Outlawed(33)

News and I took our drinks to a table in the middle of the room with a decent view of the bar.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“About what?” she asked, and her voice, though light, held a warning.

As we drank, I watched the cowboys. Most looked ordinary, like men I might have known back in Fairchild if I’d stayed there long enough to move among grown people. A few wore ostentatious hats or spurs or giant belt buckles, and one had a long, full beard as bright as an orange that he stroked theatrically as he talked. No one held my attention until I saw, at a table two away from ours, a very beautiful man. He had a long smooth face and heavy eyebrows and his lips were full in a way that made him look solemn, even when he laughed. I had not seen a man I found beautiful since I left my husband’s house, and this man’s mere presence in the room heated the skin on my face and between my legs. I was almost angry at him for being there, at a time when I could not afford to find anyone or anything lovely, and I turned my back to him as I sat, even though I had to twist my body slightly and was not sure how to do so in a manly way.

Bixby was late. We had gotten to Veronica’s a half hour before he usually arrived, but the half hour passed and then another quarter. I could tell that News was nervous even though she kept up a steady patter about the horses we were going to buy, and I could see that Agnes Rose was worried even though she was laughing and flirting with the other men at the bar. I thought again, as I had for weeks, that I should have stayed in the convent where I could have done useful work, learned what I could from the library, and harmed no one.

As I turned over my regrets in my mind, the man whose face I’d been avoiding stood up from his table. I couldn’t help but watch him. He was tall but he didn’t move with the ease of a tall, handsome man. There was something tentative about him. When he and a friend—short and broad, with a wide smile but a searching eye—brought their beers to our table, I felt both joy and panic.

Several men, I noticed, refused to stand aside for them as they came, and one seemed intentionally to jostle the shorter man, who was brown-skinned like News, so that some of his beer sloshed on the floor. His face clouded for an instant, but brightened again as he saw News and clapped her on the shoulder like an old friend.

“Nate,” he said. “Good to see you. Who’s the new kid?”

“This is Adam,” News said. “He’s working with me up north this season. I’m trying to teach him how to drink.”

“You couldn’t have a better teacher,” the cowboy said, extending his hand. “I’m Henry, this is Lark. Pleased to meet you.”

Henry’s handshake was firm and friendly, Lark’s almost harsh, a quick clasp and then release. I had not touched a man since my husband and I had forgotten the size of their hands, the way their calluses scratched against your skin.

“Lark,” News said. “Your mama give you that name?”

The man’s smile was embarrassed, a little weary.

“I got it working out in Idaho country when I was younger,” he said. “I’ve always been an early riser. The boys used to give me a hard time for being out working when everyone else was still in bed. ‘Up with the meadowlarks,’ they’d say.”

He looked at me instead of News when he answered, like he was curious about me. I knew to be afraid of curiosity—my act was not good enough to withstand much scrutiny. And yet I met his eyes, just for a moment. They were very light brown, almost yellow, like a cat’s, with a burst of green at the center.

“It’s good you brought your friend here,” Henry said, taking a seat. “I have a proposition for the both of you.”

“What is it?” I asked. I realized I knew almost nothing about the lives of cowboys, the people I was supposed to be imitating.

“The clerks from the Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank over on Main Street like to come here for their whiskey,” Henry said. “There are eight of them, and ordinarily, they work four to a watch—three in the front, and one in back to guard the vault. But their boss, the bank president, just left to visit his baby grandson in Wichita, and he doesn’t return until June. So the men from the Farmers’ and Merchants’ have instituted their own version of bankers’ hours—two of them man the front of the bank, while the other six drink or loaf or do whatever they like. Four enterprising souls—five to be safe—could take everything in the till if they visit between now and midsummer.”

I wondered what News had told Henry about herself. Clearly he was aware News was a thief, or at least ready to become so if the opportunity struck.

“What he’s not saying,” said Lark, a wry smile on his face, “is that the sheriff in Fiddleback is as well known for his marksmanship as he is for his habit of dropping by the bank unannounced to chat with the clerks.”

“No risk, no reward,” said Henry. “The tills at the Farmers’ and Merchants’ hold at least ten thousand gold eagles. Split five ways, that’s still enough to feed a man in high style for a year, or in moderate style for three. Adam, you interested?”

“Oh no,” said News, “don’t get him involved in this. He’s just starting out. He needs to be making honest money, not thieving with you degenerates.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Henry said. “What he needs is another drink. I’ll get this round.”