The Proposition

He turned away, his gaze settling on the flowing river and trees lining the distance. “It’s obvious you don’t. Every time his name is mentioned, you stiffen like a fishing rod that’s snagged an unwanted catch.”

Even in the golden light, he saw defiance in her eyes.

“He charges a lot of money for his cures,” she countered.

“There’s no law against a man turning a profit.”

“Some of his cures don’t work.”

He watched her long fingers sweep the inside of a cup. “Some of them do. I imagine when you’re dealing with the health of a patient, unfortunately, there’s no answer for everyone.” He scrutinized her. “Why did you want to pay me so much to get you to Devil’s Gorge? Two hundred dollars, if I recall.”

The lines of her shoulders hardened. “The money’s still open, if you like.”

He scoffed. “That’s not why I brought it up. Why is it so important that you speak to Dr. Finch?”

“I need him for my article, to give it authenticity.”

There was something more to her position; Travis sensed it.

“Why do you like him so much?” she asked.

He anchored one boot between two rocks and rebalanced his weight. “He helps a lot of folks. He helped me get a conviction in the trial against Pete Warrick.”

“What trial?”

“The huge one that just finished.” He noticed her pause. “I forgot—you were out of town.”

Her gold necklace shimmered around her slender throat. “Was it a medical case?”

“No.”

“Then how did he help you?”

“He was the sole eyewitness in a string of unsolved robberies that happened across southern Alberta and B.C. over the course of the past two years. He placed Pete at the scene of a store crime one hundred miles due south of here, the only person ever captured.”

He watched her digest the information.

She frowned as if something didn’t make sense. Then she rose, her expression fiery, her body challenging. “There are two other doctors in town. Are they friendly toward Dr. Finch?”

He studied her critically. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

She shrugged, but seemed flustered by his scrutiny. “Journalists are supposed to ask questions.”

Maybe, but she seemed to have a bigger stake in this. His gaze again fell to her creamy throat. “The fort’s surgeon, John Calloway, joined us for dinner once after the trial and seemed to like Dr. Finch just fine. And Dr. Virginia Bullock says she and Dr. Finch shared the same physiology professor in medical college.”

“What?” Jessica’s plate clattered to the pile, the bang surprising them both. A flock of geese fluttered fifty feet away then tore off into the sky. Quickly recovering, Jessica scooped the plate and continued washing. “How’s that possible?”

He stepped back from her to catch a breath. “Dr. Bullock attended the university in Toronto, but she told me her professor emigrated from Glasgow twelve years earlier. That’s where Dr. Finch went to school. During the trial, they compared notes about their quirky professor. He used to write lists and lists of anatomical glands, organs and bones. He made his students reorganize them according to their placement in the body, starting from the head and working down.”

She rubbed the back of her neck, looking very disturbed.

“Glasgow,” Travis repeated. “That’s where Dr. Finch earned his medical degree. He’s Scottish.”

She slumped down on a protruding boulder.

“You have done some digging about his background for this interview, haven’t you?”

“The University of Glasgow,” she whispered, incredulous.

“What’s this interview about, exactly? What’s the topic?”

The breeze whirled around her hair. “There’s a man,” she said. “A man I’ve been tracking in Montreal. His name is Dr. King. My topic is about charlatans and their influence in modern society. How their practices have sparked the current laws for licensing of legitimate doctors. Up until recently, almost anyone could call themselves a doctor.”

“And you think Dr. Finch knows something about Dr. King?”

“I thought…But his attendance at the University of Glasgow places him in a different…” She flushed. “You’re a policeman. Do you know anything about medical con artists and charlatans?”

He shook his head. “Not medical. We’ve had our share of passing carnival men who’ve duped folks out of money. We’ve had store owners and bankers who’ve been apprehended with their fingers in the till. But no run-ins with dubious quacks.”

The animation in her face distracted him again.

He shoved a hand into a pocket. “I’ve heard about charlatans, though, in the big cities out East—in both Canada and the States. I’ve heard that in Philadelphia they have these medical museums. Innocent folks go in thinking they’re going to see something unusual, but many are cornered and led to believe they’re dangerously ill themselves. They’re taken to a backroom and sold expensive treatments.”

