Beyond the Trail. Six Short Stories Read online

  Tess flipped through the pages—and then stopped. Right there, in the middle of the little book, were the intimate details of her life. One page listed the names of the men she had led upstairs to her room in the past week. The time when she retreated each night had been meticulously noted. “Frank” Callaghan had even noticed that, while Tess plied her customers with drinks at the bar, her own glass held only cold tea that looked like whiskey.

  On the next page, a pencil drawing of her face looked back at Tess. The detailed description underneath it sounded like a “wanted” poster—except for one word written at the bottom of the page, as if it had only been added reluctantly: beautiful.

  Frowning, not sure what to think of all this, Tess slipped the notebook back into the jacket pocket and continued to look around. In the back of the closet, she found a hidden bag. When Tess opened it, she found half a dozen hairpieces in different colors, rouge, a pair of glasses, a fake mustache, and a number of scarves, hats, and other accessories. It looked like the bag of a play-actor—or a con man.

  The sudden sound of a key turning in the lock interrupted Tess.

  Damn. Tess slammed the closet door shut and looked around for some place to hide, but it was already too late.

  The door swung open, revealing the woman who called herself Frank Callaghan. She stood frozen in the doorway for a moment. “So we meet again.” She drew her revolver and pointed it at Tess almost casually. Even as she took off her hat and gave a little bow, the weapon in her hand never wavered. “You are certainly persistent and resourceful. I have to give you that.” She kicked the door closed, took a step closer, and looked down at Tess from a height advantage of just a few inches. Despite the revolver in her hand, the gaze that rested on Tess was not threatening, just curious.

  Tess curled her hands into fists. She might have a few things in common with Luke, but don’t let that delude you into thinking you can trust her.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask: What are you doing here?” the stranger asked.

  Tess raised her chin. “Believe it or not, but once upon a time I was taught how to be a lady. My mother told me that a lady always has to pay a return visit.”

  The woman laughed. “You’re amusing, if not honest. How did you get in here?”

  A knock at the door interrupted whatever answer Tess might have given. “Mister Callaghan?” Sara Donovan’s voice came through the door.

  “Damn,” Frank Callaghan muttered.

  Tess looked back and forth between the woman and the window. Should she take the opportunity and escape through the window, as Callaghan had the night before? But she wasn’t sure if she could safely make it down to the street, and if anybody saw her climbing down and called the sheriff, he would arrest her with pleasure.

  Sara Donovan knocked on the door again. “Mister Callaghan, are you there?”

  “Um, yes,” Ms. Callaghan answered, lowering her voice.

  “I couldn’t find your sister, so I thought I would come over and tell you the good news myself,” Mrs. Donovan called through the door. “My husband agreed to give you the job.”

  Looks like all her secret observations finally paid off. She tricked the Donovans into trusting her, but now that she knows it won’t work with me, she’ll try to get rid of me. Tess realized she had to act quickly. She rushed across the room and threw open the door before the surprised woman could stop her, hoping Ms. Callaghan wouldn’t shoot her in front of witnesses. Calmly, she greeted Mrs. Donovan, who stood frozen in front of the door and stared at her.

  “You had that ... that woman in your room?” Sara Donovan stammered.

  “It’s not what you think,” Ms. Callaghan said.

  Tess snickered. Oh, yeah, that excuse worked so well for every man who got caught with a lady of the evening. She strode past Mrs. Donovan and hurried down the stairs.

  The last thing Tess heard was Mrs. Donovan’s appalled, “Oh, what your poor sister is going to say when she hears about this.”

  Independence, Missouri

  September 15th, 1856

  Frankie tied down the last piece of baggage on top of the stagecoach. As she climbed down, she threw a furtive glance at the treasure box the stage driver was stowing under his seat. Judging from the way he struggled with the box’s weight, it had to contain a lot of money, gold, and other objects of value.

  “So, you’re the new shotgun messenger?” the stage driver asked when Frankie took her seat next to him. “Can you handle these?” He pointed at the revolver at Frankie’s hip and the shotgun she held in the bend of her arm.

