“I insist.” He grabbed the bucket handle, covering her hand with his. It was the first time he’d touched her bare skin. She flashed her eyes at him.
They were almost blue, but not quite. When she let her guard down, which wasn’t often, he recognized that same soft intelligence he’d noticed the night he’d secretly watched her writing in her diary.
“All right, then.” She allowed him to take the bucket, her gaze still fixed on his. “As long as you’re up, I suppose you might as well make yourself useful.”
A lock of her hair had come loose and lay lightly across her cheek. He had a powerful urge to touch her, to reach out and tuck it back behind her ear.
“Yes, well…” Unnerved, she looked away, as if she’d read his thoughts. “You may set the bucket right here.”
Watching her, he placed the bucket on the floor next to the bar in front of a cigar store Indian statue Bill had picked up somewhere. Dora dropped to her knees, grabbed the scrub brush from the soapy water and went to work on the statue.
“You never stop, do you?”
“Hmm?” She glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”
“You.” He took in the rest of the staff, hard at work, carrying out her directives. “Them. All this.”
Tom and Jim were moving furniture around, and the girls were cleaning. He spied Rowdy and Gus out front sweeping the porch, and now Delilah was perched on a chair, polishing the cut glass crystals of the chandelier that hung above the center of the room.
“You get a bee in your bonnet about something, and you don’t stop till it’s buzzing.”
“If by that you mean I’m committed to carrying out my plans, then yes, you’re correct, Mr. Wellesley.”
“Chance. If we’re going to be living here together, you really ought to call me Chance.”
She arched a brow, then turned her attention to her work, scrubbing harder. “We’re not—” she cleared her throat “—living together, but if you insist on making the Royal Flush your home, I suppose we can drop the formality of using our surnames when we’re in private.”
He suppressed a smile. He’d never insisted, as he recalled, he’d just dragged his feet. And once she’d decided to keep the saloon open, she hadn’t exactly tossed him out on his ear. She’d allowed him to stay because he was good for business—at least that’s what she wanted him to think.
But there was more to it than that. She wanted him to stay because, despite her better judgment, she liked him. It was as simple as that. He’d felt it when he’d touched her hand, and again when he’d looked into her eyes and discovered that subtle vulnerability that hit him in the gut like a punch.
He could use that to his advantage. He meant to use it, to use her. All his months of watching and waiting were finally about to pay off. Wild Bill Fitzpatrick had hidden a fortune somewhere before he died. His daughter knew where it was. Only she didn’t know she knew.
“But now that we are in private, Dora—” he glanced at her troop of dedicated workers “—or nearly so, what exactly are your plans?”
“Oh!” She dropped the scrub brush and sat back on her heels. “Will you look at that.”
“What?”
She placed her hands against the base of the wooden Indian and pushed, putting all her weight into it.
“What are you doing?”
“Look!” She plucked a bank note from the floor. “It was underneath the statue. Why, it’s a hundred dollars!”
Delilah visibly paled. She scrambled down from the chair on which she was perched, forgetting the chandelier that was now swaying overhead. Tom exchanged a look with Jim. They all crowded around her, elbowing Chance out of the way.
Iris and Rose popped up from behind the bar, then called for the other girls to come out from the kitchen. Lily appeared on the balcony at the top of the stairs. She stood there, looking down at them.
Chance was ready for what came next.
“It’s just the one bank note, I guess.” Dora inspected the floor after the men muscled the statue out of the way. She had a strange look on her face, as if she were trying to remember something that was just beyond her recollection.
“Let me see that.” Chance reached into the throng and snatched the bill from her hand. Holding it up to the morning light, he studied it.
“Give it back to me. It’s not yours.” Dora moved in closer, peering at the bill alongside him.
“Maybe not,” he said, satisfied at how the little scene was playing out. “But it won’t do you any good, either.”
“What do you mean?” She took it from him and frowned, holding it up to the light and studying it as he had.
“I mean it’s counterfeit.”
“What?”
Delilah and the girls exchanged looks. Tom’s mouth dropped open. Jim merely shrugged.
“It’s a fake,” Chance said, watching their reactions, Dora’s in particular. “Counterfeit currency. Surely your friend Gardner warned you about that kind of thing.”
“Well…yes, he did, but…” Her frown deepened. “How do you know it’s not real?”
“I just do.”
She looked at him hard, as if she were trying to see beneath the surface, as if she knew there was something more there. There had been, once, but that was a long time ago, and he’d been a different man.
“But how?”
He shot her a smile. “It’s my business to know.” Which was the first true thing he’d told her about himself since the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
“You mean because you’re a gambler.”
He didn’t answer, and she walked away, still frowning, snapping the crisp hundred-dollar note between her fingers.
They all returned to their chores. Only Lily remained, still and silent on the balcony, watching as Dora slipped the counterfeit note between the pages of her diary, right beside the letter she was so fond of reading over and over. A letter he knew was from her father. A letter he meant to read tonight.
Dora lay awake in the dark, in the narrow bed in the cabin behind the house. She’d deliberately left the lace curtains open so she could see the second-floor window of the room from which Chance had been asked to move. Only he hadn’t moved. He was intent on keeping an eye on her, and she knew why.
