Regina Jennings Read online

  George whistled and waved his boys over.

  “Are you coming out to the house this weekend? Susannah and Ida sure miss you.”

  “I miss them, too.” Their childish flattery would go a long way toward soothing his vanity. “Depends if the reverend needs any help.”

  Bailey eyed his approaching brothers and saw that Samuel had broadened considerably during the few months he’d been away from home. He’d have to remember how stout he was before he picked a fight with the young man.

  “How’s ranching going?”

  Samuel brightened. “Weston said I can go on the trail with Willie and Rico this spring.”

  “You can? That’s fine news. What about the sheep?”

  “I’m handling the sheep.” Tuck’s chest puffed out. George snuck a wink at Bailey as the boy continued. “Yep, those woolly-headed beasts ain’t nothing but trouble.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Bailey said.

  “Did you hear about Mrs. Tillerton?” Tuck asked abruptly.

  Samuel fell back a step and guffawed, until a stern look from his pa silenced him.

  “We were going to call on her after the celebration at Bradford’s store, same night Lovelace was struck.”

  “She’s dressing like a man,” Tuck jumped in, “wearing buckskin.”

  Samuel’s eyes danced, waiting for his brother’s response.

  Bailey had been the brunt of enough gossip lately. He didn’t rejoice to see someone else in hot water.

  “Tuck, you weren’t even there,” his father admonished.

  “Good thing or she might’ve shot me.”

  “What?” Now Bailey was intrigued.

  George shook his head. “There was a big to-do when we got there. Sheriff Colton had just found a man shot dead on her property—a new neighbor, it turns out. He didn’t arrest Mrs. Tillerton, but it’s no secret that he suspects she’s involved. One thing for certain, she’s a different breed. Wearing trousers, toting a gun—it’s no wonder the sheriff is keeping his eye on her.”

  Anne Tillerton figured into one of the most harrowing days of his life. When Weston’s wife, Rosa, disappeared, Bailey tagged along as a lark, little suspecting the gruesome scene he’d find. Bailey had never seen a man shot to death before, and the fact that Mr. Tillerton had been plugged by his own wife made it even more appalling. Not that he blamed her. Even if her husband hadn’t attacked Rosa, he deserved shooting. Mrs. Tillerton’s battered face spoke testimony against him.

  “I can’t imagine that she’d shoot someone again. I took her home that day, after that business with Mr. Tillerton. She was so shook up, so distant . . . but come to think of it, she might’ve been living like that for a while. You’d have to pretend you didn’t care to survive the pain.”

  The compassion in his father’s eyes embarrassed him. His pa had recognized the similarities before he had. Surviving the pain? Barely. Hopefully no one else caught on to his hurt, because Bailey was having a hard time pretending not to care. And while he was hoping, he needed a decade to pass before Molly came home, for his indifference needed more practice if he was ever going to fool her.

  15

  CHEYENNE, WYOMING TERRITORY

  To Not Do List:

  Do not shop without Edward again.

  Do not walk more than a half a mile in the winter—unless in Texas.

  Do not keep calculating how high our expenditures are.

  Molly had wondered how far north the trains could go before the snow blocked their path. After watching a snowplow explode through the drifts, the power of three engines at its back, she wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the track was cleared all the way to Alaska. Nothing would stop them from going farther and farther from everything she knew. It was unbelievable that her one connection to her old life was the husband she’d met for the first time in November.

  Molly slid her way toward the depot. At least they’d had two days off the train to enjoy the icy streets of Cheyenne. After weeks on the rolling hotel, it was good to have firm earth beneath her feet again . . . or at least firm ice. Thank goodness for her climbing boots. The moccasin-like soles helped her feel her way across the slick surfaces. She’d be on her backside in a snowdrift by now if she’d worn her high-heeled, thick-soled shoes.

  That Bailey made them wasn’t forgotten, but she couldn’t allow her thoughts to linger on that painful fact. She had to look forward.

