by Tess LeSue
Justine wilted. She read the documents, looking peakier by the minute. This time her pinched look was caused by flat-out shame.
“I’m sorry, Seline. I shoulda known you’d treat me fair.”
Yes, she should have. Emma was surprised to find herself on the brink of tears. It shouldn’t hurt to be thought ill of. But it did.
“My name ain’t Seline. It’s Emma,” was all she could manage to say in reply.
Justine nodded and rolled the papers up. “Sister Emma,” she corrected shakily, taking in the getup.
Emma looked down at herself. “You gotta admit, it’s a good plan.”
Justine nodded again, and when she spoke, her voice was tight. “I gotta admit . . . it’s better than I gave you credit for.” She looked like she was going to cry for a moment, but pressed her lips hard together and pushed her emotions back down. That was something they were all good at. You didn’t survive around here if you weren’t. “You might need a belt,” Justine observed.
“I got one!” Calla came crawling out of the wardrobe, waving a belt. In the other hand she was dragging a heavy mass of black wool.
“What the hell is that?” Emma asked.
“I’m coming with you,” Calla said brightly, holding up another habit. “You need someone to show you how to act like a nun! And I want to go south. I got enough money saved to get myself back home.”
“Of course,” Justine muttered, “because getting one nun out of here unseen wasn’t hard enough.”
“Justine . . .” Emma warned.
“I know, boss,” she sighed. “Focus on the solutions, not the problems.”
2
Mariposa, California
TOM SLATER WAS barely a day ahead of the bounty hunters. He’d ridden without sleep for more than two days through the blazing August heat, and he wasn’t happy about it. He’d had to send his men on to Mexico without him, while he took this damn fool detour. And all because that crazy Indian wouldn’t keep a low profile. No matter how many times he told the idiot to cut his hair and dress like a white man, Deathrider wouldn’t do it.
“I did that once for your brother,” he said in a bored voice, “and people still tried to kill me.”
“You deserve to get shot,” Tom told him, when he found him in Mariposa.
Deathrider was stretched out in the shade of a black oak, behind the Mariposa bunkhouse, which shared a yard with the fanciest-looking whorehouse Tom had ever seen. The place had so much white trim that it put him in mind of a wedding cake. Its fussy prettiness was in stark contrast to the unpainted timbers of the bunkhouse, which were barely hanging together. The pairing of whorehouse and bunkhouse was probably profitable, no matter how incongruous the buildings looked beside each other; he doubted the men spent much time in the bunkhouse when there were whores so close by. And by the looks of them, these whores were fancy. A few of them were lolling in the shade on the back porch, whispering and shooting cheeky glances at Deathrider. Hell. They probably had every idea who was stretched out here under the black oak. The most wanted man in California, if not the whole west.
Deathrider looked completely at ease, dozing, his dog sleeping in a dusty heap beside him. Deathrider’s old compadre Micah Pearce was also nearby. He was a striking-looking man, with cheekbones like blades and quick dark eyes. Even dressed in a rumpled suit, with his hair crammed up under a hat, he didn’t pass for white. Nor did he want to. Seated out here, on full display, he was as unmistakable as Deathrider. Which wouldn’t serve them at all well when the hunters came to town.
To Tom’s disgust, the book Micah was reading from was the very one that had caused all the fuss when he was in Frisco. “What the hell are you doing? He’s got a price on his head because of that trash.” Tom snatched the book out of Micah’s hands and threw it at Deathrider. It missed him, slapping into the dirt next to the somnolent Indian’s head. Dog startled and gave an irritated bark.
“They’ve got a bet running in Frisco,” Tom warned his friend. “You’ve got to get out of the territory. People all through the goldfields are gambling on who will shoot you first; there’s big money in it.”
Deathrider opened one lazy eye. “You ride here all the way from Oregon to tell me that? You Slater boys have too much energy.”
“I was just getting to the good part,” Micah complained. “We were up to the part where the Plague of the West kidnaps the white boy. I think he plans to drink the kid’s blood.”
