Bride of the High Country Page 14

  She looked up at him, thinking what a sweet thing that was to say. But he was looking back over his shoulder, his studied gaze taking in every passenger on the platform.

  Her playful mood evaporated. “Do you see him?”

  Those gray eyes swung to meet hers. Something in them, in his face—an expression she didn’t recognize—made odd things happen inside her chest. “No. And you’re not to worry about it, Lucinda. I’ll keep you safe.” The look lasted a second longer before he turned away. “We’ll go left,” he said as they exited the station. “As I recall, there were several decent eateries in the downtown area close to the state capitol. It’s not far.”

  She matched her pace to his. It was a beautiful spring morning with a cool breeze and a warm sun. Perfect for a walk. “Did you live here long?”

  “Only as a soldier. First, in training at Camp Curtin, and later, to recuperate after Gettysburg.”

  “You were wounded?”

  He nodded. “Leg. Luckily I didn’t lose it to the surgeons and it healed fairly quickly. But a sergeant is expected to issue orders, and I couldn’t.” He met her questioning look with a wry smile. “I’d been hanged and couldn’t speak.”

  Hanged? In her shock, she almost stumbled again.

  He seemed not to notice. “Until the swelling went down and I could talk loudly enough to issue orders on a battlefield, I was stuck on administrative duty. I hated that.”

  Hanging would certainly explain the huskiness in his voice. “Why were you hanged?” She still couldn’t fathom such a thing. Was he a criminal? A spy?

  He shrugged. She felt the flex of it all down his arm. Despite his height, Rylander had never struck her as possessing a particularly imposing figure—not like a dock worker or laborer who used his strength to earn a wage. Granted, he was bigger and broader than Doyle, but he was always so impeccably dressed and carried himself with such grace and elegance she often forgot his size or that he had once fought for money. But feeling the hard strength of the arm beneath her hand, she realized that hidden under the fine clothes and polished manners was a very powerful man. It was a bit shocking to think of Tait Rylander that way. He could hurt her if he so chose, and she could do little to stop him.

  “Simple revenge,” he said in answer to the question she had forgotten she’d asked.

  “For what?”

  “Winning. The Battle of Gettysburg was over. The South was in retreat. Three Rebs ran by, saw me under a tree trying to stop the bleeding in my leg, and decided to rid the Union of one more soldier before they fled the field.”

  “So they hanged you?”

  “It seems they were out of bullets.”

  Lucinda was now even more confused. “But you were a southerner, too.”

  “I still am. But at the time, I was wearing a Union uniform.”

  “Why?” It had always been a mystery to her why a southerner would fight against his own. “Were you an abolitionist?”

  Again, that shrug. “My family were merchants. We never owned slaves, and even though we were opposed to the practice, that issue didn’t impact us in a personal way. But secession would damage everyone and leave us open to foreign influence. I thought the nation would be stronger undivided. History will decide if I was right.”

  Not wanting to be dragged into a political discussion of a moot point, she returned to the original issue. “So they left you hanging?”

  “Until Doyle rode up and cut me down.”

  “And you’ve been friends since?”

  He nodded but said nothing. Lucinda sensed his friendship with her controversial Irish almost-husband wasn’t altogether comfortable for a man as strict in his thinking as Rylander. Which was probably why he spent so much of his time cleaning up behind his friend and putting out the fires Doyle started with his impulsiveness and hot temper.

  “First, we’ll stop at a bank,” he said as they waited for a buggy to rattle by. No boardwalks here, but brick or stone walkways on either side of the cobblestone road, crowded with purposeful people. “I’ll obtain funds to repay your loan”—he sent her a chiding look—“with interest, of course. Then, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to stop at a haberdashery.” He looked down in distaste at his frock coat. “I doubt I’ll be able to find a coat in my size, but hopefully I can have this one brushed. If not, George says Pittsburgh will be a much longer stop and I should have ample time to get it cleaned.”

  Pittsburgh? She thought they would be parting company here in Harrisburg. Why did he insist on staying? “You’re going on to Pittsburgh?”

  He continued walking, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you unprotected until the issue of Smythe is resolved.”

  “What if it’s not Smythe? Neither of us has seen him. The porter could be mistaken.”

  “Then I guess you’re stuck with me until we reach your destination.” He sent her a speculative look. “Where might that be, exactly?”

  She looked away. “I haven’t decided.”

  “I’d advise you to do so before you reach Columbus. That is, if you’re intending to go on up to Chicago.”

  “As I said, I haven’t decided.” The man was utterly relentless.

  “Here we are.” He nodded toward the building they were approaching that bore the brass nameplate of Harris Bank and Trust. “This shouldn’t take long. Was that interest to be simple or compounded?” he asked as he released her arm to swing open the door with the hand not gripping her valise.

  “For you, Mr. Rylander? Compounded.” She smiled sweetly. “Daily.”

  “I would expect no less, Miss Hamilton.”

  “Hathaway.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well,” Lucinda huffed ten minutes later when Rylander—now many times richer than when he went in, judging by the thickness of the inside pocket on his frock coat—led her out of the bank. “That was certainly disheartening. You didn’t even have to flaunt your breasts.”

