gave him painfully fast understanding of the situation.
“Did you run away from there?” Gareth demanded and fixed his steel-gray eyes on her. “Or did you and that friend get into another scrape? Isn’t Cynthia her name?”
“It wasn’t Cynthia’s fault; it was mine.” She spread her hands, wishing she didn’t want to hug him. Or kiss him. Or run off to join a circus with him. Life would be far easier if she could bamboozle him just a little, the way she could flummox her father. Of course, the amount of attention Father gave her was so limited that he might believe almost any nonsensical yarn, simply to get her out of his life. He’d never dealt well with his daughter, only his sons.
“Why did you leave this one, Portia?” Gareth sharpened his tone.
None of which meant telling the truth would be pleasant.
She huffed and brushed off her skirts before looking at him again. “My headmistress announced—to the entire school!—that all Irish and Papists are doomed to eternal damnation.”
Gareth’s fingers curled over his gun’s butt. His face hardened until a bowie knife would have appeared friendlier. She’d seen that look before, when he’d faced down a drunken Barbary Coast mob to bring them home safe from seeing the bearded lady at the circus.
For the first time in almost a week, her stomach lost its roiling boil. Somebody else would have fought, too. Even staying close to her three brothers hadn’t compared to avenging that insult.
“I knew you’d understand,” she sighed, expressing a certainty she hadn’t known needed to be put into words until she heard it echo to the world.
He rubbed his mouth. “What happened after that?”
“Well, I couldn’t let her escape unharmed, could I? Not when Uncle William is both Irish and a believer in Catholicism, and, and…” Her tongue stumbled below the tears glinting in her eyes.
“The best man either of us have ever met?” Gareth suggested gently.
“Exactly!” agreed Portia ferociously. “Not to mention how he and Aunt Viola adore each other.”
He nodded agreement, probably remembering all the times Uncle William and Aunt Viola had shared the warmth of their loving home with him. She’d never asked him where his own family was and he didn’t offer such news. The Code of the West insisted every man be accepted for what he was, not who he’d been, even if that meant leaving family behind.
His jaw tightened, until his lips stretched into their usual severe lines, as if holding back memories too painful to express.
Poor darling. Ever since she’d first met him, she’d longed to stroke his cheek and bring him comfort. Her news should help him.
Chapter Two
Several of the other passengers came back from using the station’s meager facilities.
Were there any flashes of light or blurs of dust on the stages’ back trail? No, no signs of anyone tracking those plump targets. But there were still a few hours of daylight left and Apaches were far too canny to let themselves be easily seen.
She needed to tell him about the message soon, so he could make arrangements for handling it.
“Better tell the boss man in Yuma to find another fool if he wants somebody here for next week’s run,” Baylor announced, his voice carrying clearly from beside one of the stages.
“You two won’t stay? Guess I can’t blame you for standing around and waiting for Apaches to plow you under.” The second driver began to examine one of his wheelers’ hooves. “Where shall I have the company send your pay?”
Baylor and Kenly silently queried each other over the horses’ backs, while Tornado watched alertly.
“Denver,” Kenly uttered at last.
“Colorado?” questioned the first driver. “But Tucson is only a few days’ ride south.”
“Past Victorio’s band and every savage who wants to join up with him.” The second driver dug a small stone out from his horses’ hoof, then let it down. The bay gelding snorted and settled back into his traces, ready to finish the run.
“And the other heathen come out to murder and rob, no matter whether they call themselves Apaches or not.” The first driver poured a ladleful of water over his head. “You’re wise men, my friends.”
Baylor spun a store-bought biscuit high into the air, more like a gambler making a bet than a stationmaster delivering rations. The four men snatched it and its brethren up then settled into eating with controlled haste.
“Where is your headmistress now?” Gareth looked at Portia sternly.
“Her love letters to and from the school’s chief trustee were accidentally released to the press.” Portia