The Last Cahill Cowboy

by Jenna Kernan

  “Marshal Hobbs killed Vernon Pettit. The third man was a childhood friend of Merritt’s.”

  Another detail Leanna had omitted. Chance narrowed his eyes and Bowie pressed his hands flat to his desk, his eyes daring Chance to say just one word. He’d fought Bowie before and knew his older brother was the stronger man. He kept quiet, letting the accusation burn inside.

  Bowie sat back. “I know. I felt the same way at first. Man alive, I was steamed. But if it wasn’t for him, we’d never have known that Hobbs hired them. Bream told us that Hobbs hired Pettit specifically to kill our parents, Chance. Then Pettit rounded up a couple of his buddies to help him.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Hobbs had no bone to pick with our folks.”

  “I know. So we need to find out who hired Hobbs.”

  “Van Slyck? Annie mentioned him.” Chance toyed with one of the bullets on his gun belt, lifting it half out of the leather sheath and absently pressing it back down as he did when restless.

  “Merritt’s friend exposed him before he died. Said he heard Hobbs mention Van Slyck.”

  Chance rested a hand upon his favorite gun. “Which one?”

  “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? We didn’t know, but Quin and I think he meant Willem, the banker.”

  Chance pushed off the ledge. Bowie followed him to his feet. “Chance, you can’t just walk over there and stick a gun in his face.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ll have to arrest you, for one thing.”

  “Bowie, you may have to work inside the law, but I sure as hell don’t.”

  “You break the law and I’ll lock you up.”

  “Fine. What did Hobbs say?”

  “Nothing. I tracked him down but a sniper got him before he said a word.”

  “You catch the sniper?”

  Bowie looked at his desk blotter.

  “Hell, Bowie, you let him get away?”

  Bowie slapped both hands down on the blotter, making the ink bottle and pen rest jump.

  Chance kicked at nothing in particular.

  “Ah, hell.” Chance dragged a chair before Bowie’s desk and turned it backward, straddling the seat. “So some murderer tries to sell information to Quin. Quin gets shot, kills two men and the other guy gets away. Hobbs kills that one and Merritt’s friend.” He looked at Bowie. “This sure got complicated real fast.”

  “But Quin only killed one. Hobbs got the others. Bream is the one who mentioned Van Slyck.”

  Chance cradled his head. “Then someone else killed Hobbs?”

  “From a good distance. I found the shell casing. Hell of an aim, that. He made that shot from seven hundred and fifty yards.”

  That got Chance’s attention. A shot from such a distance demanded a rare combination of skill and precision. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of shot a banker can generally make.”

  Bowie lifted his brow and Chance knew he’d already thought of that.

  “Was Quin with you?”

  “Recuperating from the gunshot.”

  The men exchanged a long look. Chance knew Bowie could use the help and that he wouldn’t approve of his methods. Question was, did he tell Bowie what he planned to do or just go do it?

  Most of his life Chance had done as he pleased and then dealt with the consequences afterward. He figured this was little different.

  Bowie cleared his throat. “If you’re going to do anything illegal, I can’t be a part of it.”

  Seemed his big brother had become a mind reader.

  “I know it.”

  “But if you need me, I’ll back you up with everything I got.”

  Chance blinked at him. Bowie had just offered him an olive branch.

  Chance nodded. “You know I’ll do the same. Don’t shut me out, Bowie. I’m not a kid anymore. I can help you.”

  “I know it.”

  Bowie stood and collected his hat from the peg by the door. “Time to head over to the Morning Glory for supper. Come along. You can meet Merritt.”

  Chance shook his head.

  “I’m gonna marry her, Chance. You’ll have to meet her sometime.”

  “Not stinking from the trail and covered with dust.”

  Bowie nodded. “That’s probably best. Where you headed now?”

  “The Royale. I fancy trying one of their steaks.” What he really fancied was seeing Ellen Louise Jenkins and trying to collect that second kiss. Something about that girl just made him want to aggravate her. My, she was a sight when she was riled.

