Wild Is the Night (3 page)

“We have to get out of here,” he said decisively. “In this train car, we’re a sitting duck for any goddamned Indian who takes it into his head to investigate. There was a deserted Harvey house a few miles back. We could make for that, spend the night, then get to Abilene come morning.”

Amanda looked at him doubtfully. He could see the thoughts racing through her mind, and the strange, uncanny wisdom in her eyes. She appeared to be dissecting his logic and testing his argument.

Luke shrugged. “We could try for Abilene tonight, if you want. If we stay on the western trail, we might be able…”

“There’s still an hour until nightfall.” Amanda said, mentally assessing the risk. “The Arapahoes won’t care that we don’t mean to trespass.” She glanced down at the dead businessman and the redheaded woman, and couldn’t repress a shudder. “You’ll bury them, first, of course.”

“Like hell.” The gunman answered, already heading toward the door. “You coming or not?”

Amanda stared at him, stunned by his cruelty, but already Luke was walking away from her. She had no choice, and he wouldn’t wait. Amanda picked up Aesop’s cage and her carpetbag, then followed the gunman out into the waning daylight.

Chapter
  
2
  

Walking through the charming city of Boston, properly dressed, was very different from trudging along the railroad tracks of Kansas in tight, high-heeled, thick-laced boots, a dark muslin dress with a bustle and a corset beneath, carrying a bird cage with an unhappy owl. Amanda’s glasses fogged as the temperature changed with the approaching nightfall. She removed them, then struggled to clean them on her skirt while clutching the bird cage and carpetbag stuffed with wads of notes and pencils.

The gunman strode far ahead of her, his manner cocky and unconcerned. His hat was pulled low over his face, his boots were scuffed and obviously well broken in, his clothes comfortable and adapted to the outdoors. He even whistled a show tune that was vaguely familiar to Amanda and had a risque connotation that she couldn’t immediately place. She hated him now even more than she did when they were on the train. A pebble lodged in her boot, stabbing mercilessly into the arch of her foot, and she gasped in outrage and pain.

He stopped, turned slowly, and gave her an annoyed, penetrating look. “What’s the hold up? We don’t have that long until night, and I’d like to make it to shelter in one piece.”

Amanda Edison never glared at anyone in her entire life, but she glared at Luke. “I have a stone in my shoe.”

The gunman was about to make a scathing comment, but something in her voice stopped him. He nodded, studying her as she plunked the bird cage down, followed by the rumpled carpetbag that looked as bumpy as a badly stuffed mattress. She adjusted her glasses, seated herself on top of the carpetbag, then began to painstakingly unlace her shoe and remove her stocking.

The foot that emerged was surprisingly well-shaped and pretty. Luke noticed the flash of her calf, the delicate bone structure of her ankle, and the smooth, high curve of her arch. The skin was pierced with a nasty gash, and he winced for her as she shook out a sharp stone from her boot. She started to replace the stocking when he approached and stopped her, then boldly reached for her foot and examined the cut.

“What do you think you’re doing…” Amanda gasped as Luke ran his rough hand along her foot, then he examined the soft underflesh where the stone had cut her. Strange sensations tingled where he touched her, surprising her, then she winced with pain as he gently probed the cut. He withdrew a red bandana from his pocket and tied the cloth around her foot, creating a makeshift bandage. When he finished, he took the stocking from her hand and slipped it back on, ignoring her outraged look. When he slid her boot on over the stocking and the bandage, caressing her skin in the process, it was too much. Amanda snatched her foot back, blushing at the intimacy of the gesture and her own reaction to him.

“I can finish it,” she insisted hotly, lacing the boot herself.

“I was trying to help,” Luke snapped.

“Well, don’t,” Amanda replied. “Just leave me alone. I can take care of myself.”

“Right,” Luke agreed. “That’s why we’re out in the middle of nowhere, with no food or water, in Indian country, you’re injured and dressed for a garden party, carting a damned owl. Yeah, I’d say you’re doing a great job of taking care of yourself.”

Amanda couldn’t say a word in her own defense. Picking up her cage with as much dignity as she could muster, she stalked ahead of him, then looked back. “Are you coming? ‘The morning steals upon the night, melting the darkness.’ Shakespeare.” She gave him a smug glance, delighted to see his scowl.

Luke picked up her carpetbag, fighting to keep from caging her. Thank God they would part come morning.

The Harvey house was deserted, and bore all the signs of having been so for a long time. Luke tried the door, but the hinge had long since rusted and the handle refused to budge. Shrugging, he stepped back and gave the rotted panel a swift kick. The door swung open, revealing an interior decorated with cobwebs, suspicious nests in every corner, and broken chairs and tables.

“At least the roof’s intact, and there’s water.” Luke tried to sound optimistic as he gestured to the trickling stream that ran beside the lonely restaurant. “And there’s plenty of wood. We’d best get inside; night’s falling.”

Amanda said nothing, but followed him into the room. It was true that nightfall was imminent; already the western sky was suffused with orange and pink, and a ragged black edge of darkness smothered the east. Lowering herself stiffly on a chair with the bird cage placed carefully on a table out of the way, Amanda could have smiled at the irony of it all. She was alone in a deserted road house with a southern gunman who had absolutely no gentlemanly qualities, no education, and no civility. He had killed this afternoon with no more compunction than he would have sipped a whiskey. He could kill again.

