A Wanted Man (20 page)

“Laura.” When did the most reasonable of women suddenly become rock-damn stubborn? “It’s settled. I’m taking you back.”

“And just how are you planning to do that without my cooperation? Chloroform me again and sneak me out without anybody noticing?”

“That wasn’t what I had in mind, no,” he said with only a twinge of guilt. “I could do it.”

“I’m sure you could. But you’re also going to have to stay with me and play jailor, or I’m going to come running back and ask Haw Crocker what happened to Griff myself.”

“You wouldn’t.”

She merely raised one brow, coolly confident. “Try me.”

“I’ll sic Mrs. Bossidy on you,” he warned her.

She laughed. “Darlin’, do you think I’ve learned
nothing in the past dozen years or so? If I really want to, I can get around her like
that
.” She snapped her fingers.

She was so delighted with herself, humming with anticipation and freedom, that he couldn’t bring himself to haul her off and lock her up. Which was obviously what it would take to keep her completely out of trouble, now that she’d set her mind on it.

“All right,” he said. Not because she’d badgered and threatened him into it, but because when it came right down to it he
wanted
to keep her around, though he was unwilling to examine that too closely yet. “Then get into bed.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you’re going to stay, I’m not going to have you collapsing from exhaustion.”

The woman wisely decided not to push her luck. She meekly turned—ha! Like he was going to buy that now, after all her threats and temper—and climbed into bed.

She pondered the corner where her supplies rested. “So what do you think it all means?”

He dragged over a heavy chair, fashioned of dark Spanish-carved wood and plush red cushions, plopped into it, and kicked his feet up on the foot of her bed. “It means,” he said, “until we figure out why you’re having midnight company, you’re going to have more. Because I’m going to have to stay by your side day
and
night.”

“T
hey tried awfully hard to keep us from the mines this afternoon,” Sam said the next night as he helped her through the window. “So let’s make a trip over in that direction tonight, hmm?”

She swung her second leg over and gave a hop to the ground. His hands rested at her waist, and she was wearing…“What in God’s name are you wearing?”

Lifting her arms, she gave a little spin. A loose black shirt swallowed up her torso, neck to wrist. “Bloomers,” she said brightly. “Like ’em?” They sprouted from her waist, black—no, navy, huge gathering folds of fabric that billowed over her hips, thoroughly hiding her legs before gathering abruptly at her ankles.

“Where did you get those?”

“Once upon a time I had visions of bicycling,” she told him. “I thought it best to be prepared when my father finally said ‘yes.’ She leaned forward, drawing him into her conspiracy. “It’s best not to give him time to change his mind about such things.”

“Understandably so.”

“I thought so.” She looked utterly ridiculous, swathed in as much fabric as a Bedouin, her face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. Without a doubt she was the most adorable thing he’d seen in his entire life. “I brought them along thinking they might come in handy. It seemed appropriate for tonight.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He struggled not to grin. She was too pleased with herself, too proud of her clandestine-operation clothes, and she would not take kindly to being the source of his amusement. “Very appropriate.”

“So.” She rocked back on her heels, an impatient gesture. “Where are the horses?”

“Tethered over by the corral. I saddled them already. But first—”

She sighed deeply. “Can we just skip this?” She turned and headed for the corral at a determined clip. He fell into step beside her.

“Skip what?”

“The obligatory attempt to convince me that the best solution would be to allow you to tuck me away someplace safe while you go on about your business.”

Blasted perceptive woman. “No, we can’t skip it.”

She stopped halfway across the yard. All the outbuildings clustered in a broad, precise semicircle around them, blocky shapes in rigid alignment. No lights glowed in any of the windows, for they’d waited until past one. The second shift of mine guards had returned at half past midnight, and Sam had given them time to pitch into bed.

“Sam.” She laid a hand against his jaw. Oh, she touched him so easily now, as if it were entirely natural. As if she’d touched him a thousand times and would do so a thousand more. And every time his stomach tight
ened and his breath seized and desire slammed into him like a cannon blast. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop her. “I understand. I really do. I even know that perhaps you’d be more efficient without me. But I have a good eye. And, if we happen to be discovered, I can help you cover it up by pretending a lover’s tryst.”

“
That’ll
surprise them,” he said wryly.

“It’ll probably relieve them.” She smiled. “And the truth is, Sam, no matter what situation we go into, I’d feel safer by your side. I’d go crazy waiting here. And if someone stumbled upon me, if there’s a snake or a cougar or an outlaw or whatever…I’d rather be with you.”

I’d rather be with you
. He was almost dizzy with it. He understood she meant under his protection, with his arm and his gun by her side. The weight of the responsibility pressed down upon him, substantial but not entirely unwelcome. And the sound of those words, that promise of trust, was heady.

