Explaining Herself Read online

  "—take Duchess," he finished firmly. 'You promised."

  She smiled her sweetest smile. "I understand."

  Thaddeas narrowed his eyes, having fallen for that dodge once too often, but to give him more would be to agree that he had the right to demand it of her. So, as casually as she could, she changed the topic. "Thad, may I ask you something?"

  Her brother paused, sulkily buttering a slice of Mrs. Sawyer's good, thick bread. "Now I'm worried."

  "Do you remember an immigrant family named Lauranovic?"

  She saw from the flare of his eyes that he did remember. Right away. For a moment she wondered, What if Ross was right? But with all the headlines about the lynchings, the trial, and the suicide, why wouldn't Thaddeas remember them?

  He put down his cold-meat sandwich and met her gaze, solemn. Worried, even. "Yes, I do. Why?"

  "Do you remember Julie Lauranovic?"

  When she asked that, he relaxed a little. Whatever worried him, it wasn't guilt over Julie. 'You mean the poor girl who killed herself?"

  She nodded.

  "Again I ask, Why?"

  Well, she guessed he was a lawyer. Though she hoped he didn't practice law with his mouth full. "Tell me what you remember about her first," she insisted. "Please?"

  He looked suspicious—but he was also a pushover when it came to his sisters. "Really, Vic, I don't remember very much. I left for college at about the time the Laurences arrived."

  "The Laurences?"

  "It was only after the trouble that people started calling them by their European name. Julie was a tall kid with long black braids, and we never talked." He shrugged.

  Victoria felt certain that if he had ever loved her— loved her enough to get her with child, enough to leave roses by her grave years after her death—he would not be able to shrug. Now all she needed was to figure out who had loved her ... or at least pretended to. "Do you remember if she had a sweetheart?"

  "She was a child when I knew her!"

  "Later, after the Die-Up. She would have been about Audra's age then. Did she have a sweetheart before she died?"

  Thaddeas opened his mouth, then decided against whatever he'd meant to say and shook his head. "No."

  "No, she didn't? Or no, you don't remember?"

  "No, I don't remember. I'm not always watching and noticing things the way you do, Vic."

  "What about at her funeral?"

  "Nobody went to her funeral. It was a big scandal."

  "She was with child," Victoria agreed, since Thad was too proper to mention that. Assuming he'd known. "So she must have had a sweetheart."

  The alternative, that the girl had been attacked, was too awful to imagine.

  Thad frowned, wearing his lawyer look. "Why are you asking all this? And don't say you're writing a story; that's not all."

  "And I'm helping a friend," she admitted, and made a face at his expression. "Someone who's interested in the Lauranovic family, and don't ask more, because I promised this friend to be discreet. I just want to find out who Julie Lauranovic's sweetheart was before her suicide, that's all."

  "Victoria," demanded Thaddeas, "this wouldn't have anything to do with Pa's new range detective, would it?"

  His question took her so by surprise that she hesitated, just a beat, before she managed to say, "Mr. Laramie? Why would it have anything to do with him?"

  It was a beat too long.

  'You've been talking to Laramie," accused Thaddeas, pushing his chair abruptly back. "I can't believe it. No, I can believe it, and that's what worries me."

  Her brother's reaction was what worried her. She talked to almost everyone in town; Thad couldn't know about the kissing, or the secrets. "What if I have? He escorted me back to the ranch the day Kitty was attacked, remember?"

  She was pleased by that feint, until Thad asked, "And you talked about Julie Lauranovic?"

  He stood and started to clear their food. Victoria suspected he just wanted an excuse to pace. She wouldn't mind pacing herself. "Why would you think Mr. Laramie is interested in Julie Lauranovic?" Did he know something she didn't?

  "Is he?" Thad asked. "Just how good a friend is he?"

  "Thad, he works for Papa. He saved Kitty's life, and he talked to me when I was upset. Why does that bother you?"

  "So it's for him that you're asking about Julie Laurence." Thaddeas rolled his eyes at his own foolishness. "Of course."

  "Of course what?"

  But Thaddeas said, "Listen to me, Vic. You aren't to have anything more to do with Mr. Laramie."

  What? "Why aren't I?"

