Wilda's Outlaw (3 page)

A few seats away, a tall, lean cowboy who’d scarcely roused himself from his slouch during the robbery, spoke in a slow drawl. “Near as regular as clockwork. The sheriff’s been after them three for a coon’s age. Even gets the army involved on occasion. That there was Calder Raines and a feller known as Baron. Rode with Quantrill, they did. Other one with the horses, Deacon James. Did a little preaching in his time. Them boys ain’t never learned the war is over. Still think they can get back at the Yankees for all they done to the people around these parts. Drives Sheriff Calumet near crazy with didoes such as this.”

Not sure she caught the real meaning of the man’s unfamiliar words, Wilda did catch the young one’s name. Calder. Calder Raines. How American, how western. A real outlaw name. Again she shivered, recalled the warmth of his breath against the pulse at her wrist, the sensual scrutiny that turned to ice so easily.

Marguerite tugged at her sleeve. “Cover your ears, child, and mind your manners. The good Lord knows some of us still possess such a thing.” She shot a fiery glare at the cowboy, but he had turned away to stare out the window, and paid her words no mind at all.

Eager to hear more, Wilda protested. “Don’t you care who those men are?”

The cowboy turned back to face her, went on as if Marguerite’s concern or scolding meant little to him. “Now, Raines, yonder.” He nodded toward the prairie slipping past the window. “Went into the war when he was just a lad of sixteen. After his older brothers was killed. Reckon he didn’t get enough of the fighting, fer it was over within a few months, and him rarin’ to kill him some more Yankees. Rode out west and sure enough found him some more war. Carries a lead ball in his back, I hear, from Palmito. That there was the true last battle of the Civil War, you know. In May it was. A good month after General Lee surrendered. All more’n ten years ago now, but no one can seem to get enough of talking about it. Reckon, though, he made a better soldier than he does an outlaw. Easy to see his heart ain’t in robbing common, ordinary folk.”

His thoughtful expression slid over Wilda. “You’d better take care. They’s gals in ever town willing to hide that one in their beds…and perform deeds not fit for a young lady’s ears as well.”

“Sir,” Marguerite gasped and fanned viciously.

Not deterred, the cowboy went on, appearing amused at the response his tale elicited. “He’s free with his charms, is Calder Raines…and the spoils of his little adventures as well. Gives the most of it away to folks what lost everything in the war. Or so I hear. This place was bloody, right bloody, ma’am. And plenty of suffering. Yes, siree. Reckon that explains the bad reputation of Hays City. Boot Hill’s been filling up fast, yes siree. You English’d do well to remain in Victoria and not set foot there. Cain’t be tamed, that town. Why, they done run off Wild Bill Hickok, one of the best lawmen in these parts.”

Marguerite tut-tutted, her glower darkening. “That’s enough, Wilda. Quite enough. You must stop listening to such talk. And you, sir. I’d appreciate it if you would kindly mind your tongue.”

The cowboy shrugged, and Wilda stared out the window at the empty plains flying by, wondering if it was always so hot and dry and windy in this place called Kansas. And secretly hoping she’d see this Calder Raines again.

The train stopped at Hays City where both Wilda and Tyra leaned against the smoky windows to get a glimpse of all this American wildness proclaimed by their cowboy traveling companion.

“Looks okay to me,” Tyra muttered in a disappointed tone.

“Maybe it only gets wild at night,” Wilda replied.

After a pause, what the cowboy informed one and all was spent informing the sheriff of the robbery, the train moved on, carrying the weary English at last to their final destination. Despite what might await them at the end of this long, tedious journey, Wilda wanted only for it to end so she could solve her problem of being promised to that dark and foreboding Lord Blair Prescott.

Chapter Two

Calder hunkered low in the saddle and urged the big bay into a fast gallop. On either side, Deke and Baron yahooed and spurred their animals. Behind them, the train snaked its way toward Hays City where the robbery would be big news. And no doubt a posse would soon be hot on their trail. He’d been wanted for a long time. By damn, he’d keep it that way. Wanted, not caught. Between his thighs, the rippling muscles of the powerful animal inflamed thoughts of the woman with the fiery hair and temper to match. From what little he knew of Victorians, she was a breed apart. Spoke her mind and deferred to no one. And a beauty to boot, skin like cream and eyes as blue as cornflowers. A handful, he’d bet.

