The Cattleman Meets His Match

“John. John Elder.”

Oddly comforted by the harmless name, she nodded. At least he hadn’t replied with something like Deadly Dan or Killer Miller.

Searching for an innocuous rejoinder, she blurted, “I’m Moira.”

He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half grin that sent her heart tripping. “Nice to meet you, Miss O’Mara.”

Her cheeks burned beneath his reference to her earlier insistence on his use of her formal name. She might have been a touch rude, but there weren’t exactly rules of etiquette for a brothel escape.

She cleared her throat. “You never answered my question. Why are you helping us?”

He stared into the distance. “Because it suits me for now.”

“What happens when it doesn’t suit you?”

“I guess we’ll find out when that happens.”

Her stomach dipped. For a moment she’d thought he was different. That he was actually helping them out of the kindness of his heart, out of Christian charity. Turned out he was like everyone else. He obviously had an ulterior motive. Maybe they were an amusement, maybe he was bored, maybe he’d flipped an imaginary coin and their predicament had come up tails. His motivation didn’t really matter.

Whatever the reason, he’d cease helping once they ceased serving whatever purpose he’d assigned them. People only cared when they needed something.

With a last appeal for silence, John stepped into the corridor and slid the door closed behind him.

Finally grasping the gravity of the situation, the girls remained unnaturally quiet. Moira flopped into position. Blood thumped rhythmically in her ears. She rubbed her damp hands against her thighs, then tugged her too-short skirts over her ankles. The dress was a castoff from the foster family she and her brother, Tommy, had lived with before Tommy ran away. Mrs. Gifford had recycled the expensive lace at the hem for her own purpose and left Moira with her ankles showing.

The cowboy probably thought... Moira fisted her hands. Why waste her energy worrying about what Mr. Elder thought of her clothing when they were still in peril? She’d heard Fool’s End was dangerous, but every one-horse town she’d passed through had been dangerous.

She should have heeded the warnings this time.

Normally she’d never go out after dark, but she’d waited two hours for Mr. Grey, only to be told that he didn’t know anything about her brother Tommy.

Tears pricked behind her eyes. Another dead end, another disappointment. After four years, she was certain this time she’d finally catch up with him. A maid from the Gifford house who remembered her fondly had discovered the charred bits of a telegram in the fireplace of Mr. Gifford’s study. Piecing together what few words she could read, Moira had made out the names “Mr. Grey” and “Fool’s End.” The sender’s name had been clear as well: Mr. Thomas O’Mara.

A name and a location weren’t much to go on, but it was all she had. Tommy must have forgiven her for the trouble she’d caused if he’d contacted her. She’d stolen Mr. Gifford’s watch, and in her cowardice, she’d let her brother take the blame. He’d run away that same evening and she hadn’t seen him since. There was no doubt in her mind the telegram had been for her. She doubted Mr. Gifford burned his own correspondence.

She’d considered posting a letter to Mr. Grey but then quickly dismissed the thought. Letters were impersonal and mail service unreliable. Instead, she’d set off almost immediately. Yet her arrival today had been too late. Tommy was nowhere to be found.

Mr. Grey had denied knowing anything about Tommy or the telegram, but something in his denial didn’t sit right with her. On her way back to the hotel, not two blocks from her destination, some drunken fool had nabbed and locked her in that second-story room with four other girls.

Children.

She hadn’t seen a one of them before that moment. Yet they’d formed an instant bond against a mutual enemy. Moira shuddered at the implication. She might be naive, but she knew a brothel when she saw one. If they were discovered, there’d be no escaping unscathed the next time.

Keeping her expression neutral, she passed each of the girls a sack. The less they picked up on her terror, the better. Being afraid didn’t change anything anyway. It only made the waiting more excruciating.

Together they huddled silently in the deepest recess of the darkened stall, barely concealed behind the stack of hay bales. Hazel crawled onto her lap and Moira started. The frightened little girl had clung to her since her kidnapping. Had that been only a few hours ago? It seemed like an eternity. Hazel burrowed deeper. Unused to such open displays of affection, Moira awkwardly patted the child’s back.

Tony took Hazel’s cue and clustered on Moira’s left side, Sarah on the other.

