“You didn’t say that last night,” he whispered, leaning into her shoulder.
Brandi feigned a gasp. “Whatever do you mean, sir?” But she knew exactly what he meant. They had waited till after dark to quietly ride into town. Devon left the horses hitched outside the hotel in case there was trouble. There wasn’t, but he was being very cautious. They got a room, ordered a hot bath, and spent only half the remaining hours of darkness sleeping.
Even though they decided to create new identities--Devon a cotton merchant from Galveston and Brandi his southern belle wife--when in private they were a couple exploring the newness of being in love. He might have been uncultured at times, as the southern belle suggested, but the lady outlaw called Brandi wouldn’t have him any other way. In fact, the lady outlaw encouraged it.
The thought of his hard body pressed firmly against hers was making her feel rather sultry. And she quite liked this distinguished gentleman whose arm she held as they sauntered towards the restaurant.
They chose a table in the corner and Devon sat so he could clearly see the door. No one had looked twice at them. Brandi was convinced their disguise was working. Devon’s eyes, however, continued to dart from side to side with suspicion. It would take time for him to feel comfortable.
Brandi perched on the edge of the wooden chair and flipped open the menu--a choice of steak or chicken or fish with a variety of vegetables. She was impressed. “Shall we order the steak?” she asked, her stomach rumbling at the nearness of a full, satisfying meal.
Devon was watching one of the other couples seated near the window. “Whatever you want,” he said absently. Lighting another cigarillo he leaned back in his chair. She noticed he checked the revolver that was neatly tucked beneath his coat.
“Something wrong?”
“Sheriff’s lookin’ at us,” he said.
“We’re strangers,” she said without alarm. “He’s just likely curious.”
No sooner had she spoken than the sheriff’s chair scraped the floorboards. He approached them, smiling warmly.
“Good day to you,” he said, politely nodding to Brandi. When Devon stood, the sheriff extended his hand. “Name’s Jack Holland.”
“Reilly,” Devon said. “Frank Reilly and my wife…Edna.”
“A pleasure I’m sure,” Sheriff Holland said, taking Brandi’s hand.
“The pleasure is mine, kind sir,” Brandi said, pouring the accent on thick and heavy.
The waitress hung back at a respectable distance waiting for an order. Brandi caught her attention and called for a bottle of champagne. She nodded and bowed off. The order seemed to impress the sheriff. Dollar signs floated in the air between them.
“May I assume you have business interests in this fair town?” he said to Devon.
Acting wasn’t a talent Devon took to easily. He shifted, awkwardly, as Brandi railroaded the conversation.
“Why, how astute you are, sir,” she complimented. “My husband exports cotton and I import the resulting fashions. We decided to explore a few cosmopolitan towns to decide where our merchandise shall become the latest style.”
“Really?” the sheriff beamed, throwing glances from Brandi to Devon. “It just so happens that my brother oversees our business community and I’m certain he would love to talk to you.”
“Hear that, darlin’?” Brandi cooed. “I knew this was a town with prospects.”
“Yes,” Devon said softly. “You did mention that.”
“Tell you what,” the sheriff said. “Join us at the theater this evening, as our guests. It promises to be an excellent performance, and we can get to know each other better.”
Devon was glaring at Brandi, every muscle in his face screamed for her to stop talking.
“Oh, that sounds delicious,” Brandi went on, lifting her tone an excited octave. “Doesn’t that sound delicious, darlin’?” She kicked Devon under the table.
“Settled then,” the sheriff smiled. “Say, eight o’clock?”
“We shall be there.”
Jack Holland started to turn away when he suddenly stopped. “May I be imposing and ask where you are from?” he said to Brandi.
“Me? Oh, why ... I am from Georgia, sir. My daddy owns a plantation there.”
“How nice,” the sheriff answered. “My wife is from Georgia. I’m sure the two of you will have much to talk about.”
Busted. Brandi kept a smile plastered on her face, even though her heart missed a few beats. All she knew about Georgia was that Doc Holliday had been born there. “I shall look forward to it, sir.”
