“How about you empty that little bag hanging on your wrist? You probably have a reason for holding it so close. Leastways that’s been my experience with women. What do you have in there that will make taking it from you such a pleasure?”
Phoebe began to slowly unwind the reticule’s strings. A cry of distress behind her made her stop and turn her head. Even before she looked, she recognized the cry as coming from Mrs. Tyler.
“Not my ring!” Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler placed her hand over her heart and covered the pear shape diamond ring protectively with her other hand. “I cannot surrender it.” Her voice was touched by defiance now. “I could not forgive myself. It’s engraved. It can be identified. You don’t want it.”
The Blue Bandannas exchanged sideways glances and without a word passing between them came to a decision that satisfied them both. One of them said, “That’s thoughtful of you, ma’am, thinking we wouldn’t want to be connected to a piece that might mark us as thieves.”
The second man nodded and finished the thought of the first. “But we know our business. Won’t be the first diamond we plucked or gold that we melted to a little nugget.”
Mrs. Tyler actually wailed then.
“Stop bullying her!” Phoebe said, rising her to her feet. “What you are doing is unconscionable. It makes you small men and even smaller-minded.”
Mr. Shoulders said, “You got the small-minded part right. I’ve been telling them that for years now.” He addressed his men. “Get the ring, boys. No more foolin’ around. Ma’am, you best lower yourself to the floor again or take a seat. Seems to me you’re bent on some foolishness.”
Phoebe had no response to that except to obey the edict. She did have a plan in mind, and he had correctly divined it. Itwassome foolishness. The best she could do as her knees began to fold was give him the benefit of a narrow-eyed stare. She thought he might have chuckled behind his scarf.
Mr. Shoulders stepped forward until he was standing atthe boots of the man Phoebe was tending. He held out a hand toward her, palm up. “Might as well surrender your ring. Doesn’t seem fair to take from one and not the other.”
Phoebe set her lips mutinously, but she complied, twisting the ring until she was able to slide it off her finger. She dropped it in his palm and quickly retracted her hand.
“A mite tight, wasn’t it?” he asked, folding his fingers around the band. His eyes dropped to her belly. “That’d be because of the baby, I imagine. I recollect womenfolk talking about fingers swolled up like little sausages when they’re in the family way.”
Phoebe protectively placed her hands over the curve of her abdomen, interlacing her fingers.
Mr. Shoulders jerked his chin at his companions. “You done there?” When they nodded, showing him the trinkets they had collected, he indicated the last car. “Check it out, and do it quickly. Folks there have had some time to consider their situation so have a care you don’t walk into an ambush.”
It occurred to Phoebe that the passengers to the rear had had enough time to flee. She hoped they had. Dusk was upon them and soon they would have cover of night, but regardless of cover, she did not think these train robbers would want to run them to ground. It was difficult to imagine the reward would outweigh the risk.
Thinking about the reward-to-risk ratio had Phoebe inquiring in practical accents, “Shouldn’t you be robbing the mail car? There is one, I believe. It probably has a safe. Don’t you want to blow it up?”
“You have some experience with safes?”
“No. Robberies. This is my third. First on a train, though.” When Mr. Shoulders used a forefinger to tip his hat brim a fraction and cock an eyebrow at her, Phoebe took it as an invitation to explain. “I was standing at the teller window at the bank on Fifth the first time I witnessed a robbery. The second was at the theater. The thieves were after the opening night take, but the performance was a benefit for the policemen’s widows and orphans fund, so it did not end well for the robbers. They had to sit through theplay, which I believe was its own form of punishment, and then they were frog marched to the station.”
“I see.” His eyes dropped to the beaded bag hanging from her wrist. “Now about your bag there. Seems to me it would be easier to open than a safe. Why don’t you toss it here?”
“There’s no money. I have a comb. An etui. My spectacles. A notepad and a stub of a pencil. Oh, and a photograph of my husband. I can show you, if you like.” She saw him hesitate, and while he was thinking it over, she used the opportunity to slip the strings off her wrist and open the bag. “See?” she said. The reticule was lined in black satin so that even when she offered him a look inside, the contents were barely visible.
“Just a moment.” Phoebe told herself it was nerves that made her smile just then, but it might also have been that she meant to communicate an apology. She had never shot anyone before.
• • •
Remington Frost opened his eyes. He could not orient himself immediately in the dim light. He blinked several times before he realized he was lying flat out on the floor of a train car, and what light there was, was coming from lit candles in two wall sconces. Outside it was dark. It came to him slowly that someone near his head was bending over him, shaking his shoulder.
“Mister. Wake up, mister. You’re not dead. Mama says you’re not dead.”
In response, he groaned. It was not enough for her to stop shaking him. He recognized the girl as the one who had been sitting beside her mother when the train ground to a halt. The train. Oh, yes. It was coming back to him. It explained what he was doing on the floor. He remembered leaping to his feet and never quite getting them under him. He had stumbled, staggered, and finally dropped. The memory of the ignominious fall had him searching for the source of the throbbing near his temple. He gingerly explored the injury with his fingertips, wincing once when he found it and pressed too hard.
“Are you going to cry, mister? Don’t cry.”
He wasn’t, but he thought she looked perilously close to tears. Looking up and past her, Remington saw her mother hovering and recognized that she was similarly poised to weep. To avoid that end, Remington asked the child, who had flirted shamelessly with him while playing peek-a-boo, what her name was.
“Madeleine,” she said. She pointed to her mother. “This is Mama. And that”—here she pointed to a second woman hovering nearby—“is Mrs. Tyler. Can you sit up? You should sit up and tell us your name.”
Remington discovered it did not hurt too much to smile, although the placement of his lips felt more like a grimace. He made the effort because it was not in him to disoblige a fair-haired coquette, especially one under the age of six. He swept his hat off his chest and returned it to his head as he sat up. He drew his knees forward and swiveled around in the narrow aisle so he was not presenting his back to Madeleine, Mama, or Mrs. Tyler.
Touching a finger to his hat, he nodded once in way of acknowledging them. “Remington Frost, ladies.” He placed his palms on the armrests on either side of him and used them to lever himself to his feet. Getting his bearings, he looked around. They were alone in the car. “Where are the others?” He asked the question more sharply than he meant to. Madeleine scrambled to her feet and clutched her mother’s skirts. He was sorry for that. He hadn’t meant to frighten her, but he didn’t apologize. Perhaps he would later. There wasn’t time now.
