by Beth Ciotta
He felt a little guilty about the ruse, but not much. A passel of folks’ happiness depended on his cleaning up Emily’s mess and delivering her to Arizona Territory. He’d fess up as soon as he judged her willing to accept his true identity without ordering him back to Phoenix, alone.
She’d declared herself capable of handling her own trouble. Like hell. No way, no how was this woman up to handling a low-down extortionist. As for relying on the local law, Paris’s description hadn’t been far off. He didn’t know about the loose-lip part, but ninny applied. He’d stopped by the jailhouse on the way to the library to scan the wanted posters. A career habit. If there was trouble in the area, he wanted to know who to look out for.
Heaven’s sheriff had been sitting out front, feet propped up, hat tugged low. He jerked out of his nap when Seth’s boot heels hit the boardwalk. He didn’t get up, didn’t spur introductions. But he did note Seth’s interest in the posters. “Looking for anyone particular?”
“Just looking.”
“You’re new in town,” he’d said, wiping drool from his mouth.
“Yup.”
“You a troublemaker?”
“Nope.”
“Then welcome to Heaven.”
He’d pointed Seth in the direction of the library without inquiring as to his name or business. Hard to tell if the man was completely incompetent, but he was sure as hell lax.
“So, what did Paris tell you about me?” Emily asked, jolting him back to the present.
He racked his brain. “That you have a fierce love of literature. Your preferences run the gamut, from Shakespeare to Dickens to . . .” he flattened his mouth. “I. M. Wilde.”
“I suppose you disapprove of dime novels.”
“Why would you suppose that?”
“You frowned at the mention of Wilde.”
What he disapproved of was Wilde’s penchant for portraying the Garrett brothers as indestructible paragons of justice. No man was indestructible. The Garretts weren’t saints by a long shot. He’d butted heads with three out of four when they’d come after their sister last fall. The oldest brother, London, was a bossy son of a bitch, but Rome and Boston in particular were destined to meet their maker due to arrogance and lack of self-restraint. Though he didn’t think Emily would appreciate the observation seeing that she was smitten with Rome. “I don’t have a problem with Wilde. Precisely.”
“Can you elaborate? Is it the writing in particular that troubles you? The style? The pacing?”
He didn’t rightly know why she cared what he thought, then he remembered he was Phineas Pinkerton--poet. Also that Emily, according to Paris, dabbled with writing herself. “I’m leery of glorified violence,” he answered truthfully.
Her shoulders relaxed and she nodded. “Oh.”
Seth fixated on her crooked smile, experienced a pull in his gut. Well, damn.
“I can respect that,” she said.
She dressed tough, talked tough, but when it came right down to it, Emily McBride was sweet. He suddenly understood why she was the object of several men’s affection. Angel and hellion rolled into one. Men connived to get a woman like that in bed. The appeal did not escape Seth.
“About that Cole fellow,” he ventured.
“Cole Sawyer. His pa owns the Rocking S, a cattle ranch up north. Mr. Sawyer’s ailing and looking to secure his legacy. Cole’s anxious to comply. I don’t know what’s worse, knowing ahead of time that a loved one’s going to die or just waking up one day and . . .”
“Paris told me about your parents,” he said as a flush crept up her neck. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She looked everywhere but at him. “What did she tell you exactly?’
“No specifics. Just that you lost them a few months apart and that their deaths were unexpected.” He could almost see the tension whooshing out of her body. Interesting.
“The adjustment has been challenging and full of surprises. Some good, some bothersome. About Cole,” she said, redirecting the conversation. “I do apologize for his ill manners, Mr. Pinkerton. He’s gotten it in his head that . . . well, he wants to marry me.”
“I gathered. When do you expect he’ll pose the question?”
“He already did. Last week. I declined. I mean, it’s ludicrous. I’d rather hitch myself to a donkey. Not that I used those express words. I mean, I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
His lip twitched. “Heavens, no.”
