Chapter 3

Of anything Mr. Norman Nesbit had been expecting on his journey back to Chicago, being shot—and by a woman no less—hadn’t crossed his mind, one that many people said was one of the most remarkable minds of the day.

He was a man known for presenting the world with a detached and, some might say, emotionless demeanor. However, as he lay on the ground, most likely bleeding to death, he couldn’t deny he was feeling less along the lines of detached and more along the lines of aggravated.

It was beyond curious how it had come about that he’d been thrust into the company of Miss Beatrix Waterbury, a progressive woman if there ever was one, and the type of woman he normally avoided like the plague. He never willingly stayed in the company of women who were incapable of taking sound advice, such as putting away her pistol to protect the innocent, advice Beatrix evidently didn’t believe was sound, even though she’d actually shot him, which proved his advice had been very sound indeed.

Sucking in a breath of much-needed air, which had his chest burning in protest, he released it right as Beatrix materialized above him, her lovely green eyes, something he only just noticed, filled with what seemed to be genuine concern.

Before he could dwell further on that thought, another thought chased it straight away, one that questioned why he was wasting precious time noticing that Beatrix’s eyes were lovely. It was hardly the moment to ponder such nonsensical matters and certainly suggested he might have suffered a blow to the head because it was very unlike him to become distracted by lovely eyes in the first place.

“Lie perfectly still while I see if I can locate where the bullet struck you,” Beatrix said, interrupting his disconcerting thoughts as she began patting him down, her hands starting at his face, which clearly didn’t have a hole in it, and moving downward.

“Stop that,” he muttered around a hand that was now covering his mouth.

“Don’t argue with me. I’m trying to do a thorough assessment, and you’re disturbing my concentration.”

Before he could muster up an argument, Beatrix ripped open his jacket, popping off buttons in the process. Why she’d chosen such a dramatic manner to open his jacket was curious since it wouldn’t have taken that much longer to simply unbutton it. However, since she was now thumping her hand against his chest, the thumping setting his teeth on edge, he found himself lacking any incentive to question her methods.

Her thumping abruptly stopped. “Why does your chest seem unusually firm, and why is it giving off an odd pealing sound?”

Norman peered through untidy hair that was almost obscuring his view. “I’m wearing plates of steel under my vest that one of my fellow scientists gave me. He’s a metallurgist and is working with different metals, hoping to create a stronger product. He gave me a sample after I met with him in New York.”

“But why are you wearing plates of steel?”

“Thought they would come in handy to protect my research papers, the ones the train robbers really wanted, from any weather elements as I traveled back to Chicago.”

A second later, Beatrix was unbuttoning his vest, something he was grateful about since he was fond of this particular vest and didn’t want its buttons to go the way of the buttons of his jacket. Shoving open the vest after she’d gotten it completely unbuttoned, she let her gaze travel over the steel plate he’d secured around himself with a belt.

“Do you often encounter unexpected weather elements when you travel?” she finally asked.

“No, but that’s not to say I couldn’t have encountered unexpected weather, such as a torrential rainstorm, which could have ruined my papers.”

“But you were traveling on a train, not in an open carriage.”

“I’m not on a train now.”

“True, but it’s not raining.”

“True, but my papers could even now be getting a drenching from the blood I’m most certainly spilling because, if you’ve forgotten, you shot me.”

Her green eyes widened. “I did forget about that. Where do you think the bullet entered?”

Norman frowned. “Not sure.”

“Where’s the greatest pain?”

“My chest.”

That answer had her returning her attention to his chest, or rather to the belt that was keeping the steel plates in place. Divesting him of the belt and the top plate, she peeled away his research papers, then paused when she got to the second steel plate that was lying directly against his shirt. Leaning closer, she plucked the plate off him, turning that plate over and over again as she considered it.

“There’s no hole, and I don’t see any blood on your shirt” was all she said, tossing the plate aside before she picked up the first plate again, which she then brandished in front of him.

