“You’ll do just that if you hurt someone, by God,” Calder said. “Though I’d hate like hell to see you go, seein’ as I owe you my life.”
“Don’t you look back at that. I did what any man would, given the circumstances. You done give me all you owe me.”
Once again on his feet, Calder raised his voice. “What have I give you? A chance to get yourself shot for a thief? We go in there to rob a bank, and I’ll give you that chance for sure. I don’t owe you death for saving my skin at Palmito.”
“Well, hell.” Baron grinned like he knew he’d won. “I reckon I could rob the bank on my own. But you’d still feel guilty, wouldn’t you? That’s your way. You wasn’t responsible for that war, and you sure as hell ain’t responsible for every blamed thing that happens in this world because of it.”
Saying so didn’t stop how Calder felt. The big man had hauled him up out of a bloody ditch, carried him for miles, across the Rio Grande and back to Palmito’s Ranch. The damned Yankees finally succeeded in defeating them there. They’d give it up, packed it in. The last Rebs to do so. He’d dragged himself home. Thanks to Baron he’d lived through the war, but with very little to show for it. And little hope things would get better. Still, he owed the man something and he sat back down.
Again, his gaze wandered beyond Baron. “Okay, you’re right and I know it. Most of that money in Victoria City comes from rich foreigners anyway, and they’re just about as bad as Yankees, so let’s do it. But let’s do it right. They’ll be suspicious of three strangers. I hear they don’t welcome outsiders except those ready to do their dirty work. We need to become servants to the dandies. I’ll ride on into town, get me a job of some kind, keep an eye out. Figure the best way to hit the bank without—”
“Anyone getting hurt,” Baron finished for him. He shook his head, dust puffing from his unkempt hair. “What if someone recognizes you?”
He rubbed his dark beard. “Well, let’s make some changes so no one does. I don’t think anyone knows my face anyway, but just in case.”
An hour later, with the help of Baron, he’d chopped his long hair short and shaved off the week-old stubble.
Baron backed off and eyed him critically, squinching one eye shut. “Well, you do look different, all right, but you’re gonna need some town clothes if you expect to get a job. What do you think you’ll try for?”
“How about bank clerk?” Calder asked with a grin.
“Naw, I don’t think so.” Baron eyed him like he’d taken leave of his senses.
“Just funning you. I thought maybe I could work at the livery, or one of the stores. I hear some of those uppity English folks are hiring men to take care of animals, till the soil. I guess they want to live like they were still in England. Don’t reckon I’d make a good farmer, but there’s no reason to be particular. This ain’t exactly a career move.”
“Aw, I don’t know. Ain’t moving up from petty theft to bank robbery a career move of a kind?”
Calder’s laughter joined that of the huge man. It felt good to have something to laugh about, but deep down he still worried that maybe this wasn’t exactly the right thing to do. It was a little late for that, though. What was it they said? In for a penny, in for a pound?
With a wrinkled brow, Baron studied Calder. “Them britches of yours is getting plumb threadbare. Reckon you could wear old Jim Johnson’s things? He was about your size and might have had a Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit his misses would loan you.”
Calder dusted the worn Levi’s and nodded. “I’ll ride over soon as it gets dark and ask her.”
“You best be careful, now. That young widow’s been sidling glances at you for a spell. She’s been alone long enough to be thinking in terms of another man.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Miz Rachel ain’t thinking of nothing like that. She loved her Jim, still does.”
Baron hooted. “Show’s what you know about women. Some of the best pokes I ever had was with grieving widows. Besides, women need a man for more than sex.”
“Well, she needn’t be looking to me for any such thing.”
“All the same, you’d better watch out. All cleaned up and shiny, you put on her dead husband’s duds, she’s likely to pounce right on you.”
“She can just pounce away, won’t do her any good.”
A vision of the young woman on the train skittered through his mind. How come she kept pestering him, he had no notion. The way she’d stood up to Baron, sky blue eyes flashing like a wild cat’s. That golden red hair catching the sun so it looked like a halo; talking in her peculiar way, all got up in enough clothes to cover four frontier women. Now her, he might welcome a pouncing from. He forced such nonsense right out of his head before his other parts got involved.