  He folded his arms. "Because I said so. And because Pa will say the same thing, as soon as we tell him."

  "Tell him what?" Thaddeas and Papa knew something about Ross, and they weren't telling her, and she hated it. Bad enough that he had secrets—she knew that much. But that her father and brother knew more about them than she did . . .

  "Leave it alone," warned Thaddeas, heading for the sitting room. As if he could escape her questions that easily.

  She followed. "I won't leave it alone. I want to know why you don't like Ross Laramie!"

  Thaddeas slowly turned back to her, his eyes wide. "Ross? Trust me, Victoria. Don't get involved with Ross Laramie."

  "Why not?" she demanded.

  "I'm not telling you."

  A knock on the front door kept her from protesting. It's him, thought Vic, relieved. Ross had relented from his stubbornness and would confront Thad with his foolish accusations, and everything would be set straight.

  "I'll get it," warned Thad. "It's nighttime."

  She sighed, but let him. When he opened the door to a rain-swept porch, it wasn't Ross. It was a drenched Evangeline.

  "Miss Taylor?" greeted Thaddeas, and looked at the clock. It was past eight. Only then did he take a look at her dripping clothes and say, "Please, come inside!"

  She did, her gaze sliding desperately to Victoria. Clearly she had news. Rain had slicked her long, pale hair to her scalp. Her thin, wet dress clung to the slim curves of her body.

  "Come back to the kitchen," offered Victoria quickly, putting an arm around her. "We'll make you some tea."

  But Evangeline only shook her head, then spun, startled, when Thaddeas draped a blanket from the sofa over her shoulders. At least, she looked startled until she saw it was him.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, ducking her head.

  "Not at all," said Thad—but of course, he would say that to anybody. "Is something wrong, Miss Taylor?"

  Under the drape of the blanket, Evangeline's damp hand—slim but strong—found Victoria's.

  "It's Mr. Laramie," she said. "He's in jail."

  Chapter Eighteen

  "Who are you?" demanded Bram Ward.

  Laramie sat in the cell and said nothing. That the sheriff didn't recognize him was maybe the only thing that had gone right in the last hour.

  Not killing the bastard in the saloon, when he had the chance, was just one of the many things that had gone wrong.

  He stared at Ward and thought, / could have taken you. He'd wanted to. The gun had been in his hand! And yet he'd stood there in the saloon, the smell of blood and metal and gun smoke sharp in his nostrils, and somehow he'd known better.

  Ward was a sheriff, no matter how corrupt. If Laramie were to twist around, like his body wanted to, or to shoot, like his hand itched to, it would be neither self-defense nor forgivable. There'd be no return.

  So he'd set his Colt down on the bar with a gentle thud. He'd let Bram Ward drag his hands behind his back and secure his wrists with handcuffs. Then he'd been dragged back to the jail from this afternoon— sitting on the wrong horse.

  Now, his shoulders aching from his still-cuffed hands, Laramie stared at the sheriff's increasing impatience and thought—there'd be no return to what"?

  He should have shot the bastard.

  "You hear me, sonny boy?" The sheriff picked up a billy club, rattled it across the bars. "Who the hell are you, anyhow?"
/>
  Laramie would prefer not to be persuaded. "I'm Ross Laramie," he said yet again. "I ride for Jacob Garrison as—"

  "What's your real name?" interrupted Ward.

  Good question. He'd lost Ross Laurence somewhere amid the original violence. He wasn't Drazen Lauranovic anymore. The alias came from folks thinking he'd done time in the Wyoming State Penitentiary; it had been his for years. "Laramie."

  Ward shook his head. "I know you from somewhere. Where the hell do I know you from?"

  From me killing your pa, after you killed mine.

  Bad answer. Laramie let nothing show on his face.

  "You one of them train robbers we're hunting?"

  Not yet. "I shot in self-defense."

  Ward, backing away from the bars, twisted his lips in an ugly smile. "Broke firearms laws, too. Shame you did it on a Friday night. We might have to spend a few days together, afore all this gets cleared up, and you'd best not be any trouble." His eyes glittered hopefully. "Like that damned rustler you brought in."

  Bastard.

  Harry Smith wouldn't have escaped alone. Harry Smith would have run away if he had—not tried to do murder. And now Harry Smith's blood was on Ross's cuffed hands, his dark freckles in Ross's memory....

