A Stranger's Wife

by Maggie Osborne

  She shook her head, marveling that she had been stupid enough to finally agree. “Everything went wrong. The men in the hall jumped Cy, and in the melee the gun I was holding discharged. At the trial they said I tried to kill Mr. Small, but I didn’t even realize the pistol had fired. I just . . . if Mr. Small had died, they would have hanged me. They did hang Cy.”

  “How old are you, Miss Dale?” Kazinski might have been discussing the weather for all the emotion in his tone. Her story and how she had ended in a women’s prison didn’t touch him.

  “I turned twenty-eight last month.”

  But she probably looked older. Five years of harsh summers and bitter desert winters had wreaked havoc with her complexion. Her hair was dry and lackluster, her eyes dull and tired. The lye soap used in the laundry had reddened her hands and chapped them raw. Finally, gaunt cheeks and a thin frame probably added years to her appearance. Lowering her head, she clenched her teeth and blinked hard, remembering once upon a time when she had cared about how she looked.

  “You also have a daughter, is that correct?”

  Drawing a breath, she turned to the subject dearest to her heart, feeling the usual painful twist of joy and sorrow. “Rose was three months old when I went to prison. She’s with my aunt in St. Joe, Missouri.” Lifting her head, she leveled a warning look on the Kingmaker. “Whatever you’re selling, mister, I ain’t buying. I’ve been waiting five years to see my baby girl, and there ain’t nothing going to keep me away from her. So I’m telling you right now. Whatever you want from me, the answer’s no. I ain’t got no time to waste.”

  Finally, the unidentified man spoke. “Her voice is husky. It isn’t an exact match. We couldn’t hope for that, but it’s close.” He hadn’t looked away from her since she entered the carriage. Reaching into his vest pocket, he withdrew a gold heart-shaped locket and tossed it in her lap. “Does this woman look familiar to you?”

  Starting to lose patience, Lily lifted the locket, tested the weight of real gold in her palm, and wished they would get to the point of all this. With a sigh she opened the small clasp and glanced at a miniature portrait inside.

  Her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her fingers. “Well, son of a bitch!” She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Someone had painted a portrait of her. The artist had painted her heavier than she was and all gussied up, but it was her.

  “She sees it, too,” Kazinski said, leaning against the upholstery with a satisfied smile.

  “It’s uncanny,” the second man said, his gaze fixed on her face. “You’re enough like her that you could be twins.”

  Then it wasn’t a portrait of her, but of someone else. Astonished, Lily lifted the locket to the light at the edges of the shade so she could examine the miniature in detail.

  The woman’s hair had more yellow in it than Lily’s sun-bleached shade, but her hairline dipped into a widow’s peak just as hers did. The eyebrows were straight and feathery, like hers, but the eyes were the most remarkable similarity. The woman’s thick-lashed eyes were a shade of lavender-blue that Lily had never seen except in a mirror. If she gained thirty pounds and arranged her hair differently, she could easily be mistaken for this woman.

  The peculiarity of it raised goose bumps on her arms. With a light shiver, she tossed the locket back to the second man, who watched her intently.

  “Who is she?” she asked uneasily, shocked to discover there was someone else in the world who resembled her so exactly.

  Paul Kazinski shifted to face his companion. “It’s up to you. We can go forward, or end it right here.”

  It surprised her that after ignoring him, Kazinski now deferred to the cowboy. But this was no ordinary cowboy. He wore ruby-and-gold cuff links, and a ruby set in his belt buckle. His shirt was woven from fine Irish linen, and she suspected that his boots had cost more money than she’d seen in her lifetime.

  He considered her for a long moment, staring until she felt her cheeks flush and she looked away. Then he leaned forward. “My name is Quinn Westin, and the woman in the portrait is my wife. Forgive me for staring, but looking at you is like looking at Miriam. The resemblance is stunning and shocking.”

  His voice didn’t fit Lily’s idea of a cowboy either. He spoke with authority, in a full-throated baritone that vibrated with power and energy and a hint of anger.

