by Paul Colt
“It is one of the benefits of living by the sea. Hopefully you will have time to enjoy that while you attend to your land investments. I must say, such a large commitment is remarkable.”
“Remarkable for a woman you mean.”
Caught, he hesitated as the waiter arrived with their drinks.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
“How do you know?”
“It was written all over your face. Now, my turn, how does someone as young as you rise to the position of cashier in a bank?”
“It’s simple really. All you need is a father who owns the bank.”
She laughed. “You’re honest. I like that.”
“Good, I’m glad.” He lifted his glass. “Then let’s drink to your success as a land baroness.”
“A prosperous banker’s son who bestows royal titles, I should never have believed it. Don’t you think that toast a bit premature?”
“Not after I talk to Father.”
“Ah, now that we must drink to.”
“Do you think that is wise? Do you plan to defraud this banker or bed him?” Escobar’s question hung icy over the sun-warmed breakfast table.
“We had dinner. Not that it is any business of yours. What’s more, I shall see him again this evening.”
“It is my business, until our arrangement is finished.”
Arrangement, again. The implied threat grew tiresome. She felt the weight of the pistol in the bag on her lap. He saw their arrangement on his terms. She understood a second set of terms. Should she choose to terminate the arrangement, she could cash one last bond for her trouble. She smiled. The strength of her position depended on the weasel’s unchallenged machismo.
“The banker is part of our arrangement. You may not like it, but his father owns the bank. If he finds me attractive, it serves only to assure us that we shall have our letter of credit. Would you have me brush off his attentions and risk insulting him?”
No answer.
“I thought not.” Insulting the male pride he understood. Men. So simple really.
Myles Lamont was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. By the time port was served his appetite had sharpened. She could read him like an open book. Under other circumstances she might have easily captivated him. She had a good start and it was only the end to a second casual dinner. What might life be? Wife to a prosperous banker. He’d not remain dashing and handsome. Charming perhaps, though familiarity had a way of exacting its wage. He’d grow paunchy, hair thinning in time. She’d become a comfortable matron of San Diego society, pampered, enjoying her husband’s wealth. So long as nothing of her past came out. And that of course is the nasty little secret, her past. Choices. Life is full of them.
“We should have everything wrapped up by lunchtime tomorrow.”
She blinked.
“I say, have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Just a little preoccupied.”
“So am I. Let’s hope for the same reason.”
She favored him with a smoky smile. “And what might that be?”
“I think you know very well what that might be.”
“I do.” She let her eyes drift half-closed and held out her glass. “Another port and you may escort me to my room.”
He poured.
Choices. Pity crime pays so well.
She waved goodbye. He smiled until then across the lobby. She left the bank, the letter of credit safely tucked away in her purse. Myles expected he’d see her for supper and somewhat more for a third consecutive evening. She wouldn’t make it. She’d be on the morning stage eastbound to Yuma. He’d been charming company and great fun, soft clay in her hands. He was well on the way to falling in love with her. A wealthy banker’s wife, the idea had never crossed her mind before Myles. She might have considered it, if it hadn’t been for her current arrangement. She had no choice but to finish this business. With luck she’d escape her employer and the authorities.
The brothel Escobar selected for his accommodation was located in a seedy part of town near the harbor. The saloons and whorehouses there catered to travelers and seamen alike. Prim and properly dressed as she was she made stark contrast to the painted ladies lounging about the parlor. The madam who greeted her summoned a dark-eyed waif to show her to Escobar’s room.
The girl regarded her with suspicion, puzzling over why the ferret-like Mexican would take a crib in the house and send for a girl like this. She’d seen some unusual appetites in her time, been party to a few, but she couldn’t recall anything like this.
She led the way up a creaky stairway to a dingy second-floor corridor, dimly lit by a single window at the far end. The girl stopped at a room midway down the threadbare carpet and inclined her head to the door. Without further word she made her way back down the hall toward the parlor
Cecile knocked. A muffled ruffle sounded within.
“Come in.”
A frowzy redhead sat on the bed wrapped in the flimsy suggestion of a robe. Escobar lay on the bed covered in a sheet.
“Be a good girl and give us a minute.” He patted her bottom.
The springs squeaked. Cecile stepped aside. The girl let herself out.
“Did you get it?”
She opened her purse and tossed the letter on the bed. She had no intention of getting close enough to hand it to him.
He snatched it up for a cursory glance. “Took you long enough.”
“I’m on my way to Yuma.”
“I’ll find you there in a few days.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Denver
They finished the breakfast dishes on a bright Saturday morning. Lately he’d taken to wiping in spite of her protests. She’d be loathe to admit it, but she did enjoy his company and didn’t mind the help, either. Saturdays were a bit more leisurely with no need of Beau running off to work. This day, Mr. Brighton was away on a business trip, leaving the house to the three of them. Beau folded the towel.
“Now about supper this evening,” he said.
“Is there something special you would like?”
“As a matter of fact there is. I’d like to take you out to supper.”
