“Ah, I think you understood me, all right.” Despite the intimate behavior, he remained watchful of his companion, who worked his way up the aisle, ordering the travelers to deposit their valuables in a very disreputable hat.
Tyra clutched her arm. “Real outlaws. With guns. Are they going to shoot us? Are you going to shoot us?” She bounced to her feet, addressed the laughing one with more excitement than fear.
Shoving Tyra down between the seats, Wilda studied the outlaw closer. He might be no dream, but she was right about one thing. He was no prince either, with that sweat-stained hat, scuffed boots and threadbare clothing. A rip high on one leg of his pants revealed a patch of skin. To keep from staring at it, she roamed her gaze over the half-masked face to the threatening pistol, the low-slung leather holster, the wicked knife on his belt. Even in this wild west of America, he couldn’t be accused of wearing fashionable attire.
To add to the insult, this ruffian continued to mock her while pointing his weapon at her friends and family. Obviously, it was his job, for he made no attempt to take any valuables from those near him.
Drawing back her shoulders, she struggled for something to say. “I hope you aren’t coward enough to shoot us.”
“I’m still thinking of putting you out of your misery.”
The peculiar American accent took some deciphering, while he continued to stare at her as if she were a sweet in a bakery window.
The moment between them stretched out like string slowly unwinding from a huge ball. Behind her, the other outlaw barked sharp orders as he moved along the aisle, appearing much more dangerous than “her” outlaw. Strangely enough, she found herself less afraid than intrigued, which could prove to be foolish. Truth be told, either of these dreadful men could easily shoot to kill and smile while he did it.
“Wilda, can I get up now?” Tyra tugged at her arm.
“No, stay right where you are.” She dare not take her gaze off him. No telling what he might do. Did this sort of man ravage women? She trembled, her knees threatened to buckle.
The possibility wrapped her in terror. Had they journeyed all the way from England and undergone such hardships only to be killed in this foreign place?
Her outlaw leaned down toward her. “Ma’am, I’d surely appreciate it if you’d hand over your valuables.” His sensuous drawl and the obvious double meaning of the words agitated her temper.
Shivering at her own temerity, she lifted her chin and met his gaze straight on. “If I did possess anything of value, I would not ‘hand it over’ to you, sir. Have you decided if you are going to shoot me like the brazen, fatherless coward that you are?”
His eyes hardened. “Not many get away with calling a man that.”
“Some, I suppose are reluctant to speak the truth with a gun in their face. Tell me, is it the word coward or bastard that disturbs you so?”
His jaw worked and he stepped close, raised the gun as if to hit her.
“Go ahead. Prove what I'm saying.” She wanted to stand so as not to be looking up at him, but dare not for fear she might faint from the heat and fear.
“What in thunder you jawing about?” the other outlaw shouted at her back. “Let’s get this done and over with, ’fore this blasted train makes it all the way to Fort Hays.”
Beside her Tyra struggled, and Wilda clutched at her, terrified the child would twist free.
The floor underfoot jerked, throwing her outlaw off balance and he clutched at the seat, gloved hand coming down on hers. Recovering, he kept up the repartee. “Only a fool would shoot someone as lovely as you. But I might just drag you off here by the hair and take you with me.”
A rising temper fueled her bravery. “You just try and you won’t ever get a moment’s sleep again.”
A sharp command from the other outlaw jerked her back to reality, and she pulled away from the insolent one’s gaze. Around her women clutched their mouths, men flexed their knobby hands into fists, sobbing children hid behind their mother’s skirts.
Here she sat in the midst of such havoc, engaging in a war of words with this upstart in what obviously was no dream, but very real. But she’d seen worse on the back streets of London. Much worse. And had always handled herself quite well, thank you.
Once again the other outlaw interrupted. “I’m gonna tell you what to do, and you’re all gonna do it, if you want to live.”
Time to take a look at this one. Unkempt brown hair and muddy eyes above a bandana that looked like it had been doused in a pig sty before he wrapped it around his lower face.
“I’ll have your rings, jewelry, watches and cash,” he bellowed. “Put ’em in here.” He extended a hat that made her outlaw’s look as if it had just come from a millinery, and continued to collect jewelry and purses. In his presence women cried and trembled, men cowered.
Rising anger threatened to turn her into a complete fool.
