Explaining Herself (5 page)

But Garrison didn't flinch. He merely said, "An' you kilt his. Built the jail and courthouse for a reason."

Ross had ended up with his hands tied, mounted on the horse that had helped hang Phil, taken to jail to await trial. He hadn't cared what happened to him after that.

A whole lot of other people had, though.

Of course, he'd been locked up, alone, for three days before he learned that he hadn't been deserted
—
the sheriff just wasn't letting his momma in. He'd found out when Garrison's wife marched into the jail and said: "Mrs. Lauranovic says you won't allow her to visit her son, but I assured her that our sheriff could not be so unjust and irrational. Do not tell me I was wrong."

So Momma was allowed in. She'd reached through the bars of the cell to hold him, kiss him, cry onto him. Poor boy. Why had his poppa done this to them? Had Philip died quickly? Julia would not come from her room since hearing the news. Someone had thrown stones through their windows.

Momma was so frightened, she hadn't even asked if he was all right. Few people had since, either, until. . .

Laramie shook his head, sneaked a glance toward Victoria Garrison, and thought,
She resembles her mother.
Then he made himself go back to the newspapers.

He could torment himself with mere memories anytime.

Boy Held for Trial,
announced one article. It only gave what the ranchers said was the truth.

Sheridan Mourns Boris Ward,
read another, and in smaller print,
Drazen Lauranovic Charged with Murder.

He remembered. People had quickly forgotten that his family was American. They wanted the villains to be foreign. Ross
—despite having no accent and few memories before his family's arrival on American shores—had not corrected them. Clearly, his family wasn't American. Not American enough for justice, anyway.

All he had to do was look at the papers to be reminded.

Mob Demands Lauranovic Boy,
reported another headline. Laramie remembered little of that frightening night, the shouts, the stones. The sheriff facing down the angry crowd.

Four pages in from that he found
State Prisons Unfit
for Children,
an editorial by Mrs. Elizabeth Garrison, which seemed to have prompted later letters of outrage that she would call a murderer a child. Then came another editorial
—
Self Defense Isn't Murder
—resulting in even more fury and, to Ross's surprise, a few lonesome letters agreeing with her.

It made sense. The only reason he'd finally gotten justice was Mrs. Garrison. The cattle baron's wife, despite carrying another baby under her apron, had for some reason adopted his cause and hired him an excellent young lawyer, all the way from Chicago. Ross had overheard the sheriff and the deputy talking, so he knew it wasn't the cattle baron himself who'd done all that. "Says she has her own money," Howe had snorted. "Can't say as I'd let
my
wife have her own money. Even if she did, I wouldn't let her make a fool of me and the town with it."

At the time, Ross had seen the woman as a goddess, an avenging angel. He'd been too young to question motives. Now he had to wonder.

Not here,
he told himself, glancing across the room.

The headlines told the story.
Trial Starts Today.
Then,
Witnesses Admit to Lynching.
And later,
Darrow Argues Self Defense for Drazen.

But then had come the worst blow of all.

He'd woken in jail to someone brokenly calling his name from the alley outside his high window. To see out, he'd had to draw himself up by the bars
—and there in the night shadows stood his sister Julie.

He hadn't seen her since his arrest, not at the jail, not at the trial. Now he barely recognized her. Her dark hair was a tangle. Her dress hung loose and wrinkled on her, and smelled sour. Meager light reflected off her wet, swollen cheeks.

"Ross." Her voice sounded worn. "Ross, I'm sorry."

"Julie?"

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'm so sorry. It's all my
fault. I killed them
—Phil and Poppa. Oh God."

"What
—?"

"I told him,
"she insisted. "He said he wanted to help, that when we married you'd be his family too. He said he had to know where you took our cat
tl
e, so I told him
—but he didn't help! He
didn't.
And now Poppa and Phil are dead and he won't see me. Ross, he won't even talk to me!"

At first he simply hadn't understood. "Who? Julie, what's wrong?"

She covered her face with her hands, so
th
at he could see only the top of her head and had to strain to hear her.

"He said he loved me." Her shoulders shuddered. "He loved me and he would help. Now he won't talk to me, and his family has threatened me if I don't stay away. He never loved me at all." She began to sob outright, her voice filled with devastation. "He just wanted Poppa. He just wanted Poppa, and Phil, and you, all for some stupid cows. And I gave you to him. God help me,
Draz.
..."

By then he had begun to understand, even at twelve, and horror was rapidly loosening his grip on the window bars. His horror and mounting fury had needed only direction. "Julie, who?
Who?'

She'd backed away then, shaking her head, her arms sliding down to hug her middle. Her next words came out a soggy squeak, her eyes closed, her face dripping. "I'm so sorry,
Draz.
I'm so sorry I killed Poppa___"

Then she'd turned and staggered back up the alley.

"WHO?"
Ross had screamed.
"Julije,
who was it?"

But she didn't come back to tell him. And two days later
—well, the newspaper in front of Laramie said it all:

RUSTLER'S DAUGHTER SUICIDE!

She'd hanged herself. Ross wondered if she'd been
mimicking Poppa's and Phil's deaths. He knew her guilt
—guilt like a blow, like a fall, like a scream choking the throat. He knew because
Julie
had told her lover their secrets, but Ross had told them to her. If she'd helped kill Poppa and Phil, he'd killed them and her, both. Them, her, and the baby that the undertaker said she was carrying.

