The Gunman's Bride (5 page)

“We were children! We didn’t even know what love was.”

“And you’re telling me that you do now? If you love
your rich fiancé so much, how come you ran off and left him? Why are you hiding out in New Mexico?”

“Stop it, Bart! You don’t know one thing!” Her eyes stung with unshed tears.

“I know one thing. I know I aim to make a new life for myself. And finding you is the beginning of it.”

She crossed her arms and stared at the ceiling in hope that he could read nothing on her face. Oh, why couldn’t this confusing man just leave her as he had before—with no farewells, no speeches, no tenderness?

Why was he standing so close, smelling so good and looking like the man in her dreams? Why did her heart have to hammer and her throat swell up in a lump? And why, oh, why did she long to feel his arms around her just one more time?

“We’re both trying to start over, Bart,” she said when she trusted herself to speak. “If finding me is the beginning of your new life, it could be the end of mine. I don’t want any reminders of the past. I want to be a new person. I want to be alone, Bart. Alone!”

“Rosie,” he murmured, unlocking her arms and letting his big hands slide down to take hers. “Rosie, don’t push me away. Give me a chance.”

“I’ve always done what people told me to—my pappy, Dr. Lowell, you. I don’t have to live that way anymore.”

“But I’m not telling you to do anything, Rosie-girl. I’m asking. Please…give me a chance.”

She studied the design on her pressed-tin ceiling. “A chance to what?”

“To touch your face, Rosie.” He ran the tip of one
finger down her cheek. “Remember how I used to pull the ribbons from your braids? I’d untwist your hair until it hung loose around your shoulders. You used to laugh and scold me because I could never put your braids back the right way, and you worried that your pappy would find out we’d been together. But I knew you didn’t really care, because you always leaned against my shoulder and let me slide my fingers through your hair.”

As he spoke, he slipped his fingers through the bun she had so carefully knotted that morning. Oh, how she tingled at his touch! The desert in her heart came to life for the first time in six years, and Rosie closed her eyes as a powerful yearning washed through her.

When he drew her closer, she sighed and moved against him. But she remembered too well the pain a broken heart could bring. At the sudden realization of her peril, her eyes flew open.

“Bart, you’d better leave,” she breathed out. “Just go!”

“Rosie?” Confusion darkened his eyes.

“I—I have to work the early shift tomorrow.”

“I’ve scared you, haven’t I?”

“I’ll be tired if I don’t get a good night’s sleep. You ought to head out while the moon’s up.”

She looked into his face. She longed for this man and she loathed him. She feared the feelings he evoked in her, and she craved them. She hungered for his touch, yet the thought of it terrified her.

“Goodbye, Bart.” She forced the words out. “It was good to see you again, and I sure hope your wound heals up.”

Before he could see the quiver in her lower lip, she turned away from him and hurried to the hook where her aprons hung.

B
art studied Rosie in the lamp’s glow. With shaking fingers, she fumbled to release the buttons on her bib. Unable to watch her in such distress, he stepped behind her and set his hands on her shoulders.

“Rosie,” he murmured against her ear. “Rosie, I don’t mean to upset you. I just want you to know that a day hasn’t gone by without my thoughts going over and over those times we spent together. I want you to understand how I felt while we were apart. Rosie?”

His hands circled her waist and he turned her to face him. Her fingers kept working at the bib buttons as she trained her focus on her uniform.

“You’re all atremble,” Bart whispered as he covered her hands with his own and began sliding each tiny button out of its hole. “Did I ever tell you how crazy I am about your ankles, Rosie?” he asked.

As he let the bib fall, she shook her head. “My ankles?”

“When you were fifteen, you used to take off your stockings and wade in the swimming hole. You were so prim, but seeing you that way just about killed me.” His
focus lifted to her face. “Once you slipped on a mossy rock and fell in the water, remember?”

She shook her head and shrugged. “Anyhow, I bought you a shirt today. I decided against a collar. They cost twenty cents each.”

