Authors: Beverly Jenkins
“You need another woman,” Rand offered sagely, as if he knew Ian had been thinking about Tilda.
“No, I don't. Never letting that happen to anybody I love ever again.” Tilda was killed by a member of a gang Ian had been riding with. It took him a year to track down Bivens, the man responsible. The bounty on Bivens said dead or alive, so Ian sent him to hell.
“Another woman will heal you just like Betsy healed me.”
“You're awfully philosophical these days.”
“Betsy says the same thing.”
The two friends shared a smile, and a past few could imagine.
“We had some fun, didn't we?” Rand asked in a wistful tone.
“That we did.”
“Bet you never thought an Edinburgh-educated lawyer would wind up robbing banks just so he could eat.” Rand was one of the few people who knew Ian's life story.
“Not in a hundred years.” But the prejudice in places like the large cities on the East Coast had let him know early on that making his living as a lawyer would rarely be allowed. Within six months he'd used up nearly all the funds he'd brought with him from Scotland, so he took the last bit of it and purchased a train ticket west. As luck would have it, he found himself on a train to Denver sitting next to a man of color who introduced himself as Neil. They struck up a conversation, and over the course of the next few hours, Ian told him his tale of woe. Neil was easy to talk to and listened well. Ian had been enjoying his company when all of a sudden Neil stood up and announced a robbery. In reality he was Neil July, one half of the outlaw siblings known as the Terrible Twins. In fact, the twins had members of their gang positioned in seats throughout the train. After they finished relieving the passengers of their valuables and the train of its gold, the smiling Neil asked Ian if he wanted to join them. A lover of adventure his entire life, Ian didn't hesitate. He rode with the twins and their lawless associates on and off for the next five years. “The law degree came in handy when I represented Neil in his fight against the railroad last fall.”
“Heard about that, too.”
“May I have more water please, Mr. Tanner!”
Rand called back to her. “Sure can!” He looked over at Ian. “Your turn.”
Ian stuck the cigar in the corner of his mouth and got to his feet.
When he reached the top of the ladder, she was standing below him looking up. He sensed she'd been expecting Rand because her eyes widened with surprise for a moment and she put a firmer grip on the towel she had wrapped around her body. Her transformation from filthy to fresh was so dramatic, the cigar fell from his lips. He saw her hop out of the way so she wouldn't be burned by the glowing tip and then look up at him as if he'd lost his mind.
“Sorry.” But he couldn't stop staring.
“Something wrong?” she asked tightly.
Realizing his eyes were stuck on the smooth tops of her breasts rising discreetly above the towel, he shook himself free and looked away. “No. How does this contraption work?”
“Pour the water in the barrel.”
He complied.
“Thank you,” she said. “That should be the last barrel. I don't think I'll be needing any more water.”
Ian knew he'd been dismissed but he couldn't seem to move. She was so clean that her bared shoulders and arms outside of the towel glowed like newly minted copper, as did her face. When he first saw her back at the Dowd depot, he'd sensed the beauty beneath the dirty coating, but he had no idea she was beautiful enough to turn a man into stone. And below his belt he was just thatâstone hard.
“You leaving or not?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. He climbed back down the ladder and beat a hasty retreat.
Later, when Ian availed himself of Rand's tower, all he could think about was the woman who'd bathed in the space before him.
T
he others were already at the table when Maggie came in. Rand took one look at her all cleaned up and declared, “Maggie Freeman, the only woman lovelier than you is my own Betsy.”
Betsy gave her husband a nod of thanks, then gestured for Maggie to take her seat. “You look wonderful, my dear.”
Maggie felt wonderful. Her borrowed white blouse and plain brown skirt fit well. She'd braided her freshly washed hair into its signature single plait, and for the first time in a long time was clean from head to toe. She glanced the marshal's way. It appeared that he'd washed up as well. The hat was gone and she got her first unencumbered look at his features. The emerald green eyes staring back at her were set in a pale gold face that remained unshaven. His hair was brown with a texture that gave a nod to his mixed-race blood. He was arrestingly handsome and the faded scar only added to his dangerous air. For a moment she watched him watching her until she finally severed the contact and turned her attention to the gathering.
Betsy brought out platters of chicken, potatoes, and collards along with fat hot biscuits running with freshly churned butter. The sight of so much food almost made Maggie swoon, while her stomach growled approvingly at the prospect of a meal that consisted of something other than the bits of ham and beans she'd been given at the Dowd jail.
Rand said the grace and they dug in. Maggie didn't realize she was attacking her food like a starving dog until she looked up from her plate and found the marshal and the Tanners staring her way. Self-conscious and embarrassed, she sat back and used her napkin to wipe her mouth. “Been a while since I had a true meal,” she confessed quietly. She sensed tears forming. “And I do have manners, just haven't had to use them much . . . Excuse me.” She rose from the table and hurried from the room.
