by Jo Goodman
“Damn,” Will said. He handed Wyatt the Henry rifle. “Cleaned and ready.”
Wyatt nodded. “Thanks.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the bank. “There’re too many people in Longabach’s to take them there. I want us to set up in the bank and wait for them to come. That sound good to you?”
“Sure does.”
They turned simultaneously and began striding down the alley toward the bank.
“How are they getting in?” asked Will.
“Jake and Andy were in the restaurant. I think the plan is to force them to open the doors.”
“All right. And how are we getting in?”
“I’ve got the key to the back.”
Will’s stride shortened, then paused a beat. He caught himself and hurried to catch up. “You do? Have you always?”
“Yes. And yes.”
“How come I never knew that? It’s because I’m that no-account Beatty boy, isn’t it?”
“It’s because there was never any reason that you should know. Until now.”
“Does Mr. Reston know?”
“Yes, he knows. Of course he knows.”
“I was just asking.”
“Well, if you tell anyone, don’t be surprised if I shoot you.”
Will glanced over at Wyatt’s starkly set profile. In spite of that hard look, Will couldn’t help grinning. “You sure seem like you’re fixin’ to shoot somebody today.”
“Could be that I am. Make certain it’s not you.”
When they reached the rear of the bank, Wyatt tipped his hat forward so it fell upside down in his palm. He ran his index finger under the hatband until he found the key. “You didn’t see that,” he said.
“No, sir.”
Wyatt carefully inserted it into the lock and turned. He opened the door quietly and stepped inside, motioning Will to follow. They paused on the threshold and listened. Except for their breathing, there was no sound.
Satisfied, Wyatt nodded once. He replaced the key and his hat, then hefted his rifle. “Shut the door,” he whispered. “No noise.”
“You’re certain they’re coming?” asked Will, following closely on Wyatt’s heels as they started up a short set of stairs.
“About as certain as I can be. You understand, they didn’t exactly confide their plans to me.” Wyatt was fairly certain his deputy caught the edge of sarcasm because Will refrained from more questions. The lobby was empty when they reached it. Wyatt motioned Will toward the room at the rear. “There will be nothing in the tellers’ drawers now. Everything’s been moved to the safe. If all their concentration is on getting to it, as I believe it will be, then we’ll wait for them back there.” He pointed to the tellers’ cages. “We’ll let them move toward the safe and come at them from behind.”
Will nodded and moved into position, ducking down just as voices could be heard approaching from the street. Wyatt followed. They exchanged glances, indicating they were each prepared, and held their crouch, sheltered by the polished oak cabinetry that separated the tellers from their customers. Unable to benefit from sight, they cocked their heads in the direction of the front of the bank and listened.
The front door rattled as it was tried first without benefit of the key. There was a pause, then the twist of the knob and the grating sound of hinges that required a bead of oil. Footsteps followed.
It was difficult to separate them at first, but as they moved across the floor, Wyatt counted three distinct patterns. Had someone remained behind at the door? Until Wyatt put his head up, or some words were exchanged, there was no way to be sure. He hoped for words. Raising his head above the cage had definite risks.
“The safe is behind that door,” Jacob Reston said. His voice was reedy, with a slight tremor.
“Then what are you stopping for? You haven’t forgotten the way, have you?”
Behind the cage, Wyatt held up his index finger so Will could see it, indicating this would designate the first thief if there was more than one.
“I n-need to get the key,” he said. “I don’t have it on me. I keep it in my desk. That’s over there.”
“At the window? I bet you like to be seen there, don’t you?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Go on. Get the key if you don’t want me to shoot the lock.”
Jacob crossed to his desk, unlocked the middle drawer with a key that he did carry, and opened it. He removed the key he needed, then responded to the urging of the pearl-handled Colt that was aimed in his direction and started to cross the floor. The 7½-inch barrel of the Colt followed his progress.
“He’s moving like molasses. Shove your gun in his back.”
