by Jill Gregory
“Particularly when what?”
“When you’re escorting a beautiful woman.” His tone held no emotion as he mounted behind her.
“Oh. Oh, I ... see.” So he thought she was beautiful? That certainly beat being tiresome, she reflected happily. Annabel tried to stifle the joyful butterflies swooping up into her chest, but they fluttered unfettered in riotous circles of delight. She wanted to thank him for the compliment, but decided it would sound stupid, so instead she kept quiet and concentrated all her energy on containing the smile that threatened to burst across her lips.
You’re being ridiculous, she told herself as they continued to ride in silence. In vain, she struggled to rein in her runaway feelings. Why should Roy Steele’s opinion of her looks affect her so much, she wondered. Men had told her she was beautiful before. Clyde Perkins and Joseph Reed and Hugh Connely had each whispered it in her ear on more than one occasion, but they’d always been angling for a kiss or trying to get her to agree to skate or picnic with them when they’d said it. Roy Steele had no such motive. He’d just been speaking plainly, being practical and grim in his usual manner, not trying to compliment her or impress her or woo her. He’d just said what he obviously felt.
The glow inside her deepened. And the knowledge of his protective concern for her made her feel both grateful and fortunate. Because of Roy Steele she was probably going to succeed in her mission for Mr. Stevenson and in her own goal of finding Brett and helping him. If not for his protection and his knowledge of this untamed territory, she might well have died or met an even worse fate here in the Mogollons.
Brett, why did you have to travel to such difficult places? Why couldn’t you have run away to New Orleans ... or Chicago ... or Philadelphia?
And suddenly it hit her. She knew.
“Oh, my God. I know what Brett is doing,” she exclaimed.
They’d been traveling quickly, with Steele guiding the bay up and down half a dozen intricate ravines, across damp grassy banks, and then dipping down to a foothill path strewn with rocks and flowers.
“Go on,” the tall gunslinger said in her ear. His arms around her felt very strong, very safe, and despite the precipitous pathways they were following she felt no anxiety, for she knew he would never let her fall.
“Brett is searching for his brother!” she exclaimed. “That’s why he came west! He wants to find Cade!”
One of the pack horses stumbled over a loose stone behind them, and they both glanced back for a moment. When the horse plodded on, Steele turned Dickens onto a flat ledge that widened toward a copse of trees ahead.
“Who’s Cade?” he asked matter-of-factly.
“His brother. His older brother. Cade McCallum ran away from home when Brett was ten,” Annabel explained. “When I first came to live at the McCallum house Brett used to talk about him all the time. He missed him terribly and could never understand why he left.” Her tone grew more musing as she looked back all those years, searching her memories for the times when Brett had first confided in her. “It seems that Ross McCallum and his older son fought a lot. Brett said they were both short-tempered, strong-willed stubborn mules. I gathered they were too much alike ever to agree on anything,” she said soberly. “But that’s not the point.” She rushed on, excitement building inside her as everything started to fall into place. “Brett worshipped his brother. He never forgot about him. My guess is that Brett had some sort of a particularly upsetting disagreement with his father and suddenly decided to run off looking for Cade.”
“Why would he think his brother was out West?”
“Because Cade told Brett that was where he was heading the night he ran off. But that was thirteen years ago. As far as I know, neither Brett nor Ross McCallum have heard a word from him ever since.”
Annabel studied the thick trees overhanging the trail, blotting out the cloudy, slate gray sky. “You’re sure that when you saw him, Brett didn’t mention anything to you about where he was headed?” she asked anxiously.
“No.”
“So why are we going to Silver Junction? Is that where you think Brett went after leaving Eagle Gulch?”
His arms tightened around her as he shifted in the saddle behind her and Annabel was all too aware of the granite strength of his body, of the hard muscles bulging in his forearms, chest, and thighs. She closed her eyes a moment, trying to keep her mind on Brett, on the mystery under discussion, and not on the distracting sensual pressure of his rock-hard thighs against the slender curve of her own body.