  But not literally. Molly couldn’t raise her head and keep her balance. Every step had to be chosen with care, but something besides her feet was afoot. When they’d first arrived in Cheyenne yesterday, a man had approached them—a stranger, judging from Edward’s demeanor—and had requested a private word. Always worried about finances, Molly wondered if their wire request for more funds had been denied.

  Her fears were relieved when Edward continued on to the bank and was able to withdraw a stack of bills.

  Sitting in the waiting area, Molly had watched him count the lump. She noted the look of astonishment on the young teller’s face and felt a sense of pride. She was a rich woman. What did it matter that her husband wouldn’t touch the dirty money without the protection of his gloves, she could spend it just the same.

  Taking his arm, she’d whispered, “So everything is fine? That man worried me.”

  Edward had slid the wad of notes into her handbag. “Never worry. No matter what happens, you’ll be taken care of. That I can promise.”

  Odd words, but not as odd as his decision that morning to send her out alone—the first time on their journey that she’d ventured away from the train solo. Molly smothered a squeal as a chunk of snow slid off an awning and dashed against her collar. Usually Edward couldn’t wait to escape the confines of the little house on the rails. If he thought the weather too harsh, he should’ve allowed her to stay. On the contrary, he’d booted her out like a stray cat.

  Molly looked directly at the weak sun, a privilege not allowed back home without dire consequences to one’s sight. The white disk lay far to the south but equally between the two horizons. Dinnertime. She’d see if Edward wanted to join her at the only diner in town.

  The western train departed at 2:00 p.m. They would be attached to a new engine. There’d be different sleepers, diners, and observatories, but her home in the railcar would remain constant. She mustn’t be late.

  Attaining the platform, Molly searched for the now familiar private coach. No markings designated it as Pierrepont property. Only the windows identified it. There weren’t as many as a passenger coach had, but they were much larger, offering better views of the scenery.

  She spotted the car and blew air out of her lips in a most unladylike fashion. It sat three tracks over. How did they expect passengers to board over there? Thanking Bailey once again for her comfortable boots, she hiked her skirts and hoofed it across the ties.

  Not until she’d climbed up the steps did Molly realize the car wasn’t connected to anything. No wonder it’d been left on track three. It wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Edward?” She called into every room along the corridor. “Edward, why aren’t we connected?”

  He wasn’t in his office or the bedroom. She stepped into the parlor and about collided with an expensive suit.

  The man’s arms flew up to protect himself and grasped her by the elbows.

  “What are you doing?” Molly exclaimed. “This is a private coach!”

  “My apologies, miss. It was not my intention to startle you.” It was the stranger who had spoken to Edward earlier—the one who looked as if he frequented the same tailor as her husband. Molly almost expected him to wash his hands after touching her.

  “Of course I’m startled. You’re trespassing. Where’s my husband?”

  “Your husband?” His high brow creased. “I’ve never had the honor—”

  “Oh, stop with all your shilly-shallying. You know who I mean. Edward Pierrepont. You spoke to him yesterday.”

  The man stared at her, his face as blank as t
he snowcaps on the mountains. “And who might you be?”

  “Mrs. Edward Pierrepont.”

  He stroked his moustache. “Now who’s shilly-shallying?”

  Something about his manner irked her. Molly had seen her mother snub people often enough to recognize the look. Edward would put this dandy in his place soon enough.

  “I am Molly Pierrepont. My father is Thomas Lovelace, a well-respected businessman and leader in Caldwell County, Texas.”

  “That explains the unfortunate accent.”

  “How dare you!”

  “Miss Lovelace—”

  “Mrs. Pierrepont!” Her explosion caught him off guard. “I see the general consensus of Yankees and their manners has not been an exaggeration. I am a lady and expect to be treated as such. Do I make myself clear?” She threw her stole on the chair and stood her ground with flaming eyes.

