Caught in the Middle (Ladies of Caldwell County Book #3)

Cover

PUSHMATAHA, INDIAN TERRITORY

SEPTEMBER 1883

The serving line hadn’t moved an inch, and the mood of the men in the depot diner was growing ugly. Nicholas Lovelace rapped the flimsy tin plate against his knuckles and took a deep breath. No warm scents of meat and potatoes. No bread baking that he could detect. If dinner wasn’t simmering, he might as well get back on the train. No point in crowding around the kitchen door with the lumberjacks, the Indians, and the hunters voicing their complaints.

The plate clattered on the roughhewn table as Nick abandoned the depot. His stomach gnawed at his ribs, telling him that the roll and coffee from the last station had burned away hours ago. Could he wait for supper at the hotel in Garber where he was staying?

He’d rather not. His only hope for nourishment this side of the Red River was the ramshackle general store. Otherwise he wouldn’t live long enough to prepare Mr. Stanford’s report, which would be a pity. He’d so anticipated the praise it would bring.

Nicholas’s crew was performing ahead of schedule—clearing the timber from the railroad’s future path, shipping it to the mill, processing it into ties and trestles, and shipping it back to the railhead. He had ridden the train as far as the track would carry him, and his men toiled a good three miles further still—a nice lead, but no more than he expected.

And no more than Ian Stanford expected. Mr. Stanford had contributed more to the success of Lovelace Transportation Specialists than anyone outside of Nick himself. In fact, every merchant, every trapper, hunter, and farmer along the twin rails owed Mr. Stanford—and Nicholas was blessed to call him his mentor. Stanford had taught him much, but now Nick wanted to expand. Upon his return to Garber, Texas, Nicholas would begin seeking contracts with other railroads. It was time to grow.

Even with eyes closed, he could tell by the hot fumes that he was standing on the train platform. The black engine shimmered under the relentless sun, but it didn’t shirk. It would continue its quest, plowing through the prairies, unstoppable, proving that God-approved ambition could conquer any obstacle.

Nicholas—Miss Susan Walcher’s head emerged from a train window—when will we leave this dreadful place? I’m nearly asphyxiated.

I heard your father warn you. As an investor of the NTT Railroad, her father handed out warnings aplenty, but only his connection with Ian Stanford could’ve forced Nick to endure hours of her complaining. The Indian Territory line isn’t luxurious. There are no Pullman cars here.

But I’m famished. Didn’t the station house offer any refreshments?

I stood in line for a quarter of an hour and saw nary a one. Perhaps you’d like to serve up something?

She crinkled her nose at him to the delight of her companions. With shrieks they pulled her inside the suffocating car amid a flurry of fans.

Rather than being stuck inside an airless car with the daughters of railroad investors, Nicholas would see what Pushmataha had to offer. Besides the piles of buffalo hides awaiting the eastbound train and the hastily constructed depot, the dusty general store was his only hope for finding something to eat. He needed nourishment if he was to entertain the girls all the way back to Garber.

Rounding the corner of the depot, Nick was struck afresh by the beauty of the vista. The trees still held their summer hues, patches of green spotting the golden prairie. He never tired of surveying the landscape, picking out the smoothest route for the parallel ebony lines to stretch to the unseen population beyond. Even though the tiny water stop of Pushmataha had its connections, Nicholas’s fortune was tied to the forests on the hills just east of the railroad. Mr. Stanford’s railroad couldn’t pass until the trees had been felled and shipped to Nick’s sawmill, which, located a convenient distance from town, was the nearest to the new construction. As long as his crew stayed ahead of the railroad, clearing the path and providing the lumber needed, his future was set.

Angry voices reached him as he neared the store—most notably a woman’s voice, strong and insistent. Never one to miss out on a spectacle, Nicholas edged his way toward the far side of the building.

I won’t cook. I refuse. You’re making a big mistake.

Now, Annie, a man said, simmer down. We’re not talking permanent, only until Anoli can get another cook in. You heard how irate those men are. If we want the railroad to stop here and pick up our hides, we have to keep the depot open.

Nicholas stopped at the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. What appeared to be a company of hunters—buffalo, judging from their Sharps rifles—was gathered around the back door of the kitchen. But where was the lady he’d heard?

I have an idea. The woman, dressed like a man, rapped the butt of her rifle against a filthy boot. We’ll shoot for it. Whoever misses the knothole on the fence over there will stay behind to cook.

