The Cowboy Who Caught Her Eye (19 page)

The tent city that had been created was intricate, full of every kind of establishment imaginable, and recent rains had left everything wet, damp, muddy and foul. Fitting. Inside he felt so rotten a coyote would leave him behind.

Regret, recrimination, couldn’t even begin to express what he felt when he thought about Molly—which was all the time—and what he’d done to her.

Besides the main track, which extended less than a mile from where the train veered onto a switchback, there were other lines laid, short ones that held private cars. It was obvious which one was James Fredrickson’s. Red, with gold paint scrolling his name along the side, the car looked as pompous as the man.

Carter hadn’t made his first round of the town when he came upon someone who looked vaguely familiar. Stepping closer to where the man sat on an overturned barrel near a crude forge, filing down a well-worn horseshoe, he nodded a greeting. “You and your brothers started up a business,” Carter said to the oldest of the German men who’d purchased supplies at the mercantile.

“Had to,” the man replied.

“Name’s Carter.”

The man nodded. “Reinhardt Horlacher.”

“Couldn’t get jobs with the railroad?” Carter asked.

Reinhardt stopped hammering with a final ping that lingered as he stared. Eventually, the big blond man must have figured Carter wasn’t a foe, because he shrugged. “We didn’t come to work for the railroad.” His brogue, which replaced
w
’s with
v
’s, was heavy and strong, and dismal. “We came to fetch our little sister.”

There had to be a thousand people trying to live in this muck and mud. “You haven’t found her?”

“
Ja,
we found her.”

Carter waited.

“A railroad man promised her a job.” Reinhardt turned, glared toward the red-and-gold private car. “Now we need five hundred dollars to buy her back.”

A month ago, Carter probably would have walked away, or never stopped to talk to the man in the first place, but now, knowing how much younger sisters meant, he said, “Have you heard of the Pinkerton agency?”

The German nodded.
“Ja.”

Holding out one hand, he said, “Carter Buchanan, Pinkerton operative.” When the man hesitated, Carter pulled out a well-used calling card embossed with his name and the company logo. Eli Greer wanted both robberies solved and he didn’t care who went to jail. Pinkerton’s message also said to take whatever measures necessary.

Reinhardt took the card, read it and handed it back. “I have no money to hire you.”

“It’s not money I need, Mr. Horlacher.”

Two nights later, after learning enough to make him mean and ugly, and with the help of the four Horlacher brothers taking out the men guarding Robbie Fredrickson’s private car, Carter threw open the metal door. He arrived at the foot of the bed about the same time Robbie sat up.

Gun drawn, Carter cocked the trigger. “You can start talking, or you can start praying, the choice is yours. But be assured, if I don’t like what I hear, neither will do you any good.”

Robbie opened his mouth, and Carter recognized a shout was to follow. Before the man got the chance, he said, “No one’s going to hear you. If one of your guards is still alive, he’s long gone.”

“Who are you?” Robbie demanded.

“A living nightmare,” Carter growled. Lamps were lit, flickering shadows across the lavishly furnished car littered with liquor bottles. With a gesture of the barrel of his gun, Carter told Greta Horlacher, “Put something on and get out.” She looked enough like her brothers that he had no doubt, even if his investigation hadn’t said this was where they’d find her, she was Reinhardt’s younger sister.

Disgust renewed itself in Carter. Greta had been on the train the night he’d met with James at Wilcox’s office back in Huron. As well as a few other women the man had lured into his clutches by promising legitimate jobs. The Fredricksons, father and son, had started up a new business for the railroad, managing their own lot of soiled doves. The regulars, those that had followed the train for years, weren’t impressed. Their profits had gone down to a fourth of what they had been.

Carter was disappointed, too. In the fact Robbie Fredrickson was such a pip-squeak of a man. Scrawny and whitish, and trembling so hard his black mustache was shaking, a stiff wind could give the man bruises he’d need a week to recover from. Carter smothered a sigh. He’d heard likewise, yet had hoped Robbie would be the size of the Germans. Carter was itching for a good brawl.