“I remember everything about us. You’ve changed a lot in six years. You’re more beautiful than ever. I’ve been half loco missing you, girl.”

He wouldn’t hurt or frighten his Rosie for anything in the world. But he couldn’t abide the thought of leaving without saying the things he’d needed to say for six long years.

Even though she had told him to go away, she was having trouble meeting his eyes. In spite of what she said, maybe she had missed him just a little, and maybe she’d thought about him now and then. But she was still trembling and her hands were locked behind her back as though they’d been handcuffed. Was he scaring her?

“Rosie,” he whispered. Her eyes, dark brown and liquid, focused on him at last. “Rosie-girl, will you put your arms around me the way you used to? Will you hold me just once before I go?”

“Oh, Bart, I can’t.”

“Because your pappy made you promise to marry another man? Or do you love your rich Dr. Lowell? Is that what holds you back?”

“Bart, it’s not like you think. I don’t love him and I don’t want to be attached to a man again. Not ever.”

“How come?”

She squared her shoulders. “You might as well know I can’t have children, Bart. After you left me, I was sick a long time. Months and months. I couldn’t eat, I
didn’t sleep much at all. My normal functions…well, everything stopped working right. My father took me to several doctors, friends he trusted, and they said I was barren. All of them agreed I’ll be childless. Since having children is the only reason I can think of for…for going through all that rigmarole, I’ve decided to be a spinster for the rest of my life.”

He couldn’t hide a grin. “Rigmarole?”

“You know very well what I mean.” Pulling out of his arms, she walked across her room, sat on the edge of her bed and began unlacing her boots. “As far as I’m concerned, God made beds for sleeping in, and I don’t intend to put my arms around you or anyone else.”

Bart hunkered down on one knee beside her. Taking her blistered foot, he set it on his thigh and began rubbing her reddened heel and each sore toe. It bothered him that Rosie had spent time with another man. But it bothered him a lot more to realize that maybe he himself had killed the spark he had once loved so much.

Maybe not quite killed it. Squelched it.

“Rosie, you reckon I could get a job here in Raton?”

“Not a chance. The sheriff would recognize you. He said he saw you before he shot you.”

“How well could he see me in the dark?”

“Well enough to shoot you again.”

“What if I wore that new shirt you gave me? Would you cut my hair, Rosie?”

She shivered. “It wouldn’t do you a bit of good. Your skin is as brown as a berry, Bart. The sheriff said he’d be on the lookout for a man with a face like yours.”

“Would you cut my hair anyway, Rosie? I want to give the straight life a chance.”

“But here in Raton? Why, Bart?”

Raising his head, he covered her fingers with his big hands. “Once upon a time, all it took was a few harsh words to send me scampering. But I’ve changed in six years. I learned to do things. If I set out to break a horse, I’ll have him gentle as a kitten in no time flat. If I aim to rob a train, I’ll rob it plumb dry.”

“Bart!”

“That’s the facts. I came to Raton to find you and make a new life. So if you’ll give me a haircut, darlin’, I’ll get on with it.”

As she combed and snipped away at Bart’s coal-black mane, Rosie berated herself over and over again. Crazy. She was just crazy, that’s all! She should have sent him off long ago. Instead, she’d let him hold her hand, whisper in her ear, rub her foot. And now she was actually cutting the man’s hair so he could stay in Raton and make her miserable!

“Reckon there’s any chance I could pass for a gentleman dandy just off the train from Chicago?” He studied himself in her silver hand mirror.

“Bart, you look just like what you are—an outlaw. A big, brawny gunslinger.”

“I’d better leave my six-shooter and holster with you.”

“Don’t you dare! Bad enough I have to hide a bloody rug and a pile of chopped-off black hair.”

He chuckled. “You’ve done me a good turn, Rosie. Much as my side still hurts, I wouldn’t have made it this far without your kindness.”