  “Fine choice. You know I got an extra cot in the back. I can drag it out for you.”

  “Naw.”

  “Bunkhouse at the 4C?”

  Chance glared.

  Bowie laughed and slapped him on the back as they headed out the door. “Didn’t think so. But I’ve been back out there. It’s changed a bit.”

  “I don’t give a damn about it. I just want to find who killed our folks, then put this town behind me.”

  “I see.” Bowie paused outside the door under the wide porch. “I hope you’ll stay for the wedding.”

  Chance felt regret bubbling up like groundwater. “No promises.”

  “All right. Don’t know what Merritt will say. She’s got place cards for everyone who’s attending.”

  “Place cards. What the hell?”

  Bowie grinned. “You have no idea.”

  They walked past the new opera house. Chance paused to look at it.

  Bowie pointed toward the sign. “Ma would have liked that. A real opera house.”

  Chance ground his teeth as he always did when he thought of their mother and then kept walking. The boardinghouse was right next door.

  “Good location,” said Bowie. “Right at the end of the street. You can see it from Steven’s Restaurant and it’s close to the depot.”

  Chance rubbed his neck, anxious to be gone. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow in case you want to arrest me.”

  Bowie clamped him on the shoulder. Chance realized that he was the same height as Bowie now, though still slightly leaner.

  “Don’t shoot anyone.”

  “You know where Van Slyck spends his evenings?”

  Bowie’s smile faded. “The gentlemen’s room at the Château Royale or at Leanna’s Place. Why?”

  “Thought I might have a talk with him.”

  “Chance, I don’t want him tipped off that Quin is getting a bank examiner. He can’t know ahead of time. You steer clear of him or you’ll ruin my investigation.”

  “Well, good thing I’m not one of your deputies or I’d have to listen to you. ’Night, brother.” He tipped his hat.

  Chance turned up the street toward the railroad feeling Bowie’s eyes boring into his back like hot coals.

  Chance spent half his remaining resources at the bathhouse. Once shaved and shorn, he slipped into a clean white shirt from his saddlebags. The bathhouse had done a fine job brushing his trousers and oiling up his leather vest and boots, so you could hardly see the scars and scuffs. They’d also brushed the grime and mud off his black duster, which he returned to his bags. He would have liked to put on a jacket, but he had none, preferring waistcoats, which allowed his arms to move more freely. Thus appointed and smelling of musk and bay rum, Chance ventured toward the Royale, certain that his reception would be no more than lukewarm.

  He wondered if Ellie would even recognize him without two weeks’ growth of whiskers on his face. He thought of her standing with that cowering woman in her arms, just daring that bastard to shoot at them. Brave and foolish thing to do. Oscar Jenkins was right about one thing—his daughter definitely took after him. Question was, why had she stayed in that hotel so long?

  He’d heard what her mother had had to say and it burned him like staring up at the summer sun. Most girls would have lit out with the first likely man they came across. Why hadn’t she?

  He wondered if she was like Quin, determined to stick, no matter what. Was she waiting to inherit that hotel? He
hoped not, because she was paying for it every day she let her mother talk her down.

  Chance passed Leanna’s Place and the string of other businesses that must be paying through the nose to have their establishments sit between the tracks and the depot.

  He stepped across the wide porch that skirted the street side of the Château Royale and marched back into the fancy lobby, noting how the little crystals in the chandelier caught the afternoon light and sent rainbows skittering across the ceiling.

  The next thing he noticed was Ellie.

  Chapter Five

  The Château Royale was where one came to see and be seen, but to Ellie it was just a pretty cage. She stood beside the open frosted-glass door that led to the dining room, her gaze sweeping the lobby. The hardwood floors gleamed, the fireplace and clusters of opulently upholstered sofas beckoned guests to linger and the ornate tin ceiling and elaborate fixtures added touches of sophistication.