He'd barely noticed the trial going on around him after that. He'd barely cared that his excellent lawyer had gotten him paroled to a special boy's ranch down in Texas. When his mother stopped answering his letters, not three months later, he hadn't hesitated to break his parole to go find her
—only to discover that, lost without her family, she'd left town and all but vanished.

He'd never found her. Finally, a fugitive from justice, he'd taken up with men who admired his ability with cattle and a running iron, men who taught him guns and anger, and he'd comforted himself every night with one thought: Of six fearful, ignorant men who had killed Poppa and Phil, only one had forged those deaths
—his sister's lover. And that man deserved vengeance.

Sometimes Laramie believed that was the only reason he'd survived: to avenge his family, once and for all.

His instincts had not entirely deserted him. When Victoria Garrison stood and started toward him, Laramie caught the edge of another newspaper and smoothly turned it over the ones he'd been reading.

Butch Cassidy's face stared up at him.

It wasn't a very good likeness.

Miss Garrison arrived in a whisper of petticoats and curvy innocence. "Are you finding everything you want?"

With him sitting and her standing, his eyes were at
a discourteous level to her smock-covered bodice. He realized how badly he hurt
—in new ways now. If he leaned forward, he could rest his head against her front. He could wrap his arms around her, borrow softness from her just for a while, just to rest for a little while from all life's hardness. The thought of it made his throat ache.

Before he could force an answer, she stiffened. Had she read his thoughts? Had he done something rude?

"Miss Garrison?" asked Laramie, but she said nothing.

She was staring at the newspaper with its picture of a misnamed "Buck" Cassidy. Butch would hate it that his very picture could frighten ladies.

"Are you all right?" Laramie asked.

With a quick breath, she turned her face back to him. Smiling. "I'm fine! Why wouldn't I be? I only meant to say that if you don't find what you want, Mr. Laramie, just let me know. I'm very good at finding things. Ask anybody in Sheridan."

She was lying about being fine, but he feared that her ability at finding things
—more
aptly
, finding them
out
—was pure truth.

"Thank you," he said softly. "No." He relaxed some when she smiled at him again, more honestly, before retreating back to her work. But only some.

At least it gave him a chance to move the recent paper aside, to focus again on the older, darker story.

"He was rich," he muttered to himself, moving his lips more than adding voice. "A rancher, maybe. A bachelor."

His family has threatened me if I don't stay away . . .

"Maybe
a bachelor."

Bram Ward had been a bachelor, of course, but he hadn't been any richer than the Laurence family. More importan
tl
y, Julie had despised the man; he could not have been her lover. Alden Wright, though,
or Jacob Garrison's boy Thaddeas, or Hayden Nelson. They'd been single, too. And wealthy.

He would somehow learn about them first. And if he found nothing to implicate them . . .

It could still be Colonel Wright or Jacob Garrison.

All the more reason to stay away from the daughter with the ability to find things out.

Chapter Four

Victoria enjoyed sn
eaking peeks at where Ross Lara
mie sat curled over the table. It added a definite pleasure to her workday. He had a secret.

He'd flat out said so when she asked what today had to do with the rustling. And though she wasn't sure which newspapers he was reading, she'd noticed him exchange the ones from '92 for previous issues
—and apparently for the one she and Evangeline had read earlier about Butch Cassidy.

Why was he reading about train robbers?

Maybe he was considering the outlaws' former exploits, piecing their previous rustling together with their current crimes? She'd heard of Pinkerton detectives investigating stranger connections than that.

Maybe Ross Laramie was a Pinkerton detective!

Where was Nellie Bly when you needed her?

Beyond the intrigues and excitement, though, Victoria simply liked the man's presence. She enjoyed
looking across the room at him, having someone to meet Evangeline's near-panicked gaze about. She liked the olive undertone to his tanned skin, and how sunlight reflected silvery off his black hair. She liked the deliberate, slightly raspy quality in his voice. When she asked questions, she liked the unwavering way he looked at her with those haunted, hooded eyes of a sort of green-brown color.

He was clearly pursuing outlaws, which made his secrets all the more appealing. She would be foolish to pursue a
bad
man's secrets!

"Mr. Day," she asked deliberately, toward the end of the afternoon. "If I learned something about the train robbers, I could write about them. Couldn't I?"

Mr. Laramie did not look up from his reading.

Neither did Mr. Day look up from his wonderful typewriter. "If you learn something about train robbers, Miss Garrison, tell me and I'll let you know."

"
Let me know if I can write somethi
ng?"

Now he glanced up at her, over the rims of his spectacles
—still typing. "Let you know if you should go immediately to Sheriff Ward," he clarified.

Now Ross Laramie looked up.

Before she could decide how to pursue further questions, Victoria's older brother arrived.

"Howdy, Lester," greeted Thaddeas, looking very proper in his brown suit, despite his cowboy boots. "Miss Taylor," he added politely, toward where Evangeline stood near the press. "Are you ready to go home, Vic?"

Was it already quitting time? She loved almost everything about the newspaper, from its smell to its purpose. She loved being a modern, working woman. But today seemed to have hardly begun.