His light had been out for hours, which was unusual. And he’d acted strangely the rest of that morning and the whole of the afternoon. She’d retired early, following the light supper that Jim had laid out in the kitchen for the staff. Monday nights in the saloon were busy, and she hadn’t seen Chance since.
She was about to see him now.
A shadow passed her window. She tensed, recognizing the set of his shoulders, that strong profile, his unfashionably long and tousled hair. She’d deliberately left her door unlocked to make it easy for him.
But she was no fool. She’d also made certain the small, pearl-handled derringer she’d found in her father’s desk that afternoon was tucked conveniently under her pillow. She’d never used a gun, but she knew how. The mystery novels she’d devoured had described the process in detail.
When she heard Chance try the doorknob, she knew her hunch had been right. He’d been eyeing her diary from the moment he’d discovered it wasn’t the bible he’d been so certain she carried on her person at all times.
Unless Chance had told them, she was fairly certain the rest of the staff believed it was a bible. She’d done nothing to alter their perception, and had made sure never to let them see her writing in it. She wasn’t usually so secretive, but intuition, which she rarely relied on, told her in this case the idea was prudent.
Moonlight reflected off the brass knob as it turned. Dora rolled quickly onto her side, hunkered down between the sheets and pulled the covers up to her nose. She snapped her eyes shut as the door swung silently open.
A draft of night air washed over her. She drew a breath infused with leather and sandalwood shaving soap, and knew he was in the room with her. Her skin prickled beneath the fine-weight cotton o
f her nightgown.
His footsteps were nearly imperceptible. The door clicked shut, and she felt rather than heard him pause, waiting to see if she’d awaken. She lay still as stone, forcing herself to breathe slowly, deeply, mimicking sleep.
Thank heavens he couldn’t hear her heartbeat, which thumped inside her like the bright snap of the snare drums she’d once heard in a rare Denver performance of John Philip Sousa’s band.
Her father’s last letter to her lay on the desk by the undraped window, the parchment a soft silvery gray in the moonlight. She’d left it there on purpose for him to read. Her diary, however, was in bed with her, under the pillow next to the derringer.
Some things she had no intention of sharing. The letter, on the other hand, had revealed little to her that was tangible, and if Chance Wellesley could decipher more from her father’s words than she had, so be it. That was her plan. Two could play at this game. She would be the one keeping a close eye on him from now on.
If there was money hidden somewhere on the ranch—and she was beginning to think there was—she was determined to find it, even if Chance Wellesley had to lead the way. That hundred-dollar bank note she’d discovered under the statue this morning had not been the first. She’d found others while poking around the house, but hadn’t tipped her hand, so to speak, until today.
She’d wanted to gauge their reactions, all together and all at once. The opportunity had presented itself, and she was pleased with the results. She was not pleased, however, to learn the bill was counterfeit. Chance had been right.
That afternoon she’d gotten hold of a Colorado Springs newspaper that a customer had left in the saloon. A half-page article expounded on the rash of counterfeit currency being circulated in the West, and included detailed descriptions of what to look for.
The article had also discussed the new breed of lawmen, agents of the United States Secret Service, who were charged with ridding the country of false currency and bringing counterfeiters to justice.
Dora held her breath and risked a peek from beneath her lashes.
Chance stood at the desk with his back to her, silhouetted in the moonlight, his hand on her father’s letter. Silently he picked it up and, tilting it toward the silvery light, began to read.
Who are you? she wondered as she watched him in the dark. He took his time, sliding the pages one behind the other as he read and reread them. If there was something there, some clue that wasn’t obvious, she suspected he was just the man to recognize it. Chance Wellesley had a shrewdness about him that wasn’t apparent on the surface. One had to look to see it—and she was looking.
He replaced the letter on the desk, careful to refold and position it exactly as it had been when he’d entered the room. She watched him as he moved to the bureau by the potbelly stove that provided the tiny cabin with heat.
Quietly he slid open each drawer and rifled through her things. He was looking for the diary, or perhaps he was looking for the contents of her father’s safety deposit box. The tintype was tucked safely away between the pages of her diary. It was precious to her, and she wouldn’t risk losing it.
The tortoiseshell comb, on the other hand, was still wrapped in the newsprint that had lined the box. She had no reason to hide it from him. He discovered it in the third drawer, unwrapped it and looked at it briefly, then returned it to its place amongst her stockings. Likely he thought it was hers.
Her eyes widened as he selected one of her stockings from the drawer and held it up to the light. Her anger surged as he rubbed the thin, dark wool between his fingers. How dare he handle her undergarments? When he had the audacity to brush the top of the stocking across his upper lip, letting it linger there, she let out a muffled squeak.
Chance whirled on her.
She snapped her eyes shut and rustled around in the bed, emitting more squeaks and sighs, feigning a dream. She wasn’t the only one who could act.
She heard the drawer of the bureau slide closed, and Chance’s nearly silent footfalls on the pine flooring as he moved quickly to the door. Another draft of night air washed over her as he slipped outside and she heard the doorknob turn behind him. His shadow was visible as he moved along the back of the house toward the steps leading to the kitchen.
