The Cowboy Encounter Page 11

  #

  Just as he was about to give up and head back west, Warwick spotted Connelly at the Kansas City train station. At first, he wasn’t quite sure. After so many fruitless weeks, it seemed impossible that Connelly would be casually walking by, passing through the train’s smoke and steam as if he wasn’t a convicted murderer on the loose.

  Warwick summoned all of the anger and frustration that had kept him going and followed Connelly onto the train.

  He waited until the train pulled out from the station before wandering down the hall, peeking in the windows at the berths. When he finally spotted Connelly lounging in a seat, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper, Warwick had to pause. He wanted to kill Connelly for keeping him away from Becca all these weeks, but he also had questions.

  Down the hall, a porter manned a courtesy cart. He looked to be in his early twenties, with more spots than whiskers on his chin. Warwick motioned before catching up to him.

  “There’s a wanted man in berth 121,” Warwick told the porter. “And there’s a bounty on his head. I’ll split it with you if you back me up. Are you armed?”

  “Yes, sir,” the porter said.

  “Good, I might need your help. Follow me.”

  The porter balked. “How do I know you aren’t lying?”

  “Do you want the money or not?”

  The porter scratched his head. “Well, I don’t know. How much we talking about?”

  Warwick named the cost of his last horse. It seemed a small price to pay, and it must have pleased the porter, because he drew his gun from his holster.

  With the porter in tow, Warwick crept down the hall. He slipped in the door of berth 121, gun raised and trained on Connelly’s head.

  Connelly sat up, folded his newspaper, and greeted Warwick with a lazy hello.

  “How’d you find me?” Connelly asked.

  “Luck,” Warwick said through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t believe in luck,” Connelly said.

  “Maybe that’s because yours has just ran out.” He cocked his gun.

  Connelly shrugged, as if he hadn’t a gun pointed to his head.

  “I’m going to turn you in,” Warwick said. “But first, I want you to answer some questions. How do you know my wife?”

  Connelly looked genuinely puzzled. “Your wife?”

  Warwick gave one small nod. “I believe you stole her bag and gun.”

  “Ah, your wife.” He shook his head. “I would tell you if I could, but I honestly don’t know. She came to my cell, blabbering about how she used to love me. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s it?” Warwick asked.

  “She talked about soccer games, and bleachers…I don’t even know what those are.” He paused. “And I don’t know who she is, either. Although, I’m mighty glad she got me a gun.”

  With one quick move, he drew, but before he could even raise his arm, a gunshot rang out. Connelly slumped to the side, a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead.

  Open-mouthed, Warwick turned to stare at the porter and his smoking gun.

  The porter nodded at the blood splattered seat, wall and window. “I’m going to have to clean that up. Reckon that should be worth something a bit more, don’t you?”

  After Warwick settled with the porter, he made his way to the dining car. Scanning the dinner trays, all he could think about was returning to Denver, freeing Becca, and burying himself in her arms.

  #

  When she was so busy trying to bring peace and comfort to others with outward physical pain, Becca found it easy to ignore the niggling in the back of her mind and the queasiness in her belly, but after about six weeks, the swelling in her breasts refused to be ignored.

  And sometimes her breakfast liked to make a second appearance.

  It was during a second-appearance-breakfast morning as she sat inside the privy, staring at the light filtering through the wooden slats that she really began to worry. What would she do if she remained in 1870 Denver for the rest of her life? What would become of her and her child? What if Connelly, Indians, wolves, or bears had killed him?

  The thought of never seeing Warwick again filled her with panic, forcing her to lean over and vomit for a third time that morning. When she was done, she leaned against the wall and tipped her head back, studying the crudely fashioned ceiling. What would this place be like in rain or snow? She shivered and placed a hand on her belly.

  How could she bring a child into this crazy existence? How could she give birth without a team of doctors, nurses, and a sanitary environment? She knew that women had been giving birth without any of those things for centuries, but she also knew that many of them had died trying.