“And I have an interest of my own here,” she continued. “If I do not discover what truly happened to that poor man, I don’t think I’ll sleep properly again.”

“Don’t believe that tale about the crazy worker and Crocker’s kind generosity, hmm?”

“Not for a moment.”

He stepped back, gaze sweeping the length of her, her bright face and pulled-back hair and those ridiculous clothes. “I am
such
a bad influence on you.”

“Yeah,” she said, and grinned. “Isn’t it great?”

She dropped her hand and headed for the horses. And for an instant he considered grabbing her hand and pulling her back, saying the hell with it all and asking her to ride off into the sunset with him, leaving everything and everyone behind. It didn’t sound nearly as absurd as it should.

But the world was never made of two people, no matter how much one might wish it was. And what would he do when he lost her, too? To her father, to her old life, or, God forbid, something worse? She’d almost died once, and, while she certainly seemed strong enough now—and would have kicked him within an inch of his life for suggesting otherwise—there was always a chance the damage was more severe than they realized.

He wouldn’t lose her after having her. He couldn’t. And since he couldn’t ensure he’d never lose her, then he just couldn’t have her.

“Uh-oh,” she said, and stopped in her tracks. “We’ve got company.”

He tensed, preparing for action, his hands flying to his holsters. And then he relaxed again, for this couldn’t pose much of a threat.

The Chinese woman who inhabited—worked?—in the tiny cottage stood perhaps fifteen feet from them, her hands folded in front of her, waiting. Her hair, dark as the night, was swept straight back and pinned. She said nothing, merely watched them with eyes so black as to give nothing of her thoughts away.

They took each other’s measures across the small space, like gunfighters waiting for the signal to fire.

And still the woman made no move, said nothing, just stood there in her simple dark dress and impassive expression.

“Well. At least she hasn’t cried an alarm yet,” Laura said.

“Unless she signaled someone before we noticed her and now she’s keeping an eye on us until they arrive.”

“You’re such a suspicious sort.”

“You say that like that’s a bad thing.”

“Does she speak English?” Laura asked.

“How would I know?”

“I thought you investigated last night.”

“She and her…friends weren’t doing a whole lot of talking,” he informed her. “And frankly, darlin’, I’d think you’d be happy that I didn’t investigate her that closely.”

Laura
tsked
in disapproval. “Well, then. Enough.” She smoothed the fabric gathers at her waist and took a step toward the woman.

“You’ll never make a good investigator,” he told her. “Not enough patience.”

“I’ve got an idea.”

The woman glanced around her as they approached, furtive, worried, as if afraid to be seen talking to them.

“Do you speak English?” Laura asked, her voice as gentle as if she were speaking to a painfully shy child.

The woman nodded. “Some.”

She was a good four inches shorter than Laura, who wouldn’t be called tall by anyone, and so slight a good breeze would topple her over. He’d be surprised if she could claim seventeen years honestly. And yet there was dignity in her posture, the hard-won steel that only a fellow survivor could truly recognize and understand.

“Would you speak to us?”

A barely perceptible shudder rippled through her—fear, Sam thought, and indecision. “My house,” she said. “Too late for visitors.”

She spun and led them there without glancing back to see if they followed. Perhaps hoping they would not, thus relieving her of the decision of what to entrust them with.

Her feet pattered lightly across the porch. No squeaks on the board, nor on the hinges of the door as
she pushed it open. Well kept, like everything else on the Silver Spur. Money and Haw Crocker’s will went a long way.

It was very small in the house. Sam could make out none of the interior. He started inside, and his leg muscles seized. The air thickened in his lungs, his head going painfully light.

“In!” the woman snapped out.

“Sam?” Laura asked, wondering and concerned.

“I—” The night air was cool and fresh, but sweat broke out on his forehead, his back. “I should keep watch,” he said. “Better I stay out here. Don’t want anyone sneaking up on us if some randy cowboy decides on a late-night romp.”

“We’ll leave the door open a fraction, so you can hear,” Laura said, “and—”

“No,” the woman interrupted. “
Inside
, or no talk.”

Oh, God. This was the closest thing to a clue—at least a potential one—that he’d had since this whole blasted thing started. And he was either going to have to go inside—inside that tiny, thick-walled, tight cabin that would surely squeeze the air right out of him—or he was going to lose out completely.

He’d been inside the train car. The dining room, Laura’s bedroom. He’d been getting it under control.

But this place wasn’t a fifth the size of any of them, scarcely bigger than a coffin, it seemed. The shades were down, and he just knew she was going to want to shut the door, trapping him inside.