Darcy sat a distance apart, wrapping her arms around her bent legs and resting her chin on her knees. “This is stupid,” she announced in a harsh whisper. “You should have waited until I thought of a better plan.”

Moira pursed her lips. At fifteen, Darcy was the oldest of the girls—and the most sullen. The only words she’d uttered in the past two hours had been complaints or criticisms.

Darcy snarled another gripe beneath her breath.

Since they were all terrified and half-crazy with hunger, Moira bit back an angry retort. “We’re here now and we’ll have to make the best of it.”

Darcy scowled but kept blessedly quiet.

For the next several minutes they waited in tense silence. As time ticked away, the air beneath the burlap sacks grew thick and hot. Sarah shifted and coughed. Footsteps sounded from the corridor and Moira hugged Hazel tighter.

“Can I help you, sir?” an unfamiliar voice spoke.

“I’m looking for a gang of thieves.”

Moira immediately recognized the second man as her kidnapper. His raspy voice was etched on her soul.

“Five of them,” the kidnapper continued. “A bunch of girls. One of them picked the wrong pocket this time. Stole Mr. Grey’s gold watch.”

“Why didn’t he nab the little thief right then?” the first man spoke, his voice tinted with an accent that might have been Norwegian or Swedish.

“Because he didn’t notice his watch was missing right off.”

“Then how does he know who done took his watch?” The Norwegian sounded dazed.

“Because we got three reports of the same kind of thing.” The kidnapper’s voice raised an octave. “An orphan girl comes in begging for change or food, and the next thing people know, their watches and money go missing.”

“Well, I’m plum confused by the whole thing. Is it one girl you’re after or five?” The Norwegian sputtered. “Did all five of them pick Mr. Grey’s pocket? What’d she look like? Wait a second. What did they look like?”

“Well, let me see here. Mr. Grey seen a girl with red hair just before—” The kidnapper huffed. “Never mind. It ain’t your business. Have you seen them or not?”

Moira’s blood simmered. Why that low-down, no good, drunken...

Another thought jerked her upright. A watch. Four years ago a pocket watch had set off a chain of events that had changed her life forever. It was somehow fitting a timepiece had been at the center of this evening’s troubles.

Would John Elder protect them if he thought they were thieves? Who else would help them if that vile man spread lies to cover his foul deeds?

“I ain’t seen nobody,” the Norwegian replied.

A scuff sounded, as though someone had opened a door.

“Now you’ll have to leave,” the Norwegian ordered. “That’s a paying customer and you’re not.”

“Hey,” the kidnapper snapped. “Ain’t you the fellow from the alley?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

Moira started. John Elder was the “customer” who had come through the door. He must have escaped through the back and circled around front.

“The name is John,” her rescuer answered, sounding bored and a touch annoyed. “And I already told you where to find the girls.”

“Except I didn’t find them, did I?” The kidnapper cackled. “Maybe you’re saving them for yourself.”

Moira’s heart hammered so loudly and she feared they’d hear its drumbeat thumping through the slats in the stall door. She’d misjudged her reluctant rescuer once already tonight. Or had she?

“Look yourself,” John replied, his annoyance apparent. “They’re your problem, not mine.”

The horse in the neighboring stall whinnied and bumped against the wall. Moira stuffed her fist against her mouth. Itchy hay poked through her clothing and she resisted the urge to scratch. A moment later the footsteps paused before their stall. The door scraped open. She held her breath and prayed.

An eternity passed before the door slid closed once more. Moira heaved a sigh of relief, then offered a silent prayer and a couple of promises concerning future atonement for good measure. Another few seconds and they’d be safe.

Sarah stifled a sneeze. The sound was faint and muffled, but it might as well have been a shotgun blast. The door scraped open once more.

“Hey,” John called. “What did you just say to me?”

“Back off,” the kidnapper snapped. “I didn’t say nothing.”

“I think you did.”

Boots scuffed in the dirt and Moira winced at the sound of flesh hitting flesh. She whipped the bag from her head and sat erect, swiping her tangled and static hair from her eyes. From her vantage point, she watched as the cowboy spun the kidnapper around. John was obviously diverting the man’s attention.

