The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(52)

“What about Indians? They’ve been known to derail trains.”

Where was she getting her information? “It’s been a long time since that has happened.”

“Can’t you envision anything thrilling to break the monotony of this bleak landscape?” Miss Preston stared disdainfully at the never-ending plains of Wyoming passing at a tedious pace. “Why go west if it’s as tame as anywhere else?”

“I’m sure you’ll find plenty of excitement in San Francisco.”

“Oh, balls and galas, I know.” Miss Preston tossed her head. “I want something dangerous.”

“Try walking the streets after dark.”

Miss Preston turned to her, one eyelid lowered. “I’m not stupid.” And now she looked at Quillan. “I’m certain if anything does happen to the train, Mr. Shepard will protect us.”

Quillan turned slowly and leveled his gaze. “What makes you sure of that, Miss Preston?”

She tipped her head, obviously pleased to have drawn him out at last. “I’ve heard about you western men. Not smart and natty like our swells, but rough and ready to the quick. Am I right?”

Quillan eyed her so long, she started to fidget. Carina knew how it felt. He said, “What do the bumps on my head show?”

“Well . . .” Her eyes traveled up his face. “It’s hard to say with all that hair.” The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. “But I’d guess at a certain lack of restraint. A small propensity for violence, perhaps. Am I right?”

His eyes turned to flint, and Carina trembled. Would he do something rash? He was irked enough, she was sure. Had Miss Preston singled him out as the most dangerous and therefore interesting potential of the moment? Was she intentionally baiting him?

“Someone of your genius need ask?”

Carina winced at his sarcasm, but Miss Preston merely basked. She didn’t understand Quillan’s caustic nature, another mark against her theory. If it were so obvious, wouldn’t she see Quillan was baiting her back?

“What do you do, Mr. Shepard?” Her eyes darted quickly down the length of his frame. “Buffalo hunter? Indian agent? No, wait, your wife said you were from a mining town. I bet you were a hired gun.”

Quillan didn’t answer.

“Oh, there’s no need for embarrassment. That’s simply thrilling. Did you ever kill a man?”

Had her morbid curiosity no limit? Without a flicker of emotion Quillan said, “Only women . . . who talk too much.”

Carina caught her breath.

Miss Preston’s eyelids parted, the whole of her blue irises slightly bulging, but she laughed. “Well! Maybe I’ll see something more interesting, after all, than the polygamists in Salt Lake. Are you taking the train from Ogden into the Mormon city?”

Carina shook her head. “We weren’t planning on it.”

But Quillan said, “Why should I see another man’s wives when I’ve plenty of my own?”

“You haven’t.” Miss Preston’s finger just touched her outturned teeth.

Quillan shrugged. “Of course they’re all squaws.”

Miss Preston stared, obviously doubtful, yet not certain he was in jest. Carina could almost hear her thoughts. Would he, could he, be serious? Indian wives. Well, wasn’t he just the sort? And then she shivered. Perhaps even Miss Preston had her limits. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I must see to my aunt. I’ve left her too long.”

Carina watched her hasten back to her seat, then turned to Quillan. “Omaccio.”

His rogue’s smile. “Indeed.”





THIRTEEN

Fair play:

Conformity to established rules, no matter how unfair.

—Quillan

SPARRING WITH MISS PRESTON had annoyed Quillan enough that he could not slip back into his reverie. He felt no stake in the conflict as he had with Carina in their early skirmishes, but the woman’s ideas had gotten under his skin. He didn’t realize he was brooding until Carina mentioned dinner and he noticed the time had passed. He should apologize for being such poor company, but Carina seemed to understand as he stood and led her through the cars.

He pushed opened the final door. One look told him the Pullman Hotel Express dining car was an extreme improvement over the station diners. With his stomach signaling anticipation, Quillan seated Carina at a flower-adorned table with damask cloth. The aromas rivaled even Carina’s cooking. Almost as soon as he’d seated his wife, Quillan found a white-jacketed server at his elbow.

The man handed them menus. “Wine list, mistuh?”

Quillan shook his head. “Just something to fill the space between my ribs and backbone.”

But Carina looked eagerly over the list and said, “Look. Here is one of Haraszthy’s wines.”

“Someone you know?” He looked over the fancy printing of the page.

“A very famous viticulturist. One of the first in Sonoma. We must try a bottle.”

“Choose what you like.” Quillan looked over the food selections, finding few with which he was readily acquainted. He read the frilled offers of blue-winged teal, antelope steaks, boiled ham and tongue, fresh trout. There was pheasant and plover in a choice of sauces. Corn on the cob and fresh fruit. Filling his space would be a pleasure.