Forgetting his lack of disguise, Max spun on his heel and headed out the door, hurrying along the boardwalk toward the saloons. This strange phenomenon didn’t happen to him often, but he understood the meaning of it after nearly losing Monty to a stampeding horse when they were eleven. From that time on, Max always investigated the situation, even when it usually ended up being minor. In the instances when he and Monty were in close proximity, he actually felt what Monty felt. The trouble was, he usually recognized this bizarre awareness when he was doubled over in pain. Rarely did he feel the pleasure of his twin’s sunnier side. Maybe it was because pain was sharper and more intense.
When he and Monty were younger, he’d tried to explain what happened to him every time Monty did something really stupid, like jump from a tree and break his leg. Monty had scoffed. For whatever reason, Max felt his brother’s pain, but not the other way around. Considering what Max did for a living and the number of times he’d been shot, it was probably a good thing. At the third saloon Max visited, he found the cause of his discomfort. Even with a wide-brimmed Stetson pulled low on his head, he recognized his brother. Monty, in trail worn dungarees, chaps and a dusty blue cambric shirt, swung his fist and connected solidly with another man’s jaw. He momentarily held the man up with his fist tangled in his shirtfront. Max watched his brother rear back to hit him again, but instead let him go. The man fell to the floor.
Max pushed through the swinging doors and stormed to where Monty was bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard. He turned to see whom he had been pummeling. Shit, it was Dillon.
“Come on.”
Max grabbed his brother’s arm to tug him toward the door. Surprised, Monty started to throw a punch.
“Don’t even think it, little brother,” Max growled.
He’d wanted to find his brother. Now he had to juggle keeping Abby out of trouble, getting Dillon to confess his crimes and seeing that Dillon didn’t connect Max and Monty. Just then the man groaned and stirred, and Max tapped Monty on the arm and pointed toward the door. A burly bartender blocked their way.
“You ain’t leaving without paying for them damages.”
“He started it,” Monty stated, pointing to where Dillon, who was getting to his hands and knees. They only had seconds before Dillon would locate them amidst the saloon wreckage.
Max slapped some bills in the bartender’s hand and pulled his brother out the door. For long minutes, all that could be heard were Max’s boot heels beating an angry rhythm on the wet boardwalk. He stormed away from the saloon, knowing his brother would follow. It was no longer raining, leaving the town eerily quiet.
“Max, I can explain.” Monty touched his arm. It was like poking a stick at a rattler.
All the worry about where Monty was and if he was safe, not to mention the aggravation his parents had gone through, flashed through Max’s mind at his touch. He turned on Monty in a fury, punching him in the jaw and sending him stumbling backward against the side of the building.
“Damn!”
Max shook his left hand while rubbing his jaw with his right. It was impossible to inflict pain on his brother without feeling it doubly himself. Monty rose, rubbing his jaw.
“Feel better?”
Max narrowed his eyes. How the hell was he supposed to stay mad when it was like looking at himself? Max rubbed a hand over his face. He never could stay angry at Monty, even when his brother got them into all kinds of mischief. All it took was one grin—just like the one he was giving him now.
“You look like hell,” he said, taking in the growth of beard and dusty denim on his usually immaculate brother.
“Getting away from the city will do that. You look…different,” Monty countered.
He debated telling his brother about Abby, but a commotion down the street reminded him they needed to get out of sight.
“Come on.” He started walking. “I want answers, Monty.”
He saw his brother grit his teeth. Max narrowed his gaze and furrowed his brow, giving him his most formidable look. His brother gave a slight nod, his shoulders slumping and his face dejected.
Monty never got in real trouble, so Max knew it must have been bad to make him leave Boston and Sarah. He shifted, unconsciously shouldering the burden Monty had been carrying. Just like he’d always done when they were boys. Just like he would always do. He was the oldest—the protector.
* * *
They sat at a corner table in a small restaurant, away from the prying eyes of any late breakfast customers. Although he didn’t like to do so, Max put his back to the door to help hide his identity.
“Okay, tell me what the hell is going on, and then you’re going back to Boston.”
“When are you going to stop fighting my battles?” Monty sounded defensive.
“When you stop doing stupid things.” Max was as stubborn as his brother, a trait they both inherited from their father.
“It sounded like a plausible way to diversify,” Monty said.
Max remained silent. Monty would tell him everything. He knew Max wouldn’t let him go until he did.
“A man named John Dillon talked to Jerome first, more than once. When he found Jerome only kept the books and wasn’t in charge of the assets in a way that helped, he started talking to me about investments and diversification of the business capital.”
Monty shook his head.
“You know how Father can be—always asking questions, demanding answers. I wanted to check everything before I showed him how much our investment would gain.”
“What was it—the railroad, shipping?”
“Mining ventures.”
Monty ran a hand through his hair in a gesture that was all too familiar.
“Jerome made the initial withdrawal. I received the first group of mining stocks before I suspected Dillon was shady. He never produced the land office claims—said they were being mailed from Denver. He had assay reports, but they were no doubt from bogus mines.”
