Beyond Betrayal (2 page)

I despise the necessity for asking, dear sister, but I must, though I do so without Tom's knowledge. If you have any means of assisting us, your kindness would be greatly appreciated. You know that I will repay you as soon as I am able.

Your loving sister, always, Eve.

~~~

Delilah closed her eyes briefly as she considered the implications hidden between the lines of script. Eve had as much pride and independence as any Sinclair. She'd never ask for help unless there was dire need of it. And, although she'd alluded only to the need for financial help, Delilah couldn't shake the certainty that there was something her sister wasn't saying. Regardless, the problem that Delilah faced at the moment was that she wasn't much better off financially than Eve. Yet somehow, in some way, she had to find the means to aid her. She'd promised Daddy long ago that she'd always look out for her younger sister.

With single-minded intensity, Delilah stared at the passing landscape as though the answer to her problem lay out there somewhere. Perhaps in the lee of a hillock or boulder where, in the higher altitudes, dirty clumps of snow still battled the inevitable onslaught of spring. Perhaps beneath the warmth of the sunlight in the greening meadows, where the spring warmth had coaxed the tender young grass and crocuses to the surface. Or perhaps in some of the more distant mountain peaks, where the snows receded, crowning the peaks while leaving vast valleys green with the moisture of their runoff. Valleys free at last for the cattle who had survived the winter to graze upon.

But she saw no answers there. With a sigh, she returned her gaze to the nearer landscape, and stared sightlessly at the newly-emerged tender silver-green leaves on the sagebrush lining the railroad. In the seat across from her, she heard the rustle of Mrs. Higgins' skirts as the lady shifted position. She was no doubt settling her three-year-old daughter's head more comfortably on her lap; the child had been asleep for some time.

Mrs. Higgins was young—certainly no older than Delilah's own twenty-two years—and, Delilah had noted, she seemed rather naive.

On the seat next to Delilah sat a man who'd gotten on at the last stop—continuing a journey he'd begun some time ago, according to his initial conversation with the man across the way. From his direction came the periodic crackle of paper as he sorted through a sheaf that he'd pulled from a worn leather satchel shortly after seating himself.

"Are you a bounty hunter, sir?” Mrs. Higgins's quiet voice attracted Delilah's attention, the question piquing her own interest, and, despite herself, she listened for the reply.

"Yes, ma'am.” The man's drawl was definitely Southern in origin, diluted by years in the West. "Joseph Pike's the name."

"Mrs. Higgins.
Clara
Higgins," Clara introduced herself. "This is my daughter, Sarah."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am.” Pike cleared his throat. "I'm looking for these here three men.” More crackling paper. "Heard they'd been seen up this way."

Her attention captured, Delilah looked. Noting her regard, Pike tipped his hat and introduced himself again. "Mrs. Delilah Sterne," Delilah offered with a nod, the lie coming easily to her lips after years of use. She'd been only seventeen when she'd claimed it as her own.

"It's right terrible to see such a young woman dressed in black. You been widowed long, ma'am?"

"Not long enough to forget him," she replied in a suitably subdued voice, as her blue-eyes misted. Her statement confirmed her widowhood even as it erected a barrier against unwanted male attention.

"My sympathies, ma'am.” Pike returned his attention to the
WANTED
posters and angled them so that both she and Clara could see them. "These here are the men I'm lookin' for. You jest let me know if you've seen any of 'em. Murderers and thieves, the lot of them. Butch Morgan, here," he said, pointing to the first poster, "is a rustler and a bank robber.” The rendering on the poster revealed an individual with a long narrow face, unshaven appearance, and cold eyes. Pike slid Morgan's poster behind and revealed the next man he hunted. "This here's George Clark. He's wanted for robbin' a bank and killin' the clerk in Pine Bluffs. Word is he's travelin' with Morgan now.” George Clark appeared to be a clean-cut looking man with a large walrus moustache. Had it not been for the scar on his left cheek, he would not have appeared dangerous in the least.

"My parents live in Wyoming," Mrs. Higgins offered. "Not far from Pine Bluffs."