“It’s infuriating, I tell you, Cole’s persistence. At least Mr. Bellamont accepted my refusal with grace.”
Seth feigned surprise. “The winemaker. Your neighbor. He proposed as well?”
“Several weeks ago.” She focused back on the road. “I’ve never had a beau. Then Pa passes, and two men propose in less than two months. Everyone thinks I need a keeper. I don’t.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I’m perfectly content being single.”
“Forever?”
“For now.”
So there was hope. It was all in the timing and choice of words. He’d make her see the wisdom in marrying Athens. In turn his boss’s faith in his abilities would be confirmed. If he could pull off this poet persona, he could pull off anything.
Emily sighed. “I apologize for bending your ear, Mr. Pinkerton. I don’t usually unburden myself to strangers, to anyone, well, except Paris. I don’t know what got into me. Although, she did say you’re a good listener. Which you are.” She scraped white teeth over her full bottom lip. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”
Suited him fine. She’d given him plenty to think on. He folded his arms over his chest, relaxed against the seat, and studied his hostess from the corner of his eye. He’d wanted a challenge. He’d gotten one. This woman was as hard to pin down as smoke in a bottle.
She glanced sideways, her blue-blue eyes telegraphing her discomfort. “You’re staring again.”
“Pondering. You’re a mite different than what I was led to believe.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said something like that.” She focused back on the road, squared her shoulders. “I shudder to think what all Paris shared with you.”
Actually, he was contemplating Athens’s description of a meek woman. Paris had called her resourceful. He remembered then that Emily had been the one to persuade Paris into running away from home to pursue a songwriting career. “She told me that if it weren’t for you she wouldn’t have met Josh.”
She fidgeted in her seat.
“Told me you advised her to dress like a boy and to use an alias in order to elude her brothers.”
“It wouldn’t have been safe for her to travel all that way alone as a woman.”
“She shouldn’t have been traveling alone period.” He bit back a lecture on the numerous perils awaiting an unescorted woman. He doubted a man like Pinkerton had witnessed the same atrocities as a career lawman.
“She needn’t have traveled any farther than San Francisco if it weren’t for her pig-headed brothers,” she said. “Her family owns an opera house. London runs the place. If he would’ve allowed her to perform her original compositions at the Gilded Garrett, like she asked in the first place, she wouldn’t have been forced to explore alternatives. Personally, I’m proud of Paris for following her heart and defying convention. She’s an artist. A composer. Life experience inspires passionate prose.”
“Strange talk coming from a preacher’s daughter,” Seth noted, truly fascinated. “I would have pegged you more conservative.”
“Strange talk coming from a poet. I would have pegged you more liberal.”
She delighted the hell out of him with her grit. He would’ve smiled if not for the sudden feeling they were being trailed. He glanced around, saw nothing, but experienced a tickle of apprehension all the same.
Oblivious, Emily nudged him. “We’re almost home.”
Guinevere--what kind of a name for a horse was that?--whinnied and quickened her gait of her own acc
ord. They rounded the bend and he got his first glimpse of Emily’s sprawling two-story house. Carpenter gothic, he thought they called it. A wooden monstrosity with scrolled gables. It looked like a storybook gingerbread house and it was painted, Christ Almighty, various shades of green.
“I know it looks worse for wear,” she said. “But it’s comfortable on the inside.”
As they drew closer, he realized worse for wear meant that the paint was chipped and peeling, the front door window was cracked, and one of the porch posts was plumb broken.
It looked like a palace compared to his one-level, four-room adobe.
In the distance, branches rustled and the hairs on the back of Seth’s neck stood. His fascination with Emily took a back seat to Paris’s dire plea. “If you don’t go, something awful is going to happen.’“ He pretended interest in the property while surreptitiously scanning the wooded area to their left.
No doubt about it. They were being watched.
CHAPTER 6
Territory of Arizona
The hair on the back of Athens’s neck prickled.