This little ingrate wouldn’t be a fair fight.

Robbie grabbed Greta’s arm as she scooted off the bed. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Carter didn’t even bother shaking his head. “I’m not liking what I’m hearing.” He fired a shot, a warning one that split a few wayward hairs on the top of Robbie’s head before the bullet lodged itself in the headboard.

“Jesus!” Robbie covered his head with both hands as he ducked.

Carter kept his gun on Robbie while Greta dressed. Considering all he’d discovered the past two days, he could plant a bullet in the scoundrel and not have a whole lot of regrets afterward. The Horlacher brothers would have already done so. That’s why they were outside. Carter had contemplated letting them have first crack at Robbie but, ultimately, he couldn’t. It was his job. Besides, he wanted answers.

When soft squeals, those of Greta greeting her brothers, filtered into the car, Carter started pacing the length of the foot of the bed, keeping his gun on Robbie. “You couldn’t spend the money from the first robbery. You hadn’t realized it was made up of newly minted bills until it was too late. Why didn’t you get rid of it?”

The pip-squeak cast his beady eyes around the room, suspicious. James Fredrickson was the only other person to know, and Robbie most likely was having a hard time believing his father had squealed on him.

“Why’d you hide it in Huron?” Carter pressed.

Robbie wheezed in enough air it had to have gone all the way to his ankles.

Carter stopped pacing, gun level with Fredrickson’s nose. “I hope I like what I hear.”

“I planned on going back for it.” Robbie fretted deeper when his nervous glance proved there was still no one coming to rescue him and Carter had cocked his gun again. “Take it to Mexico or Canada. It wouldn’t have mattered there. No one outside the railroad knew about it.”

“Didn’t you think it might be discovered under that bed?” Carter asked.

“I,” Robbie started, sounding testy, “was interrupted while finding an
appropriate
hiding spot. Became a bit preoccupied by a little blonde that night.”

Carter was not in the mood to hear that, nor was the bullet in his gun. It almost went off. He almost pulled the trigger. Knocking Robbie’s head against the headboard was another fleeting urge, but he refrained. Barely.

“Is that who found it?” Robbie asked. “That sweet little virgin? Said it was mine?”

There were few things in this world Carter had ever truly hated. He was facing one right now. He reminded himself why he was here; therefore he didn’t say a word, or blink an eye, but his hands were itching. Not just to pull the trigger, but to squeeze the ingrate’s neck until his eyes bulged.

Robbie frowned deeply. “She wouldn’t have known it was mine, though. No one would have.”

Carter, maintaining his control, pointed out, “Your father wanted the money brought out here, to the railhead.”

Proving to be as unintelligent as Carter had imagined, Robbie let his gaze flash across the room, toward a built-in wardrobe of sorts. “So someone could discover it, put an end to it. Greer was getting too worked up over it.”

“That’s why you stole the second strongbox, so there’d be something to find.”

Robbie pressed a hand to his head as if that was enough of a penance. “Not one of my best ideas. I was drunk.”

Carter was reminded of the second thing he needed to know. The one that really mattered. His life, either the one he wanted or the one fate might descend upon him, depended on Fredrickson’s answer. “Where’s the woman that’s supposedly pregnant with your child?”

The laugh echoing in the car sounded exactly like James Fredrickson’s had that night at the depot in Huron. Carter’s blood turned cold.

“Which one?” Robbie asked.

Chapter Sixteen

“W
asn’t that adorable?” Karleen asked, clapping loudly.

“Yes,” Molly agreed. Ivy had been flawless in reciting her poem, but enjoying it wasn’t possible, not with half the population of Huron crammed into the school. “Let’s leave before the crowd.”

“First you insist we take the buggy, which makes us late so we have to sit in the very back of the room, and now you want to leave early?” Karleen hissed. Letting out an exasperated sigh, she continued, “This the first time we’ve been out of the house together in months. Let’s enjoy it a little bit. Mr. Freeman can handle the store.”

