The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 35

  “That’s very sweet of you to say.”

  “I’d give anything in the world…”

  Something stirred in Jennifer. For just a moment she felt young and carefree and hopeful. A small voice told her that she didn’t have much of a marriage. Her husband hated her, resented her, and wanted to be rid of her.

  Tom’s skin was moist from the ride, and it seemed to glow. His lips were smooth and slightly parted. Jennifer’s fingers itched to reach out and touch them. Just once. Everything in her strained toward the comfort he could offer, but she was not ready to give up yet. She still had hope that Chane would relent. And as long as there was any hope at all…

  She turned away before Tom could say anything more. “Time to get back,” she said, realizing as she did that her voice was lower and more ragged than she would have liked. A testament, if any were needed, that she was desperate for husbandly attention.

  When they reached the camp, she was almost frantic in her desire not to be alone. She searched out Cooky and asked him to teach her everything he knew. Puzzled but willing, Cooky took her out onto the desert to show her how to find herbs and wild vegetables for dinner. She was amazed at how many of the weeds she’d taken for granted were lovingly gathered and carefully placed in Cooky’s sack.

  As they returned and walked past the office car, she heard sounds of things being thrown around inside and stopped. “Wait here,” she said to Cooky.

  She climbed the steps and looked into Chane’s and Steve’s office. The bookkeeper, George Rutherford, a thin, graying man with bulging eyes and a pencil-thin mustache, was tossing clothes at a valise propped open on the floor. Rutherford and Steve shared the back half of the car’s sleeping quarters.

  “Mr. Rutherford! What are you doing?”

  “Packing, ma’am.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His voice quivered; he didn’t look up.

  “How come?”

  “I didn’t sign on for this trip to get killed by a bunch of Oriental savages.”

  “The war’s over, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “For today, maybe, but I know the Chinese. When they’ve got a mind to fight with one another, they’ll fight. Not a stubboner bunch of men anywhere on this earth.”

  Nothing Jennifer could say would deter him. Finally, she tried another tack. “If you leave, we’ll be left without a bookkeeper.”

  “I expect so,” he said, stuffing another shirt into his bag.

  “I could take over your job, if you’d train me.” It took twenty minutes to convince him, but he finally agreed.

  Cooky took over all cooking and cleaning in the Pullman coach. Jennifer spent every available minute with Rutherford, making copious notes, until she felt she understood how the bookkeeping system worked. He wrote out detailed instructions and quizzed her on them. He watched her pay bills and post the transactions to the general ledger and the subsidiary ledgers. He taught her how to keep track of inventory and how to order supplies.

  She’d had no idea how much work a bookkeeper did. At the end of each day, Jennifer’s head spun with all she’d learned, but she felt more useful than ever before in her life. At night she went to bed weary but pleased with herself. She woke each morning with the feeling that life was wonderful and she was part of it.

  As soon as he’d shown her everything he could think of about what might come up, he finished packing and said good-bye.

  “I wish you’d change your mind, Mr. Rutherford. Have you noticed how quiet it’s been?”

  “I’m too old for this, Mrs. Kincaid. I started missing my house and my cat the minute we pulled out of New York, and I haven’t stopped. This was just the last straw.”

  Jennifer asked Tom to escort Rutherford to La Junta.

  Chane was due back any day now. She could hardly wait to see what he’d say about her taking over as his bookkeeper.

  The crews were laying two miles of track a day. Every morning Jennifer saw new scenery and new weather. She’d never seen such a beautiful sky. But it could change within minutes. It might be clear in the morning, snowing by noon, and clear again before sunset.

  All week, Chane had been at the trestle site, miles ahead. Jennifer decided to ride up to the site. She told Tom, and was surprised when he showed up with two extra men, but he didn’t look to be in the mood for questions. Birds sang in snowcapped trees along the river, frogs croaked, and a mule brayed in the distance as if it were in pain. The sky was blue and clear. Crusted snow crunched under their horses’ hooves.

  She first visited the old Basque man and took him a loaf of bread Cooky had baked for him. Then she turned her horse toward the trestle site. They rode through beautiful, wild country. After a time, Tom got restless and rode up close to talk to her.

  “Time to turn back,” he said.

  “Why did you bring two extra men?” she asked, ignoring his suggestion.

  “Safety.”

  “What’s changed?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You don’t lie well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, let’s try that again. Why the extra men?”

  “My scouts say we’re being followed by a band of Indians.”

  “Good, Tom.”

  Embarrassed, he shrugged.

  Smiling, she kneed her horse forward; they rode in silence for a mile.

  “Might be a good idea to stay close to camp,” he said.

  “I want to ride to the trestle site.”

  “That’s quite a ways.”

  “I’m not a cripple. I’m a strong, healthy woman.”

  “I can see that.” His eyes flashed a warning at her. She was coming dangerously close to flirting with him.

  “What I meant is, I feel strong enough to ride as far as I want to ride.”

  “I know what you meant. Indians like strong women, too.”

  She rode until she could see the trestle. Tom came alongside and motioned her to stop. “Men working in water don’t wear many clothes.”

