7. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
“ T his is our ride?” Lady Ross stared at the wagon parked in front of the hotel. “What about a train?”
“Ain’t no train to where you’re going, lady.” The man Will and Emily had met at the bank yesterday hopped down from the wagon, spry for his age. He’d introduced himself simply as Morty.
Next to Will, Emily chuckled. “That sounded ominous.”
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Morty.” Will grabbed the three luggage bags. “Where can I put this?”
“Stick it somewhere in there.” Morty pointed to the cloth roof. His mode of transport was a modified chuck wagon with the classic storage in the back, an added seating porch at the front, and pulled by a pair of horses. Lady Ross’ objections aside, it would have to suffice. Will didn’t care much about the transportation mode—he just wanted to get to Richling Creek.
Preferably before Emily and Lady Ross killed each other.
With some fussing (Lady Ross) and laughing (Emily), the wagon was finally packed and boarded. Besides the porch in the front, the only other suitable sitting space was a small bench, covered with a blanket, nestled between boxes full of spirits, canned goods, and workmen’s tools. Lady Ross headed straight for it and sat in the center, arranging the blanket for more comfort. Emily caught Will’s gaze in a silent “See what I have to deal with,” then sat on the floor and leaned her back against one of the boxes.
Will joined Morty at the front. After hearing Will’s worries about intervening with the man's work, Morty assured him it would only be a minor detour, and he’d already adjusted his plans to drop off a few supplies at the General Store in Richling Creek.
Morty clucked the horses into movement, and off they went. He had a modest collection of books in the back and offered them as a pastime; Lady Ross happily—that is, with a hint of a smile—made use of the offer.
In twenty minutes, they’d cleared the city and sailed into the open plains. Miles in front, the blueish-gray peaks of the Rocky Mountains rose, the shadows of a few stray clouds playing along their tops. Will had never been this far west and was perfectly content to sit and admire the landscape. It would make for a fantastic painting.
A few ranches dotted the prairie, the herds of cattle only seen as dark specks in the sea of green. Lord Haverston used to live—surely not work?—on one of those ranches. Will wondered what would bring an English aristocrat this far, especially since he came with no purpose of owning a ranch and raising cattle.
He threw a quick look over his shoulder. Lady Ross was coiled up, nose deep in the book. Emily sat cross-legged on the floor, inspecting a liquor bottle, her strange red-and-white shoes peeking from under her skirt. She didn’t look as annoyed as she’d been at Lady Ross at the beginning of their journey, or at least he hoped she wasn’t. Even though they’d only have to travel together for two more days, he’d rather see they got along .
He frowned, thinking. Did he wish for that because he wanted Emily to be happy—or because of that slight, infinitesimal chance that Lady Ross was—
“Now, ladies,” Morty shouted. Emily almost dropped the bottle, then quickly put it back and smiled at Will. “Why don’t you come join us here? Mighty fine view we’re having. You can coop up in there later.”
Will scooted over so Emily and Lady Ross could join him on the bench. The mountains have drawn nearer now, opening up a view into a wide valley, its steep slopes dark with dense pine forests. Further in the back, the mountains rose even higher, a few specks of snow topping their peaks.
“Wow,” Emily sighed. She and Lady Ross had identical, awe-struck expressions on their faces. “It’s pretty. I’d never seen mountains this high.”
Lady Ross noticed Will looking at her and quickly schooled her expression into a more neutral one. “The view is … inspiring.”
“Inspired you to get a mountain cabin and hunt some beaver?” Emily poked.
Lady Ross pursed her lips but didn’t respond. It was for the best. Will struggled with Emily’s humor at times, too, but what he’d seen of her world helped him understand a fraction of it. Lady Ross would not have this advantage and as such, would always view Emily as strange.
Emily spoke up again after a while. “So your brother is quite the ladies’ man, huh?”
“I would appreciate you not making rash conclusions.” Lady Ross raised her chin. “For all you know, he could have been doing … charity work.”
Emily snorted. “Yeah, I bet him and Mrs. Sanderson did some charity work, all right.”
“My brother is a gentleman. He was raised as it befits his station. You’d do well to remember that. ”
“Sure. I’ll remember he’s a spoiled rich boy who undoubtedly got away with everything because his daddy was fancy.”
Lady Ross stood, grabbing the backrest for balance, and frowned at Emily. “I think I’ll go back inside now, thank you. I’ve had enough of this …” She waved around with her free arm.
“Beautifully fresh mountain air?” Emily supplied with an innocent smile.
Lady Ross huffed, checked her hair, and retreated inside the wagon.
