Explaining Herself Read online

  But no. That crime he would not commit. If he loved her enough to leave her, he must love her enough to leave her alone.

  They kissed, long and longingly, until finally Victoria wrenched herself from his arms, grabbed her bicycle, and began to run with it, somehow mounting it as it rolled. She coasted out through the gates of the cemetery and pedaled, hard, out of sight. Staring after her, Laramie wished, more than he'd ever wished for anything, to be someone else. Someone who could stay with her. Someone who could love her properly.

  But hell, he'd already been three people, and he wasn't even twenty-five years old. Besides, a fellow brought all those past selves with him. Prison and Argentina aside, the person he was now—whoever that was—might not even be alive in a year.

  One more secret he'd chosen to keep.

  Victoria was halfway home, nearly blinded by her tears and the gaslit darkness, before she realized the truth.

  She was in love with Ross Laramie.

  The thought surprised her so much, she almost swerved right into Duchess. She braked immediately and dismounted to find her balance. How blind was she? For mercy's sake, she'd been happily kissing the man for weeks!

  Had she thought the excitement came from the rustling?

  She looked over her shoulder, toward the cemetery, and she thought—/don't know him. She had too many unanswered questions. Who were his bad companions? Did he enjoy reading books? Was he a Republican or a Democrat—or did outlaws even vote?

  And how had he hurt himself, when she first saw him bare-chested and bandaged?

  But she did know Ross Laramie had a soft voice, a deliberate manner, a coiled control. He was impressive with a side arm but still didn't like using it. He

  was tall and angled and darkly handsome. He made her feel safe, cherished. Now that she knew who he really was, or at least had been—

  Drazen Lauranovic!

  —she also knew he'd come through awful adversity and, with few good influences, had grown into a man so decent that he'd comforted Kitty about the stallion's death. So decent that he hadn't taken advantage of how she kept meeting him alone like a regular hussy. So decent that he mourned his self-defense shooting of a cattle rustler.

  She knew more than she'd thought—and she loved him.

  And now she'd let him go?

  "Idiot!" She said the word out loud, turning her bicycle to go after him. Then—again—she hesitated.

  How long could he hold down a job? How heavy a drinker was he? Was there a price on his head? Did he believe in God, the rights of children and laborers, or women's suffrage?

  She looked back toward the cemetery and wanted him. She wanted to get on her bicycle and go after him. But she couldn't seem to make herself move— until Duchess spun around, ears high.

  Then she heard hoofbeats, coming fast. Someone was riding toward her at a trot, just this side of dangerous on paved streets. Ross? She spun hopefully in that direction.

  Then she recognized her father's buckskin, her father's fury—and her heart took a header.

  Papa reined to a stop and glared down at her, beyond words. Before she'd even reconciled herself to disappointment—that he wasn't Ross—he reached down, lifted her bicycle right up out of her hands, and hurled it in a high, heavy arc into the bushes beside the road. His horse started at that bit of business, but Papa just reined him in again, leaned out of the saddle, and caught her by the waistband. Her, he dragged up onto the saddle in front of him, facedown.

  "Papa!" she protested. But she also grabbed on to his leg when he wheeled around and set off at a canter. "Let me up!"

  "Keep your voice down," he cautioned, his own drawl dangerous. "Just might survive this night without ruinin' your reputation and the rest of ours."

  Reputation? The man she loved had just left to God-knew-where, and her father was worried about her reputation'? Only out of respect for her sisters, and their reputations through association, did she bite back further protests until they reached the in-town house. That, and apprehension. Generally, when one of the girls was old enough to ride sidesaddle, it was understood that they were too old for whippings. But Victoria's sister Laurel had disproved that understanding once or twice.

  Vic wasn't about to submit to a child's punishment without a fight. But even Mama tiptoed around Papa when he got angry—and Victoria had never seen him this angry.

  He rode right into the now-open doors of the stables and swung her none-too-gently onto her feet. Then he pointed at an empty stall. "Wait."

