Jason's lips twisted into a contemptuous half smile. "You're a fool, Chance. A great, arrogant fool, who thought he could have it all without paying his dues. You always had the swagger, it was just the substance that was missing. If you want to play with the big boys, you better know the rules of the game."
Chance fought his temper back fiercely; he intended to get some answers before he killed the son of a bitch. "You're a rich man, Jason. Rich as any man in this country... money can't have been your motivation."
"I did no more than any other smart businessman would have done. I took advantage of a fool. You let me walk all over you because you were too self-satisfied to pay attention to what I was doing. And too involved with your public persona, your gambling, your floozies, and your endless self-satisfaction.
"Now that you're out of money, let's see how you fare with that fatal charm of yours."
"I'm not entirely out of money, Jason. It may surprise you to know that I have an interest in a new strike that looks like it has real possibilities. If there's the silver in the Down Under, and I think there is, I'll wager I can get any bank in Leadville to lend me the capital I need to tide me over."
"The Down Under?... You mean the claim that Australian who works for you just bought? That was salted, I found the evidence myself."
"That's right, Jason, just where I had it salted to throw you off the track. If you play cards with the big boys, you can lose your shirt."
Disconcerted by having been fooled, Jason stared at this contemptible adversary, who had more lives than an alley cat. There was no way on earth he was going to be bested by this insubstantial, arrogant fool; too much time and effort had gone into bringing him to his knees. God damn the infernal luck that always put him back on his feet! If he thought he was simply walking away from this confrontation with money in his pocket and Fancy back in his bed, he'd better think again.
"You're a loser, Chance. You'll never get that money out of the ground fast enough to save your hide. I'll see to that. You treat your businesses with as little care as you do your wife."
Chance's head came up sharply; hatred in his eyes. "My wife? There wouldn't be any jealousy tangled up in your little plot, would there, Jason? Pull the rug out from under me and see if you can swoop in and seduce my wife while I'm on my uppers."
"Your wife might welcome some attention from a man who knows how to treat her, McAllister, not one who makes her the laughingstock of Colorado with his whoring and his carelessness."
"You self-righteous son of a bitch!" Chance muttered as he lunged for Madigan. A right to the jaw sent Jason sprawling; the downed man called out sharply and three others pushed their way into the room. Chance flew at the leader, wrestling him to the ground, but the other two pinned his arms from behind. He felt a sharp blow between the shoulder blades that made his body sag against their restraining grasp. He tried to break free but a vicious kick to the kidney doubled him over... he was dragged upward so violently, he thought his right arm might have snapped from the force of his own weight, and he had to fight against the pain to stay conscious.
"Enough!" Madigan shouted.
"Coward!" Chance spat at him through bleeding lips. "Even now you have to hide behind other men. Is there anything at all you do in the daylight?"
Madigan's hand moved instinctively toward his holster.
"That's it, Jason," Chance taunted him, straining violently against the grip of the guards. "Why don't you shoot me right here in the dark, like you've done everything else?"
Madigan controlled himself, with great effort. "Let him up," he said gruffly.
"I say you haven't got the guts to meet me on Harrison tomorrow, you stinking coward," Chance challenged him, trying to rise to a standing position with difficulty, the pain in his right arm and kidney intense.
"Right out in front of God and everybody, Jason, I'll show you up for the skulking, back-stabbing son of a bitch you really are. Just how brave are you when you leave your hired thugs at home?"
"I'll accept your challenge, McAllister," Jason replied carefully, bridling his anger and brushing off his jacket in a studied gesture. "It will give me the greatest of pleasure to put you out of your misery once and for all. If only so your wife can find out what it's like to be married to a real man."
Chance strained against his captors, the pain in his side so severe it made the figure before him swim sickeningly in front of his eyes.
"Get him out of here!" Jason snarled at the men with dismissive contempt.
The men pushed Chance unceremoniously out the door of the mine office he and his brother had built with Bandana McBain. He had to struggle just to keep his legs, and made it to his horse only with painful effort. The two men stayed to watch him mount and head out toward the trail, just as the watchman returned to his post.
Bitter memories tumbled past each other, as Chance pushed his horse to a lope. So many signs he should have read earlier; so many dead giveaways. Fancy telling him to pay more heed... Bandana and Hart warning him never to let control out of his hands. Christ! He'd brought this destruction on all of them... that knowledge racked him far more than his injuries.
The moonlight shadowed the rocky path ahead of him, but he pushed his horse forward blindly toward home.
Where was home tonight? he wondered. He couldn't go to Fancy with his tail between his legs. How could he admit to her now all that he'd let happen? How could he tell her she'd lost everything she held dear in the world, for a second time?
Jason was right about one thing, Chance thought bitterly. He had been a fool.
Jason dismissed the men, pulled his Winchester from its mount, and filled his pockets with cartridges. With a new silver mine at his disposal, Chance just might be able to regroup... Fancy might even take him back, if she learned the truth.
McAllister would never see another sunrise.
