Only My Love Page 4

  Michael was unfazed by the paper rattling. "Would a little Western hospitality go so against your grain?"

  "I'm from Boston, young lady, and I won't be lectured by some snippety do-gooder half my age."

  "One-third your age," Michael retorted. You old billy goat, she thought. Indeed, with his white Vandyke beard, shaggy haircut, and long, thin face, he looked like a billy goat. "I wouldn't presume to lecture you, Dr. Gaines, but does the name Hippocrates mean anything to you?" Out of the corner of her eye Michael saw Drew Beaumont nearly convulse with laughter at her sheer effrontery. She shot him a quelling glance.

  "You are an impertinent young woman, quite rude actually, and I imagine a constant thorn in your husband's side."

  Michael was about to reply sharply to the doctor's observation when the door at the rear of the car opened. Momentarily distracted by the interruption, all the passengers turned.

  Houston's carbine preceded him into the car. He was followed by Happy and Obie carrying drawn weapons.

  Behind his kerchief Houston smiled at the play of emotion on Michael's face. "Ma'am," he said softly, nodding in her direction. He touched his Stetson with his forefinger as a greeting to all the passengers. Before he could say anything though, Michael found her voice.

  "This is unacceptable," she said, squaring off in the aisle. She stared hard at the intruder over the rims of her spectacles.

  "How's that, Ma'am?" Houston asked. For the first time since stopping the train he allowed himself to enjoy the moment. There was always the unexpected to contend with when taking on a job like this. First it had been the Chronicle cars, now it was an outraged, priggish schoolmarm who didn't have the good sense to be quiet. He had been watching her through the rear door's window almost a full minute before he entered the car. She was obviously distressed by her conversation with the seated gentleman and it amused Houston to think that he had it in his power to put things right for her. "You were saying, Ma'am," he prompted.

  Michael found herself held still by a pair of dark eyes shaded by thick lashes and the brim of a black Stetson. Lines radiated from the corner of each eye and grew slightly deeper as Michael returned the stare. She suspected the robber was laughing at her. Visibly straightening, pulling herself away from the black eyes locked on her, Michael managed to speak in clear tones. "I said this is unacceptable. You are intending to rob us, aren't you?"

  "That's why we stopped the train," Houston said easily. He gestured to Happy and Obie to begin collecting valuables from the passengers. "Do you have a problem with that?"

  Michael blinked once, betraying her astonishment at the cool inquiry. "Now I know you're laughing at me, though I hope you'll understand that I fail to see the humor. Of course I have a problem with what you're doing. Every decent person on this train thinks the same way."

  Beneath his kerchief Houston's smile flickered once. "But you seem to be the only decent person with enough gumption to say so."

  "My mother says I'm horribly forthright."

  "Your mother would know."

  Michael snorted, her lip curling derisively. "I see I'm amusing you again, when it's not my wish at all. I don't suppose you'll cease your unlawful operation here?"

  "No," Houston said. "I don't suppose I will."

  "Well, then... you may as well use your gun for some good purpose. I've been trying to convince this doctor that he should attend a young, sick mother in the emigrant car. Apparently none of my arguments have been persuasive enough."

  Behind Houston Happy McAllister paused in taking up his collection. "Can hardly believe that," he said under his breath. "Bet she can talk butter off bread."

  Obie Long sniggered, nodding his head in agreement. He relieved an unprotesting male passenger of a gold and diamond stickpin.

  Looking beyond Houston's shoulder, Michael watched the robbers gather valuables. Drew Beaumont had just lost his stickpin. He glared at Michael, gesturing to her with his eyes that she should sit down and shut up. She was not in the habit of taking Drew's advice on any matter. She pushed her spectacles up her nose. "Well, Mister..." She hesitated, hoping the leader would supply his name. When he offered none, she pretended it didn't matter. "Are you going to help me or not?"