  Mr. Fine Airs must have had second thoughts. “Yes, ma’am. Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding.” He motioned to her to have a seat, but she refused. The horsehair seats didn’t belong to him, presumptuous man. “This car is the property of the Pierrepont family, and they have requested its return. It will be connected to the eastbound train this evening and begin the trip home.”

  Home? To meet his family? “Oh, why didn’t you say so? Does Edward know?”

  “Yes, but he is not returning with it.”

  Now Molly dropped into the seat. Here was the perfect opportunity to visit his family, and he wasn’t going to take advantage of it? The glamour of New York appealed to her infinitely more than the tundra of Alaska. Maybe she could change his mind.

  “Where is Edward? Maybe I can get him to return home. I so dearly want to meet his family.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You want to meet the family?” He looked her over from head to toe. When his eyes returned to her face, he had to have noticed her discomfort. Although Molly didn’t cower, didn’t flinch, she couldn’t help the blush that resulted from the obvious appraisal.

  “Where exactly did this wedding of yours take place?”

  Why was she getting defensive? This man meant nothing to her. “In Marion, Texas, right here on the train. I was ill and Edward brought a minister on board. Reverend Snow, I believe.”

  “Was the license filed at court?”

  Molly hesitated. She remembered Edward’s warnings of what could happen should his family find out. Too late now. And yet, something kept her from producing the certificate she had tucked into her jewelry box. “Certainly, but not by me. Like I said, I was ill at the time. I never disembarked at that stop, but it was all proper.” Besides Edward staying at her bedside and her calling him Bailey. The man didn’t need that tidbit of information.

  “I see.” He turned and played with a stopper on a decanter, as if he was trying to reach a determination. “This car will be transported through Nebraska tonight. If you have any personal items on it, I suggest you remove them. If you should see Mr. Pierrepont again, please inform him of our conversation.”

  “If I should see him?” This interview was not progressing as Molly had expected. “We’re leaving on the two o’clock today.”

  “Just so. I’ll find a porter to transport your trunks. Your situation is unfortunate, but there’s not much that can be done.”

  “You can’t toss me out!” But the man strode out the exit at the opposite end of the coach.

  Molly fumed. Edward would set the man aright when he returned. Who did he think he was, treating her so shabbily? Her husband was probably securing suitable accommodations for them at that minute. Considering how hurriedly he swept her out of Lockhart, she shouldn’t be surprised if he expected her to pack up at a moment’s notice again.

  She grabbed her stole and a favorite parasol from the parlor and headed toward her quarters. Molly rubbed the back of her neck. Her Grecian coils were twisted too tightly. If she could find Freida, she’d have her loosen the coiffure before the train started moving again.

  From the disarray in her room, she surmised that Freida hadn’t finished tidying from Molly’s toilette that morning. Molly slid the scattered brushes, pins, and hot iron from her vanity and into a case with a crash. The glass perfume bottles and jewelry had to be handled more carefully. Running her hand along the table, she herded together all the earbobs and brooches she’d decided against that morning. She flipped open the lid to her jewelry box and paused.

  There on top of her bangles and brooches was an envelope with her name printed in Edward’s careful script across the center. With foreboding she eased it out of the fine embossed envelope and read words that forced the wind out of her.

  16

  PRAIRIE LEA, TEXAS

  The daffodils were already blooming in the early Texas thaw—bright spots of yellow in a winter-weary land. Riding alone in the passenger car, trying to sleep with strangers leering at her, making train connections, and haggling with porters, Molly hadn’t found the courage to telegraph her parents before she arrived home. What could she say? The words on the marriage certificate and the words in Edward’s letter seemed to contradict each other. They were married, but he said she was free. He would try to return, but she shouldn’t wait on him. She was paralyzed by the hope that Edward would appear, would contact her, and her circumstance would be clarified. She’d prefer anything above facing the questions awaiting her at home, but he hadn’t intervened. She had been left to face them alone.