  “It’s her eyes,” Kazinski agreed, studying Lily intently. “That’s what gave me the idea.”

  There it was, Lily thought, uneasily. Men hadn’t changed during the last five years. They still used women to further their interests, and as sure as the sun would set tonight, Mr. Kazinski’s idea involved using her in some way. Now the talk, talk, talk would begin in earnest.

  But these men were too polished to begin with something as obvious as reminding her that she wouldn’t be out of prison if it weren’t for them. First, they would attempt to convince her that whatever they wanted was in her best interest. That’s how men induced women to ruin their lives.

  “I’d rather have a whiskey, but if all you have is lemonade, I’ll take some now,” she said in a weary voice, leaning against the seat back and closing her eyes. “Then you gents can tell me how you want to use me and why I should be grateful to let you do it.” She cut a glance across both of them. “But if what you want involves a delay in me going home, then I ain’t going to agree.”

  No one spoke until Mr. Kazinski placed a crystal tumbler in her hand and she had raised it to her lips. The sweet-and-sour lemonade slipped down her throat like ambrosia, and she had to struggle not to gulp the treat and beg for more.

  Kazinski cleared his throat and opened his tie, preparing for the talk, talk, talk. “It’s true that we wish to use you, Miss Dale, but not as callously as you appear to assume. We wish to hire your services.”

  There was the first dangled benefit. Undoubtedly they knew that she had just enough money to get to Missouri and not a penny more.

  “I ain’t interested, mind you, but what kind of services are you looking to hire?” she asked suspiciously. She doubted they would have gone to all the trouble to arrange her freedom if they wanted to hire a housekeeper or a washwoman.

  Mr. Kazinski rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, his dark eyes intent on her face. “Do you recognize Mr. Westin’s name?”

  “Should I?” She glanced at Quinn Westin who continued to regard her with a slightly stunned expression.

  “Mr. Westin hopes to be the first elected governor of Colorado after the territory joins the union next May. The election will be held in April, six months from now, and Mr. Westin’s campaign is well under way. His chances of winning the governor’s race appear excellent.”

  “I don’t know anything about politics except that politicians are always making speeches.” She thought of politicians as old men dressed in frock coats and top hats. Not hard-angled cowboys in their mid to late thirties. She tried to imagine Quinn Westin striding across a bunting-draped podium, speaking to an enthralled audience. Maybe the Kingmaker would insist that he dress differently for such an occasion. Or maybe she had the wrong idea about politics.

  Regardless, she could imagine him capturing a crowd’s attention with his rich confident voice and intense eyes. From the moment she had first noticed him, his powerful presence had slightly overwhelmed her.

  “So what does Mr. Westin’s ambitions have to do with me?”

  “A candidate for governor must lead a circumspect life, Miss Dale. There can be no whiff of scandal or impropriety, do you understand? At this stage of the game, a candidate must be like Caesar’s wife, above suspicion. He must be cleaner than clean, the most noble beast in the jungle. After the election . . .” Kazinski shrugged. “But right now and during the next six months, unpleasant rumors or malicious gossip could destroy the promise of a brilliant political career.”

  Her uneasiness increasing, Lily lowered the lemonade glass, waiting to learn what lay at the heart of this discussion and how it could possibly apply
to her.

  “My wife has disappeared,” Quinn Westin stated quietly, watching her as if unable to look away.

  “I’m sure you grasp the difficulty,” Kazinski interjected. “How do we explain Mrs. Westin’s untimely disappearance?”

  “Well, gents, this is merely a suggestion,” Lily commented, raising an eyebrow, “but have you considered saying Mrs. Westin has disappeared?”

  The cowboy’s expression didn’t change, but Kazinski gave her a chilly smile. “Such an announcement would give rise to damaging speculation which ultimately would destroy all the effort that’s gone into positioning Mr. Westin as a viable candidate.”

  “If it’s that important, then you should find your wife,” she said to Westin. “Where did she go?”

  “That isn’t your concern.” Dark brows came together, and she watched his hands curl into fists.

