The last few minutes replayed themselves over and over again. The gunshot, the shatter of glass, Jesse’s body covering hers . . .
Oh, God. Honesty brought her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth. Jesse could have been killed, and it would have been her fault.
Maybe that bullet had been a stray shot, but what about the next one?
The bliss she’d felt barely an hour ago withered like an autumn leaf. She could not do this anymore. She had to tell Jesse the truth of her relationship to Deuce McGuire, of his death, and of the danger he might be in just by being in her company. She still didn’t know what he wanted with her father, or what he would do when he learned who she was, but he had a right to know of the danger so he could be prepared. He’d be angry that she’d kept her identity from him all this time, and might never forgive her. But wasn’t that better than seeing him dead?
With a sense of resignation Honesty wiped her eyes, pushed herself off the bed, and gathered her clothes.
No sooner had she gotten dressed than a knock sounded at the door. The porter from downstairs said, “A message for Mr. Jones.”
She opened the door. “Thank you. I’ll take it.”
“I was instructed to give this only to the gentleman.”
“I’m the gentleman’s wife,” she said. “I’ll see that he gets it.”
Plucking the folded paper from the porter’s hand, Honesty then shut the door. Who would be sending Jesse a telegram? She turned the message over in her hand. No one knew they were coming to Sage Flat.
She split the seal with her fingernail and scanned the typewritten note. The letters blurred together in a senseless pattern, and Honesty almost folded the paper.
Then one word jumped out at her.
McGuire.
Voices outside penetrated the fog creeping through Honesty’s mind. She whipped open the door, startling the elderly couple entering the room across the hall.
“Excuse me, sir, I wonder if you can do me a favor.” With a smile that Deuce once told her could rival the stars, she handed the silver-haired gentleman the telegram. “I just received this message, but I’m afraid I’ve misplaced my glasses and can’t read a word of it. Would you mind?”
“Certainly.” The man cleared his throat and read.
Mallory possible alias for McGuire. Stop. Last known address Sweetwater. Stop. Report soon. Stop.
“Does it say who it’s from?”
“I’m afraid not.”
After thanking the man, Honesty returned to her room and drew the message through her fingers, sharpening the crease. It was a damning message, one that connected Honesty with two of the names her father had used. It wouldn’t take Jesse long to put the rest together. She’d planned on telling him anyway, so that wasn’t what disturbed her. But why would Jesse be getting a message like that? Who would have sent it? What business did he have with Deuce?
She and Deuce had spent some time in Sweetwater; that was one of the stars on her map. She couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve at the time, and they’d had to leave when those dreaded detectives had started snoop—
Honesty’s hands stilled. Her blood turned to ice in her veins.
No . . .
She hastened to the bed and dumped out the contents of Jesse’s saddlebags. She didn’t know what she was looking for; something to tell her that her suspicions were unfounded. Some clue to his identity . . .
Her hand brushed the tinderbox and froze.
The catch sticks sometimes.
Her heart pounded erratically as she picked up the box and turned it over. Engraved at the bottom was the shape of an open eye, and in the center, the initials J J R.
A memory flickered at the back of her mind, a handbill pinned to the wall of a Denver store, with the picture of an open alert eye.
“It’s their motto, lass,” her father had once told her. “‘Pinkerton Detective Agency; we never sleep.’”
They never gave up, either. They pursued relentlessly and mercilessly, changing character and appearance as often as most people changed their clothes.
And she knew then why Jesse seemed so mysterious. He wasn’t an innocent drifter-for-hire. He wasn’t an unpredictable outlaw. He was so much worse. He was a detective. A Pinkerton detective, the best of the buch.
And heaven help her, she’d fallen in love with him.
Chapter 18
Jesse saddled the horses with swift efficiency, anxious to get the hell out of town. His mind kept clicking back to the night before, when Honesty claimed to have seen Roscoe Treat. He hadn’t believed her then, but what if she had been telling the truth? What if the brothers had somehow discovered where he and Honesty were staying?
It had happened before. Marks he’d been trailing would catch wind that he’d looked at a woman with interest, and the next thing he knew, she’d be threatened, or her family would be threatened, her house ransacked or her pet killed mysteriously. A man in his line of work couldn’t form attachments, because it put the innocent at risk.
It was one of the reasons he’d encouraged his mother to move to Montana, so she would be safe from the consequences of his profession.
But what was he going to with Honesty? Turning her away would now reduce her again to the kind of life she’d led before.
He’d married her, and made her his wife in every sense of the word. She was his responsibility now, and it was his duty to keep her safe. He couldn’t leave her here, or anywhere else. The risk was too great; by not believing her, he could very well have put her in danger. So his only choice was to keep her.
And if he did that, he had to tell her who he was.
Did he risk it? Would she expose him, too?
Maybe it was time to have a little faith in her. As Annie had pointed out, she wasn’t Miranda and he had to stop making that comparison. If he trusted her a little, maybe she would learn to trust him back.
He returned to the hotel. Honesty wasn’t in the lobby. Figuring she was still trying to get their things together, he took the stairs two at a time and entered the room. “Honesty, the horses are—”
He came to a sudden halt inside the doorway.
