Lisa Bingham (10 page)

The moment those familiar deep tones reached her consciousness, she grew limp, wondering why she hadn’t recognized his body pressed to her own. As his grip loosened, she turned to throw her own arms around his neck.

“Someone shot at me!”

He smoothed his hand over her hair and then her back.

“I know. I know.”

Sobbing, she clung to him even harder.

“But why? How can anyone possibly want to hurt me? I don’t know anyone in this…this b-blasted country except you, Chloe and a few odd shopkeepers.”

John’s hands were strong and broad, pulling her tightly against him, so the warmth of his body could seep into her own and chase away the sudden chill.

Her knees trembled so badly that she could no longer stand. As if he understood, John swept her up and carried her to a crate in the corner. There, he set her down and immediately turned his attention to her arm.

“It’s just a scratch,” he stated, sounding relieved.

Louisa made the mistake of looking down. Just as John had said, the wound was barely worth mentioning. Although her sleeve had been torn—yet another damaged garment to her credit—her arm had suffered little more than a graze. Nevertheless, the sight of the blood smearing her flesh was enough to make her stomach lurch anew.

Slapping her hand to her mouth, she vaulted off the crate and rushed across the room to a spot where several cleaning buckets had been left. But even as she propped her hand against the wall, she willed the sickness to pass. She would not disgrace herself in front of this man. Not again.

L
ouisa took deep, gulping breaths, pushing her queasiness aside through sheer effort of will. Her concentration was so absolute that she jumped when John pressed a cool, wet cloth into her hand.

“Go ahead. It’s clean.”

Nodding, she noted that he’d given her a snowy white handkerchief. Eagerly, she pressed it against her lips, then dabbed it to her brows.

“Thank you.”

A moment of silence was punctuated by the continued shouts and squeals of surprise that came to them from beyond the door.

“You need to see a doctor.”

She closed her eyes, growing tired of the man’s repeated suggestion.

“There’s no need. I am merely exhausted by the journey I’ve undertaken so far. I’m unsettled and anxious and… Home. I need to be home.”

She looked up to find him watching her intently. “Is that what Winslow Manor is to you? Home?”

“Yes. It’s where I plan to live from now on.”

“Ahh, but isn’t the term ‘home’ to be used for a place where someone has already lived for some time?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. Home is the place where one feels as if she belongs.” Louisa closed her eyes, to relish the coolness of the cloth again. “I have had many homes, but none of them permanent.”

The moment the words were uttered, she realized her mistake. The real Louisa Haversham would never admit to such a thing. The real Louisa Haversham had spent most of her years in a boarding school, not moving from one position to another.

Lifting her head, she pushed back the vestiges of sickness. “I want to go to my railway car now.”

She had expected an argument, but received none. Instead, she watched as John drew his pistol from his holster and surveyed the room. “We’ll go out this door,” he said, motioning to a cargo door on the far side. “Rather than walking along the boardwalk, we’ll circle around and come to the car from behind.”

Not well enough to argue, she nodded her assent. When his hand closed around hers, she drew upon the strength it provided.

Someone had shot at her!

The words repeated in her head over and over as she followed John in a circuitous route through the station house and then the maze of trains. He moved quickly, searching the crowd furtively as he went. Finally, he stopped.

“This is it.”

Louisa blinked. She’d been so immersed in the throbbing of her arm and the rush to keep up that she’d given little attention to the route they’d taken.

Looking up, she saw a railway car that was painted as drably as any of the others, and her heart sank. When she’d been told that she would be riding in a private conveyance, she’d imagined something more elegant.

John’s hands spanned her waist and he lifted her up to the first step. Stumbling slightly, she climbed onto the landing, then opened the door.

“Dear sweet heaven above,” she whispered, transfixed by what she saw.

She could have been dropped into a fairyland without being more surprised. Once she’d stepped over the threshold, she was surrounded in luxury. Crystal chandeliers twinkled in the late afternoon sunshine. Heavy brocade draperies framed the windows and a velvety Aubusson carpet covered the floor.

“As you can see, Charles spared no expense when he was traveling.”

After shutting the door behind her, John moved from window to window, drawing thick shades.

Louisa mourned the loss of light, but she understood the precaution. Still feeling shaky, she crossed to a richly tufted settee and sank down upon it. As she fought to catch her breath, she rued the tightness of her corset and the black clothing she’d been forced to wear. She felt as if she were being smothered in the garments, and not just by their weight. Their somber cast seemed entirely out of place with the adventure of this rolling palace.

