The Cowboy Encounter Page 6

  “Who told you that?”

  “That doesn’t matter. What matters is, is it true?”

  He inclined his head.

  What did that mean? Was he nodding yes?

  “Why do you ask?”

  Becca put her hand on his arm and drew him deeper into the alley. After a quick glance to ensure their privacy, she whispered, “I want you to help me rescue a man. He’s been falsely imprisoned.”

  Warwick reared back his head as if she had punched him on the chin. “You what?”

  She repeated her request, slowly enunciating every syllable.

  Warwick blew out a whistle.

  “Mr. Warwick! Please.”

  He placed his hands on his hips. “Mrs. Warwick—absolutely not.”

  Tears welled, but Becca refused to let them fall while Warwick studied her through narrowed eyes.

  “This man you want to rescue—”

  “Joel Connelly.”

  “Joseph Connelly. I read about the train robbery in the newspaper.”

  “He couldn’t have robbed that train! And the Joel I know would never kill anyone! He has a hard time feeding the lab mice to the boa constrictor.”

  “A boa what?” He took the cigar out of his mouth and studied the end as if it had something to say.

  “A boa constrictor.” Becca stamped her foot, sending a small billow of dust up into the air. “He teaches science and keeps a snake that eats mice.”

  “He feeds mice to snakes? Obviously, he is not a nice man.” Mr. Warwick wore a smug, self-righteous look that Becca wanted to smack off his face. “If he can feed little helpless mice to a big, bad snake for no reason, what makes you think he didn’t rob a train and kill a man for a couple thousand dollars?”

  “Two thousand dollars? Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Suspicion grew in his eyes.

  “I just don’t see anyone killing someone over two thousand dollars.”

  “Some people will kill over a loaf of bread. Why do you want to rescue him? Who is he to you?”

  She started to say that she’d known him all of her life, but in this dimension, that was no longer true, and probably a hundred people could swear that she had never met Joel Connelly until a few minutes ago.

  Warwick leaned so close that she could feel his breath on her skin. “Unless you plan on practicing bigamy, you can’t marry him.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to marry him!” But of course, she did. Just not at that moment. “He is an innocent man who doesn’t deserve to hang.”

  “What makes you so sure he’s innocent?”

  “He told me he was.”

  Warwick threw his hands up in the air and turned to walk away.

  Becca grabbed his sleeve. “Wait,” she pleaded. “Please.”

  He turned to face her. “Breaking out of an Union prison during war time is one thing, but the fighting has stopped. I’m trying to put my life back into order. Nowadays, breaking a man out of prison just isn’t on my to-do list.”

  “So, you won’t help me?”

  “I absolutely will not. At least, not with that.”

  Becca bit her lower lip, thinking and battling her anger and frustration. After a moment, she said, “Then I’ll have to find a way to do it myself.”

  Warwick stared at her, gave a slow shake of his head, before saying, “He’s going to Denver for trial. You’re here.”

  “Ugh! Why is everyone here so chauvinistic! I can go to Denver!”

  “Not by yourself, you can’t.”

  She inched toward him, and put the toes of her boots next to his. “Watch me!”

  He leaned down so that his nose nearly touched hers. “A trip to Denver on your own is about as likely as Connelly’s reprieve.”

  Becca felt as if he’d slapped her. “I’m sorry I bothered you!”

  “I am, too.”

  “I’m sorry I saved your life!”

  He turned away, and as he did, Becca thought she heard him say softly, “Yeah, me too.”

  #

  That evening as she helped Dr. Jones sweep out the clinic, she asked, “If you wanted to go to Denver, how would you get there?” She hoped her voice sounded casual.

  Dr. Jones gave her a pointed look. “Now, why you be asking that?”

  She shrugged in what she hoped was a nonchalant sort of gesture.

  “Missy, I’m not one to be poking my nose in someone else’s business, but two married people living in different rooms at the same inn is one thing. Picking up and disappearing to Denver as soon as your other half shows up is another!”

  Becca stopped sweeping. “My marriage…well, it’s not a normal marriage.”