  Before Houston could respond, the doctor stood, drawing himself up with a stiff and rather pompous posture. His newspaper slipped to the floor. "There is no need to point that weapon in my face, sir," he told Houston. "I shall see to the young woman in question immediately." He took a step into the aisle as Michael happily moved out of his way. His second step was cut off abruptly. The doctor found himself staring down the long twenty-inch barrel of Houston's Winchester .44 carbine.

  "Not so fast," Houston said with pleasant menace. He kept the calibrated site leveled at the doctor's chest. The carbine was accurate to about 200 yards. At his present distance, Houston could have fired all thirteen rounds into the doctor blindfolded and he was satisfied his target knew it. The doctor's brow beaded with sweat and his complexion was mottled by equal parts anger and fear. He nervously shifted his medical bag from his right to left hand.

  "Your eagerness speaks well of dedication to your profession," said Houston. "Yet I wonder if your change of heart is quite what it appears to be." His glance shifted to Michael for a moment, his black eyes held hers briefly, a question in them. "Ma'am? I wonder if you'd be so kind as to hold the good doctor's valuables while he makes his mission of mercy?"

  His request brought predictable results. The doctor's shoulders sagged as he realized he could not escape to another car with his possessions intact and Michael was clearly appalled that she was expected to hold the booty.

  "I will not be so kind," she said firmly. She felt the compelling black eyes on her again. "You can't ask that of me. It's not... it's not..."—she struggled, searching for the right word—"it's not gentlemanly."

  Obie and Happy hooted and exchanged disbelieving glances above their kerchiefs. "It's not gentlemanly," Happy mocked in a credible falsetto as he examined a platinum watch fob. He dropped it in his pocket then moved carefully around Houston in the aisle and began collecting possessions from the forward passengers. He moved past the doctor and Michael as if they weren't there.

  Houston raised one brow at Michael. "Well?" he asked. "How much do you want to see the woman in the emigrant car receive help?"

  Frustrated, Michael stamped her foot. "Of course I want her to have help... but to be made part of your robbery..."

  "I'm sorry if I gave you the impression I was a gentleman," Houston said. "I thought the Winchester would dispel those assumptions. Apparently I'll have to carry the shotgun next time. As a weapon, it's a trifle less civilized." He indicated Obie. "Show the lady."

  Michael refused to look in Obie's direction. "Laugh all you want."

  "I will. I have the gun."

  Michael realized that somehow she had become the entertainment. The passengers were watching her with various degrees of astonishment and amusement. More to the point, there was none among them who was inclined to rescue her. Even Drew Beaumont had stopped rolling his eyes at her. Her colleague sat slouched in his seat, arms folded on his chest, and practically dared her to say another idiotic thing to the robber leader. There was a deep vertical line between Drew's brows, a sure sign he was thinking hard, committing every exchange to memory, and all of it would find its way in the next edition of the Chronicle. Michael had a sudden vision of herself as the object of unrestrained laughter in the New York newsroom. It moved her to action.

  She held out her hands, palms up, to the doctor. "You'll have to give me your valuables," she said calmly. Her head tilted once in Houston's direction. "He has the gun."

  Doctor Gaines took out his pocket watch and slapped it in Michael's hands. "I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn you were part of this," he muttered, reaching for his billfold. "You've distracted anyone from making a move against these fellows and you're much too familiar with them. Too calm by half, I say."

  "Calm?" Her e
yes dropped to her shaking hands. A gold wedding band was dropped into the heart of her palm. "Are you quite mad?"

  "The doctor has a point," Houston said reasonably.

  "You do appear to be taking events in stride, ma'am. Aren't you scared at all?"

  "That, without a doubt, is the most incredibly inane thing that's ever been said to me." She walked directly up to Houston and thrust the doctor's valuables at him. He was so surprised by her action that he almost lost his grip on the carbine. As it was, he teetered a little on his feet. As he recovered his balance the Winchester's site bobbled from the doctor's chest to a female passenger's feathered hat, and finally to the floor. For one incredible second he thought Michael was going to try to wrest the weapon away from him. She didn't. After pushing the billfold, ring, and watch at him, she simply turned around and marched back to the doctor's side.