John squatted in front of her so that he could meet her eyes directly. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

She managed a weak smile. “Yes. I feel safer here.”

He studied her features for several long seconds, then finally gave a curt nod. “I’ve got to arrange a few last-minute details. I’ll send Chloe to you right away. Don’t open the door to anyone but her or me and do not, under any circumstances, lift the shades. Do you understand?”

She nodded, feeling inexplicably close to tears. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ever been so concerned about her well-being.

Shifting his weight to one knee, John reached beneath his pant leg and withdrew a tiny pistol.

“Can you shoot one of these?”

She blinked, hardly able to believe that he was about to give her a weapon. “Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded, even though she’d never held a gun in her life.

John cracked the derringer open to show her that two bullets were already loaded in the chambers.

“Use it only if necessary and only if someone is close enough that you can do some damage.”

He placed the gun in her hand and then stood. He was halfway to the door when he paused, then returned. Before she knew what he meant to do, he’d bent and placed a soft kiss against her lips.

“Take care of yourself, Mrs. Winslow.”

Then he strode from the train, locking the door behind him.

It wasn’t until the silence settled around her that Louisa realized she hadn’t been able to complete her original errand. If there were telegrams awaiting her, she had no way to retrieve them. Nor did she have the means to get word to Phoebe that she would soon be leaving for Boston.

She closed her eyes and felt her body suddenly flooded with weariness. This whole situation was supposed to be so simple. She would become Louisa Haversham and her life would be easy from that point on.

So how had the plan grown so complicated so quickly?

Groaning, she rested her cheek on her hand. She could only pray that once she was in Boston, her life would resume a more peaceful routine.

Neil had taken less than a half-dozen steps before Tucker fell into step behind him.

“I came t’see if’n yer ready t’unload the trunks.”

Neil offered him a curt nod, then asked, “Did you see who fired the shot?” His fingers curled around the butt of his revolver, his eyes carefully scanning the crowd.

Tucker gave a hoot of laughter. “Tweren’t aimed at the little missy, I can tell you that.”

Neil paused and glared down at the man. “What do you mean?”

“The shooting didn’t have anythin’ t’do with the girl.” He waved in the direction of the train. “It was nothin’ more than a jealous husband.”

Neil scowled.

The wizened man chortled. “When Mrs. Winslow dodged into the crowd, she got in the middle of a lovers’ tiff. It seems that a woman from these parts ran off with her husband’s hired man. He tracked ’em down and when he tried t’retrieve his bride, the hired man let off a shot. The bullet lodged into a pole not more’n an inch away from where Mrs. Winslow was situated. She must have been hit by a sliver of wood.”

Neil studied the evident glee in Tucker’s face, then peered down the length of the platform, taking in the sight of a pair of uniformed policemen and a knot of people.

“You’re sure about that?”

“Hell, yes. They just retrieved the pair of ’em and loaded them up in the paddy wagon. The woman followed it at least a couple of blocks, blubbering and wailing the entire time.”

“So no one made an attempt on Mrs. Winslow’s life?”

“Not this time.”

As Tucker hurried off to unload the trunks, Neil squinted into the sunshine, his eyes again searching the crowded platforms.

He’d been watching Louisa for more than a week, and today had been the first hint of danger. Unaccountably, when Neil had heard the shot, he’d felt a pang of relief. Finally Louisa’s uncle had played his hand and given Neil a target to follow.

But if Tucker’s account was correct, that meant that Louisa’s uncle still hadn’t made his move. Until he did, Neil was in the dark about who or what to protect Louisa from.

Lifting his hat, he swiped at the sweat gathering on his brow, then turned in the direction of the telegraph office. It was time to wire Oregon and get more information from the real Louisa Haversham.

The figure lingering in the shadows near the station turned away from John Smith as the man strode into the station.

The weight of the pistol pressed into the assassin’s leg. The scuffle on the platform had kept any shots from being fired at Louisa Haversham Winslow.

“It won’t be that easy or that quick. Not anymore.”

The assassin whirled, then relaxed.

“Mr. Badger. What are you doing here?”

“We’ve received new instructions.”

“I haven’t been able to get her in a position where I could—”

He held up a hand. “No matter. Our employer has decided we need to delay things.”

“Delay things?” The assassin wiped at moist palms, not willing to be caught with evidence of a weak will.