It was a different voice, deep and clipped with impatience. Wyatt held up a second finger. Two questions remained in his mind: was there still a thief standing at the door, and where was Andy Miller?
“The gun won’t be necessary,” Jacob said with quiet dignity. “From either of you.”
Wyatt glanced at Will to see if his deputy understood the significance of what Jake had just said. Will was now holding up two fingers and nodding, confirming that he knew, as Wyatt did, that there were only two thieves.
From their position they could see one of the bank manager’s legs and the hand he used to turn the key in the door. The thieves were not yet visible. They didn’t come into view until Jacob Reston moved beyond the threshold; then they followed behind him, single file.
Wyatt waited until all three men disappeared into the room; then he gave Will the signal to move.
They came up quickly, and every element of surprise favored them. Jacob was kneeling in front of the safe, his right hand trembling on the brass dial as he turned it slowly. His shoulders were hunched protectively on either side of his head, an instinctive gesture in response to the Colt pointed at his temple.
Thief number two had holstered his weapon in anticipation of the stacks of bills he would have to handle. This man was Will Beatty’s target, and Will clubbed him with the ivory butt of his six-shooter in the same moment Wyatt raised his Henry rifle.
“Put it down,” Wyatt said, holding the rifle steady. “Don’t flinch. Don’t feint. Be smarter than I think you are, and just set it on top of the safe.”
Will’s quarry dropped hard, knees first, then the rest of him. His nose shattered when his face hit the floor and blood pooled to the side.
It had the desired effect on his partner. The Colt was slowly, carefully, raised and placed on the safe. That cooperative gesture was followed by two hands being lifted in surrender.
Wyatt nodded. “Seems like you have some experience with this. I like it that you know what to do without direction. It makes things simpler.” Keeping his rifle pointed where he meant to shoot, Wyatt spoke to Will. “Help Jacob up. Careful that you stay clear of—” He paused. “What’s your name?”
“Morrisey,” he said. “Miles Morrisey.”
“Good name. Hear that, Will? Stay clear of Miles Morrisey. He knows what’s ahead for him.”
Will stepped around Morrisey’s felled partner and helped Jacob to his feet, then pulled the banker out of arm’s reach and harm’s way.
“Who is your partner?” asked Wyatt. “Kin or friend?”
Morrisey shrugged. “Hardly know him. Told me his name was Jack Spinnaker.”
“Morrisey and Spinnaker. Okay. Not everyone can be a James or a Younger.” He nodded at Will. “Take the gun. Jake? Is everyone all right back at the restaurant? No injuries?”
“Andy Miller hit his head on the corner of a table when Mr. Spinnaker tripped him up. That’s why he was left behind.”
“Estella and Johnny?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t come out of the kitchen when Spinnaker did.”
Wyatt gave Morrisey a sharp look. “You better hope they’re fine. I don’t know that I can vouch for your safety in my jail if they’re not.” He shook his head, disgusted. “Let’s get them out of here, Will. I’ve had about enough of chasing down half-w
its.”
Chester Caldwell did not attempt to hide his relief when Wyatt finally returned for Rachel. “Thank God,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his apron. “She’s a handful, isn’t she?”
“I have no idea what that means,” said Wyatt, straight-faced. He looked around. “Where is she?”
“I let her lie down in the back. I keep a cot there for folks who come in so sick sometimes that they need to rest a spell.”
Wyatt paused as he was rounding the counter. “Did she take ill? Should I get Doc Diggins to come by?”
“Doc? No. She doesn’t need him. I gave her something, like you said, when she got all up in arms and determined she was going to leave.”
“Oh.” Wyatt felt a twinge of guilt. “What did you give her?”
“Laudanum. Slipped it in her tea. Two cups of tea, actually, and lots of honey. She would have tasted it otherwise. And if she figures out what happened, you better tell her I was following your orders, because I surely will.”
“Is she going to be able to walk? Maybe I should get a buggy after all.”