Outside on the porch she gazed up at the moon and tried mightily to ignore the sting of the tears clouding her eyes. Her behavior at the table left her appalled. The sight of the moon made painful memories stir and she unconsciously found herself singing the traditional Kaw chant to greet the rising moon that she'd learned as a child. For as far back as she could remember, her mother and grandmother had honored the old ways and made sure Maggie did as well, so each evening as dusk turned into night, they sang. Moving into the second verse, she vocally greeted the wind and the night sky. The familiar words gave her comfort while the tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. Spirits knew she needed comfort because she'd had so little of it since her parents' deaths. The well-loved and well-brought-up girl child who'd had aspirations of attending Oberlin, or one of the new Negro colleges in the South, to become a teacher was now so hungry, she'd fallen on the food at the Tanners' table like something feral and wild. She'd spent the last thirteen years on her knees scrubbing other people's floors, or standing over vats of hot, lye-laced water washing other people's clothes. She'd been beaten, slapped, and called names no one had a right to be known by, and she'd been paid insufficiently and sometimes not at all. She'd also done things no woman should have to do in order to survive, but she had, so that she could.
And now, as if her burdens weren't weighty enough, she was facing incarceration and maybe an appointment with the hangman. She didn't expect a judge to show her mercy because she'd had so little of that in her life, too.
After singing the last few notes, she quieted. Feeling a presence behind her in the shadows, she turned and saw the marshal. She didn't speak and neither did he. They seemed content to silently study each other while the insects and owls chanted their own greetings to the night. “Did you come to make sure I hadn't run off,” she finally asked before turning back to the darkness spread out over the Tanners' land. She wiped at her eyes, not wanting him to see her tears.
“That was one of the reasons.”
“And the other?”
“We all know how it feels to be hungry. No one thinks less of you.”
She tightened her lips as the shame rose again. “I owe them an apology for my rudeness.”
“They weren't offended. Betsy wants you to come back in and finish your meal. Said she'd even let you have your pie first if you'd like.”
A small smile showed. “She's very kind.” Kindness was lacking in her life, too. In the years that she'd been on her own, no one had given her anything that hadn't come with strings or a price attached.
“What were you singing?”
“It's an evening song I learned from my mother.”
“What nation?”
“Kaw. The trappers called us Kanza. She and my grandmother were members of the Wind Clan. Our lands were where the Blue Earth and Kansas rivers meet.” Her people had lost so much. The reality that it might never be reclaimed added yet another layer to the melancholy she'd fallen into. Only rarely did she allow the circumstances of her existence to overwhelm her as it had inside. To give in to the loneliness and despair would be to descend into a kind of madness that would paralyze her; she'd seen it in the blank eyes of whores and saloon girls, and in the sadness of women trapped in marriages with no love. They moved through life like puppets in a show, as if all of their hopes and dreams had been stripped away. Hers had been as well, but melancholy be damned, she was still standing, and still fighting to hold on to who she was in her heart and mind.
As if he somehow sensed the shift in her emotions, he asked quietly, “Ready to go back in?”
She turned to him. “Yes.”
Ian watched her for the rest of the evening. Although she'd seemed genuinely appalled by her earlier behavior, he'd been more appalled by the reason for the ravenous hunger she'd displayed. Had Wells not fed her, or had the portions been so small that she'd never gotten her fill? How long had it been since she'd had a full meal? Obviously some time. When she ran from the table earlier, he hadn't expected to find her crying. Granted, he didn't know anything about her, but she hadn't impressed him as being prone to weeping, so it gave him pause. He took a sip of whiskey from his shot glass and continued to view her while Betsy talked about a rally the local suffragettes were holding later in the month. Having enjoyed Betsy's apple pie, Maggie looked content as she sat at the table listening to Betsy, who was now on her soapbox. She was still thin, however, and he doubted one meal would restore her entirely, but at least tonight she'd go to bed on a full belly. He knew it was unusual for him to muse over a prisoner. Usually his only concern lay with transporting them and himself to the appointed jail or courthouse and getting there in one piece, but for some reason she was different. From the moment he saw her at the Dowd depot sitting on that mount, looking all the world like a conquered but still defiant queen, his curiosity had been piqued. Her outstanding beauty was also having an effect. He ran his eyes over her full lips, the smoke black eyes, and relived how she'd looked standing below him glowing with dew in Rand's washing tower.
Ian took another sip. He prided himself on his self-control, especially where females were concerned, but the sight of her had left him as hard as a virgin cowboy with his first whore. Just looking at her made him aware of how long it had been since he'd last let desire have its head, and that was out of character for him as well.
When the women rose from the table to begin the after-dinner cleanup, he glanced up to find Rand observing him. As if his old friend had been reading Ian's thoughts, Rand smiled and raised his whiskey in silent salute. Ian chose to ignore him. The only thing he was concerned with was finding a solution to her dilemma so he could go home. He knew she was right to be concerned about seeing a judge. Depending upon who it might be, she could face serious consequences, and no part of him wanted to be responsible for her being incarcerated or worse, hanged. Were it up to him, he'd cut her loose, especially since Wells admitted the only reason he'd arrested her was because of Langley's father. He sighed. He'd figure it out.
By bedtime, a weary Maggie was dead on her feet. Betsy showed her into the small, cozy spare room where she'd be sleeping. The sight of the large, comfortable-looking bed would have made Maggie weep with joy had she not been so exhausted. Sleeping in a bed for the first time in days was going to be heavenly.