  Frankie flashed a confident grin. She had grown up with five brothers and could handle a weapon better than any one of them. “Can you handle these?” she asked, nodding down at the lines resting in the driver’s callused hands.

  The driver looked affronted for a moment but then laughed. “Just wait until all the passengers have climbed in. Then I’ll show you how I handle the lines.”

  Frankie nodded and watched as an overweight businessman, an old woman and her son, and finally one of Mrs. Donovan’s friends with her baby arrived and took their seats inside the stagecoach.

  Still, the stage driver held back the four horses. “We’re still one passenger short,” he said at Frankie’s questioning gaze.

  A woman hurried toward them, her long skirt clutched in one hand, pulling it up just a bit so she wouldn’t stumble. When she stopped next to the driver’s seat and handed the ticket to the driver, Frankie did a double take.

  Tess Swenson. Now that she was dressed in a respectable long skirt and a chaste bodice and had her gold-blond hair pinned up under a bonnet, Frankie almost hadn’t recognized the woman. For a moment, she was worried that Tess would tell the other travelers that Frankie was a woman, but then she inwardly shook her head. If Tess had wanted to do that, she would have done it after Frankie had broken into her office. She’s got something to hide, and she doesn’t want to draw attention.

  Tess stared at Frankie. Her lips compressed into a thin line.

  Am I spoiling your plans to steal even more money? Frankie climbed back down to help Tess into the stagecoach.

  “What are you planning?” Tess whispered.

  Frankie touched her chest in a gesture of innocence. “Me? What are you planning?” She opened the stagecoach’s door for Tess.

  “Oh, no,” one of the ladies already inside cried. “I’m not traveling with the likes of her.”

  “I bought a ticket just like everyone else,” Tess said. She stood in front of the stagecoach, holding her head up with, even under the other woman’s contemptuous gaze.

  Frankie couldn’t help admiring her.

  “I’m not sharing a seat with a ... a whore!” Mrs. Donovan’s friend blocked the door.

  “Make up your minds, ladies,” the driver called. “I’ll leave on time, with or without you.”

  Frankie made a quick decision. “You can have my seat.” She pointed at the seat next to the driver. It was the best seat on the stagecoach anyway. The upholstered seats inside might look more comfortable, but the driver’s seat was subjected to fewer bumps and jars. “I’ll make myself comfortable on the roof.”

  Tess stared at her with a stunned expression. Her piercing gaze searched for an ulterior motive.

  What the hell are you doing? Frankie silently asked herself. You should have taken the opportunity to make sure she was left behind in Independence. “The view is much better from up there anyway. Will make it easier to keep an eye on stagecoach robbers,” she said, looking right at Tess. She extended her hand and politely helped Tess to climb up on the seat next to the driver. She held a pleasant smile on her lips, even as Tess and she stared daggers at each other.

  During the next few hours, Frankie had ample opportunity to observe Tess as the stagecoach rattled along the dusty road.

  If Tess sensed her gaze, she didn’t let it show. She never turned around; she just sat with her head held high, never once complaining about the dust, the constant jostling,
or the uncomfortable seat.

  What a strange woman, Frankie thought, intrigued against her will. No one had ever discovered her true identity, and Frankie still didn’t know how Tess had seen through her disguise so easily. What was it that gave me away?

  She still didn’t have an answer when they reached the station where they would stay the night.

  Mrs. Donovan’s friend complained loudly about the crude adobe structures and the simple supper of beans, bread, and salt pork, but once again, Tess never said a word.

  The station keeper came over to the table to refill their tin cups with bad coffee. “I don’t have enough rooms for all of you,” he said. “The ladies will have to share a room.”

  “What?” Mrs. Donovan’s friend jumped up from the table. “How dare you suggest I share a room with that ... with that woman?” She glared at the station keeper, then at Tess.