Softening, she ran her brush through his hair. Now that it stopped just above his collar, she could see the tremendous breadth of his shoulders. “In spite of the haircut, you still look like an Apache to me.”

“Does my blood make a difference to you now, Rosie?”

“I always told you to be proud of who you are, Bart. It’s what’s inside a man—what he chooses to do with himself—that makes him who he is.”

“And I chose to be an outlaw. I’m a no-good half-breed outlaw.”

Rosie stepped around his chair. As she gazed into his green eyes, she saw that he had become the little boy again, wounded by the cruelty of others. “When I knew you on the farm, you never hurt anything. What happened to you? What changed you?”

He stood suddenly. “Aw, why does it matter anyhow? I can’t turn back time. I’ve dug myself a grave and I’m just one foot out of it. All my life I’ve been searching for something, but I don’t know what. The only thing I’m sure of, Rosie, is that when I’m near you, I’m close to the answer.”

“Oh, Bart, I can’t mean so much to you! I have to get on with my own life and find what I’m searching for.”

“What are you looking for, Rosie?”

“Freedom,” she whispered. “I want freedom.”

“Don’t tell me that, girl,” he groaned, his face twisting with pain. In one step, he took her hand, lifted her from the floor and drew her into his arms.

“Oh, Bart, why did you run off and leave me?” she murmured. “And why did you ever come back?”

“Hush, girl. Stop your frettin’ now and let me hold you the way I used to.”

Rosie slipped her arms around Bart and laid her cheek against his chest. A wash of memory soothed her heart.
Let me hold you the way I used to,
he had said. Between these two who had loved so young, there had been only kisses and avowals of devotion, passion tempered by moral restraint.

But who was
this
Bart, this gunman? She drew back and searched his face. As his fingertips trailed down her neck, she realized that they were no longer children.

“I remember so well how we used to hold each other close—and how much I liked it,” she said. “But you never touched me. Not the way married people do. And, Bart, I don’t want that now either.”

“It’s all right, Rosie. This is enough for me. More than enough.”

The touch of a hand on her shoulder woke Rosie. “Laurie, wake up! You’re going to miss uniform inspection.”

Sitting bolt upright, Rosie stared at her friend’s wide blue eyes. “Etta?”

“Well, who did you expect?” Etta shook her head. “Come on, lazybones. You’ve got ten minutes before Mrs. Jensen gives you what for.”

Unable to speak, Rosie glanced at the empty chair Bart had slept in the night before. She surveyed her room. His buckskin jacket was gone. His holsters and six-shooters had vanished from the shelf. There were
no boots on the floor and no trousers hanging on a line overhead. Rosie’s white curtains danced in the breeze at her open window.

“Look at you,” Etta exclaimed. “You slept in your uniform!”

Rosie slid out of bed and brushed past her friend. Bart must have climbed out the window during the night.

“Hurry,” Etta cried. “Mr. Gable will have a hissy fit if he sees you looking like that!”

“Etta, give me a minute alone.” Rosie ushered her friend into the hall. She shut the door and leaned against it as the inspection bell began to ring. “Dear Lord, Bart’s gone,” she murmured in heartbroken prayer. “He left me again. How can I go through this another time?”

But she had little time to mourn, Rosie realized as she pinned her bun in place and tossed a clean apron over her wrinkled black dress. She buttoned the bib while wiggling her bare feet into her shoes. Bolting through the door, she snapped to attention just as Mrs. Jensen approached.

“Miss Laura, you’re late.” The elderly woman scanned her up and down. “Mr. Gable will not be pleased.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she mouthed.

Mrs. Jensen gave a cluck. “That dress is dirty. Change it at once. You haven’t even laced your boots. You’ll scrub the hallway after the breakfast trains.”

“After breakfast?” She was to meet with Mr. Kilgore at that time. “But I can’t! I have to—”

“Have you found another occupation more interesting than Fred Harvey’s restaurant, Miss Laura? If so, I’ll inform Mr. Gable that he may hire your replacement
from the long line of young women waiting in Kansas City and Chicago for just such an opportunity.”