  What if the delusion ended? What if any moment she woke and found herself in twenty-first century Connecticut? The thought caused another panic flurry. She’d never see Warwick again. There would be no baby.

  But she could find someone else to marry. She could have other children.

  But even though she knew she was insane—or delusional—she didn’t want to marry anyone else, and she didn’t want another child. She wanted Warwick, and she wanted the child she now carried.

  She stumbled out of the privy, bracing against the cold air. Behind her, the door slammed shut.

  “You all right, Miz Warwick?” Hester, a volunteer, asked. Hester, at all of age twenty-two, considered herself a spinster. Because of her outrageous flirting, Becca suspected that Hester’s volunteering at the makeshift hospital had more to do with husband hunting and less to do with nursing.

  Becca nodded and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She needed to wash up and rinse out her mouth, but the thought made her cold. In the last few weeks, the water from the pump had turned icy. Her hands were already red and chapped from frequent washing.

  “There’s a man here to see you,” Hester sounded disapproving.

  Becca’s heart leapt. “Warwick?”

  Hester shook her head. “But he’s saying he knows your husband.”

  “Oh.” Becca sighed, and the sick feeling that had momentarily lifted returned. Her feet weighed a ton. If someone told her that her shoes had been filled with cement, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “He said your husband sent him to fetch you.”

  “Oh,” Becca repeated, feeling lame and illiterate. She needed to broaden her vocabulary, but at the moment, she was too tired. She followed Hester into the spacious dining room where tables had been turned into hospital beds. The curious gazes of her patients greeted her.

  And so did the smile of the cowboy with the tall black hat.

  Becca immediately recognized him. She had seen him in Connecticut twice: once at the wedding and then on the road to the Witching Well. The anxiety she had felt then returned. Trying to sort out her zipping emotions, she stopped in the center of the room. The same flight and flee alarm filled her. She wished she could say why, but before she could analyze her thoughts, the man swept off his black hat and headed in her direction.

  Hester fluttered beside Becca and smoothed down her apron as the man drew near. Becca shot her a quick, worried glance before returning her gaze to the man. What raised her worry hackles? Becca tried to see the man as Hester saw him. Yes, with his jet black hair, strong chin, and straight broad shoulders, he was handsome, although not as handsome as Warwick, of course. This man had a chilly smile, and his eyes reminded her of a cat waiting to pounce. Instinctively, she reached for Hester’s hand and gripped it.

  “Miz Warwick, ma’am.” He gave her a small bow. “Your husband done sent me to fetch you.”

  His nasal southern drawl didn’t match his good looks, and Becca tried to analyze the sounding warning bells clanging in her mind. She tried to remember the name of the man that had raped and killed Mary Kate. He was from Tennessee and would also have a southern drawl.

  He must have read her hesitation, because he continued. “Now, I know you don’t know me from Adam, but your husband and I got real close and friendl
y-like during the war. Spent some time together. Nothing can bond two men together like flying bullets. My name is Chet Brownlow.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brownlow. I’m afraid I won’t be joining you or my husband. I’m needed here,” Becca said. All around her, she heard the collective sighs of relief from her patients on the makeshift beds. “If Mr. Warwick wishes to see me, he’ll need to come here.”

  Surprise flitted across his face. “Those are bold words, Miz Warwick, especially from a woman guilty of aiding and abetting a felon.”

  “I was merely careless and stupid.” She paused so that her following words would have more impact. “But I learned my lesson.”

  “Well, your husband is going to be mighty disappointed.” His oily smile returned.

  “How is he?” She hoped she sounded nonchalant. If this man had really seen Warwick, which she doubted, she had a thousand questions for him. Part of her wished to see her husband so badly that she wanted to follow Brownlow. But all of her instincts cried no.

  “Other than hankering after his pretty wife, he’s well.”

