Willow: A Novel (No Series) Page 3

  Gideon grinned that maddening grin and waggled one index finger in amused reprimand. “But this is God’s house, darling,” he reminded her.

  “If God were minding His business, the roof would have already fallen in on your head, you-you dreadful man!”

  He sighed and his hands came to Willow’s shoulders with an odd tenderness, his touch engendering a riot of inadvisable feelings within her. He gave a ragged sigh, and the look in his eyes was gentle. “What I did to you was unforgivable, I know. And I’m sorry, Willow, I really am. Since I can’t change the past, my apology—and subsequent efforts to make amends—will have to suffice.”

  Willow’s heart leaped into her throat and pounded there so hard that she couldn’t speak.

  Gideon arched one eyebrow, and the summer sun caught in his golden brown hair. “Why did you agree to marry me that night, Willow? You didn’t even know me.”

  Willow’s cheeks turned crimson and her eyes filled with hot tears. She had known Gideon Marshall even then, had loved him because he was the man in Evadne’s portrait. But how could she answer his question honestly without making even more of a fool of herself?

  “I must have been moonstruck or something,” she lamented.

  He sighed. “Do you hate me so much, Willow? After all, I could have made love to you in that hotel room, compromised you in the fullest sense of the word, but I didn’t.”

  The glow in Willow’s cheeks grew brighter still, and she trembled with latent shame and sharp disappointment at the memory of that wonderful, terrible night.

  Before she could think of any suitable response to what he’d said, however, Willow’s father had returned, and his wife, Evadne, was with him.

  Her fine-boned face was a study in scandalized surprise.

  “Gideon!” Evadne almost wailed, wringing her elegantly gloved hands. “What in the name of heaven?”

  Gideon sighed again and looked annoyed before he turned to face his mother squarely.

  “Am I disowned?” he asked ingenuously.

  Forgiveness wasn’t long in coming.

  Evadne, a beautiful woman with piles of dark hair and sparkling eyes the same changeable color as her son’s, smiled and flung her arms out wide, enfolding Gideon in a motherly embrace. “We weren’t expecting you until next month!” she trilled.

  Gideon cast one look at Willow, standing there in her wedding dress, and shrugged. “From the looks of things, it’s a good thing I arrived early.”

  Evadne’s gaze sliced menacingly to Willow. Probably she had already convinced herself that the whole nasty matter was the fault of her wanton stepdaughter, not her son. Gideon was Evadne’s favorite; to hear her tell it, he could do no wrong. “Yes,” she said, in a sandpaper voice, frowning thoughtfully now. “Well, the guests have all gone, but there will be talk of this for years. I do declare, I don’t know how I’ll hold my head up in polite society after this.”

  “You’ll manage, Mother,” Gideon assured her wryly. “You always do, don’t you?”

  Willow wanted to scream with frustration; if she couldn’t get out of this close little room, away from Gideon and his mother, she would surely succumb to some sort of fit. She gathered her skirts in her hands and made her way, with as much dignity as she could summon up, toward the door.

  Evadne’s quiet but still piercing voice stopped her. “You haven’t heard the last of this, young lady,” she warned. “Please go directly home and consider what you have done to poor Norville and his family, not to mention your father and me.”

  The judge gave his daughter one beleaguered, sympathetic look and nodded.

  Pride squared Willow’s shoulders and she walked out, through the empty sanctuary, directly across the wide, rutted road, and up the stone walk that led to the front door of the judge’s magnificent brick house.

  She would change her clothes first thing, she decided, still dizzy with a combination of shock and undeniable relief, and then remain in her bedroom, giving the impression of guilty reflection. When it was dark, though, she would escape to the hills.

  “Miss Willow!” shouted Maria Estrada, the housekeeper, as Willow started up the main staircase, the skirts of her modest wedding gown held high.

  Willow froze, shut her eyes for a moment. “Yes?” she asked softly.

  “Is the wedding over? Where is your new husband?”

