by Robin Gideon
What time was it? Pamela looked at the small clock ticking on the bedside table and groaned. It was nearly three in the afternoon. She never stayed in bed this long.
But then, she’d never before spent the evening with the Midnight Phantom.
Beneath the blanket, Pamela eased the skirt of her nightgown up past her knees and over her thighs. With her eyes closed, she could see the Phantom’s handsome, masked face as clearly as if he was in the bedroom with her.
I shouldn’t do this, she thought, but it didn’t stop her from reaching between her thighs. Very lightly, she brought the pads of her fingers to her clitoris. She caressed gently, using a circular motion with her middle two fingers.
She remembered how her body had blazed when the Phantom kissed her, and the memory brought slick cream to her entrance. Her middle finger slipped easily between her lips as her excitement heightened and images of the Midnight Phantom danced across the surface of her mind.
* * * *
She got out of bed, determined to put Phantom out of her mind, at least until she got her chores done. The horses had to be fed and, with any luck, she might be able to scare up a jackrabbit along the windbreak trees. Her stomach was grumbling. It had been many hours since she’d eaten.
At the foot of her bed were the clothes she’d worn the night before. Exhausted, she’d quickly removed them before falling immediately to sleep. Now, she picked up the chemise and looked at it, a little surprised that the places where Phantom’s mouth had been were not still damp. The chemise, old and very thin, was the only one she owned, and she wasn’t going to put it on until she’d washed it.
When she looked at her Levi’s, memories, luscious and embarrassing, made her blush crimson. She would wash her denims and drawers, too, she decided, symbolically ridding herself of any evidence that she’d ever been near the Midnight Phantom.
Feeling a little scandalous because she wore nothing underneath, Pamela pulled on her old blue dress. She hadn’t planned on today being laundry day, but she’d make it one. She smiled to herself, aware that she was trying to pretend that she’d intended on washing the clothes anyway.
She was glad now that her brother wasn’t home. If he had been, then she’d have to go about pretending that nothing had changed. In fact, she’d never been very good at lying to Jedediah, or at hiding the truth from him. Once Pamela had the big kettle of laundry water boiling outside, she checked the pockets of her Levi’s. In the back right pocket she found nearly a thousand dollars. In the left, she found an identical sum.
Never before had she come anywhere near having so much money at one time. Pamela counted the money three times, just to be sure it was all really there, right in her hands, placed there by the Midnight Phantom, who could just as easily have kept every dollar for himself.
So why had he given her all the money? In payment for their time together? That didn’t seem very likely. Nothing about the Midnight Phantom made her think he would have difficulty finding willing women. Though she was a long way from being experienced in such matters, she knew she’d had a much better time than he had. With very few exceptions, she’d never really touched him—at least not like he’d touched her.
The more she thought about it, the more confused she became. After all the hours she’d spent with Phantom, she’d learned a great deal about his skills and abilities—that he could open a locked safe or unbutton a woman’s blouse with the same ease—but almost nothing about why he’d chosen to become the mysterious Midnight Phantom.
She tucked the money into the pocket of her faded dress and, as she began washing her clothes, wondered whom she should give the money to. Who of all his victims was the most deserving of Jonathon Darwell’s money? Her mind filled with appreciation for the Midnight Phantom who had helped her plan to redistribute Darwell’s wealth to his victims come true.
* * * *
“Good Lord, Garrett, would you mind concentrating?” Paul Randolph asked, his brows furrowed in anger.
Garrett shot his older brother an angry look but kept his rebuttal silent. As a skilled attorney, part of Garrett’s training informed him that, when guilt was irrefutable, it was sometimes best to throw oneself on the mercy of the court. In this case that court was the always-impressive head of the Randolph ranch, Paul.
“Where were we?” Garrett asked.
His thoughts had been wandering from the lengthy government contract he held in his hands, and it was useless to pretend otherwise.
“Page four, paragraph six,” Paul answered, his tone a little softer now. “Garrett, is something wrong?”
“Not really. Just a woman,” he said with what he hoped sounded like glib indifference, never once taking his eyes off the contracts.
“It’s not like you to let thoughts of a woman interfere with your work. You haven’t gotten a girl in trouble, have you?” Paul asked.
Garrett looked up from the contract. He smiled at Paul, hearing the honest concern in his brother’s words. “No, nothing so drastic as that. It’s just that a gorgeous girl slipped right through my fingers, I’m afraid.”
Paul made a face. “That’s not reason enough to interfere with your work.”
Hours later, after every sentence of every paragraph had been read, reread, and analyzed carefully, Garrett at last allowed himself the comfort of a glass of whiskey. It felt good to sip the liquor and relax. It was a luxury he hadn’t had time for since he’d created his alter ego, the Midnight Phantom, and accepted all the responsibilities that went along with fighting Jonathon Darwell.
“Will she hurt you down the road, come election time?” Paul asked, stretching out on the leather couch, his own whiskey glass in hand. “We don’t need some dalliance coming back to haunt you when you run for territorial governor. Hell, there are some folks in town who think you’ll only be wasting your time with taking on the job of mayor of Whitetail Creek. They think you should shoot straight for governor, go for it now while it’s still a territory and not a state.”