“They’re on the hunt for you again,” Tom warned his friend, “and they know you’re here in Mariposa. You got less’n a day on them.”
Deathrider didn’t move. In fact, the blasted fool yawned.
“The prize is up to more’n a hundred dollars!” Tom could have throttled him. He didn’t want to be here in the goldfields, wasting his precious time. He had work to do.
“Is that all?”
“Talk to him, will you?” Tom begged, looking to Micah. “You can usually yap some sense into him.”
“Not sure I want to. For a hundred dollars I might kill him myself.”
Deathrider snorted. “You couldn’t kill a groundhog if you were standing on its tail.”
“No one’d pay me a hundred dollars for a groundhog.”
“It’s all of them this time.” Tom bent and collected the latest Archer dime novel out of the dirt. He rolled it up. “Cactus Joe, Pete Hamble, Irish George and English George, and Kennedy goddamn Voss.”
That got Deathrider’s attention. Kennedy Voss was a sadistic son of a bitch.
“And guess who’s with them?”
“I can’t imagine there’s anyone left,” Deathrider said dryly.
“A.A. Archer herself.”
Deathrider uncoiled like a snake. “I beg your pardon?”
As much as Tom wanted to slap him with the dime novel, he was glad when Deathrider took it out of his hands. It meant the idiot was finally paying attention.
“She’s writing a book about it. The Great Hunt, or some nonsense. She was writing down every word they said. There was a big to-do at LeFoy’s Palladium.”
“How do you know all this?” Deathrider’s long fingers smoothed out the dime novel. It resisted his attentions, curling up again.
“Are you even listening to me? Everyone within miles of San Francisco knows. The place was a circus. They went from bar to bar, whipping up interest. And then there was an accounting at LeFoy’s, where each bet was recorded in a book. Every man and his dog was betting against you. And that Archer woman was following along, writing it all down.”
“I don’t know why she bothers. She makes it all up anyway,” Micah said.
“Who has the best odds?” Deathrider asked.
“Voss, by a mile.”
“I should lay a bet,” Micah mused.
Tom shot him a horrified look.
“Don’t look so peaky. I know where my loyalties lie.” Micah grinned. “And only a white man would be stupid enough to bet against White Wolf.”
“You say they’re a day away?” Deathrider was thumbing through the battered book.
“If that.” Tom didn’t like the smile hovering at his friend’s mouth. Deathrider didn’t usually smile. The sight of it was unnerving.
“I’ve always wanted to meet the author,” he said quietly. “Maybe she can sign my copy.”
Tom didn’t know which was more frightening, the smile or the moment when it disappeared. “Even if the author is accompanied by a dozen hardened killers?” he asked, exasperated.
There was no response.
“Matt was right,” he complained. Deathrider wasn’t even listening to his arguments. “You’re as hardheaded as a rhinoceros.”
“I’ve never seen a rhinoceros,” Micah said. “But I expect they’re not much different from buffalo. Buffalo have powerful hard heads.”
Tom ignored him
. “You could come to Mexico with me, the both of you. I can always use more hands on the trail, and by the time we’re back up this way, the whole mess will have blown over.”
“You think we could find more of these dime novels?” Deathrider asked, as though Tom hadn’t even spoken. He was absorbed by the crumpled copy of The Plague of the West Rides Again. He read it silently, licking his thumb occasionally to turn a page.
“You want to read more of that rubbish?” If he didn’t know better, he would think Deathrider was drunk. But Deathrider had barely touched a drop since that trouble he’d gotten into with Matt in Kearney. It was too dangerous when a man might sneak up on you any minute and shoot you clean through.
“I bet some of those whores have a book or two.” Micah scrambled to his feet. He didn’t need much encouragement to visit the whorehouse across the yard.
Deathrider nodded like that was sage advice.
“You ain’t serious.” Maybe they were both drunk. Hadn’t they heard him? Kennedy Voss was coming.
