by Beth Ciotta
“There’s pot of coffee brewing on the stove,” Parker said as he whisked out of the room.
But of course there was.
Five minutes later, London was shaking hands with his mysterious visitor. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Fedderman.”
“Be pleased if you’d call me John. Sorry I woke you.”
London scraped a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Long night.”
“Had a string of those myself this week.”
Indeed, the white-bearded codger looked like he’d been dragged backward through the bushes. London motioned him to sit. They had the entire saloon to themselves, except for Parker, who neared with a pot of coffee and two mugs. After pouring, the hopeful ghost drifted back into the kitchen.
“I’ll get right to it,” Fedderman said as London sharpened his wits with a gulp of strong Arbuckles. “I’m sure you read about the train robbery that recently occurred west of Yuma.” London didn’t flinch, but his brain cells sparked to life. “Held up by Bulls-Eye Brady and the Ace-in-the-Hole Gang. Three passengers died as a result.”
“The woman who’s with me, Tori Adams, she was on that train. Seated alongside the woman who died.”
“You don’t say?” He relaxed against his chair, sipped more coffee. Fedderman couldn’t know he was with PMA. Chances were, he didn’t even know PMA existed. Few did. Yet he’d delivered an eyewitness--the very thing Athens needed to nail shut the coffin on Brady--to their headquarters’ door. A woman London had hired for the Gilded, sight unseen, several months back. Serendipitous?
“She’s a bitty thing, on the delicate side. Didn’t take well to what she witnessed.”
“Few would.”
“Thing is, she’s blocked it from her mind.”
“Doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Can’t talk about it ‘cause she can’t remember.”
London angled his head.
“Doc called it stress-induced amnesia.”
“She lost her memory?”
“Not all of it. Just the parts pertaining to the robbery. Much to the disappointment of the local law, Wells Fargo, a team of Pinkertons, and a couple of smooth-talking bounty hunters.” Undercover Peacemakers. Athens had sent two men to interview the surviving passengers. Even a promise of a reward had failed to entice anyone to bear witness against Bulls-Eye Brady.
“Weren’t too many passengers in the car where Miss Barrow met her Maker. Those who were refused to testify that it was Bulls-Eye Brady who struck the lady down, but they did provide law officials with a rundown.”
“You privy to that information?” London asked.
“I am.” Fedderman slurped coffee, then continued. “When they ordered everyone to hand over their valuables, Miss Adams refused to give over her necklace. Brady asked her if it was worth dyin’ for. When he made a grab for it, the other woman, Miss Barrow, interceded. Folks reported the woman gave him an earful and smacked the outlaw in the face to boot.” Fedderman tapped a finger to his forehead. “Kind of off the mental reservation, if you catch my drift.” He did. But he didn’t agree. The way London saw it, Miss Victoria Barrow had a barrel full of courage. Was it smart to assault a man as dangerous as Brady? No. But he couldn’t fault her for standing up for another human being. A damned admirable quality.
“Anyways, Brady buffaloed her so hard she crumpled and hit her head again. Was that second blow that did her in.” Fedderman sighed. “Poor thing took her last breath as the gang made their getaway. Died, it’s reported, in Miss Adams’s arms.”
“Hell of a thing,” London said, imagining both women’s misery.
Fedderman nodded. “I first saw Miss Adams when the train rolled into Yuma and a porter helped her disembark. Covered in blood, dazed. A haunted, anguished look in her eyes. Couldn’t get the pitiful sight out of my head. I dropped by Doc’s, checked in on her, and introduced myself. That’s when I learned she was headed here, to you. Seeing I know your family in a roundabout way, I felt obliged to see her safely to your doorstep.”
“I’m not familiar with your name, John.”
“No reason to be. It’s your brothers, Rome and Boston, I interacted with. Was a time I maintained the law alongside Joshua Grant. Back when we were policing Yuma.”
London snapped his fingers. “You’re the one who answered their bulletins regarding our sister.” Over a year ago, Paris had run away from home to pursue her musical dreams. She’d ended up safe and sound with Josh, but the brothers had shared a few angst-filled weeks not knowing if she was dead or alive. “You tipped them off to Paris’s whereabouts.”