Monty wouldn’t meet Max’s gaze.
“I tried to call off the deal—get the initial payment back—but every time I went to see Dillon, he was conveniently out. The night we were supposed to pay the rest of the money, I arrived at the warehouse early to warn Jerome off.”
Monty’s voice cracked. “I was too late.”
“Jerome was dead when you got there?”
He nodded.
“They emptied the place, making it look like a robbery. I tried to track them before they got too much of a head start.”
“You said they. I thought you only dealt with Dillon.”
“I did, but I figure he didn’t clean out that warehouse by himself. He must have partners.”
“More than likely just hired thugs,” Max said.
“He probably didn’t even move the merchandise very far—possibly to another warehouse on the wharf.”
“Then there’s still time to recover it?”
“No. The move would have only been temporary. I daresay the new warehouse was emptied within days, the merchandise distributed through a dozen or more brokers and unable to be traced.”
“I might as well return to Boston and face the music,” Monty said.
“At least we didn’t go through with the rest of the deal.”
Max hated like hell to add to his brother’s guilt.
“They got it all, Monty.”
His brother’s gaze swung back to him.
“What do you mean?”
“I received a telegram from Father. Whatever information Dillon got from Jerome before he killed him, he used it to take it all—half a million gone.”
Monty went white.
“Good God, we’re ruined.”
“Maybe not,” Max countered. He didn’t say any more as a waitress stopped to pour coffee from a blue speckled pot. He recalled the first time he’d seen Abby, working as a Harvey Girl in Topeka. He needed to get back to the hotel before long. Once the waitress left, he continued. “He can’t have spent that kin
d of money by now, much less marketed the merchandise and spent all that, too. The money has got to be in a bank somewhere. All we have to do is find out where.”
“I’ve been following him for the same reason.”
“Is that why you were in Chicago?” Max asked.
“How did you know?”
“I’m the investigator, remember?” Max grinned, suddenly realizing how good it felt to see Monty and to know that he was alive and well, if not financially solvent.
“I knew it was him. I accused him of stealing and demanded the money back.”
“And you actually expected him to give it to you?” Max asked.
“Did you add your watch to the bet as a clue, in case I came looking for you?”
Monty looked thoroughly confused, then embarrassed.
“I didn’t—”
“You never were good at lying, and even worse at poker.”
Monty scowled.
“I happened to find your watch, hanging around the neck of a very pretty lady.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story, and if I don’t get back to the hotel soon, I have a feeling Abby will come looking for me.”
“Oh, so that’s the way the wind blows.”
“No, it’s not. She’s intelligent and stubborn and—”
Max felt his cheeks warm. What had gotten into him, gushing about a woman?
Monty laughed. “Let’s go.”
“You’re not going anywhere except back to Boston,” Max argued.
“Not today, it seems,” Monty replied, and Max followed his line of vision. It was raining again, cutting deep gouges in the road, myriad tiny rivers crisscrossing each other as the water ran down the street. They walked up Pine Street toward the Teller House Hotel. There wasn’t a person to be seen anywhere, but Max was sure the saloons were still making a killing. Any of the miners coming to town last Saturday were stuck until the passes into the mountains were once again dry enough to traverse.
The hotel clerk did a double-take when they entered the lobby. Max almost looked over his shoulder to see what the clerk gawked at before he remembered. It wasn’t often he and Monty were seen together. Back in Boston when they did happen to be at the same event, most of the other people in attendance already knew they were twins. The clerk found his voice.
“May I help you?”
“Already registered,” Max answered. “Markham, room nine.”
“No, I’m sorry, but Mr. Markham is…taller,” the clerk said. He looked at Max, then nodded.
“Yes, definitely taller…and with a beard.”
To save time and arguments, Max simply agreed.
“You are absolutely right.”
The clerk beamed in self-satisfaction and Max waved Monty to the stairs. They chuckled as they strolled along the hallway.
“Abby?”
He knocked on her door.
He knocked again. Frowning, he turned toward his room.
“Don’t tell me you misplaced her,” his brother teased.
Max ignored him, bursting into his room only to find it empty as well. Where would she have gone in the rain? Taking the extra key from the bureau, he hurried back to her room, twisting the key in the lock. Quickly he flipped through the items she’d left scattered across her bed. He returned to his room, pulling off his jacket and grabbing different clothes from the pegs on the wall.
“She’s gone after Dillon.”
He checked the cylinder of his gun.
“What? You have a woman doing your investigating now?”
“Don’t be an ass. She did lead me to Dillon, and you. Under the circumstances, it’s hard to leave her out of it.”
“Circumstances? As in…?”
Monty glanced at the rumpled bed.
Max wasn’t about to tell his brother about his personal involvement with Abby.
“As in—she’s a damn good poker player.”
“What makes you think she’s after him?”
Max pulled his hat low over his forehead as he opened the door.
“Her money, her knife and her Derringer. They’re missing.”