“She’ll need some help, I imagine. She had a time of it trying to stay on the stool here, which is why I suggested she lie down. She’s not in a stupor, just drowsy. Pleasant, like.”
“Pleasant? Is that right?” Wyatt’s head angled to one side as he considered this. “How long do you suppose that lasts?” Not expecting an answer, he let the question hang and went in search of Rachel.
Wyatt stepped behind shelves of ointments, liniments, tinctures, and pills to find that Rachel was not lying down at all. She was sitting curled at the foot of the cot, her head and shoulder resting against the wall. Her heavy lashes were at half-mast, and watching her, he could see she was fighting sleep.
“Rachel?” He had to step around a stack of boxes to reach the cot. “I’ve come to take you home.”
She tipped her head back and stared up at him through the dark sweep of her lashes. “Have you? That’s good, then.” Her smile had no real consciousness behind it. It merely existed as the result of facial muscles being tugged upward by the tilt of her head. “You’re all right?”
“I’m fine.” Wyatt watched her attempt to nod, but when her chin dropped, it just stayed there. “You appear to be doing rather fine yourself. Can I help you up?”
“Sleepy.”
“Yes, I know you are.” He slipped one hand behind her back and urged her to move closer to the edge of the cot. She inched far enough forward that he was able to ease her legs over the side and finally pull her to her feet. It was no surprise that she wasn’t steady. When she began to sway, he put one arm around her shoulders and the other in front of her at the level of her waist. “Where’s your coat and bonnet?”
“Mr. Caldwell.”
Wyatt supposed that meant that Chet had put them somewhere. “Let’s find them.”
It required considerable maneuvering and some assistance from the druggist, but Wyatt finally got Rachel into her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves and to the front door. On the point of leaving, he asked Chet, “Are you certain I don’t need to get Doc?”
“If it will make you feel better, sure, but he’s just going to tell you to let her sleep. The fresh air will clear her head. You want me to help you get her home? I can close up shop for that long.”
“No. Thanks. We’ll be fine.”
“Fine,” Rachel repeated. Her voice was pitched unnaturally high. Even to her own ears it sounded as if she was chirping. “Goodness.” Then, having said all she cared to, she smiled vaguely and closed her eyes.
Wyatt resolutely turned her in the direction of the street while Mr. Caldwell held the door open for them. “We’ll see you, Chet.”
The cold air hit Rachel like a slap in the face. Her head came up sharply, and she blinked several times in quick succession. The first deep breath she took sent a shiver through her.
“Come on,” Wyatt said, keeping a hand at the small of her back. “You can do this.”
She could, and did, although it was unclear to her how she was managing it. Certainly, Wyatt’s support accounted for her progress in the beginning, but by the time they reached her flagstone walk, she was navigating largely on her own. Her sense of well-being held right up until the moment he helped her out of her coat; then she felt the uncomfortable heaviness return.
She leaned back against the wall while Wyatt removed her bonnet. When he finished she held out her hands for him to take off her gloves. “This is where you kissed me.”
“So it is.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
Wyatt worked her gloves off and set them on the foyer table. “You’ve been clear on that.”
“I think I’d like to sleep now.”
“Good idea.”
She pushed away from the wall as he stepped back. For a moment, her eyes focused, and her regard of him was steady and clear. “You’re really all right?”
He nodded. “I’ll tell you about it later.” When that seemed to be enough to satisfy her, he stood to one side so she could pass. He remained where he was, watching her closely as she walked on her own down the hall toward her bedroom.
When he heard the door close, Wyatt took off his own coat and hat and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He checked on Rachel’s wood supply at the back door and saw it was adequate to see her through another day. While the water was heating, Wyatt wandered into the parlor and began to examine the shelf of books he’d seen when he was taking tea with her.