  She’d asked Chane about that. “We use a diving bell,” he’d said. “It works on the principle that a cupful of air will displace a cupful of water. When we’re working on the stream bed, we put men inside the diving bell, which is like a cup, and we lower it into the water. The air trapped inside is generally enough for them to breathe while they prepare the creek bed for bridge supports.”

  “Generally?” she’d asked. “Who goes down in this diving bell?”

  Chane had turned away. “Whoever needs to.”

  “You. Right?”

  Chane had shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes? Or every time?”

  “What is this? An inquisition?”

  Jennifer had glared back at him. His gaze wavered first. “Jennie, I’m here to do a job,” he’d said. “I have to do it my way.”

  Now, Jennifer kneed her horse forward. Tom could either follow or not. She rode down the hill, across a gulley, and up onto the crest of the overlooking hill. Several hundred feet below, the new yellow wood of the trestle glowed softly in the sunlight.

  Men swarmed all over it, some raising new wooden beams into place, others working at tasks she couldn’t identify.

  At the water’s edge a group of men stood around one man who looked like he was fishing with a thick rubber hose while another man worked a pump handle up and down.

  As Jennifer watched, nothing appeared to be happening to the tube, but they kept watching it as if something would, so she did, too.

  A touch on her arm made her look back at Tom. He had drawn his gun. Alarmed, Jennifer looked around for the cause.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Indians,” Tom said grimly.

  “I don’t see any Indians.”

  “You will.”

  Tom spoke to one of his men. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Get her down and keep her down.”

  Tom’s man started toward Jennifer. Then she saw the Indians—a hundred or more—ride o
ver the top of the hill and toward the men working on the banks of the river below.

  “Where’s Chane?” Jennifer asked, suddenly afraid for him.

  “Don’t know.” Tom fired a warning shot to alert the men below. The man fishing looked up, saw the Indians, threw down his line, and ran. Another man picked up the line and jerked on it. The man working the pump looked worried, but he just kept working the pump handle up and down. Jennifer recognized Steve as the man on the pump. Where Steve was, Chane could not be far away, but she didn’t see him. Men ran for their guns. Others fired.

  The Indians swarmed down the side of the hill toward the men scampering for their guns. Shots rang out. An Indian fell. Two Indians dismounted, picked their fallen comrade out of the deep snow, hefted him across the back of a pony, and fled back the way they’d come.

  The rest of the Indians converged near the trestle’s southernmost end, where Steve was still jerking on the line and pumping the pump handle.

  “We picked a hell of a time to come here,” Tom growled.

  He grabbed at Jennifer’s reins, but she saw what he was going to do and evaded him, backing the horse away.

  “Do you want to get killed? Are you as crazy as your husband?”

  Anger flashed in Jennifer. “I’m fine. Why don’t you do something useful instead of trying to take care of a woman not in danger. Hand me a gun.”

  “My first responsibility is to keep you safe…”

  Before she could reply, the sounds of men shouting drew Tom’s attention back to the men at the trestle.

  The Indians had stopped in mid-charge and were pointing at the water, horrified.

  The center of the wide, rapidly flowing river had begun to roil. Tubes seemed to be rising out of the water. One of the men ran over and started pulling on the tubes, hand over hand. At last a shiny metal ball attached to the tubes appeared to float to the surface and head toward the riverbank.

  The Indians had halted their ponies in the deep snow and stared wide-eyed as the crown of the ball broke the surface of the water and slowly began to rise out of it. Jennifer saw that the ball with tubes was attached to what must be a diving suit. The man in the diving suit strode to the water’s edge and started up the embankment.

  Indians watched for another moment, then turned their horses and fled, yipping in terror.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tom muttered.

  Jennifer urged her horse forward and rode down to see this marvel at close range. As she reached the river, Steve unfastened the bolts on the headpiece and lifted it off. Just as she had expected, Chane, grinning broadly, burst into laughter.

  “I knew this suit would be worth something someday.”

  Steve laughed. “You should have seen their faces!”

  The men howled. But when Chane saw her, his smile faded. Scowling at Tom, he growled, “You let her ride into a pack of Indians?”

  Tom looked down at his scuffed boots. “Yes, sir.”

  Chane snapped his mouth shut. He’d been on the verge of taking the hide off Tom Tinkersley, but he knew Jennie too well. She always did what she damned well pleased. Tom had probably just hung on for dear life—as Chane was learning to do.

  Jennie rode closer to him and waited until the men’s merriment subsided.

  “What is that thing?” Jennifer asked.

  “It used to be a gutta-percha diving suit,” Chane said. “But now it’s a good luck charm against Indian attacks.” The men roared with laughter and relief.

  “I need to talk to you,” Jennifer told Chane. He lifted her off her horse and carried her to a sunny, wind-sheltered place, out of sight of the trestle.

  “What now?” he asked warily.

  He looked so good to her. She wanted to touch him so badly she ached. Being out in the sun and wind had colored his skin bronze. His black hair was badly rumpled, but his eyes were clear and frank as they looked into hers.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken over the bookkeeping.”