  Deflated now, Willow turned and looked down at Maria. The woman had been so much more than a housekeeper—she’d been a substitute mother. “It seems that I’m already married,” she said, and the words felt shaky as she said them, like loose floorboards under her feet.

  Maria’s mouth made a perfect O; then she gasped, her dark eyes wide with amazement. “Madre de Dios,” she whispered, aghast, crossing herself with the hasty expertise of the very devout. “How can you already be married?”

  One hysterical giggle bubbled up into Willow’s throat and escaped. She was going to catch hell, not only from her stepmother but from the entire town as well, but that was nothing compared to the joy of knowing that she would not, in the near future, have to share Norville Pickering’s bed or endure his presence from day to day.

  “What mischief are you up to?” demanded Maria, resting her hands on her ample hips now, skepticism rising in her wise and gentle face like water in a new well. No doubt, she would light candles and say many novenas for Willow’s immortal soul, but for now she was set on getting answers.

  Willow couldn’t resist teasing a little.

  Horror rounded Maria’s eyes to impossible dimensions and a bluster of Spanish invective followed.

  Willow laughed and took pity upon her old friend. After all, this was a woman who had held her, dried her tears, taught her to make tortillas. “Relax, Maria. I didn’t set out to have two husbands, I honestly didn’t.”

  “But . . .”

  Willow wanted very much to be alone to sort out her thoughts and make some sort of plan, so she smiled warmly and promised to tell the whole story after she’d had time to collect her wits.

  Ten minutes later, she was struggling with the fastenings of her wedding dress when Maria knocked lightly and then entered the bedroom with a tray and a raft of questions.

  Although she would have liked more time—once she was free of the dress she prayed she would never have to wear again—comfortable in her satin chemise, Willow suppressed a sigh, helped herself to a cup of tea from the tray, and laced it with generous portions of sugar and milk.

  “Are my father and Mrs. Gallagher back from the church?” she asked, mostly to stall.

  Maria looked avid and exasperated, both at once. “They are in the sitting room, with Lancelot.”

  Willow winced, closing her eyes. Lancelot was the silly nickname she and Maria had given Gideon long ago, when they’d known him only as the figure in the painting Evadne so cherished. How embarrassing it would be, though, if that were to slip out in front of Gideon.

  Thanks to the interrupted wedding, Willow was mortified enough.

  “You mustn’t call Mr. Marshall that in his hearing, Maria.”

  Maria sighed dreamily. She’d taken a seat on the lid of Willow’s hope chest, a cup of tea in hand. “He is handsome, is he not? Just as handsome as his portrait.”

  Willow suddenly wanted to cry. Over the years since she’d come to live with her father and Evadne, soon after her mother’s death, she had made up many romantic stories, all of them centering on the painted image of Gideon Marshall that hung in the sitting room downstairs.

  Meeting him in San Francisco, at seventeen, had seemed the culmination of a wonderful fantasy. Because she had loved Gideon, through the portrait, for years, Willow had agreed to his proposal with joy.

  Of course, she was nineteen now and, looking back, she realized all too well how silly it had been of her to ever believe that such a man would want her as a wife, and after knowing her only a few hours, too.

  He was a rounder and a rake—what other kind of man would do what he did?—but the fault had no
t been entirely his. Willow herself had been gullible and stupid.

  Glumly, because she knew Maria would insist, Willow explained about the fraudulent marriage ceremony back in San Francisco, which had turned out to be real. She went on to tell how Gideon had stopped today’s ceremony barely an hour before, leaving out an unnecessary account of her jubilation at escaping Norville Pickering. Considering what he could cause to happen to Steven, her brother, the reprieve was probably only temporary anyway.

  * * *

  Gideon was relieved when his mother left the judge’s study. She would go off to her room, no doubt separate from her husband’s, and shed melodramatic and copious tears. He didn’t envy Devlin Gallagher the days and weeks ahead.

  Devlin laughed gruffly as he filled a snifter with brandy the color of his daughter’s eyes. “Damn,” he marveled.