“Do you intend to simply stand there like an idiot while your friend terrifies these women and children and takes what little we possess?” Her stare caught his. Imprudent of her, but she wasn’t known for either temerity or common sense.
The two men were cut from the same cloth, one used brute force, while the other had learned to charm. It didn’t make him any the less dangerous.
Easy to see he thought her highly entertaining, however. At least for the moment. “You are all rich Englishmen. You’ll not miss it, and your gold and coins will go to a good cause, I promise. No one will get hurt.”
Again Tyra struggled to arise from her cramped position between the seats, but Wilda forced her down. She would likely want to try on the man’s sweat-stained, shabby hat or play with the gun.
Behind her, poor Mrs. Stanley obviously took all she could stand and let out a high-pitched wail. The keening roused the others, as if they had been awaiting permission to panic. Other women added their cries, a harmony of wild proportions. A baby near the front squalled, Rebecca and Donald Wainscott’s little girl Katrina, yowled for her mama.
A stout man, dressed in a gray suit and black bowler, who had boarded in St. Louis and was not a part of the Victoria group, climbed to his feet and shouted in a stuttering voice, “N-now s-see here, young m-man.”
Ignoring the challenge, Muddy Eyes stuck the barrel of his pistol under the screaming Mrs. Stanley’s nose, and ordered her to shut up. The poor soul fainted dead away, tumbling onto the floor like a huge sack of flour, one corpulent stockinged leg exposed like an obscenity.
He whirled, waving the revolver around in the air. “The rest of you, shut up.”
All obeyed except the baby, whose mother held it close to her breast to muffle its squalls.
Muddy Eyes was not nearly as equitable as her outlaw, who so far had done nothing but exchange verbal thrusts with her. That caused her to attempt to appeal to him one more time.
For a moment he regarded her, eyes glittering dangerously. Clearly he would take only so much. Unable to look away, she met his stare, but remained silent. He swept off his hat, releasing a wave of midnight dark hair, then taunted her with an exaggerated bow and moved toward his partner, passing so close he brushed against her.
An odor of sweat and prairie heat crawled over her like a dark fear gone mad. Yet she could not stop watching him rob these poor people, visiting with them in a friendly tone that caused some to actually respond favorably to his boyish charm.
The oppressive summer afternoon gripped them all, added to the misery and tension.
“Well, little lady, what do ye have fer me?” Muddy Eyes’ gruff demand muffled all hope that everything would somehow be fine.
“I have nothing of value to anyone, sir.” Wilda lifted her chin and set her lips firmly, though her heart thumped so hard he surely could hear. Mama’s tiny gold cross hung in the dampness between her breasts, and she would not give it up. Not ever.
“Put it in here, gal.” He poked her arm with the gun.
The cross was all she had left to remember her dear departed mother. In stubborn silence, she glared into his doughy features. The train lurched, throwing him against her, smothering her with his rank odor of unwashed flesh. The hard cold barrel of the gun pressed between her breasts. Her skin rippled and she shoved away from the distasteful contact, gloved fists clenched to control the trembling. He would shoot her, surely, but he only ripped the delicate chain from around her neck and dropped it into the hat.
Before she could react, Tyra rose from the floor, delicate fists clenched. “You leave her alone, you dreadful man. Can you not see we have nothing? Nothing. Everyone knows we Duncans are poor as church mice.”
Fingers clawed, she launched herself at the man.
The outlaw did exactly the opposite of what Wilda expected. He captured Tyra’s fine wrists and began to laugh. “Look it here, Raines, we got us a wildcat.”
Tyra kicked him in the shins. He hopped backward but didn’t let her go. “Hey, that hurt.”
“Well, then release her, you lout.” Wilda grabbed his arm. “And give me back my cross, you nasty man.”
He shook her off as if she were a pesky insect, shoved her back into the seat and flung Tyra down beside her. “Dang it, Raines. You said this’d be easy.”
The one called Raines grabbed his partner’s arm, raised as if to strike someone, anyone. Turned a metallic gaze on Wilda. “Foolishness must run in the family. I’d advise you settle down and let us take our leave.” To Muddy Eyes, he said, “Leave them be, no need to beat up on women and children.”
“Dang it, it’s them beatin’ up on me. She kicked me.” He pointed at Tyra like a pouting little boy. A very dangerous one.