“Horace has made plans to come to America. We’re to wait until he arrives before killing her.”

The assassin scowled. “Why?”

Badger shrugged. “Don’t ask questions. You’ve been paid generously for your time.” His eyes narrowed. “Just make sure you’re ready to make your move the moment your services are required.”

“She has a bodyguard with her.”

Badger’s eyes rose. “So? Let the man stay. There are ways to ensure a person’s death that are subtler than a bullet. If he were to suddenly disappear, it would cause more questions than we can afford right now.”

Once the train had left the station and the journey to Boston had begun, Louisa started to relax. Slowly the icy fear that had gripped her since being shot at the station melted away.

She was safe now. She’d left New York behind her.

Rising from the settee where she’d collapsed, she explored her surroundings, discovering to her delight that the car actually contained three small rooms.

The first was the elegant sitting room. Here it was easy to imagine that Charles had entertained his business clients. The space was complete with a small bar, an array of liquors, teas and coffees, plus several boxes of assorted chocolates. Beyond that room was a small bedroom complete with an overstuffed chair and a narrow bed, and to the rear of that, a cramped closet and dressing area.

Standing in the curtained archway that led into the closet, Louisa felt gooseflesh rise at the base of her neck. Staring at the dark suits hung on the rod, she eerily studied the staid garments, feeling like an interloper.

He would have been your husband,
a tiny voice whispered in her head.

Closing her eyes, she absorbed the scent of tobacco. Pipe tobacco.

Grimacing, Louisa realized that she’d never been fond of that smell. It reminded her too much of her first position as a paid companion, to a woman whose husband had been a drunken brute. The man had terrorized his wife and frightened Louisa to death.

Shaking off the memory, she turned her back to the clothes and moved to the edge of the bed, where she stripped off her dress and petticoats.

A cistern was mounted on the wall and she dampened a cloth from a nearby stack, gently pressing it to her wound. Immediately a sharp pain shot down her arm into her fingers, but she gritted her teeth, refusing to let so much as a hiss leave her lips. If she did, she had no doubts that John would come bursting through the door—with Mr. Pritchard right behind him, no doubt.

Again she grimaced. If she’d known that the lawyer intended to accompany them, she would have…

Well, she didn’t know what she would have done. Since John and Mr. Pritchard ignored her complaints, she doubted she would have been able to prevent the arrangement, but at least she could have tried. As it was, she’d left the men glaring at each other from opposite sides of the railway car.

Which was all the more reason why she should take advantage of her excuse to rest.

Unfastening the top hook of her basque, she took a gulp of air, then sank onto the chair.

Why had someone shot her? Why?

“You won’t get much sleep in that chair.”

Louisa didn’t even bother to open her eyes. Although she’d hoped that John would respect her need for privacy, she hadn’t really expected him to do so. “I don’t think I can sleep. I’m still…rattled.”

He didn’t reply to that. He merely knelt beside her, taking her arm and examining the long, narrow wound that had already begun to scab over.

“It’s shallow enough that it won’t leave a scar.”

He held up a coil of bandages.

Louisa eyed them ruefully. “Don’t tell me that Chloe sacrificed one of her petticoat flounces for a dressing.”

“Not at all. We found some medical supplies in the galley.”

“You’ve been prying into the cupboards?”

“Not necessary. Mr. Pritchard has ridden in this car on several occasions and he seems quite familiar with all it has to offer.” John’s lips curved wryly. “He’s already lit the stove and begun a pot of tea, if you’d care for some.”

It was the first pleasant idea she’d heard all day. “I would love a cup.”

He pointed to her arm. “I want to see to this first.”

She stared down at the angry scratch, wondering how something so shallow could cause her arm to throb so mightily. “Very well.”

She bit her lip as he took her arm and gently bandaged her injuries. Through it all, she forced herself to ignore his touch…the heat that spread through her veins…the way her body grew heavy and languorous.

When he’d finished, she reluctantly opened her eyes and stared up at John through her lashes. His gaze was no less intent than hers.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“Don’t what?”

He knew what he was doing. There was no need for her to clarify.

“I think it would be best if you left me alone now.” When he didn’t move, she said, “Please. After all I’ve been through today, I simply can’t endure anything more.”

The tiny room seemed to pulse with the intensity of their awareness. Louisa found herself praying that John would walk away, yet wishing with nearly the same intensity that he would draw her into his arms and make her forget her aches and worries.