The Outlaw's Secret Read online

  Anger simmered hot inside Tate as he glared back at Fletcher. All of these outlaws were the same—greedy and remorseless when it came to ruining the lives of innocent people. Just like your brother, a voice chided inside his head. He tightened his jaw, willing his emotions to stay concealed, controlled.

  “And if I don’t?”

  Fletcher’s mouth curled up in a sneer. “Try me, Tex.” He lifted his hands in a mock gesture of innocence. “But now your life is tied with hers.” He walked away, adding over his shoulder, “I think you’re smart enough to figure out what that means.”

  Clenching and unclenching his fingers, Tate forced a deep breath between his gritted teeth. He wanted to slam his fist into something, though it wouldn’t change the situation. For better or worse, his fate—and his entire operation—now lay in the hands of Miss Essie Vanderfair. If he didn’t return with her, he’d be expelled from the gang at the very least and his case would go up in smoke. At the very worst, he’d wind up dead.

  Which meant he’d better go back and retrieve her.

  He marched to the horses and saddled his mount again. The other men glanced between him and Fletcher in obvious confusion. “Better hope she’s alive and well,” the outlaw leader called out, shooting him a condescending grin as Tate swung up onto his horse.

  The anger in his gut iced into anxiety as his mind filled once more with horrible visions of Miss Vanderfair injured, or worse. He shoved aside the nagging thoughts. She was fine, most likely.

  Still, he couldn’t help praying as he urged his horse back the direction he’d just come. Please, Lord. Let me find her and let her be all right. For both our sakes.

  * * *

  Essie eyed the darkening sky ahead and swallowed hard. In a short while she wouldn’t be able to see much of anything, let alone the robbers’ tracks, if the clouds dropped their rain. Sliding to the ground, she pressed her lips over a cry at the throbbing ache in her legs. Too many years had passed since she’d ridden bareback.

  “Want some water, boy?” she said to the gelding. If she focused on something else, she could ignore the pain.

  She set down her valise and cupped her hand to capture as much of the water from her canteen as she could. The liquid disappeared into the horse’s mouth at once. The poor animal was thirsty, even though she’d kept him moving at a slow gait. She allowed him another mouthful and then she drank from the canteen herself.

  When she’d finished, she sloshed the water against the sides of the container. There wasn’t much left, judging by the sound. And she had nothing in the way of food for herself, either. But at least there was food for the horse.

  “Why don’t you sample the grass over here?” She led the gelding to a patch of yellowing grass among the dirt and sagebrush. “I’ll see if I can’t spot their trail again.”

  Looping the reins around a large sagebrush, Essie returned to the place where she’d dismounted. She walked slowly, searching the ground for tracks. A few yards away she found the imprints from the trio’s horses.

  A feeling of optimism bloomed inside her. Her tracking skills, though a bit novice, had proved to be more than adequate. She’d be back with the train-robbing gang in no time at—

  The crack of thunder from above made her jump and caused the gelding to skitter to one side. She hurried to soothe the horse as fat drops of rain began to strike her head and shoulders. If the downpour washed away the tracks...

  Essie swatted away the troubling thought. Surely she’d stumble onto the men’s campsite before too long.

  After tying up the canteen in the reins to free both her hands, she clutched the handle of her valise between her teeth once again and attempted to climb onto the gelding. But without the aid of a rock, she had to try three times before successfully hauling herself onto the horse’s back. By then the rain had picked up, pounding the prairie as though it were as angry as she’d been earlier.

  Essie could hardly see more than a few feet in any direction. Wiping strands of hair from her face, she untied the canteen and turned her mount toward the spot where she’d last seen the tracks. She kept her valise and the water container crushed to her chest with one hand while she grasped the reins with the other.

  Cold droplets slid down her dress collar and pulled her hair from its pins until it lay soaked against her back. There was nothing to do, though, but keep going. The horse plodded on, its head down. She wished she could lower hers, too, but she needed to make certain they were traveling in the right direction, drenched or not.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the rain ceased its thunderous fury and dwindled to a light sprinkle. After another few minutes it stopped altogether.

  “Look at that, boy—we made it through.” Essie ventured a smile and shifted her grip on the reins to pat the gelding’s neck.

  But her relief ended abruptly when she leaned to the side to study the ground. Any tracks made by the three horses were no longer visible. A pinprick of alarm punctured her hope further as she realized the light was beginning to fade around them.

  She moved the horse in one direction then back in another. It was no use. The outlaws’ trail had disappeared and everywhere she looked the curve of the hills appeared the same. How was she to know where to go now?

  Determination warred with her growing anxiety and she set her jaw. “We’re not giving up. We have to find them.” For more than just her interviews. The outlaws were her only ready source of food and fire and civilization. Unless, of course, she ran into other occupants of the plains...

  She swallowed hard at the memory of the bloodcurdling tales she’d read, and those she had penned herself, of travelers beset by warring Indians. Although in her book The Indian Warrior’s Bride, the heroine had not only survived an attack on the wagon train but had found love, too.