Setting Hazel aside, Moira leaped to her feet. She’d best spring into action before John Elder decided that rescuing a bunch of orphans no longer suited him. She snatched a pitchfork from the corner and charged, jabbing her kidnapper in the backside. Yelping, the man sprang upright, his hands clutching his back pockets.

The kidnapper whipped around with a snarl and her stomach clenched. Roaring in fury, he hurtled across the distance. Moira quickly sidestepped, then stumbled.

A glint of light reflected from a star on the kidnapper’s lapel. Moira blanched.

Had her past finally caught up with her?

Chapter Two

Fear spiraled through Moira’s stomach and shot to her knees, weakening her stance. She’d gone and done it now.

The cowboy was easily two paces behind the kidnapper. Feinting right, she swept the handle around and batted her attacker’s legs. The man staggered and his arms windmilled. His left hand smashed against a hanging lantern. Glass shattered and sparks showered over the hay-strewn floor. Like a wild animal set loose, brilliant orange flames spread across the dry kindling. Astonished by the sudden destructive force, she staggered back a step.

In light of this new threat, Moira tossed aside the pitchfork and stomped on the rapidly spreading danger.

“Get back!” John hollered.

The kidnapper’s face twisted into a contorted mask of rage.

He pointed at Moira through the growing wall of smoke separating them. “It’s fitting you’ll die in fire, you little hoyden.”

With another shouted curse he pivoted toward the exit. Midstride, his right foot caught the curved tongs of Moira’s discarded pitchfork. The handle sprang upright and ricocheted off his forehead. The kidnapper’s expression morphed into a comical mask of astonishment before going slack. He stumbled back a step, jerked and collapsed. A soft cloud of hay dust billowed around his motionless body.

Moira stifled a shocked peal of laughter.

The cowboy gaped. “You are a menace.”

Her sudden burst of hysterics dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. Flames licked across the floor, belching black smoke in their wake.

Moira waved her hand before her face. “Stop bickering and help me put out the fire. I’ll get, I’ll...”

She stumbled over her words and her feet as she dashed back into the stall.

She lifted the sacks, revealing four flushed faces. “Fire! Everybody up. Help me beat out the flames.”

The girls scrambled from their hiding place and dutifully rushed past, each of them snatching a sack in turn.

Using his coat, the cowboy had already doused two of the smaller fires. “Wet those sacks first!” he shouted.

Without needing instruction, Moira and Tony doused their sacks and joined him. Hazel tugged a heavy bucket of water from a nearby stall. Sarah met her halfway and together they hoisted it into the air and dumped the contents onto a pile of glowing embers. The water hissed and steamed over the scorched ground. Darcy flitted around the edges, snapping her damp sack and adding more fuel than help.

The horses whinnied and kicked at their stalls. Tony opened the enclosure nearest the fire, then covered the horse’s eyes with a scrap of cloth.

A panicked shout announced the arrival of yet another man. He was old and grizzled, his back bent into a c and his arms no more than long, thin twigs jutting from his spare body. Judging by his muttered grumblings, Moira figured he was the Norwegian she’d heard earlier—the livery owner. He joined their efforts, stomping on the dying embers in a frantic jig.

Between the seven of them, they had the flames under control in short order. As the smoke dissipated, Moira kicked at the dusty floor, scraping away the top layer of ashes. The room went silent for a tense few minutes as they searched for hidden embers.

Once they determined the fire was well and truly extinguished, their forced camaraderie ceased.

The irate old man flailed his puny arms. “What in the world? You nearly burned down my barn. I ought to call the sheriff.” He stilled and scratched the prickly gray patchwork of whiskers covering his chin. “Except Sunday is poker night. Maybe the new deputy is around. Haven’t met that feller yet.”

John dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “This is feed and board for my horses.” He added several more bills to the fat pile. “This is for the damage.”

The wizened man accepted the money with one gnarled hand and rubbed the shiny bald spot on the back of his head with the other. “Suit yourself.”

Moira wasn’t certain the exact amount the cowboy had paid, but it was enough to send the livery owner away whistling a merry tune.

Gathering her scattered nerves, she folded her burlap sack into a neat square. Her eyes watered and her lungs burned from the grit she’d inhaled.

John paced back and forth before her, his face red. After three passes, he halted and opened his mouth. No words came. Moira tilted her head.

