Romancing the West

by Beth Ciotta

  “Let me guess. They didn’t outsmart Rome and Boston Garrett.”

  “Very intuitive.”

  “Not really. She was family. They’re expert trackers. My guess is Jocelyn’s killers never made it to trial.”

  “They made the mistake of drawing on Rome and Boston. I know it’s not Christian of me,” Emily said, “but I think they got what they deserved.”

  He glanced at her. “How did Athens feel about his brothers avenging his wife’s death?”

  She shrugged. “I assumed he was relieved. I don’t think he could have . . . that is to say, he’s not like his brothers. He’s a gentler man.”

  He looked thoughtful again, as if he were drawing conclusions about Athens. She was curious as to why, but they were nearing home and she wanted to pose her question out of Mrs. Dunlap’s earshot.

  “Zach and Zoe,” he said, again beating her out. “I guess you knew them pretty well.”

  “I looked after them quite a bit after Jocelyn passed on. Athens focused on work more than ever. To keep his mind occupied and off of Jocelyn, I suspect.”

  “You got on with them? Even though they’re ornery?”

  “I’m quite fond of them.” She smiled. “Especially because they’re ornery.”

  “What about Athens?”

  “Athens is not ornery. He’s,” she pursed her lips, “stable.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “What’s not to like?” Why was he so focused on Athens and his kids? She spotted the house. She told herself, now. “He’s a nice man, a good man, and I sincerely hope that he marries again. He deserves someone special and any woman would be lucky to have him.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but she kept rolling. “Just like any woman would be lucky to have you.”

  He pulled up short.

  She reined Guinevere around so they were facing one another, moved in close so that her knee brushed against his. She forced herself to look him in the eye. Just say it. “I think we’d make a good match.”

  He remained silent.

  “You and I,” she added, lest his mind was still on Athens.

  “I’m not the marrying kind, Em.”

  “I know what you are.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “I know you prefer the company of men to women.” There. That was direct. “I want you to know I’m all right with that. I don’t understand it precisely, but, well, I don’t condemn it. We can’t choose who we’re attracted to.”

  “Christ.” Frowning, he rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I don’t want to shock you.”

  “Too late.”

  “But I know about some things. Like how sometimes a man . . . like you . . . will take up with a girl . . . like me . . . so that people don’t talk. She’s like a pretend wife, or fiancé, or . . .” she swallowed hard, “girlfriend.”

  He looked like he wanted to run for the hills.

  “We’d make a good match. We could travel the theater circuit together. You could write and perform poetry. I could write plays, hopefully sell them. People wouldn’t shoot at you or make fun of you for being . . . different. Because you wouldn’t appear to be different. We’d be . . . a couple.”

  He shifted in the saddle. He was definitely uncomfortable. “This is insane.”

  “No, its not. It’s advantageous. You like me, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Care about me?” He nodded.

  “You want to help me, right?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I want to leave this town. Travel to Arizona Territory. I want to be there when Paris’s baby is born and then I want to go anywhere and everywhere. Wherever the theater circuit takes us. I want to wake up not knowing what to expect of the day. I want an adventure.” Her heart thumped against her ribs. “With you.”

  He swiped off his hat, sleeved sweat from his brow. He looked at her and her heart bumped up to her throat. “Em--”

  “I know I goaded you into that boner-inducing kiss and that I was . . . overzealous. If my behavior concerns you, I want you to know you don’t have to worry about me conducting research with anyone else. I’m not promiscuous.”

  “I am.”

  She bit her bottom lip, dug deep. He’s your friend, not your lover. “As long as you’re discreet--”

  “That doesn’t make it right! Jesus, hon.” He jammed his fingers through his hair. Clearly, she’d hit a sore spot. He tugged on his hat, pinned her with those striking green eyes. “Promise me you’ll never settle for less than a fully committed relationship.”

  He truly did care. She smiled. “You’re a good man, Poet.”

  “Not good enough. Now listen to me.”

  “No. Don’t say it. Don’t say anything. Think about it. Sleep on it. Tell me you’ll at least consider it.” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Good,” she said, then turned Guinevere and raced toward the barn.

