Most folks didn't come to this area to stake out a new,
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permanent life unless they could provide the area with a service. Silver Rose City offered two banks, five dry goods and general merchandise stores, separate men's and woman's clothing shops, a claims office, a laundry, a milliner, a seamstress, a livery, a tanner, a dairy, three hotels, a half dozen saloons, and five restaurants, ranging from the home-style, hearty fare of Duckett's, to the elegant service and cuisine of Etienne's.
Personally, Chris thought, he preferred Abigale's talents and hoped she wasn't mad at him for skipping breakfast. It wasn't like she didn't have enough stomachs to fill with his ranch hands.
A man called to him. and Chris stilled, frowning as Reid MacLaren barreled down the street astride his Palamino. He skidded to a halt before Chris and touched the brim of his hat.
' 'Well, this certainly makes it easy. We have the thief.''
"We?"
Reid grinned. "Jenna does."
Chris didn't ask if he left his wife with a cornered thief; he knew better. "She have him nailed to the wall, or what?"
Reid scoffed pleasantly, his smile still there. "No, but you have to see this." He inclined his head, and Chris swung up onto Caesar's back. Noble mimicked his moves and together they headed to the MacLaren residence, a large two-story brown stone house set on the curve of the tree-lined road. People milled outside and as Reid raced into the house, Chris and Noble dispersed the crowd before heading in. They went directly to Jenna's offices off to the left.
Reid flung sliding doors back and Chris stared, stunned.
' 'I told you you had to see this.'' ,
The thief, a slim gaunt man in his late twenties, sat on the
floor, his feet and hands tied, but it was his face that was the
cause of excitement.
"Isn't that the loveliest shade of indigo blue?" Jenna commented with an elegant wave of her hand. She was perched on the edge of a stool, feet tucked beneath simple skirts and a knife in her hand. She toyed with it, as Chris had seen her do
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once before, the gleaming blade rolling over her fingers like oil sliding on her skin. She was as good as Noble.
"Jenna, love, I think the marshal would like an explanation." She glanced at her husband, then the marshal. As if startled, she leapt off the stool. "Oh yes, of course." The thief cringed, gripping the blue stained cloth and glaring at her. "Well, we thought to set a trap. I was becoming quite peeved, you know. It hardly mattered where I kept the narcotics—he found them.'' She flicked a hand at the thief.' 'With a spring, a couple of decoy bottles filled with nothing but water and a bit of indigo—" She moved to the cabinet, demonstrating to Chris how she set the uncapped bottle of indigo so that it would spring forward the instant the door opened. "We caught him down the street a bit." She glanced back over her shoulder at her husband and smiled. "Reid did. He was not hard to spot." Chris smiled, shaking his head. Even if the thief got clean away, the indigo marked him for his crime. "Ingenious, Jenna.'
"Oh, I didn't think of it," she was quick to say. "Your man Jake did."
"What!" Chris barked.
"You mean skinny with glasses Jake?" Noble asked, as he dragged the thief to his feet and clapped on hand cuffs and leg irons before cutting away the ropes.
"Yes. Don't you recall his comments about the destruction of the hotel?'' The lawmen nodded. "Well, from all indications, he was the culprit." She gestured with the knife to the shackled man. "I received an excellent description from a young lad there, then let it be known I'd received replacement drugs for those stolen. As bait, you see."
To the occupants of the room, he was calm and patient, but inside Chris was fuming. Victoria! Interfering with the law again. He ought to lock her up. Then Chris glanced at Reid, expecting him to be upset, or even a little annoyed, yet he simply folded his long arms and leaned back against the wall, watching his wife. Pride glowed in his eyes and envy stabbed Chris. His temper faded enough to allow reason to flood in. A blue bomb—how like her.
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"But of course, 1 couldn't remain inside, nor could anyone else or the bloke—ah, the gentleman—would not attempt a theft, as Jake pointed out. He suggested a booby trap." Her russet brows drew down slightly. * 'Odd name that.'' Her expression cleared. "Regardless, it worked."
"That was dangerous, Jenna,"
"And I feel properly scolded," she murmured to the floor, then flashed a wickedly pleased smile at her husband, "But I would never have attempted something so daring without Reid here."
"Of course you wouldn't, my love," Reid said dryly and she crossed the room to him, stretching up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. When he did no more man give her a half-lidded glance, she tugged on his long braid and he straightened, slinging his arm around her shoulder and tucking her close to his side.
Noble shook his head softly, prodding the prisoner. ' 'Jake, huh?"
' 'Yes, and thank him for me when you see him, Christopher,'' She left Reid's comfort to see them to the door.
"I'd like to do more than thank him," he muttered under his breath as he strode out.
"Christopher," she warned softly and the marshal paused on the front steps. "Jake could have remained silent and unin-volved. He'd nothing to gain by offering a solution."
"He wouldn't even take money, Chris," Reid put in. "Honest concerned people are a rarity."
But it didn't do much for the man who had his job undermined by that woman, Chris thought, again, "Jake's gone, Jenna." Disappointment briefly marred her lovely face. "I'm sorry, but he left last night on the train."