Buster was very capable—Molly couldn’t argue that, nor would she, but she would be adamant about leaving. The door was directly behind them, and with a little luck she could be seated in the buggy before too many people noticed. Her body had altered in the two weeks since Carter had left. The bump she used to have had become a bulge much more difficult to conceal. “It’s hot in here,” she whispered. “Besides, it’s over.”

“Because you’re wearing a shawl, and it’s not over,” Karleen persisted. “There’s punch and cookies, and Miss Denny said there’d be an announcement afterward.”

Molly couldn’t care less about any announcement, and wasn’t about to walk to the front of the room for punch or cookies. The clapping stopped, and she leaned back, cast a longing glance toward the door.

“Parents, friends, family, thank you for coming today,” Miss Denny, a slender woman who’d been teaching in Huron for over a decade, said. She waved a hand toward the children standing straight and proper along the front wall. “And thank you, students, for all your hard work. You did an excellent job.” Clapping her hands again, the woman encouraged another round of applause by saying, “Didn’t they?”

Molly shifted in her seat, ready to scoot off the edge, but Karleen grabbed her knee. Shook her head.

“Now,” Miss Denny said, “Mr. Ted Wilcox has a special announcement, and please remember to stay for refreshments afterward.”

The woman gave a slight bow and moved to stand beside her students as Mr. Wilcox, with his haughty mind-set—apology or not, Molly still didn’t care for the man—strolled to the front of the room.

“Good citizens of Huron,” he started, hooking his hands on the lapels of his suit coat.

Molly swallowed a groan and glanced toward the door again.

“It’s my pleasure to inform you Mr. Eli Greer, the senior partner and majority owner of the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad, will be gracing our small town with his presence this afternoon. I encourage you, the citizens of Huron, to be at the train station at four o’clock to offer Mr. Greer the warm welcome he deserves for all the railroad has done for our community.” The man paused to glance at his pocket watch. “By the time you’re done with Miss Denny’s punch and cookies the train will have arrived. There will be another man with Mr. Greer. Mr. Allan Pinkerton of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

People were clapping, whispering, and nodding at one another. Molly wasn’t. She had no desire to meet the owner of the railroad, and she’d heard of Pinkerton detectives. Read about them in newspapers. Brutes. Bounty hunters. Guns for hire. Despite her sister’s hold, Molly slid off her chair and walked out the door, keeping the little paper program listing all the children and their poems over her stomach. It wasn’t much, but along with her shawl—which was lightweight but hot—she hoped it was enough.

Molly was almost to the buggy when someone said her name.

Remorse showered her and she stopped, turned around to face the girl—woman—who, up until a few months ago, had been her best friend for years. Emma’s smile was so unsure, all sorts of things softened inside Molly. Unable to stop them, her eyes went to her friend’s stomach.

“Just last week I had to take out the seams in a few dresses.” Emma, dressed in mint green, including the feathered hat perched on her russet-colored hair, was the epitome of pretty, even with a larger than normal waist. “Ivy did an excellent job,” Emma then said. “Her poem was beautiful.”

Molly nodded. “She loves school.”

“So did we.” Emma continued to approach, stopped when they were less than a foot apart. “Remember?”

“I remember,” Molly whispered, shaken.

“I’ve missed you,” Emma said. “Our friendship.”

They’d shared so much in the past, especially support when her parents had passed, and she couldn’t help but wonder how different things would be if the two could share what was happening now. Their pregnancies. “Me, too,” Molly choked out.

Emma flung her arms around Molly’s neck, an impromptu hug. Molly’s response was to hug her friend in return, and did so until she realized their stomachs had bumped and Emma had stiffened.

“Molly?”

She knew exactly what her friend had discovered. “I’ve got to go.” Spinning, she hurried toward the buggy.

Buttercup, the mare who used to be gentle in the days when she was ridden consistently, hadn’t pulled the buggy in over a year, and started tugging at the rein securing her to the post. The wild rolling of the horse’s eyes slowed Molly’s approach and she struggled to find her voice in her burning throat to calm the animal.

