Explaining Herself (3 page)

But Laramie certainly didn't make her smile or blush, or anything else Evangeline should worry about. Vic knew better than to go sweet on a stranger, much less one who could buckle on a heavy gunbelt without once looking at it
—like it was part of him.

Very low, lest Mr. Day hear over his typewriting, Evangeline said, "He doesn't sound very proper." And she handed Victoria a three-em spacer and a lowercase 5.

Proper? Victoria remembered Mr. Laramie's bandages and how she'd managed to catch sight of them. She wished she hadn't turned away in such quick mortification. How many chances would she have to see a man's naked chest? "He's proper enough for Papa to hire. I just wish I knew for sure what he's hired on
as.
He seems to stay separate from the other hands."

Evangeline's eyes widened. "You've been watching him?"

"No more than I have anybody else. Practically. Anyway, I still think he's a range detective."

"Like that awful Idaho Johnson?"

"He couldn't be a bad man. Papa wouldn't hire one." Victoria finished typesetting the line, confirmed with a glance that Mr. Day wanted it separate from further text, then slid in a piece of wood furniture. At Evangeline's look she repeated, "I said, I'm not that kind of fascinated." She paused. "Although really, I think after Mariah and Laurel, I could probably take up with an outlaw and Papa wouldn't be surprised."

Her father had not wholly approved of her older sisters' choices in husbands.

"He would still mind," insisted Evangeline solemnly.

Vic sighed. "I suppose he would." Running a finger along the type, with its reversed lettering, she frowned, then read it.

Robbers Still at Large.

Sitting there in her leather printer's apron, she shivered. She loved that feeling, as if in the midst of a pile of confusing puzzle pieces she'd suddenly glimpsed a hint, just a little color or shape, of something that might make sense. "May I see that story for a moment?"

Evangeline gave her the typewritten sheet, and Victoria quickly skimmed Mr. Day's article. This seemed to be the summer for train robbery; just the previous week, the Colorado Southern had been held up in New Mexico. But the outlaws Mr. Day referenced had robbed the Union Pacific Overland Flyer more than a month earlier, right here in Wyoming. Despite the biggest manhunt in Wyoming history, no suspects had been captured.

If the famous Miss Nellie Bly lived in Wyoming
— and if the lady reporter hadn't given up her writing career to marry—this was the sort of mystery at which she would have exce
lled. The writer had gotten her
self locked up in an insane asylum to expose the horror within its walls. She'd traveled around the world, beating a fictional eighty-day record. Victoria could only imagine to what lengths Miss Bly would have gone to uncover train robbers.

Greater lengths than Vic herself ever would.

Still, there could be nothing dangerous about a little investigation from the safety of the
Sheridan Herald.

"Mr. Day?" she called. "Do you have a description of the bandits suspected in the Wilcox robbery?"

Her employer didn't stop typing on his marvelous machine. "The June twenty-fifth
New York Herald
published pictures."

Wyoming's bandits were even big news in New York City?

"You don't think . .. ," whispered Evangeline, while Victoria went to shelves stacked high with various newspapers from the previous month.

"No!" But Vic still relished the excitement of digging until she found the right one. "Papa wouldn't hire a train robber. I just want to
—"

Make sure Papa wouldn't hire a train robber?

"
—to know more," she finished, turning pages. New York City certainly did put out larger papers than Sheridan, Wyoming, did! "Here."

And she read the descriptions of the suspected outlaws, a "wild bunch from Brown's Park," including Flat-Nosed George Curry, the Roberts brothers, the Sundance Kid, and
—

"Buck Cassidy?" That didn't sound quite right.

"They must have gotten it wrong," murmured Evangeline.

The newspaper had printed drawings of several of the outlaws, based on prison photographs. Victoria felt more relieved than maybe she should have that none of the pictures
or descriptions matched Mr. Lar
amie: The only man
described as "tall" was the Sun
dance Kid, and he was apparently fair-haired. In fact, many of the bad men seemed to have a history of horse theft or rustling.

As an enemy of cattle rustlers, didn't that make Ross Laramie the opposite of these desperadoes?

"Customer," called Mr. Day. Since he supplemented the newspaper's income by doing printing jobs, another of Victoria's responsibilities was that of a shop girl.

She looked up as the door opened and actually gasped.

It was Laramie himself!

He stood there, almost too tall for the door, and surveyed the room. His clothes were dark for this time of year. He was not wearing a gunbelt, but then, carrying firearms was illegal within the city limits. Victoria noticed a slight bulge on his lower leg, under his dungarees, which made her think he was still wearing his boot knife. He looked contained, in control... until his hooded gaze, sliding across the room, tripped over her.

He didn't know I would be here,
she thought.

Only belatedly, with pressed lips and a ducked head, did he take off his hat. His hair wasn't wet this time, but it was still very black.

"May we help you?" called Mr. Day, glancing in confusion toward Victoria. As her boss's words drew Laramie's attention, Victoria took action.

"Move that paper," she hissed to Evangeline.

"What?"

"The one about the R-O-B-B
—" Victoria stopped spelling to smile innocently when Ross Laramie's gaze darted back to her. Luckily, she heard the sound of a newspaper being rapidly folded behind her.

Not that she thought Laramie was in any way involved.

The man blinked, as if momentarily disoriented by
her smile. Then he swung his attention back to Mr. Day. "You keep old papers?"

"Ours, or other folks'?" Mr. Day grinned. Then, maybe because of Laramie's expression, his smile weakened. "We've got everything from '86 on. Why do you ask?"