  "Of course I'm frightened," she said angrily. "In fact, if I had the least idea of how one could properly faint in this crowded car, I'd have done so by now. I just don't know how it can be managed without injury."

  "Ma'am," Happy said as he took up his post at the forward door of the car, "if it'll loosen the grip on that voice throttle of your'n, me and my friends'd be right tickled to make a space for you. Never thought I'd hear a woman what could talk more than my Em, but you've edged her out. And so much sass, too."

  "That's enough," Houston cut in. "Finish with these passengers while I escort the lady and the doctor to the emigrant car." He gestured with the barrel of the carbine toward the forward door and Michael and the doctor obliged him by moving in that direction. As they stepped outside the car Houston paused behind them and spoke softly to Happy. "Find that damn Chronicle reporter by the time I get back. Ten minutes." He slipped quickly through the door.

  * * *

  Ethan Stone leaned out of the mail car's sliding side door and looked up and down the track. He squinted, straining to see something in the blue-black night air. Oil lamps from the passenger cars gave off an eerie yellow glow but did little to illuminate the track.

  "I can't see anything," Ethan told Ben. "Maybe you should finish loading the bullion and I'll go back and see what's keeping them. Will you be all right?"

  "Sure." He pointed to the two unconscious guards and the remaining payload. "No problems here. I'll have this stuff on the mules before you get back. Fire off a round if there's trouble. Can't say that I like it that Houston's not here yet."

  "Can't say that I like it either." Ethan jumped out of the car. Gravel shot out from beneath his feet as he landed. A stone ricocheted off one of the car's steel wheels and Ethan found himself instinctively ducking for cover at the sound. "Good reflexes," he whispered to himself. It made him feel a little less foolish.

  He didn't encounter anyone on his walk to the rear of the train. He supposed it was a good sign. Houston, Happy, and Obie must have things under control. There was no screaming or shouting that he could hear which suggested the passengers were, if not entirely accepting of their fate, then at least resigned to it. It wasn't until he reached the last car and stepped aboard that he realized something totally outside the plans they made had taken place. The caboose was gone.

  Ethan checked the coupling and found the pin lying between the railroad ties. Happy or Obie? he wondered. Had Houston ordered it or had they acted on their own? "Goddamn," he swore softly. There wasn't supposed to be any killing. He'd done everything in his power to see that there wouldn't be and in the end it wasn't enough. He swore again, more loudly this time and watched the single epithet take on substance as his breath misted in front of him. He watched it disappear before he pulled up the scarf to cover his mouth again. Colt raised, angered and frustrated by his own helplessness, Ethan walked the length of the train again and entered the foremost first class car.

  Even though it was rendered at gun point, Hannah Gruber was grateful for the doctor's care. The emigrant passengers sat stone still while Thomas Gaines examined his patient.

  "They're all very quiet," Houston said to Michael. "Do they know what's going on? Don't they speak English?"

  "You could have saved your breath when we came in here," she said, looking pointedly at Houston's gun. "They're familiar with the universal language of thuggery."

  "You are more sassy than Em." He paused, smiling genially. "That's a mule by the way. No one's sweetheart."

  Michael pretended to ignore the comment, but she could feel the tips of her ears growing red. She spoke to the doctor instead. "Have you determined what's wrong with her?"

  "Pneumonia." He straightened and opened the black leather case one of the Gruber children held up to him. "I'll give her what medicine I have. If these cars don't get side-tracked too many more times, it should last until she reaches California." He took out several brown bottles, brusquely explained how much of each she was supposed to take, and closed his case. "There's really nothing more I can do for her. She needs rest that she'll never find in this car."

  Houston's head tilted to one side and he pushed back the brim of his hat a notch. "Perhaps you'd consider giving the lady and her family your space in the first class car?"

  The doctor's eyes narrowed angrily. "Are you going to insist?"

  Houston appeared thoughtful for a moment. "No, I don't think I am." He indicated that the doctor should move out of the way. When that was done he reached over the seat to Hannah and dropped the doctor's valuables in her lap. "A gift, Mrs. Gruber. Welcome to America."