Emma, however, was rushing behind her. Molly heard the steps, and her name being repeated, and recognized the movement and sound were disturbing the spooked animal more. She was almost at the horse, reaching out to clutch the leather rein, when Buttercup reared.

A hoof came down and caught Molly’s shoulder. The force and sharp pain unbalanced her. Knocked to the ground, Molly curled into a ball and rolled, avoiding the hooves coming down on both sides of her.

Emma was screeching for aid, and Molly wanted to tell her to be quiet, but all her concentration was set on timing her next rotation. Buttercup reared again, and Molly rolled, over and over until convinced she was clear of the hooves.

She was, and took a moment to catch her breath. When she opened her eyes, a crowd had gathered around her. Emma was still shrieking, “Get Dr. Henderson! We need Dr. Henderson!”

Molly groaned. Her shoulder was throbbing, but it was her position, flat on her back staring up at blue sky, that was excruciating. Her stomach had to stick out like a Swiss Alp.

“I’m here! Let me through!” Dr. Henderson’s face appeared then, contorted with concern. “Molly?”

She closed her eyes. Kept them that way when Emma said, “I think she’s pregnant.”

“Of course she’s pregnant,” the doctor replied.

The crowd went silent, or maybe the swooshing in Molly’s ears was just too loud to hear around.

Nope, she could hear. Heard someone ask, “How can that be?”

How indeed.

“She’s been married to Carter Buchanan for months.”

Molly snapped her eyes open. She’d recognized Pastor Jenkins’s voice, but what he’d said proved her ears weren’t working. He was kneeling beside her, next to Dr. Henderson, and while the doctor was examining her shoulder, the pastor was looking up at the crowd.

“Mr. Buchanan is a Pinkerton operative,” Pastor Jenkins said. “He’s been working undercover on a case for the railroad, therefore he and Molly had to keep their marriage a secret.”

“It’s true,” Dr. Henderson added. “I’ve known about it for a long time.”

“So have I.” That was Mrs. Rudolf, now kneeling on Molly’s other side.

“You did?” the doctor asked incredulously.

“I do now,” Mrs. Rudolf whispered. “It certainly explains Carter’s protectiveness, and his concern for Ivy. Besides, weeks ago I recognized the way they looked at each other.” The woman then raised her head, and her voice. “We all know Molly would never have let a stranger move onto her property. That would have been scandalous.” She patted Molly’s cheek. “No wonder you weren’t acting yourself all these months. Worrying about him.”

Molly was wishing Buttercup had kicked her in the head. Then she wouldn’t have heard any of this. Wouldn’t hate Carter Buchanan to a level she’d never reached before. A Pinkerton operative? Undercover? He’d been that, all right. She bet the mercantile she wasn’t the first woman he’d completely fooled, either, with all his secrets. Lied to. Hoodwinked. Deceived. The list went on and she didn’t mind adding to it.

“J.T.!” Dr. Henderson shouted. “Take that horse back to the mercantile.” Then he instructed the pastor. “Caleb, help me get her in my buggy.”

By the time Molly arrived home, she’d cursed Carter so severely her soul was halfway to purgatory. He may have once claimed to have an angel on his shoulder—another lie—but Molly had a demon in her ear, and it was shouting while the doctor and pastor aided her into the parlor, fussing exhaustedly.

It’s what you wanted,
the devil repeated over and over.

No, it’s not
, she argued. True, at one time her plan had been to ask Carter to marry her, but that hadn’t worked. She’d moved on. Had a new plan. She’d written a letter to Robbie, told him about her condition.

“Here, Molly, lie down,” Dr. Henderson said. “Let me look at that shoulder.”

“It’s fine,” she insisted, but did lie down. She had to. Her life was on another downhill slide.

The doctor didn’t take her word for it. After shooing everyone from the room, he unbuttoned her dress, exposed her shoulder. “Nothing’s broken,” he said after a thorough examination. “Where else are you hurt?”

“Nowhere,” she said. Hearts don’t count.

“That shoulder’s going to be sore for a few days. I want you to take—”

“I’ll take it easy,” she interrupted. Sitting up, Molly gathered the neckline of her dress together, noted how the sleeve seam had been ripped open. “I have to go change.”