  “Hell, everybody knows that.”

  Becca put her broom back to use. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Well, I suppose you could catch a ride with ol’ Lindal next time he goes to get the mail.”

  “Oh! That’s a good idea!”

  “Your husband might not think too highly of it, though.”

  “He won’t care!”

  The doctor gave her a slanted look. “I think he might.”

  Becca shook her head. “I know he won’t.”

  Dr. Jones bit back a laugh. “You better ask him.”

  Becca pointed her broom handle at the doctor. “I’m not asking permission from that man—or anyone else for that matter.”

  Dr. Jones laughed at out loud at that. “What about Lindal. Does he get a say?”

  “Well, of course. I can’t go on my own…I wish I could, but I don’t know how.”

  “I should say not! You’d be cooked up in Indian fry bread in no time.”

  “Indian fry bread?”

  “Or maybe a bear will get you…or wolves…it’s hard to know which will happen first.”

  “You’re just trying to scare me!” Becca began to sweep with increased vigor.

  “Did it work? Because it should. Any damn fool knows that a lone woman can’t travel pert-near thirty miles all by her lonesome.” He shook his head. “It’s completely daft.”

  “I’m not daft,” Becca muttered.

  “I know you’re not…’bout most things. But some things you get dead wrong.” Dr. Jones gathered up his medical bag and headed for the door. “Like your obsessive cleaning and washing. A little dirt’s not going to cause anyone any harm—but traveling by yourself—sleeping out under the stars…”

  “I’d have to camp?”

  “Well, horses got to sleep now don’t they? Can’t just ride them into the ground.”

  Becca wanted to ask about a place to stay along the way, but knew she was decades before the first motel. “I have to get to Denver!”

  Dr. Jones gave her a steady gaze. “Talk to Lindal, but I be betting Mrs. Lindal won’t be taking too kindly to your traveling unchaperoned with her husband.”

  #

  “I heard your wife is itching to go to Denver,” Briggs, the saloon owner, said. He placed a tall glass of beer on the counter in front of Warwick.

  Warwick dipped his head, as if well aware of Becca Warwick’s itches.

  The men around him sniggered, and he read their opinions. They thought he couldn’t handle his woman. For not the first time, he considered telling anyone who would listen that Becca-pretending-to-be-Warwick, was as much a stranger to him as she was to them, but he couldn’t form the words.

  Warwick picked up his beer, took a long drink, and felt the liquor spread its comforting warmth. The woman had her reasons and her secrets, and he decided not to divulge them. At least, not yet. She could prove useful. Besides, sometimes at night just before sleep, memories of her floated back to him. He would catch her scent hanging in the room, feel her hair touching his skin like a whisper, and hear her voice, urging him away from the dark cliff of death.

  He owed her his life.

  Which wasn’t worth squat. But she hadn’t known that when she’d nursed him back to health.

  “I heard she got some sort of love affair go
ing with that bastard, Connelly,” Horace Anthon, a cattle rancher, said.

  Warwick set down his drink and pinned Anthon with his glare. He rested his fingers on the butt of his gun.

  Anthon’s smile faded, and he looked away. Warwick couldn’t let him off so easily. “You’re talking about my wife.”

  Claude Doolittle pushed back his hat and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, well she sure ain’t acting like it. If she were my wife, I’d—” he choked on his words when Warwick grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet.

  “Boys, settle down,” Briggs murmured from the safe side of the bar.

  Warwick tightened his grip on Doolittle’s collar, just to prove that he could, then let him go.

  Doolittle two-stepped backwards, regained his balance, then lunged forward.

  Warwick met him with a blow to the gut.

  Doolittle woofed in pain, stumbled, but after a second of bracing himself against a table, he lowered his head and barreled toward Warwick.

  Warwick punched him in the face, and grinned as blood splattered from Doolittle’s nose.

  Undeterred, Doolittle flung a fist and struck Warwick on the jaw.