Parker. His assistant, though competent and fearless, had a vexing habit of entering the room like a ghost. Unseen. Unheard. An admirable quality in a covert situation. Irksome in everyday life.
“How long have you been standing there?” he asked without turning. Hunched over his desk, he continued to read a file on Bulls-eye Brady, a notorious road agent and cold-blooded killer.
“Not long, sir. Sorry to interrupt, but--”
“Yes?”
“I have a telegram from your brother.”
“Which one?”
“London.”
Athens held out his hand, his gaze still pinned on the report. Two train heists and three stagecoach robberies in less than two months. Six deaths. He cursed Brady to the bowels of the devil’s lair.
“It’s good news, sir,” Parker said, prompting Athens to close the outlaw’s file and open the telegram.
Good news indeed. The eldest of the Garrett clan had agreed to relocate to Arizona Territory. Athens smiled. All of his plans were coming together. Seth was in Heaven, procuring a mother for his children. London would be setting up shop in Phoenix, providing a front and operation base for PMA. If Lady Luck continued to look favorably upon him, he’d have the alliance up and running by the end of the month.
Unlike Alan Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency, a veritable private army, the Peacemakers Alliance would rely upon the talents of eight qualified agents--all former law enforcers in one or another regard. He’d enlist Rome and Boston, for they were certainly among the best, but they had two things working against them. Their hotheaded nature and the fact that they were nearly as famous as Wild Bill Hickcok, the first dime novel hero of the west. I. M. Wilde’s romanticized tales had catapulted the two youngest Garrett Brothers to celebrity status. Fine for Wells Fargo. A liability for PMA.
He folded the telegram, grateful that London had retained a certain degree of anonymity. Though owner of one of the most successful opera houses in San Francisco, he led a quiet life. Unlike their father, London didn’t crave attention. Nor did he sleep with every starlet who hit the Gilded Garrett stage. His low key existence proved of little interest to gossipy folk and sensationalists like Wilde. What they didn’t know was that London possessed the same skill with his fists and gun as Rome and Boston. Athens knew. He also knew his older brother was looking for a prime excuse to shake up the life he’d never wanted.
“I need you to send a reply,” Athens told Parker, but before he could dictate a telegram, the office door slammed open.
Sammy Kirk, the blacksmith’s nine-year-old and a schoolmate of Zach’s, burst in wide-eyed and out of breath. “You best come quick, Mr. Garrett. Zach’s really gone and done it this time.”
Parker sighed.
Athens wanted to sigh. He was weary of his son’s explosive temper, but he rose calmly and reached for his coat and hat. “Another fight?”
“Yes, sir. A whopper, sir.”
“Injuries?” Since moving to Phoenix last month, Zach had suffered assorted scrapes and bruises and a chipped front tooth.
Sammy braced his hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath. “A shiner.”
“Well, he’s survived a black eye before.”
“Wasn’t Zach that got clobbered, sir. Was Zach that did the clobberin’.”
Athens blinked at the freckle-faced kid. “My son punched someone?”
Sammy nodded. “Mrs. Wilson.”
“The schoolmarm.” Parker whistled. “Holy--”
“Lock up the files, Parker. I’ll be back as soon I handle this situation.”
“You might be away a good while, sir,” Sammy called, just as Athens breached the threshold. “Zoe’s missing.”
Kaila Dillingham’s mood was bright despite a slow day at Cafe Poppy. At least she had Cafe Poppy. A business of her own, not that she needed the money. What she needed was independence, purpose. She’d found that when she moved from Kent, England to the land of opportunity. Specifically, the American west, an untamed region that stirred her noble blood. For the first time in her adult life, she was truly happy. She had I. M. Wilde, the American dime novelist, to thank for that.
Since business was slow, and since she could afford to close early, she did. Thereafter she’d indulged in a bit of shopping. Wilde’s latest tale, Showdown in Sintown, presently burned a hole in the satchel of supplies she’d purchased at the general store. She looked forward to afternoon tea on her veranda, coupled with an exhilarating read. Later, she’d enjoy a quiet meal and a scenic sunset. She’d been working very hard since her arrival in Phoenix. Had she truly been here a month already?