Chance headed toward the house that had once been home, and toward the woman who was still his wife, even if he hadn't lived with her for three months. Tomorrow he would kill the son of a bitch who'd damned near destroyed them all—but first he'd go home and try to make Fancy understand the tangled web that bound him... make her know how very sorry he was for his mistakes. It was the only honorable thing to do.
Chance climbed the long, familiar staircase; he knocked tentatively at the bedroom door and waited to be invited in. He had no sure idea of what he would say.
Fancy was seated at her dressing table in a pale blue dressing gown he'd given her in the best of times, when hope was high. She turned toward him, startled by his unexpected appearance; he looked unsteady on his feet, as if he'd been drinking. She couldn't hide the quick tears that sprang to her eyes as she rose to meet him.
Chance made a move toward his wife, but she stiffened; he stopped, too vulnerable at this moment to bear the burden of overt rejection.
"I want a divorce, Chance," Fancy blurted out, needing to say it out loud, before she remembered that she loved him. "I've been intending to come find you to tell you, but I heard you were living with that woman...."
"Fancy..." Chance began, but the word divorce reverberated louder than his thoughts. How could he tell her now that he'd brought them both to ruin, and then ask her to stay? How could he express all the conflicting emotions—the love and the longing to be understood, the desperate sorrow and the unutterable need for forgiveness? Too many years and too many hurts lay between them now... too many promises broken, hopes unfulfilled, love returned in ways that left each of them hungry and alone.
"Fancy... I just need you to know that I'm so damned sorry."
She turned to face him, steeling herself against the pain in his voice, and her own hurt of the last three lonely months. It had taken heartache and soul-search to reach the point where she could ask for a divorce and mean it. What did it matter that she'd always loved him—neither of them would ever change, and to remain together was like volunteering to be flayed alive.
"You've said you were sorry so many times
, Chance," she said wearily. "It no longer means what it did to me when I loved you so much you could tear my heart to shreds with your 'I'm sorry.' I don't give a damn anymore if you're sorry or not."
The past tense of it defeated him. What was there to say to the end of love? Even if he could cajole her out of this anger, what was there left to offer her but humiliation and uncertainty? Without the bank behind him, there'd be no way to work the new mine, even if there was silver in it. Divorce. At least then she would be free to start again without having to demean all they'd been to each other with pity.
"I wish to God you didn't feel that way, Fancy."
What's wrong with him? she thought angrily. Why won't he even fight back? "Damn you! Chance," she blurted out, all her frustration and anger breaking the surface. "Was what I wanted from you so damned dear you couldn't give it to me, no matter how I begged you? Didn't you know there was a time when I would have sold my soul just to have your love?"
He didn't rail back at her, as Fancy expected him to... as he always had before. Instead he sat down wearily on the bed, pulled the buttons of his shirt open, and leaned over to undo his shoes.
"Great God!" Fancy burst out, misunderstanding. "You surely don't think I want you to make love to me now!"
Chance raised his dark head, as if struck. A small wry smile twisted the corner of his mouth.
"No, Fancy. I guess that's the one thing I didn't think." He stepped out of the trousers he was wearing and tossed them, and his shirt, onto the chair. The sight of his familiar body made Fancy's heart ache all the more—never had he seemed to her more noble-looking, or more desirable than in this moment of good-bye. She saw as he bent to his boots, there was a touch of silver that shimmered in his hair—had it been there before? The broad shoulders were bent to pull the denim pants on over long, strong legs. There was elegance and simple dignity in the way he bore himself.
"Chance..." she began desperately, but what hadn't already been said?
He looked up, searchingly, but Fancy could find no words that seemed appropriate. He'd put on riding clothes, the oldest he owned.
"Where are you going?" she asked, her face set in a confused, tight line. It galled her that he was returning to that whore.
"I love you, Fancy," Chance said gravely. "I've been a fool... but I've always loved you." Then he crossed the room in three long strides and was gone.
The way up to the old cabin was long and arduous. Chance needed solace after leaving his wife, needed a place to think things through before tomorrow's fight. He toyed with the idea of never going back to Leadville; of simply riding on to somewhere over the horizon, far from Fancy and all the mistakes of the past. But he knew he wouldn't. Irresponsible, he might be in some people's eyes, but never had he been accused of cowardice. And he wanted nothing in the world so much as to kill the son of a bitch who had destroyed his world. When the fight was done, perhaps he would try to make her understand....
The ground was treacherous underfoot and the way was steep, but rife with memories. There had been such hope in these hills, once, he thought glancing around him... this is where it all began. Maybe, if he retraced his steps, he would find his way again... maybe, if he rested for a while and healed the wounds, his luck would change. Tomorrow everything would look different, he told himself, in consummate weariness. First, he would take his revenge... then he would go to Fancy and lay the whole truth on the table and make her listen. Maybe she'd understand and forgive, if she knew the true extent of Jason's perfidy. He had been stupid, but he hadn't been wicked, as Jason had been. Even if she couldn't love him any longer, she would see the difference.
The night was inky dark on the hillside as he rode upward, but the horse knew the old familiar way. Chance let himself drift into memory. The sounds of the rider following behind him didn't reach his distracted mind until it was too late to escape.