When the men turned to squint, Nicholas caught a better glimpse of the speaker. Slight, bristling, and wrapped from her bandanna to her boots in a faded green duster, her rifle was already at her shoulder before the older Indian man could intervene.

Arguments aren’t settled by the skill of a shooter. The leader swatted at the muzzle, throwing her aim off.

Why not? My skills are more valuable hunting than they are in the kitchen.

But you’re a woman, one of the men protested. It’s only natural—

Nicholas stepped closer, curious what she’d done to silence the hapless man. He’d only known one woman in his life who’d dared to dress like that. Surely his mind was playing tricks on him. Anne Tillerton had been odd, no doubt, but a buffalo hunter in Indian Territory? He could be mistaken, but the soft brown curls peeking out from beneath the hat said otherwise.

The shuffling hunters obscured his view of her face, but the set of her shoulders, visible even beneath the loose duster, further confirmed his suspicions. Anne’s name had come up occasionally in conversation with his sister—Molly speculating on whether Anne had found a nice man and raised a family like women ought. From the looks of things, Anne had shunned domesticity since her husband’s death.

What if I find Tessa and bring her back? She squinted up at the Indian man. Anything but staying in this crummy depot feeding the rabble while you hunt.

The Indian man nodded. A reasonable suggestion if you can get your gear together before the train pulls out. And if you can’t get Tessa to cook again, hire someone else, but don’t be long. We don’t want to be poisoned by Fred’s cooking while you’re in Garber.

My cooking? A man threw his hat to the ground. Why’s it gotta be me? I swear you always . . .

With a silent chuckle Nicholas backed away from the gathering. So the Garber train had picked up a new passenger? Interesting. Now if he could find some jerky in the general store, the ride home might not be so tedious after all.

By the time the whistle blew, Anne Tillerton had stashed her drawstring knapsack in the luggage compartment and found an empty seat in which to spend the next few hours, hopefully undisturbed. She’d left her rifle in Pushmataha in favor of a pistol, hidden beneath her duster. If Tessa had gone in search of that no-account Finn Cravens, she could be staying in a true snake hole. Anne slouched against the bench and pulled her duster together over her curvier parts. If only the buttons would’ve held. Her vest and bandanna covered her chest, and her smelly boots kept the other passengers from sharing the alcove with her. Usually her disguise effectively protected her from unwarranted attention, but when it failed, misery was sure to follow.

From beneath the brim of her hat Anne watched the performance of a passel of girls seated near the front of the car. With bobbing feathers and squeals of laughter, they were making more noise than a rabbit caught in a trap. One in particular, perched at the edge of her bench, rocked like a canary on a swing, her frequent chirps and flapping hands attesting that a man was no doubt sitting across from her. Anne looked away. Didn’t those foolish ladies have any idea the dangerous attention they were attracting?

She removed her hat and laid her head against the glass window. She’d tried to warn Tessa about getting mixed up with Finn, but the stubborn girl wouldn’t listen. His intentions were as unhealthy as Tessa’s deep-dish cobblers, and for the cook, just as irresistible. They’d all hoped that Finn would do the honorable thing and marry her, but he grew bored of Tessa the same way he grew bored of buffalo hunting and disappeared one night without even a note.

Anne could still picture Tessa’s tear-watered face and Anoli’s stoic glare. The camp leader had been generous in letting Tessa stay on with an illegitimate child, but his mercy didn’t extend to Finn.

The man had no family to shame, he’d said, and can feel no shame for himself.

Anne wormed her finger through the empty buttonhole of her duster. She hadn’t any family to shame, either, but she had a code she lived by, even if no one else understood it. She didn’t seek rewards for her good deeds from some distant deity. No. That deity had meted out more punishment than anyone should have to bear. However distant He was, it wasn’t far enough.

The birdie girl’s companion stood. He pushed a final bite of jerky into his mouth and waited for the lady to excuse him. Anne crammed her hat on her head and pulled it down over her thick curls. She shouldn’t have sat by the water cooler. If he was looking to stretch his legs, it’d be his logical destination. She flexed her fingers. He had no reason to bother her, but if he did, she’d be ready for him. Before he could turn to face her, her sharpshooter’s eyes took in details not important to anyone else, but knowing them gave her a feeling of control.

His height wasn’t noteworthy, but his well-tailored suit hugged broad shoulders. The hair brushing his starched collar wasn’t quite blond. In the right light it probably showed some red. His manicured hands hung easily at his sides. He was obviously unconcerned that a sudden lurch might shove him into the benches. Although the feathers in the ladies’ hats before him bobbed, he stood erect, his posture correct even with the swaying of the train. He probably hadn’t spent much time on a horse, but judging from his balance, he could learn.

