Rebel With A Cause. Carol Arens
there you have it, then,” she said.
He straightened, plucking a man’s pipe from the mud. He shoved his hat back from his face. The sun shone bright on his expression.
It was not annoyed or amused. His eyebrows arched in bewilderment. “Have what?”
Mercy, what a handsome man! He nearly made her lose her train of thought.
“Proof, of course. If a brass or iron bell couldn’t be heard, and there wasn’t one to hear, but so many folks swear that they heard it, then what else could it be?”
“Delirium.”
“Magic.”
Zane turned and wedged the pipe behind the drooping yellow ribbon on the hat. He glanced back at her with a hot-coffee gaze. The simmer nearly made her knees knock together.
“Did you hear the bell?” he asked.
“No, but—”
“There was no bell.” He raised his hands, calloused palms out as though to block her words. “You didn’t hear it and I didn’t hear it.”
“In my book there will be a bell.”
“That’s the trouble with dime novels. For every word of truth there’s ten of fancy.”
“That’s simply not true. Lots of people heard that bell and it wasn’t fancy to them, it was hope.”
“I’ll tell you what’s true. Everything you own is spread across half the county. That’s a fact and no matter how you try to twist it into some sort of a bell-ringing adventure it all amounts to a hill of trouble.”
So true, but she had long believed that trouble was made to be overcome. “No one died and that was a bell-ringing miracle.”
“Take a peek around at your miracle, darlin’. This town is gone. Look at your own situation. You’ve got less than some others. You can’t even borrow clothes because no one has any to lend.”
“That is a challenge.” A rather big challenge that nearly made her feel like weeping. She had to remind herself that adversity held the seeds of adventure.
“No need for a tear.” He touched his thumb to her cheek. “If the tracks haven’t washed out, you can take the afternoon train home. I’ll stand by you until then.”
“That certainly was not a tear. I was just considering what to do.”
“That’s wise.” He dabbed her other cheek with his finger.
“I’ve decided to stay with you.”
He jumped backward. His brows arched like dark wings. His eyes widened in apparent horror. Quick as a blink he narrowed them in an uncanny reflection of the grim set of his mouth.
“That’s not possible.” His voice deepened. It sounded calm but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “I’ve got an outlaw to catch.”
“And so do I. That bank robber had my journal tucked under his arm when he managed to escape me!” Missy paused when a thought hit her. The theft was just another of the day’s miracles. If she had made it safely back to town the journal would have been washed away. At least now she had a chance of getting it back. “I need to go with you.”
“I ride alone.”
“It wouldn’t be right to leave me here to be a burden to the folks of Green Island. Even Yankton will have its hands full taking care of its own.”
“Go home, Missy. At least there, you’ll only be a burden to your brother.” Zane whistled for his horse.
“True enough.” Missy couldn’t blame him for being annoyed. He’d gone through some discomfort during the last day on her account. She heard Ace’s hooves snapping scattered twigs. “But all things considered, I’ll stay here.”
“Suit yourself, then.” He grabbed Ace’s reins then lifted up into the saddle.
“Thank you for the loan of your coat.” She plucked Muff from the pocket and slid it off her shoulders. Chilly air prickled her skin.
“You keep it.” He turned the horse toward the open prairie.
“Thank you!” she called out. “I’ll return it to you when we meet on the trail of the outlaw.”
He stopped Ace midstride, turned and gave her a hard frown. He shook his head then leaned forward in the saddle. The horse bolted away, racing for the horizon.
She tucked the coat tight against the icy breeze. The cloth smelled like campfire, horse and open prairie. The aroma of Zane Coldridge wrapped her up.
What a shame that such a bold and wonderful hero had come and gone like a flash. When she retrieved her journal, she might use up every page writing about one man, alone.
She stared after him. The drum of Ace’s hoof-beats faded against the earth. The breeze carried a shout of triumph when someone found a half-buried plow.
Missy watched Zane and his horse become a small dot on the crest of a distant hill and wondered if it would be right to borrow the hat with the yellow ribbon.
She lifted it from the broken branch, removed the pipe then placed the bonnet on her head. It might be someone’s favorite. The yellow ribbon, even though it looked defeated and wilted, felt like pure luxury given the circumstances.
Surely, it would be some devastated woman’s hope of a new day. Missy took it off and returned it to the branch with the pipe, once again, tucked into the ribbon.
She glanced at the horizon, expecting to see it empty, but the black dot that had been Zane seemed bigger. She watched while it grew to the size of a pea, then an apple.
At last it took the form of a man and horse coming closer across the prairie.
The horse halted two feet in front of her but pawed at a clump of grass as though impatient to be on its way.
Zane reached down, his calloused palm open.
“I’ll take you as far as Luminary.”
Chapter Four
Zane peered through the noon sun shimmering off Ballico Street. Luminary looked better by night. For the first time he noticed that much of the town’s facade consisted of peeling, faded paint.
It was odd that he had never noticed the splintered wood of the sidewalks or the flies spinning around horse manure deposited near half-cocked hitching posts.
Nightfall ought to improve the look. Lanterns would puncture the dark on both sides of the street. Oil lamps would glint a welcome from the windows of business establishments all over town. Pianos, cranking out tinny tunes from open saloon doors, would weave a ripple of gaiety from one bar to the next.
Somehow, during his younger years in Luminary, he hadn’t noticed that the town looked rundown. Maybe it was Missy sitting stiff-backed and proper in front of him that made him see it so. The genteel lady from Boston was sure to take note of every broken window over every weed-filled flowerpot. She would notice that the only freshly painted signs in town advertised alcohol and women.
Luminary would give her plenty to write home about.
Missy turned in the saddle. She gazed up at him with blue eyes gone wide.
“Is this a bawdy town?” she asked.
He had been a fool to bring her here, even though it was the most likely place that Wage would have run to. He ought to have put her on a train headed east, tied her to the bench with his own hands if it came to that.
“It’s as bawdy as can be.” In truth, there wasn’t a place much worse. Funny, it hadn’t bothered him until now.
A door squeaked open on a second-story balcony. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filtered down and mingled with the