The Outlaw's Secret Page 17

  Besides, she reasoned as she yawned, if she fished out her notebook now she would alert the other two men to her presence. And she didn’t like the thought of them knowing she wasn’t asleep or had overheard some of what they’d said. Clem didn’t frighten her, but Fletcher was another matter.

  Whatever they were discussing wasn’t likely to be of any real importance, she rationalized, and morning would soon be here. And with it, an injured man to care for and a handsome one to avoid.

  Chapter Twelve

  Light prodded at Tate’s eyelids, urging him to rise. He wished he could pretend this whole mission had just been a bad dream. But he couldn’t—and a good part of him didn’t want to. That would mean pretending he hadn’t ever met, befriended or come to care for Essie.

  The couple of times he’d woken in the night, his gaze had gone first to Silas to ensure the man was still breathing and then to Essie. She’d looked so peaceful, so beautiful. Not a trace of the hurt and anger he’d seen on her face yesterday after he’d attempted to convince her to leave. He’d only been trying to protect her, or so he told himself. But sometime through the night, in between sleeping and helping Silas get a drink of water twice, he’d wondered if his motives were as pure as he’d believed.

  Yes, he wanted Essie away from potential danger. But maybe he had a selfish reason, too. Because the more he got to know her, the more he’d begun fighting with himself. Should he stick with what he felt duty-bound to do or follow his heart for once?

  Silas emitted a groan, prompting Tate to finally throw off his blanket and sit up. The man was still alive, much to Tate’s relief, and yet his face now appeared more gray than white. A quick glance toward Essie’s sleeping spot sent a jolt of panic through Tate when he found it empty.

  He scrambled to his feet. Had she left, after all? None of the horses was missing, though. Tate ran a hand through his rumpled hair and clapped his hat on. Where could she be?

  “She went to the stream,” Clem said in a low voice without taking his eyes off the breakfast he was beginning to prepare.

  So Clem suspected Tate cared for her. Did Fletcher suspect, too? Tate looked in the leader’s direction and found him, thankfully, unaware and snoring on the other side of the camp. The sack of bank money lay cradled in Fletcher’s arms, next to his gun.

  A fresh wave of hope washed through Tate’s heart at the news Essie hadn’t left. But you want her to leave, don’t you? his head protested. He didn’t know anymore. And the uncertainty gnawed at him more than hunger this morning.

  Unsure if Essie would welcome his company at the stream, he stayed in camp and checked on Silas instead. The bandage was soiled, but Tate didn’t see any new blood, which he took as a good sign. Still, he worried what further injury traveling would inflict on the outlaw today. He offered the man another drink, then helped Silas lie back. There was no reason to move him any sooner than they had to.

  Essie returned from the stream, a pan of water in her hands. Her gaze interlocked with Tate’s before she tucked her chin down. He recognized the gesture for what it was—he still wasn’t forgiven. Was she angry about him insisting she leave or was it something else?

  “There’s no new blood,” he said as she came and knelt beside Silas.

  She nodded. “I noticed that, too.” With steady hands, she untied the cloth from around Silas’s leg, then rinsed it in the water.

  Tate watched her fingers with fascination as she re-dressed the man’s wound. Over the past few days he’d watched those same hands write, cook, nurse and comfort. But his favorite thing about her hands was holding them. Would he ever have that chance again?

  Silas asked for water and Tate hurried to help him. After draining the last bit from the cup, the outlaw lay back, breathing heavily.

  “I don’t think he ought to travel today,” Essie whispered, throwing a look at Fletcher over her shoulder.

  The man had finally risen and was starting in on some of Clem’s breakfast without even checking on the injured man, as if he didn’t care one whit about Silas. Anger sparked inside Tate, but he directed his scowl at the ground. “I agree, but I don’t think staying put is an option.”

  She finished tying the wet cloth around Silas’s leg and rose. “I’m going to say something.” Her eyes had darkened to green with determination.