The young outlaw’s emerald gaze slid over her and he executed a curious little bow. “Sorry, ma’am. I do apologize for my friend. Is the child hurt?”
“Her hurt? Hell, she kicked me. And that’n too.”
Encouraged by Raines’ gentleness, Wilda stuck out her chin at Muddy Eyes. “I’ll not apologize, either, you great big bully. I want my cross back.”
Raines laughed and, though muffled by the dusty bandana, the dark hilarity gathered chills along her spine. Danger flared behind those flinty eyes.
Tyra renewed her attack on the unfortunate outlaw. “You overgrown lunk. If I were a man I should challenge you, here and now.”
Raines’ eyes crinkled. “Little spitfire, ain’t you? Ma’am, you’d better put a rein on that one, or she’ll get in deeper than she can wade out.” He held up his pistol. “Girl, this is a gun. It shoots real bullets that kill. You’d best not rile my friend here, or I don’t know if I can keep him bridled. He’s got one of these too.”
Again, Wilda barely comprehended the dialect.
“Nobody tells me what to do,” Tyra said.
“Tyra, behave yourself. Go sit with Rowena.”
The child made a face, but struggled down the aisle of the swaying car, hanging on to the seats as she went.
“And what about you, ma’am? Does anyone tell you what to do?” The young outlaw’s gaze absorbed Wilda, and she couldn’t forget his earlier challenge.
Drawing herself up straight, she glared at him. “No man. Certainly none such as yourself, nor your less than decorous friend. You are impudent, sir, and quite uncivilized, even for this country of yours.”
He laughed heartily. “You English don’t have no room to pick at the way we talk. With all your fancy words. You’d a thought you’d swallowed a persimmon and couldn’t get rid of your pucker. But make no mistake, I’m worse than uncivilized, and you’d do well to remember that.” He tipped his revolting hat, revealing once again the luxurious mane of hair the color of polished mahogany wood.
Coming on the heels of his flirtatious behavior, the words frightened her more than the actions of Muddy Eyes, but he didn’t give her a chance to say so.
“Madame, with your permission I’ll take your leave.” Once more tipping his hat, he turned and shouted at his friend. “We’re done here, let’s skedaddle or we’ll arrive in Hays City in the lap of Sheriff Calumet.”
How disconcerting, the way his hair curled from beneath the soiled hat. Worse was his devil-may-care manner under such frightening circumstances, and then that pointed threat. As if they might see each other again and she should beware. As if, should he be forced to kill her he would do so while laughing. How dare he play games with her after he had as much as threatened to shoot Tyra? Yet, whatever was crawling around in the pit of her stomach was not disgust, but rather a thinly veiled longing to stand too near a fire. She dared not examine the emotion too closely.
A few minutes later, the outlaws were gone, much as they had come, leaping onto their horses led by a companion who rode alongside the moving train. Wilda leaned out the open window, squinted at the smoke and grit from the steam engine until the three figures disappeared against the distant horizon. Her heart still thudded so hard she could scarcely breathe. What a country. And what frightening inhabitants. All the more terrifying was the way the outlaw’s mere glance set her on fire in places a Victorian lady never dared consider.
She touched the cleft between her perspiring breasts. How she hated to lose Mama’s cross, but perhaps it was fitting to approach her husband-to-be Blair Prescott with nothing of her old life but memories. All the same, the loss brought tears to her eyes. She brushed them away and refused to give in to a feeling of extreme loneliness that enclosed her in its grasp.
Behind her, Marguerite Chesshire bustled and chattered. Red faced, the woman fanned herself with a handkerchief, and stopped to peer at poor Mrs. Stanley, who had come to her senses and been helped into a seat.
Tut-tutting, Marguerite moved on. “Oh, dear. Dear me. A wonder we weren’t all murdered where we sat. Such a country. Child, child, come in out of that wind. Look at your hair, let me pin it up. You must look your best for Lord Prescott.” Plump fingers patting and poking, she mumbled, “There, and there. That’s much better.”
Satisfied, Marguerite sighed, lowered herself in the seat across the aisle and mopped her heated face, at last able to speak of what had occurred. “My goodness, so much excitement. I thought my poor heart would stop beating. Do you suppose this sort of thing happens often in this place?”