Well, she’d better be able to handle it. Those yo-yos weren’t your street-corner-variety thugs; they were hard-core railroad trash, the kind who stayed in one town only as long as the welcome lasted and then freeloaded to the next small community before they got arrested and tossed in jail. They slept under bridges and highway overpasses, making a few dollars here and there for cheap wine by begging at traffic lights near shopping malls. They carried all their worldly goods from place to place in their knapsacks or backpacks, living by their wits and the whimsy of chance. When their luck ran out, they played rough and for keeps, surviving any way they could.
To men like them, a pretty, defenseless female was a rare delicacy.
Rafe unscrewed the bottle cap, intending to have a drink. But he burned with curiosity in spite of himself. What in the hell was she doing here? She was too old to be a runaway. He supposed it was possible she was fleeing from a husband, but if that was the case, why do it on a train? She should have just rolled the creep and bought herself a bus or plane ticket. Rafe sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted any woman he cared about to put herself at risk like this.
Memories of Susan sifted through his mind. He tried to call up a picture of her face, but just like in his dream, her features remained a blur. Guilt swamped him. She’d been his whole life. Now, in only a little over two years, he couldn’t recall her smile. His memories of his family were like color snapshots steadily fading with time.
The thought hurt so much he felt as if a knife were slicing at his guts.
He tipped back his head to swig the whiskey. The blessed burn promised oblivion, and he closed his eyes as the warmth spread through him, needing it—craving it—grabbing for it. Tomorrow he’d find an odd job and buy another bottle before this one went dry. At the bottom of a jug, he found sobriety, and for him, that was abhorrent. When he was drunk, at least he couldn’t think.
A sudden wailing trailed to Rafe over the rhythmic clanking of the boxcar wheels. The sound startled him so much that he choked. A baby? Liquor backwash went up his nose. He strained to breathe, his eyeballs feeling as if they might pop from his skull. Jesus Christ.
He turned an appalled gaze back to the girl. The windbreaker she hugged to her chest was wiggling. Judging by the size of the bundle, the baby could be on more than a month or so old. She’d brought an infant on a freight train? He shot a concerned glance at the other four men. A baby put a whole new shine on things. He could look the other way when a woman angled for trouble and got some. But how could he do nothing when a kid was involved?
He immediately cut that thought short. She and her kid weren’t his problem. Nope. He wanted nothing to do with her, period. And he really, really wished she’d make her kid shut up. The pathetic sound of the baby’s wailing brought back painful memories of Keefer and Chastity.
Rafe shoved to his feet. He didn’t miss the way the girl shrank away, as if she expected him to jump on her. Sorry, sis. Not in the market.
Staggering with each sway of the boxcar, he went to its opposite end, staking claim to the left front corner where he could slump and nurse his booze bottle in peace. Partly drowned out by the noise of the train, the baby’s crying was a little less unsettling there. He took a long pull from the bottle, determined to consume enough liquor to pass out.
“Shut that kid up, lady!” one of the lowlifes yelled.
“That cryin’ is wearin’ on my nerves!”
Amen to that. Rafe took another swig of booze and turned up his coat collar. Chastity. She’d been only six months old. Picture-clear, an image of her tiny, flower-draped coffin flashed through his head. He chased it away with another gulp of whiskey, wondering why he could remember the coffin so clearly and not her precious little face. The realization made him want to throw back his head and howl right along with the baby.
He had murdered his wife and kids—murdered them as surely as if he’d put a gun to their heads and pulled the trigger-and in less time than his three-year-old son had lived, he was already forgetting them. There was only one name for a man who could do that—a rotten, no-good son of a bitch.
“Either shut the kid up, or out it goes, lady!” another man yelled. “I’ll throw it off, and don’t think I won’t! This ain’t no place for a brat, anyhow.”
Rafe froze with the whiskey bottle midway to his lips. Even in the poor light, the girl’s face looked milk white, her eyes huge splashes of darkness and fear. Staring at the man who’d just threatened to toss her baby from the car, she drew the windbreaker over her shoulder and began to fumble beneath it.