"Can ... ?" Laramie looked down at the plank floor, scowling. Victoria noticed that his left hand was working nervously. At least it wasn't his gun hand
—was it? Although his head was down, his eyes slid back up. "Anyone read 'em?"

"Yes, indeed! Miss Garrison?"

Laramie's head swung toward her.

"Yes?" Victoria quickly went to them, rolling more questions through her mind. Why would he want old papers? How old? What about?

"Would you please assist this gentleman ..." Mr. Day hesitated. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't catch your name."

"Laramie," said Vic's father's new hand, his eyes narrow.

Mr. Day raised his eyebrows. "Miss Garrison, perhaps I should assist in Mr. Laramie's search myself."

Him
?
The first time she truly
wanted
to do assistant duties, and Mr. Day meant to take over? "Don't be silly, sir," she insisted, catching a startled Mr. Laramie by the hand. It was slim and hard and warm. "I'd be delighted to help him. He works for my father, you know."

"He ... ?" Mr. Day looked from her to Laramie and back.

"We're friends," insisted Vic, hoping it was true, and tugged gently on the stranger's hand. Her
friend's
hand, she corrected silently. "And you have that editorial to finish writing."

She noticed peripherally how startled Evangeline looked. Mr. Laramie hi
d it better, but he seemed star
t
l
ed too. Still, he followed her toward the cabinets. She couldn't wait to see what he wanted to read.

She was holding his hand.

Until Victoria Garrison's small, warm, ink-smudged fingers captured his own, Laramie had mainly been thinking that he should have known better than to visit a newspaper office. Now he wasn't thinking at all.

Why was a lady like her holding his hand? Why had she called him her friend?

It took him a moment to see past her brown curls, pretty face, and clear gray eyes, to think past her touch and the smell of soap and cinnamon and ink, for him to understand. She was lying to get her way.

He relaxed some. Suddenly Miss Garrison did not seem quite so removed. Laramie felt a strange tightness in his cheek and realized that he'd almost smiled.

He also let her draw him toward the back of the room, nowhere near as reluctantly as he should. Then she asked, "What date are you looking for?"

And he remembered that he should have known better.

In trying to decide how to pursue his old vengeance, Laramie had thought, with something close to surprise, to attempt everyday routes of investigation first. Hearing another cowboy read from a newspaper the other night had suggested to him one route. Back when the crimes first took place, he had not exactly been reading about the murders.

He'd been sitting in jail for committing one of them.

Still, if he'd known he would find Miss Garrison at the
Sheridan Herald,
he would never have taken the chance. She looked sweet in her oversized leather apron, a smudge of ink across her otherwise clean cheek. The strings that tied her heavy, stained smock played in the folds of today's pressed blue calico dress,
just as he remembered. Over only a few days, he'd remembered that sight often.

He'd forgotten to remember his questions.

What date was he looking for? November 1888. But he wasn't about to say that, and in a flash of cleverness, he realized how he could keep his secret. "What year did the train come through?"

Of all the growth that Sheridan had seen since his childhood, the train seemed the biggest.

Miss Garrison paused, clearly disappointed. "The train?"

He looked patiently down at her
—if jail taught a man anything, it was patience—and found that he very much wanted to wipe away the smudge on her cheek. With his bare finger. He clenched his fist, the one not in her hand, instead.

The other girl, tall and pale, cleared her throat.
Laramie
noticed her attention move meaningfully from their still-clasped hands back to Miss Victoria herself. He let go, too reluctantly. "I like trains," he explained.

Was it his imagination, or did her eyes widen at that? She looked away quickly enough. "The railroad came through Sheridan seven years ago, Mr. Laramie, in 1892," she said, and turned to one of a whole set of cabinets that lined the back wall. "We'll find enough written about it to keep you reading all afternoon."

He watched her open a drawer and made note of how the papers seemed to be organized. If that drawer was 1892, then one above it would likely be the drawer he wanted.

"Don't
—" he insisted when she lifted a third newspaper out of the drawer.

She looked up at him, more flushed and bright-eyed than seemed necessary. He liked how she waited for him to frame his words. "Don't take them all out," he managed. "I can get more as I need them, yes?"

She put the papers onto a table by the cabinets and gestured to a stool. "Certainly. But you'll ask for assistance if you need further help, won't you?"

He considered that, considered the girl with the smudged cheek. "What are friends for?"

She blushed.

Laramie liked how the pink tones warmed her lively face. He liked standing this close to her, feeling tight and prickly. He liked that she'd recognized him, liked her saying his name. Then he remembered how dangerous liking anybody and anything could be.

Better the hardness, the anger that he'd carried in him since well before the train came to Sheridan. That anger was his friend. It kept him alive. It reminded him of his promise
—and that meant not letting Miss Victoria Garrison or anybody else know who he was. So he turned away from her and sat at the table, looked at the first paper, then looked up. She hadn't left.

"May I ask you something, Mr. Laramie?"

He knew it might be trouble, but he nodded.

"What connection is there between the railroad and whatever you're doing for my father?"

Of course, this had nothing to do with the job he'd been hired for. But all Laramie said was, "It's secret."

The way her eyes brightened at the word "secret" told him his mistake. But it was too late.

"Well, enjoy your reading," she said. Then she went back to her counter, by the monstrosity of a printing press, and picked up what looked like a small wooden box. The blond girl, after some hesitation, began handing her bits of metal and Miss Garrison, with one last smile for him, began sliding them into the box.

Friends'?

Laramie felt the tightness in his cheek again. Then he looked at the table in front of him and knew how
little he wanted to read about the railroad coming through Sheridan.