by Pam Crooks
Her glance jumped toward the door. Daylight streamed inward on the tails of the wind.
And looking furious, Mikolas stood in the doorway.
Chapter Six
The sight of her with that damned bottle tore right through him. He’d all but forgotten her penchant for brandy when he was holed up with her and Woodrow’s gang. Until now. But the memory sailed back with crystal clarity--and a good deal of consternation besides.
Mick took it as a personal affront. Did she think she needed to drown her troubles the minute his back was turned? Didn’t she trust him enough to take care of her?
Or maybe she couldn’t bear to be with him, after what he’d done three years ago.
Whatever the reason, he intended to set her straight, once and for all, and not when her brain was fogged from spirits. She had to accept her predicament and face it head on.
Starting now.
He pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside. Walked toward her, step after purposeful step.
She watched him come with eyes wide and a wagonload of guilt in her expression. She snatched her bottle off her lap to hide it behind her. As if he was stupid enough not to see it.
He extended his hand.
“Give it to me,” he said softly.
Her throat moved. “No.”
He waggled his fingers. “Give it to me now.”
“I won’t drink anymore.” From her knees on the speckled cowhide, she cocked her head back, keeping him in her sights.
He towered over her and fought impatience. “Allethaire.”
“I promise I won’t.”
How many times had she made the avowal, to herself or someone else? How many times had she broken it?
He bent and caught her wrist, not caring that she cried out. He yanked the bottle from her grip, strode toward the door, and hurled the container as far as he could throw it. Brandy streamed in mid-air; the bottle turned end over end and landed with a dull thud out of sight.
By the time morning rolled in, evidence of her compulsion would be buried in snow.
Mick slammed the door closed and glared at her. He warred between compassion for her weakness and anger from her inability to overcome it.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d still have your liking for brandy, Allethaire. Guess I was wrong.”
She stood. Awkwardly, he noted. And she held her wrist against her, as if it pained her.
“I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately, Mikolas,” she said. Her eyes glittered in the firelight. She struggled with composure. “I don’t expect you to understand, but please keep your judgments to yourself. You know almost nothing about me.”
“What’s the matter with your wrist?”
A growing realization that he could be responsible, compounded by a good dose of regret, spurred him to take a closer look. He folded back the cuff on her sleeve and examined the smooth skin, the slender bones beneath. She allowed him his inspection, and in the cabin’s lengthening shadows, the joint did indeed show a faint swelling.
“I fell on it during a scuffle on the train,” she said stiffly. “It hurts but it’s not broken.”
“It’s sprained. Come here.” He took her by the elbow and led her to the table. “Sit down.”
She complied, amazingly enough. He found a clean washcloth on a shelf, immersed it in a bucket of icy cold water, and wrung out the excess. Taking the injured limb carefully, he wrapped the cloth around it.
“Move it as little as possible so the swelling can go down,” he ordered gruffly and removed his coat. “I’ll make coffee, and then you’re going to tell me everything. From the beginning.”
“Why should I?” He could feel her gaze on him while he filled the black enamel coffee pot with water from the bucket. “My problems are my own.”
“Not anymore they’re not.” He hefted the pot onto the stove.
“I just need to talk to my father.”
Her voice wavered on the last word. Father. One glance at her face, and Mick could tell she was all but terrified at the prospect.
“That bad?” he asked.
She managed a jerky nod. “That bad.”
He lit the wood that would heat the burners and turned toward her. “I’ve always known Paris to be as proud of you as a father can be.”
“Really?” Her brow arched with skepticism; her chin quivered in dismay. “Well, he won’t be anymore.”
“Always known him to be fair, too. He’ll do what he can to help you through this.”
“How could you possibly know him well enough to predict his reaction, Mikolas?” Her tone snapped with challenge. “I’m his daughter. I know far better than you how he’ll feel about--about what I’ve done.”
Mick regarded her. His scarf had matted her hair against her head, but a few golden tendrils coiled along her temple. A longing to loosen her pins and fluff the silken mass to its usual fullness swept through him with an intensity that compelled him to curl his fingers into fists in resistance.
She didn’t know how Paris had eventually found forgiveness in his heart for Mick’s crime, and Mick’s frequent inquiries into her well-being instilled a knowing gleam in Paris’ expression. Got to the point where the man started volunteering any news she’d sent him in her correspondence. Mick always soaked in every word and had sworn Paris into a solemn vow not to give Allethaire an inkling of Mick’s interest.
Because she detested him for ganging up with Woodrow Baldwin. She hated Montana for all her memories of it, besides, so what kind of life could Mick expect to have with her?
None. Whatsoever.
Likely she didn’t know what a good friend Mick considered Paris to be. Or that Trey did, too. A friendship that went beyond their business dealings around the hydro-electric plant the industrialist was building on Wells land.
She needed to know, though, that Mick had a pretty good idea what he was talking about.
“This thing you say you’ve done has something to do with the Ladies Literary Aid Society, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Startled, she drew back. “How did you know about that?”