  Suddenly, Lily grasped their intentions, an idea so startling that she almost dropped the crystal glass. “Good Lord. Are you suggesting that I . . .”

  “Of course that’s what we’re suggesting, Miss Dale. We want to hire you to impersonate Mrs. Westin.”

  She stared in disbelief. “That’s crazy. I ain’t going to do something lunatic like that. I’m going home.”

  Kazinski waved aside her protest. “We only require seven months of your time. Once Mr. Westin has won the election, we’ll release an announcement stating the sad news that Mrs. Westin’s consumption has returned, and she must leave at once for Santa Fe to recuperate. Shortly thereafter, we’ll announce that she succumbed to the disease.”

  “Seven months? Never!”

  “For appearances’ sake, we’d prefer that you remain in position for a month after the election.”

  “No!” She shook her head hard enough that her hat tilted to one side. “When I went to prison, my Rose was a baby. She’s five years old now, and she doesn’t remember her mama.” Her voice shook with emotion. “You’ll have to find someone else because I won’t wait another seven months to be with my baby!”

  “Yes, you will, Miss Dale.” Kazinski’s dark eyes went flat. “First of all, there is no one else, not with your eyes. Secondly, perhaps this is the moment to mention that you have a provisional pardon. Do you understand what that means? It means we can return you to the Yuma Women’s Prison at our discretion. Think about that, Miss Dale.”

  “You sons a bitches,” she said softly, striking the upholstered seat with a gloved fist.

  Quinn Westin turned his face toward the window, but Kazinski met her furious stare head-on.

  “Would you rather wait seven months to be reunited with your daughter . . . or serve out the remainder of your term and wait another five years?”

  Fighting to control the helplessness and fury burning in her chest, Lily made herself think. Anger wouldn’t help, it never did, but reason might. “This plan ain’t going to work,” she said finally, struggling to keep her voice even.

  “And why is that?” Kazinski inquired, as if he were genuinely interested in her opinion.

  “I look like your wife,” she admitted to Westin. “But we ain’t the same person. No one will believe I’m her.”

  “It will take some work on your part,” Quinn agreed. He was still frowning, and squinted at her through narrowed eyes. “But I’m starting to think it’s possible.”

  Kazinski nodded. “With your hair arranged differently and decent clothing . . . when the sun damage fades and some attention is paid to your skin . . . Right now you’re as thin as a candlewick. Once you gain a little weight, the resemblance will be even more amazing. And we’ll work on your speech and mannerisms. At the moment, the public believes Mrs. Westin is in seclusion battling consumption. People expect changes after a long, debilitating illness.”

  “I can read and write, and I speak fairly well because the aunt who raised me is a schoolteacher. But I ain’t what you would call educated.” She gazed at both of them, anger burning in her eyes. How could they imagine she would be willing to give up seven months of her life to further a stranger’s ambitions? “I worked on a farm while I was growing up, building fences, hoeing fields, doing whatever had to be done.” Her eyes went flat. “I’m a long way from being a lady.” Pulling off her gloves, she showed them her hands, callused, fiery red, and chapped raw.

  “These hands have never known leisure. They’re work hands, and they look it. I swear, I like my whiskey, and I smoke cigars when I can get one. And finally . . . a women’s prison ain’t no finishing school. I was beaten monthly. Twice I had broken bones. I was starved, isolated, whipped, worked until I was sick. You have to be tough to survive that, and I’m tough.”

  The two men listened in silence, their faces expressionless.

  “Now, you tell me,” she said, knowing the answer. “Is my background similar to Mrs. Westin’s? Do I sound like a woman who could convincingly impersonate the wife of a candidate for governor?”

  Folding her arms across her chest, she sat back and waited for them to concede that she was right. Once they did, she’d do some talk, talk, talk of her own and try her damnedest to convince them to let her continue on to Missouri instead of returning her to prison and Ephram Callihan, God rot his soul.

  It was Westin who spoke first. “You’re correct. Miriam’s background is nothing like yours. My wife was the daughter of a prominent judge. She grew up in comfort, attended by servants. She was tutored at home, sent on a grand tour of Europe before her debut.”

