The Turner gang. He’d heard rumors about them. Word was that all outlaws were welcomed, but, under penalty of death, each member had to take an oath to never reveal the location of the hideout or the names of the other members. For years lawmen and the government had tried to put an end to the band’s ravaging and slaughter. Now he was expected to take care of the matter with nothing more to go on than a man named Tex who no one could identify, and that was supposed to lead him to the hideout that no one could find.
Which one of the lady’s men had he disguised himself as? Could there possibly be a brother no one had known about?
After finishing this assignment, he was going to retire and purchase land in California.
Chapter Three
Cole twisted in the saddle, his dark eyes scanning the parade stretched out behind him. Satisfied that everything was moving well, he turned back around, his gaze automatically scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble. Even after being on the trail a week, sight of the caravan still left him speechless. For some reason that absolutely escaped him, a damn household was being transported from one spot to another. The only thing lacking was the wooden structure.
There were five new canvas-covered wagons, each being pulled by six yoked oxen. These were for the furniture and apparently every convenience known to mankind. Besides these, there were three additional farm wagons filled with supplies. The wagon wheels kicked up enough dust to be seen for miles around and would make a tempting parcel for any outlaw bands or Indians lurking about. Cole could only hope that marauders would mistake the dust for a small, well-armed wagon train and would prefer to give it a wide berth.
And then there was the menagerie of servants—eight men and four women in all. The rest of the flock consisted of five steers, one milk cow, horses, oxen, one pig and four sheep.
Though Mrs. Alexander’s entourage seemed never-ending, Cole had to admit it was well planned. The women handled the mending, cooking, serving and other womanly duties. The men drove the wagons, did the loading and unloading, set up tents and collected firewood, as well as doing anything else they were needed for. Besides their work on other chores, the Jones brothers were experts on wagon building and repairs, George Higgins was a blacksmith, Frank Doolan cared for the stock and Tucker Washington was a doctor. Evan White and Jeff Dobbs filled in where needed. Howard Bench kept Beth’s fancy carriage moving in front of the line to avoid the dust. It had become increasingly evident that her comfort was of the utmost importance. At least, as far as she was concerned.
Preferring to just observe for the time being, Cole hadn’t developed a close friendship with the men. However, he had learned that none of them would admit to ever having traveled through Kansas before. Tex Martin was keeping a low profile. Had Cole not been assigned to join this caravan, Beth could have found herself in a heap of trouble. She could have been stranded in some remote spot, having been attacked, with all her valuables gone. Indians would have taken care of the rest.
More than once Cole had seen Beth busily writing in a journal at night. Without a doubt, she was keeping a record of everything that transpired during the day. He wondered if her determination to be a writer was nothing more than a phase that would soon fade.
If Beth or Bethany—depending on who was talking about her — wasn’t riding in her carriage, she was on one of the three magnificent riding horses she’d brought along. Besides the two geldings, there was a black mare that was faster than any horse he’d ever seen. Beth had told the truth about her horsemanship. She handled the frisky animals as if she’d been born on one. The sidesaddle she used made the act all the more difficult. However, the lady had a bad habit of taking off in one direction or another, which led to his second complaint.
So far, they hadn’t even managed eight miles a day. The copper-haired dictator seemed to find an unending array of reasons for delays, none of which he deemed necessary.
Cole’s keen eyes scanned the tall grass and trees stretched out before him. It was still early spring, and the rains had been plentiful enough to leave behind a green sea of grass. The sky was blue and songbirds were in spectacular voice. He shifted his weight. It felt good to be in the saddle again.
Originally Cole had planned to leave Missouri and head straight into Kansas. He didn’t care to find some sheriff waiting around the bend and he’d hoped to avoid trains simply because he didn’t want some Pinkerton man hounding him. However, if her highness wanted to rob a train, Kansas wasn’t the right place. It would be better to stay in Missouri and head north, well away from everything. And he knew just the right spot.
“Cole! Cole Wagner!”
Cole groaned. What the hell did her majesty want this time? He turned his mount around and started back toward the caravan—which had already come to a stop. The lady was climbing out of her carriage when he brought his buckskin horse to a halt in front of her. He stared down at the woman, forced to admit that even beneath the heavy clothing the boss’s figure was something to behold — and untouchable, he reminded himself. The next few months were undoubtedly going to be a living hell — in more ways than one.
“I have to go behind the bush. Please try to remember that women are unable to relieve themselves as easily as men. Therefore more stops are going to have to be made along the way.”
Cole grinned at her lack of embarrassment. Other women would have turned ten different shades at having to admit to such. On the other hand, Beth could hardly be compared to other women. “Do you realize —”
“Surely this discussion can wait until after I’ve tended to my duty.”
Cole watched her hurry off toward a long line of tall shrubs, some thirty yards away. With that hat, veil and blue velvet riding dress, it was no wonder she continually fanned herself.
As the other women fell in behind Beth’s coach, Cole swung to the ground with the grace of a man used to being in the saddle. Sp far, they had yet to travel long enough for him to even grow saddle weary.
After five minutes, Cole pulled his hat down to shade his eyes from the afternoon sun. Another five minutes found him flicking the ends of his horse’s reins across his gloved palm. What the hell were the women doing? He glanced around at the men, who were patiently waiting.
Which is Tex Martin? Cole wondered. Certainly not the doctor, Washington Tucker. He and his wife were black. He had already decided that his only recourse was to cull the men out, one at a time.
Cole had started with Howard, Beth’s second in charge. Cole had spent more time visiting with him than anyone else in the caravan. Though it was doubtful Howard was the man Cole was looking for, Tex could have dyed his hair — and there were no age restrictions to go by.
Cole squatted, his thoughts still on Howard. The older man had even gone so far as to say that though he would protect Beth with his life, she was an absolutely unpredictable cavalier. He’d blamed it on money and having been on her own too long. But while Howard was so willingly informative, Cole knew the gentleman was also making his mind about whether the outlaw was trustworthy.
Cole checked his pocket watch. Another twenty minutes had passed, and his patience was nonexistent. He stood and looked toward the bush. “It’s time to head on!” he yelled.
Esther, Beth’s personal maid and companion, ran into view, her breathing already heavy from her exertion. “Mrs. Alexander has decided we will camp here for the day.”
“What?” Cole bellowed. “We can still get in four more hours of travel!”
The woman’s