Ballad Beauty (2 page)

Most people would have been afraid of Moira, due to her having only one eye, but Noah took to her like a duck to water. He never bothered asking her how she lost her eye—though he did beg to try on her patch.

Moira had a few long talks with him during the time they stayed with her in Prairie Dell. She realized how shocked he’d been by the events surrounding the robbery. She encouraged him to continue to grow straight and strong. She promised him he would grow into a better man than his father. And Sam.

Noah fingered Moira’s last letter that sat in his pocket. She’d made a habit of writing to him a few times a year for the last ten years. His friendship with her was the one good thing that came from his association with the outlaw Sam McShan.

It almost surprised him how little he felt at hearing that Pete was dead, but the hate for Sam McShan that coursed through his veins didn’t surprise him at all.

He pulled himself together and asked Patch, “Who drew the assignment?”

“Not quite sure, sonny boy. I just heard the news not ten minutes ‘fore you waltzed in.”

He looked the older Ranger square in the eye. “I’m taking it, Patch. And no one’s going to stop me.”

He thought again of the young girl from long ago. How she’d been raised without her daddy. How the sheriff hadn’t been there to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day or squeeze his own wife’s hand as their grandchild was baptized in the local church.

He thought of all the people who’d done nothing wrong, yet they’d suffered the loss of their life savings in bank robberies too numerous to count. Maybe they’d gone bankrupt. Had to pull up stakes and move elsewhere. Maybe they gave up on what little dreams they had. But now he could finally do something about their devastation.

He’d toyed with the idea of his days as a Ranger being over after the disaster at Las Cuevas, but he only fooled himself. He loved the work too much and was proud he was a part of a group of men who cherished honor and the law. He also knew he could never settle down. Rangering suited him just fine.

He squared his shoulders as he moved from the tent and made his way to HQ. He would be the one to bring in Pistol Pete’s sorry partner, the infamous Sam McShan. Maybe there was some justice in the world, after all.

CHAPTER 2

Riley Withers leaned against the building as the raw December wind whipped about him.

Damn.
Wasn’t the girl ever going to come out?

He glanced up and down the quiet street as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. He hated winter. That’s why he left New York in the first place. And yet here he was in Boston, of all places, slowly freezing to death. He longed for a hot cup of black coffee. He could imagine the smell as it wafted up to his nostrils before he took that first, welcomed sip. The liquid would scald like fire going down, warming a trail to his belly.

He shivered again. His head ached from the cold. The cook said the girl would leave today. He’d spent enough time sidling up to the woman to know everything that happened at The Thompson School. He’d even kissed the homely creature more than once, all to get the information he needed. Sometimes he amazed himself at the lengths he would go to, but his mind had been set. A fortune hung in the balance.

And Jenny McShanahan was the key.

A cab pulled up, and a man in his late forties stepped from it. He gingerly picked his way up the icy walkway and entered the school. Moments later he emerged, a valise in one hand and a young woman that Riley assumed was Jenny McShanahan on his arm. They climbed into the cab and signaled the driver to leave.

He didn’t panic. The train station was but a few blocks. He’d checked the departure schedule. He could walk to the depot and still be there in plenty of time to purchase his ticket and begin his task.

He could taste the money. And Jenny McShanahan would lead him to it.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Randolph. I do appreciate you escorting me to the train station.” Jenny tugged on her hat, which the winter wind tilted slightly. She reached into her reticule for her ticket.

“No problem, my dear.” He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. “I only wish I were going with you.”

“You? In the West?” She stared at him incredulously. “I can’t imagine someone being a less likely candidate, sir.” She eyed his immaculate white shirt and gray suit, the buffed nails and fresh haircut, and sighed. “You are far too well bred to consider it.”

“Now, Jenny, you aren’t the only one who longs to see the West. I have often thought that once the children are grown, Mrs. Randolph and I might travel there. If we like it, who knows? I can’t name a place on earth which couldn’t use a good doctor.” He grinned mischievously. “Especially with all those outlaws shooting innocent people. And each other.”

She laughed. “You get enough trouble in Boston, I’m afraid. I’ve learned so much helping you at the clinic.”

“And I have enjoyed your capable assistance, child.” He looked at her fondly. “Although you aren’t a child anymore, my dear.”

She gave him a nervous glance. “A part of me is afraid Papa won’t even recognize me. I’ve missed him so much, Dr. Randolph. I don’t know how we’re going to adjust being together after so many years apart.”

