Without Words (22 page)

“No. Mr. Grimes had no interest. His sons were curious but never learned.”

Gunner and Brownie understood as much as any of the Grimes family ever did, which was nothing. The sad truth was she signed just for practice, just to remember, even though it would never matter again.

“What about your husband?”

She shook her head, wanting to change the subject, wishing she hadn’t noticed Bret still considered Cyrus her husband in spite of what they had done yesterday.

“So you wrote things for him, managed the way we do.”

“No, Cyrus couldn’t read.”

If she asked about the Sterling family, would he tell her? Belle didn’t like the Sterlings, so maybe some of the things she said weren’t true. Hassie stared at her own last words on the slate. Now would be a perfect time to ask. Maybe he would tell her. More likely he’d walk out the way he did when
she
laughed.

Right now he studied her intently with an expression she hadn’t seen before. “How many of those signs for letters of the alphabet could I learn between now and supper time?”

Hassie’s heart leapt then steadied. The two times the Grimes boys said they wanted to learn, they never got past D and forgot that by the next day.

“6.”

“Huh. Gunner could learn five in that much time. The checker boys downstairs could learn five.”

Hassie moved his slicker over by hers, sat in the chair so she could face him and started, her hands trembling as she formed the A. Bret didn’t just watch her the way Mama and the Grimes boys had. He imitated her, showing her what her own signs looked like from his perspective.

Watching him calmed her. His hands were so elegant, tanned, strong. His fingers were agile, mesmerizing.

By supper time Bret could not only recognize the signs up to J reliably, he could flash them at her. By the time they both were yawning and ready for bed, he was halfway through the alphabet.

Before they could turn in, they had to get Gunner, of course. This time Hassie slipped the dog up the stairs while Bret flattered Mr. Vance into demonstrating how the hotel’s hot water supply worked.

All in all the only disappointment of the day came when Bret arranged blankets on the floor instead of using them for a bundling barrier. “Bed’s too small,” was all he said.

The bed wasn’t any smaller than the night before, but it was colder.

B
Y THE END
of the next day, Bret had mastered the alphabet. Hassie couldn’t believe it. She and Mama hadn’t learned so fast. Of course she and Mama hadn’t had long, rain-filled days with nothing else to do.

Some of the miners and other people in town nodded to them now, spoke a greeting. The owner of the only restaurant Bret was willing to take her to wasn’t so friendly even though they were eating there three times a day. The restaurant provided no choice of fare. Everyone ate what the owner chose to cook and that was that.

“Venison stew tonight,” the owner said as he smacked two cups on the table and poured coffee, slopping it all over.

Bret signed at her as the man stomped off. “C-l-u-m-s-y a-n-d r-u-d-e.”

The meaning of the words hardly registered as the wonder of what he’d just done hit her. She reached out and touched the back of his hand, pulled back, met his eyes.

His cynical smile didn’t change the gleam of knowledge in his eyes. He knew full well what he’d done.

They had a private language. The intimacy of it took her breath away.

Her eyes puddled.

“D-o-n-t d-o n-o-t.” He frowned. “Is there an apostrophe?”

She forgot herself and laughed, and at least here in the restaurant it didn’t make him get up and leave. In fact one side of his mouth curled past the smile in a grin. “If there isn’t, I’m going to use this,” he said, hooking his right index finger through the air.

Outside the rain drizzled down. Inside Hassie felt the sun breaking out from behind black clouds, a door long locked swinging open.

He made everything better. She couldn’t bear the thought of being left somewhere when winter came and never seeing him again. Wherever he left her for the winter, there had to be a way to persuade him to come back for her in the spring.

Asking him now would be too dangerous. What if he said no?

T
HE RAIN STOPPED
during the next night. They’d have to see how fast the mud dried Bret told her, but one more day ought to be enough. Hassie almost wished the mud would stay too deep and treacherous for another day or two. Staying in one place held a new allure after the months of constant travel.