  CHAPTER 21

  He was screwed. This mission was a disaster. His only course was to accomplish his objective and to accept that the woman he loved was lost to another man.

  Together they unsaddled and fed the horses. Twice he tried to speak. Twice she shushed him. “Sleep on it.”

  She had to be joshing. She’d just proposed they take up as a couple. She hadn’t mentioned marriage, but she was all for an adventure. Of course, she probably wasn’t thinking about sex because she thought he favored men.

  Together, they walked to the house. There was a bounce in her step and she was smiling. Her good humor unsettled him as surely as her tears.

  Seth tried to focus on Emily’s blackmailer, but all he could think about was her proposal. “We’d make a good match” Except she thought he was a poet, a writer, a like-minded artist. She wouldn’t want anything to do with him when she learned he’d been lying to her all this time. He’d be lucky if she ever spoke to him again.

  He’d never given due thought to the consequences of his ruse. He simply assumed it would all work out. He’d rid her of the blackmailer, marry her off to Athens, and return to fighting crime. He hadn’t counted on falling in love. Even so, he still thought he could rope his tender feelings and wrestle them into submission. He’d work hard and play hard and forget he ever loved Emily McBride.

  Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “We’d make a good match.”

  Except, in the end, he’d cheat on her. Wouldn’t he?

  Watching her hop up the porch stairs, her blond braids swaying, cheeks flushed from the long ride, or perhaps from sexy thoughts about Constance and Antonio, he couldn’t imagine ever tiring of this woman. Ever wanting another woman.

  Come to think of it, he hadn’t thought about another woman since he’d gotten to know Emily.

  Yup. Screwed.

  He held the door open, stepped in behind her, and followed her down the hall. “That must be them,” he heard Mrs. Dunlap say.

  Emily entered the sitting room first. “Oh. I . . . This is a . . . surprise.”

  That was an understatement.

  From the looks on their faces, Rome and Boston Garrett shared a like thought.

  A surreal pause stretched on as they took stock of one another.

  Boston sat on the sofa next to Mrs. Dunlap, held his hands wide as she wrapped pink yarn around them. Rome hulked by the bookshelves. He snapped shut the novel in his hands, breaking the awkward silence.

  “Good heavens, Emily,” Mrs. Dunlap said. “Sit down before you fall down.”

  She did look unsteady and Seth bristled, thinking she’d gone weak in the knees at the sight of Rome.

  “I’m fine,” she said, though she was flushed and breathless. “It’s just that . . . we’ve been . . . riding hard, that is . . . for a long time. Mr. Pinkerton and I.”

  Christ.

  “Mr. Pinkerton,” Boston said, his voiced laced with sarcasm.

  “Phineas Pinkerton,” offered Mrs. Dunlap, the only smiling person in the room. “He’s the man I told you
about. The poet.”

  “Poet.” This again from Boston, who looked less menacing than Rome. Probably due to Mrs. Dunlap using him as a human spool.

  “How are you, Emily?” Rome asked. “Never better,” she said, though she looked like she was going to keel over.

  Seth battled the green-eyed monster. “And you?” she squeaked.

  “Been better. You probably heard about the suspension.” He glanced at Seth.

  “Where are my manners?” she said, her voice unnaturally bright. She gestured to the Wells Fargo agents. “Boston Garrett. Rome Garrett. This is . . . my friend. Phineas Pinkerton.”

  Rome crossed the room and they shook hands. “Pleasure to meet you,” Seth said, intimating it was the first time.

  Rome tightened his grip, his eyes saying, “What are you up to?”

  Seth telegraphed, “Play along!”

  “You look familiar, Mr. Pinkerton.”

  “You might know me from your sister and brother-in-law’s opera house.” In truth, they’d worked side by side, saving The Desert Moon from a fiery demise.

  “He’s a friend of Paris. Athens, too,” Emily said, trying to ease the tension.

  Rome crossed his arms over his chest. “Been awhile since I’ve seen my sister. How is Paris?”

  “Feisty. Adjusting to impending motherhood.”

  “My brother? Zach and Zoe?”