  “Essie, wait.” Tate stood, as well, placing his hand on her arm. She flinched and looked away. Remorse cut sharply through him. Only yesterday they’d taken shelter from the storm together, his arm around her and her head on his shoulder. Now his touch elicited discomfort. He dropped his hand to his side. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Nonsense.” She marched over to Fletcher, while Tate clenched his fists. He’d be ready to jump into the fray if needed. “Mr. Fletcher,” Essie commanded in a firm tone. The man set down his breakfast and glanced up, his eyebrows raised in annoyance.

  “What it is, Miss Vanderfair?”

  “It’s important that we let Silas rest. He shouldn’t be moved yet.”

  Fletcher cut a look at the injured man. “That isn’t going to work. Especially if that sheriff is still on our trail.” He picked up his plate again. “We’ll be to the hideout the day after tomorrow. He can rest there.”

  Essie glared down at the man. “If he makes it that far...”

  “Well, that’s Tex’s problem. Not mine.” His eyes narrowed. “Or yours.”

  Concerned at the growing tension between the two, Tate stepped forward, gripped Essie by the elbow and steered her back toward Silas. “We’ll do what we can for him,” he said in a low voice. “But confronting Fletcher is like trying to tame a beehive with a stick.”

  Her mouth turned down into a frown, but she didn’t shake him off. “All right. But I’m worried, Tate. He needs medical attention.”

  “I know. Maybe the hideout has some supplies.”

  She threw him a sharp glance at the same moment he realized his mistake. “You’ve never been there?”

  He didn’t want to keep another truth from her, so he feigned interest in breakfast and ignored the question. “We’d better eat, then see if Silas wants something. It’s nearly time to ride.”

  Feeling her intense gaze on him, he filled two plates with food and handed one to her. Essie thanked him, though she still didn’t appear happy. Tate wasn’t sure if her frustration was aimed at him for not answering her or at Fletcher for refusing to let Silas rest. Maybe both. They ate in silence, reminding him of the night before when she’d gone straight to bed without writing. He’d realized in that moment how much he’d come to look forward to their time together in the evenings when she’d write and they’d talk. He couldn’t help wondering if they would ever have that again.

  After he’d finished eating, Tate fed Silas the gruel Essie had prepared. The outlaw managed a few more spoonfuls than he had the night before, but he was still visibly weak. The ride today would be difficult for him.

  Tate offered another prayer for Silas as he saddled the horses. Once Clem and Essie had breakfast cleaned up, it was time to go. With as much care as he could, Tate lifted Silas onto one of the horses.

  “Tie me on,” the man whispered, his face twisted with agony before he hunched over the saddle horn.

  After locating some rope, Tate obeyed Silas’s request. He helped Essie mount next and then climbed onto his own horse. Clem and Fletcher took the front two positions for the group, which served Tate fine. He wanted to keep pace with Silas in case the man needed help.

  He half expected Essie to ride ahead, seeing that she was still frustrated with him. But she matched her horse’s pace to his slower one, keeping Silas between them. Before long, Clem and Fletcher were far ahead, though with every rise Tate would catch a glimpse of them.

  The day proved especially warm, making yesterday’s storm feel like a distant memory.
Tate was grateful for his hat, but Essie had nothing. “Do you want to use my hat?”

  She seemed to shake herself back to the present. What had she been thinking about? he wondered. “No, but thank you.” Her face and tone had lost some of its edge and yet Tate still suspected all wasn’t forgiven.

  The three of them rode in silence, broken only by the sound of the horses and the occasional grunt of pain from Silas. To his credit, the outlaw didn’t complain and he stayed relatively upright on his horse. After a while, though, the quiet—something Tate used to crave—began grating on his nerves. He wanted to talk to Essie, to discover what she was thinking, to hear her tell another story. Anything to break up the monotony of the landscape and the lingering tension between them.

  Dropping back, he guided his horse around Silas’s and drew alongside Essie’s right side. “You doing all right?”

