July 1881
Randall Northam is a gambler. Randall Northam is a killer.
The words pulsed through Marybeth O’Brien’s head, keeping time with the clatter of the iron wheels on the railroad track as the train propelled her inescapably toward her prospective husband. Until a few moments ago she’d thought his most notable quality was being the second son of a wealthy Colorado ranching family. But the lively young woman seated across from her had just imparted a vital bit of information Randall Northam’s parents had left out when they’d arranged this marriage. And from the enthusiasm brightening Maisie Henshaw’s face, Marybeth could see her story wasn’t finished.
“Yep, he shot that thieving varmint right in the heart. Why, Rand can outdraw anybody.” The red-haired girl elbowed her handsome young husband in the ribs. “Even me.”
Dr. Henshaw chuckled indulgently, his expression utterly devoid of censure, but rather, exuding only devotion for his wife. “You may have heard stories about how wild the West is, Miss O’Brien, but you will certainly feel safe with Rand protecting you.”
“Just like me protecting you.” Maisie chortled in a decidedly unladylike manner.
Her more refined husband nodded his agreement with a grin. “Well, we all have our talents.”
Marybeth returned a weak smile while gulping down a terror she’d never felt as she’d made her plans to go to Colorado. She’d had some concern, yes. A great deal of doubt, of course. But never fear. In fact, the farther she’d traveled from Boston and the closer to her destination, she’d actually begun to look forward to meeting her prospective husband. If he turned out to be all that his parents and his own letters stated, she would reconsider her lifelong vow never to marry. But this disclosure about her intended changed everything and reaffirmed her determination never to be trapped in a miserable marriage, as her mother had been. She lifted a silent prayer of thanks for this encounter with the Henshaws and for finding out the truth about Mr. Randall Northam before meeting him.
Even as she prayed, guilt teased at the corners of her mind. She’d accepted her train fare from Colonel and Mrs. Northam, arguing with herself that perhaps Randall would turn out to be as kind, handsome and noble as his father, a former Union officer. If so, perhaps she could convince him to postpone the wedding until she found Jimmy. Surely, with two brothers of his own, he would understand her desperate desire to find her only brother who’d fled to Colorado eight long years ago to escape their abusive father. Finding Jimmy would not only reunite her with her only living relative, it would provide a means for her not to marry at all. That was, if Jimmy still had Mam’s silver locket. With the key to a great treasure tucked inside, the locket would mean she could repay the Northams for her train fare.
“Don’t you think so?” Maisie reached across and patted Marybeth’s gloved hand.
“Wha—?” Marybeth felt an unaccustomed blush rush to her cheeks. How rude of her not to pay attention to her companions. “Forgive me. Would you repeat the question?”
“Now, Maisie, dear.” John Henshaw bent his head toward his wife in a sweet, familiar way. “Miss O’Brien must be tired from her travels. We should give her time to rest so she will be at her best when she meets her future husband.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Maisie’s pretty face crinkled with worry. “Would you like a pillow? A blanket?” She nudged her husband and pointed to the bag beneath his seat. “Honey, dig out that pillow I packed.”
“Thank you. You’re too kind.” Marybeth accepted the small cushion, placed it against the window and rested her head, not because she wanted to sleep, but because she needed time to think. Although she hated missing the beautiful mountain scenery as the train descended the western side of La Veta Pass, she closed her eyes to keep Maisie from further talking. Again guilt pinched her conscience. This was no way to treat such kind people.
When they’d first met early this morning, the Henshaws had recognized their social duty to an unattached young woman traveling alone, just as several matrons and couples had all the way from Boston. Due to their protecting presence, Marybeth hadn’t been accosted by a single man on the entire trip, although one well-dressed man in particular had stared at her rather boldly today when the doctor wasn’t looking. He would have been more careful if he’d known Maisie was the one to watch out for. Marybeth wanted to laugh thinking about her new friend being a sharpshooter. If anything, she looked like a perfect lady in her fashionable brown traveling suit and elegant matching hat.
The moment the conductor had escorted her to the seat across from the Henshaws, Marybeth could see they were decent Christian people. Because they lived in the town where she would soon reside, she’d gradually told them more about herself, at last telling them she was Randall Northam’s intended bride. Maisie had hooted with joy, announcing she’d known “Rand” all her life, and his sister, Rosamond, was her best friend. As if unfolding a great yarn, she told Marybeth about Rand’s shoot-out over a card game in a saloon.
A gambler, a killer and, no doubt, a drunkard. This was the man she was expected to marry? Indeed she would not marry him, not in a hundred years.
* * *
Rand checked his pocket watch and then glanced down the railroad line toward Alamosa searching for the telltale black cloud of smoke from the Denver and Rio Grande engine. The wind was up today, so maybe tumbleweed or sand had blown over the tracks, slowing the train. Maybe a tree had fallen somewhere up on La Veta Pass and they’d had to stop to remove it before proceeding down into the San Luis Valley.
Rand chewed his lip and paced the boardwalk outside the small station, his boots thudding against the wood in time with his pounding heart. How much longer must he wait before the train arrived? Before his bride arrived?
He glanced down at his new black boots, dismayed at the unavoidable dust covering the toes. Hoping to look his best for his new bride, he brushed each boot over the back of the opposite pant leg and then wiped a hand over the gray marks that ill-advised action left. So much for looking his best. Where was that train anyway?
“Settle down, Rand.” His younger brother, Tolley, half reclined on the bench set against the station’s dull yellow outside wall. “If the train’s going to be late, Charlie’ll let you know.” He jutted his chin toward the open window above him. Inside, Charlie Williams manned the telegraph, but at the moment no syncopated clickety-click indicated an incoming message. Tolley shook his head and smirked. “Man, if this is what it’s like to get married, I don’t want any part of it. Where’s my cocksure brother today?” He patted the gun strapped to his side, clearly referencing the worst day of Rand’s life.
“Could you just keep quiet about that?” He shot Tolley a cross look. After three years his brother still wouldn’t let him forget the time Rand had been forced to kill a horse thief. Instead of understanding how guilty Rand felt about the incident, Tolley idolized him, even wanted to emulate his gun-fighting skills. “Don’t say anything to Miss O’Brien except ‘how do you do’ and ‘welcome to Esperanza.’ Let me take care of the rest, understand?”
“Yes, boss.” Tolley touched his hat in a mock salute. He glanced down the tracks. “Looks like your wait is over.”
Rand followed his gaze. Sure enough, there came the massive Denver and Rio Grande engine, its black smoke almost invisible in the crosswinds, its cars tucked in a row behind it. Now his pulse pounded in his chest and ears,