But they were serious. Seriously walking toward the wedding cake of a whorehouse, looking for more dime novels, even though a posse of men was headed here at breakneck speed, each looking to be the one to shoot Deathrider and take his head back to Frisco.
This was why Tom liked cows better than people. At least a cow made sense. Feed it, water it, keep it close to its herd, and it went where you wanted it to go. Not like people. People made no damn sense in the least.
“Have you read this?” Deathrider called over his shoulder, holding up the battered dime novel.
Of course he hadn’t damn well read it.
“You might find it educational,” Deathrider told him.
Tom didn’t deign to answer that.
“Especially since you’re in it.” Deathrider was halfway across the yard before Tom registered what he’d said.
“What?”
Deathrider kept walking.
“What do you mean, ‘since you’re in it’?”
Deathrider tossed the book over his shoulder. Tom fumbled to catch it.
“Have a look at page seventy-five,” Deathrider called back at him.
No. No, no, no. Please, no.
But there it was, in black and white, on page seventy-five: his own name. Tom Slater.
As a snake sheds its skin, so the Plague of the West sheds his names, slithering westward, now in Indian buckskins, now in denim and cotton; yesterday he went by the name Deathrider, today he dresses like a white man, with a white man’s name. Today he is Tom Slater. One of the infamous Slater Brothers.
Oh no. No, no, no, no. This wasn’t happening. What in hell was his name doing in there? And what was this rubbish about the infamous Slater Brothers? Infamous for what? His brothers did nothing more exciting than split wood and read their children to sleep at night. And as for him, the real Tom Slater, all he’d done for years was drive cattle up and down the country. He certainly hadn’t been slithering westward, kidnapping and . . . ah hell, drinking blood.
“Nate!” he yelled after Deathrider. “What in hell is my name doing in here?”
Deathrider shrugged. “You’ll have to ask the lady when she gets here.”
“Maybe you’re in one of the other books too,” Micah suggested. “You might even be as famous as White Wolf.”
“Might be worse than that,” Deathrider said mildly, pushing open the back door to the whorehouse. “Stay,” he instructed his dog. Dog obeyed, plonking himself down right in Tom’s way.
“Worse?” Tom clambered over the dog. “What in hell does that mean?” He had a bad feeling about this.
That bad feeling only got stronger when they entered the whorehouse, plunging through the kitchen and into the main parlor. It wasn’t just that the place was as frothy on the inside as it looked on the outside, or that it stank like a perfume bottle. No. Tom’s dread came from the way the madam lit up when she saw them. And from the name that exploded from her.
“Tom!”
Tom had never seen the woman before in his life. He would have remembered. He racked his brains. No. No memory at all of a tall brunette, let alone one in yards of orange skirts with her breasts exploding out of her bodice.
What in hell was happening? The real Tom Slater watched in astonishment as the whore threw her arms around Deathrider and just about squeezed the life out of him.
Deathrider showed no surprise. Not even a flicker.
“Oh, Tom,” the whore said, pulling back to look up at him, “I thought you might have left. We’re in powerful need of some help.”
“Tom . . . ?” Tom couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice. “Tom. I think we need to talk.”
* * *
• • •
“YOU’D BETTER EXPLAIN yourself.”
They were upstairs in the madam’s office. It was a plain room, with a solid desk, neatly stacked with papers, with the quills and inkpots lined up like soldiers next to the ledgers; it was the desk of a very neat person. A very businesslike neat person. It looked nothing like the rest of the house.
Micah had opted to stay downstairs with the whores and a freshly uncorked bottle of brandy. He was a peaceable man, and this didn’t look to be a peaceable conversation.
“How many names do you go by?” Tom snapped.
“More than I care to remember.”
“Well, I want mine back.”
“You can’t blame me for this one,” Deathrider told him calmly. “This is Matt’s fault.”