No. She wouldn’t have done this to him again. Not after the night they’d spent together.
Spying the contents of his saddlebags spread across the bed, he felt a sense of doom creep through his chest. Jesse’s hand met the butt of his revolver. “Honesty?” Weapon drawn, he searched the room. The window was shut, the wardrobe open, and glass still littered the floor and bed.
But no Honesty.
Had Treat seen her last night? Followed her here? Taken her again?
Fearing the worst, Jesse started shoving his clothes into his saddlebags and flipped it over his shoulder, only to be yanked back by the bed’s blanket, trailing from one pouch. Cursing, he tugged at it and flipped the rumpled blanket onto the bed—and saw that spots of blood stained the white sheet. At first he wondered if Honesty had been cut by the glass, despite her denial. In the excitement, he hadn’t examined her closely.
If she’d been cut, though, how had the blood gotten beneath the blanket? He took a closer look at the sheets. It wasn’t fresh, which meant it must have gotten there last night. Had she been having her menses? No, he’d have known.
The only other way it could have gotten there . . .
No.
It was too absurd to consider. She couldn’t have been a virgin. He’d seen her taking men upstairs. Hell, he’d been one of them.
Or had he?
That night was a blank in his memory. All he had was Honesty’s word that they’d spent the night together.
Honesty’s word.
Feeling as if the breath were being crushed from his lungs, Jesse examined every relevant moment from the night before.
She’d been so tight. She’d seemed unsure, even awkward at times. Then there had been that split second when he’d pushed against a resistance and her whole body had stiffened. He’d never been with a virgin b
efore; there was no bigger trouble for a bachelor than an unsullied woman. But he’d heard stories from men who liked to boast . . .
Oh, God.
As senseless as it sounded, it all added up. The saloon strumpet he’d paid to bed, then been forced to marry, had been a virgin.
What the hell kind of game was she playing?
The winds blew a lonely wail across the plains as Honesty rode south toward the Palo Duro, the emptiness in her heart as vast as the plains surrounding her. Her eyes were dry and gritty from sand, and she wore a scarf over her nose and mouth to keep out the dust. Her heart felt cold and brittle.
Why hadn’t she listened to her instincts the very first time she’d seen Jesse? She’d known he was either evading someone or searching for someone, and that inkling had been clinched the night she’d overheard him talking with the Treat brothers. She was better off without him.
She would do this. She would survive. She would find whatever it was her father had left her, and she would build a future for herself. It was her legacy, and good or bad, it was all she had left to hold onto.
At the sound of hoofbeats, Honesty threw a glance over her shoulder and saw a cloud of dust bearing down on her at breakneck speed.
Jesse! How had he found her so quickly? Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? She jabbed her heels into the mare’s sides. The hoofbeats drew closer, and Honesty knew the little mustang would not outrun his faster mount. She pulled on the reins and brought her to a halt, intending on blasting Jesse with both barrels over his betrayal.
Instead, she found herself looking into the stormy eyes of Robert Treat.
Behind him, Roscoe chortled. “Told ye I saw her leaving the hotel.”
“That you did, brother. You are one slippery little bird,” he told Honesty, grabbing the mare’s reins. “But you’ll not fly the coop so easily this time.”
“What do you want?”
“What we’ve wanted all along. Your father.”
“My father is dead, Robert. You killed him three months ago.”
“I’m certain you would like me to believe that, but we both know the truth.”
“That is the truth. You shot him in the stomach down in Durango, and it killed him.”
Something in her tone must have convinced him, for his face went a mottled red and he began to pace. She’d never seen Robert be anything but calm and composed, and his agitation worried her down to her toes.
“Why didn’t you tell us this in the first place?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“What are we going to do?” Roscoe whispered. “If McGuire’s dead, we’re never going to get our money.”
“We’re going to have to kill her,” Robert stated, as if her life meant nothing. “She knows us. She could turn us in.”
“I ain’t never killed a woman before.”
“Just shoot her.”
“That’s awful noisy. What if someone hears the shot?”
“Then we’ll hang her.”
“There ain’t no trees.”
Robert gritted his teeth. “Smother her, then. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done!”
Each method sent grisly pictures flashing in Honesty’s mind. For just a moment, she wished Jesse were here, then chided herself for the thought. She’d spent most of her life depending on Deuce to be there for her when she needed him, and when he’d died, she’d been all but helpless.
Besides, he’d sworn not to come after her again. And when he gave his word, he meant it.
No, she’d have to get out of this herself.
“While you two are dickering over my murder, I hope you don’t mind if I go collect the money my father hid.”
Both swung around to face her with expressions of shock. “What did you say?” Roscoe asked.
“You know where he hid the money?” Robert cried.
“Of course. My father would never have kept a secret like that from me.” It was as bold a lie as she had ever told, but desperation offered no other solution. Rose had once said that unless she had something to offer besides herself, her business would go under. Well, the same logic applied here. If she had nothing of value to offer these men, she knew she’d not live out the day.
Roscoe leaned forward. “Where is it, then?”
“Do you think I’m stupid? I’m not telling you anything.”
