by Beth Ciotta
“I do.” Seth tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “Been meaning to follow up, but I’m knee deep in an investigation.”
“The fire,” Mr. Loss said, jumping back into the conversation. He’d been so quiet, Josh had forgotten he was there. “Sheriff suspects arson,” he said, eyes twinkling. He braced his hairy-knuckled hands on the hotel’s front desk. “So, have you two known each other long?”
Seth smiled, his emerald gaze glittering with brotherly affection. “Sheriff Grant and I go way back. Two years with the Arizona Rangers policing desperados along the Mexican Border. Another two with the Special Ranger Force trying to bring law and order to Texas.” He glanced sideways at Josh. “ Now that was a helluva challenge.”
“Heck of a history,” Loss said, duly impressed. “Arizona and Texas Rangers?”
Seth slapped Josh on the back. “Kicked some serious miscreant ass.”
Josh glanced at the lawman, wondering at the colorful jaunt into the past. He wasn’t the sort to brag. Maybe his friend wasn’t keen on discussing his investigation in front of big-eared Loss. He winked at the innkeeper, cocked a thumb at his friend. “Seth was one of the best.”
“Don’t doubt it,” Loss said. “He’s one heck of a sheriff. Speaking of which, did I hear right? You’re a sheriff too?”
He clenched his jaw. Knowing he wasn’t the law anymore was difficult enough. Admitting it to Seth …
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Seth said, saving him the trouble. “Turned in your badge. Fedderman wired me.” He shook his head. “If that don’t take the rag off the bush.”
“That cuz you’re getting married?” Mr. Loss asked.
Seth’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing under the low brim of his hat. “You’re getting married?”
Now would be the perfect time to let Seth in on the wife stipulation. If Josh didn’t marry, and soon, Mason’s property would revert to Niles. Seth would understand his agenda, although he’d have plenty to say. Maybe that’s why Josh kept his mouth shut. “It’s complicated.”
“Preacher Davis is out at the Jenkins Ranch,” Mr. Loss explained. “Heard tell Bo Jenkins is on his deathbed.”
“Bo’s too stubborn to die,” Seth told Loss then gaped at Josh. “God almighty. I just saw you nine days ago. You didn’t say a word. When? Who?” He scraped his knuckles along his jaw. “Ah, hell. Don’t tell me … ”
“What?”
“Not Paris Garrett.”
Josh frowned. “You mean, Getty.”
“The girl you tangled with in Yuma? Piano girl?”
“That’s the one.” He reached around to massage a severe twinge in his neck, wondering how Seth knew Paris—and how well he knew Paris.
“Garrett,” Seth repeated, shaking his head. “How the hell did you end up with her? According to Fedderman the two of you had words. You took off for Chance. She hopped the stage for Florence. He asked me to keep my eye on her once she got to town. A runaway, he said. When the stage didn’t show today I figured it busted a wheel and got off schedule. Happens often enough.”
Josh swept off his hat. “Moe Wiggins’s heart gave out.”
Mr. Loss clucked his tongue. “Well, that’s plumb awful.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Seth said. “Moe was a good man.” He squinted at Josh. “So what? You rescued Miss Garrett from the perils of the desert, offered her a ride, and somewhere along the way had the harebrained notion to get hitched?”
“That’s the most romantic thing I have ever heard,” Mr. Loss said, blowing his nose into a red kerchief.
Seth rolled his eyes. “Where is she, Josh?”
Not liking the tone, he set his hat on the desk and folded his arms over his chest. “Why?”
“Room number nine,” Mr. Loss offered.
“This is damn awkward.” Seth removed his hat, slapped it against his thigh. “I’m here to arrest that girl.”
Josh glanced at the deserted stairs. Tuckered out as she was, Paris had most likely fallen asleep. Still, to be on the safe side, he grabbed his friend’s elbow and dragged him across the hotel lobby, away from the stairs and the gossipy innkeeper. “Come again?”
