Chapter 3
“Lady, you don’t want to go there alone.”
Shea looked at the man at the ticket window of the Casey Springs stage station. “I can’t wait a week,” she said, trying her best to stare him down.
“I’m telling you there ain’t no coach for another six days, and it ain’t safe traveling alone, not since them outlaws started robbing coaches and stealing payrolls and attacking everything that moves.”
“But I must—”
“Now, miss,” said the clerk patiently, “you can wait at the hotel or boardinghouse. Ain’t no one going to rent you a horse or buggy to travel alone to Rushton or the Circle R, not these days.”
Shea set down her valise in disgust, and her fingers tightly gripped the art case she held at her side.
When she’d decided to come West, she’d sold everything back home. She’d made her decision, and it meant she had to leave the past behind.
That past was a lie that seemed to undermine everything she’d ever believed. She had always accepted life as it came, had always been able to meet it on its own terms, but now …
She didn’t even know who she was. It left her vulnerable, afraid, when she’d never been afraid before. Everything she knew, believed in, was unreal, and she didn’t know how or why.
But she knew she had to find out.
She had looked at the clipping so many times. Looked at her father. How many times had she wished for a father? Dreamed of having one? But for some reason her mother had kept him away from her, and her away from him.
And every time she looked at the piece of newspaper, she also saw the man her father helped convict. A thief and perhaps even a traitor.
He hadn’t looked like a thief, not from the sketch.
His face was strong and arresting, and she was struck by the contradiction between the strength she saw there and the charge.
She wondered whether there could be extenuating circumstances.
A Reb fighting in his own way for his cause?
But then why had he kept some of the money?
It was a riddle she would never solve, but perhaps she could solve the one of her father.
Why, dear God, had her mother lied to her? Shea had considered a number of reasons. Perhaps Sara Randall had hated the West, or perhaps she and her husband hadn’t been able to live together.
The more Shea wondered, the more she needed answers.
The only way she could get them was by going to the source, but that was frightening.
Had her father not wanted her? Had he not known about her?
Would he believe her? Every time she considered the trip, she felt herself shiver with both anticipation and misgiving.
Did she really want to know the answers?
She wasn’t sure. What she did know was she had to find answers.
She tucked a falling lock of hair under her bonnet as she glared at the clerk, wishing for one of the rare times she looked more intimidating.
She had a pleasant enough face, but certainly not one that sent hearts afluttering.
Everything about her was ordinary. Plain brown hair with remarkably little curl.
Blue-gray eyes, which were wider than she would have preferred, although people often said they were her best feature.
She’d never cared overmuch about clothes, preferring reading and drawing to fussing over appearances.
Serenity was her most distinctive attribute, her mother had often said. And because that quality seemed to please her mother, the person she loved most, she quieted the hunger inside her for adventure.
But her mother had been wrong. Serenity indicated a lack of passion, and Shea was passionate about many things.
She was fiercely protective of those people and things she loved and felt deeply about injustice.
She just kept those feelings to herself, hiding them under a cloak of surface practicality.
They were too personal to share with others, even her mother.
But now serenity was getting her no place. Neither was impatience nor passion.
She glared again at the clerk. A week seemed a year. She tried to explain. “My name is Randall. I … have to get to Jack Randall’s ranch.”
The stationmaster’s face softened. “You kin?”
Shea wasn’t sure what to say. She had blurted out the previous information mostly from frustration. Her father may not even know about her. Or believe her. Or maybe there had been some terrible mistake. But the Randall name seemed to have an effect, and she obviously needed an effect.
She lifted her chin. “His daughter.”
“Well, jumpin’ guns, I didn’t know Mr. Randall had a daughter.”
“I’ve been back East,” she said.
“Well, wish I could help you, Miss Randall, but that don’t change nothing.”
She felt the tension behind her eyes magnify. Almost blindly, she reached down for her valise and turned toward the door. She had to find a way.
She reached the porch outside and paused, trying to decide what to do next, when a man came out the door. She had barely noticed him inside, a tall man leaning against a wall.
“Miss Randall?” he said, taking his hat from his head in a gesture of courtesy.
She nodded.
“I heard you say you wanted to go to the Circle R. Perhaps I can help.”