“There was a museum like that in Montreal. The police disbanded it.”

“And Dr. King knew something about it?”

“I’m convinced he was involved, although he was never caught.”

“Well, if Dr. Finch can help you locate this charlatan, I’m sure he will. Because of him, I won a major trial. Pete Warrick’s doing seven years’ hard labor.”

Devastation fell across her face. “A doctor’s word is sacred, isn’t it? I mean, no one goes against the word of a doctor.”

“Not without powerful proof. Do you have any against Dr. King?”

Her lashes swept downward. “No…”

“That’s a big accusation with no proof. You could be brought in front of a judge yourself for slandering the doctor’s reputation.”

She scoffed. “That’s the same thing my father told me.”

“You should listen to your father.”

The wind kicked up around them. She sprang to her feet, collecting the plates and cups. “The puzzle pieces are spread in front of me,” she said firmly. “All I have to do is join them.”

“It seems to me that you have an opinion on everything.”

“I’m close.” With a burst of militancy, she blew the hair from her face. “I can feel it.”

They were standing close, and he could feel it. Close enough that he could smell the soap on her hands.

Their proximity made him uncomfortable. He stepped away to lift the empty bucket. When the wind curled and shifted, he smelled vestiges of smoke. Wary, looking down the flowing river, he straightened and sniffed again.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A campfire.”

She peered through the darkness. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s a smudge fire. They’re using moss to keep it burning low.”

“Why would they do that?”

His muscles tensed. “They’re hiding it on purpose. There’s two or three of them behind us.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Earlier today along with the hawk you and Merriweather were watching, there were vultures flying in the sky. They were circling something a mile or two farther down the trail. They eat scrap food and anything a traveler might leave behind.”

“What does that mean?”

He grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her arm so hard against his chest he stole her breath. “Is there any reason you can think of why someone might be following us?”

She hesitated, and that worried him.

“No,” she whispered.

“Are you sure?”

She yanked from his powerful grip, spun around and dodged him. “Wh-what on earth would they want from me?”

He ran a hand across his dry mouth and cursed aloud. If she didn’t know anything about them, then there was only one logical explanation, one that had loomed in his fears since he’d begun planning this critical journey.

“Then someone’s after my horses.”

Chapter Five

With a growing sense of frustration, standing behind a cover of bushes while preparing for bed, Jessica stretched her right arm behind her back as far as it would go and grabbed for the last hook and eye on her corset. She shuffled in the dirt. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. With a moan and a final tug, she managed to unhook it. The red corset flung off her body and ricocheted between a poplar tree and white spruce. A cool breeze whispered over her naked breasts.

“You damn miserable piece of cotton, I should—”

“Is everything all right?” Travis called in the darkness.

Shocked by the proximity of his voice, she scooped her corset and clutched it to her body. “Stay out there!”

“I’m not coming after you. I’m merely wondering what the fuss is about.”

“I’m fine. A little difficulty with my clothing. Go on now. Run along.”

There was a pause. “Yes, ma’am,” he said in mocking tones. She relaxed as his footsteps grew distant. He called to Mr. Merriweather about stacking fire logs.

She was still touchy from the thought someone might be following them. Every noise spooked her.

Looking down at her corset, as much as she could see of it in the dark, she rubbed her fingers along the intricate column of hooks. At home, she and her sister always helped each other secure their stays, but Jessica was alone on this trip. The corset clasped at the back, which was half the problem.

Tomorrow, she’d have to devise something different to wear beneath her clothes. Her chemise, perhaps, and an undershirt on top of that to support her as she rode.

Beyond the bushes, Mr. Merriweather called to Travis above the spitting fire. “For a man who thinks someone’s following us, you don’t seem to be very worried.”

She heard a rustling of branches, then Travis’s low voice. “There’s no sense getting your long johns twisted in a knot. Overreacting doesn’t solve anything.”

Jessica slid her night shift over her head and listened to their conversation.

“You’re not worried at all?” continued the butler.