Chapter Thirteen
Abby felt relatively safe venturing out on her own while Max was gone. After all, she wanted to talk to Star, not gamble with Dillon. She wanted to convince the girl to leave Dillon and go to Denver. She would have preferred to talk without Dillon around, but that was not to be. She found Star hanging close to Dillon at a poker table in the Silver Streak Saloon. The air in the saloon smelled of stale beer and cigar smoke, and she almost turned around and returned to the hotel room. It was impossible for her to imagine that men would want to spend all their time in places like this. Trying not to breathe too deeply, she wound her way to the table Dillon occupied.
“What the hell are you doing here? Can’t a man gamble in peace?”
He no longer even made a pretense of being a gentleman. She forced a smile.
“Why, Mr. Dillon, you look somewhat the worse for wear.”
One eye was almost swollen shut, and a purple bruise colored his jaw.
“Perhaps I should come back another time.”
“The other guy looks worse,” he replied. Abby couldn’t tell if that were a boast or a lie.
“Besides, if you came to finish our little game, it would be a shame to deprive these gentlemen of their pleasure.”
His low-pitched, oily voice implied an intimacy between them. All the men nodded rapidly. Word of their outrageous bet must have circulated throughout the mining town. One man even jumped up and offered his chair. Apparently they all felt responsible for helping Dillon win. She knew they all anticipated her downfall. She glanced past Dillon to where Star stood. A fresh bruise colored the girl’s right shoulder. Abby decided then and there that her reward for winning would be that Dillon release Star. An hour later, she was still in control. Even though it was early in the afternoon, Dillon was drinking heavily. He lost hand after hand.
“I raise,” she said, dropping five gold eagles onto the green baize of the table. She looked at Dillon. He would have to fold. She made sure when she lay the money down that he didn’t have enough to see her bet, much less raise it.
“Damn you!”
He dug in his pockets, coming up empty.
“Give me a piece of paper,” he said to no one in particular. He scribbled something on the slip and tossed it onto the table.
“I call.”
“I’m sorry, but that doesn’t look like money to me,” Abby said sweetly.
“It’s my IOU. My word’s good—ask anyone. Besides, I’m not going to need it.”
He turned his cards over.
“Full house; aces over threes.”
Abby turned over a card, putting the four in front of her.
“I have found, Mr. Dillon, that men tend to stick together.”
She turned over another four.
“So, while everyone here may agree that your word is good,” she put a third four beside the other two cards, “I prefer not to accept your IOU.”
She turned over a king; paused, then added the final four. She stared intently across the table at Dillon, watching his face turn red with anger.
“Sinners!”
The booming pronouncement bounced against the saloon walls and echoed even above the din of voices and loud piano music. Abby groaned.
“Repent, before you all burn in hell!”
She scrunched her head between her shoulders, knowing full well the wrath of Reverend Fishbone was about to descend upon her.
“Deal.”
The miner on her left poked her with his elbow.
“But—”she hesitated.
“Ah, don’t worry none about that preacher. They come here all the time. Most figure if they yell ’bout sinnin’ enough, someone will give ’em money just to shut ’em up. That’s all they really want.”
She would have liked to turn around to see exactly where Max was, but she forced her attention to the players at the
table. Dillon was scribbling another IOU. She decided now was a good time to leave the game.
“I believe I am through for today, so I must insist on collecting my money, Mr. Dillon.”
“You know I don’t have the money in front of me,” he barked at her.
She wondered how far to push him.
“Harrumph.”
Abby recognized the disgruntled growl even without turning around. Three of the men at the table looked past her, scooped up their money and hurried away, chairs scraping the rough wood floor.
“Christ!”
Dillon muttered, looking up from his scribbling.
“No, just one of his lowly disciples,” came the smooth, low response. A shadow crossed the table where her hands trembled slightly on top of her pile of money. When she dared to look, her gaze slid over hands clutching a prayer book and past the frayed lapels of a black frock coat. His eyes were fiery blue, boring into her from behind wire-rimmed glasses. His flat-brimmed hat was pushed low on his brow, and there was no mistaking the frown he wore.
She quickly looked away, frantically thinking of an excuse. She knew how Max felt about her dealing with Dillon on her own. Even though it wasn’t her original intent, she now wished she hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave the hotel. Her hand brushed the scribbled IOU. She looked across the table where Dillon was getting ready to leave.
“Excuse me, but you have neglected to pay your debt.”
“Told you I didn’t have it on me,” he growled. “I’ll have to wire my account for it.” Then he sneered. “Why don’t you give me the key to your room and I’ll personally deliver it?”
“See here, sir!” The reverend’s hackles rose.
Abby widened her eyes, realizing the perfect solution.
“Why, perhaps we can persuade the good Reverend—” She paused.
“Fishbone,” Max supplied, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes, Reverend Fishbone. I’m sure he would be more than happy to accompany you so you can telegraph your bank and get my money. I don’t intend to stay much longer in town. My father’s business, you know,” she added, recalling the story she’d given the bartender last night.
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