  She looked up and nodded. “I’m worried about Silas.” Twisting in the saddle, she peered at the injured man who’d shut his eyes some time ago.

  “I am, too,” he admitted. He tried to swallow his next words but they wouldn’t quit pushing against his tongue. “I’m praying for him.”

  Turning to face him, Essie frowned, her brow bunched in confusion. “I know. I saw you last night.”

  Should he reveal any more? “I...um...” He wet his dry lips. “Despite what you might think, Essie, I am religious.”

  “Then why keep doing this?” She waved a hand at the rocky hills and sagebrush plain, clearly meaning a life on the run.

  “Because I have to,” he said, low enough that he wasn’t even sure if she heard him. He wasn’t pretending to answer as Tex right then. He was answering for himself, about his decision to be a Pinkerton detective.

  A pained look filled Essie’s eyes before she faced forward. The nagging silence returned, but Tate no longer had the energy or words to fill it. Letting himself fall back once more, he circled to Silas’s left side. But his gaze kept skittering to Essie. He’d never seen her so despondent; her normal spark and smile were noticeably absent. If things could only go back to the way they’d been... Tate thought about the other night when they’d talked at the ranch and again during the storm. Controlling her good opinion of him might be as impossible as controlling the wind, and yet he hated to think his decisions and words had permanently cost him her friendship.

  Tell her the truth.

  The realization came to him as unexpectedly as a slap to his face. The only way to fix things between them was to be honest with her. But could he do it? Tate tightened his grip on the reins, shaking his head slightly. If he told her, he risked ruining his entire mission.

  More firmly and insistent, the thought filled his mind a second time: Tell her the truth.

  Tate frowned and tugged his hat lower. Is that what You want, Lord? Do You want me to tell her who I really am?

  A sense of peace and certainty filled him, overpowering his fear. He’d wanted to tell her, for some time now. But would it make a difference? Would he still be able to complete this mission if he did?

  “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding...” How many times had his mother read him and Tex that Bible verse from Proverbs? Tate had always liked it, but he wasn’t much for trusting—not his brother, not others and, more often than he cared to admit, not God.

  But he could change that—starting today, starting right now—by trusting Essie with everything. All he needed was an optimal opportunity, out of earshot of Fletcher and his men. I’ll do it, Lord. Just please make a way.

  By the time the group stopped to eat lunch, Tate had attempted to prop Silas up half a dozen times. The poor man needed rest. It was evident in his slumped shoulders, his pinched face and the way he winced whenever the horse had picked up its gait.

  “Let’s get you some shade,” Tate said as he carefully untied Silas from the saddle and helped him to the ground. There were no trees in sight, though a nearby trickle of water offered some reprieve from the long, hot ride.

  Essie dismounted on her own and approached them. “How is he?” Concern drew lines on her brow and around her mouth. “I thought for sure he’d fall off, even with the rope and your help.”

  Tate glanced around at the landscape. A rise in the land created a patch of shadow, but Fletcher and Clem had already staked it as theirs. Fresh annoyance warmed him. Why did these men still choose to follow Fletcher when he clearly had no real regard for them?

  Because they feel they have to, he thought, answering his own question. Wasn’t that what Essie had discovered through her interviews?

  “See if you can find me some sticks.” Tate removed his jacket. “I’m going to make him some shade.”

  He caught a flash of admiration in her eyes before she turned away. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  “We’re going to get you out of the sun if we can,” Tate said, kneeling beside Silas. The outlaw gave a small nod of his head. “Something to eat, too. Are you hungry?”

  “No.” The word sounded like it had been scraped from the bottom of a dry barrel. “Just water.”

  Nodding, Tate stood and went to collect a cup from Clem. Fletcher’s hard gaze bored into his back as he crouched beside the tiny creek and filled the cup with water. He helped Silas drink until the man had drained the cup twice.

  Essie came back, a sagebrush in each hand. “I couldn’t find any large sticks, so I figured these would have to do.”