  She drew a breath to protest, then saw his face. His brows slashed low over eyes that glittered with gray fury. His mouth was set tight. His movements, too, were sharper than he would normally make around a person, much less a horse.

  She stood, silent and obedient, while he saw to his horse. But she regretted her obedience when he grabbed her by the arm and all but dragged her toward the house.

  He made poor Duchess stay in the stables, like a failure.

  "Papa, stop it," Victoria protested again.

  She might as well argue with a mountain. He didn't let go until he'd shoved her down into a kitchen chair. Then he strode to the other side of the room, as if afraid of what he would do if he were close to her.

  She sat up, head high, and waited.

  Papa opened his mouth once, closed it, shook his head. It took him another few tries before he managed, "Where. Were. You."

  So much for choosing home and family over true love. That hurt—that anger—made her fold her arms and demand, "Where do you think?"

  Only then did she spot it, the flash of pain behind Papa's fury, the confusion at her disobedience of lifelong rules, the fear he must have felt. He turned away, before she could see more, and braced a forearm against the wall. "Gallivantin' through the night," he accused, aggrieved. "Riskin' your safety, your honor."

  At that, he turned back to her. Or upon her. "Family's honor," he added with an accusing nod. "Thank God your mother and sisters weren't here. Still scair't your brother near to death."

  And him. She'd scared him.

  "I was fine," she assured him, more gently. "I had Duchess with me, like I promised, and I was safe the whole time. Although if Thaddeas had only taken me with him when I asked him to—"

  From his expression, that had not been the best answer.

  "I went to the jail to see what happened," she offered.

  "Dawson said as much," Papa drawled, and looked disgusted. "When he got 'round to it."

  She felt a stab of guilt for poor Nate. "When I heard Thad tell Mr. Laramie to leave town, I went to the cemetery."

  "The cemetery," Papa repeated, confused.

  "I had a hunch he might stop by there, and I was right."

  "Met him at the cemetery." His breath was ragged.

  "To talk, Papa. To find out what had happened, why he was leaving." That wasn't all they'd done, but it was why she'd gone.

  Besides, Ross didn't need anyone else gunning for him.

  "To talk," repeated Papa now, more than suspicious.

  'Yes, to talk about why he was being ordered out of town by a local cattle baron and his son."

  He angled a hand in her direction, a warning against that tone of voice. "Middle of the night."

  She said, "Apparently, that's when he got his orders."

  Thaddeas burst through the back door, breathless. "Thank God you're safe, you brat." Then he looked at their father. "I saw the light on the third floor. Thanks for the signal."

  Victoria frowned. "Papa didn't go up to the third floor."

  Thaddeas said, "Miss Taylor's still here. And weren't you a friend, leaving her to face us when we got in?"

  Oh no. Poor Evangeline!

  Where was poor Evangeline?

  "Do you know what you put us through?" demanded Thad.

  Papa said, "Met him at the cemetery."

  Thaddeas made a face. "The cemetery?"

  The back door opened again, and Nate Dawson skidded inside. "Oh, thank God," he said, seeing Vi
ctoria.

  Papa said, "Git."

  He said, "Yessir," and backed out the door.

  Thaddeas said, "What were you thinking, meeting a man at night? And that man? I guess you weren 't thinking!"

  Victoria had heard enough. "I met him at the cemetery because I knew that he would stop there. He was visiting his family's graves one last time, since because of you he has to leave them." Not that she'd known they were his family, at the time, but it sounded better this way than, "I had a hunch."

  Both her father and brother went so still, it would have been funny. Under different circumstances.

  Nothing was funny tonight.

  "His family," repeated Papa.

  "The Lauranovics," she confirmed. "Yes," she added, to Thaddeas's expression, so grateful to Ross for telling her himself that she could weep. "I do know who he is. I know a great deal about him, and he understands me, too. More than you do."

  Papa narrowed his eyes at the challenge. "He does."