“The gunsmith in Eagle Gulch gave me some useful information.”
“The gunsmith?” Dread chilled her, slinking like a spider up her spine. “What ... was Brett doing at the gunsmith’s?”
“Buying weapons. Lots of ‘em. And there’s something else,” he said. Something in his tone told Annabel this was not pleasant news. She braced herself for whatever was coming next.
“There was a woman with him.”
Annabel gripped the folds of her skirt in suddenly rigid fingers.
“A ... woman?” she croaked.
“That’s right.”
A woman. Annabel forced herself to speak calmly, despite the churning turmoil inside of her. “Who was she? What was she doing with him?”
Steele shrugged. “Can’t say. The gunsmith seemed to think she’d come in over the border from New Mexico—from a little town called Skull Creek.”
“And that’s why you think Brett may have gone to New Mexico—with her?”
“Maybe. But the gunsmith seemed to think they were headed for Silver Junction, so I can’t be sure. Maybe we can catch them before they slip over the border. No one I talked to back in Justice had mentioned anything about a woman, so chances are they met up in Eagle Gulch. Could be Brett went back to New Mexico with her, or he took her to Silver Junction, or maybe they said adiós and went their separate ways the moment they walked out of the gunsmith’s shop—but right now the woman is my only lead. I’ll start in Silver Junction and ask some questions. What about you?”
“I’ll be right beside you.”
“Your arm?”
“My arm is fine today, just fine.” But not my heart.
She could feel his gaze on her face, studying her profile, and she deliberately turned her head so that she met his eyes. She wouldn’t have Roy Steele feeling sorry for her. That would be the worst humiliation of all.
“I’m sure Brett has a very good reason why he is with that other woman,” she told him evenly. “I am not a jealous female. So don’t think you’ve upset me by telling me this at all—if Brett has made a friend, I’m glad for him. I hate to think of him being all alone.”
“There’s worse things. I tend to like it.”
“Do you? Really?” She twisted in the saddle to better gaze into his eyes and searched his expression for some emotion behind the rugged nonchalance. For an instant she thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes, but then it was gone, and Annabel wondered if she had only imagined it.
“You ask too many questions, Miss Brannigan,” he said roughly. His mouth curled derisively and there was a distinct edge to his voice. “Turn around and stop distracting me. We need to make tracks. I want to put as many miles between us and those hombres back there at the cabin as possible. And I intend to reach Silver Junction by midafternoon.”
“Is Skull Creek far beyond that?”
“Two days ride.”
“Then maybe we should push on—we can cover more ground tonight if we don’t stay in Silver Junction. We can ask our questions and keep going until dark ...”
“Whoa, lady.” He draped an arm about her waist, holding her snugly. “I’m in charge of this expedition, remember? So just take it easy. You need to rest and I need to buy supplies. We’ll spend the night in Silver Junction, and depending on what we learn there, we can head straight into New Mexico tomorrow. One more day won’t make much difference.”
It might. It just might, Annabel thought uneasily, but she remained perfectly still in
the saddle and gazed out at the muddy sky once more, burrowing deep into her own thoughts. Could this woman be important to Brett? Could he care for her?
No! He had never fallen in love with any of the exquisite society creatures his father had thrown him together with all these years, so why should he fall in love with some stranger from New Mexico? But her heart ached. He never fell in love with you, either, she told herself.
Deep down she’d always believed he would come to recognize his love for her someday. She didn’t know if it would hit him all of a sudden one morning when he awoke and felt an irresistible urge to see her, or if he would slowly come to the realization that she was on his mind more and more, but Annabel had always taken it on faith that one day Brett’s true feelings for her would emerge, and he’d realize the bright truth she already knew: that their love had been growing for years and years—that they were meant to join hands and hearts and spend their lives together.
Don’t think about this woman, she instructed herself. There’s no use worrying about her place in this mystery until you’ve got more information. And you can’t afford to be emotional right now—or distracted by personal concerns. Her brain told her she had to think and react as a professional, as any other Stevenson agent would in the same situation.