“Are you crying?” he demanded at last.

“No. It’s from the smoke.”

“Good.” The cowboy worked his hands in the air before her as though he was strangling some invisible apparition. “I gave you very specific instructions. What did you think you were doing?”

“Assisting you, of course. And you might have thanked me.”

“I had everything under control. You, on the other hand, nearly burned down the barn. And us in the process.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

“If you had followed my very simple instructions, none of this would have happened. Give me some credit. I happen to know what I’m doing.” The cowboy thrust his hands into his flap pockets and his expression turned incredulous. He lifted his jacket hem, revealing where his fingers poked through a charred hole. “You’ve ruined my best coat.”

Moira stifled a grin at this outrage. He didn’t appear in the mood to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. “You were the one who used it to beat out an open flame.”

“I didn’t want to die.”

Moira’s eyes widened. She’d never heard anyone enunciate that clearly with their teeth still clenched together.

And why on earth was he angry? She planted her hands on her hips. Judging by the mottled red creeping up his neck, he wasn’t merely angry, he was furious. His searing glare would have melted a less hearty soul.

Moira straightened her spine. “You were hardly at risk of death.”

“You don’t know that. Your crazy stunt set this place ablaze.”

“I beg to differ. My crazy stunt saved our hides. Not to mention I used this perfectly useful burlap sack and not my best jacket. You might have done the same.”

“You could have trusted me. I haven’t proven myself unworthy yet. You might have at least waited.”

She cast him an annoyed glance. “What are you blathering on about now?”

“You are the most—”

“I haven’t time to debate with you.” Moira rubbed her eyes in tight circles with the heels of her hands. She instinctively knew their plight no longer suited John Elder’s interest. He’d be gone in a flash for certain.

Moira smoothed her hair and adjusted her collar. For a moment she’d thought the kidnapper was sporting a silver star. The glimpse she’d seen must have been a trick of the light. Besides, St. Louis was a lifetime ago. If the Giffords hadn’t looked for her after she’d left four years ago, they certainly weren’t looking for her now.

Dismissing the cowboy, her reluctant rescuer, she faced the girls.

Her stomach roiled. What now?

She hadn’t thought much past their immediate escape. Judging by their dazed expressions, neither had the others. Darcy had abandoned her indifferent sneer and Hazel’s lower lip trembled. Tears brimmed in Hazel’s wide brown eyes. Even Tony had lost her swagger.

“It’s safe now,” Moira announced and flapped her hands dismissively. “I believe our kidnapper will be indisposed for an extended period of time. You may all go home.”

“I’m sorry I sneezed and gave away our hiding place.” Sarah wrapped her arms around her slight body. “I can’t go home.”

“Of course you can,” Moira urged. “Mr. Elder will walk you safely home, won’t he?”

She lifted a meaningful eyebrow in his direction. Let him wiggle out of that one.

Sarah shook her head. “We haven’t any place to go.”

Moira caught sight of the safety pin, the number long-since faded, attached to the girl’s pinafore. Nausea rose in the back of her throat. “You were on the orphan train?”

“I have an uncle.” Tony cut in, her expression defiant. “He gave me a letter and everything. He said he’d come for me.”

Darcy braced her legs apart and planted her hands on her hips. “Then where is he now? You can claim whatever you want, but you’re no better off than the rest of us.”

“The woman on the train took my letter.” Tony lifted her chin. “She stole it while I was asleep. So I ran away. Folks don’t want children. They want workers. We’re free labor, plain and simple.” Tony jabbed her thumb at her chest. “I’m worth more. I was doing fine on my own until I was caught.” Her face blanched. “Until that man. Until tonight when we were...you know. I got sloppy, but it won’t happen again.”

“Don’t worry.” Moira patted her hand. “It’s all over now.”

The hollow platitudes stuck in the back of her throat. They were children. Alone. They’d never be safe. Her head spun with the implications of the impossible situation. Life for discarded children was ruthless and devoid of fairy-tale endings. At best they’d be neglected, at worst they’d be exploited. Driven into impossible choices.

The air sizzled with emotion and the girls crowded around her, speaking over each other, demanding her attention. She backed away from the onslaught and they crowded her against the stall door.