  Becca cocked her head, trying to read him and her tangled reaction to him. “Why did he send you? If he’s hankering, as you say, why didn’t he come himself?”

  “Well, I guess now he’ll have to tell you that. I’m sure he’ll be mighty disappointed when I break him the news.”

  “Has he found Joseph Connelly?”

  “Joe?” He laughed, but it sounded off. “Oh sure. They met up alright.”

  Becca’s belly clenched. She squeezed Hester’s hand. “Well, give him my regards.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will.” He turned to leave, but then turned around. “You staying here?”

  Becca shook her head, wondering why she bothered to lie. “No. Not anymore.” Not as soon as I move my things.

  His eyebrows shot up, and a slow grin spread over his face. “That so. Well, ain’t that interesting. Good day, Miz Warwick.”

  She shivered after he left. “He gives me the creeps,” Becca whispered to Hester.

  Hester fiddled with her hairpins. “Really? I think he’s dreamy.”

  “Nightmare dreamy?”

  Hester laughed. “No, the other kind of dreamy.” All the laughter left Hester’s voice and she looked at Becca with earnest longing. “When your husband comes back in town, you’ll have to ask him to introduce me.”

  Becca sat down on a nearby chair, her whole body now as tired and heavy as her feet. “I don’t know for certain, but I don’t think Mr. Brownlow is a friend of my husband’s.”

  Hester rested her fists on her wide hips. “Now, what makes you say that?”

  “I’m not sure.” Becca tried to shake away the crawling feeling tingling up her spine. “Maybe it’s because that man has a southern accent, and my husband was in the Union army?”

  Hester’s laughter returned and she patted Becca’s shoulder. “The war is over. Don’t you know we’re all supposed to be friends now?”

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to be friends with everyone,” Becca said.

  “That’s not what Jesus said,” Hester said with a tinge of piety.

  “Well, Jesus isn’t here to ask.”

  Hester gasped at Becca’s blasphemy, but Becca ignored her and continued, “But if He was, I think He would tell me—and you—to stay away from Brownlow.”

  Hester lifted her chin as if trying not to drown in her self-righteousness. “Jesus would never tell me to stay away from anyone, especially someone as handsome as Mr. Brownlow.”

  “Please, Hester. If he’s who I think he is—he’s a very bad man.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  Becca looked at the door that Brownlow had gone through. “I hope I am.”

  At the end of her shift, Becca went to her small room in the attic, sat on her bed, and studied the door. It looked as substantial as a graham cracker. And it didn’t have a lock. Bouncing up, she pulled her coat from the hook and slipped it on.

  Daylight faded as she strode down the boardwalk. Horses and carriages filled the busy street, wheels and hooves churning dust and muck. She waved at people she knew, and the walk eased her suspicions. Weariness no longer plagued her as people smiled and called hello. She found it strange that this delusion had become her home. Oh, she knew she didn’t belong here—that she could never really belong to this place and this century—but she loved practicing medicine among these people. She loved Warwick, and she loved the baby inside of her. She could never do anything to jeopardize her carefully reconstructed life.

  Pushing into the jailhouse, she let the door close behind her before approaching Sheriff Lawson’s wide oak desk.

  He looked up at her with a surprised smile. “Well, howdy there, Miz Warwick. What can I do ye for?”

  Becca shoved her hands into her coat pockets. She knew her request would sound strange. “I want to stay here tonight.”

  Lawson slowly climbed to his feet and scratched his head. “Well now, Miz Warwick, I can’t be doing that.”

  Becca took a long ragged breath. “I know this isn’t exactly a hotel, but I am responsible for Joseph Connelly’s escape.”

  “That doesn’t put you in the dangerous criminal category.”

  “I probably could be dangerous, if I wanted to be.”

  Lawson barked out a laugh and rocked back on his heels. “Missy, I’m sure that’s true, but don’t you go begging over a life of crime just cause you looking for a place to stay.” He scratched his head again. “You unhappy at the Doves Inn? You taking a dislike to Mrs. Henderson’s cooking?”

