Temperance blinked. “I don’t understand.”
Sophia broke into a slow grin. “Henry was shooting gold dust into paydirt, to make a worthless claim look rich. So Gray can pawn off that stake to some unsuspecting fool for an obscene price.”
Annie nodded. She’d never heard of such double-dealing in Caribou Crossing before, but since the Reverend was about as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, she wasn’t too surprised.
Sophia shook her head. “Gray’s brilliant. And he’s…he’s…” She trailed off, her mouth opening and closing. “Diabolical.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Annie wheeled her horse around. “Gotta go, though. The Mounties’re coming. They must’ve heard our shots. And I don’t particularly care to be sitting here, dressed as an outlaw, when they show up.”
Temperance’s eyes widened. “Oh, honey. Go. Now.”
Annie nodded. “What about y’all? You’re all wet. What’ll you tell them?”
“That the outlaw attacked us,” Sophia offered, “and that you got away. He shot at Temperance and me, so we jumped in the river to escape.”
Temperance stiffened. “No. If they think the outlaw’s close by, they’ll chase her.”
“But if Gray means to frame us, this’ll stop him.” Excitement brimmed in Sophia’s voice. “How could one of us be the outlaw if we’re the ones who got robbed?”
Warmth suffused Annie’s chest. “Christ. You’re a clever one, ain’t you?”
Temperance wavered, looking torn. “We can’t risk her.”
Annie huffed, puffing out her chest. “I can outrun them.” And she could. She was the Flower of the North, after all. She bowed to no man, law-enforcing or otherwise. Besides, a whisper had started up, sounding in her depths. Do something reckless.
Fleeing the law should do just fine.
Sophia nodded. “We’ll do it. Go.”
Annie didn’t stay to hear more. Laughing, she took off northward, toward the unforgiving mountains. When she looked back, Temperance and Sophia sat on the riverbank. Beside them, a red tunic flashed in the brush.
A fearsome thrill shot through her as she stashed her shotgun in the saddlebag and flattened herself against the horse’s neck. A challenge rose in her heart, ringing like the first crack of river ice in spring.
Catch me if you can.
Wind poured over her, bellowing in her ears as she burst into a valley of waltzing fireweed. The mountains loomed, swallowing her up with jagged jaws as she raced along the river.
She tore off her disguise piece by piece—gloves, mask, wide black hat—and hurled everything into the churning water. Last, she hauled the red-soaked buckskin up over her head and untied the bladder of pig’s blood fastened around her side. She stopped to admire the clean hole piercing the thin membrane.
Not surprisingly, Sophia’s shot had been perfect. Perfect.
Casting the tunic into the Klondike, Annie flew across the valley wearing nothing but buckskin trousers and a smile.
The grin gave way to a laugh. No doubt Henry believed what he’d seen—that moron was every bit as stupid as he looked. She imagined the Reverend’s face when he heard the outlaw had taken his gold.
Sophia’s plan had been downright inspired. It didn’t even matter who the real outlaw was—now the Reverend would have a new enemy to chase. Someone that wasn’t them. And when he heard Sophia’d shot the robber, he’d think twice about crossing her again. Maybe a healthy dose of fear would finally wipe that stupid smile off his stupid angel face.
The only real risk lay in Henry talking to the Mounties, since his story wouldn’t match their lie. But after seeing his treachery with her own eyes, she knew he’d keep quiet.
Annie’s heart soared, buoyed by the thrashing wind.
She glanced back.
A frown took hold. A red tunic glowed behind her, closer than she’d reckoned it’d be.
Tugging the reins, she diverted up over a hill. On the other side, she found a narrow passageway through gnarled bracken. She guided her mare through, careful to avoid the devil’s club’s lancing thorns.
Cool blue shadows washed over her bare skin. A narrow canyon stretched before her, a winding green road bordered by towering granite walls. Overhead, a slice of golden sky lit the moss and bramble underfoot.
Laughter bubbled up again. That poor, lonely Mountie would never find her here.