Rafe clenched his teeth to bite back a curse. Of all the things she might do to fix the problem, that ranked way low on the smart chart. Although, to be fair, he guessed she didn’t have an option. If a baby was hungry, you had to feed it.
The other men snapped to attention like retrievers that had spotted a plump goose, their stares riveted to the activity going on under the girl’s jacket. Her stiff movements spoke for themselves. Rafe found himself gaping right along with the others as she unbuttoned her blouse. Even with the nylon to block his view, he knew the exact instant when her breast popped free from her bra. As though plugged with a cork, the kid suddenly stopped screaming.
“Say now, honey. Whatcha got under that there coat?” one man asked.
The girl drew her knees higher and bent her head, her long, dark hair falling forward to further conceal her motherly undertaking. Rafe saw that she was shaking, whether from terror or the cold, he couldn’t be sure. She looked so pathetic that his heart twisted.
The baby started to screech again. Her movements frantic, she jiggled the infant and cuddled it closer.
One of the bums laughed. “Say now, sweet thing, if the brat don’t want it, I sure as hell won’t turn it down.”
Shit. Rafe really didn’t want to mix it up with these lowlifes, but there were some things a man just couldn’t walk away from. Four slimeballs raping a defenseless girl was one of them. Even more alarming, Rafe doubted it had been that long since she’d given birth.
He screwed the cap back on the whiskey bottle. The other men were undoubtedly packing switchblades. Just that morning, he had hocked his own knife to buy the booze.
He could think of better ways to die than with his guts spilled all over the filthy floor of a boxcar. But hey, better him than the girl. She might hemorrhage to death if those creeps got hold of her. Besides, it wasn’t as if he honestly cared all that much if he died—or how he went. Quick and painless would be nice, but a man didn’t always get his druthers.
One of the bums pushed to his feet and moved toward her. The other three rose to follow him.
This really isn’t my problem, Rafe tried to tell himself one last time.
The man in the lead grabbed her roughly by her arm. She lost her hold on her baby, and the kid rolled from her lap onto the dirt-encrusted wooden floor. That cut it. Rafe could ignore a lot of things, but watching a baby get a raw deal wasn’t on the list.
He was on his feet before he even realized he’d moved. He shifted his grip on the neck of the half-gallon jug and bent to set it on the floor, thankful for once that his taste ran to Early Times and not one of the cheaper brands bottled in plastic. Going to a knife fight with nothing but his fists had never been one of his aspirations. First though, he had to move the child out of harm’s way.
After wrapping the infant in his coat and carrying it to the opposite end of the boxcar, Rafe retrieved his whiskey bottle and returned to help the child’s mother. With the loud clackety-clack of the train to muffle the sound, he felt as if he were watching an eerie scene in a silent movie as he strode the length of the enclosure. The moonlight painted the men at the opposite end of the car in shades of white, gray, and black, and the shuddering of the train lent their movements the jerky rapidity common in dated films.
Only this was on scene being played out on a screen. It was real. Unless he intervened, that girl didn’t have a prayer. With vague surprise, Rafe realized he was n
o longer staggering. Fury could be damned sobering.
He didn’t bother to announce himself before he started busting up the party. He just gripped the glass bottle as though it were a club and waded in.
Maggie scrambled across the floor to get away from the men’s feet, her breath coming in shallow pants. When she attempted to stand, her legs were so weak that she slid down the wall like a dribble of wet paint. Huddling with her back pressed into the corner, she twisted to and fro to avoid being stepped on, a first shoved against her teeth to stifle her screams.
Watching the cowboy fight, she recalled her first impression of him when she’d gotten on this train, that he might be dangerous. She’d been right. The wild man in repose had come to life swinging, his chiseled features taut with feral rage. For a drunk, he moved with impressive speed and precision, his shoulder-length mane of tangled black hair whipping with every quick turn of his head. His big frame was oddly graceful, lean muscle and bone working together in a harmony of motion, the tendons in his thighs bunching under the loose legs of his faded jeans as he feinted and then pressed a vicious attack.