“I know about the library you wanted to build, too.”
“You do?”
“I told you. Your father is proud of you.” The water in the enamel pot began to boil. He added coffee grounds and noted the time. “He talks about you and your community service work often.”
“He does? To you?”
As if he was the lowest of the low and undeserving of her father’s time and effort? Mick scowled. “And anyone else who would listen.”
She groaned and covered her lips with her fingertips. “Oh, no.”
He expected her to take some comfort from his response, not be horrified from it--which meant things must be worse than he thought.
He took a box of crackers from the shelf and added a jar of blackberry preserves that Zurina, his sister, had made, and put both on the table.
“You have breakfast this morning?” he asked, going for a knife and a couple of plates.
“No, but I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I am.” He slathered a few crackers and slid a plate toward her. The snack would tide them over until he could fix them both a more substantial meal later. He turned his chair, straddled it and rested both arms along the back. “So start talking.”
“About what?”
“Where that money in your trunk came from, for starters.”
“I have no idea where it came from.”
His gaze remained steady. “None?”
“If you intend to badger me until you think I’ll say what you want to hear, then let’s just end this conversation right now.”
He held up a hand. She was as touchy as a plucked jay-bird. “Easy, Allethaire. I’m not accusing you.”
Though he conceded the phrasing of his question sounded like he was. And that made him no better than the Manitoba’s suspicious conductor and Richard, the security agent.
Mick went for a different angle in hop
es she’d be more willing to cooperate. An angle that put him on her side, working with her to find the answers that would keep her from getting arrested.
“The trainman claims no one jimmied the lock.” His mind clawed through the blur of tense moments before he’d whisked her off the train. “From what I could tell, no one had.”
“No.” Her expression turned pensive. Deeply troubled. “Which means someone planted the money when my trunk was already open.”
“Someone you know?”
She bit her lip. “Once I locked it and left my house, I went straight to the train station. My key never left my purse. I never had occasion to open the trunk until this morning.”
She avoided looking at him and had yet to answer his question.
“Who would have put the money in your trunk, Allethaire?”
Finally, her gaze latched onto his. “Would have? Or could have? There’s a difference.”
He inclined his head, giving her the point. “Both.”
“I don’t know who would have or why, but... Jenny could have.”
“Who’s Jenny?”
“She’s been with me since my mother died. Before I even started school. I packed my belongings myself, but then I left to arrange for a driver, and”--Allethaire heaved a worried sigh--“she closed up the trunk. By the time I returned, it was sitting by the door, ready to go. I was in a terrible rush and left soon after for the station.”
Mick made a mental note to mention the woman to George Huys, the police chief in Great Falls.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Allethaire said, her tone quickly defensive. “She’s like a mother to me. She would never hurt me. Or--or frame me with an envelope full of stolen money.”
Reminded by the scent of brewed coffee that the pot was fresh and ready, Mick rose to pour them both a cup. Steam swirled from the black liquid. Allethaire curled her fingers around the tin but didn’t drink.
“Sometimes the lure of money turns people into someone they aren’t,” he said quietly. No one knew better than he did the truth in those words. There was a time when he was like a stranger in his own skin. “But if you don’t think Jenny had anything to do with that envelope, then I believe you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
It was easy enough to believe. Didn’t make sense for a woman who’d raised Allethaire like her own daughter to turn against her after all those years. Why would she, when she enjoyed the Gibson wealth as much as Allethaire did?
“Thank you,” Allethaire whispered and lifted her cup to sip.
Mick guessed his trust in her meant something. Relief, if nothing else. But they were a long way from finding out who was behind setting her up for a crime she didn’t commit.
He turned his chair around to more comfortably face her. He bit into a cracker and kept thinking.
“Tell me about the Ladies Literary Aid Society,” he said. “Did everyone get along? Any problems?”
“None. The ladies were very dedicated and worked hard to bring the library plans to fruition. I consider them all my friends.”
“Then you must have worked with someone from the City of Minneapolis.”
“Yes. Charles Renner. He was on the City Council.”
“And?”
She lifted a shoulder. “He was a former business partner of my father’s. When one of their mutual interests failed, they parted ways.”
“On good terms?”
“Of course. Paris Gibson has no enemies. He’s a remarkable man, and everyone loves him.”
Mick nodded. That much was true. But he filed the politician’s name away in his memory as one more person for George to investigate.
“So what went wrong, Allethaire?” he asked softly. “If no one you know has a vendetta against you, why are you running away to Montana?”
“Because someone does have a vendetta against me. A great sum of money is missing from the library account. An audit revealed there were multiple drafts signed by me, effectively stealing the funds we worked so hard to raise.”
Forged signatures? Damn.
“And you’re sure you didn’t sign them?” he asked. “In the normal course of business?”
“You mean, by accident?”
Hearing her say the words made the idea sound far-fetched, for sure. But stranger things had happened, and he had to ask.
“Of course not,” she said firmly. Easy to see she was offended that he had asked. “Why would I write any of those checks to myself? I had no need of those funds. Not one dime.”