“Even her stink eye looks polite,” Emily said, barely suppressing a giggle.
So much about them getting along.
Emily made herself comfortable now that there was more room on the bench. “So, this brother. He’s supposed to protect her once we’re done, isn’t he? I’m not getting the best impression of him.”
That was true. A scoundrel and a gambler—hardly a suitable guardian for someone like Lady Ross. Someone with a killer possibly on their trail. Will gulped. He was worried about the device, first and foremost, but he couldn’t get the image of Lady Ross’ face in the brothel from his mind. He’d seen her without her cool aristocratic mask, and she’d been so frightened.
No. He had a job to do—get the device and figure out how they were tampering with time travel. He was only fretting over the other possibilities because her name was Sylvia. If he told Emily, she’d probably throw one of those “dumb as a box of rocks” sayings at him.
“How far until Richling Creek, Morty?” Emily asked.
“We’ll have to bunk overnight. I know a proper spot,” Morty said. “Should be there late morning tomorrow. If you’ve got a quick horse and ride like the wind, you can get from Denver to Richling Creek in a day, though. ”
“I don’t suppose you’ll be coming back in a few days?”
As Morty shook his head, Emily turned to Will. “We’ll have to find another way back.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Maybe we can even visit a few other towns on the road. Do you reckon we’ll see any outlaws?”
“I don’t think you want to see an outlaw.”
“Sure I do! Have I told you Sarah was crazy about Westerns a few years ago? I had to watch them all with her. I know what we’re getting into.”
“Remember the device? And …” Will glanced at Morty, who was occupied by talking to the horses. “Remember we have priorities?”
“Yeah, but we’ll be done with that in no time. And then the fun begins. Oh, Gramps, think of the adventures we’re gonna have. We can go anywhere. And return with no time lost! Now that’s what I call efficient tourism.”
Something gripped his chest. Will took a deep breath and clutched the edge of the seat.
“I’m gonna go nap. Wake me up when something cool happens!” Emily retreated, oblivious to his weird behavior.
Will closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down. He couldn’t go on like this, freezing at the mention of time travel. What would’ve happened at the bank if Emily hadn’t done her magic? And what would happen when—if—eventually, he’d have to travel?
He pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling the outline of the watch in his pocket.
When the time came, he’d simply have to say no. It was easy to alter something or travel somewhere when one knew the outcome.
But doing it blind … he could never manage that.
** *
Emily woke up with a massive pain in her neck and back. She blinked away the remnants of slumber and found herself staring at the worn wood of the crate serving as her pillow.
Yup. That explained the pain.
She lifted her arms and carefully stretched. Sylvia’s luxury quarters—the blanketed bench—had been vacated, and the wagon was standing still, the ends of its canvas roof drawn close. A mix of voices drifted in from the outside. She pried open one end and stumbled into the grass.
They were parked off the road, in a clearing bordered by tall pine trees. It was late afternoon, going into evening, and a small camp had been set up. Morty was taking care of the horses at one end; by the fire with something bubbling in a pot over it, Will and Sylvia sat on a log, covered by a blanket.
They were sitting together. And chatting. And … was that almost a laugh from Sylvia?
Emily slowly approached from behind.
“… every spring,” Will was saying, waving his hands. “It’s a wonderful opportunity for budding artists. In the previous decades, they had little chance to advance unless they were sponsored or had strong political connections.”
“And he’s one of them?”
“Yes, fantastic. I was able to go last year. He had this painting of sunflowers—”
“Hey, you two!” Emily greeted a little too loudly and cheerfully—even she cringed at the tone. “What’s up? ”
As if being interrupted from doing something forbidden, Will and Sylvia startled and glanced at her.
She made a shooing movement with her hands and wiggled herself into the space on the log between them. “So, what are we talking about?”
“Van Gogh,” Will said.
“Oh, him! Yeah, I know the guy. Not personally, of course.” Emily nodded wisely. “The one without the ear.”
Sylvia’s hand flew up to cover her mouth.
An awkward silence followed. Will shifted his position and cleared his throat. Sylvia lowered her hand, now clenching them both in her lap.
“So Morty’s cooking some stew, huh?” Emily leaned forward and sniffed the pot. “Oof, spicy.”
“Yes,” came Sylvia’s constrained reply.
More silence.
“I’ll go see how the horsies are.” Emily dusted off her hands and strode to Morty, glancing over her shoulder. That was awkward. Almost like she was … third-wheeling.
She shook her head. No way. “Hey, Morty.”
“Howdy, missy. What’s cookin’?”