  They even had a gentlemen’s room, though Ellie was not allowed to enter it. Her mother said it was less busy than usual and blamed Leanna for drawing away some of the most influential men in town. Ellie was happy for her friend’s success, envious of her freedom and horrified over how the town had treated her because of it. Heaven knew, Leanna had been through the mill and she could think of no one more deserving of happiness.

  Ellie glanced at the open doors leading to the street, likening herself to a bird perched in a cage with the door left wide-open and still she did not fly away. Where would she go?

  Guests passed from the stairs and through the lobby. Ellie watched from her place in the elaborate archway that marked the dining area, greeting guests by name and seeing them to their tables before turning them over to the waitstaff with introductions.

  She had run the waiters and the chambermaids since she was fifteen years old, back at the old hotel in Wolf Grove, and turnover was rare, unless Ellie’s mother decided to “help.” Then people tended to quit without notice.

  When her mom moved to the hotel reception, and left the running of the place to Ellie and her father, things went back to normal. Her mother did prefer conversation and shopping to the daily running of the hotel, and Ellie had to admit, the Château Royale was a glittering bastion of refinement that leaned just shy of ostentation. Flamboyant would be an adequate description.

  Ellie greeted Dr. Lewis as he paused before her. The doctor was only slightly older than she and had recently spent more than the necessary time with her before taking his usual seat for dinner. His long looks made her uncomfortable, but she held her smile.

  “I hear you had a very trying day,” said Lewis. “You’d never suspect it to look at you. Most women I know would require smelling salts. But you’re not one for smelling salts or headaches or dizzy spells, are you, Miss Jenkins? In fact, I only recall treating you that one time.”

  Ellie rubbed her thumb over her index finger absently as she recalled slicing herself with a knife and Dr. Lewis, then newly arrived in town, stitching her up.

  “Clumsy of me.”

  The good doctor continued to stare, holding his brown derby before him with both hands.

  Ellie cleared her throat and tried to think. Her mother was so much more natural at making small talk. He’d mentioned the shooting.

  “It was a pity that Mr. Rogers could not hear reason,” she said at last. Should she not have mentioned that? Ladies didn’t speak of killings to gentlemen. She glanced toward her mother to find her watching like a cat from her place behind the ornately carved reception desk.

  “Men can be jealous creatures,” said Lewis. “They don’t always see straight where beautiful women are concerned.” He smiled at that and Ellie shifted restlessly.

  “I have your table ready.” She swept her arm toward the dining area and then led the way, leaving him to follow. She left him at his usual place, just beyond her post, and he chose to sit facing her as usual.

  When she returned to her station, it was to find her mother regarding her with lifted brows, speculatively, as if Ellie had done something surprising.

  The sour taste returned to her mouth. She did not share her mother’s lust for her to wed a wealthy man.

  She did not need wealth to be happy, which was a mercy, since neither Quin nor Bowie had shown interest in her whatsoever. She recalled the soup incident and drew a heavy sigh. Her mother’s disappointment in her daughter’s failure was matched by Ellie’s relief.

  Minnie sidled over, her heavy taffeta skirts rustling with each sinuous step. Ellie wished she could walk like that.

  “The good doctor seems to be taking an interest in you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Minnie rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Ellen, if you do not seize such opportunities, they will pass you by. Admittedly, I had hoped you could do better. But marriage to a physician would be acceptable. He’s a professional man, after all.”

  “He’s never even spoken to me outside of this dining room.”

  “He’s shy. You have to make excuses to see him. Feign a headache and make a call.”

  “And he smells of iodine.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

  Ellie looked at the young couple just entering the hotel lobby, pausing, as newcomers were wont to do, to sweep the room with their gazes. They must have come by ferry or stage, because the guests on the noon train had unfortunately arrived just as Mr. Rogers had gone on his rampage.

  “Customers,” said Ellie.

  Her mother fixed a perfect smile on her face and left Ellie.

  “Welcome to the Château Royale. I’m Mrs. Jenkins, the owner.”

