Prairie Song (2 page)

A few minutes later he jumped from the steps, adorned once more in robes. Cherish moved toward him and away from the angry voices still coming from the car.

“You changed places with the wounded man.” Her words were spoken as fact, allowing no room for argument.

“With your help,” the priest answered. “If you hadn’t spent a few minutes arguing with the deputy I never would have had time.”

Cherish looked up. “Are you saying I was a part of his escape?” The meaning of his words sank full into her mind. These men were so anxious to hang someone, they might hang the accomplices as well. “Are you threatening me to keep me quiet?”

“No.” Again his words were direct. “I’m thanking you for your help and asking you for your continued silence.” He raised his hand to her shoulder. “The man out there in the darkness is bleeding. I ask for your mercy. You have my word he doesn’t deserve the death these men have planned. Your silence will be all the help we need. No one will suspect I squeezed through the window and hung on in the darkness until all the deputies rushed into the car. They will simply think he got away while they were giving speeches.”

His hand warmed her shoulder as his words touched her heart. “You have the face of the Virgin Mary. Do you have her compassion?”

Studying his shadow-lined face, she guessed that he was not past his mid-twenties, but his eyes made him seem far older. He had cold gray eyes, frozen by seeing so much pain, perhaps. She wished she could talk with him more. If the priest had been present when the sheriff was shot, why would he now save the murderer’s life? “I saw nothing,” she whispered.

He nodded and pulled his hand away as the crowd washed around them in a flash flood of disappointed, tired voices.

In the moonlight she saw the priest’s left hand, pale against the night. Along his wrist were tiny scars identical to those she’d seen on the wounded man’s right arm. Confusion clouded her face as she looked up for an answer, but all he did was pull his robe sleeve lower to hide the tie that somehow bound him to a killer.

“Good night, Miss Wyatt,” he whispered before he vanished, leaving Cherish to guess how he could possibly have known her name.

Grayson Kirkland watched Margaret Alexander storm across the street and enter the stable for the third time in as many days. He’d followed her ever since the sheriff told him about the telegram naming her as heir to Tobin Tyler’s house. Grayson was a Union officer assigned to Texas after the Civil War. His job was to check on any leads, no matter how slim, that might help the government discover the identity of members of a secret organization. But in this case, the lead and the lady were both pretty slim.

As far as Grayson knew, the old man named Tobin Tyler had nothing to do with the gang calling themselves the Knights of the Golden Circle. The connection lay somewhere with the house that had fallen into Tobin’s hands during a card game six months ago. When the old man died violently, unexpectedly leaving his house to Margaret Alexander, it was enough to raise a few eyebrows at headquarters and get Grayson assigned to the investigation.

Now, he laughed at the irony that had pulled him off the trail to this assignment, which his superior had referred to as light. This woman was twice as prickly as sagebrush and a hundred times more volatile. Margaret Alexander was a headstrong widow in her late twenties and far more dangerous than a pack of rustlers in the badlands. He’d watched her storm and stomp her way through every place in town and it seemed that the only battle she lost was at the stables. She was not the kind of woman anyone would harness the word pretty to. The black she wore did little to flatter her already pale features and thin lines. She’d need all her charm and wit to talk the Irishman Sam McMiller out of anything in the stable. And though Grayson had no doubt about her wit, he’d measure her shy of a full load of charm.

Strolling across the street, Grayson melted his large frame into the shadows of the stable. He already knew the argument he’d hear there, but he admired this woman’s stubborn will.

Her voice rang clear in the musty air. “I must rent a wagon
this
morning. My niece will be arriving in a few hours and we have to get to Fort Worth.”

Sam McMiller, the owner of the town’s only stable, stood his full height but still didn’t reach higher than Margaret’s shoulder. “Aye, lady, I’ve told you for three days. I ain’t givin’ a wagon and team to two women headin’ across open country. The Indians will see that as easy pickin’s.”

Margaret raised one pointed finger like a weapon. “You’re not worried about our lives, only your wagon?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe so, but if you can’t find a driver, you best think about bookin’ a seat on the stage.”

Propping her fists on her hips, she lowered her voice, deadly earnest. “I was raised in this country, as was my niece. I assure you, sir, that we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.”

“Maybe.” Sam rolled a wad of tobacco around in his mouth. He might need to spit, but he wasn’t doing it in this lady’s presence. “Get yourself a driver and we’ll talk.”

Margaret’s voice sounded tired for the first time. “I’ve already checked everywhere. With the cattle drives starting up, there doesn’t seem to be anyone.”

“Did you check the shanties down by the track? I hear there’s some men just in from Ireland. One might drive for you.”

