Didn’t matter anyway. He had to go, and it hurt to think the thought. The decision. The Pinkerton. California. Finding Tulsa. Because seemed like Bronx Sanderson wasn’t dead and gone, after all, and was a wanted man all over again.
Well, he might as well have one normal day. He held out the brown coat from the rack, recollecting anew it was her husband’s overcoat that warmed him now, but for a change, he wasn’t irked at the man’s memory. She slid into the sleeves and fussed with the chicken tail.
Then, her smile all but brought him to his knees.
“It’ll be nice to have a nice, quiet, normal afternoon,” she said, taking his arm at the front door.
Her words so echoed the ones in his mind his blood raced without reason. Did she mean...something abnormal was ahead?
Of course. He already knew. But she didn’t.
He helped her up, wrapped a rug about her knees and set off, pleased with Chadwell’s taking so well to a singletree. They set off into a world of brown hills studded with spikes of pine, and clumps of bright yellow aspen stuck on trunks like tall white poles reaching to the sky.
“Did you know...” her lovely voice mused into the breeze, “aspen aren’t one tree at all, but many? Springing from the same big root?”
Bronx, somewhat surprised at the topic, recalled her training up to be a ’marm. “I did not. I just know how pretty they are.”
“Yes, indeed.” She pointed off to a cluster of bright orange. “All of those there might be from one root. Those yellow ones? Maybe that, too. It’s such a dreamscape, and for such a short time. For such a time as this.” She reached for his hand. “It’s a line from the Book of Esther.”
“I like it. And everything else.” He could hardly speak, though, and forced his bones to relax to the clip clop of Chadwell’s sure hooves. Leadville had claimed him with its beauty and hard work, held him tight with its mountains, but not for long. He tensed again. This…this would be the one normal day.
“You know a great many things,” he said to fill the silence of nobody talking, even though it was comfortable, and Chadwell was a happy horse, the buggy creaking every second or two, and the air pure and fresh.
Her sigh was long, deep. “Yes, I guess. Emmett said when we stop learning, we might as well die.”
Hmm. Seemed a serious thought to have, and Emmett’s, anyway. He frowned. “Then I guess you will live to be a hundred.”
She laughed for a long time, but gentle, ladylike, until the sound grew into a sob.
“Bronx, I needed to be alone with you. Not just for a pleasant drive. But away from Gethsemane, where those in need might walk through my unlocked door any second. Where Miss Frieda will be along any minute with extra noodle pudding for tonight’s supper. Or Mr. Rosse with leftover pies and cakes. Bronx—”
“What is it, Lila?” He suspected one of so many things. Mostly that she had changed her mind about their kisses. That she regretted his touch. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I swear it.”
Her lovely face crumpled with questions. “I—no. Not that, Never that. But Bronx, something is afoot. There’s a Pinkerton in search of you.”
Doc Holliday’s warning rang in his ears, but how on earth had Lila found out? “What do you mean?”
“Just that. He showed up at Miss Frieda’s front door and showed off his badge. I was already aflutter with worry. About Malina. Her baby. About everything. And no one knocks at a boardinghouse during business hours. I was so...unprepared.”
“What did you say?” Fear, loathing, the badness of ten years swamped him. For now, she knew. An outlaw, a killer. Bad to the bone, and then some. No matter Bronx Sanderson had been dead with a chance to be born again. No matter Shandy Brinks ached to be a better man, the man Miz Edith had raised up as her own.
Lila shrugged, didn’t look him straight on. And now, guilt joined the fray. “I told him to check back with Miss Frieda. That she was out and about.”
“That’s it?” Relief, disbelief swamped him.
“Of course that’s it.” Her cheeks burned red. “I don’t gossip. I don’t meddle. It’s not my business. And despite being one for fiddle-daddle, Miss Frieda will never betray you.”
“Lila, I can explain. I promise I can explain. I have known something about this.” He slowed the buggy.
“So you knew? That a Pinkerton would show.” Her hand moved. “That’s why you said you’d find a Pinkerton for Malina. Because you know one, and know how.”
“Lila...”
“Because you’re an agent yourself, correct?”
He started. He had never expected this. It could be perfect, her believing such. But it would be wrong.
“Lila...” he repeated over lost breath.