  “What happened to Rutherford?”

  Jennifer told him everything that had happened since he left the last time.

  “I don’t want you stuck with the book work. That’s a hard job and a bloody nuisance. You’ll get sick of it in no time.”

  “I don’t mind at all. I like doing it.”

  “It’ll get old soon enough,” he said, chagrined that her eyes were shining with joy and accomplishment while he was in torment, still so plagued by the very sight of her that he had banished himself to the trestle site. And even there, all he thought about was her.

  And she didn’t help in the least. Another woman, left alone with so many problems, might have withered and died of loneliness by now. But Jennie was as beautiful as ever, perhaps even more beautiful. And stronger than he’d ever guessed. He had never expected her to step in and give orders in his absence. He’d certainly not expected her to start filling in for men who left.

  Over Jennie’s shoulder Chane saw Tom Tinkersley gazing in their direction. “Tom’s waiting for you. You better get going before the Indians get up their courage and come back.”

  “You aren’t angry with Tom, are you? It wasn’t his fault. I—”

  “No,” he said grudgingly. “I know who’s in charge.”

  Jennie flushed and turned away. Chane let her go.

  Tom strode forward, glanced quickly at Chane, then picked Jennie up and carried her to her horse with an easy familiarity. Both blond and slim, they made a handsome couple. An ugly feeling welled up in Chane from some unknown place. He knew his bluff had been called. From now on he’d either have to stay closer to home or farther away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chane returned to the Pullman coach two days after Jennie visited the trestle. That night, Jennie spent a long time in the lavatory. Chane was sorry he’d come back. Everytime she got ready for bed, his mind pictured her taking a bath the way she’d done on board ship. He could see her shapely legs, the curve of her sleek buttocks, the perfect arch of her strong back…

  Finally, she came out and padded past his compartment to her own. Instead of finding relief from his imagination, now he envisioned her lying in bed, soft and silky and responsive. Chane lay there as long as he could stand it, then dressed and slipped outside.

  He walked twenty paces away from the coach and leaned against a tree. The moon seemed close enough to touch. Almost full, its roundness marred only by a slim wedge off the side, it hung like a silver plate amid a million sparkling stars.

  He’d been crazy to bring Jennie along.

  The Pullman door opened, and he recognized Jennie’s silhouette, with crutches, on the observation deck. She negotiated the steps and swung gracefully on her crutches, straight toward him. He thought about trying to escape, but his pride wouldn’t let him.

  She stopped beside him and said, “You’ll catch your death out here.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m not going to try to seduce you, you know,” she said, ignoring his question.

  “I’m a grown man, for God’s sake. Do you think a woman has to try to seduce me to stir my passions?”

  “Sorry,” she said, turning to leave.

  “Jennie…”

  She stopped. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I know I shouldn’t bother you, but I keep hoping…” She turned her face away, but not quickly enough. He could see the silvery snail tracks of tears on her lovely cheeks.

  Chane felt such frustration, he levered himself away from the tree. She started angrily back toward the Pullman coach. Although he knew better, he reached out and grabbed her arm. She tried to jerk free, but her strength was no match for his. He pulled her into his arms, and she squirmed with angry resistance. Passions he’d denied for weeks flared, and he caught her hands and kissed her.

  He knew he was hurting her, and he didn’t care. She smelled of Gillyflowers and tasted as fresh and intoxicating as the headiest wine. Her lips were wet with tears—salty a
nd trembling—as she dragged in a ragged breath and allowed them to part beneath his probing tongue.

  Nearly crazed with desire, he kissed her for a long time. He barely realized he had picked her up until he banged his shin on the bottom step of the Pullman coach. Startled back to sanity, he carried her up the steps and lowered her to her feet. “Stay away from me,” he whispered, his voice a hoarse croak.

  “Chane—”

  “No,” he whispered raggedly. Without another word he turned and plunged down the steps.

  Horrified that he could still want her so much that he’d make a fool of himself at the drop of a hat, he spent the rest of the night in the office car. Toward dawn he fell asleep in one of the upholstered chairs, and awoke with a crick in his neck.

  A wire came at ten o’clock that morning from their legislative watchman in Denver, warning that two key legislators were on the verge of withdrawing their support for the railroad. Chane talked it over with Steve and decided to go to the Colorado capital himself.

  “Right this way, sir,” the porter said diffidently.

  Chane followed the black man down the long hall and into a private anteroom. To his surprise, a woman stood up and walked toward him, smiling.

  “Latitia,” he said stiffly.

  “Chane, darling,” she said, stepping close to him and lifting her lips to be kissed.

  Chane frowned and ignored the opportunity. “I thought I was supposed to meet with a couple of legislators.”

  “I thought I’d save you the trouble. If we can come to terms, there’ll be no need for legislation.”

  “Are you representing your father?”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling. “How far have you gotten with the railroad?”

  Chane knew her spies always kept her informed of exactly how far they had gotten. “We’ll cross the border ahead of you. That’s all you need to know.”

  “So,” she said, “you took Jennifer back, after what she did to you. I suppose you realize you’ve become the laughingstock of New York.”