Once she’d learned Striker made his home here, her plans changed. She’d finagled the promise of a coveted position as a staff writer with the Woman’s Liberator if she could procure an interview with the elusive agent. Sweet independence was within her grasp.
Unfortunately, she didn’t see among the passengers anyone who looked dangerous enough to be the mysterious Striker.
She stood on the platform until the crowds thinned and the train rolled away on a cloud of steam. Squinting, she turned a slow circle. Though several wagons parked nearby, they all looked full and their drivers busy.
Where was her ride?
Gathering her things, she walked to a bench situated outside the station door and sat. Her trunks remained inside. No doubt when the driver arrived, he’d go in and retrieve them. In the distance, mountains jutted into a never ending sky. Sparse landscape surrounded her.
She shuddered and pulled Jane Eyre from her Dotty bag.
A shadow fell over her.
“Ma’am, is this seat open?”
She looked up. The man beside her waited for an answer. With the setting sun behind him, the broad brim of his cowboy hat shadowed his face and hid all but his straight nose and strong chin.
“Yes, it is.” The bench at the other end of the platform held a family whose kids shrieked and laughed. Smiling, she moved to the side for the stranger. She remembered seeing him on the train, a lone figure in a back seat. Aloof and unapproachable.
Some exotic, spicy scent filled the air as he sat, and she slid him a look. He was rather handsome, though not in the way she was used to. This man wouldn’t fit in at a fancy Boston dinner party. His broad shoulders and tanned skin spoke of a ruggedness to which she was quite unaccustomed. These attributes intrigued her.
What did he do for a living? For the first time since embarking on this wretched trip, her fingers itched to jot down observations on the small pad of paper she always kept nearby.
The stranger must have felt her scrutiny because he took his hat off, placed it in his lap and eyed her in return.
A jagged scar traveled from above his right brow, down his cheekbone to the hairline near his ear. Striker was also rumored to be scarred, though she’d not heard of where in particular. No doubt Striker bore many evidences of his heroic feats. Her gaze traced the puckered skin on the stranger’s face. Perhaps she should’ve felt embarrassed to have been caught staring. But after the emotional upheaval of being forced to leave home and left to flounder alone on a loud, smelly train, the tiny flicker of interest flaring within caught her by surprise and loosened her tongue.
“How do you do, sir?” She held out her hand in the way she’d lately observed others from the barren West do.
He didn’t shake her hand. Instead, one thick black brow rose.
Gracie struggled to keep the polite smile on her face as she withdrew her unshaken hand. Shame flooded through her. So much for skirting her gentle upbringing. She fiddled with the folds of her dress suit.
The stranger’s gaze was dark, his eyes shards of obsidian. His strong jaw emphasized narrow cheekbones while that wicked-looking scar slashed angrily across his features. Not a face as perfect as Hugh’s or Father’s, but overall, quite an interesting study. He stared at her in such an odd way, cold and intent. Her throat clenched.
Say something. Anything.
“This grippe outbreak is horrible, isn’t it? My parents are sending me to stay with an uncle until the influenza clears up,” she blurted.
His scar crinkled with his forehead but he still said nothing.
“I don’t mind the trip, though,” she continued, “because I’ve heard Special Agent Striker has been spotted in Burns several times.”
“You heard wrong.”
He had a wonderful voice. Deep and masculine. Warmth spread across Gracie’s face. “I’m quite sure I have not heard wrong, sir. My sources are reliable. I assume you’re familiar with Striker and his many feats?”
The man’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “Do you usually hold conversations with strange men? Don’t have much common sense, do you?”
“Sir, I’ll remind you that you sat beside me. I have plenty of common sense, thank you very much.” Her shoulders stiffened. “And I do have protection.”
“Who?” The stranger made a pretense of looking around, then he pinned her with a dark look.
“God protects me.”
“God.” The stranger’s eyes glinted. “If someone snatched you right now, no one could stop him.”
Interesting words. Gracie peered more closely at him, determined to find out more. “If you’re referring to Mendez, the notorious kidnapper of women, I must inform you Striker will finish him for good. He’s from the West,” she added.
“Mendez?”
“No, Striker. He enforces the Mann Act of 1910 by chasing down kidnappers and criminals who perform evil deeds.” Also known as the White Slave Traffic Act, it had been established to keep women from being transported across state lines for immoral purposes. “My uncle’s home is near Burns, a town Striker is rumored to frequently visit. I’m hoping for an exclusive interview designed to prove his honor.” And to jump-start her career.
“Honor?” The man beside her snorted. “From what I hear, the man’s a skilled assassin.”
“Rumors.” Her lips clamped tight.
His fingers steepled. “You haven’t heard of the Council Bluff skirmish?”
The fiasco had made only a few papers back East. Government officials didn’t want the public to hear how the innocent died during a routine raid of an outlaw’s hideout.
“Striker did what was necessary. He would never kill in cold blood.”
The stranger’s mouth twisted. “But, they say, that is exactly what he did.”
“There’s an explanation.” Gracie clutched at the pocket in her skirt where she’d placed her news articles. “I intend to prove it.”
She forced herself to relax and took a deep breath. A subject change was in order because she did not intend to argue with a stranger. Not about her beloved Striker. “Where are you heading, sir?”
He studied her, and she thought he might continue in the controversial vein, but he didn’t. “I’ve been out of town on business, but I’m heading back to Burns. The name’s Trevor Cruz.”
“I’m Gracelyn Riley, of the Boston Rileys who came over years and years ago.” She paused for breath before continuing. “That is quite the scar you have. Do you mind telling me what happened?”
When his eyes slit into narrow cracks, a sense of foreboding crawled down Gracie’s spine. Perhaps it was a painful story and her question intruded on his grief. Mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Always asking questions. Try to pretend to be a lady for once.
Mr. Cruz’s expression cleared. “Got it when I was twelve, cutting some barbed wire for a fence. I sliced it wrong and the wire snapped up and got me right there.” His finger rubbed the scar lightly. “Guess I was lucky not to lose my eye.” He shrugged. “Never met a lady interested in my scar.”
“Perhaps because it makes you look dangerous. In a good way,” she added, not wanting to further offend him.
Her gaze lit