Chapter 23
Devon rubbed his neck. The chill was still there. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he passed in front of the quartermaster’s depot and started down the other side. A sergeant looked up from the bench out front where he sat. A cigar stub wobbled between his teeth.
“My girl lost her reticule.” Devon nodded to the man.
“Maybe you distracted her.” The sergeant chuckled.
“Probably did.” Devon smirked.
“Happy hunting.” The sergeant settled back on the bench.
“Thanks.” Devon shuffled off around the building, muscles tense.
He stepped from between the buildings, passed a couple of soldiers lugging a crate toward the loading dock, and walked toward the far end. The whittling fellow had left his perch. Devon’s step quickened.
There he was. He hovered near the side path Devon and Frieda had taken to the street a few minutes before.
His trousers sagged, as did the coat, as though he’d borrowed his papa’s clothes or was too poor to buy his own.
The fellow turned, his face shadowed. Their gazes locked across the distance. Something familiar…
The youth pivoted and hiked toward the tree line.
Devon followed, keeping parallel to the buildings, not heading directly for the youth but closing the distance. By the time Devon passed the depot and path, the fellow was almost to the woods, slugging through waves of buffalo grass.
The reticule forgotten, Devon turned toward the trees. His longer, stronger legs gained ground through the silvery-green waves.
The flop-hatted fellow glanced over his shoulder, reached down, and yanked off a boot.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. Just wanted to talk,” Devon called out. Best to maintain an air of normalcy, but his hand hovered near his coat flap where the solid metal of his revolver pressed the holster to his thigh.
The youth tossed a second boot aside and broke into a run. Devon took off after him. Into the trees, they flew. The boy plowed through brush and undergrowth, low-lying branches tearing at his flapping coat.
Devon’s hat snagged on an outstretched limb. He kept going, pumping his arms and crashing through the thistles and brush, his feet and lower legs protected by his thick cavalry boots.
A murder of crows took flight. Their caws echoed overhead.
The boy stumbled, caught himself, and drove on.
The ground sloped. Water rumbled to the left. They were coming upon the river. The boy vaulted over a downed tree trunk and ran on. Sunlight poured into the clearing ahead.
A branch scratched at Devon’s face. He backhanded it out of the way, closing quickly.
Suddenly, the boy’s feet flew out from beneath him.
He shot down the hill on his side, hit a bump, and rolled.
Devon pivoted and skittered down the slope on the sides of his boots.
Bending his knees, he struggled to slow his descent and keep upright. Pebbles and soil scattered in his wake.
The Colorado River gurgled beyond a strip of cattails and grasses. Cottonwoods loomed along the banks.
The fellow gained his feet. Devon lunged. The youth landed with a grunt, Devon atop him. A sheathed knife swung from the stranger’s side. Devon scrambled to pin him down, slamming the scoundrel’s wrists to the leaf-strewn moss.
The youth’s hat tumbled off. Long honey-blond hair spewed from beneath. Goosebumps swept over Devon’s limbs. The face. Her face. Morning Fawn. Dear God. It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of spring water over his head on a sweat-dripping day. Every droplet of air evaporated from his lungs.
He rocked backward. “What the devil…” Words failed him. He waved his hand over her. “Dressed like…”
Hazel eyes bore into him with fiery venom. “Get off me.” She shoved him with more force than he’d imagined her capable of.
Mouth agape, he landed on his backside.
She scrambled to her bloodied feet. “What are you doing here? That’s the question. You two-faced liar.” She picked up her hat and swung it at him.
He leaped to his feet before she started kicking. “Who sent you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who told you to follow me?”
“No one. Why would they? None of the rest of the world cares if you have your fancy set on Frieda Schramm. You weasel. You said it wasn’t about her.” She swung at him again.
He dodged. That’s what this was about? Morning Fawn…was jealous?
“What does that look mean?” She jabbed both hands to her hips. Hips covered in trousers.
“Nothing.”
“It means something. And I want a real answer.” She brandished her slouch hat in his direction. “You and Frieda deserve each other.” She scowled at him. “Nick Moyer could lose more land by dinner time than you’ll ever own in your life.”
How dare she? “So that’s the measure of a man, huh? How much land he owns? If that’s what you think matters in a marriage, then you go ahead and wrangle a proposal out of that man.”