Of course it was. Tom wished his younger brother were here, so he could slap him upside the head. Trust Matt to make a bad situation worse. He listened as Deathrider outlined their adventures the year before, about getting shot in Kearney, about his infection and about Matt’s crazy plan to fake Deathrider’s death and pass him off as his brother instead. Tom had heard parts of the story before, but he’d certainly never heard the part where Deathrider had gone by the name Tom Slater. What kind of idiot was his brother? He’d known Deathrider was a hunted man, and he hadn’t said a goddamn word about this mess to Tom. How could he not have even warned his brother that the men out to kill Deathrider would be looking for one Tom Slater? The full import of it hit Tom like a stampede. Holy hell. Those men riding out from Frisco might end up on his trail.
Tom had to work hard to keep his temper, and he wasn’t a man usually prone to anger. Just wait till he got back to Utopia. Matt would learn what a horse whip was really for.
After a long silence, when it was clear Tom’s temper wasn’t going to slip its leash, Deathrider finally spoke again. “Let me see what Ella wants. Then we’ll go through those books and find out what’s been said about you. If I can fix it, I will.”
“Fix it?” Tom was finding it hard to stay calm. “How on earth can you fix it? My name is in that goddamn book! It’s not like you can erase every copy!”
Deathrider’s eerily pale eyes were as cool as ever. “No. But she can always write another book.”
Tom was startled into a bitter laugh. “Sure. Because she’s prone to telling the truth.”
“People can be persuaded.” His tone was arctic, and that terrifying ghost of a smile was back on his lips. The door clicked behind him as he left.
Tom flung the book at the closed door. It hit with a sad little smack and didn’t make him feel better in the slightest. He should never have come to Mariposa. He should have gone with Emilio and the boys. He should just go now. He glanced at the open window. There was still plenty of daylight. But the thought of the trail was almost too much to bear. He needed sleep. He’d managed a couple of naps in the saddle, but it wasn’t enough to keep a man going.
He sank into the chair behind the desk. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to ever get up again. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him. Why had he come here anyway? Deathrider could look after himself. Tom could have jus
t sent one of his men; he didn’t have to come in person. Despite the heat of the sun throbbing through waxed blinds at the window, the world suddenly seemed gray and cold and limp. He had what his father used to call the saddle sads. They were prone to hitting when you stopped moving. It’s nothing a decent feed and a good night’s sleep won’t improve, he used to say. Luke and Matt said it now, usually to their wives in the midst of an argument. It often made the argument worse. I’m not tired, you idiot, Alex would shout (she was more of a shouter than Matt’s wife, who tended to go terrifyingly silent when she was really mad), stop telling me I’m tired. Tom was glad to be out of the house, really. Home had changed. Once, it had just been the three of them: Luke, Matt and him. But now home was chaos. Happy chaos, but chaos just the same. It was full to the rafters since Matt and Georgiana had arrived with their pack of kids. They were building a place of their own, but it wouldn’t be finished for a good long while. Tom had moved up to the attic to give them more space until then. It was odd how lonely it felt being in such a full house, listening to voices drift upstairs, tripping over boots and wooden toys. It seemed like the more people they crammed into the house, the lonelier he felt. When he’d left at the end of spring, he’d been ready for the quiet of the trail. On the trail, it made sense to feel lonely. And at least you were moving, heading somewhere—hopefully away from the mixed-up empty feeling that welled up inside you when you stopped.
A knock at the door startled him out of his broody thoughts, and a woman came in with a tray. She didn’t look to be a whore. She was dressed in simple homespun, with an apron tied neatly around her waist.
“Don’t get up,” she scolded, when he made to stand. “Tom says you’re half-dead from the trail.”
Tom. His temper flared again. He was Tom.
“I’ve brought coffee and fresh biscuits. They’re still warm from the pan, and trust me, you’ll want to eat them while they’re hot. It’s Seline’s recipe, and she’s the best cook this side of the Rocky Mountains. She puts me to shame.” She put the tray on the edge of the desk. “And Tom said to send you in some books.” She turned and looked over her shoulder at the open door. “Come on, Winnie.”