He squeezed her elbow affectionately. “You’ll get on admirably. I fear the only problem will be his regret in how long you’ve been separated.”

She swallowed hard. “It has been a long time.” She straightened her shoulders. “But there’s new country to see and a decade to catch up on. I know we’ll be fine.”

She saw the shadow that crossed the physician’s pleasant features. She knew how upset he was with her father for practically abandoning her all these years. He’d warned her once he read the letter how she must temper her expectations.

“You’re a romantic, Jenny. Practical? Yes. Full of control. But you’ve built your father into something no man could live up to. You’ve got to take it slowly.”

“It’s almost time to board,” she said aloud, putting his warning aside.

He led her to the track and handed the valise to a porter. “Please telegram me once you’ve arrived.” He enveloped her in his arms for a brief moment and brushed a fatherly kiss upon her brow. “We’ll miss you. And remember,” he said almost wistfully, “if things don’t work out, you’ll always have a place with us here in Boston.”

Quick tears sprang to her eyes. “Thank you.”

She stepped up carefully into the railcar, the porter guiding her gently. She turned and waved once and then entered the narrow hallway. As they had arranged, he would now leave. She didn’t think she could stand the thought of seeing him fade to a small dot as the train pulled out from the station and picked up speed.

Her emotions were a conflicting bundle at this point. More than anything, she was ready to unite with her father—yet Dr. Randolph had been like a father to her these past few years. Guilt tore at her for leaving him—and at her conscience for the small part of her that wanted to stay in Boston.

The porter assisted her in finding a seat, placing her case above her.

“Let me know if you need anything, miss.” He smiled kindly at her.

She placed her sewing basket next to her and sat back in her seat, her reticule and its holdings clutched tightly in her lap. She closed her eyes.

She was scared to death.

Riley let her ride a day. He sat in the same car as she did, but he didn’t speak to her. Once or twice she must have sensed him studying her because she turned slightly in his direction. He made sure he was looking out the window or at the newspaper in his lap. He didn’t want to tip his hand or frighten her in any way.

She was a pretty little thing. Or he supposed little wasn’t the exact word he had in mind. She was taller than a lot of men, maybe five-eight, five-nine. She hunched down a lot, her shoulders rolled forward as if she were self-conscious of her height. She had a trim figure and thick, blond hair. She kept to herself, not starting any conversations, but politely answering when addressed.

A family of five had been seated around her, the three children climbing everywhere—even over her—but she didn’t seem to mind. He watched her mouth go soft when the mother asked her to hold the little baby for a moment. She cooed to it, rocking it gently, lost in the moment. He filed it away. He was used to looking for information, and that included any weaknesses. He needed to know everything he could about Jenny McShanahan.

He shifted in his seat, tossing the paper aside. The family and their brats had disembarked at the last stop. He was glad. He hated kids. Couldn’t stand their non-stop prattle. He stood, stretched, and then moved down the aisle. As he neared Jenny, he paused and looked out the window.

“Mighty pretty,” he said softly.

“I beg your pardon?” Jenny looked up at the stranger hovering over her.

“Is this seat taken?”

She looked nervously about, but no one came to her aid. One just didn’t begin conversations with strangers on a train. Especially with a woman traveling alone. It simply wasn’t done. Before she replied, the tall man seated himself across from her. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and then stared out the window. She hoped he wouldn’t address her again.

As he focused on some object outside the moving car, she fiddled with the needlework in her lap as she took surreptitious glances at him. He was what Mr. Johnson, The Thompson School’s janitor, would term
slick as spit.
She’d heard him use the expression a thousand times over the years, but the living example now sat in close proximity to her.

The stranger was tall, very muscular, and probably in his mid-thirties. His dark hair was thinning, his mouth cruel, and his nose had been broken more than once. Of that she was certain. If not for the hard mouth and crooked beak, he would have been termed a handsome man.

But he made her nervous.

His easy motions and smooth tones seemed to hide something. What, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she was leery of him. He reminded her of Simon Legree from Mrs. Stowe’s novel,
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
. For all his comfortable airs, this man seemed out of place in his fancy suit. She recognized a slight drawl when he spoke to her, but she refused to ask him about it.

“Where are you headed? Out West?” he asked suddenly, startling her into pricking her finger with her needle. She lifted the needlepoint away from her so as not to spill any blood on it.

Then he boldly reached over and took her hand. He wrapped a handkerchief around it and pressed the injured finger tightly. Her skin crawled at his clammy touch. She tried to pull away, but he held her firm.