Shea studied him. He was tall and fit-looking, with steady gray eyes and an aura of competence. She judged that he was just a few years older than she, but something about him made him seem centuries old.
“Sir?”
He smiled at that. “I work for your father, miss,” he said. “It is miss, isn’t it? I heard you say Randall.”
Shea felt a slight blush. “Miss,” she confirmed. “Shea Randall.”
“Well, then, I was just here to check on a telegraph, but I’m heading back tomorrow, if you would like to go with me.”
Shea wasn’t sure she should accept. Traveling alone with a man wasn’t allowed.
Yet this wasn’t Boston, and she’d been treated with nothing but respect by the men she’d met, including those drinking in the coach she’d taken from Denver.
Code of the West, she’d been told. Besides, this man did work for her father.
And she didn’t want to wait a week, couldn’t wait a week.
“You say you work for my father?”
He nodded.
“And you’re going tomorrow?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How long a trip?”
He looked at her, as if weighing her abilities. “By horseback, nearly a day.”
She groaned. “I haven’t ridden much.” That was an understatement, but she didn’t dare tell him she had ridden only a few times, and those only walks in the park.
“I’ll find you a gentle mount.”
He waited. That’s what decided her. He didn’t push. He was merely being accommodating.
“What’s your name?”
“Ben, ma’am. Ben Smith.”
She smiled. “You’ll have to let me pay you.”
He nodded again. “Where are you staying?”
She didn’t know. She looked around at the town that seemed little more than a scattering of ramshackle buildings.
There was a bank, a sheriff’s office, and a place called the Golden Nugget.
She’d been told in Denver that Casey Springs was struggling to become a major trading center now that the area’s gold was almost panned out, and she had expected more.
“Gold Nugget’s ’bout the most suitable place,” he offered. “It’s not much of a hotel, but the rooming house is full of miners and railroad workers, and sometimes they get a bit rough.”
Shea thought about her money. She had put her father’s money in a bank in Boston, not knowing whether to use it or not. What she had from the sale of the shop was going down rapidly, and she still didn’t know what kind of reception she’d get from Jack Randall.
“The Nugget’s also the safest place,” Ben Smith added quietly.
Shea smiled. He was concerned about her safety. Any lingering concern she had about her decision dribbled away. “The Golden Nugget then.” Tonight, she would have a bath. A good night’s sleep on a real bed. And tomorrow, her father. She gave Ben Smith a bright smile.
“I’ll help you with that,” he said, casting a look at the valise.
“Thank you, Mr. Smith. You’re very kind.”
As he stooped to get the valise, she saw something odd flash across his face. Regret perhaps. Maybe a second thought about being burdened with a woman.
She felt a slightest tingle of apprehension run down her spine but promptly dismissed it. She was tired, that was all. Just tired.
Ben looked at the woman riding next to him and wondered whether he was making a mistake.
But he had been handed a weapon, just handed it, by God, and he was never one to turn away from opportunity.
Randall’s daughter. He hadn’t even known the man had one.
He didn’t think the captain did, either.
Strange the way he kept thinking of Rafferty Tyler as captain.
Three weeks traveling together would usually break down formality, but not with Tyler.
Not that, or the two months since their arrival at the cabin.
Although Captain Tyler had been a strict officer, uncompromising in discipline and training, he’d also been a man with a quick smile and ready compliment when a man did well.
There were no smiles or compliments now. Rafe Tyler was as contained a man as Ben had ever seen. Sealed up. Talk had been at a minimum, as if Tyler no longer knew how to converse. Question-and-answer. Then silence. That was all there had been.
Both he and Clint had discussed it, and they finally figured that Randall’s exposure was the only thing that would help dispel the blackness that hovered around Tyler. The sooner, the better.
They had been making progress. Two holdups now, both taking Circle R payrolls. Randall was hurting financially, hurting bad. But it was just too damn slow. Ben saw the captain’s restlessness, his impatience.
And so the encounter with Randall’s daughter had seemed a unique opportunity to speed the process.
But after several hours with the lady, Ben was having second thoughts. Her eagerness was cloaked in dignity, which was very appealing. She didn’t intrude on him, but when they stopped, she asked questions. Intelligent questions. It was downright disconcerting.