Kate the Kid

"C'mon Sweet, enough teasin' of those mares," she nickered and they were off. Her spurs were up, she wore them for show, and never ever dug them into horseflesh. She found the practice barbaric but as long as she wore them, nobody asked questions. Plus Sweet knew that if anybody spurred him he was to buck.

Damn good horse, she thought. They rode to the telegram office and she tethered him out front, making sure to show her gun. Anybody eyeing her mount looked away quickly at the sight of her customized Remington .44 Army model. Her other gun was a Smith and Wesson .45. She'd bought it after Jesse James himself recommended it.

She sent a telegram off to Isabella that she was going to Chicago and staying at her usual hotel. Any messages Isabella replied with would await her there.

She bought some supplies at the Buford's next door and then she was off. It would be a good three days of hard riding to get to Chicago but she knew it like the back of her hand. It was never the ride there that worried her, it was what awaited her there. Every damn time she set foot back into the country something awful happened.

It was just fate.

#

"I said no, damnit." Rafe MacNeil put a booted foot up on his friend's desk and lit a cheroot.

"Aw, c'mon, you're headed that way anyways. I know you took the bounty on that little wild one." Jerome Williams wasn't begging, his tone was dangerous.

"Who told you that?" Rafe waved out the match and tossed it on the little metal tray on the desk's corner.

"A friend."

"You've been talking to that damned Pinkerton again, Jerome. Why don't you hire one of those guys to accompany you?" Jerome Williams was sitting in his house on Beacon Hill in Boston. The very next day he was boarding a train bound for St Louis, heading for his future wife. Jerome was a big man, tall, broad, gym muscled, but he'd never been in the west, and it was all horseback from St. Louis to San Francisco.

He was trying to rope Rafe into babysitting him.

Jerome chuckled. "You know they charge too damn much, besides, they're not bodyguards, you know."

"Neither am I," Rafe gritted out. He'd only come into town for the funeral of a mutual friend and had no interest in venturing to the west. He was wandering now, unsure of just where to go. He'd never been further than Amarillo himself, but he knew how to survive. It was what Rafe did best.

"Come on, what else are you going to do? I'll pay you well." Jerome poured himself a glass of brandy and offered one to Rafe. Rafe waved it off.

It was true, though he didn't want Jerome to realize it. The war had just ended. His beloved South was in ruins, a way of life dead and gone forever. He'd never believed slavery was right, but he was still bitter. Bitter that a compromise couldn't be reached, that cooler heads had never prevailed. No, a country had been torn apart instead, lives lost.

His own wife had died two years before the war began, when a wave of malaria hit New Orleans and she hadn't made it out of the city in time. Rafe, the bastard child of a whore, had stayed on after her death. His delicate wife, Faith, had a loving family who welcomed him with open arms. He'd stayed with her parents and brother on their plantation house until the Butler occupation came. Because of the general order number 52 Faith's mother was arrested and raped in jail. Defending her honor her husband had been shot by a Union army man.

Faith's brother had lost it all, his life plunged into poverty which he'd worn like a badge of honor. Afterwards Rafe had gone west to Texas, Andre had gone to Boston. It was his funeral they'd just returned from.

So Jerome was right. No, he had nowhere to go. Just Texas to roam he supposed.

"I'm goin' to St Louis, I'll ride the damn rails with you. But I ain't promisin' more than that. And I haven't agreed to track this Kid down, just look into it for a friend."

"Which friend?" Jerome asked this conversationally.

"MacMasters."

"Oh, shit, Rafe. MacMasters? That man is a ball breaker, you don't do jobs for money, you do jobs if you owe him."

"So what if I do, Jerome? What business is it of yours?"

Jerome Williams was a businessman. He wore bowler hats, pinstriped vests, and a solid gold watch fob. His shoes were polished to high shine and he knew every move to every fancy dance Boston was currently in favor of. Few people knew he worked the hard line. In business he was fair but ruthless. He gave every bit as good as he got and if you were on his good side, Jerome was a blessing. If you were on his bad, well, best not to think about it.

Though many knew his cold vengeance, few knew his hot temper. Rafe was getting it full force now.

"You absolute idiot! He'll kill you, I don't care how good you are, you damn dumb so-called gentleman gunfighter! He'll kill you in your sleep, he'll send a whole contingent of men after you, if you so much as cross him, or he wakes on the wrong side of the bed."

Rafe's voice came out low and guttural, a warning. "MacMasters says he knows who killed Andre."

That took some of the wind out of Jerome's sails and he sat back in his leather covered chair. A second later his glass was hurled into the fire making the embers shoot up flames as if in commiseration.

He turned back with a grim set to his lips. "Fine, what exactly does he want in exchange for this information?"

"The Kid. Says this 'Kid' stole a horse from him in Chicago about eight years back. MacMasters doesn't let any debt go unpaid. Kid escaped from jail and pops up every now and then, still uses the name. Worth about $7,000."

