around, and for a long moment Laramie thought he was seeing a ghost.

The ghost of the man he'd killed.

Then he noticed the star pinned to the man's vest, and his plate got fuller.

Chapter Eight

It had to be here.

Victoria turned another page from another newspaper, this one from 1890. She read about events as large as statehood and as small as Bram Ward becoming deputy.

It had to.

The delicious scents of old paper and ink filled her nostrils. Someone said something, like the buzzing of a fly, but she ignored it to turn another page. Then another. She put that paper aside and picked up the next.

"Miss Garrison!"

She looked up, blinking at the momentarily blurry image of her editor beside her. "Mr. Day?"

"Don't you have anything better to do, Miss Garrison?"

"The type's set for the next issue," she pointed out, rolling some of the kinks from her shoulders. To think
that Ross had done this for half a day, and he was injured!

He must be very dedicated to his work.

Mr. Day said, 'Yes, but
—"

"And after my pieces on Alice Wright's new engagement, and the coal interests, and the temperance movement, you asked me not to write anything else this week." She touched the paper to hold her place. "So I'm doing research."

"Research on what?"

"Cattle rustling." She lifted another page.

Mr. Day planted a hand in the middle of it. "Rustling?"

Victoria blinked patiently up at him. Hadn't she just
said
rustling? "Yes, sir."

Mr. Day pushed his spectacles up on his nose. "Miss Garrison, you do realize that rustling is something for Sheriff Ward to investigate, and not the
Herald.
Don't you?"

She nodded. Although it was also an issue for her father's range detective to investigate
—especially if it involved Circle-T cattle. But why split hairs?

"Okay, then." With a shake of his head, Mr. Day went back to his own desk. "Carry on, Nellie."

Grinning, Victoria went back to the newspaper from nine years ago. Nothing. She turned the page. Nothing.

Despite her best efforts, the idea of meeting with Ross Laramie tonight began to distract her all over again.

Four days had passed since they'd talked
—and, yes, kissed. Four days of wondering what he'd learned about the stranger at the saloon. Wondering what he thought of her. Wondering why she'd kissed him in the first place, and if they might do it again, and whether that would be a good thing. She could barely sleep last night, from thinking, which was when she
decided to find the issues of the newspaper that Ross had been reading and better her understanding of past rustlers, perhaps even impress him by mentioning something he didn't know, like
—

Sheriff Ward?

Pushing her thoughts from kisses and wet clothing, Vic turned back to the previous issues. This one? No, that one. March, nine years ago.
Bram Ward Appointed New Deputy.

She read it more carefully. Apparently the sheriff
— then deputy—felt strongly about justice because his own father had been murdered by a cattle rustler.

"Yes," whispered Victoria, savoring a happy shiver. It felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place. "But when?" Seeing nothing in the article, she asked, "Mr. Day, do you remember when Sheriff Ward's father was killed by a rustler?"

He looked up from his reading. "I didn't know his father
was
killed by a rustler."

Ten minutes later
—most of them spent getting her printer's apron off—Victoria was striding up Main Street toward the jail, wishing she had her bicycle. She got within a block bef
ore she noticed her friend Evan
geline beside her.

"Oh! Golly, Evangeline, say hello or something!"

"Where are you going?" asked her friend, her eyes darting.

"The sheriff's office."

Now Evangeline's eyes widened. "Don't do that!"

"I just want to ask him some questions, is all."

Evangeline shook her head so hard that some of her pale hair fell out of its upswept braid. She had fine hair; it was difficult to keep up properly. "Please don't."

Victoria slowed her step. "Why not? I realize he's not the nicest man in the world, but he's a public
official and I'm the public, female or not. Why shouldn't I talk to him?"