  Molly stood on the front porch of her parents’ home and surveyed the mill she’d sacrificed to save. The wheelhouse, the office, the night watchman’s quarters, and the mule barn were latched up and quiet after a full day’s work. The river rolled peacefully on, filling the air with a humidity that the lands she’d crossed up north lacked. It hadn’t changed, but she had.

  While flying across the frozen plains, Molly dreamt of returning with fistfuls of money to save her family’s pride. Instead, she’d returned today nearly empty-handed and had become the greatest threat to their undoing.

  Molly stepped off the porch and wandered down the drive. Her parents had accepted her return with more grace than she’d expected, but she’d spared them her worst fears and doubts. She’d convinced them that Edward was indeed coming to get her. She’d convinced them that their separation was necessary and temporary. No reason to paint the news any blacker if there was a chance of light.

  When she reached the gravel road, Molly turned toward town, unsure of her destination but certain that the less time she spent with her parents on her first night home, the less defeated she’d feel. She’d sacrificed her dreams to save them, and if Edward didn’t return, she would lose much more than that. Her father might have signed hundreds of contracts during his life, but she could only sign one license of this nature.

  The burrs and goat heads growing high along Church Street clung to her soft moccasin boots. She kicked her foot against the stone marker designating the border of the churchyard. Ugly things. She’d never wear them again. She didn’t need them here in Prairie Lea, and there was nowhere left for her to go.

  The musical scale stretched from the bullfrogs’ note to the robins’ pitch. With a damp rag wrapped around his index finger, Bailey swiped each one of the keys on the piano, catching the dust that’d sifted through the imperfectly fitted windows.

  His Thursday night chores at the church completed, he lingered, having no reason to hurry back to the lonesome parsonage.

  He sat on the rickety bench and pecked out a melody. The piano wasn’t anything like his guitar, but his ear for music made up for his lack of experience with the instrument. Friday after work he would head home to help at the ranch and visit his family. Funny how life went on. When Molly left, he didn’t think he could continue living, so great was his hurt and anger. But despite his predictions, the sun still came up over the gentle swells of the horizon. Once Molly’s parents had stopped tiptoeing around him, he’d even found satisfaction working at the mill, and of particular surprise was his relationship with Tho
mas Lovelace.

  Now that Bailey knew him better, his opinion of him was more realistic. Before, Bailey had positioned Mr. Lovelace somewhere between Midas and Solomon. He compared him with his own father, and if his thumb was on the scale, it was to Thomas’s benefit. Now, after working with him, Bailey had a more accurate assessment. He admired the man while recognizing his flaws: critical, controlling, and unrelenting when he sensed a weakness. Working for Thomas Lovelace under other circumstances could’ve been torture, but their contact was limited to looking over the bills and ledgers at supper. Bailey could enjoy his company for a couple of hours a day. Living with him would be another story.

  He hated to admit it, but Bailey had a new respect for the pressure Molly had stood against. He understood her resolve to live in Lockhart, even if it meant pretending to step out with Fenton, and he understood why she wanted to leave Caldwell County behind.

  A foul odor wafted in the still air. Another dead mouse? Ugh! Bailey located the broomstick in the closet and followed his nose back to the massive upright piano. Removing the stack of hymnals and sheet music from the top of it, he propped the heavy lid open and fished the broomstick inside.

  To be honest, Bailey was looking for excuses to loiter at the church. In the last month he’d found a balance that’d been missing before, and he attributed it to the quiet time he spent in prayer while doing his duties on the property. Finally he could sense God’s leading and was free to follow. Even the way people treated him had changed. Respect hadn’t been offered before, but he tried the yoke on and liked the weight of it.

  Through the long opening Bailey could see the deceased rodent curled up at the bottom of the box. With a crash, he let the lid drop and crawled underneath the keyboard. He unsheathed his knife and used it to pry open the bottom panel. There it was. Bailey was reaching for the broom when he heard muffled footsteps coming down the aisle.