  “There you are,” she said with a short, satisfied nod.

  Kazinski’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s talk a bit more about you. You’ve lied to us,” he stated coldly. “Cy Gardener was not your legal husband.”

  “I considered myself married,” she said with a shrug. “That’s what counts.” If he hoped to embarrass her, he’d guessed wrong. Marriage was a state of mind, not a piece of paper. She didn’t need a preacher man saying words over her to feel married.

  “You claim that Mr. Small was shot accidentally, but five witnesses testified that you shot him deliberately.”

  “That’s not how it happened. I ain’t much, but I ain’t a killer.”

  He held up a hand. “Deception is a way of life for you, Miss Dale. Your proclivity for deceit and dissembling is what we wish to hire. If your testimony at your trial is any judge, you’re capable of mounting a fine performance.”

  “If that’s meant as a compliment, it ain’t swaying me none.”

  “You’ve demonstrated an ability to adapt and do what you must in order to survive. And I suspect you learn quickly. I’m sure you can master the art of pouring tea, can adequately preside as Mr. Westin’s hostess, and do whatever else we require. Moreover, may I remind you that you have a strong motivation to succeed.”

  “I do what you want or you send me back to prison,” she said bitterly, hating them. They didn’t care about her or Rose. All they cared about was getting what they wanted and winning an election.

  “Let’s focus on what you have to gain,” Kazinski said smoothly. “We are prepared to pay you two hundred dollars a month from now until the inauguration. That’s fourteen hundred dollars . . . a fortune to someone like you. We’ll allow you to keep the expensive clothing and jewelry you’ll require to impersonate Mrs. Westin. And when you leave, you’ll be furnished with transportation to Europe, and we agree to buy you a small house on the Continent. You’ll benefit handsomely merely for doing what comes naturally, deceiving those around you.”

  Stunned into speechlessness, Lily stared at both of them. “That’s a generous offer,” she said finally. An amazing offer. “If it wasn’t for Rose, I’d sure have to think about this. But I don’t want your money. I want my daughter.” Leaning forward, she gave them a look that she hoped was as hard as theirs. “So I’m turning down this proposition, and I’m begging you to let me go home.”

  “You’ll be reunited with your daughter eventually,” Kazinski said with an impatient gesture. “We just want a few months of your time.”


  Biting her lips and struggling not to scream, she swung her gaze to Quinn Westin. “Why is Mr. Kazinski explaining this, and not you? Ain’t you the one with the missing wife?”

  “The impersonation was Paul’s idea. Frankly, I was against it until I saw you,” Westin said shortly. “Paul has explained our offer because it’s his job to handle details.”

  “And I’m just a detail?” She could read the handwriting on the wall. They were not going to let her go.

  “You’re the most important detail,” Westin replied. “Without you, my campaign is in jeopardy.” His rugged face settled into lines of granite. “I’ve come too far to let that happen.”

  Abruptly it occurred to her that if she pretended to be his wife, then she would have to live with this man. Suddenly she was very conscious of him, aware of his size and leathery scent and brooding grey eyes. Although he hadn’t spoken much, and he held himself very still, she was acutely aware of an angry inner energy that simmered on the verge of explosion.

  Ducking her head, she touched her fingertips to her eyelids and pressed at hopeless tears gathering beneath her lashes. They had her neatly boxed between a threat and extravagant promises.

  “Well, Miss Dale?” Kazinski crossed an ankle over his knee and withdrew a cigar from his vest pocket. “You’ve had a moment to rethink your refusal. What is your decision?”

  “You know damned well that I don’t have a choice.”

  “Of course you do.” But the Kingmaker was too experienced at his game to state her choices aloud. Acquiesce or return to prison. “Frankly, this is a wonderful opportunity for you. We’re offering you seven months of luxury. Gowns, jewelry, balls, soirées . . .” He let his voice trail, giving her a moment to imagine a fairy-tale world she had never experienced. “When it’s over, you’ll have money, a house, and a secure future with your daughter, none of which you have any hope of obtaining now.”