“Look, there’s a dent here that suggests the bullet might have ricocheted off this plate.” She tossed the plate to the ground and began patting his jacket down again, causing him to jump when her finger poked him in the side.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Looking for the bullet.” She bent over him, her hair tickling his nose as well as allowing him to get a whiff of her hair, which smelled like lemon mixed with a bit of lime.

“Got it,” she said cheerfully, taking the scent of her hair with her as she straightened, holding a small bullet in her hand. She turned a bright smile on him, drawing his attention to a freckle that rested directly next to her bottom lip. That lip, he realized, was once again moving, which meant she was speaking, although what she’d just said, he had no idea.

“I must be suffering from a blow to the head,” he muttered.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” she demanded, tossing the bullet aside and probing his head with her fingers. She lifted his head as she continued feeling around the back of his neck until his head was nestled directly against her bosom, not that she seemed to realize she’d placed him in a spot she probably didn’t want him lingering.

A different scent immediately captured his senses, one that smelled of lilies, sunshine, and . . .

He shook his head as he realized the scent was beginning to muddle thoughts that were unused to being muddled.

“You’re pulling my hair,” he murmured through the fabric his face was pressed up against, a less-than-truthful statement since she was being remarkably gentle with him, but it was the only thing he could think of to get her to release him, which would hopefully have his thoughts returning to fine working order.

She released him abruptly, causing his head to land with a thud against the hard ground and earning a grunt from him in return.

Beatrix winced. “Sorry about that, but you’ll be pleased to learn that your head seems to be fine, as does your chest.” She picked up one of the abandoned steel plates and nodded. “You must make sure to tell that scientist friend of yours that he’s on to something with this steel because it appears that his plate prevented the bullet from hitting your skin.”

“I suppose I should be relieved I’ve not actually been shot.”

“You have been shot, but you aren’t going to die from it.” She caught his eye. “Do know that I didn’t intentionally shoot you, although I didn’t actually shoot you, the ground did. With that said, though, I feel dreadful about the accident and am much relieved to know you’re going to live.”

“I’d feel much relieved if you’d agree to give me that pistol purse of yours so you won’t unintentionally shoot anyone else.”

“I’m not giving you my pistol purse. These are dangerous times for a lady traveling alone, and that pistol purse lends me a sense of security.”

“Your pistol purse lends me an ache in my chest where that bullet would have torn my skin if I’d not had the presence of mind to gird my chest with plates of steel to begin with.”

“If you’d not been so clumsy as to stumble into your horse, which then bumped into mine, I wouldn’t have tumbled to the ground, nor would I have dropped the pistol purse, which then caused it to fire—a rare occurrence I’m sure since I’ve not read any reports in the newspaper about this particular weapon firing at random.”

“You read?”

“I don’t believe I need to dignify that with an answer.” She rose to her feet and dusted off her hands.

“I’m not questioning whether you can read,” Norman clarified. “I was questioning the idea that you read newspapers.”

“Of course I read newspapers.”

“There’s no need to sound so indignant. You must know that electing to read newspapers is a peculiar choice for a woman. I can’t claim to know but three women who read the daily newsprints.”

“You must not be acquainted with many women.”

“I’m acquainted with lots of women, but again, they’ve never brought it to my attention that they read newspapers.”

She let out a bit of a snort. “That’s only because women are brought up to believe that gentlemen do not want to spend time with bluestockings, so most women keep their true reading habits to themselves to spare them disdainful conversations like the one I’m currently not enjoying with you.” She tilted her head. “Out of curiosity, though, have you ever asked a woman what she prefers to read?”

“And be bored silly as that woman would, of course, expound on the delights of Jane Austen or the like?”

“I’ll take that as a no.” She dusted off her hands again. “And with that settled, shall we get moving?” She gave him a tight smile. “I’m afraid if we spend too much time together, I may very well be tempted to drop my pistol purse to the ground again, preferably aimed in your direction.”

He was relatively certain she wasn’t jesting. “By all means, let us get on our way, although I don’t believe I’m feeling settled enough just yet, after having been shot, to climb back into that saddle.”