  So as not to seem challenging, Laramie lay awkwardly down on one shoulder, on the cot, and tried thinking of something other than how long it would take Ward to recognize him.

  He thought about Victoria.

  It was more than he'd had the last time he'd been here.

  "I'm going with you," announced Victoria as Thaddeas slung on his mackinaw against the rain.

  "No, you're not," said Thaddeas. 'You're staying here with Miss Taylor."

  The three of them stood in Mama's kitchen, where Vic had put water on for tea while Thad grabbed his coat. Evangeline, still holding the blanket tightly around her, like a hug, stood back and watched them through wary, pale eyes. Her feet were muddy. Victoria did want to make sure her friend was all right.

  But she wanted to make sure Ross was all right even more. Two men had tried to kill him, and the sheriff was calling it murder. And he was in jail, and she wanted him to be all right.

  "Evangeline can stay here on her own."

  Evangeline shook her head, eyes wide.

  Thaddeas looked at Victoria and asked, "Why?"

  She blinked, startled. "Because he's my friend."

  Thad didn't accept that. He took her shoulders, his grip tight. "Your friend? I don't think so, Victoria. I think you know this man better than you ought to, and it ends here. Do you understand me?"

  She understood, but she certainly didn't agree. 'You have no say in the matter. I'm going with you."

  "Oh?" He folded his arms, set his shoulders. "Here's your choice. Either you agree not to come with me, or I don't go."

  She stared. He wouldn 't!

  Thaddeas didn't even blink.

  "But he needs a lawyer!" she protested. 'You know as well as I do that Sheriff Ward can't be trusted."

  "If I have to choose between my sister's safety or my law practice, I'm choosing my sister. So you just choose."

  "That's not fair!" If she hadn't been born female ...

  But he meaningfully began to unbutton his mackinaw.

  Victoria wanted to hit him. Never in her life had she felt such fury toward another human being, much less her brother. But she loved Ross more. "Fine," she spat. "You win. Now go get him."

  His hands paused on his buttons. "Swear it."

  "I swear it."

  Thad leaned nearer. "The whole thing."

  "I swear not to go with you tonight."

  "And you'll stay here and make Miss Taylor comfortable until I come back," he added.

  "And I'll make Evangeline comfortable. Now go help him!"

  Even now, Thaddeas hesitated.

  "Please?" Her voice broke on the word.

  Her brother closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them. 'You don't know how much I hate it that I can't trust you."

  If you would ever trust me long enough to stop telling me what to do, maybe you could. But that was asking a lot.

  When he pushed out the door, through the rain toward the stables, Victoria tried to feel glad that he would help. She felt afraid instead. Drawn. Uncertain.

  Why would anybody try to shoot Ross? Why would the sheriff arrest him for self-defense? Why was he at the Red Light, anyway?

  She pressed a hand against her mouth and watched the stables out the window, and she wanted Ross to be safe. Stubborn and wrong or not, she wanted him safe—and with her.

  Evangeline slid her arm around Victoria's shoulders. 'Your brother will take care of him," she comforted. "That's what he does. He takes care of people."

  Then the stable doors opened and Thaddeas led his horse out, closed the doors, mounted. He lifted one hand, acknowledging the girls in the lit kitchen window, then rode away into the rain.

  Evangeline sighed.

  "Come on," said Vic softly. "Let's get you comfortable."

  Of course Evangeline protested, but Victoria pulled her upstairs, found her a fresh—if rather short— dress, and helped her dry her hair. Then she fixed Evangeline a cup of tea.

  Then she put on her own cloak.

  "What?" Evangeline put down her tea. "Victoria, you can't. You promised him. You swore!"

  "I swore not to go to the jail with him. Well, I'm not with him. I swore to make you comfortable, and you're comfortable."

  "But that's not what he meant. You're not being fair."

  "He didn't play fair when he blackmailed me." She put on one of her mother's old cowboy hats. "Now I'm going to make sure Ross is okay. You stay here and be comfortable. Thad's orders."

  Evangeline looked stricken, but Victoria hurried out into the rain anyway, toward the stables and her bicycle. She paused only long enough to whistle for Duchess.