"That's nice country, ma'am," Pike commented and switched posters. "This here feller is wanted for murderin' a kid in Cedar Crossing.” He met Clara Higgins gaze. "That's in Wyomin' too, ma'am.” She nodded, and he transferred his gaze to Delilah. "Samson Towers is his name."

Despite the crudeness of the sketched likeness, Samson Towers was not an unhandsome man. He had dark hair and a strong jaw. "He shot the kid in the back, they say," Pike continued. Delilah listened to him with polite disinterest until she caught sight of the size of the reward offered for bringing Towers in alive:
One thousand dollars
!

"Big mistake him shooting Boyd Telford," Pike was saying. "He was the only son of Paul Telford.” He raised his left brow as though that name should mean something to her. When Delilah merely shook her head, he looked at Clara Higgins expectantly, but she seemed at a loss as well. "The rancher," he explained. "Owns blamed near half of Wyoming territory."

"Oh," Delilah said weakly. On second thought, she probably had heard the name, but her mind was still on that thousand dollars. "And you say Mr. Towers has been seen in Montana?"

Pike nodded and glanced around, ostensibly to ensure that none of his competitors were near. "Up near Helena or Butte, I hear," he replied in a low voice. "But you don't need to worry ma'am," he said to Delilah. "I doubt he'd be stupid enough to be in town. He'll be hidin' out in the hills somewhere. And I aim to get him."

Delilah didn't bother telling Pike that her own destination was neither Helena nor Butte, but Red Rock, a small town situated between and West of the two towns. Tom and Eve's ranch lay just South and a bit West of Red Rock. Anxious to see her sister, Delilah would be continuing on from Butte as soon the train pulled into station, if that was at all possible.

At that moment, a sharp yap from the direction of Delilah's open carpetbag drew three pairs of eyes and she reached down automatically to comfort the small furball which had recently become the bane of her existence. The dog had been a gift from an elderly woman Delilah had befriended. She didn't know why she'd allowed Mrs. Sharp to convince her to accompany her on her health-seeking excursion to the Soda Springs in Idaho Territory. Having learned long ago that self-reliance was the best policy, Delilah wasn't ordinarily prone to sentimental friendships. Nevertheless she had accompanied the lonely old woman who'd travelled half a continent seeking a cure for her pain-ridden body. Perhaps she'd agreed because Mrs. Sharp had in some way reminded her of the mother she'd lost long ago. But regardless of whatever uncharacteristic and indecipherable reason she may have had, her compliance with the woman's wishes had resulted in her being at Mrs. Edwina Sharp's bedside in the Soda Springs Hotel when she passed on.

On her deathbed, Edwina had bequeathed to Delilah the thing she loved most in the world: her dog, Poopsy. She'd insisted that Poopsy had taken a shine to Delilah, and she could leave her with no one else.

And now Delilah was stuck with a burdensome pet whose name she refused to utter. And, for the longest time, the dog had disdained to answer to any other appellation. She and Poopsy had, however, finally arrived at a compromise. She called the dog
Poochie
, and Poopsy tolerated her mispronunciation enough to respond.

"Perhaps she's hungry," Clara suggested.

Delilah shook her head. "Actually, I think she has to go. I just hope she can hold it until the next stop."

"What is it?" Mr. Pike asked, eyeing Poopsy with a kind of curious disdain.

Delilah looked at him in startlement. "Why she's a dog, Mr. Pike. Of the Yorkshire breed I am told."

Pike's brows arched doubtfully. "Don't look like no dog I've ever seen. Way too small to be any good. One kick from a cow, and it'd be done for."

"Indeed," Delilah acknowledged. Privately, she found herself more than half in agreement with Mr. Pike. She'd spent much of her life on a farm where animals either earned their keep or ended up on the dinner table. "However, I don't believe this breed was meant for herding, Mr. Pike. The elderly woman who owned her formerly regarded her as a companion, and nothing more."

"Companion?" Mr. Pike repeated in rhetorical amazement. Then, with a disbelieving shake of his head, he fell silent.

