Authors: Libby's London Merchant
Carla Kelly (29 page)
They started forward again, moving carefully on the slick road, so deadly for the mail coach. Nez looked back at the driver. Now, there is a man who knows he will be looking for another situation quite soon, he thought. I wonder if the company will prosecute him for the passenger’s death? He dismissed the thought; it was none of his concern. And yet . . . he cared for his horses. I hope the company is not too hard on him.
Odd thoughts, he told himself. When did I ever concern myself with a mail coach driver before? And yet . . . he has to feed himself. Perhaps he has a family. He rested his hand gently on his niece’s head.
The rain let up slightly, but there was no question of speed. He watched the side of the road, looking for the woman and child, but saw no one. She must have taken shelter somewhere, he thought, and directed his attention to Sophie, who was stirring restlessly now. In another moment she was crying. “Oh, honey,” he whispered. “We’ll stop soon.”
He looked out the window then, and there was the woman, picking her way cautiously along the edge of the highway. She carried the child, and across her back was slung a large knapsack, the kind carried by men of the artillery batteries in Spain.
He felt no charity. We cannot be that far from Stokely, he told himself. She does not know I am looking for her. Luster doesn’t see her. I am too concerned for Sophie to stop, and truly this would be a nuisance. He leaned back and said nothing. He felt a twinge of conscience, but experience told him that it would pass soon enough.
“Your Grace, there she is!” Luster had spotted her. “Thank goodness! She is carrying such a burden.” He looked at Nez. “You do wish me to stop the carriage, don’t you, Your Grace?”
He didn’t, but he did not wish the double combination of Luster’s studied disfavor and Sophie’s illness to plague his evening. One at a time was enough to manage. “Of course, Luster. Careless of me to overlook her.”
The moment the shallow words were out of his mouth, he wished he had not said them. Thou shalt not attempt to bamboozle thy butler, he thought. I am surprised that Moses did not carry down that counsel from Sinai. “Do stop the carriage, Luster,” he said, trying to make it sound like the plan was his, and knowing that he fooled no one.
Luster banged on the carriage roof with surprising vigor, and Nez knew that his butler was irritated with him. He leaned back out of the wind and rain when Luster opened the door and took down the step.
“I say, miss, do join us,” Luster called. “Come, now, it is all right.” He leaned back inside the carriage, his face wet. “Your Grace, I do not think she wishes to come, and that would be a terrible shame. Imagine how wet she is.”
And imagine how wet this carriage will be if she does join us, he thought. “I wouldn’t think we should argue with her, Luster,” he murmured.
“I wish that you would try, Your Grace,” Luster said. Something in his tone made Nez’s face burn.
Flogged into action by a look, he squished toward the woman. “Let me give you a ride to Stokely, the next village,” he said, coming close so she could hear him.
To his irritation, she backed away at his rapid advance, but not before setting down her child and standing in front of him. She wore no gloves, and her hands were balled into fists. “Look here, Miss, Mrs. . . . I mean you no harm,” his irritation dissipating at the look of unease on her face. “The coach driver back at the accident told me to transport you to Stokely. Please, now, we’re all getting wet.”
Still, she hesitated. “It is not as though you have an array of choices spread before you,
dama,
” he snapped. And why in God’s name did he address her as
dama
? She was poor and wet, scarcely a lady. Maybe it was something about the set of her shoulders. “Please.”
“It will be as you say,” she replied finally. She knelt to speak to the boy, then shouldered the artillery kit and took his hand.
I do know that accent, he thought. He wanted to take her arm because the highway was so slick, but she did not move closer. He shrugged and headed back to the vehicle. What is a woman from Spain doing here on the road to nowhere? he asked himself. I rather hope she follows me now.
***
Carla Kelly
is a veteran of romance fiction. The author of more than thirty novels and novellas for Donald I. Fine, Inc., Signet and Harlequin, Carla is the recipient of two RITA Awards from Romance Writers of America and two Spur Awards from Western Writers of America, plus a Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times.
A scholar of the Indian Wars, Carla also writes what she calls “footnote projects.” These include a short history of Fort Buford, where Sitting Bull surrendered; and various monographs ranging from army hygiene, to the fur trade, to 1930s Indian education. She edited the fur trade journal of Swiss artist, Rudolph F. Kurz.
In addition to mainstream fiction, Carla also writes fiction for an LDS (Mormon) audience. She lives in Wellington, Utah. To find out what she’s up to, her blog is carlakellyauthor.com.
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