in some very dark business, young lady. I pray you'll forgive my reluctance, but not everyone who knows about her has benevolent intentions."
"I understand," Victoria said. "It's precisely her dealings in those dark matters that caused me to seek her out. I need her help, you see."
The white eyebrows twitched. "Oh?" Victoria nodded and looked down, unsure if she should elaborate. Father Baez gently touched her hand. "You don't need to worry about telling me, child. We priests are used to keeping secrets," he said, eyes twinkling.
Victoria smiled. Her tale was outlandish, she knew, but if this priest really did know this Cora Oglesby, perhaps he wouldn't be a stranger to outlandish tales. She recounted her encounter with the black shucks on the road, the death of her parents, and her meeting with James Townsend. A tremor crept into her voice as she spoke. She'd only told the story in its entirety once before, and hearing herself say it aloud again drove the reality and horror of it that much closer to her heart.
When she finished, Father Baez nodded, stroking his beard with one age-spotted hand. Victoria watched him, keeping her hands still with no small effort. "Well," he said at length, "it does certainly sound like Cora's kind of job."
Victoria's breath left her lungs in a rush. "So you'll help me, then?"
He nodded. "I'll tell you what I know, but I'm afraid I haven't heard from her in a good while. Nearly four years, I think."
"Any information at all would be wonderful," she said, her eyes alight.
"Cora can be a difficult woman to find," Father Baez said, "so remember that as you search for her. When I knew her, she was never content to stay in one place for long, but certain events may have calmed her spirit a little."
"What events?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," he replied. "A shepherd must keep the secrets of his sheep." When she nodded, he continued. "Before she left Denver, Cora told me that she planned to use her most recent bounty prize to open a printer's shop."
Victoria was dumbfounded. "A print shop? What would a woman like her want with a print shop?"
"Maybe age has slowed her down like it has me," Father Baez said. "You should count yourself lucky if it has."
"Why? Is she dangerous?"
"The Cora I remember could shoot the ears off a squirrel from fifty feet away, but she never turned her guns on anyone without reason as far as I know. She may be wild, but she's not a murderer or a train robber. Still," he added, looking at her with the same twinkle in his eye, "I wouldn't suggest making her angry."
The earth shimmered beneath the desert sun, submerging the horizon in pulsing, hazy waves. Victoria smiled to herself as she watched the miles roll by outside the window. She had come prepared to face the legendary heat of the American West. Reaching down beneath her seat, she patted her parasol with a gloved hand, reassuring herself that it was ready for her. One could never be too cautious when entering such extreme climates, after all.
Much like the mountains of Denver, the vast emptiness of the desert was alien to her eyes. Minute upon minute, hour upon hour, the trained sped across the sun-baked land, and still it did not end. She had been surprised to see anything at all growing out of the ground here, yet plant life carpeted much of the surrounding land. True, the shrubs seemed barely able to cling to life, their leaves a mottled yellow-brown or missing altogether, but still they persisted. Friendly cacti reared their heads above the scrub brush to wave at her with one or two arms as they kept watch over the endless miles.
The door at the front of her passenger car opened, drawing her attention from the window. A man in a dark blue uniform and matching hat stepped through the doorway.
"Next stop, Albuquerque. Albuquerque, next stop," he announced. "Tickets will be checked at the station for those continuing on to San Francisco." Task complete, he marched down the aisle toward the next car.
Victoria stretched her arms skyward and groaned. She wasn't used to this much travel at one time, and her muscles ached from the uncomfortable seats. Around her, the other passengers stirred themselves out of the stupor that had blanketed them for the last two hundred miles. Hushed conversations sprang up like whispers of wind in withered branches, murmuring about luggage and next steps.