  Hannah looked at Michael, uncertain what to do.

  Michael, in turn, rounded on Houston. "Now why have you done that? Those things weren't yours to give away."

  "Pardon me," Houston said, "but I recall having them given to me only a short time ago."

  "You know very well—"

  Houston made a slashing motion with his free hand. "Enough. Tell her to keep them else I'll be insulted. Our doctor here doesn't need them. Unless I miss my guess, he's still got pockets worth emptying."

  The doctor's reddening face betrayed him.

  "See what I mean, ma'am? There's honest and then there's honest." His black eyes were smiling at her again. He stepped to one side and motioned to the doctor and Michael to precede him. The doctor moved quickly and went first, leaving Michael to contend with the Winchester pointed at her back. Behind her she heard Houston's low chuckle at the doctor's cowardice. When she stiffened her spine in response, she heard the laughter again.

  At the door to the first class car Houston told the doctor to go back inside. He stopped Michael when she made to follow.

  "Let go of my arm," she said with credible calm.

  Houston's fingers dropped away. "Your valuables, ma'am. Everyone else gave to the cause."

  Michael thought of several names she wanted to call him and by the look that passed over the visible part of his face, he apparently was reading her mind. "Oh, very well," she said, rooting the deep pockets of her duster for her poker winnings. Her fingers touched on three pencils and a note pad before coming up with the money. "I wish you'd give this to Hannah Gruber and her family."

  Houston took the money. His eyes dropped to the cameo pin at Michael's throat. "The brooch, too," he said.

  Michael's hand flew to her collar of her white blouse and there was real pain in her eyes. "It's not valuable."

  "It is to me." A memento, he was thinking, of a very interesting encounter.

  "Bastard," she said softly.

  "So I've heard."

  Michael frowned, uncertain what he meant by his last comment. Her fingers trembled slightly as she unhooked the brooch and she closed her eyes briefly, turning away in the same moment she placed it in Houston's gloved hand. She didn't see him give it a long, almost regretful look, before he dropped it in his pocket.

  "I thought you might stab me with the pin."

  "It occurred to me." Without waiting for Houston's order, Michael opened the door to the first class car and stepped inside.

  * * *

  Ethan Stone wondere
d if his shock was visible. He felt as if he'd been kicked by a mule when he saw the woman who preceded Houston into the car. He thought he had successfully avoided her altogether. Now, here she was, staring at him straight on, her surprise a palpable thing.

  He watched as her brows drew together and her mouth became flat and serious. Her frown of concentration touched every one of her features. Her spectacles had slipped to the tip of her pared nose. Her eyes—dark green, he noted now—were clouded as she tried to place his face. Her teeth caught her lower lip and worried it gently, causing her chin to wobble slightly. Ethan saw her struggle to grasp the elusive memory that would allow her recognition of another place, another time, and he didn't release his breath until he saw annoyance cross her face as she couldn't do it. The moment had stretched as an eternity in Ethan's mind. In reality it had taken mere seconds.

  Michael shook her head as if to clear it. Something niggled at the back of her mind but she couldn't bring it to consciousness. In the next moment her attention was brought to focus on another matter entirely and the thread of memory was broken.

  Happy McAllister was holding Drew Beaumont at gun point.

  Michael began to march forward, only to be brought abruptly back by Houston's hand on the collar of her duster. "What's he doing? What's this all about?"

  Houston ignored her. "That the one?" he asked Happy.

  Happy nodded. "Sure is. Hell of a time findin' it out. Didn't say a word until he saw you coming back. Figure that shook him up a little."

  Ethan knew now what had shaken Drew and it wasn't Nathaniel Houston. Until she had stepped into the car the other Chronicle reporter had maintained a stoic silence. Apparently Drew didn't trust his colleague to maintain the same discretion. Wise man, thought Ethan. She looked about ready to say something incriminating any moment.

  "What's going on?" Michael demanded again. This time she wrested herself away from Houston's grip and got several steps closer to Drew. Happy's gun held her off. "Drew? What's this about?"