“I’m not the only one Fedderman contacted. He came across an urgent telegram regarding a runaway, put two and two together, and immediately replied. The wires have been burning up for two days. This one came this morning.” He pulled a telegram out of his coat pocket. “You might want to sit down.”
“Just give me the damned thing.” Josh unfolded the note and read. He was incredulous midway through. Seething by the end.
URGENT. KEEP PARIS UNDER
LOCK AND KEY. ON OUR WAY.
ROME GARRETT
Josh gnashed his teeth. No wonder she got agitated every time he brought up her brothers. “Son of a bitch.”
“Dime novels love Rome Garrett, and his brother Boston.” Seth reclaimed the telegram, folded it into a neat square then tucked it back in his pocket. “Couple of frontier heroes. Two of Wells Fargo’s best. I can’t believe you’re mixed up with their sister.”
“Neither can I.” Josh didn’t know which pounded harder, his heart or his head. Hoodwinked by a five-foot-two maverick. Needing some fresh air, he pushed past Seth, stepping out onto the hotel’s wide veranda. He braced his hands on the railing, leaned forward, and breathed deep. Serenity, however, was not in the air.
The sun set low in the sky, signaling another day’s end. Respectable folk, family folk were heading home. The night belonged to the gamblers, rowdies, and whores: the wild folk, the lonely folk. The kind of folk Rome and Boston Garrett tangled with on a daily basis. For sure and for certain the kind they didn’t want their little sister mingling with. Which probably meant they didn’t approve of her dream. Which was why she’d run away. He gripped the railing tighter. If he wasn’t so all-fired ticked at her for misleading him, he’d actually admire her determination.
As for her brothers mistreating her, he wasn’t sure what to think. Granted, two of the four were legends, but even legends have a dark side. And they had instructed Seth to toss her in jail.
Whatever the case, the pain in his neck had graduated to a royal pain in his ass. Albeit it a fetching pain. Sweet Jesus. Her kisses, her passion, her pretty little freckled face haunted his every thought.
Seth brushed past him and leaned back against the corner post. “So Miss Garrett,” he said, hitching back his coat and withdrawing a cheroot from his vest pocket. “Is she—”
“Very.”
“Did you—”
“No.”
Seth struck a match and lit the slim cigar. “Too bad.” He blew out a stream of heady smoke. “At least that would’ve been worth dying for.”
“Meaning?”
“Heard about that kiss. Middle of Main Street. Ned Jasper said you steamed up his spectacles and he was standing twenty feet away.”
“Took you long enough to bring it up.”
“Took me this long to realize it was you.” Seth furrowed his brow. “You’ve never been one for public displays.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything.”
“You compromised the Garretts’ little sister, Josh. They’re going to hunt you down and, guaran-damn-teed, you’ll be shakin’ hands with St. Peter two minutes after. What were you thinking?”
Thinking? Hell, she’d kissed him senseless. “They won’t have to hunt. We’ll be in Chance. Send them on.”
Seth bumped up the brim of his wide-brimmed hat, the tip of his cheroot glowing in the dusk. “We?”
He turned and settled back against the railing. “She’s coming with me.”
“Now hold up,” Seth said, pushing off the post. “Rome Garrett—”
“Wants you to hold her prisoner. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you lock her up for however long it takes them to get here.”
“Give me some credit,” the other man huffed, dropping the cigar, and crushing it under his boot. “Like I intended to chuck her in the calaboose.”
“Wh
at did you intend?”
“To take her into custody.”
“Over my dead body.” It’s not that he didn’t trust his closest friend. The man treated women like European royalty. However, it was that very trait, coupled with his notable looks and sense of humor, that generally had women tripping all over themselves to win his favor. The thought of Paris falling prey to that natural charm set his teeth on edge.
“Well, what do you intend?”
“To marry her.” The fact that she kept fighting him on the matter rankled. Any other woman would’ve agreed in a heartbeat. Then again, Paris wasn’t like any other woman.
“You didn’t even know her real name until five minutes ago.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He’d mentally discarded the eligible women of Florence as he’d already settled on Paris. He didn’t want to examine his all-consuming need to protect her from the big, bad world. This union was beneficial to them both. Period.
