LITMIR.BIZ

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been out of town on business, but I’m heading back to Burns. The name’s Trevor Cruz.”

       “I’m Gracelyn Riley, of the Boston Rileys who came over years and years ago.” She paused for breath before continuing. “That is quite the scar you have. Do you mind telling me what happened?”

       When his eyes slit into narrow cracks, a sense of foreboding crawled down Gracie’s spine. Perhaps it was a painful story and her question intruded on his grief. Mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Always asking questions. Try to pretend to be a lady for once.

       Mr. Cruz’s expression cleared. “Got it when I was twelve, cutting some barbed wire for a fence. I sliced it wrong and the wire snapped up and got me right there.” His finger rubbed the scar lightly. “Guess I was lucky not to lose my eye.” He shrugged. “Never met a lady interested in my scar.”

       “Perhaps because it makes you look dangerous. In a good way,” she added, not wanting to further offend him.

       Her gaze lit upon his scar again and she frowned. “It’s such an evil-looking scar that I rather thought something horrendous must have happened for you to get it. Something besides being cut with barbed wire.”

       “I’m sorry my scar is not more exciting for you, Miss Riley…Gracelyn.”

       Had she spoken aloud? A horrible heat rushed through her body.

       “That’s okay,” she stuttered, unable to meet what would surely be a disapproving gaze. If only her uncle would arrive. She searched her surroundings. The family was leaving and the approaching dusk whittled their shapes into shadows as they climbed aboard a wagon.

       Two tethered horses waited at the edge of the platform. Their harnesses tinkled every few minutes with their movements and the sound reminded her of music. She turned to Mr. Cruz, hoping to distract him from her rudeness.

       “Do you enjoy the music of Joe Oliver, from New Orleans? My father says he wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Oliver becomes known as the king of jazz, he’s that good. Jazz is lovely, much better than classical, don’t you agree?”

       “I prefer the outdoors, ma’am.”

       “You do not enjoy music, Mr. Cruz?”

       “Not jazz or classical. I like natural sounds.”

       “Oh, yes, nature’s music. Do you mind explaining?” Might as well enjoy the conversation because there was no escaping the scourge of her thoughtless tongue.

       Mr. Cruz’s eyes bored into Gracie. Her chest constricted. This man affected her in quite a strange manner.

       “I’m not articulate. You’d have to hear it to understand.” His lips curved into a wry smile. “You’re young.”

       “I am only twenty, it’s true.” She held his gaze. “But perhaps I understand your meaning.”

       Mr. Cruz’s eyebrow rose. Did his raised brow mean he invited more conversation?

       “I’m well acquainted with the sounds of nature. Before dawn I like to walk down to the ports. The fog is often thick and when I first reach the docks all I hear is the water pushing and lapping against the wooden posts. Then, slowly, the world awakes. Seagulls call to each other, high, piercing shrieks.” Feeling faintly encouraged by the steady attention he gave her, she continued. “The sounds of fishermen drawing up nets and shouting orders drift to me. And the sun slices through the fog like a blade through fine silk. On those mornings, I am certain God is much more than the boring entity talked about in stuffy, silent churches. I am certain He’s beautiful, and that He sings through his creation. Is this like the music you mean?”

       He jammed his hat back on his head. “I was referring to nature, not God. Do your parents know you go out in the mornings like that?”

       Bristling, she lifted her chin. “Mr. Cruz, must you keep talking as if I’m a child? Does it really matter what they know about? The point is, God made nature and we see His glory through it. If you enjoy the sounds of nature, you’re really just enjoying an aspect of the character of God.”

       That annoying black brow of his arched again. Then he leaned back and tipped his hat over his face, as though dismissing her.

       “Miss Riley,” he drawled. “I don’t believe in God.”

       A shocked gasp escaped Miss Riley’s lips and for a moment Trevor thought he might be given the gift of silence. No such luck.

       “Oh, Mr. Cruz!” From beneath the rim of his hat he saw Miss Riley’s thick-fringed eyes widen. “How lonely you must be.”

       Trevor’s jaw clenched. Time to stop being drawn in by her big brown eyes. He stood up, shoulders stiff.

       “I think I’ll get a paper. Pleasant meeting you, Miss Riley.” He walked to the station’s entry, turning back only once to see her staring after him, sympathy twisting her soft features.

       Was he going to have to put up with her for months on end? He couldn’t believe his senior partner, Lou Riley, had agreed to let his niece stay with them. And then he’d sent Trevor to check her out and make sure she wasn’t followed back to the ranch.

       Trevor bought a paper in the station and then returned outside. Miss Riley bent over a book and didn’t appear to notice his exit. Quickly he turned on his heel and claimed the bench newly vacated at the other end of the depot. He cast Miss Riley another glance once at a safe distance.

       A mass of flowing, dark hair covered her profile as she read. He groaned, wishing Lou had sent him on business anywhere else but here.

       Truth was, he’d rather run the risk of contracting influenza than have to deal with some shallow socialite spouting nonsense about her nonexistent God. And there was her interest in Striker…

       He settled back and opened the paper. It was unfortunate this Miss Riley knew so much about Striker’s whereabouts. Maybe something had been leaked to the papers. He thumbed through but found nothing except a small paragraph focusing on Mendez’s latest foiled kidnapping attempt.

       His mouth quirked.

       Mendez didn’t have the success rate he used to. The knowledge almost made him happy. Almost, but not quite, because on the train a grizzled man had caught Trevor’s attention. Though the man pretended to look out a window, Trevor had felt his perusal.

       The watcher had looked familiar, the stink of an outlaw settling about his person.

       Trevor rubbed his chin. The man had gotten off at an earlier stop, but that didn’t keep his suspicions from being raised.

       A clatter diverted his thoughts as a well-used wagon rolled up to the platform. Finally. He grabbed his traveling bag and sauntered over.

       “’Bout time, old man.”

       “Stock got out.” James, Lou’s cowhand, among other things, grunted and took the satchel from Trevor. He nodded toward the station. “That the girl?”

       “Yep.”

       They turned to look at Lou’s niece. She must’ve seen James’s arrival because she hesitantly picked her way toward them. Probably reluctant to believe she’d be riding in a wagon, if he had to venture a guess.

       “While she’s getting settled I’ll grab some water for the horses,” Trevor told James.

       By the time he lugged two pails over, Miss Riley was nowhere to be seen. He plopped the water in front of the team and squared his gaze on James. “Where’d she go?”

       “Said she’s got luggage.”

       Trevor glanced toward the station. Sure enough, she stumbled off the platform toting the biggest piece of luggage he’d ever seen.

       Women.

       Biting back annoyance, Trevor walked over to her. Apparently she thought pulling the trunk might work better than lifting it.

      

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