Mary McBride - Forever And A Day

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Leslie, again

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

N ew Mexico Territory—1884

Race Logan had about as much use for trains as he did for bank robbers.Both seemed bent on his ruination. The Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe had muscled him out of the freight hauling business some years ago. And now, after he’d turned his hand and his considerable fortune to banking, that new endeavor was threatened by a gang of desperadoes who kept slipping through the bumbling grasp of the territory’s lawmen.

He couldn’t decide which he hated more—railroads or thieves. He guessed it didn’t make much difference anyway since the Bankers’ Association had outvoted him on this harebrained scheme that had him here—three miles from Lamy Switch on the short line between Albuquerque and Santa Fe—waiting for the 3:45 and a damn convict from the Missouri State Penitentiary.

The dun mare beside him lifted her nose from a bramble of snakeweed now and pricked her ears. Only seconds later Race could feel the ground begin to tremble beneath his boots. Right on time, blast its oak-burning heart. He dashed his cigar down and ground it to dust with his heel while he squinted into the distance.

Up till then it had been a clear and bright summer afternoon. But the big black locomotive coming down the line seemed to carry a weather all its own. Bad weather, Race thought as he watched gray smoke swirl from its stack and hover like a storm cloud against the high green backdrop of Glorieta Pass. The massive engine thundered past him while the brakes squealed and shot sparks, slowing the train just enough for a man to leap through a billow of steam and to land like a cat, despite leg irons and wrist cuffs.

The train picked up speed again, spitting enough cinders in its wake to blind a man as well as choke him.

Race Logan muttered a curse as he groped in his vest pocket for the keys they’d forwarded from the prison in Jefferson City. The warden’s accompanying letter had been blunt. He remembered it word for word.

Dear Mr. Logan,

Over my strenuous objections, the governor of Missouri has directed me to transport Mr. Gideon Summerfield to New Mexico Territory and to remand the prisoner into your custody.

In my considered opinion, you and your business associates are making a grave mistake by taking the law into your own hands. In light of your friendship with the governor, however, I wish you well in your endeavor, misguided as I believe it is.

The prisoner will remain shackled during transport. Enclosed please find the appropriate keys, and be advised that once they are used, you will be seeing the last of Gideon Summerfield.

Harmon Sadler, Warden

Missouri State Penitentiary for Men

With that warning in mind and an oath on his lips, Race strode toward the prisoner through the lifting steam, ready to unshackle him, only to discover one loose cuff already dangling from the man’s wrist.

The convict squatted down. “Are you Logan?” His glance cut toward Race briefly before he turned his full attention to the leg irons.

Race barely had time to respond before the man straightened up, jingling loose chains in his left hand as he extended his right in greeting.

“Gideon Summerfield,” he said. Then he cocked his head toward the disappearing caboose. “Figured it was best not to get folks all riled up on the train. Let’s hear your plan, Banker, and then I’ll tell you whether it’ll work or not.”

While Race spoke, the prisoner sifted handfuls of earth between his fingers, his gray gaze following the dust as the wind blew it away. Probably hadn’t felt either—earth or wind—in years, Race thought. Good. The man had eyes like a wolf. Cold. Cautious. Calculating. He was suddenly and oddly glad his only daughter was a thousand miles away, vaguely relieved that by the time she came home from school, this business would be done. He hoped.

“How long?” Race asked him now.

“Couple weeks, I’d guess. Three. Less than that if I’m real lucky. But I’ll bring them in, Banker. You can count on that.” He brushed the dust from his hands and glanced up. “Whose damn fool plan is this, anyway? Yours?”

“The Bankers’ Association,” Race grumbled. “Outvoted me seven to one. We’re not like Texas, Summerfield. We don’t have an outfit like the Texas Rangers. Dwight Samuel and his gang just keep picking our banks clean and then falling through the cracks between the local law agencies.”

“So you got yourselves a thief to catch a thief,” the convict stated in his flat Missouri drawl.

“I guess you could look at it that way.” Race Logan folded his arms and pinned the man with his own icy stare. “We don’t want any unnecessary trouble. No bloodshed. I want that understood from the start. I won’t have any innocent people getting hurt.”

“It’s your party, Banker. You best tell your associates and all those innocents of yours not to get on the dance floor once the band starts to play.”

“Our people all know what to expect. Just stick to the plan, Summerfield. I don’t think I have to remind you that every hope you have for a parole depends on it.”

“Well, then.” A sudden grin slashed across the convict’s taut lips. “You’ll be wanting to hang on to these, Banker.” He gave the leg irons and wrist cuffs a jingle before tossing them to Race. “Just in case.”

Race Logan’s daughter yanked on the heavy bank door as if she meant to tear it off its hinges. Warm noon air gusted into the lobby with her, riffling papers and the top page of the tearaway calendar on the wall. The elderly teller glanced over the rims of his glasses—first at the date, then at the high hands of the regulator clock and finally at the young woman who stood there tugging off her gloves.

He plucked off his spectacles, put them on again and gulped. “Miss Honey!”

“Hello, Kenneth.” By now she had whisked her porkpie hat from her head and was stabbing the pins back into the velveteen confection.

“Aren’t you...shouldn’t you be...?” Kenneth Crane crooked a finger under his tight collar to make room for his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard and loud. “I thought you were east...at school.”

Honey Logan sniffed in reply, an eloquent proclamation that not only was she no longer east, but she was very much here and intended to remain.

“Y-your father’s not here,” the teller stammered. “Actually no one is supposed to be here this afternoon. Only...only me.” His eyes sought the calendar once more, then jerked to the clock. “You see, Miss Honey, any minute now we’re expecting...we’re going to be...”

“Just go on with whatever you were doing, Kenneth,” Honey snapped as she moved toward the paneled oak door that separated the president’s office from the lobby of the bank. If the fussy old teller tried to stop her, she was prepared to jab him with a hat pin.

“But, Miss Honey...”

She slammed the door on his protest. For a minute Honey leaned against the smooth oak surface, breathing in the familiar fragrance of the dim, cool office, letting it fill her senses. Leather. Her father’s Cuban cigars. The pungent, clean scent of ink. Or was it money? She’d never been entirely sure.