He struggled to draw a full breath. If only it wasn’t so damned
dark
, if only the small structure had more than one tiny window, if only—

“Please, ma’am, it’ll be all right. No one will see him out here. He’s really very good at that.” Laura—what a
wonder—was saving him. “And he’s right. This way no one can come to the door unexpectedly.”

The woman teetered on the edge, worry warring with trust. And then she slipped into the room, a silent wraith, and Laura followed her.

Sam hunched down on the porch, so the bars of the railing would break up his outline, and propped the door open a few inches.

Once inside Laura didn’t dare move. Only a narrow line of light made it through the door, scarcely illuminating the space at all. The heavy air stung her nose, the scent of soap so strong her eyes almost watered.

“You’ve cleaned recently,” she said, hoping a neutral topic would relax the clearly riotously tense woman.

“Smell the men afterward,” she said, her tone vibrating with anger. “Don’t like it.”

Smell the men…? “Oh,” Laura said, her mind skittering away from the images. From Sam’s comments she’d formed an idea of the woman’s function on the ranch. In an isolated place populated mostly by men, she…serviced their baser needs.

But Laura hadn’t given much thought to the reality of it. It was a world so alien from Laura’s own that she couldn’t quite grasp it.

She remembered that afternoon when Sam had kissed her. She’d embraced it, longed for it, recalled it with a sweet and piercing clarity. Yet she couldn’t deny the uncomfortable intimacy of it. To do that, and a hundred times more, with strangers, to open oneself to a man—
men
—that you scarcely knew and probably didn’t even like…Laura could imagine few things more horrifying. How did a woman end up in that place? Make a choice that this would be her life?

And obviously this woman regretted it. Anger and distaste vibrated off her small body.

But that meant she should have little loyalty to the Silver Spur. And that was what she and Sam needed, didn’t they? Someone who would betray the ranch’s secrets, reveal exactly what was happening here?

Laura felt guilty just considering taking advantage of this woman’s misfortune. She vowed to herself that if an opportunity arose to help this woman, she would do so. And that promise helped.

“What’s your name?”

“They call me Mary.” She spat out the name.

“That might be what they call you,” Laura said, “but what is your name?”

Silence. And then: “Been a long time since anyone bothered to ask me. It’s Chen Jo Ling.” Her voice strengthened. “Jo Ling.”

“Jo Ling, how did you come to America?”

She shook her head. “Don’t matter now. Collis, last night—” She swallowed audibly. “Collis visit me. Likes to talk, that one, much as likes to…well. Said you had picture of man who tried to escape. Can I see?”

“They claimed he was crazy,” Laura told her.

Jo Ling made a sound of heavy disgust. “What else he be but escaping? Be crazy not to.”

“Escaping from what?” Sam whispered through the crack in the door. Jo Ling startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there.

She clammed up, as if suddenly unsure she should be speaking about this.

“I see picture?” she asked again.

“I’m sorry,” Laura said. “It’s gone.”

“They took it?”

“Yes.” Is that what the intruder had been after all along, then? Why?

“You go now.”

“Excuse me?”

Jo Ling pulled the door open and took Laura by the arm, steering her toward it.

“No, no,” Laura said. “I’ve got some questions, we—”

Laura planted her feet and leaned into the pressure of Jo Ling’s hands. The slight woman was a great deal stronger than she looked, but she barely came to Laura’s chin.

“Miss, we do not wish to disturb you,” Sam said. “But we cannot help you if—”

“Who says need help?” Using her shoulder as a prod, she leaned into Laura’s back. “Dangerous for you to be here.”

“Then we’d best get it over with quickly, hmm?” Laura said. “Do you have paper?”

She felt the weight of Jo Ling’s shoulder in her back ease off a fraction. “You draw again?”

“I can try.”

“Okay.”

They left Sam outside, something which seemed to relieve Jo Ling to no end and which he protested less than Laura expected. Once the door was firmly closed and the roller shades over the window tightly fastened, Jo Ling lit a stub of candle.

For a den of inequity the room was disappointing. Laura had envisioned red velvet and flocked wallpaper, gold-leafed statuettes of naked bodies in lurid poses.

Instead it resembled a monk’s cell, so clean as to hold no personality whatsoever, as if no one lived there. The walls were white and completely bare. The
single room held a chair, a table with a wash pitcher, and a tiny trunk. The bed was barely big enough for one, much less two and adventures.

She flipped open the top of her trunk, which, from what Laura could see, held very little. It took her but a moment to locate a carefully folded scrap of paper, a pencil shorter than her thumb.

“Here.” She thrust them at Laura.

What if she couldn’t do it again? Laura had been so pleased with the original drawing; it had sprung from nowhere, from her dreams and her distress, forming on the page almost without her consciously guiding her hand.