Pursued (Intrigue Under Western Skies Book 1) Read online

  Rhyan reached around her and opened the door. “Since the train’ll be pulling out soon, we’d better be going.” As soon as she turned, he applied a firm palm to the small of her back and glanced back to Colt. “I’ll meet you back here in a couple of hours.”

  “Sure thing. Nice meeting you, ma’am.”

  Carianne glanced up over her shoulder. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holliman.”

  Rhyan nudged her over the threshold.

  He let her set the pace, and after a few steps, she asked, “Is the gentleman who was hanged going to be all right?”

  “I wouldn’t call him a gentleman, but yes, he’ll be fine.”

  “Why did your employees hang him?”

  “He killed a steer.” That wasn’t a complete lie. A steer had been killed.

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “Even I know this country is more civilized than that. Men are no longer hanged for stealing a cow.” She gave him a sly glance that challenged him.

  Why not give her the truth? She’d be out of his life in a few minutes. “We’ve had some trouble on the ranch for the past few months. At first I thought it was the usual quarreling between my hands and the area farmers, but after my racehorse was stabbed, I’ve come to suspect someone’s waging a personal vendetta.”

  Her face held a question, and he waved his hands to add strength to the story. “I’d just purchased the horse, a big thoroughbred over eighteen hands high.”

  “Who would stab a horse? Maybe it was…an accident.”

  He felt his hackles rise at that suggestion. “It was hardly an accident, Miss Barlow. A typewritten note was stuck in the knife.”

  Her dark brows rose. “What did the note say?”

  “Happy racing.” His blood boiled just thinking about it. “The stab wasn’t deep, but the horse won’t recover until after the spring festival races.”

  “You have reason to be concerned, Mr. Cason. It sounds sinister.”

  “I took it seriously enough to hire a couple of gunslingers to patrol the grounds, but they must have misunderstood my orders. They’re the ones responsible for the lynching.”

  She stopped and clamped a firm hand to his forearm. “You should find out who’s behind all this before someone really dies.”

  As if he wasn’t already trying to hunt down the polecat. She wouldn’t have known that though, and real concern showed in her eyes. Her gaze fell to where she touched him, and she withdrew her hand as if suddenly aware the gesture was too forward. A shy grin touched her lips, and she continued walking.

  For some reason, he wanted to explain further. “I’ve brought in detectives, but I couldn’t get Pinkertons. You’ll never guess why.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “They’re working for your enemy.”

  Surprise made him stop in his tracks and give her a searching glance. She understood. Everyone else tried to convince him he imagined the whole thing, that ordinary rustlers killed those cows and left them to rot where they lay. Bored cowboys cut the fences and irate farmers stirred up trouble, they said. Even Colt who was closer than Rhyan’s own brother thought it was nothing more than pranks. Yet this smartly dressed eastern woman with a perpetual smile and wide, innocent eyes was the first person besides him who saw something sinister.

  “That’s right. It had to be a conflict of interest.” He shrugged. “I suppose I was bound to rub someone the wrong way. But whoever it is, he’s got to be mighty riled and rich to hire Pinkertons to investigate me.”

  “Or someone in the government.”

  Yeah, she understood. Maybe he shouldn’t be confiding in a total stranger, not that any of this was a secret. And she’d soon be on the train going west.

  It wouldn’t hurt to change the subject, though. “What brought you on this quest to establish a culture center?”

  She hesitated a long moment as if searching for an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much. “My grandmother was a visionary, Mr. Cason. She believed all people should have access to art, music, literature. Since she left me with an inheritance, I feel obligated to carry out her wishes.”

  “But why should it be out west?”

  She smiled. “I believe the inspiration came from God. Don’t you often feel God urging you to do something entirely inexplicable?”

  “Not hardly. I’m a Darwinist.”

  He wished he could lasso that remark as soon as it slipped out. Normally he enjoyed challenging religious people. She was religious and educated enough to know who Darwin was, but he didn’t like the way her forehead creased into a scowl. He braced for an argument.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Then she gazed at him from under her lashes. “How did you become a lobbyist?”