  “Adjusting to life in Phoenix.”

  “Where are my manners?” Emily said for the second time in as many minutes. “Would any one like lemonade?”

  “I would,” the three men said.

  Mrs. Dunlap eased the yarn from Boston’s hands, set the bundle in a basket. “I’ll help you, dear.”

  The younger brother joined Rome. One dark, one fair. Both tall and fit. Both smart and tough. Both dedicated to wrangling outlaws, like Seth. Unlike Seth, a former sheriff of Pinal County, they played loose with the law. As a Peacemaker he’d be swimming those same risky waters. A license to bend the law. The notion had been more appealing when he’d been fired up and fed up. Now it chafed.

  Boston withdrew a cheroot from his coat pocket. “Care to join us outside for a smoke, Mr. Pinkerton?”

  “He doesn’t smoke,” Emily said.

  Actually, he did although he’d refrained since taking on the poet’s persona.

  “Keep us company, then,” Rome said. “I’d like to hear more about my sister.”

  Clearly, Emily didn’t want him to be alone with the brothers. He appreciated her protection, though he didn’t need it. “We won’t be long,” he said, trying to console her with a smile.

  Seconds later, he was standing on the vast green lawn facing off two seething Garretts. Most men would take flight. They didn’t intimidate Seth. They pissed him off.

  Keeping up pretences, the brothers struck casual poses and lit their cheroots.

  Seth, being Pinkerton, waved off the smoke.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Wright?” Rome said with a fake smile.

  “Athens sent me.”

  “Why?”

  “To propose marriage to Emily on his behalf.”

  Boston’s mouth fell open. The smoldering cheroot dangled from his lower lip.

  “She’s in a financial bind. Zach and Zoe need a mother. He figured they’d both benefit from the union.”

  Rome shifted his weight. “Athens wants to marry Emily?”

  “He thinks they’d make a good match.” He nearly choked on the words

  “I’ll be damned,” Boston said.

  The fair-haired Garrett didn’t comment on the nuptials. He blew out a stream of smoke. “Why the charade?”

  “Long story involving your sister.”

  “Figures,” they said.

  “Emily was expecting Paris’s friend. She wasn’t expecting me. She assumed I was Pinkerton and introduced me as such to a passel of folk. The ruse became convenient. I needed to be close to her, and her reputation would suffer less if folks thought I was . . . otherwise inclined.”

  Boston shook his head, grinned. “You’ve got balls, Wright.”

  “Did what I had to do to protect Emily.”

  “We know about Cole.” Rome flexed his fingers. “He won’t be bothering her anymore.”

  “Cole’s not her only problem,” Seth said, hoping he loosened a few teeth when he sent the bastard flying.

  “Know about Bellamont, too.” Boston whistled. “Three men courting the shy bookworm. Who would’ve thought?”

  Rome snuffed his smoke. “She’s changed. I’m not just referring to her shucking her prim gowns for rugged wear. There’s fire in her spirit.” He narrowed suspicious eyes on Seth. “That because she’s excited about moving to Phoenix?”

  “Haven’t delivered Athens’s proposal yet.” He held up a hand, warding off whatever they planned to let loose. He spit out a condensed explanation, trying not to revel in knowing he’d ignited that fire. “Emily’s biggest problem is that she’s being blackmailed. Can’t tell you the reason, only that he’s bleeding her dry, and the letters originate in San Francisco. She doesn’t know the identity of the man. Neither do I, not for lack of trying. I can’t address her future, can’t involve your brother, until I nail the scheming bastard.”

  Though their expressions betrayed nothing, he knew he’d poleaxed them. What could someone have on a preacher’s daughter? Two days ago, Seth wondered the same thing.

  The front door creaked open and the two ladies stepped onto the porch with a pitcher and five glasses. “We thought we’d have refreshments outside,” Emily called. “Shame to waste a pretty sunset.”

  “Be right there,” Rome called.

  Seth watched Emily in domestic mode. Arranging a weather-beaten table and mismatched chairs, serving up lemonade. He imagined her in the kitchen cooking up too many eggs. Curled up on the sofa absorbed in a book. Sitting at her desk scribbling stories about swashbuckling pirates and skinny-dipping knights.