“You love her?”
“No.” He liked her, cared for her, sure as hell lusted after her, but he’d be damned if he’d allow himself to fall in love. Love twisted life into a confounding knot. “But, she loves me.” Hence his ability to wrangle her into marriage with a guilt-free conscious.
“She tell you that?”
He thought about her uninhibited kisses, the besotted look in her eyes. For sure and certain, that girl wore her heart on her sleeve. “In a roundabout way.”
“Uh huh. Like I was saying, I’m thinking it might be best if I keep an eye on her until her brothers get here. You can discuss marriage proper like with them.”
Josh braced his hands low on his hips, his thumb brushing the butt of his .45. He’d be damned if he’d let Paris’s misguided quest, her brothers, or Seth stand in his way. “You don’t want her,” he said, lowering his voice to an ominous drawl. “She’s loco.”
“Crazy?”
“As a sheepherder.” He glanced at the toe of his boot trying to focus on his plan, which despite the turn of events, hadn’t changed. He needed a wife and she needed a protector. At least now he knew the truth, well, most of it anyway. “You know the name of every saloon operator in Florence?”
“Sure.”
“Know an M.B.?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“What about the fella who ran the opera house that recently burned?”
“Arnold Tucker. A respectable proprietor with an impressive nose for fine entertainment. The Lucky Lady went up in flames around three in the morning last week. Two days after you left for Yuma.” He frowned. “The day after Niles got into town.”
Seth’s implication was clear, though Josh couldn’t wrap his mind around the charge. Niles was a mean cuss to be sure, but he couldn’t imagine him burning down a building full of sleeping doves and performers. “Got motive? Proof?”
“No, on both counts, but hear this. Tucker loaded up whatever he could salvage along with his prized employees, including doves, dealers, and entertainers, and relocated in Chance.”
Josh digested that bit of news, stymied by Tucker’s choice of locales. Chance wasn’t even on the map. Population fifty-some, though growing daily as all boomtowns did. Still, why not Phoenix or Tucson or, hell, Prescott? “Nothing wrong with a little competition,” Josh said, trying to harvest the root of Seth’s suspicions.
“Except when your vindictive bastard of a cousin is part owner of that competition.”
Pay dirt. “Niles went into business with Arnold Tucker?”
Seth nodded. “Used part of his inheritance to buy out the Mercantile. He provided the building. Tucker provided the rest. Heard they opened their doors night before last.”
“That’s what you meant when you said he was up to no good.”
“Basically.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?” Seth braced one hand on the veranda’s post, cocked his head. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’ll reserve comment until I speak with him.” He’d learned long ago that things were rarely black and white. Though that’s exactly how Seth saw the world.
“Lottie Evans broke both of her arms jumping out of a second floor window to escape that fire. If Niles was involved—”
“I’ll let you know if I pick up on anything.”
Seth grunted, definitely unappeased.
“Back to why I’m in town,” Josh said, mentally juggling his problems. “You’re positive you don’t know anyone with the initials M.B.?”
“Milton Beane. He runs the livery. Mary Black. She’s married to Vic Black.”
“Never mind. Paris probably lied about the proprietor’s name same as she lied about hers. She didn’t want me to know her name, fearing I’d make the connection to her brothers. Didn’t want me to know where she was heading in case I figured out who she was, assuming I’d inform her brothers. Which I would have if I had known who they were.”
Seth scratched his forehead. “I’m confused.”
“Welcome to my life.”
Mr. Loss rushed the veranda, a mischievous gleam in his eye. He passed Josh his Stetson.
Josh thanked him.
Loss nodded but made no move to leave.
“Was there something else, Percy?” Seth asked.
“I thought, that is … ” The man fiddled with his bow tie. “Not that it’s any of my business … ”
“Spit it out.”
Loss adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat. “Yes, well, Mrs. Loss just saw to it that a hot bath was delivered to room number nine for Miss Getty.”
“Garrett,” Seth corrected.