With a playful bow he ended their conversation and turned in Anne’s direction.

Her heart stopped. She knew him. Before she could look away their eyes locked. This was bad. No, this was disastrous.

Anne pulled her hat lower until the band dug into her forehead. She slunk into the seat and tried to disappear into her duster as the man approached. She rolled her shoulder toward the window, giving him only her back. She knew him, but he didn’t know her. Surely not. No way in God’s green earth he’d remember.

Excuse me. His tone was friendly, curious. Have we met before? There’s something about you . . .

Anne forced her face into its fiercest scowl and remembered to gruff her voice. You’re wrong, sir. I’m a stranger here. She turned again to the window, dismayed when the large bulk barely visible from the corner of her eye made no departure.

Oh? He stepped into the alcove, took the seat across from hers and stretched his legs. You can understand my confusion. I thought my sister’s friend, Anne Tillerton, was the only woman in North Texas who dressed like a man.

The courage Anne had mustered fled like field mice when the barn door opened. He must think her a fool. She dared a peek, and met such keen blue eyes that she regretted it immediately.

We’re not in Texas, Mr. Lovelace, she said.

But we will be shortly. He smiled. It’s kind of you to acknowledge our acquaintance. I wasn’t quite sure that we’d ever been properly introduced back in Prairie Lea.

We most definitely weren’t. Anne had enjoyed only a few days of proper society in her life, and those had ended long before she’d been carted to Caldwell County.

Then allow me to rectify the situation. Nicholas Lovelace, at your service.

Anne narrowed one eye like she was sighting down her rifle, but he didn’t appear the least bit discomforted and continued unabashed.

Now that all the niceties have been observed, what has brought you to Indian Territory, Mrs. Tillerton?

Anne tugged on the leather thong that laced up the neck of her loose shirt. Her business was her business. Besides, she had her pistol if he made a nuisance of himself. No reason to fear him. I’ve been here for a while. What about you?

Me? My company provides the lumberjacks and the wooden ties for the railroad. We stay ahead of the line and use the resources from the railroad’s own land allotment.

He acted as if she should be impressed. He’d get used to disappointment.

How’s Molly? she asked.

His head tilted. Those blues twinkled. My sister is well. She and Bailey are keeping the old sawmill rolling, taking care of Mother and Father, and raising a couple of mischievous progeny. She’ll be thrilled when I tell her that you are . . . what exactly did you say you were doing here?

Anne pursed her lips. Her heart raced at the memories Nicholas Lovelace resurrected. The Lovelaces. The Garners. Prairie Lea. She’d tried to forget that town, but the pain wouldn’t fade. She couldn’t change the past, but she could avoid rehashing it. Anne straightened her shoulders. How to deal with the prying Mr. Lovelace?

I’m a buffalo hunter. I hunt with an outfit in Indian Territory. From the concern on his face, she realized that her bluster wasn’t convincing. She hardened her jaw. It pays well. The freedom is . . . it’s important to me.

A buffalo hunter, you say? Mr. Lovelace clasped his hands together. Quite a profitable occupation, so I hear. Our trains carry the hides out by the carload.

Anne unclenched her fist. He hadn’t laughed at her. He hadn’t tried to persuade her to find a more ladylike pursuit. Perhaps he, like his sister, could be trusted. At least for the duration of the train ride.

And I bet you bring down your share of the beasts, he continued. From what I remember, you’re a dead aim.

A look of abject horror crossed Mr. Lovelace’s face when he realized what he’d said, but it was too late.

The memories burst forward like the bloom of crimson that had stained her husband’s vest. Anne sprang to her feet even as Mr. Lovelace reached to detain her. Twisting, she pushed her way past his knees and into the aisle. She made her way blindly to the back, not caring where she was going, not concerned where she’d end up. She only wanted away from him and his awful knowledge.

Please wait.

But she wasn’t listening. She entered a narrow corridor flanked on one side by luggage stacked to the roof. The paneling on her left blurred as she hurried away from the quick footsteps behind her.

Mrs. Tillerton, please. He grasped her elbow and turned her.

Anne flattened herself against the wall, jerking her arm away in the process. Don’t touch me.

He lifted his hands in the air. I’m sorry. I just wanted—

The train lurched. The wheels screeched like a mountain lion as the car teetered.

Anne’s head bumped the wall as Mr. Lovelace was flung toward her. He braced himself with outstretched arms on either side of her.