“I can hardly pay what the railroad is offering them. You may think I have money to burn, but I assure you, I’ll not waste a cent. Not for a job I could very well do myself.” Her voice was hard. “And I’ll not leave my things at the station until someone decides he has enough time to haul them north.”

“Well, might check down by the saloons. I hear there’s a few …”

Before he could finish she was on him. “Are you suggesting I get some drunken lowlife out of one of those cribs of disease to drive me and my niece to Fort Worth?” With loving tenderness, she touched a brooch pinned at her bustline. “My dear Westley is probably rolling in his grave at the thought.”

Sam McMiller had obviously had enough of her high-and-mighty argument. “Well, dig dear Westley up and let him ride shotgun.”

Grayson almost laughed aloud from the shadows as Margaret’s face paled and her eyes turned a murderous black. “It’s a sad thing”—she pointed a slender finger into Sam’s chest—”when men like my brave husband die and spineless weasels like you are left. Get the wagon ready. I’ll be back in an hour with a driver even if I have to dress a pig in pants.”

Storming out of the stable, Margaret headed toward the row of saloons without a backward glance. Grayson followed, chuckling to himself. He didn’t understand why Sam wouldn’t let her go alone. Any Indian would be skinned alive by her sharp tongue before he could get close enough to aim an arrow. If she’d gone to war instead of her precious husband, Westley, the South wouldn’t have lost.

To his amazement, Margaret entered one saloon after another. Stepping just inside, she waited for everyone to turn and stare, then announced her need for a driver and her price.

He saw no disappointment in her carriage as she gathered her skirts and moved on to the next place. Grayson knew as well as she did that her price was a fair one, but she’d already been outbid by both the railroad and the cattle bosses. Yet, if pride and determination counted, she would win.

Near the end of the street, the road disappeared into a shantytown where the poor and newly arrived immigrants set up camp. The houses were little more than crates or tents connected by rutted paths. Those who stood around in the morning sun didn’t look strong enough to eat breakfast, much less drive a team overland through Indian territory.

As Margaret hesitated at the sidewalk’s end, three men, coated in mud and staggering with drink, approached her. Grayson moved in closer to listen. His finely honed sense of danger set off an alarm, making his gun hand itch as he forced himself not to interfere.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” The smallest of the three men removed his slouch hat, but his voice lacked any flavoring respect. “We heard your offer back there and wanted to ask you a few questions about this job.”

Margaret held her ground and stared directly down at the little man. “I have a job to offer one man, not three.”

The short man jabbed at his partners’ ribs and flashed a yellowed grin. “We understand that, but we all wanted to talk with you. If you’ll just step over here out of the sun.”

In the time it took Grayson to blink, the three men and Margaret had disappeared behind the building. His stomach twisted with a dread tight enough to wring out all caution. He crammed his hat low and hurried across the street.

But when he stepped into the shadows between the buildings, nothing but the rustle of trash greeted him. He moved down the littered pathway, knowing the lady he’d been following was in big trouble.

He rounded the corner to the alley, and relief washed over him as Margaret’s voice rang out clear in the morning air. “I told you gentlemen, I only need one man.”

The tallest of the three impatiently pushed the assigned spokesman aside. He was large-boned and wide-shouldered, but his hollow cheeks told of hard times. “We ain’t interested in any more talk. We know you’re carrying cash if you’re hiring. We figure you’ll pay the three of us right now.”

“I will not!” Margaret slowly backed into a corner, her head held high, her voice showing no fear.

“You’ll pay us now, or you ain’t taking no trip, lady,” the large man hissed while his short partner’s head bobbed as if tied to a wagon spring on a rocky road.

“Yeah,” the little man added. “You pay up, or else. You wouldn’t be the first woman Pete’s killed.” He pointed his thumb at the middle man, who’d been silent. This one called Pete was dark with eyes that reflected a dead soul. Brown spit dribbled from the corner of his large bottom lip as his fingers opened and closed in anticipation.

All three men moved on her like hungry animals on a butcher’s scrap. Grayson hesitated only a moment. He was under strict orders not to tip his hand, but he couldn’t just stand by and allow a woman, even a southern one, to be robbed or killed. He stripped off his coat and hat and flung them in the weeds; then he unbuckled his Colts and shoved them safely into a crack between the buildings. Three against one was not odds he favored, but it was better than drawing the whole town’s attention with gunfire.

Margaret was still trying to bluff her way out of her corner. “Touch me and I swear I’ll see you dead in hell.”

The man laughed, but none seemed to want to make the first move. They circled her, staying just out of reach. The small one chimed out, as if proving his manhood, “We ain’t frightened by no helpless stick of a widow. You can give us the money easy or hard, doesn’t make us no mind.”