“I’ll get Karleen to help you.”

“No.” How was she ever going to face her sisters? She cursed Carter again, and sent her soul a bit deeper into fire and brimstone by vowing to kill him if she ever set eyes on him again. “No. I’ll be fine by myself.”

The voices in the store meant she didn’t encounter anyone on her escape to solitude, which would be short-lived. The doctor said he’d wait until she returned downstairs. With her other gray dress hanging on the clothesline out back, Molly took down a navy blue one. The skirt of this one started just below her breast line, which hopefully meant it would fit.

The dress with its embroidered white collar did fit, and Molly then set about removing the pins from her hair. Her shoulder ached, more so when she lifted her arm, so after brushing the grass from her hair, she left it down. Braiding it would hurt, too. The window was open and the noise said a crowd was approaching. Unable not to, she took a peek to see if they carried torches and stakes.

They didn’t, but two tall, well-dressed men, along with Mr. Wilcox, led the mob.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
She now knew what the English playwright meant. They could ridicule her all they wanted, but no one would scorn her sisters. Her hand went to her stomach.

Her family.

Molly spun, and called upon all the dignity she’d ever possessed.

The store was packed, people spewing out the door and peering through the plate-glass windows. Mr. Wilcox and the two other men were at the counter, shaking Karleen’s hand.

“This,” Karleen said as Molly moved to stand with Ivy between them, “is our other sister, Molly.”

The first man, with a friendly smile, introduced himself as Eli Greer. The second man, tall with a beard and mustache, also smiling, made her shiver when he said his name was Allan Pinkerton. That shouldn’t surprise her, Carter being a Pinkerton agent. He’d been a bully since the first day they’d met. If not for the crowd, she’d have asked where he was, and then dug out the shotgun. She knew how to use it.

Mr. Greer, his eyes, kind and sincere, was looking at Ivy. “I’m here,” he said loud enough for all to hear, “to see Miss Ivy Thorson.” He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and extended it across the counter. “To offer her a reward for finding and returning property belonging to the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad.”

Ivy looked up, and Molly, as confused as the child, gave permission for Ivy to take the envelope. When it was opened, the contents displayed, Molly gasped at the bank draft, and again at the amount of it.

“That’s ten percent of the property recovered. A fair amount, don’t you agree?”

Karleen answered in the affirmative, but Molly understood Mr. Greer was waiting for her response. “That’s more than generous, Mr. Greer, but...actually, I—we—”

“Please,” he interrupted, “don’t say you can’t accept it.”

Molly bit her lip. She couldn’t take this away from Ivy no matter how unconventional it seemed. “Thank you.”

“I’d also like to assure you, all three of you, that the C&NW respects all merchants,” Mr. Greer said. “We understand the commitment and devotion it takes to run a business successfully.” He cast a rigid gaze toward Mr. Wilcox before looking at her again. “You ladies can be assured, from this day forward, no member of the railroad will make any attempt to prevent you from managing your affairs, nor will they make an offer to purchase this fine establishment from you.” He smiled, especially at Ivy. “As a matter of fact, the railroad will be doing a considerable amount of business with Thorson’s Mercantile going forward.”

The ambience surrounding Molly had taken on a dreamlike quality, where there were happy endings. She returned Ivy’s broad smile, and laughed aloud—along with many others—when her littlest sister said, “And we’ll gladly let you.”

Carter smothered a chuckle from where he stood in the hall, peering around the doorway. His heart was probably in Montana, only because it was pounding hard enough to cover the distance to there from Huron in record time. He, however, had no desire to go to Montana. Now or ever. Or anywhere else. He’d figured out where he needed to be, and who he needed to be with. Now he just had to come up with a way to be welcomed.

That wasn’t going to be easy.

Molly was more than fetching every day, and, unfortunately, her laugh, the way her hair cascaded down her back, simply her—knowing she was within reach—had him aroused. Thoroughly, and unfortunately, because now wasn’t the time for that.