What would she say about the hold-up? How would she describe him? She sure didn’t think much of him. Didn’t matter a lot, though. There were plenty of pretty women around who wouldn’t stir up the kind of trouble that one could, should she set her mind to it.

The bay’s long legs ate up the miles across the deceptively flat prairie, leaving behind his hollering companions. Where the land sloped down into the Smoky River Valley he reined up. As his horse two-stepped down the incline, Baron and Deke caught up. Calder didn’t look back, but studied the road through the valley. Ahead, tucked into a cut-back, a low-slung shack clung to the bank, surrounded by twisted cottonwood trees so as to be hidden from prying eyes. Beside it a spring bubbled from the ground, filled a small bowl, then disappeared back into the earth as if it had never existed.

“You two ride on. I’ll hang about for a while, make sure we lost ’em coming through that shale bed. I’ll be along shortly.”

Sure was good to be close to home, such as it was. Not much to brag about, considering he’d once lived in a huge white house on the banks of the Missouri River. He, his brothers Rafe and Land, and Maw and Paw. Back when days were bright, and peaceful nights were lit by stars. The smells and sounds of river traffic a song to his soul. But that was another time, another life. No use thinking about it, ’cause it was gone. Blasted apart by the war.

The minute he let those memories go, the redhead on the train returned to peck away at him. Her words had cut through the crust he’d built around his heart and soul. Dangerous, coming to this country with that much uppitiness. She’d get herself hurt or killed. A desire to protect her caused a tremor of hope way down deep. Maybe he had kept a little humanity after all. No use in letting those thoughts in either. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could play the happy outlaw with and come away unscathed.

Besides, in this life he’d chosen, there was no time for such nonsense. Especially not with a woman like her.

After about half an hour passed with still no sign of a tracker, he rode down to the river, then followed it a long ways before coming out at the shack. Baron and Deke had put away their horses and sat on the sagging porch.

“You take first watch, Deke.” Without waiting for the man to obey, he dismounted. No question he would do as he was told. That was just Deke. Who was boss of this outfit had been settled years ago, though Baron liked to play the part of boss in public.

“You did good with the horses,” he added, keenly aware of the value of a little praise.

The stocky man, who claimed to be kin to Jesse James—what outlaw didn’t?—nodded and left in silence, as was his way.

Baron he wouldn’t praise, though. His tough-guy shenanigans on the train, and calling him by name, could have serious consequences. But he waited to bring it up until he’d put up his mount and settled with Baron to check the loot in the saddlebags. He dumped out a meager pile of coins, a wad of bills and a double handful of jewelry, mostly men’s watches, a few rings and small brooches. His fingers stirred once again through the gold and silver, stopping on a tiny gold cross, its chain tangled among the rings. The gold felt cool, delicate in his hand. This was hers. Baron had ripped it from her neck and her begging him not to take it. Tears in her eyes, too, like it was more important than just a piece of jewelry. Dammit all, anyway. What had come of his life that he’d stoop to such?

He grunted, dropped the cross in his shirt pocket. Some outlaw he was.

Baron glared at him and grumbled. Poked around in the skimpy valuables. “Hell, look’it that. A few paltry dollars and not enough gold to buy horse feed for a week. We got to find us some better pickin’s, Raines. A bank or a payroll. That, or get out of this business altogether.” Baron slanted him a harsh look. “You keepin’ that gal’s necklace? Worth more than the rest, or you got something else in mind?”

Calder rode his fury hard. “None of your damned business. And you can leave anytime you want. You’re not exactly an asset anymore. Callin' my name out, not once but twice.”

Baron’s broad chest swelled and he drew himself up, brown eyes gazing at the pitiful booty. “Hell. Maybe I’ll go, see how you get along then."

Vexed, Calder rose. It was time he got out of this himself. The war was a long time over and he wasn’t helping anybody, least of all himself. Besides, he didn’t even make a good outlaw. Still, he couldn’t seem to let up on Baron, like he needed to prod him till he exploded. Give him a good excuse to knock him on his butt. He settled for reaming him out.

“We got plenty of folks on our side who still ain’t forgot what that war done to them, but that’ll change right fast you go to getting too rough. You scared those folks bad, plus told ’em my name.”