What would Everett Stevenson do if he were presented with this information? she asked herself.
He’d focus on the guns.
Brett had purchased many weapons. That could mean only one thing. He foresaw some serious trouble—either for himself or for this woman. It was hardly a reassuring conclusion, but it was as far as she got with this line of thinking before Steele interrupted her thoughts, almost as if he could read them.
“If the trail does lead into New Mexico, things could get sticky. We don’t know what kind of situation Brett is involved in with this woman, but chances are it’s trouble.”
“I realize that,” Annabel countered. “And I’m fully prepared to—”
“You’ll stay in Silver Junction,” Steele continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “It’s not a bad little town, as towns go. You should be safe there. Meanwhile, I’ll hit Skull Creek and see what I can find out. If Brett’s there, I’ll tell him you’ve come all the way to Arizona looking for him, and bring him back in one piece—”
“There is no point in discussing this, Mr. Steele.” Annabel shot him a determined look. “I’m going with you and that is that.”
“You idiotic little tenderfoot, do you even know how to fire that derringer of yours?”
“Of course I do.” She shook her head in amazement at his stupidity in asking such a question, and with the movement, one of her carefully pinned curls escaped to feather downward and tickle his neck. “Brett taught me how to shoot, as well as how to ride—and he learned both from his own father, who is quite a fine marksman and rider himself. But I think out here a lady needs more than a derringer to protect herself—she needs a rifle and a pair of Colts, like yours! I’m going to buy myself an extra gun the moment we reach Silver Junction and ...”
She saw his grin and poked his arm indignantly with two fingers. “You think Brett comes from tough stock? Well, if you think I don’t come from equally tough stock, you’re quite mistaken. Let me tell you that my father was a hero who died at Gettysburg and my mother spied for the Union during the war and—”
“Did she?” His eyes lit with interest. “Where?”
“In Richmond. She was raised in Virginia, as was my father, but they had moved to Missouri sometime before the war, and there they came to loathe slavery and all of the cruelty it stood for. When war broke out, my father enlisted in the Union army. And my mother wanted desperately to help him—to help the Union cause in some way.” Annabel’s voice filled with pride. “She was a brilliant woman, very beautiful and very strong-willed ...”
“That I believe.”
She smiled suddenly, blindingly, into his eyes, struck by the quietness of his tone, for once lacking in mockery. “Thank you,” she said softly. For some reason she settled more comfortably against him, and let her thoughts embrace the image of her mother, slender and doe-eyed Savannah Brannigan, brimming with such vibrant determination, and yet so gentle, so full of love....
“My mother made up her mind to return to Richmond, where she had many friends,” Annabel continued quietly. She rested her head against Steele’s broad chest. It felt surprisingly natural to do so. “She was determined to do whatever she could to glean information that would help shorten the war. I was born during that time,” she added. “But having a little baby didn’t stop her. She worked on, more diligently than ever, to assure the Union’s victory, and possibly save my father’s life. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen,” Annabel finished sadly. “He died at Gettysburg.”
There was a short silence during which the only sounds were the steady clop of the horses’ hooves and the sighing of the leaves as the summer wind stirred through them like an old ghost. “Did your mother return to Missouri then?” Steele asked and his breath rustled her hair.
“Oh, no. She stayed in Richmond until the war was over. There were many ways she could soak up information, or glean tidbits about weaponry or troop movements or plans from among her friends and acquaintances, and she found means to smuggle every morsel she learned to her Union contacts. She used to tell me the most wonderful stories when I was a little girl!” Annabel’s eyes danced and her voice was warm with memory. “She had a most exquisite gold and ruby brooch which she always wore—it was so beautiful! It was shaped like a rose and outlined all in pearls. It was a wedding gift from my father,” Annabel explained, “and Mama would let me play with it while she told me of this adventure, or that, of how she almost was caught snooping through a general’s papers one time, or passing information to someone the next, her reticule and pockets chock full of coded letters. She said the brooch brought her luck though—that because my father had given it to her with love, it was lucky and nothing could happen to her while she was trying to help him come home to us. I suppose it did protect her,” Annabel said slowly, “for she never was caught, despite many close calls. I remember being amazed at how brave she was, how steadfast in her purpose. And sometimes I would pin the brooch onto my dress and pretend I was she, and it actually made me feel very brave to wear it.” She gave a wry laugh. “And Mama promised me that when I was married, I would have the brooch as a wedding gift. Oh, I could scarcely wait for that day!”
