LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Three

      Clay Collier made it a mile before he turned around. Reining to a halt, he stepped down from the saddle to picket the pack mule next to a clump of coarse grass, and then he remounted and pointed the buckskin to retrace his steps.

      As he rode back to the railroad, Clay cursed himself for a fool. He had a poor record in looking after scrawny kids, and he had no wish to add to it. He’d been minding his own business—he always did—but a man didn’t live long in the West if he failed to pay attention to his surroundings.

      He’d seen the kid tumble down from the train as it pulled away. And then he’d seen the man in fancy duds chasing after the kid, yelling something. The wind had tossed away the words, but most likely the kid had been caught stealing.

      Clay slowed his pace as he approached the water tower. The kid was sitting on the ground, hugging his knees, head bent. When the thud of hooves alerted him, the kid bounced up to his feet and waited for the horse and rider to get closer.

      Clay shook his head in dismay at the forlorn sight. As scrawny kids went, this one was scrawnier than most. The threadbare shirt hung limp over a pair of narrow shoulders. The trousers, patched at the knee, stayed up only with a leather belt drawn tight. Beneath the battered bowler hat, the kid had a white, innocent face and the biggest amber eyes Clay had ever seen on a scrawny kid.

      Fourteen, he guessed, and still wet behind the ears. At fourteen, Clay himself had been a man, capable of doing a man’s job.

      He brought the buckskin to a halt in a cloud of dust, adjusted the brim of his hat and looked down at the kid. The hope and relief and gratitude stamped on that innocent face made something twist inside Clay. Damn that soft streak of his. Life would be simpler without it.

      “Here’s the choice,” he told the kid. “You can stay here and wait for the train. Likely as not there’ll be one tomorrow, or the day after. You have water and food and shade. You’ll be fine. If coyotes bother you at night, you can hide in the coffin.”

      Clay paused, fought one final battle with himself and lost.

      “Or you can come with me. In a month or so I’ll pick up another delivery and I’ll bring you back and wait with you until the train comes. If you come with me, you gotta work, mind you. Mr. Hicks, who owns the mine, hates slackers.”

      One more time, Clay raked an assessing glance over the slender frame hidden beneath the baggy clothing. “In a mine, the only use for scrawny kids like you is to crawl into narrow passages. If you panic about feeling trapped, don’t come.”

      The kid said nothing, merely passed back the canteen and the parcel of jerky and waited for Clay to put them away. Then he held up both arms, as though asking for salvation. The sensitive mouth was quivering. Clay reached down a hand and kicked one foot out of a stirrup. In another second the kid would burst into tears, and he did not want to watch.

      “I assume you can ride,” he said.

      “Only side—” Panic flared in those big amber eyes. The kid made a visible effort to pull himself together and spoke in a deeper voice. “I mean, I am used to mounting on the other side.”

      Clay assessed the situation, nodded his understanding and wheeled the buckskin around. Most men preferred mounting with their left foot in the stirrup. At least there was something normal about the kid.

      “Climb aboard.” Clay moved the bridle reins to his right hand so he could use his left to swing the kid behind him. A tiny hand slotted into his. Clay noticed the smooth skin, unused to hard work. He boosted up the kid. He was so light Clay nearly flung him all the way over the horse’s back and down the other side.

      “Ready?” he said when the kid had settled down.

      “Ready,” the kid replied.

      Clay could hear a hint of weeping in the muttered word. It gave him an odd, uneasy feeling when the kid wriggled to get comfortable against him, cramming into the saddle instead of sitting behind the cantle, so that their bodies pressed close together.

      He kicked the buckskin into a gallop, taking his frustration out with speed. The kid wrapped his arms around his waist and clung tight. The tension inside Clay ratcheted up another notch.

      A bad idea, he told himself. It was always a bad idea to give in to the soft streak inside him. A wiser man would have learned from experience to leave scrawny kids to their fate, instead of picking them up and trying to protect them.

      * * *

      He’d come back for her!

      Annabel clung to the taciturn stranger, tears of relief running down her face. She’d been so afraid. She’d been sitting in the shade of the water tower, blaming herself for everything that had gone wrong.

      When the money was stolen, she ought to have telegraphed Charlotte in Gold Crossing, but she’d been ashamed for her carelessness. And she knew nothing about the man to whom Charlotte was pretending to be married. Two hundred dollars might be a fortune to Thomas Greenwood, and she didn’t want to add to his burden by confessing she’d lost it.

      And it hadn’t seemed to matter if she earned her passage as a shoeshine boy instead of buying a ticket. If anything, after two weeks of instruction from Colin and Liza, she was better equipped to take care of herself during the journey.

      But it had been a mistake to run from Cousin Gareth. She should have brazened it out, pretended not to know what he was talking about. He’d appeared confused, unsure of himself. His wind-whipped cry echoed in her mind.

      Who am I? I have no memory! Do you know me?

      Now that she thought of it, there’d been a scar on his forehead. Cousin Gareth must have received a blow to his head and be suffering from amnesia. He’d not truly recognized her. He’d merely been fumbling in his mind for

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