  “No, it’s not that. And please don’t mention this to her. She’s been very sweet, and her food is great.” Although, it’s not so great the second time around.

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  Becca shrugged and thought of the flimsy door without a lock. “Someone came by today. He said he knows Warwick.”

  Lawson nodded. “That’s not so unusual, is it? Warwick is a popular man.”

  “I…he…He gave me the willies.”

  Lawson burst out a long, hard laugh, but after a moment, he looked at her and grew more somber. Placing both of his hands on his desk, he searched Becca’s face. “If you’re feeling uncomfortable in your room at the inn, you can always come and stay with Amy and me at our place.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “If I remember right, that Connelly creature took your gun?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “And if I’m right, I’m guessing you didn’t really know how to use it anyway.”

  She nodded again.

  Lawson looked serious. “I love living here. For the most part, I love these people. But I’d be the first to tell you that this ain’t no place for a woman on her own.” He stood straight and tall. “Now, I got a gun, and I know how to use it. If you be feeling worried, why don’t you come and stay with us?”

  Becca smiled, warmed by his kindness and generosity. “I’m probably being silly…”

  Lawson raised his eyebrows. “I’m a great respecter of women’s sensibilities. I swear Amy has got the antennas of a bumble bee. She can sense out secrets, worries…in fact, if you come and stay at my place, she’ll be sorting out all your woes in no time flat.”

  “That sounds…scary.”

  Lawson gave one quick nod. “Damn right.”

  “I think I’m willing to risk it, though.”

  “Good girl. Why don’t you get back to the inn, gather up your things, and I’ll swing by around closing time and walk you home.”

  She let out a sigh of relief. “That would be so nice.”

  “No problem.” He glanced at the clock on the shelf. “Let me finish up some paperwork, and I’ll be by shortly.”

  “Thank you,” she said, before turning for the door.

  Outside, Becca sucked in the cold night air and let it fill her lungs. Although still early eve
ning, the sun had fallen while she’d talked with the sheriff, and a dense fog had settled in the valley, disguising the streets and blanketing Denver in mist. Becca hurried down the street, relying on memory and moonlight to guide her through the towering rows of dark shops. When she reached Main Street, light from the lamps twinkled on the dew-covered boardwalk. A shadowy figure stood in the middle of the street. She couldn’t be certain, but he seemed to be watching her. From a window sill, an alley cat also kept watch. A rat scurried beneath a trash bin.

  When Becca looked up, the shadow had disappeared.

  Lowering her hat and hunching her chin into her scarf, Becca passed a pair of street walkers. The ladies, bruised and blue with cold called out to her, but she fled down the avenue to the Dove’s Inn.

  A low growl came from the other side of the road. A mutt with stringy fur matted in patches and missing altogether in others stood in a patch of moonlight. Yellow eyes, sharp barred teeth, he didn’t look healthy, or sociable. Becca slowed, spoke quietly, and when the dog didn’t respond in a neighborly fashion, she hurried down the street. And then she saw the shadow again.

  The clouds blew away from the moon and the shadow turned into a man in a long dark cloak standing in a shaft of moonlight.

  Becca picked up her skirts and ran. Seconds later, she was wrapped in Warwick’s arms. He kissed her hard, and she loved it. But she also hated how her knees went weak and her thoughts turned to mush. She wanted to be angry. She had to let him know that he couldn’t go away and leave her again. Struggling to wrap all of her weeks of worry and mounting resentment into a weapon, she pulled away from him to study his face.

  He looked tired, dirty, and a stubble covered his chin, but his eyes sparkled with longing.

  “Don’t ever leave me again,” was all she could think of to say.

  He laughed and swept her up into his arms. “Not if I can help it.”

  “What happened with Connelly?” She searched his face, trying to read his expression. She only found desire in his eyes. “Did you find him?”