Had she spoken aloud? A horrible heat rushed through her body.
“That’s okay,” she stuttered, unable to meet what would surely be a disapproving gaze. If only her uncle would arrive. She searched her surroundings. The family was leaving and the approaching dusk whittled their shapes into shadows as they climbed aboard a wagon.
Two tethered horses waited at the edge of the platform. Their harnesses tinkled every few minutes with their movements and the sound reminded her of music. She turned to Mr. Cruz, hoping to distract him from her rudeness.
“Do you enjoy the music of Joe Oliver, from New Orleans? My father says he wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Oliver becomes known as the king of jazz, he’s that good. Jazz is lovely, much better than classical, don’t you agree?”
“I prefer the outdoors, ma’am.”
“You do not enjoy music, Mr. Cruz?”
“Not jazz or classical. I like natural sounds.”
“Oh, yes, nature’s music. Do you mind explaining?” Might as well enjoy the conversation because there was no escaping the scourge of her thoughtless tongue.
Mr. Cruz’s eyes bored into Gracie. Her chest constricted. This man affected her in quite a strange manner.
“I’m not articulate. You’d have to hear it to understand.” His lips curved into a wry smile. “You’re young.”
“I am only twenty, it’s true.” She held his gaze. “But perhaps I understand your meaning.”
Mr. Cruz’s eyebrow rose. Did his raised brow mean he invited more conversation?
“I’m well acquainted with the sounds of nature. Before dawn I like to walk down to the ports. The fog is often thick and when I first reach the docks all I hear is the water pushing and lapping against the wooden posts. Then, slowly, the world awakes. Seagulls call to each other, high, piercing shrieks.” Feeling faintly encouraged by the steady attention he gave her, she continued. “The sounds of fishermen drawing up nets and shouting orders drift to me. And the sun slices through the fog like a blade through fine silk. On those mornings, I am certain God is much more than the boring entity talked about in stuffy, silent churches. I am certain He’s beautiful, and that He sings through his creation. Is this like the music you mean?”
He jammed his hat back on his head. “I was referring to nature, not God. Do your parents know you go out in the mornings like that?”
Bristling, she lifted her chin. “Mr. Cruz, must you keep talking as if I’m a child? Does it really matter what they know about? The point is, God made nature and we see His glory through it. If you enjoy the sounds of nature, you’re really just enjoying an aspect of the character of God.”
That annoying black brow of his arched again. Then he leaned back and tipped his hat over his face, as though dismissing her.
“Miss Riley,” he drawled. “I don’t believe in God.”
A shocked gasp escaped Miss Riley’s lips and for a moment Trevor thought he might be given the gift of silence. No such luck.
“Oh, Mr. Cruz!” From beneath the rim of his hat he saw Miss Riley’s thick-fringed eyes widen. “How lonely you must be.”
Trevor’s jaw clenched. Time to stop being drawn in by her big brown eyes. He stood up, shoulders stiff.
“I think I’ll get a paper. Pleasant meeting you, Miss Riley.” He walked to the station’s entry, turning back only once to see her staring after him, sympathy twisting her soft features.
Was he going to have to put up with her for months on end? He couldn’t believe his senior partner, Lou Riley, had agreed to let his niece stay with them. And then he’d sent Trevor to check her out and make sure she wasn’t followed back to the ranch.
Trevor bought a paper in the station and then returned outside. Miss Riley bent over a book and didn’t appear to notice his exit. Quickly he turned on his heel and claimed the bench newly vacated at the other end of the depot. He cast Miss Riley another glance once at a safe distance.
A mass of flowing, dark hair covered her profile as she read. He groaned, wishing Lou had sent him on business anywhere else but here.
Truth was, he’d rather run the risk of contracting influenza than have to deal with some shallow socialite spouting nonsense about her nonexistent God. And there was her interest in Striker…
He settled back and opened the paper. It was unfortunate this Miss Riley knew so much about Striker’s whereabouts. Maybe something had been leaked to the papers. He thumbed through but found nothing except a small paragraph focusing on Mendez’s latest foiled kidnapping attempt.
His mouth quirked.
Mendez didn’t have the success rate he used to. The knowledge almost made him happy. Almost, but not quite, because on the train a grizzled man had caught Trevor’s attention. Though the man pretended to look out a window, Trevor had felt his perusal.
The watcher had looked familiar, the stink of an outlaw settling about his person.
Trevor rubbed his chin. The man had gotten off at an earlier stop, but that didn’t keep his suspicions from being raised.
A clatter diverted his thoughts as a well-used wagon rolled up to the platform. Finally. He grabbed his traveling bag and sauntered over.
“’Bout time, old man.”
“Stock got out.” James, Lou’s cowhand, among other things, grunted and took the satchel from Trevor. He nodded toward the station. “That the girl?”
“Yep.”
They turned to look at Lou’s niece. She must’ve seen James’s arrival because she hesitantly picked her way toward them. Probably reluctant to believe she’d be riding in a wagon, if he had to venture a guess.
“While she’s getting settled I’ll grab some water for the horses,” Trevor told James.
By the time he lugged two pails over, Miss Riley was nowhere to be seen. He plopped the water in front of the team and squared his gaze on James. “Where’d she go?”
“Said she’s got luggage.”
Trevor glanced toward the station. Sure enough, she stumbled off the platform toting the biggest piece of luggage he’d ever seen.
Women.
Biting back annoyance, Trevor walked over to her. Apparently she thought pulling the trunk might work better than lifting it.
“Why don’t you let me handle this?” he said to the back of her head.
The trunk thudded to the ground. Miss Riley fell with it, sprawling in an unladylike heap. Faster than he could draw his Colt revolver, she bounded to her feet and frantically began brushing at her clothes.
“Mr. Cruz…?”
“We have the same destination. Allow me to help you.” He gestured to the trunk.
She stepped aside. “Thank you.”
They walked to the wagon, and he stowed her trunk in the back. He offered her his hand. She took it.
The warmth of her hand was discomfiting. With his help, she climbed easily into the back of the wagon where a blanket lay bundled near the bags, waiting for her.
She smiled down at him, her lips a soft curve in the deepening night, and for a fraction of a second he found himself tempted to smile back.
He released her hand, gave a curt nod and headed to his side of the wagon. Night had arrived and stars filled Oregon’s sky, lighting the vast openness surrounding them. He emptied the buckets and stuck them in the wagon next to Miss Riley, then hopped up to the