Once the sheriff was out of earshot Devon whispered harshly. “Are you out of yer mind? Why did you say all those things?”
“Wasn’t I convincing?” she whispered back.
“You even got me believin’ this bull. Yer a very convincin’ liar, Brandi. That’s what worries me.” There was a double-edged cut to Devon’s tone. “We’ll eat and then we’ll go.”
“What? Leave town, you mean?”
“Exactly what I mean. I can’t keep up this charade of yers.”
“You can. Just let me do the talking. Besides, if we hightail it out of town don’t you think that would look a tad suspect?”
Devon growled, thoroughly annoyed. “Yer the one who should be on stage tonight,” he said, dripping sarcasm.
“If they have a karaoke machine then I’ll give it a whirl. In the meantime, relax and follow my lead. It’ll be fun.”
“A what machine?”
“I’ll need another dress. This one is okay for days, but if I’m going to be seen in public at night I need something more stylish.”
“You should have brought somethin’ from that plantation yer daddy owns,” Dev said with a wry grin.
“Why, honey, we were robbed, remember? I don’t have a thing to wear.”
Devon shook his head and sighed. “There’s no tamin’ you, is there?”
“And you, my flower, wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Devon felt anxious about Brandi’s plan to stay. All he wanted to do was stay here long enough to buy some new clothes, rest the horses, and then carry on. Mexico wasn’t more than a couple of days ride away. At least there he could rest easier. He missed Romano and once ensconced at Antonio’s ranch he could relax and discuss plans about what to do next. Romy followed orders but Antonio was a strategist. He’d have more than one proposal as to how to seek out Trilby. He might even have news about Trilby’s whereabouts. Antonio was one for keeping a finger on the pulse of business, especially shady business.
As Brandi flounced off to shop again, Devon strolled the boardwalk. No one paid much attention to him. A few nodded a hello, and he would nod back. There were no flashes of recognition. Devon was just another fancy dressed stranger.
With time on his hands, Devon considered the best move to make would be to go back to the hotel room, stretch out and catch a few winks. The heavy meal had helped to remind him he was weary. The heat wasn’t helping either. But if Brandi were to find trouble, something she seemed accustomed to getting into, he shouldn’t be too far off. Leaning against a post on the opposite side of the street from the woman’s clothing store, he pulled out another cigarillo. A few ladies smiled at him as they passed by and Devon touched the brim of his hat in return. He thought it funny how a change of clothes could change the man. They wouldn’t be smiling or giggling if they knew who he really was or the scars that he carried.
Brandi knew. And it didn’t make a blind bit of difference. He had been troubled about Cal’s observance she was a liar, and he had just seen how good she was at spinning wild tales. He meant to ask her about her real childhood, but somehow the topic was never easily accessible. So he let it go. What did it matter? He loved who she was with him and that’s all that was important. The past was over, the future always uncertain. There was only the here and now. That was just the way life presented itself.
Still, she was so different from any other woman he had known. The strange things
she said, the way she said them, her brashness and humor, the way she teased, even the way she moved. Different was the only word he could come up with to describe her. It scared him sometimes but more often he was impressed, raising a passion from his soul that he hadn’t ever considered feeling. And the way she touched him--there was no hesitation in her acts of lovemaking. The intensity always left him feeling drunk and peculiarly dazed. He considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.
He was so enraptured with her, Devon had even considered abandoning his need to find Trilby. Never did he think anything would fog his burning desire to complete this journey of retribution. Cal had warned him off Trilby, told him that this burning need for revenge was a road to destruction. But three years on the run couldn’t be wasted. Devon had to carry on. He had to. He would never be satisfied until Trilby paid for his crime.
“Mr. Reilly. We meet again.”
If the salutation hadn’t been made so close, Devon wouldn’t have acknowledged the name. He wasn’t clever at pretending to be someone or something that he wasn’t. Seeing Sheriff Holland again so soon, and Brandi with her quick and convincing retorts unavailable, made him very uncomfortable. The game had begun, however, and Devon had to play the rules by ear.