“You mean you didn’t make that stew? Have we got a secret passenger?”
Morty laughed and patted her on the shoulder. What a nice man. Why couldn’t they be stuck with him instead of Sylvia?
“Tell me you have something better to talk about than painting,” Emily said. “Or this is going to be one long night.”
“Oh, I got stories. You just tell me which one you wanna hear. Ghost stories?”
“I’m from Savannah. ”
“Then you’ll be sick of those. Mountain men stories? Outlaws? Buried treasures?”
Emily gasped. “There’s buried treasure?”
“Depends on how you take it. In theory, there’s gold and silver all over under these mountains. Buried in the rock.”
Her disappointment must’ve shown, since Morty quickly continued, “But there are other stories as well. I know one about two men who fought over a crate of gold. It’s said one buried it …”
Morty steered her toward the fire and, throughout the evening, entertained them with stories that, at least to Emily, were way more interesting than Van Gogh.
The next morning, Morty turned off the main road and steered the wagon down a narrower path. A branch slapped Emily now and then as she kept him company on the bench, but he looked sure enough in his driving, and they progressed slowly but steadily.
At last, they rounded a bend, and a strip of forest cleared around them, giving them a view of a small valley below. Rays of sun glinted off the stream that ran through it, hosting, on one side, a small collection of houses. The bottom of the valley where the settlement stood was grassy, with the forest beginning halfway up the slopes. A mountain with a row of sharp, snow-covered peaks closed the valley in the distance.
“Welcome to Richling Creek,” Morty announced. They descended for another half hour. Will came to sit with Emily in the front as they approached the town, and Morty led the horses down the main—or, in this case, the only street. Modest one- and two-story buildings rose on each side, the paint peeling off their clapboard facades. Saloon, General Store, Boarding House —others without titles at the front .
They’d seen a few people and horses while approaching, but now, the street was deserted. “Where is everyone?” Will wondered.
“It’s Sunday. Maybe they’d gone to church,” Morty said, not entirely seriously.
Emily dragged her gaze from the revolving door of the saloon. “I don’t think this town has a church. You said Rich ling Creek, right?”
Morty signed the horses to stop and hopped down. Will followed, helping Emily, and finally Sylvia.
“I reckon that’s it,” Morty said. “Got some things to drop over yonder, then I’m off.”
“Thank you for everything, Mr. Morty,” Will said. “Are you certain you need no payment?”
“Your company was payment enough. Good luck!” He whistled to the horses, and the wagon drove off, kicking up a cloud of dried mud.
Sylvia coughed and removed herself onto the walkway. “There’s nobody here.”
“Perhaps they have a meeting. Or don’t like to be outside when the sun is highest,” Will said.
Emily approached the nearest building. “Why would you go live in the West if you don’t like the sun?” A curling sheet of paper was nailed to the facade at the eye level. She straightened it with a finger.
“Hiding from the sun is still advisable,” Sylvia said. “They’re probably all inside.”
“Or …” Emily tore the paper from the wall and pushed it in front of Will’s face. “They’d gone to a boxing match!”
Will snatched the paper and studied it. “Bert the Bonebreaker versus Jaunty Jimmy? ”
“Don’t you love the names?” Emily mused. “Looks like it’s happening right now.”
“Hey! You there!” Across the street stood two men, one of them waving. “You better hurry up. It’s begun already!” They walked through a narrow passage between two buildings and disappeared through a door at the end.
“Awesome.” Emily grabbed Will’s hand. “Come, Gramps. We’re going to a boxing match!” She started and was immediately yanked back. Will wasn’t moving.
“I’m certainly not going to a boxing match,” Sylvia announced.
“No problem, honey. You wait right here. We’ll find your brother later.” Emily looked to Will, and nodded her head in the direction of the disappearing men.
“I …” Will glanced from her to Sylvia and back. “We should not leave Lady Ross alone.”
“What could possibly happen to her here?”
Sylvia yelped and swatted at a large fly. Emily rolled her eyes. “Fine, if you want to play guard, do it. I’m gonna check out the boxing match. You know, the place where people are. People who we need to ask questions.”
“Emily …”
“Be back in—well, however long boxing matches last!” She headed for the passage, leaving Will and Sylvia literally in the dust. A tiny bit of disappointment over Will choosing to stay with Sylvia again wormed its way to the surface, but Emily quickly brushed it aside. He was doing what he thought was right. Soon, Sylvia’s brother would care for her, and Emily and Will would be off.
It was easy to find the right place; the cheering and yelling coming from inside indicated a barn-like building to be the host of the match. Emily creaked open a double wooden door and stepped into the world of heat and sweat.