  “How did you pull them out?”

  “I managed.” She set the brush on either side of Silas, and Tate placed his jacket over the top, shading the injured outlaw beneath.

  Only then did he get a look at Essie’s hands. They were lined with pricks of red from wrestling the sagebrush. This sign of her determination and compassion pierced him straight through the heart. Surely he’d never find another woman he admired as much as he did her.

  Clem interrupted the poignant moment with a call for lunch. Cold beans and jerky were all they had. They ate without speaking. Even Essie didn’t attempt her usual dialogue about the ride or anecdotes about life. When he’d finished, Tate crossed back to where they’d left Silas. They needed to check his bandage, but the man’s chest rose and fell with sleep.

  “Time to go,” Fletcher announced even before the lunch dishes had been cleaned.

  Tate stood and walked back over to join the others. “It’s too soon, Fletcher.” He pointed over his shoulder at Silas. “He nearly fell off his horse before we stopped. He needs rest.”

  “It’s true,” Essie added, squaring her shoulders as though preparing for a fight. Which there very well might be.

  “I said he could rest at the hideout.” Fletcher took a step toward Tate and stopped, his stance full of challenge. “If he doesn’t make it there, that’s on you, cowboy.”

  Tate fisted his hands. He wanted nothing more than to plant one of them in Fletcher’s face. But no good would come of it—not for him, or Silas, or Essie.

  Clearing his throat, Clem rose, wedging himself between Fletcher and Tate. “Fletch, we can take an hour to rest the horses. Even get a quick nap.”

  Fletcher’s face registered the same surprise that Tate felt. He couldn’t recall ever seeing Clem stand up to Fletcher before. Perhaps the man was tired of being ill-treated or perhaps it was out of concern for Silas. Or perhaps Someone else had softened the outlaw’s heart.

  Whatever the reason, Fletcher finally acquiesced. “All right. One hour. Not a minute more.”

  Tate fought a grin, certain Fletcher would change his mind if he caught sight of it. Walking back to Silas, he made certain the outlaw was alive and sleeping. Tate studied what he could see of the bandage beneath Silas’s pant leg. It had collected dirt and dust throughout their ride, and several spots of fresh blood penetrated the cloth. He figured that was probably normal given
all the jostling. When they woke Silas in a bit, he’d see if Essie would help him re-dress the outlaw’s wound.

  A glance in her direction revealed she was setting out the newly rinsed lunch dishes to dry in the sun. Clem and Fletcher had already stretched out in the shade, their hats covering their faces.

  It’s now or never, Tate thought. His heart banged wildly in his chest. He might not have another chance to talk to her without being overheard. But would she hear him out, especially after last night’s disastrous conversation?

  She straightened and looked around as if unsure what to do next. Please help her listen, Lord. Catching her eye, he motioned for her to join him. Her mouth pursed in hesitation, and then, after visibly releasing a sigh, she walked toward him. “Does Silas need anything?” she asked without sitting.

  “His bandage needs re-dressing, but he’s asleep right now. It can wait. Why don’t you sit a spell?” He patted the ground beside him.

  Her obvious reluctance pinched at his hope for reconciliation, but she finally took a seat. “That was...kind of you to rig up some shade for him.” She peered at the stream instead of at him and yet he sensed her sincerity. Essie was always authentic.

  “So was yanking out the sagebrush.” As if on its own accord, his hand reached for one of hers and turned it over. His thumb traced the pattern of scratches across her palm.

  She stiffened, her eyes darting to his. “Tate, please...”

  “Essie.” Squeezing her fingers, he exhaled slowly as he prepared to voice the words he’d both feared and hoped to say to her. “I’m not an outlaw.”

  Her face furrowed with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  He threw a glance at the others and saw they were still sleeping. “It’s true,” he said, lowering his voice anyway. “I’m not an outlaw. I’m a Pinkerton detective agent, working in disguise.”