  Sheriff Welsh lumbered into the room and pointed his gun at the two men. Warwick let his upraised fist fall when he heard the click of the cocked gun.

  “You heard Briggs,” Welsh said in a calm, almost motherly voice. “You boys need to act civilized.”

  Warwick touched his lip, found blood, and his anger surged again.

  Welsh pointed his gun in Warwick’s face. “You ready to settle down?”

  Settle down? Really? With a woman he barely knew?

  Warwick spun around, and went back to his place at the bar. Vera, a girl for hire, sidled up to him and placed her warm hand on his thigh. “You must love her very much,” she whispered in his ear.

  I don’t even know her, he thought. But after another swig of beer, he decided that if he wanted to stay in Everwood, he needed to rectify that.

  #

  That evening as Becca studied the map she’d bought from the general store, she felt someone standing behind her. Turning, she saw Warwick staring at the map. He didn’t lift his gaze to meet hers.

  “I heard you’re planning a trip.”

  Becca nodded. They were alone in the inn’s empty dining room. A fire flickered in the grate, and candles hung from wall sconces casting a warm glow through the room. She’d used four flat stones to hold down the map’s corners and keep it flat. Even on the small map, the distance seemed huge. In a car, it would have taken less than an hour, but she didn’t have a car. She didn’t even have a ride. Turns out, Dr. Jones was right about Mrs. Lindal. The postmaster’s wife didn’t want someone, especially Becca, to accompany her husband. Becca frowned at the star on the map that indicated Denver. She had to get there, somehow.

  “I’ll take you,” Warwick said.

  Becca thought about saying, no thank you, but since going with Warwick was better than going alone, she pressed her lips together.

  “But I’m not breaking any laws,” he continued.

  “Just taking me is huge,” Becca said. She turned and found him much closer than she’d thought. He wasn’t touching her, but still, he definitely invaded her personal space. She wanted to move away, but the table stood directly behind her. She stepped to the side. The air between them crackled with electric heat. Maybe camping with him wouldn’t be such a good idea.

  Good thing she’d bought a gun.

  CHAPTER 6

  Not that she knew how to use it, yet, and not that she’d use it on him, or anyone else. She probably wouldn’t even put bullets in it, mostly because she didn’t know how, but also because she didn’t want to cause an accident.

  She looked up into his face and saw that he had shaved. “Do we have to camp?”

  He smirked. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Turns out, no. I have business along the way. We can put up there.”

  Relief made Becca smile. “Oh, that’s good!”

  “You willing to continue as my wife?”

  Becca’s relief bubble popped. “Why?”

  Warwick shook his head, his lips twitching in a half grin. “Why do you think?”

  Becca didn’t say anything.

  “We’re going to meet my folks. I don’t want them to get the wrong idea.”

  “Your parents?”

  Warwick shook his head. “My folks—my aunt and uncle, they’re all I got left.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Warwick turned away. “Meet me here around six. We’ll leave at first light.”

  #

  Wearing a cotton spun shirt, a pair of trousers and a felt cowboy hat that she purchased off of young Johansson, Becca met Warwick the next morning. She had wondered if he’d be outraged by her flagrant menswear, but he looked her up and down with a smirk touching his lips.

  “You’re going to need a coat,” he said.

  Becca looked out the window at the sun peeking over the mountain top and sparkling on the vibrant-hued trees. She knew that winter could come early to the Rockies, but so far the weather had been unseasonably warm for mid-October. She patted the pillowcase she’d packed with her clothes. “I have one,” she told him.

  “Is it warm enough?” He looked skeptical.

  “Leather lined with lamb’s wool,” she said. “Doc Jones gave it to me.” She didn’t mention the gloves the doctor had also slipped into the jacket’s pockets.

  Warwick gave a brief nod. “It might get cold at night.”

  Becca tamped down the anxiety building in her chest. “But you said that we would have a place to stay.”

  Warwick fixed her with a steady gaze. “We have to get there first. Barring no accidents or Indian run-ins, we should get there by nightfall, but with horses, women and the natives, there’s never any guarantee.”

