Quillan eyed her so long, she started to fidget. Carina knew how it felt. He said, “What do the bumps on my head show?”
“Well . . .” Her eyes traveled up his face. “It’s hard to say with all that hair.” The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. “But I’d guess at a certain lack of restraint. A small propensity for violence, perhaps. Am I right?”
His eyes turned to flint, and Carina trembled. Would he do something rash? He was irked enough, she was sure. Had Miss Preston singled him out as the most dangerous and therefore interesting potential of the moment? Was she intentionally baiting him?
“Someone of your genius need ask?”
Carina winced at his sarcasm, but Miss Preston merely basked. She didn’t understand Quillan’s caustic nature, another mark against her theory. If it were so obvious, wouldn’t she see Quillan was baiting her back?
“What do you do, Mr. Shepard?” Her eyes darted quickly down the length of his frame. “Buffalo hunter? Indian agent? No, wait, your wife said you were from a mining town. I bet you were a hired gun.”
Quillan didn’t answer.
“Oh, there’s no need for embarrassment. That’s simply thrilling. Did you ever kill a man?”
Had her morbid curiosity no limit? Without a flicker of emotion Quillan said, “Only women . . . who talk too much.”
Carina caught her breath.
Miss Preston’s eyelids parted, the whole of her blue irises slightly bulging, but she laughed. “Well! Maybe I’ll see something more interesting, after all, than the polygamists in Salt Lake. Are you taking the train from Ogden into the Mormon city?”
Carina shook her head. “We weren’t planning on it.”
But Quillan said, “Why should I see another man’s wives when I’ve plenty of my own?”
“You haven’t.” Miss Preston’s finger just touched her outturned teeth.
Quillan shrugged. “Of course they’re all squaws.”
Miss Preston stared, obviously doubtful, yet not certain he was in jest. Carina could almost hear her thoughts. Would he, could he, be serious? Indian wives. Well, wasn’t he just the sort? And then she shivered. Perhaps even Miss Preston had her limits. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I must see to my aunt. I’ve left her too long.”
Carina watched her hasten back to her seat, then turned to Quillan. “Omaccio.”
His rogue’s smile. “Indeed.”
THIRTEEN
Fair play:
Conformity to established rules, no matter how unfair.
—Quillan
SPARRING WITH MISS PRESTON had annoyed Quillan enough that he could not slip back into his reverie. He felt no stake in the conflict as he had with Carina in their early skirmishes, but the woman’s ideas had gotten under his skin. He didn’t realize he was brooding until Carina mentioned dinner and he noticed the time had passed. He should apologize for being such poor company, but Carina seemed to understand as he stood and led her through the cars.
He pushed opened the final door. One look told him the Pullman Hotel Express dining car was an extreme improvement over the station diners. With his stomach signaling anticipation, Quillan seated Carina at a flower-adorned table with damask cloth. The aromas rivaled even Carina’s cooking. Almost as soon as he’d seated his wife, Quillan found a white-jacketed server at his elbow.
The man handed them menus. “Wine list, mistuh?”
Quillan shook his head. “Just something to fill the space between my ribs and backbone.”
But Carina looked eagerly over the list and said, “Look. Here is one of Haraszthy’s wines.”
“Someone you know?” He looked over the fancy printing of the page.
“A very famous viticulturist. One of the first in Sonoma. We must try a bottle.”
“Choose what you like.” Quillan looked over the food selections, finding few with which he was readily acquainted. He read the frilled offers of blue-winged teal, antelope steaks, boiled ham and tongue, fresh trout. There was pheasant and plover in a choice of sauces. Corn on the cob and fresh fruit. Filling his space would be a pleasure.
He glanced up at Carina. Was she used to such finery? She certainly looked the part, though his lace collar and amethyst pin contributed. Not that she needed ornamentation. Next to Carina, Miss Priscilla Preston was limp lettuce. But he didn’t want to kill his appetite thinking of that one.
They ordered, and the food was everything it claimed. Carina took dainty bites of her browned trout with hardly a bone to be found. Quillan’s pheasant in caper sauce was tender and savory, the corn kernels plump and buttery on the cob. He just might enjoy himself and forget the cloud of rejection and unease, the brooding over the DeMornay’s treatment of his mother.
A young gentleman approached the table, hands in his silk-embroidered vest. “May I make your acquaintance, sir? I’m William Scott Bennet, assistant prosecuting attorney, Boston.”
Quillan stood and shook the man’s hand. Even beyond the discrepancy in dress, there was no question of the disparity in their stations. What could this young man want with him? “Quillan Shepard at your service.”
“I understand you’re a bit of a hand with a gun, sir.”
Quillan hardly needed to guess where that information came from. But what was the man’s point?
“Several of us are putting together a shoot in the morning. Care to join in?”
“What’s your target?”
“Prairie fowl, antelope, and buffalo, if luck is with us.” He took one hand from his vest and balanced himself on the back of Carina’s seat for the turn. “We’ll be shooting from the parlor car.”
Quillan eyed the popinjay. “How will you retrieve your plunder?”
The man smiled. “That would be a trick, wouldn’t it? But join us, won’t you? We’d like to make it a contest, try our hands against a gunman.”
Quillan stiffened. Miss Prescott had obviously been prolific of tongue. He should not have misled her. Though he did have his gun in the travel bag, he had no intention of becoming a spectacle. “I’m afraid I must decline.”
“But, sir, it will be the high point of our jaunt. How better to test our sportsman’s abilities than with a master? And surely we’ll give you a bit of a run.”
Quillan glanced at Carina, then back. “I’m afraid you’ve been misled.”
Mr. Bennet laughed. “No need to be bashful, sir. I’m young, but astute. Part of the job, you know, reading character.”
Quillan tensed. There it was again. Judged by appearances. He had a sudden desire to put this upstart in his place. “What time?”
“Eight o’clock on the nose.”
Quillan nodded, then turned back to Carina.
She raised her brows. “You’re doing it?”
He shrugged.
“What if you lose?”
“Then Mr. William Scott Bennet will have a story to tell.”
She sat back and eyed him. “But you won’t lose, will you?”
Quillan picked up his knife and ran the blade through the sauce pooled at the edge of his plate. “I haven’t seen them shoot.”
“But I’ve seen you. You took the head off a rattlesnake with one bullet shooting from the holster.”
“Reflex.”