“Was happy to do it. My daughter ran off a couple years back. Haven’t heard from her since. Helluva thing, not knowing.”
“Yes, it is.” London ached for the man. “So you’ve made it your mission to look out for young women in distress?”
Fedderman smiled over the rim of his mug. “Guess I have.”
“Noble.”
“Selfish. Makes me feel better. Gives me hope that maybe someone’s looking out for my girl.”
London raised his mug in a toast. “Here’s hoping.” He’d have to have a conversation with Athens about tracking the man’s daughter as soon as they closed this case on Brady.
Fedderman set aside his mug and leaned forward. “Miss Adams told me you hired her to play the piano. Being a professional performer, I reckon she’s outgoing when she’s herself. Sure is a pretty thing. Just now though, she’s skittish. I’m hoping you’re a patient man, Garrett. Hoping you won’t send her packing before she has a chance to come around.”
He was still confused about why Tori Adams was under the impression that she’d been hired to perform at the Last Chance, but he didn’t ‘fess up. Way he saw it, she was a gift. The distraction he’d prayed for. The challenge. He didn’t care if she played the piano or not. What he wanted were the memories she’d blocked. He wanted an eyewitness who’d testify against Brady once PMA had him in hand.
London reached over and clasped the old man’s shoulder. “Rest easy, John. She’ll be safe with me.”
“Mumbled that same thing in her sleep a couple of times. Guess you two have met before.”
“No. Just a mutual acquaintance who must’ve portrayed me as a respectable man.”
The old man raised a brow. “Are you?”
London thought about his scruffy appearance, the fact that he’d slept until noon. He thought about Effie Go-All-Night.
Parker appeared with the coffeepot. “The man’s a veritable saint,” he said to Fedderman, topping off their mugs and setting the pot on a folded towel.
London smiled. “Why don’t you go and get--”
“I’ll return with Miss Adams posthaste.” He was already halfway to the door.
“And while you’re at it--”
“I’ll bring back a couple of scones.” Parker disappeared onto the boardwalk.
“How in tarnation does he know your thoughts?” Fedderman asked.
London smiled over the brim of his steaming cup. “An annoying skill.”
CHAPTER 13
The Cafe Poppy was an enigma. A quaint, upscale bakery in a sprawling low-down town. Delicious aromas overwhelmed the uncomfortably warm room. Every manner of man and woman stood in line waiting to place orders. A few others congregated at small tables, sampling confections and engaging in hushed gossip. They all stole glances at Victoria as Mrs. Kaila Dillingham served her a second cup of tea.
“A lovely girl such as yourself, new in town no less,” she said in an endearing accent, “is bound to attract attention.” She smiled kindly, as if knowing Victoria’s discomfort. “Pay them no mind.”
The exchange was cordial but brief. They’d been having sporadic conversations ever since Mr. Parker had ushered her in and seated her next to the window. Kaila, as she preferred to be addressed, excused herself once again to attend business. Victoria strived to blend into the pretty calico curtains. She was accustomed to being invisible, her father had insisted upon it, bu
t her new wardrobe screamed, “Look at me!”
The wardrobe of a professional entertainer.
The townsfolk whispered behind their hands, no doubt wondering who she was and what she was doing in Phoenix. Their curiosity was natural, but unnerving. Victoria ignored them and focused on the Englishwoman who graciously oversaw her bustling bakery. Kaila Dillingham was regal. No other word for it. Except perhaps elegant. Beautiful and confident, too. A successful businesswoman. She was also betrothed to London Garrett’s younger brother. Athens, the woman had said, affection and worry sparking in her eyes at the mention of her beloved’s name. Away on business, she’d said.
Victoria wondered about his profession. She wondered about a lot of things. Like what lured someone as cultured as Kaila Dillingham to this raw territory and why a woman who reeked of money and good breeding would need to work. She wondered about the two young children, Zach and Zoe, who only created more chaos and work for the woman as they poorly cleared vacated tables and loudly traded barbs. Kaila had the patience of a saint.