Her eyes didn’t leave him. The tension increased as he bent to pick up a broken chair, then smashed it on the edge of a table with a methodical violence that made her jump. Giving her a derisive glance, he put the wood in the potbellied stove and lit a fire. Accomplishing that, he turned to the cupboard above the counter and smiled in satisfaction as he discovered several tins of food. His smile changed to a grin as he withdrew a full bottle of 90 proof whiskey.

“Those Harvey waitresses sure know how to take care of a man.” Luke uncorked the bottle, then drank down a huge swallow of the fiery liquor. He wiped his lips with his shirt sleeve, then turned to Amanda. “Want some?”

“Liquor is detrimental to the physical well-being,” Amanda recited. “Alcohol is a direct cause of liver disease, mental illness and depravity. It is also linked to many accidents and killings, including shootings.”

“Really?” Watching her expression carefully, Luke picked up the bottle, drank another swig, then placed it beside her.

“In case you change your mind.”

Amanda fumed, then jumped to catch the metal pot he tossed to her. “Can you cook?” he indicated tins of stew, brown bread, and peaches.

Amanda bit her lip. Her writing had paid for a few luxuries, and one of them had been meals at the boardinghouse. She knew nothing about preparing ordinary food, other than what she’d seen. She was too embarrassed to admit it, however. She picked up the tin and attempted to read the label for directions.

Heat gently, stirring often, until done.
Amanda frowned, wondering how she was going to know when the food was done, but the can gave no other clues. Fumbling with the can opener that Luke had supplied, she tried to pry open the lid, but succeeded only in denting the tin. She fought to keep from crying, especially when he came to stand behind her, lifted the can from her awkward hands without a word, and opened it immediately. He handed it back to her, a grin still plastered on his face, and Amanda toyed with the idea of reaching for his gun and blasting him. It was only the thought of the Indians and the remembrance of what had happened when she’d tried to fire the derringer that made her swallow her pride and dump the stew into the pot.

“What does this thing eat?” He peered beneath the cover and poked his finger into Aesop’s cage. Amanda wished she’d trained the bird to bite.

“Mice,” she replied acidly. “There’s some in my bag.” Ignoring his stare of disbelief, Amanda opened her carpetbag, fished through a wad of papers, and pulled out a cookie tin. She dipped her hand inside, withdrew a mouse, and without the slightest hesitation, fed it to the wide awake, blinking owl. The bird scooped up the half-starved and confused rodent, then placidly swallowed his dinner. The owl’s amber eyes gazed suspiciously at the southern gunman while the mouse vanished inside his curved beak. Luke swallowed hard, then stared curiously at the odd woman across from him.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’ve already told you my name,” Amanda said, primly washing her hands. “I’m a writer—of western novels.” She checked the stew and found it barely bubbling on the wood-stove, then took the seat he offered at one of the intact tables.

Luke’s mouth dropped. “You write books?”

Amanda nodded. “Penny dreadfuls, they call them. They don’t pay much, but enough for the bills and a little extra. It’s nothing special. I’d rather not talk about it.”

Luke nodded, then lit a candle, aware of the shadows that now threatened to swallow the room. He turned to look back at her. She was trying so hard to distance him. The firelight fell on her, illuminating her chestnut hair, her ink-stained dress, her dowdy hairstyle. She stared at him, her eyes unnaturally large behind her glasses, gleaming with intensity. Without those glasses, with her hair taken down, she might even be pretty, he decided. It was amazing that she wrote books, and even more amazing that she shrugged it off as if she washed dishes for a living. Everything about her piqued his curiosity.

“Look.” He gave her a charming smile. “We have nothing to do for the next few hours. We could at least be civil.”

“There really isn’t any need to talk. You and I are obviously two very different people, with different values and morals. I see no reason to make this any harder than it is.”

Luke leaned back in his chair, taking another swig of whiskey before placing the bottle on the table before her. “How do you know what my morals are?”

Amanda stared at him in amazement. “You kill without remorse, curse like a sailor, order people around without any regard for their feelings. Although I agree with Carlyle, that it is essential to see a man’s good qualities before pronouncing on his bad, I can’t ignore the obvious. Therefore, it is clear—”

Amanda’s words broke off in a scream as Luke pulled out his gun and fired a shot. The bullet whined so close to her face that she could feel the disturbance of the air. Gritting her teeth, she whirled toward him, intending to berate him, when she spied a dead rat on the floor.

“Sorry,” he smiled. “You were saying?”

Amanda’s mouth went dry. The rat lay beside her, its body jerking from nervous reaction, just inches from her feet. “Why, I…”

“Yeah, it was ready to bite.” Luke nodded. “They’re full of diseases out here. Oh, Jesus.” A sputtering sound caught his attention and with an oath, he rushed to the stove where the stew spattered merrily. Gripping the pot, he gasped as the metal burned his hand, then he pulled out his shirt and used the tail as a potholder. Amanda watched in mortification as he pulled the smoking pot from the stove and slammed it down on the table.