She’d done it!
Dora breathed relief. She leaped from the bed and shot to the window. She watched as Chance crept up the back stairs and went inside. A new cat was in town, she thought mischievously, and the canary had no idea she was on the prowl.
“Three ladies. Read ’em and weep, boys.” The marshal laid out his cards, raked in his winnings and beamed them a smug grin.
The men at the table groaned. One of them threw in his hand, then wandered upstairs with Lily to forget how much money he’d lost that night.
Chance gave the marshal a halfhearted smile. “Seems to be your night, Max.” He gathered up the cards and began to shuffle. “Go again?”
“Nah, it’s past midnight. Best get home or the wife’ll skin me alive.”
“Boys?” Chance said to the rest of them.
Grimmer looked like he wished someone would do him a favor and put him out of his misery. “Not me. I’m busted.”
Chance knew it was true. The attorney played poker with him twice a week, and never went home until all his money was spent. Mortimer Grimmer had a bad gambling habit, which was why he’d continued to hound Dora for the pittance her father owed him for handling his business affairs.
The other players murmured sentiments similar to the attorney’s. Chance glanced at the other tables, thinking to pick up another game, but his heart wasn’t in it.
The marshal shot him a look as he rose from his chair. “Never seen you lose so many straight. You okay?”
“Hmm?” He’d only been half listening. For a moment he thought he’d seen Dora in the shadowed hallway off the kitchen. “Uh, yeah. Right as rain.”
The truth was that he was distracted, and had been for the past week, since the night Dora Fitzpatrick arrived at the Royal Flush.
Jim wandered over from the bar and set a fresh glass of beer in front of him. As he gathered up the empty glasses and full ashtrays, he said, “Never seen her over here before, this time of night.” The bartender nodded at the shadowed figure in the hall.
Chance hadn’t, either. Since she’d decided to keep the place open, Dora had made it a point to steer clear of the saloon when business was bustling. That meant most evenings. She’d said that while, legally, she was the proprietress of a drinking establishment, she had no intention of flaunting it, particularly during those times when other, even more scandalous commerce was being conducted. He smiled, remembering. Never in his life had he met a woman who referred to gambling and whoring as commerce. He also recalled the shocked look on her face when Delilah had suggested she join them all one evening for a drink.
“I’ll be right back,” Chance said. “Hold the table for me.”
“You got it.”
He nodded to Grimmer and Max, who were just leaving, then snaked his way around the crowded card tables toward the hall. It was busy for a Thursday night. Most of the girls were upstairs, and there were already lines forming outside the bedrooms.
Tom was playing up a storm on the piano, and in a few minutes Delilah would take to the stage and offer up a song. The woman surely could sing. He recalled how Wild Bill would stop whatever he was doing just to listen to her.
Jim handed off his load of glassware to one of the local waifs Dora had hired to wash dishes in the evening. Chance had to give her credit. In a matter of days she’d whipped the place into shape. The floors shined, the draperies and Persian carpets smelled fresh, and the chandelier gleamed along with every spittoon in the place. The customers, delighted with their sparkling surroundings, even began using them instead of the floor. The Royal Flush was, at last, the showplace it was always meant to be. Wild Bill would have been proud of his daughter.
But what was she up to now?
She’d been do
gging his steps for days. In the beginning, he’d been the one following her. Now the shoe was on the other foot. She’d shown an inexplicable interest in him lately that didn’t add up. Not that he disliked her interest. He liked it, and that was reason enough for him to be cautious.
He opted for the long way around, moving quietly into the hallway off the far end of the saloon. He paused a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Dora stood not ten feet from him, her back turned, her arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. In one hand she clutched her diary, in the other a fountain pen.
What the devil was she doing?
She paced off the steps from the center of the hallway to its end near the kitchen. Then she flipped open the diary and scribbled an entry. He realized she was about to turn. The door to her father’s study was open. He ducked inside where it was dark and waited.
“One, two, three…” She was counting her steps. Now why would she do that?
He’d learned almost nothing from his discreet visit to her cabin a few nights ago. Nothing, at least, that had revealed any more than he’d already known about Wild Bill Fitzpatrick and the money, and who his partner might have been.
“Five, six, seven…”
Her stocking had smelled faintly of lilac, of her. He drew a breath and could still smell it. He didn’t know if it was the power of his imagination or the fact that in a few more steps she’d be standing next to him.
It occurred to him that Bill might not have brought her in on his shenanigans, after all. His letter to her had been cryptic. Chance knew there were other letters, but Dora kept that damned trunk of hers locked, and he’d need more time alone in her cabin if he was going to read them.
“Nine, ten…”
In the end he would read them—and her diary. What worried him was that he felt bad about it.
You’ve gone soft, Wellesley.
The end justified the means. That’s what he’d told himself the past eighteen months, and that’s what he believed. It was the reason he’d been able to do some of the less savory things he’d done. It was the reason he’d be able to do what he was now about to do to Dora Fitzpatrick.
Rocky Mountain Marriage Page 7
