tilted her chin in the air, centuries of aristocratic breeding defying him to ask who was responsible.
Gareth grunted acknowledgement, undoubtedly biding his time until he asked her how she’d pulled the feat off. “And you left town.”
“For California by the southern route. I thought the northern route would be watched by Father’s men, even though the train is faster.” Her voice was softer than the hoofbeats in the sand behind them, where horses stated their eagerness for the open trail.
Gareth pulled his hat off and slapped the dust off against his leg with unnecessary force.
She smoothed out her skirts, her heart melting yet again. Had there ever been two people more attuned to each other? She hadn’t even explicitly mentioned her discomfort at seeing Father. Yet Gareth had reacted violently, smacking his leg as if it were an opponent.
She needed to exchange her news for his and finish up the Donovan & Sons’ business quickly.
“What are you doing here?” He shoved his hat back on his head.
Now the nasty part—why she’d detoured south from the more direct, east-west route. Hours of riding in the dusty, dirty coach, her stomach wound tighter than a watchspring, while her fingers tensed and her skin shrank from every pebble spit out from under the wheels, lest it be an Apache bullet.
“Orrin—Uncle William’s messenger?” she began in a soft, light voice. The small watch Gareth had given her, supposedly to help her be more punctual, nestled against her throat.
Gareth nodded brusquely, silently urging her to hurry.
“He came down with dysentery in Santa Fe. When I found him like that, I knew I had to bring the package myself. He said Uncle William needed it quickly and discreetly, not by the usual route,” she added.
And when the owner of Donovan & Sons, one of the West’s top freighting houses, needed something transported immediately for himself, arguments weren’t wanted or needed. He and Aunt Viola had reared her after Mother’s death and she knew how hard it was to deliver even the most ordinary goods. She’d never thought this item, clearly a trigger for far greater parcels, would be easy.
“How did you convince Orrin to share with you the details of a secret business journey?” Gareth demanded.
“He already knew I was Uncle William’s niece. Besides, he was very ill.” She shuddered at the memory of the dedicated courier’s weakness. “I only did so because he was certain Uncle William was desperate for it.”
Agreement flashed through Gareth’s eyes for an instant.
“I have the package with me,” she announced as quietly as possible.
Package? Gareth frowned, clearly unprepared for the full details.
She tapped her once slender waist significantly until leather thudded under her jacket.
“Gold?” he mouthed. He braced his thumbs into his gun belt.
She nodded, biting her lip. “Did I do well?” she whispered.
“You did right fine, honey. As well or better than any man.” Nervous as he was of watchers, pride still blazed out of every inch in his body.
She allowed herself a few triumphant dance steps to push back her nagging fears for Uncle William and Aunt Viola.
Gareth shot a quick glance around them, checking for more watchers than the fretful horses. But the other passengers were tucked inside the stages, while the last guard was climbing back onboard.
Kenly whistled a quick warning at him.
“You have to hand it over now. Then you can leave for San Francisco.” Gareth grabbed her elbow and started for the stationhouse, using the same move he’d employed during many of their escapades.
“No.” She dug in her heels, rooting herself deeper than the walls around them. “Where is Uncle William? Orrin told me he’d meet him here.”
For the first time, Gareth’s expression grew harder than what she’d seen before and sent her stomach diving into her boots.
“Gareth, talk to me.”
“It’s the height of raiding season, Portia. You’ve got to leave.”
“What’s wrong with Aunt Viola?”
Silence whipped through the ruins faster than any sandstorm. Even the dog turned to stare at them.
“She had another miscarriage a few days ago.” Gareth’s voice was too harsh to belong to him. His hand fell away from Portia’s arm like a broken manacle.
“How bad is she?” Portia grabbed Gareth by the lapels and dragged him down to look into her eyes. She and Gareth had always talked to each other, always told each other the truth, ever since she was twelve and he was twenty.
For him to lie to her now was far more terrifying than riding through Apache Pass with a squad of cavalry around her.