  Gideon stared at his mother’s doting husband, amazed. If the situation had been reversed, and he’d been in Judge Gallagher’s position, he would have been furious. Looking to take a strip out of somebody’s hide.

  “Have a drink,” said the judge, almost cordially.

  The idea held infinite appeal. Gideon went to the side table and helped himself to a generous portion of straight whiskey. Two gulps washed a good bit of his nervousness away, along with a measure of the weariness of traveling so far.

  “Sit down,” prompted the judge, indicating a leather chair facing the fireplace.

  Confused, Gideon sat. Good Lord, a man would almost think that Gallagher was pleased that his daughter’s wedding had been spoiled, and in such a scandalous fashion, too.

  “I ought to have horsewhipped you in the street,” observed the older man, in companionable tones, as he settled his powerful frame in the chair opposite Gideon’s.

  Gideon took a sip from his whiskey. “Why didn’t you?” he asked.

  “I was too goddamned relieved,” Gallagher replied, lifting one booted foot to rest on his knee.

  “You didn’t want your daughter to marry?”

  Devlin Gallagher flashed Gideon a quelling look. “Damnit, would you want that pimply squirrel Pickering to marry your daughter?” he demanded.

  The groom had been rather unprepossessing, but Gideon hadn’t thought much about it until now. He’d been too intent on averting the complications of bigamy for that. “She must care for him, if she agreed to the marriage—”

  The judge interrupted with a snort. “Care for him? Willow despises Pickering!”

  “Then why in God’s name would she consent to becoming his wife?”

  Gallagher shrugged. “That’s what I’d like to find out. My guess would be that it has something to do with my son.”

  Gideon was reminded of his other business in Virginia City—railroad business that had nothing whatsoever to do with stopping Willow’s marriage to the squirrel. “Steven,” he said cautiously. Admire Devlin Gallagher though he did, he couldn’t afford to tip his hand now.

  “No doubt, my dear wife has regaled you with an account of Steven’s many sins,” the judge said wearily, his blue eyes faraway and full of pain.

  Gideon paid little attention to his mother’s opinions of other people, as a general rule. She was inclined to look for the worst and keep searching until she found it, regardless of the effort involved. “She mentioned him,” he said, in classic understatement.

  The judge sighed again and took a drink of his brandy. “I suppose it’s my fault. Steven is an outlaw, after all, and Willow—well, Willow is a constant reminder of my first wife. I know Evadne finds the resemblance trying.”

  Gideon sat back, remembering. Evadne had been delighted at the prospect of raising a daughter, when Willow first joined the Gallagher household. After Willow’s ill-fated visit to San Francisco, however, her attitude had changed. Ever since the two women had returned to Virginia City, his mother’s long letters had been filled with bitter references to Willow and the shameful circumstances of her birth. It seemed that Devlin and his former wife, Chastity, mother of the notorious Steven, had engaged in some sort of tryst later on, and the girl with amber eyes had been the result.

  But Evadne must have known the truth about Willow’s conception, Gideon reasoned. Apparently, she’d been able to overlook her husband’s obvious infidelity—she’d tried to launch her stepdaughter socially, after all. When that effort failed, Evadne had turned on Willow. Permanently.

  Recalling that made Gideon feel even worse, if that was possible, about the prank he and Zachary and their friends had pulled on the girl.

  “Willow and Steven are close then?” Gideon dared, pretending an interest in his drink. He was uncomfortable with his thoughts; besides, he had important business in the Montana Territory beyond ruining a wedding.

  “Very close. They were together until Willow was nine. Steven brought her to me then.”

  Gideon treaded carefully onto sensitive ground. “As Mother tells it,” he began, “it came as something of a surprise, Willow’s existence, I mean.”

  The judge’s still handsome face tightened. “I knew I’d sired a second child,” he said, “a daughter. But I couldn’t find them. God knows I tried.”

  “My mother’s reaction to Willow’s arrival must have been interesting,” observed Gideon quietly.

