The air outside greets us crisp and bright, a balm after the heavy smoke of the night. “You brew a fine cup,” he says suddenly, abrupt, as though the words had been wrestled from him. “Better than I ever managed.”
So odd a confession—domestic, small, not his usual talk. Against my will, I smile. “That is kind of you.”
His mouth tilts in the barest grin, hidden swiftly beneath his hat brim. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
I laugh before I think to stop myself. The sound startles me as much as him. For once, he does not try to press his luck. He only glances sidelong, and in that silence there is something sweeter than all his swagger the night before.
The road south opens wide as Salt Lick falls behind, the town shrinking to a tendril of smoke on the horizon. The landstretches in slow waves of grass and brush, stitched here and there with silver water. The red sun climbs, its warmth pressing hard upon my bonnet.
We do not speak much. His silence is not cruel; it has an ease to it. At times, he hums a tune under his breath. I catch myself watching the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, more than I ought. By midday the heat bears close, the horizon wavering with dust.
Suddenly he stiffens. “Keep your head down,” he hisses.
My heart leaps, but I obey, ducking beneath the brim of my bonnet. A small band of riders moves along a ridge half a mile distant.
“Too neat for ranch hands, too stiff for drifters,” he observes.
They wear dark coats and wide hats, their faces cast in shadow.
“Who are they?” I whisper.
His hand tightens on the reins. “Pinkertons.”
The name is strange to me. “Are they dangerous?”
He snorts without mirth. “Depends who you are. They’re private detectives. Rich men’s hounds, sniffin’ after whoever their master points ’em at. You cross a railroad baron or a bank, they loose the Pinkertons. And I crossed plenty.” His jaw works hard. “Best hope them bastards ain’t huntin’ me today.”
A shiver passes through me despite the heat. The riders crest the ridge and vanish into the shimmer of dust. He watches the horizon long after they are gone, reins drawn taut.
At length he exhales, shoulders easing. “We’ll keep movin’. Country’s wide. They can’t cover every trail.”
I nod, though unease lingers. He says little, and I do not ask. The sun drags slow across the sky, baking the land flat and still. My skirts cling to my legs, my mouth dry as dust, yet he calls no halt, only urges the horses on, mile after mile.
By sundown, my bones ache with weariness. At last the road narrows, and he draws the wagon into a thicket of trees.
“Here’ll do,” he says, unhitching the horses. He checks their hooves, speaking low to them, words too soft for me to catch but warm enough in tone. From time to time I glimpse his tenderness, and it is striking—that such a man, rough and ill-mannered, should be so gentle.
I climb down stiffly, legs trembling after the long day. The air cools with dusk, cicadas lifting their song. I set to work, gathering kindling, striking flint. Soon a fire glows small between us, a circle of orange in the wide dark.
“Thank you. That’s a right pretty fire, Miss Alice,” he says.
My back teeth clench, but I return his playful poke. “You are most welcome, Mr. Kodiak.”
He smiles. “Like the ring of that.”
We work around each other, a slow rhythm of yielding and leading, his hands busy with his part and mine with mine, until the camp stands ready—shelter pitched, bedroll spread, rations laid neat for morning.
Thunder rolls in like distant drums.
“Thought I smelled rain,” he mutters, scanning the camp. “I’ll crawl under the carriage.”
The mud-spattered undercarriage is low to the ground. A man of his size could scarce fit, let alone keep dry. “There is the tent.”
He turns back slow, one brow raised.
Before he speaks, I cut him short. “I suggest shelter, Mr. Kodiak. Nothing more.”
He chuckles. “Why of course, Miss Alice. I would assume no impropriety.”