“I have a sister,” Sarah announced with a nod. “She’s older than me. She said she’d take care of me, but her husband didn’t want me. They put me on the train anyway.”

Moira swayed on her feet. The past came rushing back. She pictured her mother standing on the platform, her ever-present handkerchief pressed against her mouth as she coughed. Moira had held her brother’s hand clasped in her own.

“I’ll take care of you, Tommy.”

She knew better than anyone did the perils of survival. She’d been tested herself. Tested, and failed.

“Miss O’Mara,” John Elder’s voice interrupted her memories. “What’s going on here? Aren’t you together?” He circled his arms and touched his fingertips together. “Aren’t you a gang of little pickpockets?”

Her body stiffened in shock. “You’d believe a drunken kidnapper over a bunch of innocent children?”

She hadn’t stolen anything in the four years since she’d left the Giffords’. Not even when she’d been near starving. He didn’t know anything about her. He was making a blind guess, that’s all.

A horse stuck its head from the stall door and nuzzled her ear. Moira absently scratched its muzzle.

Hazel tugged on her skirts. “What’s a pickpocket?”

Guilt skittered across the cowboy’s face. “I’m sorry,” he spoke. “I’m not certain what’s going on here. It’s not that I don’t have sympathy for your predicament, but I’ve got a herd of cattle.” He motioned over his shoulder. “I can’t leave them for much longer.”

Moira ran her hand through her sweat-dampened hair. What was she going to do? She couldn’t hide them all. “I’m renting a room at the hotel. It’s the size of a water closet.”

She was tired and hungry and bruised. The entire trip had been a waste of time and she was penniless. Stuck in this corrupt town unless she could find a respectable job. As much as she wanted to help, there wasn’t much she could do. She could barely take care of herself.

The four girls cowered before her like penned animals who’d escaped their enclosure. They were wide-eyed and curious, frightened and hesitant. And lost. That was the thing about growing up in a caged environment, a person could always feel around the edges and find where the ground dropped off. Even being homeless was as much of a cage as anything else. When the basic needs of food and shelter consumed every waking moment, survival was a jail all its own. No time for dreams or hopes or plans of the future. The moment they’d found one another, the rules had altered. They were a team.

Moira vividly recalled her first year alone after leaving the Giffords—the fear, the uncertainty, the uneasy exhilaration of holding her own fate in her hands, unencumbered by the push and pull of others. A similar feeling was blossoming in the girls.

Having stretched beyond their solitary struggles, they showed the first trembling signs of hope. They’d discovered kindred spirits, and they were holding on tight, lashing together their brittle fellowship like a flimsy raft against troubled waters. Moira hadn’t the heart to tell them they were better off alone. Sooner or later, everyone wound up alone.

Sarah hung her head. “No one picked me at the last stop,” she spoke quietly. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s like at recess when nobody picks you for a team. When the chaperones came for us at the hotel, I hid. I did what I had to do. I know I’ve done things wrong and I’ve prayed for forgiveness. After you helped us, I felt like my prayers were answered.”

The room swayed and Moira’s vision clouded. She knew the feeling of being passed around like a secondhand coat nobody wanted anymore. Though she feared the answer, she asked anyway, “Where have you been staying since then?”

“We all just sort of found each other and stuck together. There’s an abandoned building near the edge of town.” Sarah ducked her head. “That’s where that man found us.”

Darcy’s expression remained defiant. “You all knew it couldn’t last. You knew they’d catch us sooner or later. I was on my own for four years without getting caught.” She noticed Moira’s curious glance and her countenance faltered. “I was on my own for four years,” she repeated.

Though Moira didn’t want to hear any more, didn’t want to know any more, she’d set her questions into motion and there was no going back.

She knelt before Hazel, the youngest. The little girl wore a faded blue calico dress, the grayed rickrack trim ripped and drooping below her hem. “Do you have a home?” Moira asked gently.

The littlest girl shook her head. “A family picked me, but I was bad and they took me back.” Hazel sniffled. “I left the chicken coop open by accident and the dog got in. All the chickens died. Mrs. Vicky didn’t want me any more after that. Then tonight I only wanted an apple... I would have worked for it. I would have.”