  He stumbled, almost missing the step. “My what?”

  “Breasts. Even with a valise full of railroad shares, and these”—she made an offhand gesture at her chest, which drew his eye, she noticed, then sent a blush blossoming across his cheeks—“I had much more trouble securing funds than you did on your signature alone. It hardly seems fair, does it?”

  “Miss Hathaway.” He made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then don’t speak. And stop looking at my breasts.”

  A startled laugh burst out of him. “You let everyone else. Why can’t I?”

  “It’s unseemly. Look.” She pointed up the walk. “There’s a gunsmith. Shall we pop in and get my weapon? Nothing too cumbersome. Something that will fit handily into my reticule. Do come along.”

  Almost two hours later, they were hurrying back to the train, Lucinda’s little Christian Sharps four-barrel pepperbox pistol and a box of cartridges tucked inside her reticule, and Mr. Rylander in his smart new bowler and freshly brushed frock coat, carrying her old valise in one hand and his new one in the other, which was now bulging with his new clothing purchases and apothecary items.

  It had been a lovely morning, although Lucinda was a bit surprised at the growing ease between Mr. Rylander and herself. They might no longer be enemies in the strictest sense, but they were certainly still at cross purposes. Yet the hours had flown by. She even forgot about Smythe for a while.

  But not so, Mr. Rylander. He seemed ever vigilant, studying each face they passed, scanning the street behind them whenever she stopped to admire something in a display window, pausing for a moment inside the door whenever they entered a shop. His alertness allowed her to relax her own, and it almost felt like they were on holiday.

  They had been so busy with errands they hadn’t even taken time for a noon meal, nor had she had an op
portunity to send a wire to Mrs. Throckmorton. Even now, as they rushed through the depot, the conductor was making his last call for passengers.

  Lucinda studied the faces watching from the passenger car windows and the other people crowded at the boarding steps. But again, she didn’t see Smythe. Perhaps they were mistaken about him being there. Perhaps Smythe had died in the fire as she’d hoped all these years. Perhaps Horne wasn’t a threat at all.

  “Is the dining car still open for lunch?” Rylander asked George when they stepped through the door of their sleeper car.

  The porter nodded. “For at least another hour, sir. Shall I take those valises down to your room?”

  “I’ll take them. What’s the next big stop, and how long will we be there?”

  “Altoona, sir, scheduled to arrive at seven fifteen this evening. Since we’ll be heading into the mountains, we’ll have to add another locomotive and tender, so we won’t be departing there until nine twenty.”

  “Excellent.” He grinned down at Lucinda, crowded beside him in the narrow aisleway. “I promised you a meal here in Harrisburg. Instead, we’ll have it in Altoona. If that suits?”

  Lucinda couldn’t help but smile back. “It does.”

  But it occurred to her as she swept past him down to their compartment that she was beginning to enjoy Tait Rylander’s company much more than was wise.

  * * *

  A while later, Tait headed back to the compartment, clean and shaved, wearing his hew attire and feeling almost human again.

  Lucinda seemed to agree. As she let him into the room, she gave him a quick inspection. “You look quite elegant, Mr. Rylander.”

  Oddly pleased by the compliment, he hid a smile as he set his valise on the floor beside his couch. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into a purple waistcoat.”

  “Vest. And it’s mauve.”

  “It’s purple.”

  “It quite becomes your dark coloring.”

  To cover the discomfiture her approval gave him, he pulled several bank notes and coins from his pocket. “Here is the money I owe you, Miss Hathaway.” He counted it out and set it on the table between the windows. “With interest, compounded daily.” Out of concern for how it might appear to others, he hadn’t given it to her earlier in the bank, or later, out on the street. Although, insomuch as they were sharing a sleeping compartment, it might be a bit late to worry about her reputation.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rylander.”

  He watched her slip the money into her valise and thought again what an odd, contradictory woman she was. Brazen, beautiful in a serene, almost cold sort of way, and far too intelligent for her own good, she had captured his attention from the moment he had first seen her on Doyle’s arm at the Wallingford garden party the previous year. He should have made his move then, he realized now. But how could he have competed with Doyle’s easy Irish charm and blond good looks?

  Unless it wasn’t Doyle’s charm that had won her, but his money. Which Tait had in abundance, as well.

  But if he had to guess, based on what he now knew about this resourceful and independent woman, she would probably prefer using her wits to earn her own money rather than having it doled out in payment for her beauty and social connections. It was apparent both he and Doyle had greatly underestimated the demure Miss Hamilton.

  And how pretty she would look in that fine yellow dress, despite a near sleepless night.

  Picking up her valise, which he knew she would insist on taking even though they would be only two cars away, he motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

  “What about Smythe? What if he sees us?”

  “I’m hoping he will. If he makes a move, I’ll deal with it. If not, at least I’ll see who and what I’m up against. At the very least, we’ll enjoy a hot meal.”

  “So you’re using me for bait?”

  He smiled. “You’ll be safe, Miss Hathaway. My word on it.”