“Paris,” Josh insisted, not wanting it to get back to her yet that he knew her real name.
Loss cleared his throat, obviously confused. “Yes, well, according to my wife, that young girl had been crying her eyes out.”
Josh ignored Seth’s steely glare. “Go on.”
“Miss … Paris asked Mrs. Loss if she knew what time the next stage left for Chance.”
Josh pushed his hat to the back of his head. What the hell?
“The stage doesn’t go to Chance,” Seth said.
“That’s what Mrs. Loss told her,” the innkeeper continued. “Miss Paris asked Mrs. Loss if she knew of anyone traveling that way.”
Seth looked at Josh. “You’re traveling that way.”
“I know that, dammit.” Why would she be interested in visiting a one-horse mining town? Unless … “I don’t believe this.”
“What?”
“I understand your distress,” Mr. Loss said. “You don’t have to worry about me or Mrs. Loss wagging our tongues. We know all about lovers’ spats. We have ‘em all the time. I just thought you’d like to know so you could buy your fiancé some hair ribbons or gumdrops or something.” He pushed his spectacles higher on his nose and smiled. “You know, to smooth things over so you can kiss and make up.”
“Thanks,” Josh grumbled.
“One last thing,” Mr. Loss said, backing toward the door. “She wanted to know if me and the missus had a piano. Mrs. Loss told her, no. Next Miss Paris asked the most peculiar favor.”
“Directions to the nearest saloon?”
Seth gawked at him. “She wouldn’t.”
“I should’ve tied her to the bedpost.”
Mr. Loss turned beet red. “Course Mrs. Loss didn’t offer directions,” he said in a rush, “but as you can see the Sand Spur is right across the street.”
Seth waited until Loss disappeared back into the hotel then turned to Josh. “Guess you weren’t kidding about her being weak north of the ears.” He sighed. “All right. What have we got? Chance. Opera House. M.B. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Unfortunately.”
“What’s the connection?”
That there was a connection boggled his mind. He’d never believed in fate, but by God if this wasn’t a glowing example … Josh relayed the information in a disbelieving drone. “Paris answered a newspaper advertisement. An opera house seeking
entertainers. She received a telegram in return offering her a job.”
Seth nodded, putting two and two together. “A telegram signed M.B.”
“Mason Burke.”
“I take it she doesn’t know Mason’s, well …” Seth cleared his throat, “ … gone.”
Josh’s gut clenched at the thought of his uncle pushin’ up daisies. “Guess not.”
“Or that you’re his nephew.”
“Definitely not.”
Seth furrowed his brow. “You gonna tell her?”
“Eventually.”
“Not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Didn’t figure you would.”
Seth scratched his chin then rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess that makes you her employer.”
“Guess so.”
“Awkward.”
“Yup.”
Seth nodded toward the Sand Spur. “Buy you a drink?”
“You can buy me a bottle.”
Strangers passing in the night, by chance their lips did meet. Though they shared a moment’s fire, the kiss was incomplete.”
Paris lay in the center of the bed, staring up at the ceiling, singing the lyrics that had been ringing in her ears for over an hour. She wanted to scream.
“Fate conspired to lend a hand, desire became their curse. Both would fight against the fall, whose heart would be lost first?”
The prophetic verse played over and over in her sluggish mind, refusing to blossom and grow. Her head throbbed. Her throat burned. Her entire being ached. The hot bath, though it had calmed her frazzled nerves, had failed to soothe her trail-weary body. What she needed, as Josh had pointed out, was a sound night’s sleep. Unfortunately, she wasn’t going to get a wink of rest with a song stuck in her head. If Mrs. Loss didn’t come back with the change of clothing she’d promised, and soon, she’d be forced to scout out a piano in her underthings. Cursing herself for allowing the woman to cart off her trousers and shirt for washing, she closed her eyes, and tried to focus on something other than the haunting ballad Josh’s kisses inspired.
“Strangers passing in the night, by chance their lips did meet. Though they shared a moment’s fire, the kiss was incomplete.”