"I didn't think bounty hunters took trains," Clara Higgins commented out of nowhere a few minutes later, her thoughts obviously having returned to their previous topic of conversation. It was the sort of remark which that had caused Delilah to label her naive, but perhaps it was simply that Clara had managed to retain a childlike innocence that had long ago been lost to Delilah. "I thought you had to be able to track, like you can on horseback."

Pike smiled with a touch of condescension and explained. "We change with the times, ma'am. No sense in ridin' for days when we can just load our horses into the stock car and take the train to the area where the wanted man was seen. It saves time.” Then he grimaced and shifted meaningfully. "Though I have to say that a saddle is a mite more comfortable than these benches."

Acknowledging his last statement with only a distracted little smile, Clara Higgins nodded and said, "I can see that it
would
save time. How interesting."

"And is your home in Butte, ma'am?" Pike directed his question to Clara.

She shook her head. "Helena, actually. I've just been visiting my parents. I expect my husband, John, will be waiting at the station in Butte for me though. He said he had business there, so planned to meet me and we'd continue on together. He's a lawyer in Helena, you know."

Delilah listened to the conversation drone on without paying any particular attention as her thoughts returned once again to Towers and the impressive bounty being offered for his capture. Although vaguely aware that Pike began casting repeated glances in her direction as he regaled Clara with tales of his daring and dangerous efforts to bring the West's most vicious criminals to justice, Delilah ignored his interest.

One thousand dollars!

She surreptitiously studied the poster that Pike had left lying across his knee. Samson Towers was described as a big man in both height and figure, being over six feet tall with a solid muscular build. He had a drooping mustache, his eyes were dark, probably either black or dark brown, and, according to the description, he had no distinguishing marks or scars.

One thousand dollars! That kind of money would save Eve and Tom's ranch, and give Delilah herself a good stake for the future. If only there was a way she could take advantage of it.

Her father had been a bounty hunter. In fact, Garrett Sinclair had been among the best of the breed. Nothing like Joseph Pike who, in Delilah's considered opinion, was much too loquacious to be good at his work. Although she had to admit that, thus far, she didn't think that Mr. Pike was one of the men that her father would have accused of giving the occupation a bad name. Her father had always claimed there were far too many bounty hunters of that ilk—men as brutal as those they hunted—and he had carefully shielded his family from contact with such persons.

But despite her secondary knowledge of the profession, Delilah just couldn't think of a way to track down a murderer, capture him, and return him to justice—on her own—in order to collect the reward. So, finally, she faced the fact that there was no sense dreaming about
if only
and forcefully returned her thoughts to her original plan.

She'd simply have to pray that her luck changed. If she'd been less depressed, and if the railroad hadn't begun warning passengers against members of her profession, she might have attempted to change her fortunes en route. She'd found that men often had a more pragmatic view toward financial losses incurred over a friendly game of cards during an otherwise monotonous journey. But instinct had told her that now was not the time for gaming, and her instincts had rarely failed her. Part of that feeling no doubt stemmed from the fact that many of the passengers were men heading north to work on the railroad that was being constructed north of Helena. Small ranchers and farmers seeking work after a disastrous winter would have decidedly empty pockets.

At that moment the train began to labor as the grade changed. "Sounds like we're gettin' closer to Butte," Pike commented.

Delilah looked out the window to see if she could catch a glimpse of the town. They were travelling through a breath-stealing mountain pass. Enormous granite cliffs bordered bottomless chasms. Wispy clouds settled on stone ledges to watch the passage of the tiny humans who thought they could tame this vast, wild land. And sunlight gilded the snowy peaks with gold. But Butte City was not yet in sight.

In fact, it was a good while yet before the train blew its whistle to announce its arrival in the town. When it did, Delilah looked out the window to see mammoth clouds of smoke rising into the blue sky from the smelters in the surrounding hills. Delilah had been told that mining was the lifeblood of the prosperous town, but hadn't realized how that would translate into actuality until she saw the billowing clouds. She frowned slightly, not quite certain how she felt about the smoke. It seemed a bit like a blemish, tarnishing the beauty of the landscape. Yet the mines obviously benefited a great many people, for she'd heard estimates which had placed the population of Butte City well into the thousands, perhaps more than ten thousand.