She burned to question the Englishwoman about her exciting life, just as she’d questioned Tori Adams. Only she didn’t want to reciprocate by answering questions about her own life, as she was no longer Victoria Barrow. Besides, that life--the only child of a coldhearted jewel merchant in San Diego--had been dismal, and the future--betrothed to an elderly cow baron in a remote region of Texas--had promised no better. Blessedly, Kaila’s attention had been torn between her many customers and her two little helpers, leaving scant time to converse with the woman Mr. Parker had left in her care.
Now that same man strolled back in. “Two scones to take with, please,” he said to Kaila, then addressed Vic--Tori. “Mr. Garrett will see you now, Miss Adams.”
Merciful heavens.
For the first time since the switch, she’d truly be called upon to lie at length. Tori, the real Tori, would call it acting. Victoria wasn’t certain she could pull it off, but she had to try. No matter her trepidation, she would not squander this opportunity to reinvent her life.
“Miss?”
“I’m ready.” She stood and resisted the urge to fuss with her inherited gown. An emerald satin day dress with a cinched bodice and revealing neckline--the most conservative gown in the trunk, yet more flamboyant than any dress ever owned by Victoria. Her father would pronounce her appearance scandalous. Trollop, he’d say. She didn’t care. He’d called her worse. A burden, for one. An annoyance. A mistake. Oh, yes, he’d called her much worse.
“Three scones,” Kaila said, thrusting a bag into Mr. Parker’s hands. “Miss Adams didn’t have time to finish her refreshments.”
Victoria blushed. She prayed she hadn’t insulted Kaila. She’d had plenty of time, but lacked the appetite. Just now it was all she could do to keep down the tea.
“I had hoped to engage in pleasant conversation, Tori,” she said. “I must apologize for being so scattered. I. . . oh, Zoe, sweetie, no!”
The woman raced off just as the little girl flung a gooey pastry in her brother’s face. “You take that back!” Zoe screamed. “Sparkles is real!”
Vic--Tori--didn’t know who Sparkles was, but she welcomed the distraction. All eyes turned to the pastry melee as Mr. Parker guided her onto the boards. I’m Tori. I’m Tori, she chanted on the stroll from bakery to saloon. She endured the curious looks from passersby, pulled deeper into herself. She recollected every detail uttered by the woman who’d sacrificed her life just because Victoria had refused to part with her mother’s locket. Her stomach churned. She became one with a woman she admired. I’m Tori. I’m Tori.
They breached the doors of the Last Chance Saloon-- how fitting--and words failed her. Tori had led her to believe she’d be safe with London Garrett. A nice man, she’d said, respectable. A proper and boring gentlemen.
He looked anything but. He looked dashing and rakish. Dangerous. Though slightly disheveled, his clothing was tailored and fashionable. Devilish black hair curled above his collar, and dark stubble shadowed a strong jaw. Tall and broad-shouldered, he seemed to take up the entire room. Her heart pounded as she absorbed the knee-buckling sight of London Garrett.
Mr. Parker made the introductions. Mr. Fedderman stood nearby, a supportive figure to be certain. But Victoria couldn’t move. Her stomach bumped to her throat, and her brain clouded, negating coherent speech.
Her protector’s eyes sparked with curiosity and intelligence. How would she ever fool this man? He moved in and grasped her hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Adams.”
His warm palm and cool fingers did strange things to her senses. Her skin goose pimpled even as her body burned. Her cheeks flushed as she willed herself to speak. The enormity of the deception rendered her ill, but she refused to allow the real Tori’s death to be in vain. She refused to return to her own stifling life. She wanted more. You deserve more, she could hear Tori say. Summoning a backbone, she opened her mouth in greeting . . . and promptly retched on London Garrett’s expensive boots.
CHAPTER 14
Tucson
Normally, Kat had an ironclad nervous system, but as the buggy bounced over rocks and ruts, she thought she might be sick. She’d been raised by a famed practitioner of the art, a man equally proficient at faro and poker and wise to crooked games such as thimblerig and three-card monte. She’d accompanied him from riverboat to mining camp to boomtown. Developing a thick skin and sharp wits was integral to survival. And by God, Kat was a survivor. Still, so much was at stake. So much depended on adopting her younger, wilder, and more reckless persona and playing the role so convincingly that word would spread like brushfire, drawing Brady to Kat.