“No.”
Again, Mick believed her. He couldn’t figure why someone went through so much trouble to destroy her. He rubbed his jaw and let her talk.
“I was unable to trace the money, of course, and without the funds, we were forced to scrap our plans. The police had to be called, and once the news reporters caught wind of it--”
She covered her face with her hands. The cloth he’d wrapped around her wrist slipped onto the table, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“I couldn’t bear to see the story hit the papers.” Stricken by the agony that consumed her, Mick strained to hear the muffled admission. “Everyone already hated me for what they believed I’d done. They said it was because I’d become a fallen woman when I was kidnapped and living with outlaws. The scandal was awful, my reputation was in shreds, and it was only going to get worse. I couldn’t stay in Minneapolis. I just couldn’t.” Her shoulders shuddered on a sob. “God, I’m such a coward.”
Mick hardly knew the moment when his arms took her against him. It seemed that it just happened, that she was there, leaning into him, bundled tight within his embrace. Her torment reached inside his chest and scraped him raw with guilt from knowing he was partially responsible, even as it kicked in a fervent vow to make the lowlife who’d done this to her pay.
With every breath, every fiber of his being.
“All of this will ruin my father’s good name.” She sniffled. “He’s done nothing to deserve it, and it’s my fault. My fault.”
Mick slid his hand up her spine and down again. Long, soothing strokes that let her know he was there, listening, consumed by a need to make her life right again.
“Can’t see why you think you’re to blame if you don’t even understand how this all happened,” he said. His cheek pressed into her hair, the golden strands like satin against his skin.
“I was determined to prove myself to him.” Her voice was an agonized whisper, full of pain and self-recrimination. “If I wasn’t so vain, so selfish of my own reputation, then none of this would have happened.”
“Nothing wrong with wanting to prove yourself in this world.”
God knew it was important to him, too. Allethaire had her father’s respected name to live up to, but Mick had Trey’s. And in the territory, there wasn’t a finer cattleman than his half-brother. Mick had had his hands full with getting folks to accept him. Being part-Basque, a sheepherder and a jailbird all rolled into one hadn’t made the job easy, but most days, Mick figured he’d done well enough. Took some time, but folks had come around, and in the past couple of years, he’d made plenty of friends. Good friends.
“This whole thing is bigger than you think it is,” Mick said grimly. In light of her fragile mental state, he refused to use the term ‘conspiracy’, but it was there, in the back of his mind. “Don’t forget Reggie’s involved somehow, which means it’s gone beyond your plans for a library.”
A mournful moan spilled into his shirt. “Oh, God. Reggie.”
Mick guessed the outlaw’s part in stealing her money had yet to sink into her thinking. She had plenty to comprehend as it was, none of it easy.
Gently he eased her back. Her tears had thickened her lashes and streaked her face, but her wide, mournful eyes had never been more clear, more beautiful, than they were now, peering up at him.
Gone was the distrust and fear. Instead, an unexpected kinship had sprung between them. A warmth. With the baring of her troubles c
ame a tenuous trust, one that Mick valued beyond measure.
A trust he never expected to get.
Longings he’d banked for too many months, for long hopeless years, surfaced in his blood. An ages-old yearning that a man felt for a woman who meant something to him.
Yearnings he couldn’t have. At least, not yet, but he had now, this moment, and he wasn’t going to let it go without making the most of what it could be.
He eased the pins from her hair and relished the luxury of that glorious mane falling over his hands and onto her shoulders. Taken aback by his boldness, she drew back slightly with a hushed inhalation of surprise, but he cupped his hand behind her neck, keeping her close, with her face only inches from his.
“I’m going with you when you talk to Paris,” he said quietly.
That surprised her, too. “It’s not necessary, Mikolas. I--I feel better about all of this now, and--”
“Call me ‘Mick’.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Everyone calls me ‘Mick’.”
The WCC cowboys had been quick to shorten his name when he joined the outfit. It’d been like a rite of passage, stepping from the sheepherder’s life into a cattleman’s, but Mick hadn’t really minded. Acceptance by them had been too important. Besides, deep in his heart, where it really mattered, he was still Mikolas, Gabirel Vasco’s son.
“All right,” she said, soft and careful.
“If you don’t mind, from now on, I’m going to call you ‘Allie’.”
She cocked her head, and a little smile touched her lips. “Why?”
He didn’t explain that he felt like it was a rite of passage for them, too. A new beginning. And he sure as hell didn’t explain that ‘Allethaire’ smacked of high-society and formality and big city ways--or that here in Montana Territory, folks lived simpler, less pretentious lives.
“Because I like it,” he said instead.
Slowly, she nodded. “My father used to call me that quite often.”
“There. You see?” He smiled, too.
She’d yet to pull away, he noticed, and the air changed. Hummed along his skin. Crackled, almost, with an awareness that warmed his blood and stirred his loins. She wasn’t moving, but her breathing quickened, and he knew she felt it, too.