Rosie lowered her head. “No, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

Soapy water dampening her cuffs, Rosie sniffled back tears as she scrubbed the dormitory walls. Bart was gone. When she had returned to her room to change into an ironed dress, she searched every nook and cranny of the little place. Bart was gone, along with his boots, guns, jacket, britches and even the shirt she had bought him.

Her heart fluttered a little every time she thought that he might actually have gone into town to look for work. But the spark of hope was quickly quelled by the reminder that for six long years Bart had not been a working man. He’d been an outlaw. And for all his talk about haircuts and new shirts, he still looked like an Indian. She had no doubt he had either left town or been shot.

The sheriff didn’t come in for breakfast, and neither did Mr. Adams of the
Comet.
It was all Rosie could do to keep from approaching her minister. But Reverend Cullen was visiting with another preacher, and none of the other locals said a word about town news.

The time passed when Rosie should have been at Mr. Kilgore’s school, and her heart sank even further. Such a responsible man would never hire a teacher who couldn’t bother to show up when she had promised. What kind of an example was that? The lunch trains started through the depot just as Mrs. Jensen approved Rosie’s newly scrubbed walls, and she rushed down the stairs to her
station. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she served up sandwiches and soups and plates of fresh fruit by the score. She scooped tips into her pockets, scrubbed countertops, and pasted the Harvey smile on her face.

But as she stood with her hands locked behind her back and her eyes scanning her station, she felt sick with unhappiness. Bart had kissed her last night and made her feel things she’d never even imagined. The memory of his touch was so strong that it rocked her off balance every time she allowed it to creep through her thoughts.

Then he had gone away. Sometime in the night, he must have strapped on his guns and climbed out her window to start his new life without her.

Buttery afternoon sunlight gilded Rosie’s hand as she knocked on the schoolroom door. From inside the small frame building she could hear high-pitched voices lifted in song. When the accompanying guitar hit a discordant twang, the choir dissolved into giggles.

“Good afternoon, Miss Kingsley,” Mr. Kilgore said, none too warmly. “You are late for our meeting.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Rosie replied. “My services were unexpectedly required at Harvey House.”

He pondered for a moment. “I’m afraid a meeting is no longer necessary. After discussing your request with my wife, I concluded that your services will not be required here.”

“But why not? I’m qualified, and you need a teacher.”

Mr. Kilgore stepped outside and spoke in a low voice. “Miss Kingsley, you have neither a teaching license nor
any professional recommendations. You have no training and no experience at all.”

“But I shall obtain the license as soon as possible. As for experience, how am I to acquire it unless someone like you is willing to employ me? I have the education, the dedication and above all the sincere desire to become a teacher.”

His face softening, Mr. Kilgore tipped his head. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Miss Kingsley, but you lack one other attribute I have decided to insist on for any teacher in the town of Raton, New Mexico. A husband.”

“A husband?”

“A local man with steady employment. In the short time since I opened this school, I’ve lost both my teachers to the lure of matrimony. With all the railway men, homesteaders and cowboys in town—each one eager to find a wife—I wager every Harvey Girl will be wed within the year. Wed and gone.”

“I have no intention of marrying, sir,” Rosie responded hotly. “I can assure you of that.”

“A woman as fetching as you? With those big brown eyes, I daresay you’ll have your choice of husbands. I’m sorry, Miss Kingsley, but you’re too great a risk. Good afternoon.”

He bowed, backed into his classroom and shut the door on Rosie’s dreams.

For a long time she stood on the porch and listened to the children reciting multiplication tables. She could never admit she already had a husband. And a fiancé, for that matter. Of course Dr. Lowell would be loath to
marry her now. Her desertion would have placed him in a perilous social position. It may even have endangered his professional standing. But she had never loved him or any other man…except Bart.