“No. Good luck to you lovebirds.”
Upton stared at York with open contempt. “Is that all, sir? I need to get back to my station.”
The bank was open, but there were no customers at the moment.
“Sure. Go send your boss over.”
Upton frowned and went over to his window, where Carter was filling in for him. The clerk pointed toward the seated York, and employer and employee spoke for a while, in hushed tones, longer than it would seem necessary for him merely to dispatch his boss to rejoin the sheriff.
Finally, Carter came over and sat heavily in his chair, looking across the desk at York with put-upon eyes. “You seem to have upset my chief cashier.”
“Apparently doesn’t take much. I will want to speak with your janitor.”
“Understood. His name’s Charley Morton.” The banker sat forward, his expression earnest now. “Sir, do you really hold out hope for recovering our funds?”
“I do. I think that money is hidden somewhere in town or anyway near it. And I intend to investigate the friends and co-workers of the three dead bank robbers, to possibly get a line on where.”
“I would think you would find that low-class breed,” the banker said with a half-sneer, “more suitable for suspicion than my loyal staff.”
“You would think,” he said with a smile.
York didn’t put his hat back on until he was outside. He was heading down the boardwalk toward his office, spurs singing, when he heard a familiar female voice call out to him, raised over approaching hoofbeats.
“Caleb!”
He glanced back as Willa — in a red-and-black plaid shirt, Levi’s, and boots (as was often the case), her blond hair ponytailed with a red ribbon — pulled back on the reins and brought Daisy, her calico, to a sudden stop. She had obviously ridden here fast, faster than prudent, judging by the lathered-up nature of the poor animal.
She hopped down and tied the horse up at the nearest hitching post. He waited for her. She almost ran to him.
“I hear Bill Johnson’s dead.”
He nodded toward the funeral parlor. “You can see for yourself, if you like. Had breakfast yet?”
“Just coffee at the ranch. Buy me some and tell me all about it.”
They went to the café and took a table by the window. The bacon and scrambled eggs were always good here and that’s what they had.
“I want to hear all about it,” she said, having more coffee. She took it black, which either was a sign of strength or wariness over the freshness of the cream.
He drank coffee, too, as he told her about last night at the Cantina de Toro Rojo, leaving in all the excitement but not detailing the carnage. That was a wise choice, because breakfast arrived halfway through the telling.
Her expression, as she bit at a strip of bacon and chewed, was a mixture of concern and excitement. He knew that she liked the part of him that stirred her love of adventure — she preferred The Three Musketeers to Wuthering Heights — but he also realized she feared for his life, having witnessed firsthand just how brutal and dangerous confrontations with outlaws could be.
“With this Johnson character dead,” she said, “does that mean you’ll be leaving?”
“No.”
She smiled. Her eyes said, Good, but her mouth didn’t bother. She just bit off more bacon.
“I want to stick,” he said, “until this thing is resolved.”
She frowned. “Resolved? How so? In what way?”
“The trail of the robber led right back to Trinidad. The trail of the money, too. Something’s wrong here, Willa. Really wrong.”
“What is?”
He didn’t want to say anything about the bank, and its defensive president and his sweating chief clerk. For one thing, he wasn’t sure exactly what he thought about Carter and his staff, though definitely Upton was worth looking at hard. For another, he didn’t want those suspicions getting around town. Willa was no gossip, but Levi’s or not, she was female.
“It’s an itch that’s developing,” he told her. “Not to the scratchin’ stage just yet.”
“You talked to Mr. Carter today?”
“I did.”
A smile flickered on pretty lips. “Did he... say anything about making you a better offer?”
“A better offer for what?”
The smile flickered out. “For staying. For staying on, after this is... resolved. Better money, matching Pinkerton or more. Providing you improved living quarters.”
York shook his head. “No. Not a word. After our conversation, I’m not so sure Carter would want me around any longer than he feels he must.”
“Oh? Why?”
He waved off her question. “Never mind that. Doesn’t matter either way.”
Now she was frowning. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, after I do resolve this mess, I’m still leaving.” He patted her hand. “Honey, nothing’s changed. But maybe if your father and your new friend Zachary Gauge go in business, you won’t need to hang around here, either. San Diego’s a real pretty place. Ocean’s way bigger than the Purgatory River.”
She was only half-finished with breakfast. But the way she pushed it away, and stormed out without another word, York had to wonder if she was all the way finished with him.
Chapter Seven
On horseback, Willa stopped burning about halfway home and was overcome by a sadness that she refused to allow to turn into tears. What had begun as a mental diatribe, about what an impossible man Caleb York was, turned into a sense of loss at the reality of not having that impossible man in her life on a daily basis, as he’d been for over six months.
Trying to make Caleb see that she could not leave the Bar-O as long as her father needed her wasn’t the issue; she knew he got that. What he did not understand was how important the Bar-O and cattle ranching were to her. That they were as much a part of her life as any man could ever be. That if she were to marry and bear children, to him or to anyone else, the Bar-O was where she wanted that to happen.
Riding up to the ranch only made her feel that all the more keenly as she approached the familiar log arch with the chain-hung plaque with the big carved O under a bold line, replicating the Bar-O brand. In early-afternoon sun, the assorted buildings had a soft-edged glow worthy of memory, the twin corrals at right and left, the pair of barns, the grain crib, log-cabin bunkhouse, cookhouse with its hand pump and long wooden bench. The house itself had, like Topsy, grown from its humble beginnings until now it was an impressive, often added-to sprawl of log-and-stone.
Two horses stood at the hitch rail. One she recognized as foreman Whit Murphy’s cattle pony, a pinto; the other she’d never seen, and she would have remembered this distinctive snowflake Appaloosa with its silver-mounted Mexican saddle. She tied up Daisy — who she’d ridden not nearly so hard on the ride home — next to the dark, light-spotted animal, with its thin mane and tail. The animal gave her that unsettling, near-human look the breed was known for — as if to ask, Do you belong here? — and she climbed the broad wooden steps to the awning-shaded porch. The cut-glass and carved-wood door opened suddenly, giving her a small start, and Whit exited, looking unhappy.
“Something wrong?” she asked the foreman.
Whit Murphy was a weathered, lanky cowboy with a dark, droopy mustache. Seeing Willa, he removed his Texas-style Stetson. She was well aware Whit was sweet on her, but he’d never done anything about it and she’d never encouraged it, either.
“Nothin’ wrong,” Whit said with a sigh that had a growl in it, “that me learnin’ to keep my place wouldn’t cure.”