“What, you don’t care for my cooking?”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Heavens no, I merely thought to treat you to an evening away from the kitchen.”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten my house rule, no fraternization.”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything so bold. I was merely suggesting supper.”
She blushed. He had a maddening way of twisting her meaning in ways she didn’t intend. She had her standards. She was entitled to them. Why was it he felt compelled to ignore them when it came to things like clearing the table? Why did she let him? Because he was such a damnably charming and handsome brute.
“What is to become of Mrs. Fitzwalter?”
“You’ve food in the house. She’s an able-bodied adult. I should think if properly forewarned, she shouldn’t starve.”
Her nose wrinkled with a throaty laugh. “You are incorrigible.”
“Is that good?”
“It might be.”
He considered the dining room at the Palace Hotel and decided against it. He thought it too ostentatious not to mention the association with a hotel. He had no intention of crowding her good humor on either account. Delmonico’s made a quiet comfortable alternative. She looked lovely as she swept into the parlor from her quarters somewhere at the back of the house. Her hair swept up in auburn curls fired in lamplight and tied with a ribbon to match her emerald green gown. She’d taken his arm on the short walk to the restaurant as naturally as drawing a breath. The waiter showed them to a candlelit corner table and seated Maddie. He handed them each a menu.
“May I offer you something to drink?”
“I’m not sure. As I recall the rules, the lady there is the judge of moderation.”
She pulled an exaggerated scowl. �
��Oh, please. Have you an Irish whiskey?”
“Indeed we do.”
“Neat if you please.”
“Very good, madam. And you, sir?”
“Make it two.”
The waiter turned to the bar.
“Whiskey, I’m impressed.”
“I am an Irish lass.”
“Indeed you are.”
The waiter returned with their glasses. “I’ll give you a few moments to look over the menu.”
Longstreet lifted his glass. “To a lovely Irish lass.”
She colored. “Spare us the silver-tongued blarney.” She toasted the rim of his glass and took a swallow.
They passed a pleasant supper with wine and cherry pie for dessert. The walk home was pleasant too, aglow with moderation. Maddie let them in the front door.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“I would.”
She lit a lamp in the parlor and took herself off to the kitchen, leaving Beau to his thoughts. He took a seat on the settee.
There was something about Maddie O’Rourke. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He felt comfortable with her. He’d never thought of an attractive woman as comfortable before. What did that mean? Why would he think such a thing? She was comfortable with herself, that’s why. He enjoyed crowding the observance of all her strict rules on decorum. He’d already ruffled a few of those rules so far with this evening. Yet she seemed not to mind. He poked fun at her and she found humor in it. Comfortable, that must be it.
She carried two steaming cups of coffee into the parlor and set them on the table before the settee and took a seat. She picked up a cup and blew gently over the steaming surface and took a small sip.
“Pleasant end to a lovely evening. I must say I haven’t enjoyed myself that much in a long time.”
“Now there’s a pity. Life has so much to offer if you only give it the chance.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. It’s only that after Matthew passed away I haven’t had much reason to give it the chance.”
“Perhaps you should think about giving it a try.”
She arched a brow. “Waxing philosophical or volunteering are we?”
“Sorry, none of my business really.” He retreated to his coffee cup.
“Don’t be sorry, Beau. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You pushed me out of my nest. I had a wonderful time. It just made me a little uncomfortable.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because you had a wonderful time. Interesting, really.”
“How so?”
“While you were making the coffee, I was thinking that I had a wonderful time because you made me feel comfortable. Now you say you had a wonderful time and it made you uncomfortable.”
“There you go with that silver-tongued blarney again. You can’t fool me, Beau Longstreet. I know your kind.”
“You doubt my sincerity? I am cut to the quick.”
“Don’t be silly.” She gathered up the cups and took them to the kitchen.
He stood waiting at the foot of the stairs to his room. She paused as she passed on the way to the back of the house.
“I did have a wonderful time.”
He lifted her chin, her eyes green liquid in the dim light of the parlor lamp. He kissed her ever so softly.
“I too had a wonderful time, no blarney about it.”
She returned his kiss.
“Now you’ve made me uncomfortable. I’ll turn out the lamp. You run along before I’m accused of undue fraternization.” He watched her go, then huffed out the lamp.
She blew out the bedside lamp and slipped between the sheets. Beau Longstreet. Don’t be a fool, girl. You know the type. He says I make him feel comfortable. That makes me uncomfortable. He kissed me and that made me less uncomfortable. I kissed him and that makes him uncomfortable. I haven’t felt that kind of comfort in . . . a long, long time. I have my standards. I do. Don’t I?
Shady Grove
The following Saturday found the colonel waiting for me as he warmed himself in the still morning air on the veranda. He glanced up at the sound of my approach and furrowed his brow. I sensed he read my mood as I drew up a chair.
“Robert.”
I nodded.
“You seem a bit dour for such a splendid morning.”
“I suppose I am the least bit dour.”
“No trouble in paradise I trust?”