A cloudless sky and a refreshing breeze prompted a leisurely walk home. Pedestrian and equine traffic diminished the further she strolled from the town’s center. An invigorating combination of serenity and excitement pulsed through her body as she viewed vast desert and distant hills.
Somewhere out there lived a man who could make her soul sing. A handsome, rugged lawman, or maybe a rakish frontier man. Each morning she awoke wondering if this was the day he’d ride in and sweep her off of her feet. She wanted an adventure. A romantic adventure. Oh, to be a heroine in one of her beloved dime novels.
Tales of intrigue, specifically Wilde’s tales as they always involved a dashing hero and a damsel in distress, played through her mind as she walked the edge of a wide sandy road. An arranged, loveless marriage had left her yearning for what she’d never experienced--heart-tripping passion. A girlish notion and she was a widow of twenty-eight. Still, she harbored hope that a cowboy would take her on a lustful ride, even if only for a moment in time. One passionate moment could make for a lifetime of contentment, or so she’d read.
Two blocks from her humble residence, she heard the rustling leaves crying. Perplexed she lowered her parasol and peered up at a massive cottonwood tree. She caught sight of white petticoats amongst the green foliage and two wee dangling feet. A small girl, surely no more than five or six, was nestled in the branches, sniffling and talking to herself.
Kaila couldn’t make out the anguished words, but the stilted sobs and hiccups tore at her heart. Her biggest concern was that the girl would slip and fall. “Young miss,” she called softly so as not to startle the tyke. “Are you hurt?”
The girl peered down at Kaila with teary green eyes. She shook her head no, her blond curls bouncing with the effort.
“Are you stuck?”
Another shake of the head and more sniffles.
“Perhaps you could climb down then and we’ll discuss whatever is causing you distress.”
She set her chin at a stubborn angle, clapped onto the next branch and climbed a little higher.
Heart fluttering, Kaila tossed down her satchel and parasol and edged closer to the trunk of the tree. She wanted her arms free in case the girl fell. When the blond monkey settled safely on yet another limb, Kaila looked over her shoulder for h
elp. No one was around. “Oh, dear.” She tilted her head back, smiled up at the girl and kept her voice as calm as possible. “My name is Kaila. What’s your name?”
After a long moment she sleeved tears from her cherubic face and croaked, “Zoe.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Zoe. I have homemade cookies in my satchel. They’re quite delicious, if I do say so myself. Would you care for one?”
She bit her lower lip, nodded.
“Excellent.” Kaila’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Come down then. Slowly and . . . no?” Blast.
The sniffling tyke summoned Kaila with a crooked finger. “Could you bring a cookie for Sparkles, too?”
As the child was quite alone, she had no clue as to the identity of Sparkles. Regardless, Kaila took a napkin full of cookies from her satchel and stuffed them in the reticule looped over her wrist. She couldn’t fathom climbing a tree in her cumbersome ensemble. She didn’t want to scale the tree at all, but felt she stood a better chance at reasoning with Zoe face to face, ginger cookies in hand.
Again, she surveyed the area.
Deserted.
Before she could second guess her actions, she took off her ostrich-plumed hat, shimmied out of her bustled skirt, and, dressed only in bodice and bloomers, worked her way toward the wide-eyed girl. She did so with surprising ease. The branches were strong and plentiful, and she was fit and limber. Well done, she thought as she positioned herself on a branch opposite Zoe. To pull such a stunt on her native soil would have been scandalous. Women of title simply did not climb trees. She supposed her actions would raise a few eyebrows even here in Arizona Territory. Not that she’d shimmied a tree, but that she’d done so in her bloomers. Best to talk Miss Zoe down before anyone happened along. Though she’d abandoned her title, she still possessed dignity.
She dipped into her reticule and passed Zoe a cookie.