  Once again, Frankie found herself coming to Tess’s rescue before she could stop herself. “You can have my room,” she said to Tess. “I’ll sleep in the stable and keep an eye on the freight.” She told herself it was a clever plan to stay close to the treasure box and its valuable contents, but she had made her offer before she had even thought about that. Tess might be the manipulative, cunning, and possibly dishonest madam of a brothel, but Frankie didn’t like to see her treated like this anyway.

  “That’s not necessary,” Tess said. “I will sleep in the stable.”

  Frankie suppressed a snort. Like I’d leave you alone with the treasure box. “No,” she said. “Take the room. I’m used to sleeping in the stable.”

  Tess opened her mouth, no doubt about to object again.

  “Let the young man be a gentleman,” the station keeper said. “He’s getting paid for this, after all.”

  Tess didn’t look pleased, but she finally nodded. “Thank you,” she said, but the cool gaze she directed at Frankie said something else.

  Frankie had to hide a grin. “You’re welcome.”

  Stage Station

  September 16th, 1856

  Frankie crossed her arms behind her head and stared into the darkness.

  The straw to her left rustled.

  She rolled out from under her blanket, drawing her revolver.

  Hooves scraped over the ground.

  Frankie shoved her revolver back into the holster. Just one of the horses, searching for a midnight snack. Instead of slipping under her blanket again, she lit a lantern and hung it on a peg. Yawning, she made her way to the back of the stable, where the treasure box and other pieces of baggage were stored. She knelt down next to the wooden box and trailed her hand over its surface, testing the sturdiness of the lock.

  The rustling of straw next to her warned her at the very last moment.

  Frankie whirled around.

  The barrel of a weapon that had been aimed at her head only hit her in the shoulder, paralyzing her arm for a moment.

  Her weapon clattered to the floor.

  Frankie gripped her attacker’s arm and felt her attacker grab her in return. With both hands out of commission, Frankie swept at her attacker’s legs with a powerful kick.

  Both of them landed in the straw, tussling for the weapon.

  Frankie couldn’t see her attacker’s face, but at this close range, with their bodies pressed against each other as they wrestled to get a grip on the pistol, she knew she was fighting with a woman. “Give up, Tess!”

  “And let you have the money? Never!” Tess said, sounding as breathless as Frankie.

  The pain in Frankie’s shoulder finally lessened, and she managed to get a hold of Tess’s wrists. She pressed them over Tess’s head and into the straw, shackling them to the ground with her own hands. “Give up!” She held Tess down with her weight.

  Tess bucked and writhed under her, trying to get free.

  “You’re only wasting your time.” Frankie held Tess’s wrists in a secure grip. No way in hell would Tess get free. Growing up with five wild brothers had taught Frankie all the tricks.

  Tess didn’t give up, though. She threw her body weight against Frankie in an attempt to throw her off. Her breasts pressed into Frankie’s, and a tendril of blond hair teased Frankie’s cheek. Then Tess’s mouth was on her own.

  Frankie lost her grip on Tess’s wrists as she got lost in the warmth of those lips. Stop! Frankie shouted herself after several intoxicating moments. Stop it. This is not professional. Slowly, reluctantly, she broke the kiss—but it was already too late.

  Something pressed against her side, and the resounding click of a hammer being pulled back told her it was not just Tess’s finger.

  Frankie clenched her hands to helpless fists. Dumb, dumb, dumb! Your brothers never taught you that little trick. You should have seen this coming. You’ve observed her long enough to know how she operates. She’s working in a brothel, for heaven’s sake, so you couldn’t seriously think that kiss was anything but an attempt to distract you.

  “Get off me,” Tess said.

  Gritting her teeth, Frankie rolled to the side.

  Tess quickly got to her feet. With the Deringer still pointing at Frankie, she took the lantern from its peg and made her way over to the treasure box.

  Frankie searched around in the straw for her revolver, which she had dropped earlier, but came up empty.

  Tess knelt down next to the wooden box and set down the lantern, one eye and the Deringer’s barrel still on Frankie.

  This is where it gets difficult. The box was too heavy for Tess to carry it off on her own, and if she shot at the lock, she would wake up everyone in the house.