“Couldn’t be any worse than you chasing after Miss Perfect. I can see you now, all settled down, mucking out the pigs every evening, then scrubbing up to come sit by the fireside, read the newspaper, and watch her make doilies. Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll get a good night peck on the cheek.”
He snorted. Him marrying Frieda. Doilies. Kiss on the cheek.
She glowered at him. Moisture glistened in her eyes. “You can wallow with the pigs as far as I’m concerned.” She pivoted from him.
“Morning Fawn.” He touched her shoulder.
She jerked away and punched at his arm.
He blocked her fist, the impact landing solidly in his palm. She raised her other hand, and he latched onto her wrists. “If you try to hit me again, I’m going to pin you to the ground until you’re ready to listen.”
Golden sparks flared at him from the hazel depths of her eyes. “Get your hands off me and never touch me again. I’m done with you. If I ever see you again, it’ll be too soon.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, turning his knees to pond scum. Realization dawned. She was in love with him.
And he’d hurt her.
She scrubbed the heels of her palms across her cheeks. “I couldn’t care less about you.”
“It’s not what you think, Taa Aruka.”
She startled at the last two words. “You told me that one before.”
Words rasped out of his throat. “I’m a spy.”
“A what?”
Dear Lord, should he do this? But how could he not? Mouth dry, he stepped toe to toe with her. “A spy.” His voice was hardly more than a breath. She needed to understand the possible consequences. “I could be killed if I’m discovered.”
Her mouth slackened. “You’re serious?”
He pointed to his face. “Do I look like I’m lying?”
She teetered. “No.”
He steadied her with his hand on her shoulder. His palm sank deep against the twig and leaf-speckled wool coat. “What you saw between me and Frieda was an act.”
“You two practically melted all over each other.”
He winced. Obviously, he’d been too good at acting.
Anything short of honesty would deem his credibility worth about as much as the leavings from a morning bedpan.
“I’m on a secret mission. The Schramms are my contacts.
The courtship with Frieda is part of my cover to avoid suspicion.
” Dare he tell her everything? There were more lives than his at stake.
She swiped her nose. “What kind of secret mission? What kind of spy?”
He should release her shoulder, but it was all he could do to not draw her closer.
A strand of her hair brushed against his callused fingers.
He swallowed. “It wouldn’t be a secret if I told you.”
“But Frieda knows.”
“Frieda’s part of the operation. My contact set up the meeting with her and her father.”
“Did your contact say you had to pretend to be in love with Frieda and kiss her?”
She could have been an attorney. He grunted and dropped his hands to his sides.
“I take that as a no.”
“There are bigger concerns at stake here than you or me.”
“Then tell me.”
He had his orders and his backup lie. Her tears had stopped, but the residue of their tracks still lined the dirt on her cheeks.
She had come all this way for him. The coat, the trousers, all of it for him.
How had she managed to sneak off the plantation and find her way here? The lady was a fireball.
Risk the truth? Or lose her with a lie? She was an abolitionist at heart. The problem was that quick mouth of hers. He rubbed his hand over his jaw.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Her voice faltered.
“I should have figured as much. Better not to say anything than make promises you don’t intend to keep.
Like saying you’ll take me on walks or write me notes and then avoiding me instead.
” She narrowed her eyes. “Your actions have made your true intentions painfully clear. A couple hours of sweet talk followed by a week of silence and disappearing. Don’t tell me that’s part of the mission too.
Nicholas is a lot of things, but at least he’s not inconsistent.
You fancy Frieda?” She scooped her hat from the ground.
“She can have you.” Morning Fawn coiled her hair in a knot and stuffed it beneath her hat.
“My staying away and not writing has nothing to do with Frieda.”
She rolled her eyes and tucked her shirt tails back into her trousers, which hung loose despite the suspenders.
He ground his teeth. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re impetuous and quick-tempered?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a forked tongue?” She jutted out her chin. “And I suppose Miss Perfect is calm as glass, never a hair out of place, never a ruffled feather.”
“‘Miss Perfect’?” He scowled. “That’s what you think of her?”
“That’s what you think of her.” She jabbed her finger in his direction. “And I’ve had enough of it.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Why don’t you write that in a note sometime? See if I’m around to read it.” She pivoted and started up the embankment, gripping an exposed root to pull herself up. Loose dirt slid beneath her torn, bloodied stockings. “Don’t bother to look for me.”