“I’m concerned, but they won’t come near us for at least three more days.”

“How can you be so bloody well sure?”

“Because that’s what I’d do if I were them. I wouldn’t make a move now because we’re too close to the police fort. Dozens of policemen who don’t take kindly to horse theft. It’ll take us three days to cross the border of Alberta into British Columbia. It’s deserted in the interior. That’s when I’d make my move.”

The butler gasped. “Why don’t you arrest them tonight?”

“I can’t arrest anyone unless a crime’s been committed.” He paused. “Tomorrow evening we’ll be passing through the village of Strongness. I know some men there who’ve worked for me before. Good men. I’ll get their help with this.”

“Good show! But for tonight, shouldn’t we be sleeping in a ring, facing outward, head to toe in our bedrolls with our guns drawn?”

Travis laughed. “Where’d you read that? An adventure novel?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, Cherokee Joe—”

“Cherokee Joe?”

“He’s a brilliant Indian I read about in a jolly good Western series, written by an Englishman from Hong Kong. My word, Cherokee Joe could smell a trap a mile away. And he could wring a coyote’s neck with his bare fists.”

Jessica recalled the story and smiled to herself as she folded her daytime clothes to stuff them in her pack.

“First of all,” said Travis, “there aren’t any Indians in the West named Joe. And Cherokee Indians have never lived in this territory.”

“But this man was special. His wife was a European princess who happened to meet him on one of the king’s trips—”

“That’s crazy.” Travis whistled. “Why would he marry a princess? What in the world might they have in common?”

“Their mutual love for an injured buffalo, of course—”

“I’ve met several Indians. None of them would want to marry a European princess. They’re smart.”

“But I haven’t gotten to the part about the Mountie.”

“Let me guess. It’s a lovers’ tug-of-war between Cherokee Joe and the Mountie for the princess.”

“No, no,” said Jessica, stepping out backward from behind the bushes, dragging her saddlebag to the large pine tree. She propped it beside the others. “The princess shoots the Mountie because he’s trying to wrongfully imprison Cherokee Joe.”

She tried to join in the light conversation, hoping to divert attention from what she was wearing, but failed miserably when she turned around and saw Travis.

Crouched by the fire, he was unrolling blankets. Mr. Merriweather was nowhere in sight. She peered around for him then spotted the movements of his arms behind a far tree as he wiggled out of his clothes.

Travis had removed his hat, vest and shirt. His powerful set of shoulders gleamed bronze in a white sleeveless undershirt. It struck her that she’d be sleeping within yards of him tonight.

He hesitated at the sight of her, looked her up and down, clenched his jaw then turned back to his bedroll.

They were both embarrassed. Although she’d tried to cover her white nightdress with her shawl, the shawl only reached to her waist. The bottom half of her gown, and her high woolen stockings, were visible. It was definitely improper to be seen in her nightclothes by a stranger. The last time she’d been with a man…The consequences of her tryst with Victor burned in her mind.

Desperately wishing she could sink into the darkness of the night, she tugged the shawl tighter. She’d removed her braids and the wind nipped at her disheveled hair. What else could she do but pretend everything was normal?

Travis finished with one bedroll. He untied the leather ties for another, stood up and shook it out.

“So I gather you read the book, too?”

She nodded. “Mr. Merriweather loaned it to me and my sister years ago. The story is very dramatic.”

“The Mountie sounds like an incompetent fool.”

“He was a bit on the slow side.”

“Written by an Englishman from the colony of Hong Kong.”

“Um-hmm. I’m sure Mr. Merriweather wouldn’t mind loaning it to you. You might learn from Cherokee Joe’s tracking methods.”

“Thanks but I’ll pass.”

He had a way of making her feel inadequate, as if she always said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing.

She walked closer. “May I claim one of the bedrolls?”

“Any one you like. I’ll keep the fire burning so we’ll be warm all night.”

He rose to his feet. The campfire spit and popped beside them. Even though the air was hot, she shivered when she looked at him.

Flames of fire reflected off his profile—across the darkened jaw, the straight nose, the rigid cheekbones.

A confusing mix of feelings raced through her. They would sleep together tonight.

