As for Rebekah...Because of her, he’d promised the somber ambition to be a better man. And despite her treachery and the trouble he was in, it was a promise he intended to keep. The time had come to become himself again.
The old fellow chuckled. “Ain’t no ignorant man, pilgrim. My ma taught me herself. Schoolmarm, once she was.” He grabbed Bronx’s hand in a shake. Rag-taggle fingers bore the stains of work no soap could clean. Like Bronx’s own. He nodded with approval. No dandy hands for him. “Asa Tibbett is my given name.”
“Bronx Sanderson.” He almost hesitated over his given name. Long ago, he’d been baptized after a place on a map, but had near gotten himself hanged in Arizona under it. After the lucky jailbreak, he’d ridden, hidden, under aliases. “Bronx Sanderson,” he said again, louder. Prouder. There was a brother somewhere who shared the last name. Bronx had determined it was time to find his brother, to restitute the horses he’d stolen. To become the man he could have been.
Should have been.
“What you bound for in Leadville?” asked Asa Tibbett.
Bronx shivered, stretched his legs to give himself a minute before talking. Here he was, two miles high. Who could find him this far up while he found himself? “Um, guess I like mountains.”
Much cover in such terrain. He’d learned that quick riding with Bulldog Kelley. His breath caught a little. He examined the crests and canyons framed by the grimy windows, hillsides drenched in aspen trees every color of gold. But mountains just like this grew all through Alberta and Montana, and reminded him of familiar territory.
Of Bulldog. Friend, outlaw, Satan. Bronx still didn’t know which, and he shivered again.
His seatmate pulled out some chaw and stilled his gabbing for a while, letting bad thoughts battle good ones.
Well, after Bulldog, he had gone decent with the Montana Vigilantes, in disguise, mind you. But Bulldog had found him first, right after Prescott when Bronx had busted jail and scrammed to the northwest territories. But he’d had a harder time as a Canadian outlaw than an American one. The tangled, frozen wilderness was a sight different from the desert
“I like mountains, myself.” Asa chuckled, repeated, “White and lovely as a woman’s décolleté.”
Bronx hunched against the seat, harrumphed, lost track of Asa’s chatter. Tried to forget—but remembered, anyway. The clanking train wheels might have lulled a peaceful man to sleep. But Bronx’s brain relived the past like a dying man before his last breath. Bulldog sticking nails through the soles of their boots—lining ’em inside with rabbit skins to keep their feet warm. Hiking their spikes a slick mile up the Athabasca Glacier to escape the Mounties on their tail.
Asa mumbled something Bronx ignored until the old man’s tone hung insistent in the stuffy car. “I asked, you got a woman?” He swung the window down, and fresh, cold air blew through the car. Some female sitting behind them complained.
“Um, nope.” Thoughts Bronx didn’t want to think raced through his head on ugly feet. Rebekah. No. She’d pretended to be his, was all. Him and Bulldog had made it down the Athabasca just fine, made it to the Kicking Horse River, but then...Bulldog had slaughtered three traders for their money.
Never a killer—not yet, anyway, Bronx had snuck away in the night and hightailed it back to Jasper. Straight into the warm arms of Rebekah.
The savior who’d turned him into a killer. Guilt crushed his shoulders. Her husband...
“Nope.” Bronx choked. “No. No woman. You?”
“Me, neither. Not now, anyways.” Asa’s brown teeth showed in a big, bright smile. “Had one once before, a pretty thing. Wore my ring just fine. But she disappeared one night with my bankroll. And my ring.” He guffawed, loud. “Just got my old ma now in Denver. Been visiting her, and now it’s back to building the finest hotel in Leadville.”
“How’s that?” Bronx settled his thoughts, his breath. Himself. He had to save money, not spend it. No fancy hotels for him.
“Three Callaway brothers are setting up a fine establishment dedicated to their very own home state. The Delaware.” He picked at a nostril. “By the way, what you going to be doing, once we get there? I could use a good man. Or are you gonna pick at a mine? Where you from, to begin with?”
Bronx ignored the last, hoped the shoeblack on his hair hadn’t wiped itself off on the upholstery. Made no sense to halt being careful. “Mining, maybe.”
Just might save him, hiding in the bowels of the earth where nobody could see his face. Sure, he wanted to be true to himself, but reckoned it wise easing into things.
“The Matchless likely got room for you. In the old days—” Asa stretched stubby legs. “—the old days, you mighta found somebody to grubstake ya. Like Mr. Horace Tabor.”