She dreaded the moment with every fiber of her being.
She shivered. Even though she was dressed in layers of frippery. Even though it was hot enough to wither a fence post.
No turning back now.
Rome and Seth had ridden ahead in order to set the ruse in motion. Even now they were probably at the tables. Kat and Athens would roll into town within the half hour. Kat had labored over her appearance just as she would have back in her cardsharp days. Athens had transformed himself into a book peddler with a gambling addiction. According to their concocted story, they’d met in Texas at a craps table and become fast friends. Upon learning they were both bound for San Francisco, they united as traveling companions--strictly platonic.
Already established as a woman of questionable virtue, few would be surprised by Kat’s association with an unmarried man, especially a dandy. After checking into separate rooms at the Cosmopolitan Hotel, they’d visit the El Dorado Saloon where she’d coincidentally bump into her former lover, the famed Rome Garrett.
Another dreaded moment.
The journey from the Rincon Mountains to Tucson had transpired without incident and in the blink of an eye. Or so it seemed to Kat, who’d spent most of the buggy ride reflecting and obsessing. On Frankie. On Rome.
Understandable she felt rattled by their rise-and-shine exchange. She’d been suppressing her emotions for so long, she couldn’t help but feel like a stick of dynamite with a short fuse.
Rome had lit the wick.
Though he no longer rendered her witless with a mere smile, no denying the sensual thrill when he’d tended her pricked finger. The touch of his hands had ignited a dozen erotic memories. Skin on skin. Mouth on breast, stomach, thigh . . . Intimacy and passion the likes of which she’d never felt before or since. Her first lover, her only lover, as far as she was concerned. For that reason alone, he held a special place in her heart.
He also taxed her patience.
Why did he have to be so nosy? She’d made it plain she didn’t want to talk about her private life, but still he pried. His comment on her appearance had made her self-conscious. His questions about Frankie rubbed raw. His friendly interest was about as refreshing as being burned at the stake. Hell, yes, she had an ace up her sleeve. She hated that he noticed. She used to excel at deception. Or maybe Rome was
just better at detecting. Six years ago he hadn’t seen through her ruse. Six years ago he’d fallen for the woman she pretended to be.
The illusion.
If you knew me at all, you’d know the answer to that question.
The shock in his eyes, the confusion in his tone, had hurt.
Friends.
Like hell.
Thankfully, she’d had several hours to recover.
Presently, the sun dipped on the horizon. The city of Tucson, a metropolis compared to Casa Bend, loomed up ahead. A sprawling succession of adobe buildings set amid sparse grass and plentiful cacti. When in need of premium supplies for the saloon, Kat sent Johnson into Tucson with a shopping list. On occasion, she’d accompanied him in order to handle personal purchases. Dressed down and quiet as a stone wall, she’d blown in and out of town without gaining interest, but not without noting the town’s layout.
Populated by a colorful mix of Mexicans, Americans, and Chinese, the town boasted several mercantile firms, a Catholic girl’s school--which made her think of Frankie--a public school and a public library, a brewery, and dozens of saloons and gambling halls--which also made her think of Frankie. In order to secure the girl’s safety, Kat needed to spend the next week making a spectacle of herself at the gaming tables. Adopting her old ways didn’t make her happy. She’d fought hard to abandon that lifestyle and mind-set, but it was necessary to her cause. Whatever it takes.
Breathing deep, she shifted her gaze to the Santa Catalina mountain range, rugged and beautiful with serrated summits etched against a brilliant blue sky. Despite her efforts to relax, she felt as rocky as the distant terrain.
”I say, Miss Simmons, are you feeling peaked?”
She glanced at her companion, still amazed by his transformation. No longer lawyer-turned-lawman, but a book peddler with a British accent and foppish taste in clothing. He held the rig’s reins with a delicate touch, yet the horse obeyed his every whim. Apparently the broomtail sensed what she knew: despite his absurd attire, the driver was a capable, confident man. “A little anxious is all,” she said. “Don’t worry about me, Sherman.”