Betsy loaned her a long-sleeved nightgown and a robe. After she departed with a friendly “I'll see you in the morning, rest well,” Maggie removed the borrowed blouse and skirt, left them nicely folded on the floor by the bed, and donned the gown. She wanted to think about a plan for escaping the marshal, but as she sank into the arms of the soft, down-filled pillow, she was asleep before she could finish her contented sigh.
R
and and Ian sat out on the back porch and watched the night. Rand said, “That Maggie Freeman is a pretty little thing. What are you going to do about her? She shouldn't be going before a judge for defending herself.”
“I know. The sheriff said he would've let her go free if the vigilantes hadn't gotten involved. Times being the way they are, who knows what a judge might do.”
“You got a law education, you ought to be able to figure out a way for her to wiggle loose.”
“I've been thinking about it. Maybe I'll wire Sheriff Wells. Now that's he got the father in jail, maybe he'll go ahead and drop the charges against her.” He told Rand about the confrontation with Langley on the train track.
Rand shook his head in disgust. “Eight men against just a slip of a girl. Good thing you were there. What about Judge Parker, didn't you give him and Blake a hand down in Texas?”
“I did.”
“So, he owes you.”
“Parker doesn't owe anybody, you know that. Ask Grover Cleveland.” While president, Cleveland had tried to get one of Parker's verdicts overturned, but in the end, the president was the one who backed down. “I'll hold off on Parker until I hear from Wells. Where's the train stop after Kansas City?”
“Bradley. It's about a half day's ride.”
“Okay, I'll wire Wells and go from there.”
He and Rand spent a few more minutes catching up on their friendship, then they agreed it was time to turn in.
Carrying a lamp to light the way, Ian could hear her snores even before reaching their room. Opening the door, he stepped inside. She was cocooned under a pile of bedding. The wavering light showed a comfortable-looking wingback that he could sleep in, but first he wanted to start a fire in the stone grate to take the chill off the air. He set the lamp down and as quietly as he could went about the task. Once he was satisfied that the flames would hold he stood and glanced down at his sleeping prisoner. She hadn't moved, and from the volume of her snoring, he doubted she would before sunrise. She was obviously weary. Because she'd already tried to escape once, he would be sharing the room just to make sure she was still around come morning.
M
aggie awakened to a semidark room. Groggy and disoriented, she glanced around at the unfamiliar surroundings. Seeing the marshal seated in a chair in the shadows brought everything rushing back. Calming her racing heart, she wondered how long he'd been there. “What time is it?”
“Almost four.”
The flickering light from an oil lamp on a small table beside him was just strong enough to pierce the darkness. Near her bed was a fireplace that she'd apparently been too tired to notice earlier. Its heat warmed the air, and the dancing flames added their light to the shadows. She didn't question his presence; she was his prisoner after all, but the sight of him left her rattled. That her body was calling did not. “I need to use the facilities.” From her visits earlier in the evening she knew it was outside.
Swinging her legs from beneath the warm bedding showed that the gown had hiked up during her sleep and that her copper legs were on full display in the soft glow. Refusing to look his way to gauge his reaction, she set the garment to rights and got to her feet. “I suppose you'll be going with me.” She pushed bare feet into her old boots and donned the pink robe Betsy had left.
He answered by rising from the chair.
On the short walk there, she shivered in the cold.
“Should've brought your coat.”
“I've been out in worse, in less.” When she lived with the sisters, it was her job to chop the morning wood while wearing only a thin jacket as protection against the frosty air.
When they reached the door, she asked, “You're not coming in with me, are you?”
“No.”
Thankful for that at least, she went inside.
On the return trip, he maintained his silence but his presence loomed as vividly as the star-studded sky stretched above her head. She was still tired and wanted to go back to sleep, but wasn't sure how difficult that might be knowing he'd be seated only a few feet away.
Back inside the Tanners' spare room again, she climbed beneath the bedding and felt the shivers coursing over her as her body tried to warm up again after the brief sojourn outside.
“If you're worried about me bothering you, don't.”
She paused and sought to make out his features in the wavering darkness. From any other man those words might have left her skeptical, but him she believed, even if she didn't know why, and even though she remembered those smoldering emerald eyes looking down on her from atop the washing tower. “I appreciate that.”
“Go back to sleep. Train to catch in the morning.”
Ian knew she'd drifted off when the soft sounds of her snores rose against the silence. He pulled the lamp a bit closer and went back to reading his Bible. After Tilda's death, pain and grief waged a war for his soul. The night he found her body, he'd screamed at every god he knew and in every language he spoke.
Why?
Why did a woman as sweet and innocent as his Tilda have to die so horrifically? For weeks after her funeral, rage and revenge consumed every moment of every day and he neither slept nor ate. In spite of all his inner turmoil he continued to ask why. Tilda had been a churchgoer and always believed the Bible held the answers, so he picked it up one night. Having been raised by his Catholic mother, Ian was familiar with the holy book but hadn't opened one in decades.