The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(53)

He glanced up at Carina. Was she used to such finery? She certainly looked the part, though his lace collar and amethyst pin contributed. Not that she needed ornamentation. Next to Carina, Miss Priscilla Preston was limp lettuce. But he didn’t want to kill his appetite thinking of that one.

They ordered, and the food was everything it claimed. Carina took dainty bites of her browned trout with hardly a bone to be found. Quillan’s pheasant in caper sauce was tender and savory, the corn kernels plump and buttery on the cob. He just might enjoy himself and forget the cloud of rejection and unease, the brooding over the DeMornay’s treatment of his mother.

A young gentleman approached the table, hands in his silk-embroidered vest. “May I make your acquaintance, sir? I’m William Scott Bennet, assistant prosecuting attorney, Boston.”

Quillan stood and shook the man’s hand. Even beyond the discrepancy in dress, there was no question of the disparity in their stations. What could this young man want with him? “Quillan Shepard at your service.”

“I understand you’re a bit of a hand with a gun, sir.”

Quillan hardly needed to guess where that information came from. But what was the man’s point?

“Several of us are putting together a shoot in the morning. Care to join in?”

“What’s your target?”

“Prairie fowl, antelope, and buffalo, if luck is with us.” He took one hand from his vest and balanced himself on the back of Carina’s seat for the turn. “We’ll be shooting from the parlor car.”

Quillan eyed the popinjay. “How will you retrieve your plunder?”

The man smiled. “That would be a trick, wouldn’t it? But join us, won’t you? We’d like to make it a contest, try our hands against a gunman.”

Quillan stiffened. Miss Prescott had obviously been prolific of tongue. He should not have misled her. Though he did have his gun in the travel bag, he had no intention of becoming a spectacle. “I’m afraid I must decline.”

“But, sir, it will be the high point of our jaunt. How better to test our sportsman’s abilities than with a master? And surely we’ll give you a bit of a run.”

Quillan glanced at Carina, then back. “I’m afraid you’ve been misled.”

Mr. Bennet laughed. “No need to be bashful, sir. I’m young, but astute. Part of the job, you know, reading character.”

Quillan tensed. There it was again. Judged by appearances. He had a sudden desire to put this upstart in his place. “What time?”

“Eight o’clock on the nose.”

Quillan nodded, then turned back to Carina.

She raised her brows. “You’re doing it?”

He shrugged.

“What if you lose?”

“Then Mr. William Scott Bennet will have a story to tell.”

She sat back and eyed him. “But you won’t lose, will you?”

Quillan picked up his knife and ran the blade through the sauce pooled at the edge of his plate. “I haven’t seen them shoot.”

“But I’ve seen you. You took the head off a rattlesnake with one bullet shooting from the holster.”

“Reflex.”

She looked askance. “Another might have shot off his own foot. How did you learn?”

Quillan stared down at his plate. “After I left home, I realized how vulnerable I was, a boy of fourteen with little muscle and less experience. I’d been taken in by someone just a little older, a little wilier. I knew I wouldn’t let that happen again, but what of someone stronger, deadlier? So I purchased a side arm and taught myself to use it.”

“To use it well.”

“Came fairly naturally.” He gave her a quick grin. “Just like for you.”

“Beh.” She flicked her chin with her fingers.

He definitely needed to learn that gesture. It was so descriptive. “Have you finished eating?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest we retire.” He led her back to their seats, reached up and pulled down the upper berth and fixed it into place, then rearranged the two facing seats to make a lower berth. Neither would hold both of them, and even with the curtains it would be uncouth. “Have you a preference?”

Carina looked up at the berth over her head. “I’ll take the lower.”

He unfolded the blankets provided, tossed one up for himself, then arranged hers. He pulled the curtains closed around them, drew her into his arms and kissed her. Then he climbed to the upper berth and removed his coat and vest and shirt. He laid them carefully beside him, then settled down onto the pillow. Looking up he saw his own face clearly, and that of the woman in the next berth over. It was the elderly Miss Preston, and she obviously had no notion of his view in the polished ceiling. She read a small book, Fireside Tales, her bespectacled eyes straining to read the print in the insufficient light.

Quillan turned discreetly to his side, thankful Carina was not atop where the man at footside would glimpse her. Something to remember if he ever traveled the Pullman Palace car again.





The air was brisk, the wind gusty as the party opened the side doors of the parlor car and assembled along the narrow balcony for the shoot. Carina counted four men armed for the sport, but many others had collected to watch. Quillan was in his buckskin, with another day’s growth on his face. Rogue pirate, indeed.