Wild Is the Night (2 page)

Her study of newspapers became invaluable. She could pick up any of her subscriptions to the western dailies and find a wealth of story ideas, complete with details. It was there she’d read about the murder of a man called Haines, though his killer had not been identified. From that mere scrap of an article she had developed a story of a ruthless gunman. It was just the kind of western that satisfied her readers, gave them plenty of action and a villain they could hate. In the end, justice was done, and Fess Tyson had another success. For a while, her life felt complete. She had money coming in, satisfaction with what she was doing, and protection from the rest of the world where she never belonged. And especially now, with Jeff lying in a southern grave and her parents gone, she often congratulated herself on her choice.

But lately, she wanted more. Her father would have never been content with her silent success; he would have encouraged her to go on, to become a real writer. Hadn’t he told her as much on his deathbed?

Mrs. Pincus, her landlady, thought her insane. But when she realized Amanda was determined to go west, she’d packed her a parcel of food, three extra handkerchiefs, a flask of coffee, and a tiny derringer. The gun rested in her pocket, a heavy, foreign weight. Amanda could feel the derringer against her thigh as she shifted in her seat.

The train whistle blew, and Amanda glanced up, startled out of her thoughts. The wheels screeched, the engines choked furiously, and grey-black smoke blew in the windows. They were slowing down, almost to a stop. Strange, they weren’t due to arrive at the next station for nearly an hour….

Gunfire broke out like a distant thunder. The few passengers remaining in the car scrambled for cover. A woman shrieked; a man cursed as he fumbled for his gun. Amanda stared out the window in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening, not to her, not now. The train slowed even more, and the door flew open, the sound angry and metallic in the noonday sun. A man stepped through the passageway between the two cars, framed by the blazing sunlight, his gun drawn, his body lean and dangerous. He took one surveying glance around the car, then seized Amanda roughly around the waist and pulled her to the floor.

“Stay down, it’s Sam Haskwell’s gang.”

Amanda struggled for breath, her belly aching from the pressure of the man’s leg holding her down. For a moment, she thought she would pass out, so intense were the emotions that numbed her. Gradually, she became aware of little things, like the dark stubble of the man’s beard, the blackness of his hair, and the intense blueness of his eyes. His brows curved over those eyes, lending him a sinister appearance, while pitch-black lashes softened them, an almost incongruous contrast to the stark contours of his lean face. A southerner—his drawl told her that—and a gunman. No one else could aim with such deadly precision, and squint in relief when his bullet struck home.

“How many are there?” An eastern businessman asked, peering up from behind the seat.

“At least six.” The gunman answered, pausing to reload. It was the last question the businessman asked. His feminine companion cried out in horror as an outlaw’s bullet found its mark and the man slumped to the floor in a pool of blood.

“Stay down!” The blue-eyed gunman shouted.

“He’s dead! He can’t be…” Within minutes, the slender, red-haired woman joined the man as another bullet from outside the train struck home. Amanda grew sick with horror as a red stream of blood snaked its way across the floor, ending in a still, wet pool just above her face.

“You got a gun?” The man released her, his body poised at the window, his gun still firing steadily.

Amanda nodded, thinking of the ivory-handled pistol in her pocket. She withdrew the tiny derringer, trembling with fear, then heard the southerner’s derisive chuckle.

“You call that a gun? Well, it should do for laughs. Stay beneath the window and see if you can hit anything. Except me.

At that moment, Amanda hated him. Hated his filthy southern accent, his cocky manner, his obvious disregard for the deaths of the two people lying behind them. Brushing her loose hair out of her face, she crept determinately up to the window. Her hands shook as she aimed the gun, and she clamped her eyes shut and attempted to squeeze the trigger. Perspiration dripped from her palms and the barrel trembled miserably, then the weapon slipped from her fingers through the window and onto the ground below.

“Jesus Christ.” He cursed as the gleaming ivory derringer disappeared into the grass. “You have a god-damned pop gun and you’re afraid to shoot it. Stay the hell down.”

