Nolan backtracked to the relay station and set the table for supper. When the passengers failed to appear, he returned to the corral and propped one foot on the lowest slat.
Bill sidled nearer. “Maybe you oughta go out back and see what’s taking Miss Hargreaves so long.”
“She’s your passenger.” Nolan hoisted an eyebrow. “What’s gotten in to you today, anyway?”
“She has a way of talking to a fellow.” The outrider slid his hand beneath his coat, as though reaching for the flask he usually kept in his breast pocket, then stilled. “I told her things I ain’t never told anybody. I even quit drinking.”
“You were sober when you told her those things?” Nolan’s curiosity swelled. “Why would you do that?”
“She asked.”
“You’ve killed six highwaymen in the past ten years. You’ve fought Indians. You once outran a prairie wildfire. And you’re telling me you’re intimidated by that slip of a woman?”
“It’s not like that.” Bill swallowed, and his Adam’s apple worked. “She never asked me to quit. Instead, she asked me why I drank as much as I did.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I didn’t know. Then she started asking me about my family, and about my experiences. The next thing I know, I was blabbering my whole life story.”
Nolan’s stomach dipped. He’d rather be sitting behind enemy lines again than prattling to a stranger about his life. After spending two years as a Confederate prisoner of war at Rock Island, he’d become intolerant toward people. While living in the prisoner camp, he’d acquired certain quirks that set him apart from regular folks. He’d become obsessively neat and austere about his possessions. Each evening he spent an hour checking the placement of each item and ensuring the buildings he occupied had been secured. If he didn’t, he had nightmares that sometimes turned violent.
He’d survived the War for Southern Independence only to return home and discover his family farm had been confiscated. He’d gone adrift after that, moving from job to job and state to state. Over time his eccentricities had become increasingly difficult to disguise. He’d gradually accepted that the war had changed him in ways that ran too deep to fathom. In order to camouflage his dilemma, he’d settled in this remote, abandoned town. He fully expected that after a few years away from the company of other folks, he’d be healed. Having strangers underfoot exacerbated his troubles. The sooner this bunch ate dinner and moved on, the better.
The woman finally appeared, her arm still resting protectively around the girl’s shoulders. Nolan heaved a sigh of relief. They’d be gone soon.
Except Caroline looked worse than when she’d left. Her face was pale with an almost greenish tinge, her forehead was screwed up and both hands protectively covered her stomach.
Bill cleared his throat and elbowed him in the side.
Nolan flashed the outrider a questioning gaze.
“Tell her about dinner,” Bill mumbled beneath his breath.
“There’s dinner at the relay station,” Nolan declared. “Boiled beans, bacon and bread.”
The woman’s nose wrinkled ever-so-slightly. “That sounds edifying. Let’s have some bread, shall we, Caroline? Bread is good for an upset stomach, isn’t it, Mr.—?” She raised her voice in question.
“Mr. West.”
He hesitated in revealing something as simple as his name. He needed some distance between them. He’d considered Bill as tough as hardtack, and she’d somehow wheedled her way into the man’s confidence.
Bill hitched his pants. “Me and Digger ate at the last stop. We’re gonna catch some winks in the livery.”
“You’re going to sleep?” Nolan couldn’t mask his incredulity. “Now?”
“I think that’s a fine idea,” the woman said with a smile. “Rest is often the best medicine.”
“But...” Nolan’s voice trailed off.
“But what?” The outrider bared his teeth in defiance. “I never argue with a lady.”
There wasn’t much Nolan could say to that, which left him alone with the woman and the three girls. With no other choice, he pivoted on his heel and trudged toward the sprawling relay station. The building had originally housed overnight guests, but since he’d taken over the post, there hadn’t been any need. Another reason he kept this job. Except for twice a week when the stagecoach came through town, he was alone.
Ten minutes later they were all seated around the rectangular table. Despite his carful maneuvering, he’d gotten sandwiched between the woman and the youngest girl.
He held out the bowl of beans. “Mrs. Hargreaves.”
“Not Missus,” she amended. “It’s just Miss. I’m not married. These delightful pixies are my nieces.”
Keeping her head bent, Caroline broke off a small crust of bread and nibbled on the edge.
“After Aunt Tilly takes us to Omaha,” Victoria said, reaching for the blackberries, “she’s traveling to New York City.”
Miss Hargreaves absently poured her niece a cup of water. “My father’s cousin serves on the board of The New York Widows and Orphans Society. Since the war, they’ve been positively overwhelmed. I can’t imagine a greater good than helping those displaced by the Southern rebellion, can you?”
Nolan flinched at the reference. “I guess not.”
The war went by different names depending on which side of the Mason-Dixon Line a fellow called home.
Victoria nodded eagerly. “Aunt Tilly promised to post us a letter every week and tell us all about her experiences.”
Caroline’s cheeks puffed out and she pressed two fingers over her mouth. Nolan’s breath hitched, and he frantically searched for the slop bucket. The girl appeared worse with each passing minute.
“I should have plenty of fascinating things to write about,” Miss Hargreaves said. “There are so many different people to meet. According to my father’s cousin, the sidewalks are packed day and night in some places. You can’t walk down the street without brushing into someone.”
“You don’t say.” Nolan’s gaze darted toward the sick child once more, but she appeared to be holding steady. “Aren’t there any interesting people where you live now?”
“I’ve exhausted the supply in Omaha.”
Following the war, he hadn’t been able to tolerate anyone touching him. Pushing through crowded streets sounded like a nightmare.
“I’m dreadfully bored these days.” Miss Hargreaves ladled a generous heaping of beans over her bread. “During the war, I helped my father with his law practice after his law clerk was conscripted. Since the war, there’s been few opportunities for me. My sister, Eleanor, thinks I’ll quit within the week, and I’m determined to prove her wrong. She thinks I’m flighty and lack direction. Have you ever felt as though people only see the worst in you?”
“Not particularly.”
He’d felt exactly that, but he sure wasn’t confiding in Miss Hargreaves. At least he had some sympathy for Bill. Her willingness to share her vulnerabilities naturally invited others to do the same.
“What about excitement?” She clasped her hands. “Don’t you get dreadfully bored out here all by your lonesome?”
“The quiet suits me.”
“The solitude would drive me mad. There are more opportunities for women in larger cities. I’m not exactly certain what I want in life, but I know what I don’t want. I don’t