And as if to prove my point, Mr. Stevens sidles over at that moment, giving me only the most perfunctory of greetings before sitting down and engaging Jane.
I scoop my beans slowly, with a self-satisfied smirk, as the realization of the truth of my proclamation dawns on Jane’s face. I know this is a sin, but there are few things I enjoy more than being right. I have been praying to the Lord to be a bit more humble. He just has not seen fit to show me the way as of yet. And as Stevens offers Jane his corn bread, and she just stares at him half in shock and half in revulsion, the range of expressions marching across Jane’s face is so delightful that I have to excuse myself lest I give away the joke.
But the most delightful thing by far is that Mr. Stevens does not seem to realize Jane would sooner murder him than shower him with kisses. But the fact that she has not pulled her revolver on the man seems to be yet another indication that Jane is finding her way back from the darkness.
All in all, the last couple of weeks have been an encouraging sign that I can one day have something close to the friend I lost in Nicodemus.
I take my empty dish to the wash bucket and scrub it before putting it in the drying rack nearby. I wave at Sue as I pass, but she either does not see me or does not want to be bothered. She is deep in conversation with Roy, a large, nicely built Negro blacksmith who joined our train in Abbottsville, a rare gain when we had been losing members of our wagon train steadily. Roy had been an apprentice to another man and was ready to strike out on his own. Sue seems quite taken with him and he with her, and it is then time for my own painful revelation as I consider that by the time we get to Haven I might indeed be left to my own devices, just Lily and me. Well, as much as Lily needs me. She has been mostly self-sufficient during the trek.
There is a commotion at the edge of the wagon ring. The sun has been staying up later as we move closer to summer, and the slanting golden rays of sunset still illuminate the land. I hustle over to where there seems to be a scuffle of some sort. Bartholomew, one of the boys from the wagon train, swings and misses at a man in a plaid red shirt and dungarees. The man’s face is indistinguishable beneath the low brim of his hat, but he moves out of the way of the punch with an easy grace that I cannot help but admire.
“I said I’m not here to cause trouble or to steal from you. I’m looking for Jane McKeene. Bounty hunter known as the Devil’s Bride.”
I recognize the voice, and it quickens my pace.
“Mr. Redfern!” I say. “How in God’s name are you here?”
Bartholomew turns toward me. That is the moment Daniel Redfern chooses to swing, catching the boy by surprise and felling him like a termite-infested tree.
“Dammit, I’m sorry,” Mr. Redfern says, bending down to help the boy up, who is more than a little dazed.
One of the other boys on watch comes running over, and I pass Bartholomew off to him. “Alexander, would you be a dear and take Bart back to his people. Throw his arm over your shoulder, yes, just like that. I will deal with our guest.”
The boys walk off, Alexander giving Mr. Redfern one last uncertain look before doing as I asked.
“Well, this is more than a shock, I should say, Mr. Redfern. I had taken you for dead back in Nicodemus.”
“Miss Deveraux. It is . . . good to see you.” His speech is labored, and the reason is clear. Mr. Redfern must have been on the losing end of a previous bout, if his blackened eye and swollen lips are anything to go by. He looks like a rough character, indeed.
My heart pounds. I do not believe in coincidence, and Mr. Redfern being here cannot mean anything good. Not for me, and most certainly not for Jane. But I will not let this man see my worry. “How did you come to be in California?”
“Same way as just about everyone else, I suppose,” he says. His voice is gravelly, deeper than I remember, as though the world has pushed him down and his voice bears the scars.
“Well, that is hardly helpful,” I say, my frustration grounding me for a moment. Annoyance is an easier emotion to contend with.
“Look, I need to talk to Jane,” he says, not even bothering to continue the charade of polite discourse.
“Then talk.” Jane walks up with more than a little swagger. Her fingers rest on her side arm, and I tense. This could get very bloody.
He tips his hat. “Jane McKeene.”
“Daniel Redfern,” she says, but does not move a muscle otherwise. “You got business with me?”
“I hope so,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “I want you to help me track down and kill Gideon Carr.”
The bounty hunter gazed into the eyes of the homesteader’s wife, his expression steely. There was no use telling her that her husband was dead, and a ruffian besides. She was a delicate flower, and he would do everything he could to spare her from any more pain. He might be a man accustomed to a rough sort of life, but he could still appreciate beauty.
—Western Tales, Volume 40
—JANE—
Chapter 43
In Which I Realize Life Is Ludicrous
Seeing Daniel Redfern—beaten and bloody, but alive and mostly well—is a shock I haven’t had since the first time Callie kissed me. She and I had been holed up in Nicodemus, huddled together for warmth, and she’d leaned over and pressed her lips to mine, transforming our awkward friendship into something even more fragile and exciting. In that moment, I’d been happy, aching as I was for the warmth and passion of that kiss, but as soon as it was over, the thrill melted into sadness. I knew, even then, that whatever the feelings were that were blooming between us, they—we—were doomed. Hadn’t Jackson taught me that, over and over again?
Now, the same mix of feelings washes over me at seeing Daniel Redfern, because there is no way our time together will end well. He’s been a harbinger of despair in my life, and seeing him once more makes me wary of what is to come next.
But there’s also nothing I want more than Gideon Carr’s head on a pike. And if that’s his goal as well, then perhaps our destinies are intertwined for the better, after all.
I lift my chin up and look him dead in his eye. “I’m listening, Redfern.”
“Daniel,” he says, and quirks his lip. “I thought we were on a first-name basis.”
“Have you eaten yet, Mr. Red—er, Daniel?” says Katherine, ever mindful of whatever etiquette the situation requires.
“No, and I’d be grateful for some chow.”
We lead him through the wagons and toward the cook fires. Redfern holds his side as he moves, and I twist my lips. There are fresh lines in his face, and he looks older. I suppose we all do. It has been a humdinger of a year.
“Who got the better of you?” I ask.
“Gideon’s hired men. He’s gotten a bit more cautious—one might say paranoid—after I almost did him in down in Los Angeles.”
“I thought he was in Sacramento?”
“This was before. He did the hardest part of winter in the southern climes, even crossed over into Mexico for a bit.”
“How long have you been tracking him?” I ask.
A muscle clenches in Redfern’s jaw and his gaze goes far away. “Since Nicodemus.”
We walk past Sue, and when she spies our unexpected companion, she gets up from chatting with her beau to follow us to the cook fire. As we get Redfern settled in with some beans and a tin cup of water, Sue elbows me in the side. “Ain’t that the sheriff from Nicodemus?”