“I would like you to meet my brother, Nicolas,” the sheriff announced.
Devon shook the man’s hand. There was no questioning they were brothers. They had similar facial features, neatly trimmed moustaches, expensive suits--except the brother had a more calculating look behind sharp blue eyes. He tipped his square chin slightly and while pumping Devon’s hand said, “Have we met before?”
“No,” Devon answered coolly. “I don’t believe so.”
“This is the cotton baron I was telling you about, Nick,” Sheriff Holland stated. “I see we have caught you unescorted. Where is that enchanting wife of yours?”
“Shopping,” Devon said. “It’s what most women do best.”
“Most, but not all.” The sheriff laughed at his innuendo. “Although I must add that I, too, am a happily married man. My brother tells me of the adventures I vowed to leave behind once dragged to the altar.”
Devon noticed the brother was still scrutinizing him. “Forgive me for staring,” Nick said. “Just I’m certain I’ve seen you before.”
“Yer mistaken,” Dev said firmly.
“We were on our way for a drink, Mr. Reilly. Please, won’t you join us?”
Devon cursed himself for not retiring to the hotel room. There was no escaping now. “Thank you,” he said. “Sounds like an excellent idea.”
A few doors away from the saloon they started off, a slow saunter.
“Your wife will no doubt find the fashions here quite simple,” Jack said. “I must admit that Sally, my wife, is quite excited about the prospect of styles from the east that could be readily available. And Nick is excited, too. His delight in a lady’s apparel is second only to the size of his pocketbook.”
“Fashion is Brandi’s part of the business. You’ll have to speak to her about that,” Devon said.
Jack stopped. “I thought your wife’s name was Edna.”
Devon strained to smile, suddenly noticing he was sweating profusely. The brothers had fixated unblinking eyes on him. “Brandi is her nickname on account of her partiality for the drink.”
The mistake had been smoothed over successfully. They continued into the saloon.
“Which drink are you partial to, Mr. Reilly?” Nick asked as they approached the bar.
“Call me Frank. And whiskey is fine for me.” And lots of it, Devon thought. How was he going to get through this afternoon? He had the distinct feeling the two were quizzing him for the sole reason of exposing the phony he was.
The attention of a young, attractive saloon girl distracted the sheriff’s brother. She drifted beside him, running a finger over his arm, her expression warm and wanting. He patted her rump and whispered into her ear. Devon turned, not wishing to appear intrusive.
“Just one of my brother’s investments,” Jack said. “She’s new, just off the coach from San Antone. He likes to sample the goods first. Very shrewd, is Nicolas.”
“I would venture to guess he also profits from gambling.” Devon had noticed the poker and faro tables.
“How true. Not to mention liquor imports and real estate,” the Sheriff said with a touch of pride. “Fingers in many pies.”
“Having family overseein’ the legal end is no doubt beneficial as well,” Devon said.
The hint of corruption didn’t go unnoticed. “You’re a businessman, Mr. Reilly,” the sheriff said through a strained grin. “Wealth for a select few usually means breaking the backs of the ignorant masses.”
“To say nothing of a few necks,” Devon added. He had suddenly developed a dislike for the Holland brothers. They were the embodiment of all he detested, heartless strong men that squashed those who tried to make an honest living. Like Trilby. Devon sloshed whiskey in his mouth to rid it of the sour taste he had developed.
“If that’s what it takes to send out a message or two, most certainly. Explain to me the accomplishments of a virtuous businessman,” Jack said, his voice rasp, “and I’ll show you a damnable liar.”
Devon filled his shot glass. “Yer blunt, I’ll give you that.”
“I just tell it like it is, Mr. Reilly. It's no dream world here, not when there’s so much money waiting to be made. Men like us know how to reach out and grab it. Am I right?”
Not wishing to get embroiled in a discussion about ruthless deeds, Devon agreed. He had to play the part, one that was expected, even though he was beginning to feel like insects were crawling over his flesh.