  Tess reached into her dress, her fingers trailing down her breasts.

  Frankie’s pulse quickened. What is she doing?

  Tess’s hand reappeared. The lantern’s light glinted on something in Tess’s palm. For a moment, Tess fumbled with the lock, then the lid of the wooden box swung open.

  Frankie stared at her. Jesus. Somehow, Tess had gotten her hands on the key, which should have been safe somewhere in Independence and Salt Lake City. She’s even more resourceful than I thought.

  Then Tess whirled around and rushed toward Frankie. She grabbed the collar of Frankie’s shirt with one hand and shoved the pistol up under her chin with the other. Almost nose to nose with Frankie, she glared at her. “Where is it?”

  Frankie stared into Tess’s blue eyes that seemed gray in the semi-darkness of the stable. “W-what?”

  “Where—” Tess pressed the Deringer’s muzzle more tightly against Frankie’s skin.

  “—is—”

  The pressure increased.

  “—my—”

  The cold steel forced Frankie to sink into the straw.

  “—money?” Tess glared down at Frankie, kneeling over her like an avenging angel.

  Frankie swallowed, not sure whether it was the pressure of the weapon against her throat or the fire in Tess’s eyes that was making her breathless. “Your money?”

  “Don’t play dumb!” Tess leaned over her, her knee pressing against Frankie’s crotch. “How did you get your hands on the money without damaging the lock?”

  Frankie squirmed against the pressure of Tess’s knee. She was struggling to gather her thoughts and make sense of what was happening. “Wait! Wait a moment.” She gasped. “I don’t have the money. I thought you—”

  “Does this look like I have it?” Tess finally moved away just enough for Frankie to get a glance at the overturned treasure box.

  It was empty.

  “Where is my money?” Tess asked again.

  Frankie shook her head. “Do you think I would still be here if I had stolen the money? I would have taken one of the horses and would be miles away by now.”

  “Looks like your nice little plan didn’t work, huh?”

  “Looks like yours didn’t work either,” Frankie said. “All that work to get your hands on the key has been for nothing. Seems like a cleverer thief was faster than you.”

  Tess stared at her. “Clever
er thief? Are you implying that I’m a thief too?”

  Frankie smiled grimly. “Why else would you be here in the middle of the night? As nice as that kiss was, you certainly didn’t come over to kiss me goodnight.”

  “I came to make sure you didn’t ride off with my money,” Tess answered, her voice raised.

  “Your money?” Tess had said it a few times now. “The box was full to overflowing. How can all of it be your money?” The brothel might be lucrative, but it certainly didn’t make enough money to fill the treasure box. The girls in Tess’s establishment were better fed and clothed than in most other brothels Frankie had seen, so not all the money went into Tess’s pocket.

  “It’s the money I earned with my stable, my restaurant, my brothel, and my saloon—and thank you very much for your contribution, which you made by staying in my boarding house.” Tess smirked.

  Frankie shook her head. “You’re lying,” she said, not even blinking when the pistol was pointed at her head again. “I’ve seen the records in the land office. Jeffrey Donovan is the sole owner of the boarding house, the restaurant, and everything else. The money is his.”

  “Donovan owns everything on paper only,” Tess said. “The only thing he contributes to our business relationship is his name and his reputation as an honest businessman. I’m the one with the money.”

  Frankie let her head sink back into the straw. She had been taught not to trust suspects, but she believed Tess. “Looks like he’s not so honest after all.”

  “What?” Tess frowned.

  “Jeffrey Donovan,” Frankie said. “Looks like he’s not as honest as you thought.”

  Tess narrowed her eyes. “Oh, now you’re accusing him?”

  “Well, whoever stole the money must have a key to the treasure box. He or she made good use of it before we even left Independence,” Frankie said. “One person comes to mind.”

  “Yes.” Tess growled. “You! You spied on Donovan and me for weeks. You broke into my office. You manipulated Donovan into giving you a job as a shotgun messenger. You disguised yourself, and all because—”