“You don’t pry.” Oh, Bronx found no fault in making a new friend, and he knew well what words to share, which ones to hide. “He’s Tulsa. Got named for places on a map.”
But where Tull was on the map, Bronx didn’t quite know. So he said nothing else for a long, stretched-out minute. Gone back to the cattle trails? Or hunting gold in a played-out California mine? Last time they’d seen each other, Tull’d had plans to save Bronx’s skin. He’d been freezing in a Prescott cell and Tull had no coin for a coat. For a flash, the warmth of Emmett’s gabardine coat covered Bronx’s shoulders once more, though it hung on a hook stuck in the wall.
“It’s all right if you don’t wish to speak of him.”
Bronx cleared his throat, and it wasn’t a tear starting. “Just hurts, is all. We’ve lost touch.”
In the firelight, her lids closed to hide eyes that matched the stars outside. Mostly, in the daylight, they were the color of whiskey, and he was grateful. Good, for Rebekah had eyes of summer sky. Hmmm… Did Tull have a wife or young’uns by now? Or was he like Pa, a ne’er do well, searching for gold he’d never find? Like Pa, had Tull left everything behind to dream a dream that never came true?
“Well, I’ll likely find him, somehow. Some place.”
“I wish you luck, then.” Lila seemed closer, and Bronx’s blood moved quicker.
“As for Miz Edith.” His words came faster, too. “Like you missing your Emmett. I reckon her dying crushed me to the bone. Took so long, hurt her so bad.” Took away any goodness in his heart. Not the excuse, but the reason.
Lila touched his hand, where his fingers held the cup. Just for a moment, but it felt like forever.
He might as well speak his mind, say what he knew. “I was fifteen, and Tulsa was gone by then. Cattle trails out Texas way. He had set me up working for the blacksmith. Wanted me to be one all on my own after the apprenticeship. Then some kin Miz Edith never knew showed up.” He didn’t want it to but his voice shook at the pain he’d long thought was over and done. “Ripped to shreds her hand-wrote will. He scammed her scrap of land, all her pretty horses. Her fine buggy. Even the little wad of money she’d left Tull and me.”
“Oh, Bronx, I’m so sorry.”
Her sweetness flowed over him like honey on a hot flapjack. The lamplight danced against the wall, so he turned his face. Under cover of darkness, easier to say out loud things he’d only told his mind. Under cover of darkness, easier to reach for her hand. “Me, too. The law stood by, doing nothing and...”
And Bronx’s spirit had raced into darkness. Around him, the air turned black as he thought of another time, and his blood hurried through his veins. Honesty, truth, and hard work hadn’t worked, so he’d had no choice but to take up outlawing. Found he had a way with horses, could seduce them right into his hands even from the most loving owner and best-kept barn.
Had tossed one last batch of wildflowers on the old lady’s grave and hightailed out of Saint Joe.
His fingers tightened, because she didn’t know how easy horse thieving had been for him. And none of this he could tell to the godly woman next to him. He moved his hand away, because he shouldn’t have touched her in the first place. But the heat of her thigh next to his rippled through the thick wool skirt and mountain of petticoats. Reminded him she was close by, anyway.
His blood throbbed some more.
“I found I had a way with horses,” was all he said out loud to the widow of a preacher man. “And I found new friends.”
The Musgrave gang. Bulldog Kelly. What would Lila think of that? He gulped the last of his brew.
“So what brings you here, Bronx? Has Tulsa been afoot in Leadville?”
No. Bronx was hiding out himself...waiting for the Pinkertons to tone themselves down. Waiting for Rebekah to find strength and tell the truth.
“I like mountains, I guess.” But no need to ever put himself back in the Rockies of Montana, even though he’d had an honest job there. But Pinkertons never slept, and had noses picking up scent five hundred miles away.
Yet, he’d been Shandy Brinks then, and now Bronx Sanderson was dead.
Could he, should he, become someone else yet again?
Along with a little laugh, she shuddered and he liked it, both because the sound was sweet and the jiggle had her slide a little closer. “Well, best of luck on your mining career. A dark mine closing in on me is not how I prefer my daytime hours. Give me sunshine any day. Let there be light.”
The preacher’s wife in her laughed again, louder, but not enough to waken Malina.
She had a good, good point, and there was his chum Asa Tibbett after all. “Well, I might get on as a builder. New church going up. Hotel, too.”
Her pretty lips turned prim. “From my experience, I think any occupation you can think up can be found here in Leadville.”