Garrett issued a weary smile. “I haven’t run for any office yet, and already your friends are trying to push me up the ladder. How much am I going to owe these men once I become mayor, or governor, or whatever the hell else I think about running for?”
“Not a thing, little brother. I wouldn’t sell you out like that. You just be the best politician you can. That’s all they can expect of you, and that’s all I expect of you.”
“Good, because that’s all I expect of myself.”
There was a pause as each brother settled on his own thoughts. Then, with a sly, boyish grin, Paul asked, “So what’s her name?”
“Don’t press me on this one,” Garrett said with mild censure, though he immediately realized that would only whet Paul’s curiosity and make it that much more difficult to get off the subject.
“The sun was up before you got home. Now if a woman gave you the slip, and you still don’t get home until Gretchen was making breakfast, it seems to me you must have found another woman to soothe your bruised heart.” His grin was wider now. “I’m your brother. You can tell me.”
Garrett smiled then, though his heart was still heavy. “Being my brother makes you the last person I’d tell. She was nothing special, so just worry about your own love life.”
“I enjoy thinking about yours.”
Paul continued talking, but Garrett had stopped listening. He was thinking about Pamela, reliving all the moments they’d shared in their too-brief time together. Was she thinking about him? What was her opinion of him after what he’d done to her? Rather, what was her opinion of the Midnight Phantom after his attempted seduction?
Garrett sipped his whiskey, enjoying the burn of the amber liquid as it went down his throat. He had given Pamela every single dollar he’d taken from Jonathon Darwell’s safe. Had he tried to buy her good graces?
That ludicrous thought nearly made Garrett laugh out loud. He barely knew Pamela, but the notion that her sexual favors might be for sale stretched the boundaries
of everything he’d learned about human behavior.
Paul rose from his chair, deposited his empty glass on the sterling-silver serving tray in the corner and, exiting the office, said, “Get her out from under your skin quick, little brother, so we can get back to work.”
Alone at last and happy for it, Garrett closed his eyes. He recalled vividly how Pamela had responded to his kisses. She was not a woman who had been kissed often. He’d been able to tell that almost the first time their lips met.
Certainly he’d realized it the first time he explored her mouth with his tongue. She’d been shocked initially. Then, once she had a better understanding of what was happening, she’d blossomed, coming to life under his deeply probing kisses.
And when at last she’d found the curiosity or courage or passion to thrust her tongue between his lips and deep into his mouth, Garrett’s hunger for her had turned ravenous.
Even thinking about Pamela caused Garrett’s cock to awaken from its slumber. Immediately, he cursed himself—and Pamela as well—damning himself for wanting her as much as he did, and her for leaving his passion unrequited. She was a thief, after all. Certainly not much time would go by before she was arrested or caught by Jonathon Darwell, and then her corpse would be found in the prairie.
Any lawyer with political aspirations would be a mindless fool to spend more than two seconds thinking about the future of a thief, no matter how gorgeous she happened to be, no matter how statuesque her body, no matter how full and firm her breasts.
To prove to himself that Pamela Bragg was just a thief, he would ride out at night and watch her house. He doubted she really intended to give the stolen money away, but he’d give her the opportunity to prove her innocence. If he uncovered her guilt, however, then he could turn his back on her without feeling that he’d abandoned her.
With savage determination, he pushed Pamela out of his thoughts, to concentrate on problems he had some control over.
How much longer could the Midnight Phantom continue to fight Jonathon Darwell?
Garrett had spent countless hours planning every move in each raid on one of Jonathon Darwell’s business operations in Whitetail Creek. Such care had enabled him to continue his raids. But clearly Pamela hadn’t planned her moves. Garrett was astonished that she’d been able to crawl over the stone wall without being seen, but he was certain it would have been impossible for her to elude the guards upon leaving the Darwell compound.
He was thinking about her again.
“Damn her,” he said through clenched teeth, bolting to his feet.
He wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to get her out of his mind, but he was going to—and soon.
As he straightened his necktie, he went through a mental list of women who were more than willing to attract his attention and keep it through a long and passionate night. As he thought about them, it surprised him that none seemed particularly enticing. In one way or another, all of Garrett’s lovers paled when compared to Pamela Bragg.
He left the room, angry with himself.
* * * *
“What the hell do you mean you thought somebody was on the roof?” Jonathon Darwell asked, contempt icing each word.
The guard’s eyes were shifting right and left, apparently too afraid to look into Jonathon Darwell’s eyes.
“Well?” Darwell demanded, still sitting in a chair behind his desk.
“I can’t be sure. I thought I saw something in the shadows. It was dark, though, and when me and the boys gave the roof a real good look, we didn’t see nothin’.”
Darwell’s gaze went from the guard to his son, Michael. The head guard had already been fired then tossed into the street with a broken nose and several cracked ribs so that everyone would know the price paid for failing to carry out Jonathon Darwell’s orders.
“What do you think, Michael? Should we keep him on or give him the same treatment we gave his boss?”
The gunman blanched, but he did not back down, nor did he beg for mercy. His courage, not easy to find in those of his element, turned the winds of fate in his direction.
