Victoria Bylin - Abbie's Outlaw

Emma was waving at someone across the platform when the human cannon ball clipped her elbow and knocked her off balance. John had no desire to catch Emma, but what choice did he have? With two quick strides, he came up behind her and clasped her arms until she was steady on her feet.

When the boy glanced back, John gripped his thin shoulder and hauled him up short. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “What’s your name, son?”

“I’m not your son.” When the kid’s voice cracked from bass to soprano, John held in a grin. He remembered those painful days between boyhood and being a man, and this young fellow had a face full of pimples to go with his resistant vocal cords.

John took the boy’s attitude in stride. He liked bratty kids. Some of them spelled real trouble, but most were either neglected or mad at the world, feelings he understood. Knowing that too much kindness made angry boys even more rebellious, he made his voice as grim as charred wood. “It’s most definitely my business, son. You owe Miss Dray an apology.”

Emma looked down her nose. “He certainly does. He wrinkled my dress.”

Leave it to Emma to carp about nonsense. The boy’s conduct needed to be addressed, but any fool could see he’d been cooped up on the train and needed to blow off steam. Ignoring Emma, John said, “So what do you have to say?”

The boy managed an arrogant scowl. “She’s fat and slow. She should have gotten out of my way.”

“Well, I never!” huffed Emma.

“Trust me,” John said pointedly. “In about five years, you won’t think Miss Dray is fat.”

When a blush stained Emma’s cheeks, John wished he’d been more careful in his choice of words. He’d meant to remind the kid that he was still a boy. Instead John had reminded Emma that he was a man. If he knew her mother, he’d be paying for the slip with unwanted invitations for the next six months.

Before the boy could reply, the crowd shifted, revealing Abbie hurrying in their direction. She was lugging a satchel with one hand and using the other to hold her skirt above her ankles to allow for her angry stride.

At the sight of her high-button shoes, John felt his heart kick into double time. If it hadn’t been for another pair of boots, they might never have met. His gaze rose to her face where he saw her high cheekbones and small nose. Her hair was pinned in a stylish coiffure but slightly disheveled, as if it were rebelling against the black hat holding it in place. Her cheeks had flushed to a soft pink, and her eyes were glued to the boy in John’s grip.

“Robert Alfred Windsor! Don’t you dare take another step!”

Because of the feathers poking up from Emma’s hat, Abbie hadn’t seen John’s face. She focused on Emma as she dipped her head in apology. “I’m so sorry. We’ve been on the train for twelve days and he’s—”

John stepped into her line of sight. “Hello, Abbie.”

“Johnny?”

“I go by John now,” he said. “Or Reverend.”

“Reverend?” Her gaze dipped from his face to his clerical collar.

The only thing John liked better than fighting was shocking people, and Abbie’s gaping mouth said he’d done just that. But her expression also made him aware that time had marked him. His nose had been broken twice, and he had a scar below his right ear. He also had a lump on his jaw from the saloon brawl he’d broken up last night.

Young Robbie wasn’t the only male who liked to fight. Right or wrong, John enjoyed knocking sense into men who deserved it. Last night that man had been Ed Davies. The fool had lost his pay in a poker game and then gone after the winner with his fists. John had given him a “do unto others” lesson and then stuffed a sawbuck into his pocket so he could take care of his new wife until payday.

When Abbie realized she was staring, she jerked her gaze away from his. “It really has been a long time.”

All those years ago, he had heard her voice before he’d seen her face. It had been whiskey-warm and it still was, but her eyes had changed. Instead of a girlish curiosity, her gaze had an edge. Maybe it was worry for her daughter that made her irises flash, or perhaps she, too, was reliving the afternoon they’d met.

He’d found her sitting in the dirt with a twisted ankle, leaning against a broken wagon wheel and aiming a pistol at his kneecaps from beneath the buckboard.

“Put your hands over your head and stand where I can see you,” she had ordered.

With a devilish grin, John had complied, then he’d raked her body with his eyes one glorious inch at a time.

As the memory of that day hit hard and fast, Judas-down-there began to stir, demanding to know if Abbie’s lips were still as soft as the rest of her. A trickle of sweat ran down John’s back, soaking the white shirt he wore beneath his preacher’s coat. A man couldn’t help his bodily reactions, but he had a choice about what came out of his mouth. Trying to lighten the mood, he fell back on the words he often used when old friends discovered that Johnny Leaf, hot-shot shootist and ladies’ man, had turned into the good Reverend John Leaf.

With a wry smile, he said, “Don’t let the collar fool you. I’m as low-down as ever.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” As her eyes softened with the caring he remembered from Kansas, she raised her hand as if she wanted to touch him, perhaps to make sure he was real. John avoided her hand with a shrug, but their gazes stayed locked and held tight.

Before he could figure out what to say, a delicate cough called his attention to Emma. He had hoped to keep his meeting with Abbie private, but Emma’s presence ensured the entire town would know the details by nightfall.

Nodding in Abbie’s direction, he made the introductions. “Emma, this is Abigail Windsor. She’s visiting from Washington. You’ve already met her son.”

Emma’s eyebrows arched. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Windsor.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Abbie replied with a warm smile. “Please, call me Abigail.”

Emma had an annoying habit of fluttering her eyelashes and she did it now, looking straight at John. “Mother and I would love to have you all for supper.” Turning to Abbie, she asked, “How long will you be here?”

John was curious as well.

“Just a few weeks.” With a dip of her chin, Abbie indicated her mourning clothes. “The Reverend and I have an issue to settle concerning my husband’s estate, and then my son and I will be going home.”

“Maybe we could plan for Sunday?” Emma said.

Or maybe next year, John thought, after Emma had found a husband. Shaking his head, he said, “Thanks, but I doubt Abbie is ready to socialize.”

When Abbie gave a demure smile, Emma excused herself, leaving John and Abbie alone in the crowd. They were both dressed in black and seemed cold to each other, but John wasn’t fooled. The coals in his kitchen stove had looked dead this morning, but they were banked and smoldering on the inside. If he poked them, they would flare to life. John couldn’t stop himself from remembering that he and Abbie had started a fire in Kansas. All sorts of things had burned between them, including the bed sheets.

Damn, he needed a smoke. But first he had to get Abbie and her son settled at the Midas Hotel. He was about to suggest they retrieve her baggage when she glanced at Robbie who was watching steam billow from the locomotive. It rose in clouds that dissipated to nothing, a reminder that fires burned themselves out.

Seeing that her son was distracted, she turned to John. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“Not exactly.” Keeping his voice level, he stuck to the facts. “Your daughter wrote to me at an old address in Wyoming. A friend forwarded the letter.”