She followed the canyon deeper in. The walls widened, revealing a tranquil glade, like a glowing green coin resting in the palm of a giant stone hand. A ring of mica-studded rock sparkled with its own light, and in the center, a hot spring sent steam drifting skyward.
Her eyes went wide. Dismounting, she shucked her buckskin trousers and waded, naked, into the wide pool. Biting heat welcomed her, dissolving the clinging stickiness of dried sweat and congealed pig’s blood. Dipping underwater, she struck out and swam. At the spring’s far side, a pocket of soapwort fountained out, trailing starburst flowers into the steaming water.
“Well, don’t mind if I do.” Stems snapped; the violet buds came away in her hands. A few kicks brought her to the near shore again, where her black horse watched with glinting sable eyes.
Emerging into the bracing air, Annie had the distinct feeling of being laughed at—what must Cupcake think of all these antics?
Grinning, she crushed the soapwort petals into a rich lather and worked the suds into the horse’s hide. “Well? Did you enjoy your first costume party? ‘Cause I sure as hell did.”
Cupcake cast a doubtful eye, but allowed the washing. Annie hated to slough away the black, since Sophia had applied the grease paint with such care. But then she remembered Henry’s mottled fury when she’d ridden off with his gold and decided all that work had been worth it.
If only she’d brought her flask. This was exactly the type of moment that deserved some celebratory whiskey.
The breeze delivered a faint jangle. Annie’s head snapped around, sending her wet hair slapping against bare flesh.
She cocked an ear. The jangle sounded again, louder this time, amplified the canyon’s walls.
Her throat closed up tight. Someone was coming. If it was that Mountie…
With a swift yank, she unbuckled Cupcake’s saddle and tossed it to shore. Stuffing the castoff buckskin trousers into the bushes, she tore open her saddlebag and dug for the green muslin dress she’d packed away. Flinging the garment over her head, she checked herself over. Though she was soaking wet, no trace of the outlaw getup remained.
Cupcake was a different story, though. Rivers of diluted black paint streamed down her rump, dirtying the natural red and white beneath.
Annie crashed back into the steaming pool. Grabbing the dangling reins, she pulled hard, hauling the mare toward deeper water.
With a baleful stare, Cupcake dug in her hooves.
Panic clawed at Annie’s stomach. She threw her weight into the effort, but even a hundred and ninety-five pounds of desperation were no match for a stubborn appaloosa. “Not now, you stupid cow! Any time but now!”
Cupcake didn’t move.
Annie tried a different tactic. “I’ll let you get all gussied up and rob Henry again, if we get out of this alive?”
At that, the mare chuffed, relenting. One step into the water, then another. Annie watched with bated breath, afraid to tug the reins.
Cupcake stopped chest-deep in the steaming pool. It was enough. With frantic hands, Annie scrubbed away the last of the grease paint, flinging water until red shoulders and white flanks glowed. A ringing rump slap sent Cupcake cantering toward shore.
From the canyon, clomping hooves mingled with the warning jingle of bit and bridle.
Annie squared her shoulders, stealing a last, thin moment in which to think. She had to act afraid. After all, a man in a black mask had just run her off.
What would the Flower of the North do in a situation like that?
Storming from the pool, Annie dove for her saddlebag, then pulled out the shotgun and brought it t
o her shoulder. Ignoring the pulse pounding in her temples, she sighted down the barrels.
A scarlet tunic appeared, blazing devil-red in the thin wedge of light from above. A wide Stetson gleamed the color of wheatgrass, casting the wearer’s face into darkness. But she would’ve recognized that bay anywhere—the only real black horse in Caribou Crossing.
Temperance’s Mountie, of course—because who else? “Stop there, or I shoot.”
Corporal O’Cahill didn’t listen. His enormous horse plodded forward, blotting out the sun. Annie retreated until heated water kissed her heels.
“You’ll be putting the gun down.” With the light behind him, shadows claimed his face. He spoke sternly, with authority—sounding every bit like a man who’d toss her in jail without so much as a second thought.
She aimed higher, letting true fear quiver in her voice. May as well put it to good use. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Miss?”