If there’d been any equipment or animals previously in the barn, they’d been cleared and removed to leave open a wide, straw-covered space under the roof with exposed beams. At least a hundred people, if not more, crowded the space, some leaning over the loft’s railing. Emily wasn’t sure of the stability of that one, even if it did grant a better vantage point, so instead, she moved through the crowd, rising on her toes to see toward the center. The boisterous crowd—mostly men—quieted every once in a while to let the announcer break through.
Emily squeezed between two tall men to get to the fighting ring. The square space was bordered with a simple rope, a part of it already torn from the pressure of the spectators. Two men danced around, wearing only pants and boxing gloves. Emily coughed from a particularly pungent wave of sweat that rolled her way.
One fighter was a massive mountain of muscle—the other, who was showing her his back, was slighter but nimble on his feet. The Mountain swung his arm toward his opponent, swatting like a bear and inciting a cheer of “Bert! Bert!” through the crowd. Nimble ducked, then quickly rose again. A swift left hook sent the Mountain staggering.
Another part of the crowd rose. “Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy!”
Emily easily slipped into the excitement and cheered along with the others, yelling whatever they were yelling. Mountain charged, Nimble avoided. Right hook, jab, duck. A strong hit to the torso from Nimble; Mountain went for the head, only to swat empty air. Mountain advanced—uppercut, hook, hook—got Nimble into a corner—and then Nimble swiftly turned. A well-aimed fist to the kidney section made Mountain collapse. Nimble waited, legs still dancing, sweat dripping down his naked back, while the announcer held up a hand and counted the fingers. Eight, nine, ten …
“Jimmy wins!”
The crowd erupted—all of it, leading Emily to believe this was a friendly match, its main goal entertainment.
“Hey, honey.” Someone jabbed her in the back. “Would you mind passing this to Jimmy?” Emily barely had time to respond before a man pushed a giant mug of beer into her hands. She was close enough to the ring, so she nodded and squeezed between two more people to get in front. A bit of foam spilled on her hands while she leaned forward to assess the situation. Mountain was getting back to his feet in the corner. Nimble was on her side of the ring, making his way down the line like a celebrity on the red carpet.
A woman offered him a rag and pecked him on the cheek. “Well done, Jimmy!”
He used the rag to mop his face and then ran it over his wet, coppery hair. As he moved closer to Emily, he shook hands and accepted pats on the back, laughing and yelling into the crowd.
“Beer! Jimmy, beer!” someone shouted. Nimble looked up above Emily’s head and then down to the mug.
“Well, well. What do we have here.” A pair of vivid blue eyes on a tanned, sculptured face met hers. I could cut my fingers on those cheekbones. Nimble flashed her a perfectly white smile.
Emily stuttered. What’s wrong with you? Never seen a smile before? Annoyed at herself, she lowered her eyes, only to stare directly into his gleaming—and still very naked—chest .
Those were some nicely formed chest muscles. And just a touch of reddish-brown hair— No. Stop. “Got you beer,” she squeezed out, shoved the mug into his chest, and stumbled back into the crowd.
Damn, was it hot in here. Who thought it was a good idea to crowd a hundred people into one building at the height of summer? Luckily, they all gravitated toward the center, so getting back to the fringes wasn’t hard. Near the exit, Emily stopped and fanned her face.
“Hey! Miss!”
Even though she had seen other women here—including the beauty that gave Nimble the rag—for some reason, Emily knew the shout was meant for her. She looked over her shoulder. Nimble had made his way through the crowd and rapidly approached while pulling on a crumpled gray shirt.
Oh, no. She’d wanted a boxing match, not a stalker. She’d already gone through that with Will last year.
She bolted for the door.
“Wait!”
After the throng inside, even the dusty town air seemed fresh. Emily took a deep breath, but before she could react further, Nimble burst through the door.
“Okay, what is it with you? I only brought you a beer. I’m not one of your fans.”
His eyes flicked up and down her figure. “You’re new to the town?”
“Yeah, and I’m not staying, so there’s nothing you can do for me.” Well, they did need someone to give them information—but plenty of other people could do that without making her feel like … prey.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “You sure about that?”
“Okay, listen, mister …” She trailed off when his gaze fixed on something on her shoulder. No, not the shoulder. Behind it .
“Silly?” he murmured.
Emily followed his eyes. Calm, collected, and probably looking a whole lot better than she currently did, Sylvia stood at the end of the passage. She was looking right past Emily, eyes wide, eyebrows raised.
“James?”