“Soon’s I save up a wad, I’ll likely move on.” For a wild reason, the words hurt to say. Because Lila would be here. But that had been his plan all alone, burrowing in the earth. Grabbing onto some money. Finding Tull.
It was time to turn the tide against him and his brother. And deep down, he wondered as much about Lila as she did him. “What brought you here, Miss Lila?”
The fire sparked in her eyes. “Well, Emmett, of course. He had...fought in the War of Northern Aggression and got saved from death on the battlefield, and saw the light. When he recovered, he answered the sacred call to preach.”
Bronx wanted to make a face but declined to be rude. Sacred? A preacher man had prayed long and loud over Miz Edith and nothing had happened except a painful, drawn-out passing even the doctor could not comfort.
“Well, sounds nice,” he lied, shifted his feet. But he wondered more. The war had been over for twenty years, and Lila seemed barely any older. “He must have been quite a young soldier.”
“Yes, Emmett was barely fifteen in midwinter of ’65.” Her voice slowed, and Bronx prickled. Same age he’d turned outlaw. Her man had turned a hero.
Lila snuggled somehow so her skirts touched his leg. “But he felt grown-up enough to do his part before the war was lost. He joined up with the Nineteenth Texas Infantry. Then he was injured. Quite badly.” Her lips curled without sympathy, then a smile lit up her face, bright as a torch.
“He healed and enrolled in divinity school. Fresh from seminary, he came to preach at our tiny church. It was a perfect June day, his first sermon.” She chuckled, low and slow, relaxed against the hard back while she lived one of those other lives she’d mentioned.
He mumbled something that wasn’t exactly a word. Because he didn’t want to know about Emmett but yes, he did. Her hand rested on her thigh and seemed dangerously close.
“Oh, we girls had our hearts flutter all during that sermon. And every one thereafter.” She shook her head, and against the wall, the shadow of her long hair reached for the real thing. “Oh, Emmett was so handsome. So smart. He had a dear limp from his battle wounds. How we longed to comfort him. When he chose to walk out with me, why, I knew I’d follow him anywhere.”
“So you followed him to Leadville?” Well, he’d followed outlaws into trouble...
“Oh, it wasn’t quite that simple.” In a glimpse of candlelight, her eyes dulled for a flash. “I was but sixteen and had just finished my first term at District Normal School in Cape Girardeau.”
“Missouri?” He held his tongue, declined to reveal his St. Joe roots should Bronx Sanderson decide to stay dead.
“Why, yes. I was born and raised there. My father was a furniture maker, and did quite well.”
“A good life, then?”
Her bottom lip pushed out a bit. “Mostly, I suppose. My mother wished me to have an occupation, an education. Even Papa didn’t approve of my quitting school to marry. So I studied hard to obtain my teaching certificate before we...became betrothed.” Her voice changed so he reckoned her folks had disowned her. Else why would she be stuck here, alone, at the top of the world?
“Are they still angered with you?”
Her voice slowed to a crawl. For a while, the only sound was the whispering fire.
“Papa thought Emmett was too old for me. Thirteen years, but I was in love. I didn’t listen. And a preacher?” She all but spat the last word. Her fingers tapped her lap in a soundless tune, and he longed to grab them still, to feel the warmth. His blood fluttered just at the thought.
“Seems a profession designed for faithfulness,” Bronx threw in, mild.
Lila pursed her lovely lips. “Well, Papa had planned for the man I wed to join the family business. To stay close by in a house he bought for us and provide him more grandchildren.” Her jaw clenched so hard he heard her teeth squeak. In a dare, Bronx laid his hand over hers once more, and once again, she did not pull away.
Bronx breathed deep. “Well, it can be hard to say good-bye.” The back of Tulsa’s head and horse riding away from St. Joe was a bad memory.
“I know, but I was no longer a child. Papa was so...harsh. So unyielding.” Her fingers wound with his, and he wondered if it was her breath catching, or his own. “Mama was something of a suffragette. She wanted me to follow my dream. Going west, to her, was a place that allowed women to vote. Like Wyoming. Colorado couldn’t be far behind, she said. And she was thrilled because Miss Susan B. Anthony had visited Leadville. Oh, do you know of Miss Anthony?”
He nodded, a bit miffed. “Yep. I have been known to touch a newspaper now and again.”