Noble frowned at his boss, glancing down the street toward the activity of the city, then back to the marshal. A small smile curved beneath his bushy moustache and he nudged the prisoner toward the jail, his horse trailing.
Chris strode alongside, as silent and brooding as the black animal behind him. Noble glanced between the master and his
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faithful beast, their childish sulking getting so Noble couldn't keep his opinion to himself another moment.
"Pride's a mighty thing, marshal."
Chris felt a lecture coming on with that tone. The prisoner's shackled footsteps marked each step.
"And you got a hell of a brave soul in that gal."
"She's headstrong and—" His head jerked up, his gaze flying to Noble's. "You know?"
Noble grinned, his hairy face hiding most of it. "Yeah. I'll keep the secret." He crossed his heart to seal it.
"Does she know you know?"
Noble reared back, scowling. "Don't talk much to her, do
yah?"
"Of course we talk." But she keeps everything to herself.
" 'Spect that's what you did all night out on the mountain with her, too." Sarcastic, amused, and a muscle in Chris's jaw flexed.
"That's none of your business."
"Maybe it ain't." He shrugged. "But that don't mean I cain't like her spunk."
"She does nothing but interfere."
"Dang it all, Chris! Can't you see what kind of a woman you've got there." Noble moved closer, lowering his voice. "She's smart, hell, she's brilliant! And strong, got more courage and grit than any man in this town, present company excluded 'acourse. And if what Seth said was true 'bout savin' Lucky, she's got a heart as big as the territory."
"If she does, it's buried under a ton of rock." Most of it.
At the jail, Noble pushed the prisoner ahead, pausing on the threshold to look Chris dead in the eye. ' 'You just ain't lookin' in the right places, son."
Chris, scowled, and as Noble escorted the prisoner into a cell, he explained what he'd witnessed in the store last week.
Chris slammed the cell door, his grip on the bars tight, not seeing the thief staring at him oddly, but the woman doing everything in her power to keep attention from herself. Why would she defend him when t
hey hardly knew each other then?
174 Amy J. Fetter
A heavy ache settled harder in his chest. She was leaving, so what did it matter? Then he remembered his dream, the path the cougar cleared and his harsh features relaxed slightly. "Where is she?"
"You ain't gonna like it." ,
Chris pushed away from the cell door and faced the deputy. I
"I don't like much that woman's been doing, so what's the
difference?"
Noble smiled to himself as he hung the ring of keys on a peg. "She's at the Pearl." He glanced over his shoulder. "Or least ways, Clara is."
Chris's eyes flared, then narrowed, his jaw so tightly clenched it threatened to snap. "Doing what?" came through gritted teeth.
Noble felt it from across the wide office. Barely checked rage and fear. It wasn't like Chris to show his temper, his Cheyenne blood usually giving him a control that Noble envied. It'd do him good to let off some of that steam. "Go see for yourself." Ought to be like two lions squarin' off, Noble thought.
Noble dropped into his desk chair and pulled out a sheet of paper, inking a pen and beginning the report. Chris stared at his deputy, then swiftly crossed the office to the door. "What does she look like, Chris, really?" Chris paused, his hand on the frame as he stared out into the street. "A wild beauty," he said in a rough whisper. His ringers flexed on the wood. "Spectacular." Untamed. In more than her physical appearance, she possessed an untouchable quality. As if she knew valuable secrets no one could ever imagine. And she kept them tightly gripped in her iron will. Expect last night, he thought. Last night she broke like a fragile glass in his arms and he would never forget, that for one moment, she needed him.
She was breathtaking, slim and yellow haired and my blade slid into her soft flesh as if she were made of butter. I felt her
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shock, in her body pressed to mine, then saw it in the contours of her perfect face. She thought I loved her. They all thought I loved them. But I could never. Not the ones who deserved to die. I'm helping the children. Why can't they see that?
It doesn 't matter.
I'm like a dream, imaginary. No trail. No tracks.
Only a body, her own blood painting color to her pale lifeless lips.
It makes me hard to think about it.
Perhaps I'll get Dee to take care of that.
Victoria balanced the tray on her hip and rapped softly on the door, then waited for a response. She gripped the tray tighter, willing herself to calm down. She'd been working at the saloon for three days, avoiding any confrontation with him. Now, it was unavoidable.
Though she admitted that Chris had been right about the liquor purchase, Victoria knew that wasn't all he'd done. He was just to happy about being back—too smug. And she'd spent last night tucked in bed, combing over the tattered files she'd brought with her, hoping to find a clue, a scribbled note from a detective that would lead her to his true motivation. Who was he killing when he killed all those women? Aside from the method and that the bodies were found arranged the same, there wasn't much to connect them. The victims were from different working classes, had different jobs, backgrounds, and spread across the country like a scattering of pebbles. No connection, except—his voice spilled beneath the bottom of the door like an oil slick and no matter how cultured and smooth it was, it still gave her the creeps. She took a breath, dismissing her mental review and concentrating on the present. She pushed the latch. He didn't look up as she entered and crossed the room, but the instant she got close, he closed the book and casually slid it into the desk drawer. She pretended not to notice, pouring coffee, adding the correct amount of cream and sugar.
