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.
“True, but I believe our past and current relationships can shape our decisions.” In her case, they’d driven her to do what others deemed improper or undoable. Perhaps it was the same with the man riding beside her. “If you won’t discuss your brother, then tell me about this girl you left behind,” she tried next, hoping a change in the conversation’s direction would elicit a longer answer.
But she was disappointed in that, too.
“There’s nothing to say about her. I haven’t seen her in eight years.”
Another tender subject. She exhaled a sigh through her nose. Would it be this difficult to interview the other outlaws? She hoped not.
“Do you still harbor feelings for her?” The question fled her lips before she could swallow it back. He wasn’t going to give her an answer. And why should she care if he had loved, or still loved, this other woman? She didn’t.
Instead of shooting back an angry retort, though, some of the starch left him. “Not in that way. But there’s some...regret...there.” He shot her a glance, his mouth turned down. “Next question.”
“All right.” She didn’t bother to hide her growing annoyance. “What was your most exciting robbery?” Perhaps focusing on the more daring aspects of his chosen profession would result in the replies she really wanted. Men enjoyed bragging, didn’t they?
He barked with laughter, startling her and the horses. “There’s nothing exciting about robbing innocent people.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?” she countered, her gaze narrowing in on his face.
His attitude and actions didn’t seem to match. He was an odd mix of contradictions and nothing like the newspapers portrayed him to be. Maybe none of the reporters had actually spoken to him in person. If they were going off the hearsay reports of witnesses for their articles, that would explain the added charisma and excitement allegedly surrounding this man. A man who was ungentlemanly and morose in real life.
Turning his head, he mumbled something that sounded very much to Essie like “I don’t know” before he twisted to face her again. “That’s enough interviewing for today.” He pushed his horse to a gallop. “Let’s pick up the pace,” he called back to her. “I don’t want to be riding all night.”
Essie hurried to catch up, her earlier excitement all but evaporated. Her first interview hadn’t gone at all as she’d expected. And now she only had a few tidbits to work with.
She glared at the man’s back, only partially grateful to him for coming back for her. He was hiding something; she could sense it in every unyielding line of his form. But what could it be?
If he thought she’d be satisfied with their second-rate interview today, he was gravely mistaken. She would ferret out every last detail of his story. After all, her father used to tell her, with a mixture of exasperation and pride in his voice, “You’d worry a dog right out from under its bone, Essie.”
And this time, that dog was a handsome outlaw with a secret.
Tate slid from the saddle, casting a glance over his shoulder at Essie to see her doing the same. The smell of burned beans and smoke permeating the air around the camp wasn’t exactly appetizing, but he didn’t mind. He was starving and tired—and he couldn’t shake the wariness in his gut regarding Miss Vanderfair.
She’d remained surprisingly silent during the last thirty minutes or so of their ride. But Tate had the sense he’d awakened a sleeping bear with his vague answers earlier. Essie wouldn’t be thrown off easily, but then, neither would he.
“Welcome back, Miss Vanderfair,” Fletcher said, rising from his choice spot by the fire. “My apologies for the earlier