  He thought about the feel of her, the taste of her, her insane proposal, and wished like hell that she could write them a happy ending.

  “Got a personal stake in this, Wright?” Rome growled as they moved closer.

  He flashed on his job with PMA, his promises to Athens, Paris, and Josh. He fantasized about Emily.

  He didn’t answer Rome.

  “Emily’s family,” Boston said in a low voice. “Do what you have to do, Seth. We’ve got your back.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Instead of dreaming sweet dreams about a future with Pinkerton, Emily endured nightmares regarding her past. Why hadn’t she mattered more to her parents? Why had she been a disappointment? An embarrassment? Buried feelings of unworthiness, loneliness, and resentment resurfaced and ravaged her spirit.

  Because of them, she’d assumed another identity. For the money. For the creative freedom. And now, she realized, for validation. As her work gained favor, she grew more confident. More bold. To her current shame, more reckless. She’d compromised good people in the name of sensational storytelling. Maybe even broken up a marriage and damaged a man’s chance at being voted governor.

  Maybe her Savior was Osprey Smith. He’d certainly made Rome pay for his sins. Why not the scribe who made his wife’s affair public?

  Rome and Boston’s surprise visit had pushed Emily beyond her physical and emotional limit. She’d wanted to sink with the sun when talk turned to their suspension. They mentioned Wilde and his exaggerated tales. Tales that often included their personal quirks and interests. They’d cited invasion of privacy and how they’d felt violated.

  Violated.

  Emily had felt sick, but she’d held strong. Or rather she’d lapsed to the old Emily, the socially backward bookworm. When she’d first laid eyes on Rome and Boston in her sitting room, she feared that they’d uncovered her secret and come to give her the devil. She’d braced herself for their disappointment and outrage. But the call had been social. They’d returned home, heard about Pinkerton, and wanted to make sure s
he was all right. They were worried.

  It only made her feel worse.

  To her dismay, Mrs. Dunlap invited them to stay for supper. It had been the longest evening of her life.

  The first hint of dawn filtered in through the partially drawn curtains.

  Exhausted, Emily stared at the ceiling, analyzing her life just as she analyzed plot problems and character faults. Her knees had buckled at the sight of Rome, but it had nothing to do with moony-eyed adoration. She’d looked at him and felt nothing resembling desire.

  When had she fallen out of love with Rome Garrett?

  Unless Mrs. Dunlap had been right. Unless what she felt for Rome hadn’t been love at all, but a girlish infatuation.

  “You’re in love with Mr. Pinkerton”

  Certainly, she had all of the symptoms she’d read about in numerous romantic novels. The man didn’t even have to be in the same room. All she had to do was think about him and her breath quickened, her heart skipped. Phrases like floating on air may be clichéd, but they had merit. Phineas Pinkerton had blown into her life like a tornado, whipping her emotions and values into a frenzy. Though she’d not mentioned sex in her proposal, it was certainly on her mind. Since he ravished her against the bookshelf, she’d thought of little else. She wasn’t ashamed. She wanted more. With Pinkerton.

  The bond strengthened by the day, the hour. She’d thought the connection artistic, yet he never shared his work. They’d never talked craft. His love of literature was apparent. He enjoyed her book collection, was familiar with authors of poetry and fiction. But he didn’t commit time or thought to pad and pencil as she did. If she didn’t bring her characters to life daily, she’d go mad.

  Phineas Pinkerton was more obsessed with solving mysteries than creating poetry. Intuitive detective. Maybe he’d applied for a job as a lawman, but had been rejected because of his sexual preferences. Or maybe he just assumed he’d be rejected and never tried. As an artist she understood how scary rejection could be. More than ever she was convinced he wasn’t living the life of his choosing.

  She could relate.

  Her body pulsed with self-directed anger. She pushed out of bed and rushed through her morning ritual. Since her parents’ deaths, she’d been so focused on not giving over control of her life that she’d never really taken control herself. By asking Pinkerton to take her away, wasn’t she really asking him to save her?