Not so easy to drive from his mind, though, the fright in the eyes of those good people on the train. He never really wanted to instill that kind of fear, especially in women. That gutsy little girl and her attractive friend, they had stood up to him and Baron, and that made him feel pride for them. That would stand them in good stead out here where life was so hard on the gentler sex.
He shrugged off any more thought of the foreign woman. Not the kind who’d ever look at him twice, anyway.
“If I need me some of that,” he said aloud, “I’ll settle for a dove. I don’t fancy a proper woman’s glances, not where I’m going.”
Baron studied him for a long moment, probably not guessing that he spoke of the lady on the train and not Mrs. Johnson. “And where might that be?”
“Hell, friend. Right straight to hell.”
“Funny,” Baron murmured. “Thought we’d already been there.”
The remark caught Calder up short. His friend was right, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen again, seeing as he was already well on his way down the long, dark road to damnation.
Chapter Three
Lord Prescott did not meet them at the depot, but sent his man, Simmons, who loaded Mr. and Mrs. Chesshire, Rowena, Tyra and Wilda into a carriage, then ordered their trunks and valises placed in a freight wagon which would follow along on the last leg of their journey to Fairhaven.
With the carriage ready to leave, Wilda and the others bade goodbye to their traveling companions—those who would build in town would take up temporary residence in the Manor in Victoria, a place built by Grant for those who emigrated. The large hotel rose from the empty plains, the new town spread around it like a bustling skirt.
Too weary to voice her anger at Prescott’s absence, she grumbled a bit about men of little consideration, then settled into the lushly appointed conveyance.
Marguerite put voice to all their feelings. “My word, this Kansas is hot and windy. If I have to climb in and out of one more vehicle, I shall surely perish.”
Rowena agreed. “I am not certain which was the most uncomfortable, the ship or that dreadful barge.”
“Definitely the barge,” Wilda said. “My behind ached the entire time.”
“My dear Wilda, I do wish you wouldn’t use such language.”
Tyra giggled, whispered to her cousin, “She does not know all the words I’ve heard you use.”
Wilda put a finger over her lips, then they both laughed. Having Tyra along on the trip had saved her more than once from going mad with boredom.
Speaking of boredom, the monotonous plains appeared just that. Boring. That they were perfectly flat was deceptive. When one started across them the land rose then fell in a gentle facsimile of the sea voyage. A constant wind tore at her hair and clothing, spit gritty dust in her eyes, and did nothing to cool her. Poor Mrs. Chesshire appeared on the verge of fainting while Mr. Chesshire did his best to soothe her.
Wilda squirmed and pulled at her heavy clothing. What a miserable place this was. Laced in the tight corset, layers of petticoats and bulky crinoline, and weighed down by the traveling toilette, she just might swoon too. Settling into memories of the outlaw Calder brought about the desire for a different type of swooning altogether.
After what seemed ages, Simmons drew up the team. Wearily, she raised her head enough to peer outside.
Why had they stopped here? Nothing for miles but a treeless prairie, dotted with patches of golden sunflowers cavorting in the brisk wind.
“It’s really quite lovely,” Rowena said.
“Everything’s lovely to you,” Wilda grumbled.
“Don’t be so grim. Look on the bright side. You will marry soon and I’m sure you and Blair…uh…well, I mean Lord Prescott will make a perfectly suitable husband.”
“Then why don’t you marry him?”
Rowena sighed, but didn’t reply. Now she was the one who appeared sad. But Wilda didn’t say anything. It was no secret that Rowena had been attracted to Prescott. As far as she was concerned, her sister could have him.
Simmons rose from the buggy seat and pointed downward. “Fairhaven is just down there.”
The carriage sat on a crest that fell gently away before them. An ornamental iron and stone gateway blocked a drive that coiled downward through a sea of grass to the imposing mass of a huge gray stone house. One of those stately homes of which the upper class Victorian English were so proud. Massive chimneys and corner turrets jagged upward from the roofline. Enormous windows stared like rows of blank eyes. Bright afternoon sunlight reflected blue and gold prisms from octagonal leaded glass framed on either side of a set of double wooden doorways.
Tyra squealed with delight and even the reserved Rowena half rose from her seat.