  The question caught him off-guard. He took it as a reprieve, and maybe a way to get back in her good graces after admitting he was a heathen.

  Most considered lobbyists in the same category as swindlers, bribers, and coyotes, but there were noble exceptions. “Standing Bear, the Ponca chief, was being tried in Omaha for leaving his reservation. I joined his supporters. He not only won the case, but Indians were finally recognized as human beings. I got into lobbying because I saw the importance of taking a stand, and that took me all the way to Washington.”

  “It takes courage to stand up for what’s right, but…it takes passion to make a difference.”

  The heightened color in her cheeks made him wonder if she was still talking about Standing Bear. “Yeah, it takes a lot of passion.”

  The depot loomed before them, and passengers were already boarding. A couple of men ran past them, leaving a strong scent of whiskey in their wake.

  Concern for Miss Barlow’s safety shoved its way into Rhyan’s consciousness. All sorts of riff-raff traveled west on the Union-Pacific—gamblers, drummers, outlaws. And he’d bet she didn’t even have a derringer in that little reticule tied to her wrist.

  “Are you traveling alone, Miss Barlow?” An unchaperoned woman attracted varmints like nectar attracted wasps. And when the woman was as young and pretty…and as well-to-do as she obviously was—

  “I am alone, but Mr. Houser, the conductor, has kept a fatherly eye on me.”

  Since Rhyan traveled the line often, he knew the conductor. “Houser’s a good man, but he’ll be busy, and it gets worse the farther west you go.”

  “I’ll remember.” Her smile stretched wide enough to flash her pearly teeth. “Thank you for showing me the town…and…for rescuing me.”

  “Rescuing? Oh, you mean from Welford.” He laughed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than take credit for rescuing you, Miss Barlow, but the truth is, you were never in any real danger.”

  She glanced down at the watch pinned to the inside of her jacket lapel. Long, dark lashes cut crescents across her cheeks, then flew up and those gold flecked hazel eyes looked straight at him.

  They stared at each other as people rushed by on either side to board the hissing train. Reasons to make her stay marched through his mind, quickly discarded like the foolish thoughts they were.

  Nothing was left to be said except good-bye. “Safe travels, Miss Barlow, and good luck with your culture center. I think we both know Westerfield won’t fit your plans, but perhaps we’ll meet again.” He doubted it.

  The curled feather in her hat dipped as she tilted her head. “Thank you, Mr. Cason, perhaps we will. I’ll be praying you catch the one who’s menacing you before…anyone gets hurt.”

  He touched the brim of his hat and walked away. An urge to turn around hit him, but he resisted. Giving a backward look to a woman always brought trouble, and he had enough trouble waiting for him down the street.

  Chapter 2

  A new argument surfaced with each step Carianne took to the depot platform. Mr. Cason had done a good job of selling the town. His description of the people—whimsical, non-pretentious, friendly—whetted her imagination. She’d traveled west hoping to escape the pomposity of eastern society. This qu
aint town was as far removed from those stifling drawing rooms as she could get.

  Another thought moved her forward. She was responsible for the success of Grandmama’s foundation. Westerfield wouldn’t have enough patrons to support a theater or lecture hall. She halted. Not now, but it might with time. The Union Pacific ran through it, and new settlers moved west every day. Still, Mr. Cason’s huge ranch didn’t leave much land for settlers.

  She took another step and turned to let her gaze travel the length of the quaint little town. Westerfield might not be able to support a lecture hall or a theater, but every town deserved a library. Besides, she had something else to do, and this was the only place in the world she could do it.

  The conductor stood on the platform, his gaze searching for stragglers. She waved to him. “Mr. Houser, please have my luggage pulled off. I’m staying.”

  Mr. Houser darted a worried glance from under his conductor’s hat, but he didn’t have time to argue. Within five minutes her trunk and bags lay on the platform, and she stared after the belching train as it chugged along the tracks.