He restrained the urge to reach out and touch that bright wisp of hair that dangled so enticingly before him. “What happened to the brooch?”
He heard a tiny sigh. “Mama lost it some years later.”
Though she spoke in a level tone, something twisted painfully inside him at the sadness that had crept into her voice. This mattered to Annabel Brannigan, it mattered very much, though she was trying heroically not to betray it.
“You see, my mother did return to Missouri after the war. We lived in a little house on Third Street in St. Louis,” Annabel told him softly. “One morning while she was on her way to work—Mama had taken a job at the St. Louis Sun newspaper—a fire broke out in a house she was passing. Apparently she tried to rescue some of the family from the home, and the roof caved in....” Her voice broke.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered in her ear, and she felt his arm tighten around her waist.
“She was wearing the brooch at the time she died.” Annabel took a deep steadying breath, blinking back the tears that stung her eyes. “Yet it was not found afterward, either on her clothing, or in the rubble. Aunt Gertie spoke with the authorities and they said someone at the scene must have stolen it—some of the others who tried to help had valuables missing, too—apparently some horrid thief happened along and took advantage of all the pandemonium going on during the tragedy.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, feeling helpless for one of the few times in his life. He was at a loss about how to offer any appropriate comfort. He wasn’t good at this, by God. He wasn’
t good at anything that required gentleness, or delicacy, or sensitivity. Shooting people, that he was good at. Tracking them. Fighting them. Burying them. Surviving rainstorms and droughts, Apache raids, freezing nights, ambushes by low-down outlaws, too much whiskey and too little sleep, all that he could handle. But this was terrifying territory. Only by the utmost exercise of his will did he hold his ground.
“Thank you.” She gave another tiny sigh and wondered why she was telling him all this, things she’d never discussed with anyone except Brett. “I missed Mama horribly at first. When I first went to live with Aunt Gertie I thought I’d never get used to being without my mother. But ... Brett was there, you see.”
The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the trail quickened as the ground grew level and more forgiving. At last the sun began to peek through the gray cottony clouds.
Roy Steele studied what he could see of her profile. She had spoken those few simple words—Brett was there —as if that explained everything and there was no need for further explanation.
“He befriended you?” he prompted, a bit more sharply than he’d intended.
“He became my friend, yes.” Annabel smiled. “And my teacher, my protector, my confidante, my family—along with Aunt Gertie, of course. Brett and I were the best, the dearest of friends. We played together, studied together, took our meals together, even got into mischief together. But he always shouldered the blame, much as I tried to stop him.” A chuckle escaped her. “No matter how guilty I was of breaking something or other, Brett would never allow his father’s wrath to turn in my direction.”
She twisted in the saddle suddenly, bestowing a brilliant smile upon him. “I’m so grateful to you for helping me reach him. It’s important for so many reasons I can’t even begin to explain them all—but I will forever remember what you’ve done for me.”
The dazzling sweetness of that smile made his heart stop beating for just long enough to crowd the air into his lungs. Damn, if she wasn’t bewitching. The sun now streaming down through the leafy tree branches lit her face with a radiant glow and made her hair shimmer with fire. He suddenly wanted to pull the horse up short, vault down with her onto the carpet of pine needles, and make love to her here in the cool, scented forest. The earnest expression on her face tore at his heart, and in her eyes he read all the innocence and hope and eagerness that was in her soul. Pain jackknifed through him.