“Let’s keep him around,” Michael decided. “He’s the only one who saw anything at all, and he knows what happens when hired guns allow thieves to steal from us.”
Jonathon nodded slowly, pleased with his son’s decision. He had been grooming Michael to, one day, take over the reins of the family’s legal and illegal business ventures. Lately he was pleased with the leadership qualities Michael had been demonstrating. Earlier that day, his son had personally supervised the beating given to the head guard. He had even been the one whose fist had shattered the hog-tied man’s nose.
When the gunman left the room, Jonathon looked at his son, shaking his head slowly. “The Midnight Phantom had to have gone through all our bedrooms last night. He opened my safe, took the cash, then closed it up again as pretty as you please.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw, the only outward sign of the rage boiling inside him. “He entered my home during a huge celebration, went here, there, and everywhere. After he’d gotten what he came for, he left without ever being seen. He’s called the Midnight Phantom, but I want to call him a dead man.”
He picked up an expensive, ivory-handled pen from his desk and snapped it in half.
“I want him done away with, Michael. Now. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. I don’t care about the money. I can make more. What I can’t afford to lose is my well-earned reputation. Everyone must know that to cross Jonathon Darwell is to commit suicide. I don’t want anyone thinking for even a second that I’m vulnerable, that I can be robbed.” He forced his tone to sound calm as he battled with the seething hatred that boiled inside him. “The newspapers make that damn Midnight Phantom sound like a ghost.”
Michael said quietly, “I own one of the writers for The Whitetail Creek Star. I’ll get him to pen some stories about Phantom that’ll change the way people think of him. I’ll have him painted as an atheist, or a drunkard, or maybe a rapist.”
Jonathon nodded, liking the way Michael’s mind worked.
“Do that. And double the guards here. The thought of that Phantom touching your mother’s portrait makes me ill, I tell you. The Midnight Phantom must die!”
* * * *
By sundown, Pamela had decided to whom the two thousand dollars stolen from Jonathon Darwell’s safe should go. All she had to do now was ride out and place the money where the beneficiaries would find it. Her anonymity would remain intact.
Three families, all injured by Darwell’s greed, would receive the money. Five hundred dollars for the Sanders family, and the same for the Beaumonts. And that left a thousand dollars for the Pellmans. They would receive more because they had been most damaged by Jonathon Darwell and because they had the largest family. The thousand dollars would give them a new start in life, a chance to pick up stakes and move somewhere far away from Darwell and his conniving offspring.
The difficult decisions having been made, Pamela should have been ready to ride. After all, it would take a fifteen-mile circuit to deliver the money to these families in one night. That meant she’d have to take advantage of all the dark hours if she wanted to get some sleep eventually.
But she wasn’t dressed for riding. She was still in the same old thin cotton dress she’d put on that afternoon when she’d awakened from a fitful slumber.
On the bed were her Levi’s, fresh and clean from the laundering she’d given them that day. Beside them was the single white cotton nightgown she owned but seldom wore. The lovely gown had been a gift from her brother the previous summer, when, wistfully, she had remarked that she didn’t own anything that was pretty and feminine.
And it was pretty and feminine. No getting around that. Jedediah wasn’t much of a romantic, so he’d had the woman at the seamstress shop pick out the gown. Ankle length, with lace trim at the wrists and cuffs and a scooped neckline, it was soft and white and beautiful.
How many times had she worn it in the past year? T
hree? Her birthday. New Year’s Eve. Wasn’t there one other time? She couldn’t remember exactly when.
Why should she wear something so pretty when there was no man to see her in it? At least, not the right man. Her brother didn’t count, though she loved him dearly. It didn’t seem right that she should have received such a gift from a brother instead of from a husband or beau.
These thoughts, so strange for her to ponder, had kept her in the small cabin and had delayed her preparations for her philanthropic mission.
What if the Midnight Phantom decided to visit? He’d arrive at midnight, true to his name, wouldn’t he? He knew Pamela’s identity, she’d discovered. When he’d caught her in Jonathon Darwell’s bedroom, it had taken him a second or two, but then he’d recognized her. At some time or other, she had to have been introduced to him when he wasn’t wearing the mask over his eyes. But no matter how long she thought about it, she couldn’t picture any man she knew disguised as the mysterious—and much too attractive—Midnight Phantom.
“He won’t come for me. He got what he wanted last night,” she whispered, looking at the nightgown spread out upon her bed. The sound of her own voice was not very reassuring, and inside her head another voice whispered, No, Phantom didn’t get what he wanted, Pamela. You got the climax you wanted, but he didn’t.
For a moment, standing in her small Spartan bedroom illuminated only by the glow of a single candle, Pamela closed her eyes and thought about whether or not she wanted to be home—alone—if Phantom showed up.
She did.
She wanted to be waiting for him in her pretty white nightgown with nothing on beneath it. She knew she shouldn’t want Phantom’s arms around her, but she did. She wanted that more than anything she’d ever wanted in her entire life. More than a big, beautiful home to live in. More than pretty dresses filling a huge closet. More than a stable of the finest horses.