  Of all the crazy things she’d done, this was the craziest. She had no place to stay and didn’t know a soul in this town—except for Rhyan Cason. Nor did she really know him, except for what she’d read in magazines and newspapers, and even if she did, she certainly couldn’t stay with him.

  The boardinghouse would be the logical choice for a room and meals, but she kept her sights on the mercantile across the street. Mr. Cason had told her it was owned by the Landrys. Frank Landry was an apothecary and managed the drug store next door. His wife ran the mercantile when she wasn’t gadding about town.

  Carianne sent a fugitive glance down the street. If she ran into Mr. Cason, she’d have to explain her change in plans, and right now she didn’t have an explanation. Lifting her skirt a notch, she dashed across the street to the mercantile.

  Silvery tinkles from a bell overhead sounded as she entered the store. Pausing a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim interior, she gazed about in amazement. The walls, floors, and ceiling bulged with every item needed for life in a prairie town, and more besides.

  With scents of leather, tobacco, brine, and kerosene tickling her nose, Carianne browsed the aisles. Tubs and boxes of items filled the shelves. Overhead harnesses perched on rafters along with hoes, shovels, axes, pitchforks, and rakes. A wheelbarrow and plow were hung in one corner. Another side spilled over with ladies goods. On the far wall, she found straw and leather hats, shoes and boots, men’s clothing, children’s gowns, baby garments, and blankets. Every item found in the shops of several city blocks in Philadelphia was crammed into this one room.

  “May I help you, Miss?”

  She turned in the direction of the voice. A short woman shaped much like a rain barrel stood behind the counter. A stubby pencil stuck out of the tight gray bun she wore atop her head. A neat, white apron covered her blue floral print dress. She didn’t fit Mr. Cason’s description of Mrs. Landry.

  Carianne smiled as she came forward. A whiff of freshly baked bread reminded her she hadn’t eaten lunch. “Your bread smells delicious.”

  The woman gave her a brief Mona Lisa smile. “We get our bread from the boardinghouse. They have a good cook.”

  “That’s good to know since I’m thinking of moving here.”

  The woman scrunched her eyes as if hard of seeing. “Is that right? You got folks here, Miss…?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She held out her hand. “Carianne Barlow, but please call me Carianne, and no, I don’t know anyone here.”

  “Agnes Comings.” The woman extended a limp, calloused hand. “Guess you can call me Agnes. Everyone else does.” She cut the string on the brown paper wrapped package. “How much bread you be wantin’?”

  “An inch slice would be enough and about half an inch of this cheddar.” She pointed to the glass dome covering a large wheel of cheese, the glass etched with Sollano Dairies.

  After wrapping the bread and cheese in a napkin and placing it on the counter, Agnes pulled out a stool. “Sit here to eat, if you like.” She took the pencil and bent over a scrap of paper.

  Carianne sat on the stool and fumbled for her change purse, extracting a coin to cover the cost. “Could I get a cup of water?”

  Agnes shut the cash box. “There’s fresh brewed coffee in back. We don’t sell it, but since you’re eatin’ here….” The words trailed off as she slipped behind a curtain.

  Carianne bit into the aged cheddar. Delicious—a bit sharper than that back east but smooth as butter on her tongue.

  Agnes returned with a steaming mug. “I forgot to ask if you like cream or sugar.”

  “Black is fine with me.” Carianne took the mug and, with a tentative sip, glanced at Agnes from over the rim. “Is there a library in Westerfield?”

  “You mean one of them places what lends books?”

  Carianne nodded, a mouthful of crusty bread making speech impossible.

  “No, but we got some books in here. There’re over in that corner.” Agnes inclined her head to the right.

  Carianne had seen the books she spoke of, dime novels with covers depicting cowboys pointing pistols, Indians with tomahawks, and screaming damsels. If that was the only reading material to be had, Westerfield needed a library. “I hope to open a lending library here.”

  “Won’t that cost a lot?” Agnes was obviously a woman who measured life in dollars and cents and probably had to.

  “I haven’t looked into the cost yet, but my grandmother was a philanthropist who believed in spreading knowledge all over the world. I’m following in her footsteps, so to speak. Of course I hope to find others who can donate to the cause.”