The late summer sun beat down as if frost had not threatened just the day before. The hard-packed clay in front of the livery stable had dried out enough to be firm. Hassie wiped the last traces of saddle soap off Brownie’s saddle and bridle. Bret had already finished with Jasper and Packie’s gear, but she didn’t care if she was slower. She liked rubbing the soap in circles, turning leather that had dried stiff after the soaking rain supple again.

“Not too much now,” Bret cautioned, handing her the can of neat’s-foot oil. “Just a thin coat.”

She nodded and poured a little oil on her rag.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “I’m going to check the horses and make sure no shoes are loose—or gone.”

He headed back behind the stable where the horses were penned. Hassie hummed as she spread a thin coat of oil along each rein of the bridle.

The stable owner and a red-haired man appeared in the doorway. She smiled and nodded but kept working.

“So that’s the bounty hunter’s whore,” the redhead said.

Hassie’s hand only hesitated for a second before she continued oiling the bridle as if she hadn’t heard. Long ago she’d learned how many people believed if she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t hear. After what they’d said, it would be better if these men never found out they were wrong. If either of them came near her, she was going to use the tin whistle that hung on a cord around her neck along with Mama’s locket on the chain.

“They’re married now. Phineas is right proud of himself for that. He thinks he saved her soul.”

“Phineas is an idiot. Marrying don’t change what she is, and she’ll be back at it when he’s done with her.”

A match scratched. Hassie didn’t look up as the scent of tobacco drifted in the air. She kept humming, kept working.

“Well, I wouldn’t mess with her,” the stable man said. “Sterling’s not one I’d want to cross, and he’s not done with her yet if he just married her. I hope no one says anything about Doosey where he can hear.”

“Sshh. Are you sure she can’t hear us?”

“She’s a dummy. Can’t speak a word either. I heard they were waving their hands around in the restaurant, like talking with signs. I guess she writes things too. Don’t know how you teach a dummy that.”

“You better be right. Anyone who gives Doosey away in this town had better pack his bags and run. Run fast enough to stay ahead of Ma Doosey’s shotgun.”

The two men were still laughing when Bret reappeared. Hassie’s fingers flew. “D-o n-o-t t-a-l-k. I a-m d-e-a-f.”

The men disappeared into the barn.

“What’s going on?” Bret asked, his voice too low for anyone but her to hear.

She shook her head, wishing she had the slate, but she had left it at the hotel, not wanting to get soap and oil on it. Bret took the rag from her, spread the oil over the rest of the saddle with rapid, sure strokes as she bounced on her toes, eager now to be finished and get back to the hotel.

When Bret pulled the saddle off the fence and took it inside to the tack room, she followed with the bridle, hung it on a peg, and dug the tin box out of their packs. He gave a soft whistle but said nothing, and they hurried back to the hotel room.

Side by side on the bed, they each sorted through half the posters until they found the two for Robert Doosey. Thirty-five years old, approximately five feet eight inches tall and one hundred seventy-five pounds. Brown hair and eyes, full beard. He had stolen shipments of silver the High Country Mining Company was sending east not once but twice. No one had been hurt either time, but the mining company was willing to pay five hundred dollars to see him behind bars.

A Denver railroad company also wanted Mr. Doosey locked up, or maybe hung. He and three other men had robbed a train, dynamited the safe in the express car, and killed a guard. If Robert Doosey wasn’t the one who lit the fuse, the company didn’t care. One thousand dollars.

“So it sounded like he’s somewhere in this town?” Bret said.

Hassie wrote out what she’d heard as exactly as she could and added,
“Why would everyone in town want to protect a man like that?”

“Mining’s a rough business, and the companies treat the miners like dirt. If Doosey’s hitting the mining company where it hurts, they probably think he’s some kind of Robin Hood. Maybe they don’t know about the train robbery. Maybe they like the mother or really are afraid of her and her shotgun. Fifteen hundred dollars, and all we have to do is figure out where he is.”

“What about the deserter?”

“That’s two hundred. He can wait.” Bret put the two posters side by side on the bed. “We’ll split fifty-fifty. If you don’t think that’s fair, too bad.”

“Less expenses. Real expenses.”