It seemed to Maggie that the fight was over almost before it started. Boots spread, knees slightly bent, the cowboy stood there, glancing at the human deadfall around him as he swiped glass from his shirt and pants. Then he moved toward her, his eyes glittering gunmetal blue in the moonlight.
To her frightened eyes, he looked a yard wide at the shoulders and twice that long in the legs. He walked with that loose-hipped, slightly bowed stride common to tall men who’d spent years in the saddle. Horribly aware that her blouse was partially unbuttoned, she tried to cross her arms over her chest, but for the life of her, she couldn’t make the quivering muscles in her arms work properly.
He hunkered in front of her, the sheer breadth of his shoulders eclipsing the moonlight. Maggie shrank against the wall. Even in the shadows she could see the hard cast of his features. In contrast to his dark skin, his steel-blue eyes gleamed and seemed to miss nothing as he swept his gaze over her.
For an awful moment, she thought he meant her harm. Not that she considered herself to be any prize, but she doubted a man like him was any too particular.
She heard a strange whimpering sound. It took her a moment to realize the sound came from her. She tried to stop, to swallow it back, but it just kept erupting from her—awful and animal-like.
“Are you all right?” His large hands settled gently on her shoulders, his palms radiating warmth through the thin cotton of her blouse. “Don’t be afraid, honey. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Maggie had heard that line before. She expected his long fingers to tighten brutally on her flesh, but instead, he lightly caressed her arms, the touch so feathery and soothing that a sob of relief escaped from her.
“Well, hell.”
He slipped an iron-hard arm around her waist, and the next thing she knew, she was drawn to her knees and trapped in his embrace, one of his hands cupped firmly over the back of her head. As he pressed her face against his shoulder, the musky male scent of him filled her senses. To her surprise, it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant smell, as one might expect from a bum. Evidently he bathed occasionally, at least.
He swayed slightly from side to side with the rocking of the boxcar, one big hand gliding over her back. Even gentle pressure on her bruised flesh hurt, and she flinched when he touched a particularly tender place on her shoulder.
He went suddenly still, and she felt him stiffen. He drew his hand from her head from her head and carefully separated the rent in her sleeve. After a moment of breathless waiting, Maggie thought she heard him curse, but the clack of the train was so loud, she couldn’t be certain.
“You’re all right now,” he assured her in a louder voice. “And so is your baby. I checked him over good. The bastards didn’t hurt him, and they aren’t going to. I promise you that.”
The gruff vibrancy of his voice curled around her like warm tendrils of smoke, and the gentle caress of his hands eased away some of her fear. As her panic subsided, Maggie’s thoughts went instantly to Jaimie. She shifted to peer around his arm to where her baby lay at the opposite end of the boxcar. She kept remembering how Jaimie had rolled from her lap onto the floor, and despite the cowboy’s reassurances, she couldn’t help but worry. Oh, God. If her baby was hurt, she’d never forgive herself.
To her surprise, the cowboy seemed to understand how concerned she was and loosened his hold on her. Maggie drew back, fumbling with her blouse. She jumped with a start when he brushed her hands aside and made fast work of refastening the buttons for her.
He smiled slightly, his mouth tipping up at one corner. Even in the shadows, she could see the amused twinkle in his eyes.
“Better?”
Though she couldn’t imagine why, she did feel better. And if that wasn’t sheer madness…He was the kind of man you didn’t want to meet in a dark alley.
He reached to smooth her hair back from her face. “Go check on your baby while I get rid of these bastards before they start coming around.”
While he got rid of them? Maggie had forgotten all about the other men who lay around them. She cast a worried glance at them now. Surely the cowboy didn’t mean to just toss them off the train? A hysterical urge to laugh struck her. Of course he didn’t.