  'Yes. I'm glad to be your daughter, your sister. I'm sorry for risking the family, and for frightening you. But I have a life beyond being just Victoria Garrison, whether you like that or not. I have dreams that are worth taking chances on."

  "Did you think you'd become Victoria Lauranovic?" challenged Thaddeas, his sarcasm thick.

  "Laurence," she corrected him. "They wanted to be called Laurence. And I would be, if I'd said yes tonight. Is that why you two were so scared? You thought he'd beguile me with promises, then light out when it was too late? Well I'm not Julie Laurence. Oh, I could probably get myself into trouble like her, if I fell in love with someone less honorable than Ross," she admitted, aware that they were staring at her with almost identical expressions of horror. "But if some man misused me, I certainly wouldn't commit suicide. I'd go gunning for him myself. I wouldn't rely on my father or my big brother to do it!"

  Or even wait for a younger brother to grow up?

  Victoria had been leaning forward from the chair in her zeal, but slowly she sat back with realization. "He was going to kill the man who ruined Julie, wasn't he?"

  Thad raised his eyebrows. "Figured it out, did you? That's why we fired him."

  "But he thinks you ruined Julie."

  "What?" Sensing his father's silent question, Thaddeas spread his hands. "Wait, I barely even knew Julie Laurence!"

  "That's what I told him, but he thought you were the only one left, and he didn't kill you." He really does love me.

  Thad said, "Luckily for him, since I got him out of jail."

  "He was innocent. It couldn't have been that awfully hard," she challenged right back. "And by the way, he made an excellent range detective, and you still have a rustling problem on your hands, because whoever's really behind the operation helped Harry Smith escape jail. You just consider that next time you feel all smug about firing Ross."

  Papa shook his head in warning, clearly more concerned with her tone of voice than the loss of cattle. "Get upstairs."

  "Gladly." She stood. His next words surprised her.

  "Monday, you'll serve your notice and take yourself back home where we can keep watch on you." He narrowed his eyes in full accusation. "Since you ain't to be trusted."

  What? "I will not!"

  "As long as you are under this roof—"

  "Then I won't stay under this roof." That took him by surprise, and she made the best of the moment. "By the time he was my age, Thaddeas had been at college in Virginia for almost two years. I can certainly manage living within a half mile of my family if I move out to a boardinghouse. So, if I can't go about my own business without throwing this whole house into turmoil—if I feel I have to sneak around to entertain whom I choose—it may be our only compromise."

  Rather than push her luck, she headed for the back stairs. There, reluctantly, she stopped. She did have responsibilities beyond her own heart. "Evangeline's here?"

  "Reckon she's hidin' somewhere," admitted Papa. "This ain't decided."

  "No, sir," conceded Victoria. And maybe that was a good thing. "It probably isn't. Good night."

  Then she hurried upstairs, to where Evangeline waited.

  "You're staying the night," Vic said. At this hour, it was her only choice. Besides, she longed to talk about Ross—about his truth, his proposal, the letter he would write to her.

  She wanted to admit that she was in love.

  "They're just scared," offered Evangeline solemnly. "They love you so much. They just want to protect you."

  Victoria said, "Protection against one's will is sometimes called imprisonment." But it occurred to her, especially as an avid reader of Nellie Bly, that many troublesome women were committed to asylums for no more than what she'd done, under the assumption that any sane woman would behave herself. Despite Mama's work, such incarceration was still legal—and she, Victoria, was very lucky to have the father and brother she did. As she'd told Ross, she knew quite a few decent men.

  She wished he knew he was still one of them. But at least she could tell Evangeline.

  For once, gifted with all that Ross confessed to her, she could tell Evangeline everything.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  "I'll live with my family after all," confessed Victoria, using a gardening fork to turn up topsoil. "I know, I know—moving out was how I meant to establish my independence before Ross comes back. But Mama negotiated between Papa and me. He can be so single-minded about matters like independence and growing up ... and men." She made a face. "True, both Stuart and Collier were something of a shock to him. I should think that, in contrast, he would be glad to welcome Ross back. Someday."