Interspersed among the illustrated fashion books from London and Paris were the novels of Twain, Austen, Alcott, and James. He thumbed through several of them, noticing that the bookplates indicated they were hers and that they had been read more than once. Little Women, in particular, seemed to be a favorite, followed closely by The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. He found the presence of Jules Verne intriguing and the absence of a single volume of poetry somewhat startling. It seemed that Rachel Bailey’s romantic streak was of a more practical nature than the poets allowed for.
He carried Around the World in 80 Days with him into the kitchen and set it on the table while he made coffee. He read with his feet up on the rung of another chair, sipping coffee, and enjoying the molasses cookies he found in a tin in the larder, and when he judged that twenty minutes had passed, he put the book aside and went to Rachel’s bedroom to check on her.
She was sleeping on her side, facing the door, her cheek resting on the cradle of her own palm. By the time she reached her bed, she’d been too tired to bother with more than unpinning her hair. The pins lay scattered on the bedside table, while her hair lay in a thick, dark wave over her shoulder. She was still wearing her dress, though she slept so deeply it didn’t appear she’d wrinkled it at all. He’d never known anyone who could sleep neatly.
Shaking his head, Wyatt hunkered at the side of the bed and undid the laces on Rachel’s ankle-high boots. He gingerly removed the boots and set them on a nearby chair; then he lifted the quilt that was folded at the foot of the bed and spread it over her. She didn’t stir.
He couldn’t imagine that there wouldn’t be hell to pay when she woke. Once she got her bearings, she’d realize something had been done to her, and while she might give Chester Caldwell a piece of her mind, she was going to do much worse to him. Wyatt couldn’t even say that he wasn’t looking forward to it. She had something to answer for as well.
“Foster Maddox is the reason I left California.”
She probably would like to forget that she’d said it. He remembered how pale she’d become, how icy her hands had felt. He would swear that she never meant to answer his question, yet the words came out in spite of that, and it was in their wake that she had fainted.
Wyatt still didn’t know what it meant. As an explanation, it didn’t amount to much. Foster Maddox was known to him only by reputation, much of it complimentary of his business acumen, if one agreed that words like cold-blooded and hardnosed were complimentary. He was acknowledged to be keenly
intelligent and fiercely competitive, traits that should have made his grandfather proud, yet for Wyatt, the most serious indictment of Foster’s character was that Clinton Maddox didn’t entirely trust him.
Wyatt understood that this last fact was not widely known. He was privy to it because of the contract. The document would hardly have been necessary if Foster had had the full confidence of his grandfather.
What had Rachel had to do with it? Looking at her now, her beautifully realized features set serenely in rest, it was hard to imagine what part she might have played, but if Foster Maddox had given her reason to leave California, then it seemed that there had been a role for her.
All things in time, Wyatt decided. He left Rachel’s door open a crack so he could hear her in the event she needed him; then he returned to the kitchen, set his feet up, and lost himself in the adventures of Phileas Fogg and Passpartout.
Will Beatty had never been inside Rose LaRosa’s fancy house. He allowed Adele to go upstairs and get Rose while he waited in the parlor. A couple of girls he recognized from seeing them about town wandered in and inquired after him. News of the foiled bank robbery had already reached them, and they were insatiably curious about the details.
They scattered like dandelion fluff when Miss Rose breezed into the room. Her ebony hair was dressed high on her head and held in place by combs encrusted with seed pearls. She was wearing a scarlet gown with a scandalously low, square-cut neckline, a waterfall of lace trim at the front from waist to hem, and a train so long she had to reach behind her to yank it forward. Seed pearl earrings in a shape that suggested roses lay delicately against her fair skin and made a striking contrast to her dark hair. Her throat was bare, but that merely called attention to the strong line of her collarbones and the hollow between them.
“So Adele didn’t lie,” she said, looking Will over. “That no-account Beatty boy has actually come calling.”
Will removed his hat, raked his fingers through his tousled corn silk hair, and offered a polite, but cool smile. His dimples hardly made an appearance. “It’s business, ma’am. Official.”