She recalled that for a brief time as an adolescent, she and Caroline had competed for his affections. Caroline had always won every silly rivalry they’d ever set. But Jessica had dreamed of how his kiss might feel. A real kiss, not like the two he had given her—once when he brushed her cheek at a wedding, and once at a Christmas social. Now as his full lips parted and his gaze glossed over her mouth, she wondered still.

She should have thought before she spoke, but her anger at herself for wondering about his kiss made her want to distance herself. “Why didn’t you think about horse thieves before we left? Surely it’s something you should have considered on a journey with your prize mares.”

His face darkened. “I was keeping my plans quiet. Just a few of my men and the commander knew the exact day I was leaving and where I was heading. Thanks to you and your stunt of going above my head, the whole town discovered it overnight.”

She stepped back at his rebuke. “I didn’t realize.”

Menacing, he stepped forward, bridging the distance she wanted to widen. “If I lose any of my horses, I’m holding you responsible.”

She’d messed up his plans again. As if she were that same spoiled woman he accused her of being.

The corner of his mouth twisted. “You and your father finagled a prize stallion out from underneath me years ago. This time, maybe you’ll have to reimburse me for my trouble, and these ones will cost you a lot more.”

“Travis, I didn’t realize—”

“Ready for bed, all?” Mr. Merriweather hobbled out from the tree, wearing a long cotton night shift similar to hers.

Travis shook his head at the friendly man. “Forget the rattlers, forget the horse thieves. I’ll tell you one thing I am worried about. Your feet. Seems to me you can barely walk.”

“My feet will be fine.”

“How many blisters do you have?”

“Just two. One on the bottom of each foot.”

Travis stalked to his pack and withdrew a roll of cloth. “Tomorrow morning, wrap your feet with this gauze before you shove them back into your boots.”

His eyes narrowed on the two of them standing by the fire. He peered down at her legs, apparently for the first time. His bare, muscled arms tightened. His gaze roved her lower half. “Is that what you’re wearing to bed? Both of you—only nightshirts?”

“What’s wrong with them?” she asked.

“You’re not sleeping in a castle. You’re sleeping in the middle of the wilderness!”

Jessica was too startled by his booming voice to respond. He always seemed to be teetering on the edge of anger, and she always seemed to be pushing him over.

“If we have to jump up in a hurry, Merriweather, because we’re getting mauled by bears, how are you going to protect us naked beneath a nightshirt? And you, Miss Charm School, what about you? If you have to jump onto a horse, are you willing to ride in that thin little thing? For God’s sake,” he said, stomping to the third bedroll and flinging it into the air, “think of how Cherokee Joe would dress!”

“In his clothes!” shouted Mr. Merriweather. “By George, his clothes. That’s why you’re still in your pants and undershirt. That’s what you’re sleeping in, aren’t you?”

“Put some pants on, woman,” Travis grumbled with fury, brushing past her so only she could hear. She withered at his next words. “With your back to the fire, I can see through your whole damn gown.”

From beneath her covers, Jessica watched Travis stir the fire then check the horses. Apparently, he couldn’t sleep, either. She stilled with nervous expectation. She wanted him to return to his bedroll and fall asleep so she could get something from her pack, something she’d forgotten and didn’t want him to see. If he caught her, they’d certainly clash again.

She squirmed on the hard ground, trying to forget about the flat rock lodged beneath her back. Six feet to her left, Mr. Merriweather snored. Draped near her feet, Travis’s bedroll lay empty. He’d tried going to sleep alongside the both of them an hour ago, but had risen only moments earlier.

Her gaze traveled the fifty feet of moonlit space and rested on Travis’s hands. He patted the horses one at a time. His handling stopped short of Independence and Jessica was riveted again by the discomfort in his manner. What was it that he didn’t like about that horse?

Her eyes stung from weariness. The long day had tired her, not so much the physical exertion, but the mental strain of being on her guard with Travis. And discovering Dr. Finch had gone to medical college in Glasgow. She’d thought he was lying about his education. This was the first time she’d heard of Dr. Virginia Bullock having the same professor.