“There’s only one black horse in the Klondike. Which means you’re the one who just shot at me and my friends. Did you hurt ‘em? Because if you did…” She made a menacing gesture with the gun.
Silence. The Corporal swung down, his shining boots thudding into the ground. When he stepped into the bay’s shadow, she finally glimpsed his face.
Her heart turned to ash. That narrow nose, that darkened brow, those frostbitten eyes—he didn’t look at her, but into her, as if he saw straight past her lies and didn’t like what he found.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“Sure am,” she said, dread mounting. “You would be, too, if you’d just been attacked by some lunatic in a mask.”
He stepped in, showing empty hands. The crisp scent of his starched uniform came with him. “Put the weapon down. I’ll not be asking again.”
“Swear it wasn’t you.”
He extended a palm. “You’re threatening an officer of the law. Don’t give me cause to arrest you.”
Annie stood her ground. But his expression was cold and closed, every line of his stance intent. She weighed her options—there weren’t many—and, after a few mental calculations in which she came up short every time, she placed the shotgun in his waiting hand.
She felt naked without it.
The Corporal cracked the stock and thumbed out both shells, tossing them aside before offering her a hard stare. “If you’re believing, even for a moment, that I’d ever assault a woman, you’ve lost your wits.” He spoke with all the warmth of a Yukon snowfall.
“Fine. You want some kinda medal for not being the punchy type?”
“What happened?” he demanded, ignoring her jibe.
She crossed her arms, praying to the God she didn’t believe in that her story would match Temperance and Sophia’s. As long as she didn’t muck up the details, the Corporal would have to believe her, right? “I came out for a ride with my friends. But some madman on a black horse burst outta the bushes and tried to rob us. Shot at us, too. I hightailed it outta there on Cupcake.” She jerked her thumb at the mare. “I don’t know what happened to my—”
“Your friends are safe.”
“You saw ‘em?”
His gaze flickered down for a bare instant. Then he turned away, snapping the shotgun closed with one gloved hand. Belatedly, she remembered herself: soaked to the skin, wearing nothing but a flimsy dress no respectable woman would even own. The drenched green fabric clung to every curve, hiding nothing. But where most men would pay good money to get the Flower of the North in such a state, Connor O’Cahill wouldn’t even look at her.
Despite the fear simmering in her belly, she almost laughed. Was the Corporal a prude?
O’Cahill lashed the shotgun to his saddle. “I’ll be confiscating this. You know the law.”
“Guess I do.”
He kept his gaze averted. “Do you have a coat, Miss?”
“No.” She narrowed her eyes. “My dress bothering you that much?”
In answer, he reached up and unbuttoned his tunic. When he slipped the jacket off, he seemed to shrink before her eyes. In his gray undershirt, he appeared leaner, his muscles stretched along his frame like taut ropes. “Here. You’ll catch cold, otherwise.” He draped the scarlet tunic around her shoulders.
“Huh.” She squinted. Not only was Temperance’s Mountie a prude, he was chivalrous, too. Color her surprised. “You ain’t like the others in this town, are you?”
He turned her way. But his expression hadn’t gotten any friendlier, and her knees went weak at the look in his eyes.
He knew she was lying. He knew.
“Why were you in the water?” he said.
Her breath grew short. Christ, what would she do if he locked her up? Her freedom was the one thing she prized above all else. “I heard someone coming. And I thought it was him. So I swam across to see if I could climb out.”
He scrutinized her. “Your horse is wet.”
“Cupcake tried to follow me.”
“Yet your saddle’s dry.”
A tight band closed around her chest, pushing all the air from her lungs. “I took the damn thing off and left it with the saddlebags, so that outlaw bastard’d have no reason to chase my horse.”
“And when you found you couldn’t escape, you meant to face him? Shoot him?”
“Sure did.”
“A courageous choice, that was.”
Her mouth went dry. Was he mocking her? The stone-cold cast of his face offered no clue.
She knew what to do next, of course—lean in, press her palm against his chest, look up from beneath her lashes, and smile. At least, that would’ve worked on anyone else. But Corporal O’Cahill was a different breed, and without the ammunition of her charm, she was as defenseless as a gunless whore wearing a sodden dress in the middle of the wilderness.