  Still, a shiver, that had nothing to do with her drenched clothes, ran up Essie’s spine. It was one thing to write such fanciful tales; it was another matter altogether to live them.

  Which meant only one course of action remained open to her. She stopped the horse and bowed her chin. “As You can see, Lord, I’m in another predicament. Though I recognize, unlike earlier, this one is largely of my own making.” And the Texas Titan’s, she thought with a frown. “But if You wouldn’t mind sending some help...”

  The gelding lifted his head and whinnied. Someone, or something, was coming their way.

  Essie swallowed hard and peered through the dimming light. “Please let it be the two-legged kind of something,” she prayed, thinking of wolves and coyotes.

  A rider crested a nearby rise. Essie’s heart slowed its frantic hammering, but only for a moment. While not a wolf, she hoped the stranger was good and decent and kind.

  “Let him be a friend, not a foe,” she whispered. “A friend, not a foe.” She couldn’t see the man’s face beneath his hat, but she felt a flicker of relief that at least he was dressed in the clothes of a horseman and not an Indian on the warpath.

  Just as she was about to call out a greeting from her dry throat, the man lifted his head, revealing the face of the Texan. The man who’d left her behind—on purpose.

  “Very funny,” she muttered, lifting her eyes upward.

  Sending her help in the form of that outlaw could only mean one thing—something she’d suspected for a while now. The Lord certainly had a sense of humor.

  Chapter Three

  Tate’s mouth curved into a grin at the sight of Essie Vanderfair. He sent up a quick prayer of gratitude at finding her alive and well. And to think he’d stumbled onto her after riding just a little more than an hour. She’d wandered closer to Fletcher’s camp than he would’ve thought possible. A blessing for both of them.

  “You’re a ways off from any kind of town,” he called good-naturedly as he approached.

  Instead of relief at seeing another h
uman being way out here, she fixed him with a thorny glare. “I wasn’t trying to find a town. I was tracking you.” A bit of color flooded her cheeks. “At least until it started to rain.”

  Tate stopped his horse beside hers. He’d ridden through the rain, too, but his hat had helped keep his head and face mostly dry. Essie looked drenched, her hair hanging limp against her back.

  “You remind me of a cat I once rescued who nearly met his end in a swollen stream.” He couldn’t help a chuckle, which only narrowed her gaze even further.

  “And you remind me of a...a...” She closed her lips.

  “A what?” he prompted, more curious than offended. “Can’t think of a good rejoinder, Miss Vanderfair?”

  The corners of her mouth quirked upward. “I’m full of good rejoinders, Mr. Tex. But I prefer to give my comeuppance in fiction.”

  That wiped the smile from his face. He didn’t need her writing about him—or rather, his outlaw brother—in some sensationalized story. “My apologies. Your hair—” he motioned to the long wet mane “—looks...nice like that.”

  One eyebrow rose in silent question. His neck felt warm, despite riding through the cool rain earlier. It wasn’t a lie, though. He liked it when a woman left her hair long instead of pinning it up. Ravena had always worn it long and flowing.

  He couldn’t help comparing her to Essie, even as he fought memories from his youth. Ravena and Tex wove through nearly every one, and thinking back on the happiness they’d once shared left a bitter taste in his mouth. While not as stunning a beauty as Ravena had been, Miss Vanderfair had nice hazel eyes. Ones that apparently turned more green than brown when she was either determined or amused. With her hair down and her cheeks still pink, she made a rather lovely picture. Not that he’d noticed.

  Clearing his throat, he turned his horse around. “Let’s get going.” He nudged the animal forward, but they hadn’t gone more than a couple of feet when he realized she wasn’t following.

  Tate twisted in the saddle. “What’s the problem now?”

  Her eyes maintained their emerald color. “I’m not going anywhere with you. The man who deliberately left me out here—alone.”

  “You had some water,” he offered lamely, “and a horse.” But the paltry excuse only brought her chin up in a greater show of annoyance. So much for hoping she hadn’t realized he’d left her behind on purpose.

  She prodded her horse forward. “Good day, Mr. Tex.”

  He’d underestimated her pluck, and her anger; that was for sure. She wasn’t weeping all over him in gratitude at finding her, either. Instead she was going to stubbornly wander around Wyoming until she happened onto Fletcher and his gang. Or so she thought.

  “Where are you going?” he called after her, leaning on the saddle horn as if he had all the time in the world.

  Essie turned. “To find Mr. Fletcher and conduct my interviews.” Her chin hadn’t lowered one inch. “And I’ll do it without your help, thank you very much.”

  “You might be able to follow my trail for a few minutes, but the rain washed most of it away.”

  As he’d suspected, his words brought her and her horse to a full stop.

  “You need me,” he added.

  And he needed her, too, though he wasn’t about to reveal that information. It might make her overconfident, and that could mean serious trouble for him. Tate blew out a sigh, hating that his covert mission was now squarely tied to the woman glaring at him.

  She didn’t bother to hide her emotions, which meant he could easily read the thoughts on her face. Frustration, dejection and, finally, acceptance. He had her and she knew it.