Stepping into the sunlight, Grayson glanced up at Margaret as if he’d just stumbled upon the scene. For a moment their eyes met and he forgot about the three men. There, in the middle of impending death, she stood without a hint of fear. Her gaze silently asked for his help, but didn’t beg. For the first time in his life, Grayson looked at a woman and didn’t see frailty and weakness. Margaret Alexander was no whimpering southern belle to be sheltered and protected. As the flash of her dark blue eyes studied him, he somehow knew that she could have gotten out of this without his help. But he was already there and already committed.

The short man took one look at Grayson’s reddish brown hair and rolled-up shirtsleeves and yelled, “Get out of here, you foreigner. Go back to your shack and leave us to our business.”

Grayson stepped nearer, unsure of how to respond. He could hardly say he’d been following Margaret for three days and knew that she would have no business with the likes of these bar rats. Also, though his accent was barely detectable, one of the men might pick up on the fact that he was a Yankee. This far south, in an alley with drunken rebs, he could still be in danger even though the war had been over for almost a year.

The taller man snorted. “He don’t understand what you’re saying. Look at him, all clean and fresh off the boat. Just another big, dumb Irishman. Don’t know enough to even wear a hat in this country yet.”

Grayson decided to play on their assumption. He smiled as if they’d just invited him to visit and moved nearer. His talent for assuming a role might just give him the moment’s edge he needed.

“Get lost!” The little man shoved Grayson with his elbow. Before the drunk could recover his stance, Grayson’s fist slammed into his gut, lifting him off the ground.

Dust flew as the little man withered into a ball, cursing and ordering his friends to kill the Irishman.

Grayson smiled as the two other men came at him. There was nothing he liked better than a good fight with men who needed to be taught a lesson. He felt awkward around most folks, but in a fight, no man was his match—in this case, no two.

Blow after blow flew through the air and hit flesh. Grayson’s body was solid muscle and his years of living in the saddle made him powerful and strong. Within minutes, two robbers lay in the dirt, bleeding and beaten. As Grayson straightened in victory, he heard the click of a gun being cocked behind him. The sound was like a rattler’s tick; once you hear it, you never forget it.

“Raise those hands, Irish, and turn around!” The little man’s voice was shaky and high with fright. “I want to see your face when I plug you.”

Grayson growled in dread as he turned toward the thief. A movement near the lady caught his eye as a gun fired. For an instant, he thought he’d been shot; then he saw blood splatter across the little man’s chest. The thief stared, dead-eyed, at Grayson for a moment, then dove into a pool of his own blood.

Twisting around, Grayson caught sight of Margaret’s slender leg as she slid a derringer back into a holster strapped to her thigh.
No
, he thought,
this is no helpless female
.

When she looked up, their eyes met once more, and for the first time he saw a hint of uncertainty in the blue depths. “I only did what had to be done.” Her words were as straightforward as always, but he didn’t miss the slight unsteadiness. “I …”

The sound of people running toward the alley rumbled in the distance. Within seconds men would be upon them, and Grayson and Margaret would have a great deal of explaining to do. Even though it was a clear case of attempted robbery, Margaret would be delayed several hours and Grayson’s cover would be destroyed.

With the quickness of a mountain lion’s leap, Grayson swept Margaret into his arms and lifted her over his head and onto a flat-roofed shack. Before she could protest, he swung himself up beside her and pushed her low against the wood.

They lay in silence as men ran into the alley, searching for the troublemaker who’d fired a gun inside the town limits. Grayson felt her tremble beside him as the men below shouted, but she didn’t utter a sound. She pressed near him as though she could hide her slender form next to his huge bulk. Slowly, hesitantly, he lay his arm over her shoulder for comfort and felt her curl into his embrace. He marveled at the contradiction. He would have thought her all bone and iron, crusted by the hard times of war, but she came to him as soft as a child.

They waited as the two robbers recovered enough from their beatings to tell the crowd about how they had been attacked by a gang of young thugs. As questions were asked and the story retold, it took on more and more texture, with no thread of truth in the weave. Finally, the dead man was carried off and all the sightseers left the alley.

Grayson wasn’t sure if it was the sun’s warmth or the heat of holding a woman so close, but suddenly he could stand their hiding place no longer. He jumped down from the roof and raised his arms to her. As she slid into his hands, he was intensely aware of the soft curves beneath her harsh black dress. The feel of her was like being in the eye of a tornado. All seemed quiet, but a storm raged around him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched a woman when he hadn’t had several drinks. He’d sworn off females at twenty and, except for a few saloon gals he’d met, there had been no exceptions these past ten years.