  Becca, insulted to be categorized with horses, thought about telling him off, but then remembered he was doing her a favor and pressed her lips closed. Slinging her pillowcase turned backpack over her shoulder, she followed Warwick outside.

  Without a word, they headed down the street, their boots keeping a steady rhythm on the boardwalk. To Becca’s surprise, even in the predawn light, the town bustled with people coming and going. She followed Warwick to the stables. Her feet faltered when she realized that she didn’t have a horse and she couldn’t very well trot beside Warwick for thirty miles.

  “You okay on a horse?”

  Becca nodded. Her Uncle Will had horses, and as a kid, she’d spent a lot of Saturdays riding. But that had been before med-school, before college even. And she knew that riding a horse wasn’t like riding a bike or driving a car. There wasn’t a one-size-fits-all sort of horse. Some were fast, some were mean, some were slow and fat…Knowing Warwick, he wouldn’t own a fat, slow pony and the wild stallions always frightened her. The closer they got to the stables, the slower Becca walked.

  She tried to give herself a pep-talk to drown out the doubts and fears that grew louder with every step she took. Her mind whipped into a frenzy, and every question began with a what-if and ended in an imaginary catastrophe. She took three deep breaths to try and steady her nerves.

  “I’ll be on Gawain,” Warwick told her as they entered the stables. “You’ll be okay on Mable.”

  Mable—she liked the sound of the old-lady name.

  #

  Seven hours later, her thighs screamed with pain, her face and lips stung from the exposure to the sun and wind, and her back and shoulders felt as if they would crack. Becca wanted to ask Warwick if they could slow down, but she didn’t dare. She knew and shared his goal of reaching his uncle’s ranch by nightfall.

  She tried to distract herself with the passing scenery. Streams crisscrossed the golden fields, reminding Becca of jigsaw puzzles. She wondered how this place would look in the spring when the knee-high grass would be green and dotted with wildflower
s, or in the snow covered winter. In the distance, near the base of the mountains, wild horses ran in a pack. Mable completely ignored them. Becca patted the mare’s neck and whispered encouragement.

  “We’re almost there.” She hoped, more than believed, her whisper.

  The thought of camping with Warwick made her breath catch in her throat. She told herself she feared wild animals, an Indian attack, or a sudden hail storm. She knew that any of those things could happen. Her dad had told her that the weather in the Rockies could change in a heartbeat. But, if she was honest with herself, it wasn’t the thought of wild animals, Indians, or even freak climate-changes that made her heart beat faster when she thought of sleeping outside with Warwick.

  They had spoken very little since leaving Everwood. And bio-breaks hadn’t even been discussed. The man had to have the bladder of a camel. Of course, they hadn’t had anything to drink, and the warm breeze had stopped being pleasant hours ago and had long since turned into a furnace, whisking away any moisture left in her body.

  Warwick’s horse kicked up dirt. She knew she’d probably be more comfortable, or at least breathe easier, if she rode beside him, but she didn’t want to be forced into idle chit-chat, so she stayed a hair-breath behind, inhaling his dust.

  Just when she thought she’d fall off her horse in exhaustion, they rounded a small hill and Warwick paused. Below them lay a farm nestled in a valley. A large red barn sat beside a stately white farmhouse. A split rail fence seemed to go on forever, circling a pasture filled with Arabian horses. The dying sun sat on the mountain top, threatening to disappear.

  Warwick nodded. “My ranch.”

  Something about his words stirred Becca’s curiosity. “It’s beautiful,” she said truthfully. It reminded her of an Americana painting…and something else, although she couldn’t put her finger on that. Maybe it was a familiar landscape—mountains, fields, a forever sky. But no, there was something else, something more, tugging at her, reminding her of something, no—someplace. The lyrics of a song floated to her, going home to a place she had never been before.

  I knew it, but I didn’t know how I knew. Who had said that? Was it Celia talking about her delusion in Regency England? None of this is real, Becca reminded herself. This is all in my mind. So of course it made perfect sense that she would envision something familiar…and yet, not.