  “Shall we continue, Miss Vanderfair?” He guided his horse alongside hers. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished, and even Clem’s cooking is better than no cooking at all.”

  But she didn’t humbly nod in acquiescence or make a move to follow him. No. She smiled at him instead. A smile that set fresh uneasiness churning in his stomach.

  “I’ll come with you, Mr. Tex, if you allow me to interview you first.”

  He sat back, feeling as if he’d been punched. The little imp had overthrown his plan with a cleverer one of her own.

  The last thing he wanted, or needed, was to answer her nosy questions while still pretending to be his brother. He’d foolishly hoped they’d already be at Fletcher’s hideout before Essie could attempt to corner him into talking about the past. But that door had closed. He was caught, and he suspected she knew it, too.

  “Fine. Just know I may not answer every question.”

  A tiny furrow creased the space between her brows. “How am I to get the information I need—”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know, but that’s my offer. Take it or leave it, Miss Vanderfair.”

  She sized him up in a way that made him wonder what she saw. For one tiny moment he had the strangest wish to tell her that he wasn’t really an outlaw and she was riding straight into possible peril. But he couldn’t say a thing that might persuade her to turn around and ride hard in the opposite direction.

  A small seed of protectiveness, one born out of something deeper than simply keeping the innocent safe, sprouted in him as he regarded her, too. Tate tried to eradicate it. After all, he hadn’t been able to protect Tex or the people his brother had wronged as part of his illustrious outlaw career. But something about Essie tugged at the locked handle of his heart, even before she gave him her answer.

  “Very well, Mr. Tex.” Her eyes shone dark green again. “I accept your terms.”

  * * *

  “Were you born and raised in Texas?” Essie asked, a thrill pulsing through her at interviewing her very first outlaw. “Is that how you came by your name?”

  The Texan shook his head. “I was born in Idaho. Lived there until eight years ago.” He paused before adding, “My mother and her family were from Texas.”

  Essie kept her horse in pace with his, so she wouldn’t miss hearing his answers. Though her hands weren’t free to write down his responses, she wouldn’t soon forget them. Like the stories she penned in her head, her interview would be stored in her memory for a few hours and easily retrieved once she was able to write it in her notebook.

  “You mentioned your mother passed away.” She gentled her tone so he wouldn’t feel as if she were prying. “When was that?”

  “Ten years ago.” His shoulders stiffened, a clear indication he didn’t like the topic.

  “And your father?” she prodded.

  “He up and left us when I was nine. Next question.”

  His abrupt manner did a poor job of hiding his pain. Essie swallowed a twinge of unease. Things with her parents and siblings might be strained, but at least she had a family. “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “A brother.”

  “Older or younger?”

  Another long pause preceded his answer. “Younger.”

  So much for delving deep into the life of an outlaw. She needed to think up better questions if she wanted to draw out more of his story. “When did you first become an outlaw?”

  He cleared his throat, his face still rigidly pointed forward. “It was right after I left Idaho.”

  “Were you desperate for money?”

  “No.”

  His response surprised her. She’d long believed money was the driving reason for most outlaws’ choices. Cocking her head, she studied his tense expression. Was he being truthful? It was hard to know after so short an acquaintance. “What drove you to such a life, then?”

  “Anger, mostly.”

  “At whom?” she prompted. She sensed she was on the brink of learning something critical, if the Texan would only comply.

  He adjusted his weight in the saddle. “My parents. God. My girl...” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “My brother.” />
  A tremor of victory rocked through Essie at his words. This was exactly what she’d been hoping to achieve. To excavate from these outlaws’ pasts those events and people who’d influenced who they’d become. Their stories were going to make her novel successful.

  She could envision the newspaper article touting her praise now, though she might forgo having her photograph taken. No need to highlight her plainness.

  Female authoress Essie Vanderfair, who shares no acknowledged connection to the railway magnate Henry Vanderfair...

  She opened her eyes at the disturbing intrusion into her daydream. These men didn’t need to know this piece from her family’s past. At least, not yet. Once she’d conducted her interviews, she would calmly explain why a ransom from Henry Vanderfair would not be forthcoming, and then she would ride back to civilization. Or make a well-executed escape. Then she would write her novel. Her wildly successful novel.

  Satisfied, she continued with her reverie. Female authoress Essie Vanderfair pens the greatest dime novel of all time. Fans of Victor Daley have abandoned the pedantic musings of their former literary hero to snatch up Miss Vanderfair’s clever and engaging story of five train robbers who—

  “Is the interview over?”

  The Texan’s voice jerked her back to the present. She straightened, her muscles still aching from riding bareback, as she cast a sidelong glance at the man’s saddle. He might have offered it to her.

  “I was just thinking.” She schooled her thoughts back to their conversation. He’d mentioned his parents and a brother. “Were you and your brother close?”

  “Used to be.”

  She resisted the desire to roll her eyes at another short response from him. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “This interview is supposed to be about me, not him,” he countered in a voice seeping with irritation. She’d clearly touched upon another sore topic.