“No. It’s the book.”
“Ah ha, I sense a rejection.”
“Indeed. Polite, but rejected nonetheless.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know much about these things, but isn’t rejection a rather common matter of form?”
“They say. I suppose it is, until it happens to you.”
“Is it well written?”
“They say I show some aptitude.”
“The story then?”
“It’s a damn fine story. You know that.”
“Then you still believe in your endeavor.”
“I do.”
“Good. Then show a bit of that fiery determination of yours. I’ll wager this one isn’t the only publishing house in New York.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then buck up, lad. You’ve only to try another.”
“I shall. It’s only the matter of what I should tell Penny.”
“Why, tell her the truth of course.”
“But I feel as though I failed her.”
“How could such a modest setback possibly have failed her?”
“We were hoping . . .”
“I see. This romance of yours is progressing toward some more permanent arrangement then.”
“How could you know?”
“It’s written all over your hangdog face, boy. Does she share your feelings for her?”
I nodded.
“Then I doubt she will feel failed. Pick yourself up. Square those shoulders and set about the business of soliciting another publishing house. You’re pursuing a dream. It’s a quest. Only fairy tales are free of disappointment. Now pick up your pencil and let us continue while I still have wit enough to remember this story. Where were we?”
“Longstreet and Cane had returned to Denver to await developments.”
“Ah yes, I remember the morning, much as glorious as this one. Cane came into the office deep in concentration. I watched him pace. He’d stare out the window, fingering the whisker stubble on his chin. The man possessed extraordinary deductive powers. I’ve mentioned my belief he could follow a fart in a snowstorm. You could almost hear his brain thrashing at the problem . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Texas & Pacific, it has to be.” Cane said it to no one in particular.
“What has to be?”
“Texas & Pacific, the next run of bonds.” He crossed the office on long strides like a predator preparing to pounce.
“What makes you think so?”
“They’ve gone to ground because we were getting too close. They’re not done. I’ll wager odds on that. They’ll want to move fast once they start passing their paper again as they know we’ll pick up their trail once the bonds begin being presented for redemption. They need a string of banks much like those along the Union Pacific. What’s the next most likely?”
“The answer is printed on the bonds, Texas & Pacific.”
“Notify the league members from El Paso to Yuma, no make that San Diego. Have them alert their banks. I can’t say when or where, but I’ve a strong hunch they’ll show up somewhere out there next.”
“I shall alert the members today. Now here’s the next problem for you to deduce. We know the woman. She does the leg work. We know she is working with someone. That person may or may not be the brains behind this operation. We can’t rule out whoever that is, but given the sophistication of these criminals I would expect her contact is another low-level operative. The question is, when we do come onto them again, how do we get them to lead us to the bi
g fish?”
“It is a good question. Let me enjoy the last deduction before you spoil my lunch with this new one.”
“Right. After lunch then, don’t let any grass grow underfoot.”
Yuma, Arizona Territory
Dusty desert patched in dull green rolled by the eastbound stage. Escobar watched, unable to sleep. Giant saguaro cactus stood by, arms raised in surrender to the ravages of waterless heat. They surrendered and survived. Out here a man who surrendered died. He carried the California Harbor Bank letter of credit folded in his case. He would cash it at the Yuma Continental Express office, pick up another letter from the woman, and move on to Tucson. He wired Don Victor from San Diego; the cryptic message simply read Eastbound. He signed it E. The Don would not be pleased at the delay, but at least the news showed progress. The proceeds would soon flow again.
Squat adobe huts dotted the desert, signaling their approach into Yuma, which served as a gateway to California, crossing the Colorado River. The rail bridge now under construction would make Yuma an important hub, crossing Arizona on the westbound leg to the sea. Yuma also played host to an army post and the infamous territorial prison. Escobar had no wish to encounter any of that. He would conduct his business, enjoy a good Mexican meal and the higher quality tequila served here near the border. A good night’s sleep or perhaps an energetic señorita and he’d be gone again by morning.
The stage crossed the Colorado, quiet and muddy at this season of the year, passable by ferry. The outskirts of town scrolled past the windows. Quiet, baked-block adobe structures reflected the afternoon heat in shimmering waves.
The driver hauled lines. The team slowed. The coach bounced and lurched to a stop.
Escobar stepped down at the station to a hot dry gust of wind. Heat reflected from the dusty street as he waited for his bag to come off the boot, brushing away a fly. He collected his small bag and crossed the street to the depot. She stepped out of the shaded porch, sheltering waiting passengers. She acknowledged him with a slight nod, indicating things had gone smoothly.
He entered the depot through the muted passenger lounge and out to the bright sunlit street beyond. He turned east on Gila Avenue to the Yuma Hotel. Thick adobe walls cooled the lobby to a tolerable warmth. He would have preferred staying at a favored brothel. The message that awaited him at registration could not be entrusted to the integrity of such an establishment even if he could have convinced the woman to leave it there. Honor among thieves went only so far. He could visit the brothel when smaller sums were involved.