“You were never in the saddle, merely sprawled over it.”

“I told you, I suffered a riding accident in my youth. As I recovered from that accident, I decided that I’d never ride a horse again.”

Beatrix held out her hand to him, and even though he was surprised by the gesture, he took it, surprised again when she hauled him to his feet.

“Didn’t your parents believe that it’s always best to get right back on a horse after you’ve fallen off?” she asked, releasing his hand.

“I couldn’t very well have gotten right back on that dastardly horse because I suffered two broken arms, a broken leg, fractured ribs, and a concussed head.”

“You did take quite the spill, didn’t you?”

“Indeed. I was confined to my bed for months. Today is the first time in over two decades that I’ve been up close and personal with a horse.”

Her nose wrinkled. “But if you’d gotten back in the saddle after you’d recovered, you wouldn’t now be hampered by a fear of horses.”

“I have no issue with my fear of horses.”

“It takes a confident man to admit that.”

He shrugged. “I’ve never been overly concerned with what others think of me. I’m well aware that many people find me eccentric, a notion that doesn’t bother me in the least.”

“Why do people find you eccentric?”

“I have an unusual mind.”

“Undoubtedly.”

He tilted his head. “Aren’t you curious why I believe I have an unusual mind?”

“I don’t believe you need to give any further explanation.” She smiled. “I am curious, though, how your parents allowed you to avoid riding again, what with how horses are a necessary means of transportation.”

“Do you not have a mother?”

“Of course I have a mother.”

“Then you really shouldn’t need more of an explanation than that. My mother suffered tremendously after I was thrown from my horse, so because of that, and because she also decided I was a fragile sort, she didn’t bat an eye when I declared I was never mounting a horse again.”

“You don’t look fragile.”

“I made a concerted effort to improve my physical form after I was permitted to leave my sickbed. To this day, I maintain a strict schedule devoted to physical activity.”

Her gaze traveled over him. “That strict schedule is clearly effective. But returning to your refusal to ride horses . . . while I understand your mother’s decision, what of your father? Did he not have a say in the matter?”

“My father enjoys keeping a harmonious relationship with my mother.” Norman brushed a leaf from the sleeve of his jacket before he lifted his head and frowned. “I find myself curious, though, about your understanding of my mother’s decision. I’ve often wondered about spinsters and their outlook on life, but now feel as if my theories may be off the mark.”

Beatrix narrowed her eyes at him. “What theories?”

“Well, one of them has always been that because spinsters are not mothers, they don’t develop the expected maternal feelings their counterparts do, which would then make it more difficult for them to understand emotional reactions such as my mother had.”

A flash of temper flickered through her eyes. “While it’s bewildering to me why you would even contemplate such nonsense, what with how you claim to have a brilliant mind, I don’t believe spinsterhood is responsible for depriving a woman of maternal instincts. Frankly, I find such theories insulting and have to wonder what your wife thinks about all that.”

“I’m not married.”

“That explains much.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What theory would you come up with about me if I told you that not only am I a spinster, and one who has no interest in marrying at the moment, I’m also an avid supporter of the suffrage movement?”

“I’d say it’s fortunate you have no interest in marrying because men do not care to become involved with suffragists, whom everyone knows are simply women disgruntled with their lot in life.”

For a long moment, she stared at him, until she spun on her heel, stomped over to her pistol purse, scooped it up from the ground, then turned back to him.

“You’re not intending on shooting me with that, are you?” he finally forced himself to ask when she continued regarding him without speaking a word.

“Tempting, but no.” With that, she tucked the pistol purse away, walked over to her horse, took the reins, then sent him a nod. “This is where I bid you adieu and wish you luck in finding your way back to civilization.”

“You’re going to leave a man you only recently shot, and one whom you know is incapable of riding a horse, out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Yes.”

Before Norman could compose a suitable argument, Beatrix jumped on her horse and galloped away, leaving him behind.