Jessica considered the problem, adamant she was still somehow correct. Could it be Dr. Finch’s discussion with Dr. Virginia Bullock had been framed in front of Travis in such a way that he only appeared to have had the same physiology professor? Why?

Hearing the jingle of spurs approaching the campfire, she closed her eyes quickly and pretended sleep. The heat of the fire warmed her lids and touched her lips.

After waiting two minutes for the sound of rustling blankets, she heard none.

Go to bed, she wanted to scream.

Slowing opening one eye, she found him seated on a log, long legs spanned in front of him, hands propped on solid knees, a stick in his hand as he turned red-hot coals.

She had to admit, he was pleasant on the eyes. Blue-denim pants hugged a flat waistline, molded lower to firm thighs then bunched slightly at the knees before falling above pointed black boots. The muscles of his bronzed arms tensed with his movements, then relaxed, then tensed again. A knot formed in her stomach as she watched him being him.

The strain in his face had lifted. The wrinkles between his eyebrows that appeared whenever he looked at her had faded. His mouth, parted slightly, slackened in the red light. Deep black hair framed his temples, and the rough shadow of a beard reminded her again how much he looked like a dangerous pirate.

He was rude and arrogant and had treated her badly since the minute she’d approached him for help.

But she couldn’t deny how good he was at what he did. He was a master in leading the horses through the foothills, an expert in supplying food and drink and shelter. While she watched the serenity in his face, she was mesmerized by the pleasure he seemed to derive from being the boss and taking charge of everyone and everything.

A horse neighed. Travis turned his head in that direction, as a concerned parent might, then instinctively rose, armed with his Colt revolver. He made his way to investigate. He scoured the ground then seemed satisfied that all was well. Perhaps he’d thought it was a rattler. Because he remained with the horses, she figured it was her chance to jump up to her pack.

Sliding out from her covers, she tugged her boots over her stocking feet. She bunched her nightgown in one hand above the ivory pants she’d decided to sleep in—tomorrow she’d try sleeping in her blouse, too, but for tonight she was already changed—then heaved to her feet. Her pack was still resting beneath the pine tree, ten feet away. She’d be back before he realized she was gone.

Kneeling, she undid the bulging side pouch, rifling through her journal, her pencils, her money, her papers, until her fingers touched soft flannel. With a gentle smile, she pulled it out, held it to her face and inhaled the calming scent of clean fabric. Perhaps it was superstitious of her, but she’d never be able to fall asleep if she left her infant’s nightgown alone in the cold. She would tuck it beneath her pillow.

She worked with speed to retie her side pocket.

There were three things in her pack she had no intention of telling Travis about. Three secrets. He’d already seen this one when he’d helped her pack at the fort, and had tried to make her toss it out.

Pivoting with the soft flannel concealed beneath her own nightgown, she remembered what he’d yelled this morning when he’d seen it. “No gifts!”

She didn’t have many gifts she could offer her son when she found him, but a simple nightshirt from his mother surely wouldn’t intrude on Travis’s time or space.

When she wheeled around, Travis was standing in front of her.

She riveted in alarm. “Why’d you scare me like that?”

“What are you doing?”

Breathless, she was hit by a cold pang of loneliness. Loneliness that she was in dark, unfamiliar territory, that she was a mother without her child, that she had to constantly defend herself to this man.

“I’m a little cold. I got another piece of clothing.”

He crossed his bulging arms over his chest and continued to block her path. When he looked lower to the flannel cloth she was clutching, her grip tightened.

She knew as they neared Devil’s Gorge and Dr. Finch, she’d have to tell Travis something more. Something about her missing child.

So far he hadn’t given her one reason why she should trust him. If she divulged her secrets, he might tell her the accusations against Dr. Finch were preposterous, that her secrets nullified any agreement he had with the commander to escort her. Travis was so harsh toward her he might say he didn’t care about her problems and demand she and her butler return to Calgary. Tomorrow evening they’d be passing through a village—maybe he’d order them to stay behind there.

She couldn’t divulge anything until it was safe to do so, until they were beyond the point of no return.