A single rifle shot rent the mountain air. The impact of the bullet threw Chance forward in the saddle and caused the horse to bolt wildly. The wounded man tightened his legs around the cinch in a frantic effort to regain control, but the pain that stabbed upward into his belly from his groin wrenched a terrible groan from him as he teetered atop the galloping animal. The horse covered the remaining distance to the lean-to outside the old cabin in minutes; only desperation and the habit of a lifetime in the saddle kept Chance on his back during the steep climb.
Blinding pain shot through his belly as he swung his leg over the horse's rump and slid his body to the ground. The impact of landing left him stunned and breathless; he waited precious seconds until the pain-mist cleared, then he pulled the Springfield .45/70 from its scabbard, and hobbled into the pitch-black cabin that had once been home.
Almost against his will, Chance forced himself to focus on the wound in his groin, seen by the sliver of moonlight that filtered through the window. It was the kind that tended to be mortal. Cursing, he pressed his bandana hard against it in a useless effort to stanch the flow, and used his gun belt to hold the makeshift bandage into place. He'd never leave the cabin alive, not in this condition, not with an uninjured adversary outside with a rifle. Odds were he'd die here. With infinite care, grimacing against the awesome pain of movement, Chance forced himself to sit upright against the wall; with all the patience of desperation, he gathered whatever strength he had for the effort of thinking clearly.
The moonlight filtering through the window would give him sufficient light for what he must accomplish. There was little possibility that anyone other than the shootist could find him here in time. If he was to die, there was something he must do.
There had been no further sign of the assassin; perhaps in the dark the man had assumed the job to be done, or perhaps he simply waited outside for his prey to die... Jason wasn't the sort to dirty himself, hand to hand. He must be out there right this minute watching, Chance thought. He must be out there waiting for me to die.
With terrible effort Chance pulled from his pocket the paper and pen he'd brought with him in hopes of writing something to his wife. There was so much he wanted to tell Fancy; if only it wasn't so damned hard to find a way to say what was in his heart, he would have said it all when he'd faced her.
Slowly, laboriously, and with the last effort of his life, Chance McAllister wrote a letter to his brother, instead. He sealed it into the envelope and on it he wrote: For Hart McAllister, when he comes home to Leadville. He blessed his brother in his heart and prayed that somewhere, somehow, he was still alive.
Carefully he slid the letter far down inside his shirt, with the hope that whoever had shot him wouldn't stay around long enough to search his clothes. But he knew it was no trail robber who had done this deed... all the man outside wanted was his death. He'd already stolen everything else of value.
Chance let his weary body sink down one last time in the eerie puddle of moonlight. He closed his eyes, and thought of Hart and Fancy and Bandana one Christmas Eve long, long ago...
Chapter 109
The stage trip up through the mountains was both grueling and cathartic for Hart. It had been a long two years since the Apache surrender. The ghosts of his beloved dead still lived in him, but they were echoes now, and he had found a way to live with his aching memories.
He was relieved at the prospect of coming home; he needed his brother, needed to tell Chance of all that had ravaged and reworked his soul. He didn't mean to stay long; he intended to head for Paris in search of a public unbiased enough to be open to his Indian works. But first he needed to go home to find his brother.
Hart felt the buzz of tension in the town when he stepped off the train. He could sense it in the guarded greetings of old acquaintances and in the surreptitious glances of people at the depot. The big man headed for the Clarendon and checked in. The clerk read the name on the registry card and glanced up. "You any relation to the McAllister who's gonna be fightin' Mr. Madigan today?" he asked. Hart's hand snapped out across the desk so fast it was a blur; he grabbed the boy by the s
hirt front and got the rest of the story in record time.
There wasn't a manjack among the townsfolk who didn't know the whole tale, the boy said, or at least Mr. Madigan's version of it. Madigan and McAllister had quarreled over Mrs. McAllister— it was common knowledge she intended to leave her husband because of his philandering. Hart let the desk clerk's shirt slip from his hands; every woman who'd been waiting for years to give Fancy her comeuppance, every man who was jealous of Chance, was probably licking his chops over this disaster. Hart knew people packed a picnic lunch and took their kids to a good hanging, so a gunfight between two men of public stature could make the whole town declare a holiday.
He ditched his bags, splashed water on his face to dislodge the grit of travel, and put on his riding clothes, a terrible apprehension tightening his gut. What if he'd come home too late?
Jewel Mack paced back and forth, back and forth, watching the hands on the mantel clock as if she could hold them back by force of will. Unlocking the gun rack, she pulled down a Winchester .44 and took the ammunition for it from the drawer below the rack. Fancily engraved with her initials, it delivered seventeen rounds, four more than her carbine. She'd always had a special affection for this particular rifle because Ford had given it to her.
Her own room had a better view of the street than any other spot in town. Jewel positioned herself at the window and tried to stay calm. What the hell was wrong with Fancy that she'd let things get this far out of hand?
Madigan stood with the easy authority of a man who expects to win, knowing he must make this farce look authentic. He'd even gone so far as to place his men all over town, as if a gunfight were really expected. But there would be no fight today in Leadville, for Chance McAllister was already dead.
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