  Someday soon? A whole month had passed. The leaves were already changing, and so far she'd received no letters.

  She sighed. "But you know Papa. There's a right, and there's a wrong. Rustling and gunfighting—he sees those pretty much in the wrong column. Maybe a man can change enough to work for him, but not enough to court one of his daughters. I think Mama understands better because she sees us more clearly."

  She considered that for a moment while she lifted some orange marigolds from the pot she'd carried to the cemetery. "Did you even know my mother?"

  Of course, the silent graves of Josip, Filip, and Julie Lauranovic had no answer to that. With a shrug, Victoria scooped more dirt aside to make room for the flowers. The ground felt cool, even through her leather work gloves. "In any case, Mama pointed out that were I at a boardinghouse, I would still be in trouble. Respectable residences have a curfew, and Ross and I certainly broke that! She suggested that we try something similar to the arrangement they have with Thaddeas. I still live at home, where they can keep an eye on me; and really, I like that better. That way, I can also help with the household and watch after Elise and Audra—and Thaddeas—when our parents take Kitty to that nice specialist in Chicago. I had to pay to fix my own bicycle, which hardly seems fair, but I get to keep my job. And as long as I behave like a responsible adult, they will attempt to treat me like one. Papa wasn't particularly satisfied, but he did get some concessions. Didn't he, Duchess?"

  The dog lifted her dark head, ears perked at the sound of her name. Victoria grinned at her, then settled the flowers and scooped some dirt back over their roots. She felt foolish—not just talking to the graves, which actually seemed natural, but presuming to pretty them up on her own. Ross had not asked her to. And although he'd offered to marry her if she left with him that night, she hadn't left with him; and he hadn't even promised to return, much less marry her later. Just to write.

  And he still hadn't written.

  Even after almost a month—a month of mulling over all her questions, a month without his embrace or kisses to remind her of the ways she knew him beyond mere facts—Victoria believed better of him than to think he'd been trying to lure her away to scandal and desertion. But he could have changed his mind. Golly, she still hadn't wholly made up hers! And on the chance that he did not intend to renew his proposal ...

  Well, wouldn't she loo
k silly, having put this effort into prettying up his family's cemetery plot. Her sister Audra had already voiced concern. People might notice, and then they might talk. Acting as if he'd given her a ring. She'd heard enough gossip in her time to imagine it well enough. And him no better than a gun-slinger. Poor, abandoned Victoria.

  She realized she was chewing her lip, and slowly released it. He was better than a gunslinger. Once he came home .. . well.

  In any case, she liked spending time in the cemetery.

  "By the way, the fall roundups showed that ours isn't the only ranch losing stock." She assumed Mr. Lauranovic would find that particularly interesting. "The local cattlemen collected a reward for the capture of the rustlers, preferably alive. Papa doesn't want any more lynchings. I don't know if it will help, though. Nobody knows how Harry Smith got out of jail, though I have my—"

  Duchess's head came up again. When Victoria glanced toward the front of the cemetery, cautiously craning her neck to see past the gravestones, she saw a man hitching his horse by the lamppost. It wasn't Ross; the horse wasn't Blackie, and even from the back, the man was neither tall nor dark.

  He didn't seem to notice her bicycle, leaning against the back of the McCrae tomb. Perhaps it would be better if he didn't notice her either. For her scandal-shy sisters' sake, Victoria ducked behind Josip Lauranovic's tombstone. Then noticed how her skirts spread out beyond it, and swept up armfuls of weight-pinned material and petticoats—three times before she had them all—so they wouldn't give her away.

  Duchess sat up, clearly intrigued, then looked back toward the cemetery's visitor, ears even more alert than usual. Victoria realized that the man was whistling to himself.

  Well, that wasn't uncommon.

  But he was whistling "Clementine."

  She felt a shiver across her whole body—puzzle pieces! Of course, everyone knew the words to that song, which had gotten popular in the mid-'80s. "Oh my Darling Clementine, you are lost and gone forever. ..."