“It’ll be all right,” he said, gathering up her jacket and sweatshirt, then thrusting them into her arms. “Go see to your baby. I’ll handle it.”
Handle it? Maggie wasn’t about to ask what he meant. Right now she had worries enough just watching out for herself and Jaimie. Besides, after what those men had tried to do to her, they deserved whatever they got.
Quivering with delayed reaction, she collected Jaimie, quickly checked to make sure he was all right, and then went to sit in the left front corner of the boxcar. Only seconds later, she heard the faint thud of the cowboy’s boots over the sound of the train as he followed in her wake. He stooped to retrieve his hat and coat, then turned slightly to regard her.
“Here,” he said as he extended the coat to her. When she hesitated, he dropped it in her lap. “That windbreaker and shirt won’t keep your baby warm. Put it on,” he ordered gruffly as he settled the Stetson on his head. “It’s big enough for two men and a boy. It’ll cover you both with room to spare.”
The warmth of the sheepskin over Maggie’s legs felt heavenly. She was freezing; there was no mistake about that. The thought of the thick wool all around her was tempting. But it seemed wrong for her to be warm while he suffered the cold with nothing.
He resumed his seat in the opposite corner, snorting with impatience as he settled his broad shoulders against the wall. “Do I have to come over there and stuff you into it?”
Maggie shook her head and laid Jaimie lengthwise in the cleavage of her upraised thighs as she drew on the coat. When she tucked her baby inside and pulled the woolly leather closed, warmth immediately surrounded her icy body.
“Thank you, mister.”
He shifted to get more comfortable and tugged the hat down over his face. His voice gravelly and muffled, he said, “No problem. Just don’t grow attached. I want it back when we part company at the next stop.”
Maggie gnawed the inside of her cheek. “Not just for the coat. Thank you for—” Her voice trailed away like a talking toy that had wound down. She gulped and tried again. “Thank you for—for helping me. You risked getting badly hurt.”
“Yeah, well…” He shifted again. “I didn’t, so let’s forget it happened.”
Maggie’s thoughts returned to the four men he’d tossed from the train. “Do you think those bums will be all right?”
He released a weary sigh. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Sometimes circumstances don’t allow you any choices.”
She closed her eyes, thinking how very true that was. No choices. If not for that, she would never have climbed on this train in the first place. It had been a desperate move and a dangerous one. But the bottom line was, s
he’d run less risk of getting caught this way than if she’d hitched a ride on the highway. Once Lonnie raised an alarm, the cops might start looking for her. Standing alongside the interstate, she would have been a sitting duck.
With that thought, she found herself wondering what had led the cowboy to this pass. Had circumstances robbed him of a choice as well, or was he here simply because he wanted to be?
The faint smell of cow manure drifted to her nostrils, making her suspect this car had once been used to haul fertilizer. Oh, God. Just the possibility gave her the heebie-jeebies, and she cuddled Jaimie closer.
Who in his right mind would choose this mode of transportation? It was madness. Yet she had recently seen a television special about perfectly respectable individuals all across the nation who sought adventure by riding the rails with bums. A new craze, evidently, the appeal of which totally escaped her. One young man had been killed during his spring break from college last year when crates of heavy freight shifted and crushed him. Another had ended up dead of multiple stab wounds from an unknown transient’s knife.
The grieving parents of both youths had gone on the air to warn viewers of the danger in riding the rails. But according to the television report, there were thrill seekers who ignored the statistics, risking not only arrest and conviction for breaking the law, but putting their lives in jeopardy as well. One of the men interviewed had been a heart surgeon, of all things. He claimed the excitement and danger provided a form of stress release he could find nowhere else.
Stress release? She guessed most people’s everyday problems would seem less daunting after experiencing something like this. Sort of like curing the burn with a wildfire, in her estimation, but to each his own.
She opened her eyes to find that the cowboy had nudged up his hat to study her. Even with the shadows to cloak her, she felt as easy to read as large print.