"Rafe, you wouldn't be thinking of turning him in for the bail and double crossing MacMasters, now would you?"

He narrowed his green eyes and tried to avoid lying. "I promise you I'll do no such thing until after I know who killed Andre."

"You damn dumb fool! MacMasters probably did it!"

Rafe was saved from answering by a knock at the door.

"Enter!"

"Sir," a little Irish maid ducked in, "the carriage is waiting for you. Yer bags are loaded."

"Thank you Shannon. MacNeil, are you all packed?"

"Loaded onto my saddle. Rented horse."

"Shannon would you have one of the stablehands transfer Mr. MacNeil's bags to my coach?"

"Certainly sir."

Jerome stood up and clasped his rough hands behind his back, facing the fire. "I need your help, Rafe."

This sobered the other man instantly. He removed his booted heel from the desk and sat up. "What's wrong, Jerome?"

"There are people not too happy that I'm moving operations to San Francisco, or why."

"The Whittakers?"

Jerome had been engaged in business arranged marriage to the daughter of George Whittaker Sr. Jane Whittaker was a social debutante of dubious reputation but Jerome was willing to marry her when Whittaker wouldn't sell him his holdings. Both men were magnates in the shipping business in Boston, but Whittaker was branching out into land transportation.

He'd bought up several small shipping companies had united them to form Western Land, in direct competition with Wells Fargo. Jerome had salivated to buy him out. By all accounts Whittaker would have sold, but a merger with Wlliams Shipping had been more important. Or, more close to reality, he wanted to marry off his slut of a daughter.

For the company, Jerome had been willing to settle. But then Isabella had come into his life. Rafe had heard tales of this miraculous woman who could make a man turn his back on millions of dollars. Jerome had met her on his tour of Europe when visiting friend and fellow shipper Benito Vercelli. He met Isabella as she had just married Benito.

Now Benito had died of the flu and Bella had come to America. Though a marriage to her would put Jerome in control of Vercelli Shipping, it was love that brought them together.

"It might be. There have been threats on my life, as well as that of kidnapping. They are delivered here in the mornings, unsigned, I haven't been able to trace them. They suggest that I leave my holdings here in Boston, not marry Isabella, and beg Jane Whittaker to take me back."

"Stupid idiots, I thought she'd run off."

"Her father says she has. I have no choice but to believe him. For all we know, she could be dead or in Canada by now." Jerome leaned against the mantle and sighed into the fire.

"I never meant to hurt her, Rafe."

Rafe snorted. "She wanted your money, your good name, her father wanted Williams Shipping. They were using you. She was probably fucking that butler all along."

"Still, I wonder why she ran."

"Freedom from her father, I suppose. A reputation as a wanton and some nobleman from England begging off marriage, then you, her reputation would never recover. Whittaker would probably whip her daily. Can I see these notes?"

Jerome turned back to the desk and slid out the top right drawer. From it he removed a parchment of old style vellum tied with a black ribbon.

"Vellum, that's odd. Old, expensive."

"Not easily found in America. My first instinct was Isabella's brother in law."

"Franco?"

Jerome nodded and half sat, half stood on the corner of his desk while Rafe leafed through the stack of vile words in pretty script.

"Franco is of course the heir to Benito's fortune as he and Isabella had no children. But Benito was a shrewd man. He left Franco in charge of the company, but its assets and profits belong solely to Isabella. And I have drawn up a contractual agreement that even if I marry Isabella she will always have control of the company, and it shall pass to her children, never to me."

"So what happens if Isabella has no children? Who gets it then, Jerome?"

"Franco, I suppose. Though I'll fight him through every court on every continent if I have to. I will, however, try very hard to make Isabella has all the children she wants." He attempted a wry smile and got a chuckle out of Rafe.

"You're a lucky man, Jerome. So Whittaker stands to gain your company, Franco stands to gain Isabella's, these are the players?"

"All I have to go on. Now all I ask is that you help me get to Isabella, and you know how much I loathe asking for help. Hell, Isabella promised me she'd send me her friend the Kid in St Louis, so you can leave me then if you like. And that is just a common name."

"Don't I know it. Jerome, I won't let you down. And I'll go you one better, I'll put off MacMaster's business until I find out who's after you."

"Thank you, Rafe. Now, shall we?"

Rafe stood and followed him out into the hall where maids waited with their coats. It was early spring and there was still a chill in the air. As he slipped his on over his gun belt he winked at Shannon, whom he'd gotten to know better on a previous visit.

Outside the weather was as grey as the sea just beyond sight. The air was salty and cool. Jerome had mentioned more than once he was happy to leave but Rafe had just gotten used to Boston. He was going to miss it.

"Lord I hate traveling. Just once I'd like to stay longer than a month in one spot."

"Some day," Jerome clapped him on the back and they strode to the carriage. "Some day, my friend."