She lifted the cup and stared into the eyes of a serial killer.
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Amy J. Fetzer
His blue gaze moved over her face, his distaste in her scars only briefly visible in the twist of his perfect lips.
He took the cup, leaning back in the chair to sample the coffee.
"You're Clara."
And you killed Cole, she thought, responding with a soft, "Yes sir," as she placed the meal carefully on his desk, laying out the silver service with infinite care. He was a perfectionist, and recognition in that would endear her to him—sort of. She needed him to get comfortable around her, to dismiss her as a threat and into the woodwork. A droan.
"Who cut you?"
Her gaze flashed to his and she frantically searched her brain for a reason, a reason he couldn't investigate. Blaming Indians was out of the question, even if she could name an attack, which she couldn't. "My papa," she blurted when too many seconds passed.
He arched a brow, so sharp it was like a bend of metal.
"Why?"
"I was rather pretty as a young girl," she said, hoping her diction sounded authentic.
"I imagine you were." She didn't like the way he was looking at her. It made her feel violated.
"I 'spect he thought if I wasn't presentable, he wouldn't have to worry over some man stealing me and my dowery from him." Good, she thought, plausible. "Smart fellow."
Her gaze clashed with his and narrowed. How could he condone such a thing? Then she remembered who she was talking to. God, he was slick. "You think it's ail right that he ruined me?"
The cup came slowly away from his lips and he leaned forward, frowning softly.
"I meant that perhaps he loved you so much he wanted you to stay with him forever," he said with a sincerity that made her cringe. He set the cup aside. "Some people don't even get that from their parents."
She stared at him. He was warped. "You're right, sir. But I'd have preferred to hear the words instead of feeling them mark my skin." God, She didn't want to talk with him, especially about a total fabrication. He was too sharp for a slip up.
"Perfection isn't always in the physical," he said softly, gently capturing her hand. Every muscle in her body clenched, her stomach rolling with anxiousness. His hands were ice cold. Even in the 80 degree heat, even after cupping the hot coffee, he was as cold as a corpse, and all she could think of was the innocent lives he'd extinguished with those manicured hands.
Cole's life.
"1 wish every one thought so." She drew back slowly, itching to run. Itching to see if he bled blood or ice water. "Me too, dear."
What was Mister perfect-looks, perfect-background worried about? He was perfection. Was he offering a fraction of himself to a drab, plump wallflower? And for what? Penance? He released her fingers and Victoria retreated a step as he left the chair and walked with a slight limp to the window. An imperfection. He wore no jacket, his crisply pressed sleeves turned back, vest open, and she noticed two scratches on his forearm. They looked too much like fingernails to be ignored. "Have you completed your duties for the day?" He certainly had the verbage down pat. "Yes sir. Except seeing to Miss Velvet."
He nodded, gazing out the window. Carriages rolled down the darkened street, lanterns swaying like ship lights in the fog. "She insists you were sent from God. How you can manage the workload is beyond me."
I'll just bet, she thought. You never so much as wiped your
ass without help.
"You have my permission to hire another servant to help,"
he told her quietly.
"Oh, thank you," she said, forcing gushing gratitude into her voice. She wanted to puke on his snake skin boots.
He waved negligently. "You may go."
She turned to leave, but his voice, steely and low, stopped
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her. "Get some new clothes, Miss Murphy. My girls dress to perfection." He twisted ever so slightly, a shock of dark hair falling like a wave over one eye. He could have made millions in her century on his looks alone. "I will pay the bill."
"I'm not one of the girls, sir." She put just a touch of defiance in her tone, and he smirked, as if letting her prostitute herself for him
were the last thing he would consider.
"I realize that," he said with ample condescension. "Nevertheless, we have a standard to maintain."
Ah yes, perfection in pimping, too. How dignified, she
thought, and nodded, slipping from the room with her back
straight and head high like the proper spinster she was. Victoria
didn't see him smile, nor did she see his gaze drop to her feet.
Beyond the closed door Victoria paused, taking a breath and
running her fingers over her artificial scars. Damn. Silver Rose
had too few citizens and even fewer visitors, and while the
unappealing scars would have garnered no more than a pitying
glance in her over-populated century, here they made her stand
out like a Nordstrom window display.
Noticeable. And now to the one man she didn't want to notice her.
This was not good, she thought, cursing her carelessness as she slipped beyond the private doors and crossed to a door left of the bar. In the small kitchen, she bypassed the cook hovering over a vat of stew and filled a small ceramic tea pot, Vel's own, full of hot water, spooned in tea, then discreetly checked her watch. She had just enough time to get this to Velvet before the girls started working, For the past days she made herself scarce around now; something about seeing a man who paid for sex turned her stomach. It was accepted practice, she knew, even advertised, and although she'd never hold their "jobs" against the women, the twentieth century female couldn't bear to see them degrade themselves. No woman chose to be a prostitute.
Hefting the tray, she moved quickly across the saloon and up the staircase, a fistful of skirt in her hand. She headed to the center of the hall and rapped on the door. It didn't take her
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