“Legacies, Mr. Reilly,” the sheriff went on, adjusting the diamond pin on a silk tie. “It’s all a man has to leave his family once he shuffles off into eternity.”
“So you hail from Galveston,” Nick interjected, his interest returning to Devon. “Now there’s a town that will go places. Ships from all over the world. It’s a sight to behold.”
“Yes,” the sheriff said. “Golden opportunities with the right connections. Nick here has a flare for rubbing shoulders with those who have the power to lend a helping hand.” He sipped his drink while giving his brother an admiring smile.
“The problem is,” Nick went on, popping an oversized cigar between his lips, “that import and export taxes can be crippling.” A match sizzled and blue smoke swirled towards the high ceiling. “But I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, my friend.”
“Of course,” Devon said. He was in way over his head, so said as little as possible.
“Politicians,” Nick spit with disdain. “A bleeding sore on a businessman’s ass. Unless, of course, one knows the correct pocket to line. If you pardon my presumptuousness, Mr. Reilly, who is it in Galveston that you know?” He puffed the cigar, waiting for an answer.
“I don’t share my secrets,” Devon offered.
“Wise,” Nick said quickly. “I admire that. Do you share opinion?”
“Not often.”
Nick chuckled. “He keeps his cards close to his chest,” he said over Devon’s shoulder to Jack. “I like you, Mr. Reilly. You’re my kind of people. And seeing that I truly believe you and I can work together, I’m going to share an opinion with you. Then perhaps, if it works to your favor, you will remember me with kindness. Scratch my back, when I get an itch, so to speak.” The man swelled with importance, shadowing Devon.
“Okay,” Devon droned. “Sounds reasonable.” Might as well humor him.
“Two words for you, Mr. Reilly.” The secret about to be revealed manifested into a smug grin. “Victor Trilby.”
Devon was suddenly grateful he was a good poker player. While his insides churned like a pot of boiling water he kept his expression stone. Carefully, he poured another drink and said, “I believe I have heard the name.”
Nick laughed. “He’s a heartless bastard, but by God he’s the man to
know. And let me say, if the rumors are true and he runs for governor, he’s got my vote. The way he’s crusading to clean up this state is magnificent. No longer will we need to tolerate petty bandits that rob trains and stages. No, sir. He’s the guardian angel of enterprise.”
Devon swallowed a hard lump in his throat. “You speak as though you know him personally.”
“I’m working on that. I hear next month he’s going to be in Galveston. You wouldn’t by any chance be on your way back, are you? We could travel together.” The man’s eyes glistened.
“No,” Devon said softly, his mind whirling to the news of Trilby’s whereabouts.
“That’s too bad,” Nick said, his voice trailing. He was gazing to the doors. “Well, well,” he cooed. “Who’s this pretty little thing?”
“Hello, boys,” Brandi said as she glided across the room, her arms filled with packages. “Why did I know my husband might be in here being corrupted?”
Devon stiffened. Nick was leering at her like a wolf about to jump helpless prey.
“The only corruption is what your loveliness has done to my vision,” Nick said smoothly. He took her gloved hand, drawing it to his lips.
“Why, sir,” Brandi said. “You have a tongue as sticky as a Venus flytrap.”
“I understand the lady enjoys a fine brandy,” Nick said, lifting his brow. “Allow me to buy you a drink.”
Before Brandi could answer Devon took her arm. “No,” he said. “We really should be going.” He had had enough of the Holland brothers and their self-importance. And he saw a fight ensuing if Nick didn’t stop leering at her.
“Don’t forget,” the sheriff called out as Devon escorted her to the doors. “Eight o’clock. We have a table on the balcony.”
“We’ll be there,” Brandi promised over her shoulder.
“No, we won’t,” Devon muttered.
“You’re not still wanting to make a quick get away, are you?” Brandi scolded. “There’s no need. I want to go and have some fun. I spent a fortune on these new clothes.”
“We’re leavin’.” Devon didn’t feel the need to explain why. She was to accept his wishes and leave it at that. And he assumed she had until they got to their room.
Lady Outlaws Page 17