  “It was,” the judge allowed, with a sound that was part sigh and part chuckle. “But Evadne is a good woman, and she forgave me, as far as possible anyway. She tried to be a mother to Willow, and I will be forever grateful for that, but, well, things just didn’t work out. It isn’t as if Willow hasn’t contributed to the problem—she’s high-spirited and impulsive. I suppose it’s natural that the two of them would butt heads.” He paused and made a rueful sound. “Once Willow came to live with us, there was a lot of talk, and that made things even more difficult for your mother.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Devlin’s blue eyes came to Gideon’s face, their expression shadowed. “You didn’t come all the way to Virginia City to stop Willow from marrying Pickering, did you?” he asked evenly. His was the tone of a man who already knew the answer to his question.

  “No, sir,” Gideon admitted. Virginia City was a small community, and Devlin Gallagher was a prominent citizen. He wouldn’t be able to keep his intentions secret for long.

  “Railroad business, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Concerning Steven?”

  Gideon got out of his chair, moving to stand at one of the heavily curtained windows near Devlin’s cluttered desk. There was obviously no point in lying to the judge; the man was nobody’s fool.

  “Yes.”

  The judge gave an unsettling burst of laughter. “You’ll never get him,” he said, with relish. “Do you know what the Indians call Steven, Gideon?”

  The liquor was easing some of the tension in Gideon’s shoulders, though they still ached. He remained silent, too stubborn, he guessed, to admit that he knew the enormity of the task that had been set for him.

  Devlin Gallagher was only too happy to elaborate. “They call him the Mountain Fox,” he said. “And not without reason, my friend. Not without reason.”

  “He’s wanted,” Gideon said spiritlessly, not bothering to turn from the window and face this man who was, oddly, both his stepfather and father-in-law.

  “By the railroad?”

  “By the law. The railroad has a vested interest in his capture, of course. Steven has been robbing trains, Judge Gallagher. We can’t afford to overlook that.”

  “I suppose not,” said the judge, in a sad voice. “I don’t believe Steven’s your man, for what it’s worth. His robberies are invariably designed to hurt me, you know. Steven inherited a great deal of money when my mother passed away. The funds have been held in trust for him, and he has full access to them, no questions asked.”

  Gideon turned from the window at last. After the events of this day, he’d thought that nothing could shock him, but Devlin Gallagher’s words had. “And you truly believe his only aim is to cause you
trouble?”

  “My son hates me—and rightfully so, I’m afraid. I’ve never known him to waylay a train or a stagecoach that wasn’t carrying something of mine—like one of my payrolls, for instance.”

  Beyond the window glass, the skies rumbled. The clouds that had been gathering in the distance all day were closing in.

  “Two months ago Steven Gallagher and his men held up the Central Pacific. They took twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  Devlin nodded. “Twenty-five thousand dollars of my money and not one damned thing else. I didn’t hold the railroad responsible and I wonder why they’re so all-fired anxious to see Steven prosecuted.”

  “The passengers were terrified, for one thing,” Gideon said, albeit with less force.

  “None of them was hurt,” argued the judge.

  “That still doesn’t excuse your son—the man cannot be permitted to stop the Central Pacific at will!”

  “They’ll figure out a way to hang Steven if you bring him in. You know that, don’t you?”

  The whiskey was suddenly roiling in Gideon’s stomach, and he set his glass aside with a thump. “He’ll be tried fairly, Judge Gallagher.”

  Devlin gave a hoot of laughter. “God, you have a lot of confidence in yourself and your railroad, boy. Vancel Tudd’s been after Steven for six years, and he’s never even come close. Do you know who Tudd is, young fella? Well, I’ll tell you. He’s the best goddamned bounty hunter in the territories. How the hell do you expect to find my son if he can’t?”

  Gideon thought of the golden-haired, wide-eyed young woman upstairs. Thanks to all he’d done to her, here and in San Francisco, she would be seen as a scarlet woman from now on. And yet she was, he sensed, the key to finding Steven Gallagher. “I don’t know,” he lied, in answer to the judge’s question.