“What a beautiful home. Reminds me of Devonshire… Well, except for the wind.”
“And the everlasting nothingness.” But Rowena was right about Fairhaven. Wilda’s breath caught in her throat. So this was the home of Lord Blair Prescott, and soon to be hers as well. It was indeed impressive. Prescott had magically transported a smaller version of his magnificent family home in England to this primitive place. How he had done so much in the fourteen months since his arrival here puzzled her. It seemed an impossible task. Yet it was said that wealth went a long way in this uncivilized land.
Simmons grunted back into his place on the seat, slapped the horses flanks with leather reins, and they began the final lap of their journey into this exciting new life.
Speechless, Wilda grabbed her sister’s hand and squeezed. The enchanted vision of the great stone house drove some of the apprehension about her impending marriage from her mind. Whether she liked it or not, this was to be her home, she the lady of the manor. For a long moment after they halted in the courtyard she could only sit and stare. Everyone climbed out, leaving her alone in the carriage. The double doors of the manse remained firmly closed.
Where was Lord Prescott? Sighing, she gathered her heavy skirts and scrambled down to further study her surroundings.
The Chesshires stood apart from the others, obviously entranced by the unexpected castle in the middle of the prairie. In partial payment for chaperoning the three Duncan girls from England, the couple had been invited to remain as guests at Fairhaven until their home and shop in Victoria were completed. Had it not been for Marguerite Chesshire, Wilda, Rowena and Tyra would never have met Lord Prescott and begun such an exciting adventure.
As for the marriage, anxiety at the idea of greeting her future husband overpowered Wilda. She could only hope and pray that her memory of his brooding disposition was only a product of her own apprehensions built during the difficult, lengthy trip. Squelching her fears, she studied the windows in hopes of a glimpse of the man. He must be curious about their arrival, and would certainly soon appear to greet them. But he did not show himself, not even as a shadow lurking behind the curtains.
Simmons and the freight wagon driver were joined by another man, who had come from the direction of a partially completed stone barn to unload their belongings. Still no one opened the large wooden doors and bade them enter.
Rowena tugged at Wilda’s sleeve. “Where do you suppose he is? I can’t see him anywhere. Oh, isn’t this a marvelous place?”
“You said that before. Why is he treating us like servants, leaving us standing about out here? The least he could do is be here to greet us.”
The heat of her temper plus that of the brutal afternoon sun added to Wilda’s discomfort. Under the constrictions of her corset, her heart was squeezed by a huge, hard fist until it could scarcely beat and her breath came in short gasps. The wind whipped her long skirts in an effort to topple her off her feet. Lord, she was bone tired, lightheaded and incredibly weary. And that interminable white-hot mass that bleached the blue from the sky. Did it always shine thus?
“One would think we could get in out of this heat,” Marguerite mumbled, then flushed. Being here under such circumstances ruled out much complaining.
“Indeed one would,” Wilda said. “I thought Prescott had more manners than this.”
“Oh, now sister, don’t get upset. I’m sure there’s a reason.” Rowena's interminable cheerfulness was quite wearing.
“I have no doubt there is,” Wilda said, holding her temper. He probably changed his mind and no longer wanted them here. Suppose he sent them back home, or worse, tossed them out to fend for themselves? She couldn’t bear to think of either possibility.
Simmons and the other men unloaded the last of the traveling valises.
Seething with frustration, Wilda lifted her heavy skirts, told Rowena to wait there and keep an eye on Tyra, and approached the houseman. “We are weary, sir and would appreciate being allowed in the manse. Where is Lord Prescott? He should be here to greet me…us.”
Simmons scarcely glanced her way. “Lord Prescott will join you at the evening meal. I will show you to your rooms. There you may rest and refresh yourselves from your long journey.”
Without another word, he supervised the handling of the bags. A perspiring Mr. Chesshire lent a hand, and they all followed Simmons and his helper toward the entrance.
With a shout, Tyra ran around the corner of the house, ignoring the exhausted Marguerite Chesshire’s call to come back.
“I shall get her.” Rowena hurried off to capture the young, boisterous cousin.
In the distance horses whinnied.
“It’s clear Tyra will need careful looking after now that she’s been freed from the strict confines of St. Ann’s,” Marguerite said.