“Fine, but you have to do the bookkeeping.”

She had already started a list of expenses. That was also in the tin box. She waved it at him. He pulled it out of her hand. “You can’t be serious. The dress is a gift, not an expense.” Before long he had crossed out half a dozen of her entries. “And this one right here, you can cut that in half.” He crossed out her number and wrote in another.

The entry was for the hotel room in the first town they had reached after capturing Hammerill and Jensen.
“No, I remember how much you paid.”

“Maybe so, but we shared that room, so only half.”

“No, we never....”
She stopped writing. Was it about that time she had come to know his scent, the texture of his skin and hair and the sound of his heart and thought it was all a hallucination born of fatigue and the aftermath of fear?
And desire,
her mind whispered. That treacherous thought only heightened her embarrassment.

“You were exhausted. I was exhausted. When I got back from dealing with the horses, they didn’t have another room. You never noticed, so no harm done. After all, here we are again.”

They were married now, even if only half-married or however one would describe it.
“That was very sneaky.”

“Yeah, it was, but it was worth it. I really needed a few hours sleep in a bed right then.”

There wasn’t one trace of remorse on his face, but there were hints of amusement. And it
was
funny that she never noticed a six-foot man in bed with her. Although she had noticed—in a way.

Bret jogged her with an elbow. “You’re not going to hold a grudge, are you?”

“That bed wasn’t too small?”

His eyes widened for just an instant. “You really were easier to get along with when you were afraid of me.”

She tried to stifle a laugh and ended up letting out a strangled giggle. No, she wasn’t going to hold a grudge, and from the look on his face, if she didn’t change the subject, Bret would.
“How will you find Doosey?”

“By finding someone who knows where he is who will take a bribe. There’s always someone. I guess I’m spending most of tonight in saloons, and we’re not leaving in the morning after all.”

Mining couldn’t be any rougher of a business than bounty hunting. Finding where Doosey was hiding wasn’t all Bret had to do. He also had to get the man into custody. Robin Hood or not, Hassie had no sympathy for Robert Doosey. All she cared about was that Bret didn’t get hurt.

B
RET HEADED FOR
the town’s saloons that night still thinking about Hassie Petty—Hassie Sterling. No matter what he said about things being easier when she was afraid of him, Bret hadn’t seen her as anything but one more burden back then. When she had set herself to appeasing him with the false smile and attempts to do more than her share of work on the trail, she had annoyed him.

A woman who could argue a little, tease a little was much better company. Give her enough time, and she might even be able to fire a gun with her eyes open. A sharp stab of regret followed that thought. They didn’t have much more time. Another two months for sure. Three maybe but not likely.

He took more than a little chaffing in the Silver Creek saloons.

“The honeymoon must be over!”

“You must be here to buy us a round to celebrate that wedding!”

Under other circumstances, Bret would have shut them up with a glare, or a fist, but this time he bought rounds in one saloon after another, stayed amiable until they tired of it.

Through it all he kept his eyes open for a certain kind of man, the desperate drunk or gambler, the weasel who spilled secrets because knowing them made him feel important.

Too bad he couldn’t go straight at it and ask about Robert Doosey, but that was often the way of it. He bought drinks, told a tale or two about tips he had picked up here and there in the past and hinted how it had paid off for both him and the tipster.

No one bit, and long before he called it a night in the last saloon, Bret could feel the whiskey. Nursing drinks and slopping as much as he could on the tables and floor had saved him from getting really drunk, but he was still half-soaked.

The hotel was locked when he returned. Old Phineas ran the place like a boarding school for wayward children. At least the sanctimonious son of a gun was long abed.

Bret had to use his knife a little to get his favorite window open from the outside, but he and Gunner made it over the sill with only a thump or two. The dog didn’t wait for him but bounded up the stairs, which was good. Finding the right room was easier with a dog at the door.

Fumbling the key out of his pocket and into the lock was harder. He considered knocking, pounding until Hassie woke up and let him in, except he had the key on this side of the door. If the dog would get out of the way, he could kick the door in. The key turned before he finished debating the wisdom of that.