  Lunch was a continuation of the easy companionship they had enjoyed throughout the morning in Harrisburg. As they chatted amiably over bowls of salad and soup and tall glasses of lemonade, the threat of Smythe faded into the background drone of other voices, the clink of tableware, the constant clack of the wheels beneath their feet. Insulated by the noise around them, they talked freely of many subjects, from her life with Mrs. Throckmorton to his upbringing in a small North Carolina town and their shared fascination with business matters. She was witty and charming and so quick-minded he often found himself struggling to keep up with her. A novel occurrence, as far as his experience with women went.

  Then he blundered by asking her about Smythe.

  Immediately she slipped behind the serene façade. Instead of answering, she put on a smile as impersonal as it was cool, and asked his opinion about the instability of the bank note with all the counterfeiting since the war, and whether he thought President Grant had been instrumental in the Black Friday scandal and collapse of the gold market the previous year.

  Not a conversation Tait had ever expected to have with a woman over a plate of ham slices and cucumber sandwiches. But recognizing it as his punishment for prying into her personal life, he allowed himself to be drawn into a rather dull discussion, if only to keep her from retreating further.

  They were like dancers in a verbal waltz—skirting around controversial subjects, saying the proper things, and keeping the proper space between them, as careful with their words as dancers were with their steps.

  Or perhaps with Lucinda, it was more like a fencing match. Thrust, parry, retreat, attack. The woman definitely kept him on his toes.

  But just when he thought he’d dodged the worst of it, she slipped under his guard with a jab of her own.

  “Doyle told me you once fought for money,” she said, catching him with a mouth full of lettuce. “Explain that if you will.”

  Touché. But being no coward, Tait finished chewing, set down his fork, and answered as best he could while telling her as little as possible, not only because it wasn’t a suitable topic for dinner conversation, especially with a woman, but because he didn’t enjoy brutality—given or received—and had worked hard to put behind him that unsavory period in his life.

  “It was a difficult time for returning soldiers after the war. Especially an Irish hustler with more ambition than skill, and a struggling Southern lawyer with no clients. The quickest way to build a stake was for me to win fights and for Doyle to increase the earnings with well-placed bets.”

  “So Doyle took the money and you took the beating.”

  A harsh view but unfortunately correct. “It was the best use of our talents at the time. Doyle has always had a genius for turning a dollar. He could triple a bet twice over while I was still plodding along, mulling the risks.”

  “You? A plodder? I think not.”

  “Perhaps a dog with a bone, then,” he amended, toying with his fork to hide his discomfiture at having to dredge up unpleasant memories. Tait hated talking about those years. Hated even thinking about them. “I fear I have an obsessive nature when something interests me or I’m confronted with a puzzle. I can’t seem to let it rest until I have it figured out.” He shot her a pointed look.

  “As you’ve so readily demonstrated,” she fired back. “Repeatedly.” Yet, some of the combativeness left her eyes as she studied him.

  He could almost feel her mind probing his—assessing, weighing, peeking into every dark corner. He allowed it because he had nothing to hide, and because doing so might gain her trust, and because he was a man and what man didn’t enjoy being scrutinized by a beautiful woman. But this reversal of role was difficult for him, and he had to flatten his palm against the table to keep from fidgeting with impatience.

  “I appreciate that you’re wise enough to consider the risks, Mr. Rylander,” she finally said. “Not all men are. And that you had the cou
rage to fight when it was necessary, and the wisdom to stop when it wasn’t.”

  He shook his head, uneasy with the sentiment. “I’m afraid it had less to do with courage and wisdom, Miss Hathaway, and more to do with the ache of empty stomachs. I take no pride in what I did. But one does what one must.”

  She gave a sad smile. “Yes. One does.”

  He sensed currents running between them. Not sure what they meant, but unwilling to disrupt them, he sat motionless as she reached across the table. With great care, as if fearful of causing pain, she brushed a fingertip over the cracked knuckles that rose like swollen bee stings on the back of his battered right hand.

  A simple touch, yet he felt it all through his body, like a bolt of energy racing along his nerves to lodge in his heart.

  “Do they hurt?”

  He cleared his throat. “Sometimes. In winter. Not bad.”

  “I’m sorry for that.”

  He had to fight to keep from grabbing her hand when she pulled it away.

  Sitting back in her chair, she cocked her head to one side and smiled at him in a way that took away his breath. “Are we friends again, then, Mr. Rylander?”

  Feeling as if a weight had been lifted off his chest, he smiled back. “Always, Miss Hathaway.”

  They resumed eating. Tait hardly tasted it but went through the motions to give himself something to do other than stare at her. He tried not to be obvious about it, but everything about her fascinated him, and he found himself searching each movement and expression for a clue to the mystery that was Lucinda.

  Was the way she glanced around the car after each sip of her lemonade a sign of boredom? Curiosity? Or was she assessing danger?

  Did those pursed lips indicate pique? Or an attempt to suppress a smile?

  Was she betraying nervousness or impatience when she fussed with her napkin or smoothed a fold in her skirt or lifted a hand to check her hair?

  Tiny tells that left him with more questions than answers, yet challenged him to keep trying until he could fit all the pieces together.