Amanda opened her mouth to retort, but a bullet whined by, the sound softer than she would have thought and far more sickening. She’d written dozens of gunfights, all of them wrong. The irony of that would have made her laugh except this was real. She stared in horrified fascination out the window as another barrage of gunfire exploded.

“Get down, or you’ll wind up like them!” He gestured to the corpses behind them.

Humiliated, frightened and ill, Amanda ducked. The birdcage toppled over and she scrambled for it, ignoring the disgusted look the gunman gave her.

“What the hell is that?” He lowered himself beneath the window and gazed curiously at the covered cage. The owl rustled inside.

“Aesop.” Amanda answered, hugging the cage. “He’s an owl.”

The gunman shook his head, then leaned against the wall. “Owl. She’s got an owl. We could be killed, and she’s worried about the damned owl.”

“But Aesop…”

The gunman put his finger to his lips, silencing her. The gunfire slowly died as the train surrendered to the outlaw band, and Amanda choked as she heard the sounds of screams, of men cursing and women crying out in protest. She could hear the coarse laughter of the Haskwell gang as they made their way through the cars, taking their reward from the passenger’s wealth.

“He could have a gun.” The southerner gestured to the dead body of the businessman, while Amanda froze in revulsion, knowing what his next words would be. “See if he does.”

“I can’t…”

“See if he does.” The southerner repeated in that same, bored drawl. Appalled, Amanda put the owl’s cage aside and crept across the floor fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. Throwing up would certainly complete her misery, yet as she fumbled through the dead man’s pockets, trying not to look at his open eyes and pale, white skin, she came remarkably close. It was only the thought of further embarrassment and the gunman’s caustic reaction that made her retain her lunch.

“He doesn’t.” Amanda scuttled quickly away from the corpse, taking deep breaths and fighting her natural queasiness. “His pockets are empty.”

“Great. They’re still three cars ahead.” The southerner said, almost to himself. “Ferriman gave orders not to stop under any circumstances. Shame this train doesn’t have air brakes.”

Amanda barely heard him. The engines whined but did not stop. Terrified, she gazed up at the southerner, her fingers clutching the bird cage, her blue-green eyes wide and unblinking.

“Won’t they kill them? Us?”

The southerner shrugged. “Won’t they anyway?”

Horrified, Amanda closed her eyes, refusing to let the thought complete itself.
Think, you have a mind, for God’s sake, think!
she scolded herself. The owl squawked. The southerner reloaded, his gun smoking, burning his fingers, while the sounds from the other cars continued to terrify her…

“The coupler.” She glanced up, her eyes bright and intense. “Can’t you uncouple the car? This train should have a simple pin coupling. When the train pulls out, we’ll be safe.”

He looked at her in amazement, then he broke into a chuckle. His sides shook as he shoved the gun inside its holster, then he stood up and glanced through the soot-covered window.

“You just may have something there. There is some risk involved. We could get killed, you know. This train, uncoupled, could derail…”

“They’ll kill us anyway, you said so!” Amanda protested.

“You’re right.” He agreed. “And worth a shot. For a woman, you may have a good idea.”

He was gone, his body crouched between the cars. He struggled with the iron bolt that linked the last car to the rest of the train, twisting and yanking the pin while trying to maintain his balance between the two moving cars. The train lurched around a corner and Amanda gasped as the gunman disappeared, the two coaches colliding on the far side, the metallic crash harsh and sickening. Her breath returned as the car straightened and she saw him, plastered against the train, his face white as death. Yet, as soon as it was safe, he knelt down again and resumed tugging at the pin. Amanda was almost tempted to call to him, to tell him it was too dangerous, when the bolt slipped out with a rusty squeak. The gunman stood erect, still clutching the useless pin, then the two cars slid apart. Slowly, inexorably, the train slipped away from them to the west, and the caboose started its own eastern migration to nowhere.