It wasn’t too good a feeling. “Anything else you’re burning to know, Corporal?”
“Why’re you carrying a shotgun?”
“There’re grizzlies all over these hills.”
O’Cahill went quiet.
Her blood ran cold. She was gonna end up in jail, no doubt about it. Once again, she wished for her flask. Why in Sam hell had she left the whiskey behind? How would she brave her new life behind bars without it?
Would Palmer come visit her, once he found out where she was?
Probably not. Seemed he didn’t care for her nearly as much as she’d thought.
To her surprise, the hard line of the Corporal’s mouth softened. “My apologies, Miss. I’m not meaning to keep you here any longer than necessary.”
She blinked, not trusting her own ears. “You aren’t?”
“No. I’m sure you’ve had a trying enough day as it is.”
A pent-up breath found its freedom. “Well…I ain’t gonna argue with that.”
Nodding, the Corporal saddled Cupcake and helped her into the stirrups. As they rode abreast toward Caribou Crossing, she asked, “How’d you find me, anyhow?”
“I followed your tracks.”
“Oh.” She eyed the shimmering sea of wildflowers around them. When she glanced back the way they’d come, the wilderness looked just as pristine as it did ahead. “Well, ain’t that something.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. At the outskirts of town, she returned the Corporal’s jacket. Her muslin dress had almost dried, just a damp film against her skin now. “That’s it, then?”
He nodded, studying her. “You’re free to go.”
Relief should’ve filled her. Hell, she wanted it to. But as she turned Cupcake toward Paradise Alley, dread closed in, instead.
She’d spent enough time among men to know when they were finished with her. And the Corporal wasn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
She tried to breathe through the fear that lay thick in her throat. But it was no use. Despite the money they’d just stolen back, they couldn’t keep on like this. Someone would bring the whole thing crashing down, eventually. If it wasn’t the Reverend, it’d be th
at damn Mountie, and if it wasn’t the Mountie, it’d be Samuel, because he sure as hell would find her eventually.
She slumped in the saddle, the excitement over robbing Henry already forgotten. For the first time since she’d set foot in Caribou Crossing, she felt hopeless.
Somehow, some way, the tide would turn against them soon, and she dreaded what would happen when it did.
36. Sophia.
As Sophia sipped her coffee, she caught Temperance’s glance from down the bar. Again.
Madam Hyacinth kept looking. And looking. And Sophia had no idea what to make of it. Some glances were shy, others speculative—but every one of them was new. Different.
Then again, Sophia had never saved someone’s life before. Maybe those were looks of undying gratitude.
Temperance ran graceful brown fingers around the rim of her teacup, her eyes narrowing in calculation.
Or not.
Glancing down, Sophia sought refuge in her mug. Wondering made her head hurt. Add that to the insistent throb in her back, and all she wanted to do was lie down.
“Morning, y’all.”
Finally. A reprieve. Or at least the hope of one—Annie hadn’t really been herself since the robbery. For days, she’d glowered, probably because once they’d emptied Henry’s shotgun shells, they’d only come away with three thousand dollars.
Still seven thousand short, and everyone was back to spending long nights upstairs.
Annie shuffled down the staircase, stuffed into a low-cut gown of sky-blue taffeta that set her eyes shining like two coins in the snow. A steaming mug awaited her, and alongside that, a flask.
Sophia’s mouth quirked. She had to give the Professor credit—he never scolded Annie for drinking at breakfast. He just placed whiskey beside her coffee every morning, without a word.
No wonder Annie’d fallen for him.
She should’ve realized it sooner. Somehow, though, she hadn’t noticed Annie’s necklines getting lower and her glances getting longer until it’d become painfully obvious.
Maybe that was why Annie was all bent out of shape. Somehow, her feminine wiles held no sway over the Professor. Even now, he stared down, preoccupied with the floor. Riley gazed back, besotted, then capsized onto his back, his eyes narrowing to blissful lines the moment Palmer crouched to touch his belly.
The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 19