“She don’t know where the million is,” he told his brother, who watched her with grave speculation.
“Are you willing to risk it?” Honesty challenged.
“What if she’s trying to pull the wool over our eyes again, ’Bert? Last time she did this, that damn fool from the bar came after us. My nose still hurts.”
“Honesty,” Robert said smoothly, “it would really be in your best interests to tell us where that money is, or . . .”
“Or what, you’ll rape me? Kill me? Torture me? Do what you will, I swear on my father’s grave that you’ll never see one red cent of that million.”
He weighed her sincerity for several long moments before finally kicking his horse into motion. “If you are playing me for a fool, I promise that you will regret it.”
She’d lied to him. The realization pounded through Jesse’s brain as he went to collect his horse. Why it came as such a shock, he didn’t know; Honesty had done nothing but lie to him since the day he’d clapped eyes on her. And he’d fallen for her anyway. What a fool he’d been to think one night with him could have changed her; to have trusted that she’d stay put and trust him to help her.
He’d not be anyone’s fool ever again. He’d meant what he said, goddamn it. He’d not go after her. Let her face the harsh, cruel world on her own. He was sick and tired of putting off his own agenda to chase after her; it was time to focus his energies on picking up McGuire’s trail.
“Jesse!”
He threw a glance over his shoulder, and recognition of the horse and rider galloping toward him had his brow creasing in bewilderment. “Ace?” What was he doing here?
Brett pulled his high-headed Arabian to a skidding stop. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he announced breathlessly.
“Nothing’s happened to Annie or the girls—?”
“No, nothing like that. Jess, I finally remembered where I’d seen your wife before.”
“Hell, man, you didn’t have to send out the hounds to tell me that.”
The humor he tried to inject fell flat at the grave expression his friend’s face. “You said you were looking for a fellow named George Mallory.”
“I was.” He wasn’t anymore; Mallory was Honesty’s problem to deal with.
“Do you know what he looks like?”
“Not a clue.”
“Then this might interest you.” He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew an old newspaper page. “I met him down in Sweetwater back in ’76. The pair of them took me for a couple hundred dollars. She was quite a few years younger then, but it’s her.”
Jesse didn’t understand how meeting Mallory ten years ago could have any bearing on this, until he took the clipping Brett handed over. He stared at the smiling picture of a young fair-haired girl in her early teens, standing beside a man whose face had been burned into his memory since he’d first seen the sketch three months earlier. His eyes blurred. His nostrils flared.
His one link of finding McGuire had been under his nose the whole time. And he’d just let her get away.
“Are you sure she’s headed this way?” Brett asked him for the umpteenth time as they headed south out of Sage Flat. “I haven’t seen a single sign of her.”
“I’m sure,” Jesse told his friend, as certain of Honesty’s intentions as he was of his own name. “She has a map, and Sweetwater was on it. She’ll go to Spring Creek next. Whether or not she’s actually following a trail set by McGuire remains to be seen.”
As he made the prediction, it occurred to him that it was something the old Jesse would say, and it caught him by surprise. When was the last time he�
�d let his instincts guide him? When was the last time he’d felt so confident? When was the last time it felt this good?
About a mile out of town, a flash of blue cloth in the amber grass caught his eye. Jesse dismounted, something about it reminding him of the bandana Honesty wore to keep from breathing the dust. He brought it to his nose and inhaled the faint fragrance of lilacs. “This is hers.”
“Jesse, you need to take a look at this.”
He glanced ahead to where Brett stared down at a section of crushed grass and hoof-churned earth. Three sets of tracks converged into one. The bottom fell out of his heart, and his mouth turned to cotton. “Hell, they got her again.”
“They?”
“It’s a long story,” Jesse said. “Help me find her and I’ll fill you in.”
The trail led them to the edge of the Palo Duro Canyon. As it wound a crooked path down a steep and rocky decline, Jesse gave the lead over to his friend, who was more familiar with the area. He refused to let himself think of what Honesty might be going through. But as the hours passed with no sign of her, fearful anxiety joined the riot of emotions twisting inside him.
He didn’t fool himself into thinking his drive to find her stemmed from the fact that she was his only lead to McGuire. He blamed himself for the Treat brothers finding her. He never should have left her alone in the room. Never should have let her out of his sight. But after the night they’d spent together, he’d let her delude him into thinking she might want to stay with him. What was it that continuously tore her away from him? What was she was after?
A break finally came late that afternoon when they saw Honesty’s mare galloping through the trees lining the river that cut through the canyon floor.
Jesse spurred his horse through a maze of hickory and huckleberry with Brett close behind. At the edge of the wood, he slowed, prickles of unease dancing up the back of his neck. He dismounted, leaving the reins trailing on the ground. Signaling for Brett to cut to the left, Jesse circled right and crept forward.
He spotted Honesty the instant he reached the edge of the tree line, sitting on a rock near the river bank, watching Robert stumble around the inert form of his bulky brother, who lay on the ground. Jesse reached for his Colt, prepared to barge in and rescue Honesty, when Robert’s cold, slurred voice stopped him at half charge.
An Unlikely Lady Page 21