  Ellie suddenly could breathe again. There had to be more to life than her mother’s constant badgering and her father’s sad looks. She glanced again toward the open door.

  Ellie was not simple. She knew what her mother wanted. She also knew what she wanted, a good man who owned a bit of land. Ellie had spent all her life confined in this hotel or the last one. While her mother thrived on the constant noise and bustle, all the people coming and going, Ellie longed for a view of open sky and a horse of her own. It seemed the ultimate freedom to be able to just throw a saddle on a willing mount and off you go. She and her husband would build a ranch house and fill it with children who were all as plain as brown paper wrapping. She just needed to find a man who would put down roots and love her like crazy. She would find him or remain unwed, for she would not settle for less.

  It was a small dream, but it was hers. So she would not be taking buggy rides with the doctor, living in the rooms above his practice and spending her days and nights tending the sick and wounded here in Cahill Crossing.

  “Just because I don’t faint at the sight of blood doesn’t mean I want to see it,” she whispered.

  Her mother was greeting a powerfully built young man who wore a familiar gray hat.

  “Dining room is just that way,” she said, her drawl more evident whenever she spoke to men.

  He tipped his hat.

  “Would you like me to hold your saddlebags? We have a room that is secure.”

  Just then Maria Martinez strode though the dining room carrying a tray of tea for an upstairs guest. At the sight of Maria, Ellie’s spirits fell. Her friend was married to the tanner’s son, Miguel, who had just lost one of his sisters in the river to drowning. Ellie had told Maria to go home, but she insisted that she would finish her shift. If Ellie didn’t know better she’d think Maria didn’t want to go home.

  Ellie’s attention flicked back to the man who told her mother that he’d hold on to the scuffed twin pouches now resting on his wide shoulders. For an instant Ellie thought the man was Quin, back from the drive, but as he lifted his chin, she saw it was Chance, transformed by hot water and a sharp razor.

  At the moment of recognition she startled, as if waking from one of those dreams when you think you are falling. He looked so different. Clean shirt, dress trousers, gleaming vest and boots. He had been handsome before, but now he positively st
opped her heart.

  Her mother had not recognized him yet and when she did… What? Ellie wasn’t sure, but she had a rising sense of foreboding.

  Ellie hurried to her father’s office.

  “Daddy! Chance Cahill just walked in.”

  He did not look up, but quickly laid the pen back on the rest and blotted the ledger, then closed the book. He lifted his gaze and gave a reassuring smile.

  “Right behind you, Button.”

  Ellie stepped back out in time to hear her mother.

  “If I could just have your name?”

  Chance glanced at Ellie as if he’d known where she was all along and winked. She was so startled she did a double take and then was not certain she had seen correctly. No one winked at her, ever.

  Then Chance gave her mother his name.

  The smile fell from her mother’s face like bricks falling from scaffolding. Minnie Jenkins stiffened, looking as if Chance had slapped her.

  “Do you have any idea of the damage you did to that room?”

  Her father swept past her.

  “Chance, my boy. Welcome back.”

  Minnie had her hands folded tightly upon the guest registry as her glare shifted from Chance to her husband.

  “I was just about to tell Mr. Cahill here that he shot a hole through my new wallpaper, completely ruined the carpet and the duvet, in addition to shattering an oak door and frame.”

  “Rogers splintered the door, ma’am, but I’d be glad to pay for all the damages.”

  Chance glanced Ellie’s way again. His smile sent a jolt right through her.

  “If you’d be willing to run me a tab. I’m expecting a bounty from Deadwood any day.”

  “Under no circumstances,” said Minnie.

  “Why, of course,” said Oscar. “That includes the dining room and gentlemen’s room, as well. We have a fine assortment of drink.”

  “I don’t drink. Well, beer, on occasion.”

  Her father looked surprised, which astonished Ellie as nothing seemed to shock her father.

  “We have beer, of course.”

  Minnie huffed and then faced her husband, lowering her voice to an angry whisper. “I will not have him here.”