He turned back and stepped inside, his triumphant smile vanishing as he saw the tracks behind them. “We’re on a hill! This damned thing isn’t going to stop!”

“The incline isn’t too dramatic.” Amanda shouted back. “Just for the last few miles. We should be all right…”

The train lurched, the car careening out of control. The gunman fell into Amanda, then the two of them toppled across the floor, rolling like acorns in a jostled barrel.

“Wonderful idea, lady.” The southerner growled. “We escape outlaws, only to be killed in a goddamned train wreck!”

“How was I to know?” Amanda blushed hotly, terrified at the rusty scrape of the wheels against the iron rails. “You couldn’t think of anything better.”

“Bet me. I could have kept out of this damned mess to begin with. I should have stayed in my own car, but no, I had to be a hero and see if anyone needed help. Then somehow, I’m on a runaway train with a school marm. Did you wake up and decide to ruin my life today?”

“I am not a school marm!” Amanda shoved him indignantly, losing her fear at his insults. “Would you get off me?”

“Sure.” He tried to rise, but the train lurched and he tumbled unwillingly against Amanda once more. This time his long lean body nearly covered hers entirely, and when he could finally move, bracing himself on his elbows, he looked down and found her blushing hotly. His legs were between hers, his chest pressed to her breasts. He couldn’t help but noticing that they seemed much more impressive in this position than they did when she sat up with that prim, spinsterish posture. She had lost her glasses and her blue-green eyes, ocean eyes, he thought, were fringed with soft gold lashes. They stared at him, wide and alarmed. Without premeditation, he started to laugh.

“Are you all right?” he asked, between chuckles.

Amanda choked, more embarrassed than anything else. To have a man lying on top of her, in a position that even intimate people never talked about, was more than she could handle. She nodded her head, too shaken and mortified to speak.

The train slowed, the wheels gradually ceasing their frantic revolutions. The gunman remained on top of her, hushing her when she would have spoken, his head turned sideways, listening. Amanda strained to hear what had caught his attention and became aware of the cessation of noise, of the decrease in velocity, of the sharp grinding as the wheels decreased in speed. Finally, the train ground to a halt.

Amanda tried to draw a deep breath. The gunman grinned down at her, his expression boyishly inappropriate, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

“What’s your name?” He asked with a grin.

His teeth were very white, his smile charming and infectious. Numb, Amanda found herself answering.

“Amanda. Edison. My last name is Edison.” She managed, still unable to believe that they were alive.

“Luke Parker.” He chuckled, the vibration warm against her body. “This train must have been going fifty miles an hour! I haven’t experienced anything like that since I was thrown from a wild horse back in Charleston.”

“Would you please let me up?” Amanda asked, growing more awkward and embarrassed by the moment.

“Sure,” he shrugged. Rising from the floor, he extended a hand, silently offering to help her up. She ignored his gesture, pretending to be absorbed in brushing her dress and smoothing back the tumble of chestnut-colored hair that spilled forth. She felt around the floor, and when he handed her the pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, she blushed again, but immediately put them on and glanced around the interior of the runaway car. He saw her flinch as her gaze settled on the two bodies that were crumpled against the wall. She shuddered and tried to stand, her legs shaky and unsteady.

“Looking for this?”

Amanda nodded in relief as he handed her the bird cage, the cover tumbling to the floor. Aesop stared at her indignantly, then gazed at the surrounding carnage, as if thoroughly disgusted. Seeing the gunman’s sarcastic glance, Amanda reached for the cover, spoke soothingly to the bird, then hooded the cage and placed it beside her.

“Thank you,” she managed.

Luke nodded, then peered out the window. “Looks like we’ve got less than an hour till nightfall. Way I see it, we’re a half-day’s ride to Abilene. Right in the midst of Arapahoe country. I couldn’t have planned this better myself.”

Amanda stared up at him, only gradually realizing what he was saying. They had escaped outlaws, but by no means were they safe. Her eyes went back to the southern gunman.