Jessica Nelson - Love on the Range

What did he do for a living? For the first time since embarking on this wretched trip, her fingers itched to jot down observations on the small pad of paper she always kept nearby.

The stranger must have felt her scrutiny because he took his hat off, placed it in his lap and eyed her in return.

A jagged scar traveled from above his right brow, down his cheekbone to the hairline near his ear. Striker was also rumored to be scarred, though she’d not heard of where in particular. No doubt Striker bore many evidences of his heroic feats. Her gaze traced the puckered skin on the stranger’s face. Perhaps she should’ve felt embarrassed to have been caught staring. But after the emotional upheaval of being forced to leave home and left to flounder alone on a loud, smelly train, the tiny flicker of interest flaring within caught her by surprise and loosened her tongue.

“How do you do, sir?” She held out her hand in the way she’d lately observed others from the barren West do.

He didn’t shake her hand. Instead, one thick black brow rose.

Gracie struggled to keep the polite smile on her face as she withdrew her unshaken hand. Shame flooded through her. So much for skirting her gentle upbringing. She fiddled with the folds of her dress suit.

The stranger’s gaze was dark, his eyes shards of obsidian. His strong jaw emphasized narrow cheekbones while that wicked-looking scar slashed angrily across his features. Not a face as perfect as Hugh’s or Father’s, but overall, quite an interesting study. He stared at her in such an odd way, cold and intent. Her throat clenched.

Say something. Anything.

“This grippe outbreak is horrible, isn’t it? My parents are sending me to stay with an uncle until the influenza clears up,” she blurted.

His scar crinkled with his forehead but he still said nothing.

“I don’t mind the trip, though,” she continued, “because I’ve heard Special Agent Striker has been spotted in Burns several times.”

“You heard wrong.”

He had a wonderful voice. Deep and masculine. Warmth spread across Gracie’s face. “I’m quite sure I have not heard wrong, sir. My sources are reliable. I assume you’re familiar with Striker and his many feats?”

The man’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “Do you usually hold conversations with strange men? Don’t have much common sense, do you?”

“Sir, I’ll remind you that you sat beside me. I have plenty of common sense, thank you very much.” Her shoulders stiffened. “And I do have protection.”

“Who?” The stranger made a pretense of looking around, then he pinned her with a dark look.

“God protects me.”

“God.” The stranger’s eyes glinted. “If someone snatched you right now, no one could stop him.”

Interesting words. Gracie peered more closely at him, determined to find out more. “If you’re referring to Mendez, the notorious kidnapper of women, I must inform you Striker will finish him for good. He’s from the West,” she added.

“Mendez?”

“No, Striker. He enforces the Mann Act of 1910 by chasing down kidnappers and criminals who perform evil deeds.” Also known as the White Slave Traffic Act, it had been established to keep women from being transported across state lines for immoral purposes. “My uncle’s home is near Burns, a town Striker is rumored to frequently visit. I’m hoping for an exclusive interview designed to prove his honor.” And to jump-start her career.

“Honor?” The man beside her snorted. “From what I hear, the man’s a skilled assassin.”

“Rumors.” Her lips clamped tight.

His fingers steepled. “You haven’t heard of the Council Bluff skirmish?”

The fiasco had made only a few papers back East. Government officials didn’t want the public to hear how the innocent died during a routine raid of an outlaw’s hideout.

“Striker did what was necessary. He would never kill in cold blood.”

The stranger’s mouth twisted. “But, they say, that is exactly what he did.”

“There’s an explanation.” Gracie clutched at the pocket in her skirt where she’d placed her news articles. “I intend to prove it.”

She forced herself to relax and took a deep breath. A subject change was in order because she did not intend to argue with a stranger. Not about her beloved Striker. “Where are you heading, sir?”

He studied her, and she thought he might continue in the controversial vein, but he didn’t. “I’ve been out of town on business, but I’m heading back to Burns. The name’s Trevor Cruz.”

“I’m Gracelyn Riley, of the Boston Rileys who came over years and years ago.” She paused for breath before continuing. “That is quite the scar you have. Do you mind telling me what happened?”

When his eyes slit into narrow cracks, a sense of foreboding crawled down Gracie’s spine. Perhaps it was a painful story and her question intruded on his grief. Mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Always asking questions. Try to pretend to be a lady for once.

Mr. Cruz’s expression cleared. “Got it when I was twelve, cutting some barbed wire for a fence. I sliced it wrong and the wire snapped up and got me right there.” His finger rubbed the scar lightly. “Guess I was lucky not to lose my eye.” He shrugged. “Never met a lady interested in my scar.”

“Perhaps because it makes you look dangerous. In a good way,” she added, not wanting to further offend him.

Her gaze lit upon his scar again and she frowned. “It’s such an evil-looking scar that I rather thought something horrendous must have happened for you to get it. Something besides being cut with barbed wire.”

“I’m sorry my scar is not more exciting for you, Miss Riley…Gracelyn.”

Had she spoken aloud? A horrible heat rushed through her body.

“That’s okay,” she stuttered, unable to meet what would surely be a disapproving gaze. If only her uncle would arrive. She searched her surroundings. The family was leaving and the approaching dusk whittled their shapes into shadows as they climbed aboard a wagon.

Two tethered horses waited at the edge of the platform. Their harnesses tinkled every few minutes with their movements and the sound reminded her of music. She turned to Mr. Cruz, hoping to distract him from her rudeness.

“Do you enjoy the music of Joe Oliver, from New Orleans? My father says he wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Oliver becomes known as the king of jazz, he’s that good. Jazz is lovely, much better than classical, don’t you agree?”

“I prefer the outdoors, ma’am.”

“You do not enjoy music, Mr. Cruz?”

“Not jazz or classical. I like natural sounds.”

“Oh, yes, nature’s music. Do you mind explaining?” Might as well enjoy the conversation because there was no escaping the scourge of her thoughtless tongue.

Mr. Cruz’s eyes bored into Gracie. Her chest constricted. This man affected her in quite a strange manner.

“I’m not articulate. You’d have to hear it to understand.” His lips curved into a wry smile. “You’re young.”

“I am only twenty, it’s true.” She held his gaze. “But perhaps I understand your meaning.”

Mr. Cruz’s eyebrow rose. Did his raised brow mean he invited more conversation?

“I’m well acquainted with the sounds of nature. Before dawn I like to walk down to the ports. The fog is often thick and when I first reach the docks all I hear is the water pushing and lapping against the wooden posts. Then, slowly, the world awakes. Seagulls call to each other, high, piercing shrieks.” Feeling faintly encouraged by the steady attention he gave her, she continued. “The sounds of fishermen drawing up nets and shouting orders drift to me. And the sun slices through the fog like a blade through fine silk. On those mornings, I am certain God is much more than the boring entity talked about in stuffy, silent churches. I am certain He’s beautiful, and that He sings through his creation. Is this like the music you mean?”