The violent rocking stopped. The screams of the passengers quieted, and Anne was face-to-face with the man. His breath fanned her cheek. His disconcerting eyes were just inches from hers.

The remark was completely innocent. If you—

Step away, Anne ground out between clenched teeth. You don’t know what you’re doing.

His eyes held hers as if willing her to calm, willing her to trust. You’re right about that. I made a dreadful mistake. He pushed away from the wall, another foot or so. But I’m afraid I have nowhere to go. I can’t move.

Anne followed his gaze to the crates that had fallen against the back of his legs. He was holding back a tide of luggage that could crush her.

If someone would give me a hand, he called out.

But the passengers ignored Mr. Lovelace’s request. And then Anne saw why. Their attention was riveted on the masked man with the gun at the front of the car.

His train was being robbed? His train?

Well, technically it wasn’t his train, but as a contractor for the railroad Nick felt responsible for the safety of the passengers and the quality of their transport. The engines ran over track he’d provided, after all.

Go on, he whispered.

Only after Mrs. Tillerton ducked beneath his arm and filed out amid the crying children and angry men did Nick extract himself from the crates. A train robbery and he’d been tied down when it occurred. Didn’t see the horsemen approach. Didn’t hear the brakeman’s signal. Too diverted by a lady. Ian Stanford wouldn’t approve.

The last to depart the car, he had to fight the urge to clobber the outlaw as he walked past him. Nick’s thoughtless remark to Anne Tillerton had embarrassed him, and that embarrassment could easily turn to anger given the right target. Nick hopped the last giant step from the train to the packed ground beneath and heard the thud of boots as the man descended behind him.

Through the waves of heat shimmering from the engine he made out three masked men, one mounted. A skinny kid holding a rusty six-shooter waved him toward the group of men and Mrs. Tillerton. She hid among them, her dusty buckskin pants and floppy slouch hat blending perfectly.

From the passengers’ nervous glances toward the front of the train, Nick assumed more men were in the express car. One bandit remained on his horse, which pranced nervously, dancing sideways as the man kept his gun trained on the small gathering. The other two outlaws had trouble keeping their eyes off the tight cluster of ladies huddled in the midst of the vast prairie.

Should we see what these ladies would like to contribute, Boss? a stocky man asked.

The leader looked to the express car. His neckerchief stretched as he opened his mouth to answer. Might as well. I don’t know how they’re faring with the safe.

Sliding his pistol into his belt, the scrawny one ambled to the women. He took his hat off, revealing hair plastered to his head by sweat. Pull those earbobs off. Drop your rings. Don’t make me come looking for them.

Nick’s jaw clenched. Spoiled Miss Walcher and her friends could be pigheaded, but surely they knew to take these men seriously. Or not. His heart sank at the amount of tucking and arranging going on in direct defiance of the outlaw’s order. In seconds they had hidden most of their jewelry between the folds and flounces of their gowns.

Evidently the kid wasn’t as ignorant as he appeared. He stopped before Miss Walcher, recognizing her as the instigator. Now, don’t you give me no trouble, miss. I saw that gold locket on my first pass. Where’d it go to?

Miss Walcher’s eyes grew wide. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a locket.

You sure about that? Nick didn’t like the gleam in his eye, nor did he like the chuckle of the other man. Didn’t appear they had any compulsion against harassing their victims. Why don’t I have a little look-see?

The robber shoved his pistol into his waistband and lunged for her. Her scream rent the peaceful prairie like Gabriel’s trumpet, definitely more painful than her weak swats at the robber, but neither slowed the man down. He grabbed her by the collar and forced her to her knees.

Nick had seen enough. He knew he shouldn’t get involved, but he wouldn’t stand by and allow a lady to be molested on the NTT line. Hollering at the outlaw would’ve only warned him, and Nick wanted a chance at him unprepared. His toes dug into the hard ground, propelling him forward. Blood pumping, he hit the man at a run, knowing the satisfaction of laying him flat before the fear of the consequences reached him.

The kid was no match for him. Pinning the outlaw beneath him, Nicholas punched him once in the jaw and took the fight right out of him. But the click of a hammer had the same effect on Nick.

The man on the horse sent a stream of tobacco flying to the dust. Shoot him, he ordered.

At first Nicholas thought the stout man refused to obey, then he realized he was merely dragging him off of his accomplice for a clean shot. Well, Nick wouldn’t go down without a fight. He might not live on the range like these hardened outlaws, but he’d been loading lumber wagons since he was tall enough to see over the bed.