  Agnes snorted. “Nobody here has any money to donate except for Rhyan Cason. He has a spread of cattle south of the river. You’re eatin’ his cheese.”

  Carianne savored another mouthful of the tasty cheddar. Mr. Cason was at the top of her list, though for reasons other than money. “I’ll be sure to ask for his support.”

  The bell over the door jingled, and a woman swept in. Her red hair lit up the place, and a little girl with pigtails of the same bright hue followed. The woman put her hands on her hips and blinked at Carianne. “Agnes, has that blue thread I wanted come in yet?”

  “They just delivered a crate from the train, but I ain’t been through it.”

  Carianne exchanged smiles with the woman as Agnes added, “This here is Carianne Barlow. She’s gonna start a library here in town.”

  The redhead opened her mouth in a wide “o” before grabbing Carianne in a bear hug. “Praise the Lord. We been praying for a library for the longest time.” She stepped back. “I’m Rachel Hadley. She nodded in the direction of the little girl. “This is my daughter, Becky. When you gonna open the library?”

  “As soon as I get settled. I thought I’d see your mayor about the particulars.” Carianne adjusted her hat since Rachel’s exuberant embrace had knocked it askew.

  Becky tugged at her mother’s skirt. “Ma, can I get a new ribbon?”

  “Not today. Go wait on the bench. I’ll just be a minute.” Rachel pointed to the bench standing right inside the door. Becky dragged her shoes every step of the way to the bench.

  Rachel turned back to Carianne. “Mayor Samms won’t help. He does everything the council tells him to, and they’ll never vote for a library.”

  “Would it help if I sought out the council first?”

  “No.” Rachel crossed her arms and looked up at the ceiling. “It makes me spittin’ mad. If women could vote we’d already have a library. Men here abouts don’t think books are important. Oh, they say the town can’t afford it, but they can find money for new water troughs for the horses.”

  “She don’t need money from the council,” Agnes said. “She’s gonna get Rhyan Cason to help.”

  Bread caught in Carianne’s throat, and she coughed. Rachel’s smile froze as she sent a searching gaze from the hem of Carianne’s trave
ling dress all the way up to her matching hat. “Do you know Rhyan Cason, Carianne?”

  “Not really, but I met him a while ago.”

  Rachel’s grin split her freckled face as she squeezed Carianne’s arm. “I don’t blame you one bit. If I wasn’t married, I’d go after him myself, not that it’d do me any good, but you’re just the type he likes, pretty and educated.”

  Carianne glanced from one woman to the other. “You misunderstand. Since Mr. Cason’s the most prominent man in town, he’d be the most logical one to advise me…about business.”

  “I understand perfectly.” Rachel patted her arm. “You can’t be obvious, but if women waited for men to do the pursuing, we’d…well, the population would drop. What do you think, Agnes?”

  “Seems like a good reason to single him out. Far as I know, he’s the only prominent man in town.”

  Carianne opened her mouth to protest. Obviously, these women thought she had her cap set for the man. Nothing could be as far from the truth. Yes, she’d been infatuated with Rhyan Cason for years, but marriage wasn’t in her plans—at the moment. Grandmother’s money had left her more independent than most women, and she liked her independence. Maybe sometimes in the future when she had time, she’d want a home and family.

  Why would they think she’d pursue Rhyan Cason, anyway? Possibly because he was the most sought after bachelor in the country. Well, they were wrong. She hadn’t given that a thought, or had she? Her mother’s words came back to her. “Carianne, you always set your sights on the moon.”

  Her six-year-old response had been, “Mama, should I have my sights set on the sun?” She hadn’t understood why her mother had laughed at the time.

  In the marriage market, Mr. Cason might compare to the sun. Did he really like educated women? Not many men appreciated education in a woman. Now that Rachel mentioned it, Carianne did recall reading how Mr. Cason supported higher education for women. He was even accused of giving donations to the suffragists.

  Another reason she admired him. But he was also known to be a love-em-and leave-em type of man. And he was an atheist.