  It was after dark. And she'd promised.

  Laramie had plenty of time to remember kissing Victoria, holding Victoria, not feeling alone.

  Like he felt now.

  Ward offered to unlock his handcuffs, then used the moment to push Laramie down so that his cheek cracked against the cot. The bullet wound in his side throbbed almost as badly. But Laramie rolled awkwardly to his feet and said nothing—by invoking Victoria's cinnamon scent, by imagining her eyes, her hair, and her eager, continuous kaleidoscopic of words.

  Thoughts of her soothed him as nothing ever had.

  Which was why he had to leave, while none of his memories of Victoria included her disillusionment.

  Alone as he felt, Laramie was surprised when the door to the jail opened and Hank Schmidt, the foreman of the Circle-T ranch, sauntered in dripping rainwater.

  "Sheriff," the older man greeted lazily as he took off his wet hat, slapped it against his leg. "Hear tell you pulled one of our boys out of some trouble tonight."

  Laramie had already sat up, intrigued and confused. Someone had ridden out to the ranch? In a saloon full of folks he didn't even know, someone had gone to get help?

  Ward said, "I arrested one of your boys for murder."

  "The way I hear it, he was defending himself."

  Ward hitched his thumbs into his suspenders. "I reckon the judge can decide that on Monday."

  He was stalling for time, keeping Laramie locked up until he figured out how he knew him—and what to do about it. All the more reason for Laramie to get the hell out.

  Schmidt looked over at the cell. "Why's he still cuffed?"

  "Holding him for murder," repeated Ward. "Dangerous man."

  "Didn't know you for a coward, Sheriff." Schmidt narrowed his already sun-squinted eyes. "Give me the keys."

  Ward straightened. "You ain't takin' my prisoner. That's breakin' the law, Schmidt, and I won't have it."

  "I'm not takin' anybody," said the foreman, disgusted. "I'm unlocking the handcuffs. Give me the keys."

  Ward hesitated.

  The Circle-T foreman leaned, dripping, over
the desk. 'You either give me the key, or you unlock those cuffs yourself, or you arrest me for the goddamned hell I'm about to raise. I won't see you abusing one of my boys, and I sure as hell won't let the boss think I did. Savvy?"

  The two men stared, long and hard, and Schmidt won. With a swipe of the keys off the desk, Ward stomped over to the cell and said, "C'mere, boy."

  Laramie doubted Ward had the balls to try anything in front of Schmidt, so he came to the bars, turned around, and felt the sheriff undo the cuffs with a few vicious swipes.

  "There," announced Ward bitterly, as Laramie quickly stepped deeper into the cell, flexing his hands and shaking out his cramped arms. "You mean to give any more orders around my jail?"

  "Brought a fellow out from the ranch," said Schmidt. "He'll help you stand guard, if you don't mind."

  "I do mind. We already had one jailbreak today."

  Schmidt smiled coolly. "All the more reason to accept the help, Sheriff. His name's Nate Dawson, and he'll stay outside in case anyone needs him." He glanced back by Laramie as he said that part. "Try not to shoot him. Fall roundup's coming on."

  Then he nodded and turned to go. "Laramie."

  Laramie felt... unbalanced. Not only had someone ridden to the ranch for help, but the man in charge had left his family to come to his defense. And Nate was outside.

  "Sir," he answered weakly. When the door closed behind the foreman, he sank onto the cot. Was it even possible that he wasn't as alone as he'd feared?

  "Goddamned cattle barons with their goddamned uppity ways," muttered Ward, staring with pure hatred at the door, then turning it at Laramie. "Think they're more important than everyone else. Well, don't you get any ideas that you're safe, sonny boy, 'cause this is still my jail. You hear?"

  But Ward would have to wait a few lifetimes before Laramie ever called him sir.

  The ride was dark, despite the gaslights along the streets. Rain skittered across Vic's hat, her clothes, and her bare hands. Her skirts weren't about to blow anywhere.

  Twice, the bicycle wheels slid right out from under her, but somehow she caught herself with a foot before she truly fell. She reached the dark shops across the street and down from the jail pretty quickly—faster, apparently, than Thaddeas. She didn't see his horse hitched out front.