“Keep harping on it. Was just a slip. But no one noticed. They was too busy looking at our guns. Hell, half the country knows us anyway. And as for scaring folks, that’s what we’re supposed to do. Look what going easy on folks has got us. We ain’t breaking even, let alone helping out the folks who’re hurting from that danged war. We gotta do something bigger…or get out of the outlaw business. We’d do better diggin’ for gold where there ain’t none.”

The older man was right, but Calder doubted either of them were cut out for robbing some bank where the stakes were too high. Baron wasn’t exactly bright as a two-bit piece, and as for himself, he didn’t want to be put in a position to have to kill someone. Deke, well, hell. Who knew what he would do? It was the quiet ones a fellow had to watch out for.

He stared over Baron’s shoulder. “Wading through all those dead men at Palmito convinced me I don’t take to killing, and surely not to dying. Hell, even killing Yankees puts a sour taste in my mouth, though I admit there’s plenty of ’em needs killing.”

“You ain’t got to kill anyone. Just act like you might. I wasn’t going to hurt no one, just scare ’em a tad.”

“They didn’t know that. That poor old woman fainted dead away. Suppose she’d died or something?”

Baron shrugged, taking the criticism calmly. “She didn’t, so what’s the big fuss? I’m telling you, we need to look around, find us a bigger target. They’s riches a plenty in that English settlement. They say even royalty is living there, and they must have money, the way they’re hiring everyone in sight to build the town. Bound to be a bank. We could bust it open, get us some real cash.”

Calder rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin, lowered himself onto a step. “I don’t know, so close to Fort Hays, they’d likely have the army after us right off. Hitting banks is different from robbing a few folks on a train or stagecoach.” Time he shut up. Baron might be right. Go where the real money was and stop holding up folks with little to spare anyway. Still, a bank full of people. The clerk probably kept a pistol close at hand.

“Someone could get killed or bad hurt if everything didn’t go right,” he said under his breath, giving in a little.

Baron blew out a breath. “So, we’ll check it out. Hang around town a few days, see what’s what. Find out how it works. I’m telling you, this could work. In and out, easy as can be. And you know Widow Johnson and her young’uns need help in the worst way, after Jim got hisself killed.”

How like Baron to throw Rachel’s circumstances at him. Not even as old as him, she had three little tads when her husband was gunned down. Once tough as a range raised filly, she looked more fragile every day. She was slowly losing the battle to keep things together on their homestead. If she had some money she could go back to St. Louis, be with her folks, raise those pretty young’uns of hers.

Her sadness reminded him of his own mama the last time he’d seen her. Standing in the lane, hand raised in a goodbye wave as long as he could see her. He’d never forget the tears in her sad violet eyes, watching her last son ride off to war in the footsteps of his big brothers. Both of them killed by Yankees before either reached the age of twenty-one.

After the war, he’d finally checked out of the hospital carrying Yankee lead in one thigh, and ridden back to find his beloved home burned to the ground and his dear mama carried off by the pox. A man goes off to war and returns to find his mama dead and buried. Not the way it was supposed to be. For almost a year after that he couldn’t contain the rage, the madness that once in a while washed over him like black smoke. And when it was over, the putrid bitterness expelled, what was left felt hollow, meaningless. Life nothing but a bitter joke, and he lived it as if it were, all the while set on making someone pay for all the horrors visited on his homeland. It seemed all he could do was rob folks who had absolutely nothing to do with any of the world’s meanness. One thing was for dang sure, he was no Jesse James or even kin to him. All he’d wanted was to steal a little money now and then from them that could spare it. Not hurt anyone. Try to do some good, one family at a time.

Driven by a sudden and familiar rage against life’s indifference to the suffering of innocents like Rachel and her brood, Maw and the boys, he scattered the paltry pieces of jewelry laid out before him.

This wasn’t a good idea, but dammit he didn’t know what else to do. “Okay, you’re right. We’ll hit the bank, but we’re going to do it proper. Have a plan. I don’t want anyone getting hurt, you understand me?”

“Aw, hell. What do you think we oughta do, carry a rolling pin to a gunfight? I don’t think it would convince those folks to turn over their money, but hey, no one would get more than a lump on their head. I say, it’s either do it right…or I’m riding on.”