When the man grabbed him by the shoulder, Nick pulled his knees under him, but before he could spring, a cloud of dust exploded in his face. He blinked and fell as the other robber scrambled out from beneath him. His hand covered his chest. He wasn’t shot. At least he didn’t think so. Now the leader’s gun was out, as well, and it was trained on their hostages.

The passengers scattered, leaving one lone gunman peering down her six-shooter. You shoot him, you’ll die, Anne said. I took the toe off your boot, mister, and that wasn’t a miss. The next shot knocks your leader off his horse, and if you’re not one hundred percent certain that you’ll hit me, the second will drop you like a fly.

You talk awfully tough, son, the leader said. Don’t know that you’ve got the nerve.

She’s got nerve. Nick needed them to be afraid. Terrified preferably. She’s already shot her husband. She’ll plug you without blinking.

She? The leader’s gun lowered, and his eyes turned cold as he studied Anne.

Let’s go! The cry came out of the express car. Two men loaded their saddlebags and climbed on their mounts.

Take the money, Anne said. You got what you want.

Take the money? Was she crazy? Nicholas started to protest, but the gun aimed at his cheek increased his intelligence.

Their leader spat again. Come on, boys. Payout on corpses is mighty poor.

You owe her your life. The gunman kicked Nick with his toeless boot. You better do right by her, or I’ll come looking for you.

I appreciate your concern— But before Nick could point out the irony of an etiquette lesson from a bandit, the kid shoved past him and jumped on his horse.

The whistle of the steam engine blocked out the sound of their thundering hooves, and in seconds they had raced out of range. Families rushed into each other’s arms and the ladies’ voices pitched higher and higher as each told her version of the events. Nicholas stretched his skinned knuckles. He hadn’t punched anyone since grammar school, and it stung more than he remembered.

Mr. Lovelace, you are my hero. Miss Walcher grasped his hand with both of hers and pulled it against her bosom. You were magnificent.

No, he wasn’t. He’d lost Mr. Stanford’s safe and nearly got himself killed. Even worse, his valiant attempt to be a hero had put Mrs. Tillerton in danger. Not the outcome he’d imagined.

Miss Walcher still held his hand. Her eyes filled with tears. Pretty thing, but no challenge. Extracting himself as gracefully as possible, he took his leave of Miss Walcher and searched among the animated throng for the britches-clad woman who’d stood down a whole gang of train robbers. He should express his gratitude no matter how bad he wished he hadn’t needed her help.

No one back in his hometown of Prairie Lea would be surprised to hear that Anne Tillerton had rescued him. Hadn’t she saved the life of their neighbor Rosa when Mr. Tillerton attacked her? Everyone knew she was capable of pulling the trigger, but what intrigued Nick was the flash of fear he’d seen in her eyes when he recognized her. Could she be more afraid of him than an armed outlaw? He would relive the harrowing moment when he thought his life was over, but he would lose sleep wondering at the way she trembled when he fell against her on the train.

Where was she, anyway? Almost everyone had re-boarded. Had she slipped into the car without his seeing her?

With his back to the train, he made one last scan of the area. When the bandits rode off, everyone had rushed toward the passenger car, but she hadn’t joined them. If she’d headed in the opposite direction . . .

Nicholas jogged only a few steps and found her. She hadn’t made it far. Sitting half-hidden in the tall grass, knees pulled to her chest, the coolheaded warrior had been replaced by a shaken young woman in ill-fitting clothing.

She was the hero, but perhaps he still had a chance to help a lady in distress. The train’s leaving. You don’t want to be left behind.

Go on. I’m fine. Her shoulders quivered like it was frigid December. She didn’t raise her eyes. She didn’t raise her voice. And if she was in trouble, it was because he’d put her there.

But if that train leaves, then I’m honor bound to stay with you, and that might get a bit uncomfortable. Just the two of us . . . alone . . . in the middle of nowhere.

Now she looked at him. Her gray eyes reflected no emotion. Their gentle lift at the corners belied the solemnity they held. No response.

He shifted his oxford shoes on the hard sandstone. It doesn’t look like a comfortable place to pass the time, but if you insist. Scoot over.

Her mouth tensed. Rocking forward, she scrambled to her feet, ignoring his offered hand. She swayed and he was at her side in a heartbeat, but once again she refused his help.

Her first few steps were shaky, so she paused, hands on her hips, facing the horizon . . . and no telling what other terrors. Her chin lifted. Her brow wrinkled. A spasm ricocheted through her, yet she