“Just a prick, ma’am. It’ll be fine in a minute.”

She very impolitely yanked her hand this time, which broke the contact between them. He smiled at her as she flushed, as if he knew how uncomfortable she was with her hand held intimately by a stranger.

She unwrapped the cloth. The bleeding had already stopped. She handed him the soiled handkerchief.

“Thank you, sir.”

He flashed a smile at her. “Happy to be of service. Withers is the name. Riley Withers.”

“Then I thank you, Mr. Withers.”

“And your name?”

She sensed herself turning pink at his question. Surely he didn’t expect a young lady traveling alone to divulge her name?

“Miss McShanahan, is it?”

She followed his eyes to her sewing box, where a tag prominently displayed her name. She blushed again.

“Don’t mind, Miss McShanahan. If you are headed to the West, things are a bit more informal there.”

She was on a train headed away from the East Coast. Surely she could admit that much.

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, then, I hope you’re going to Texas. It’s the place to be. God’s country—that’s what we call it.” He smiled at her again.

A cold shiver swam through her. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Withers, I would like to catch up on my reading.” She’d been polite enough. She was ready to end this unwanted conversation.

At first she struggled as she tried to read Mr. Dickens, but her eyes simply glazed over the page. She turned them at periodic intervals. This man made her more than nervous.

Instead, she picked up
Milton Mulholland’s Guidebook to the American West
. Just the feel of it in her hands gave her confidence. She opened to a random page in the well-worn book and began reading—

Western woman are more outspoken than their counterparts in the East. Though polite, a Western woman knows her mind and isn’t afraid to speak it.

She smiled at the passage. She’d underlined it as a personal favorite. At the beginning of her time at The Thompson School, she’d been in constant trouble. Miss Thompson, in particular, accused her of being impudent toward her elders. Her parents raised her to be frank. She’d always spoken her mind, which delighted Papa.

The Thompson School’s staff had been less enamored with her ways. She found herself punished severely until she’d learned to curb her tongue, as should befit a child of ten. She may have learned to exercise caution when speaking in public, but her candor still simmered just below the surface. As far as she was concerned, she was about to become a Western woman. She might as well start practicing now. The rude stranger before her would be the first recipient of her new manners.

She didn’t wait long. The next time he tried to draw her into conversation, Jenny stared at him intently. No dropping of her eyes, no simpering or apologizing, as an Eastern woman would do.

“Excuse me, sir. I do not know you, nor do I have any intentions of making your acquaintance. If you would be so kind as to leave me to my peace, I would be much obliged.”

She tacked on the last phrase so as to perhaps soften her tone, but she continued to look him boldly in the face.

Mr. Withers stood. “Forgive me for intruding on your privacy, ma’am.” He tipped his hat, a snarl on his face, and exited the car.

She leaned her head back, a triumphant smile playing along her mouth. She’d done it! Without mincing words, she’d graciously, yet firmly, let the gentleman know how she felt. She couldn’t wait to reach Texas. Maybe she’d been a Westerner in spirit all along. She knew that she would fit right in.

She settled back, Mulholland’s guidebook in hand, and reopened it to continue reading the now-familiar pages.

Mr. Withers continued to be her shadow for the next few days. He poked and prodded for tidbits of information, even eavesdropping when she asked the conductor questions, but she had been firm. She sensed his frustration but had no sympathy for him. She was proud to have put distance between them. Conversing with him without an introduction wasn’t proper.

And even if it were, something in his manner warned her not to do so.

They both disembarked at the same stop—along with three other passengers—and he tried to assist her with her luggage. She put him off so completely that he abandoned further attempts to speak with her.

Now she was tired, dusty, and irritable. A stagecoach had to be the most uncomfortable place ever invented. Her bottom was sore after two solid days of bumpy trails into Texas. Thank goodness the driver asked Mr. Withers to ride on top so an expectant mother could ride inside in his stead.

Although why anyone would want to be inside the compartment was beyond her. The windows were kept open, despite the cold weather, and dust poured into them. She constantly kept her handkerchief over her mouth, trading one hand for the other when her arm became too weary to hold up the cloth. The driver provided his passengers with dusters, which wrapped around them as a kind of protection over their clothing. Still, she seemed dirtier than a little boy who’d jumped headfirst into his first mud puddle. At least he could claim to be wet. She found it hard to swallow because she was so parched.