by Pam Crooks
Leaving the pot simmering, she hurried to the shaving mirror he’d left on the table. The glass showed her cheeks flushed from the stove’s fire, and she fanned them as best she could. A quick check of her hair showed her pins intact, at least. She rushed to the door and flung it open.
But it wasn’t Creed’s palomino outside, reins dragging. And it wasn’t him striding in her direction, either, with a puzzled stare at the blankets and sketches she’d left on the ground.
Instead, a cowboy, not yet twenty, dressed in dusty Levi’s and a beige shirt, bandanna and Stetson, with a face tanned from the wind and sun.
She froze in her tracks. “Oh!”
His stare whipped toward her. He took a startled step backward and yanked off his hat, crushing it against his chest.
“Ma’am?” he choked.
He looked so surprised to see her, instant guilt surged through Gina for being there, even though Creed had assured her she could.
“I am sorry. My name is Gina Briganti,” she said, lest the young man think she had something to hide. Immediately, she extended her hand.
He glanced down at it, then hastily reached out and clasped her fingers, revealing his own to be rough and callused.
“Marcus Sherman, ma’am,” he said, releasing her. “Pardon me for acting like my talk-box is busted. I’ve just never seen a woman out here is all.”
She blinked. “Your name is Sherman?”
It was her turn to stare. She could see it now. The resemblance. The same almond-colored eyes. The same hair of burnished gold. The same angular jaw and strong chin.
Though he wasn’t the same size, she decided, remembering the breadth of Creed’s shoulders and his tall, lean build. And this man didn’t possess Creed’s impression of confidence, hard-won from the experiences in his life, the danger of fighting America’s enemies.
And maybe Marcus never would. But the similarities were there. From the sire they shared.
“You are his brother,” she breathed, amazed.
He stiffened. “Creed?” His glance shot toward the lean-to, her horse tethered there, the unfamiliarity of it. “He brought you out here?”
The tension in his tone made her uneasy again.
“Yes,” she said carefully.
His lip curled. “Well, he sure as blazes works fast, don’t he?”
“What?” she asked, taken aback.
“And now he’s drowning his sorrows in you.”
She didn’t understand why he sounded so resentful. “We come because he wants to keep me safe.”
“I’ll bet he did.”
“It is true!”
“You’re a right pretty piece of calico. He’s just havin’ a little fun, that’s all.” He snorted in derision. “Ma’am, you can have him.”
He kicked the ground in disgust, spun on his boot heel and headed back toward his horse.
Gina realized she’d just been insulted. Creed, too, and she sucked in an indignant breath. A few quick steps planted her between Marcus and his horse. She set her hands on her hips and glared.
“Why do you talk of him like this?” she demanded. “You do not understand his reasons.”
“I’ve known him a hell of a lot longer than you have, ma’am. I understand plenty.”
He attempted to step past her, but she would have none of it. Creed didn’t have the opportunity to explain, and so she must, for both their sakes.
“You will listen to me to learn the truth from the beginning,” she snapped. “I already tell you I am Gina Briganti. I work in the city, at the Premier Shirtwaist Company factory. I am a seamstress there. There is a fire, and your brother saves my life. I think you did not know that, eh?”
A moment passed. His expression shifted. “No. News is slow sometimes—”
His excuses did not matter.
“I see the man who starts it,” she grated. “He commits arson. Creed brings me here because the man, he tries to kill me.”
Color drained from the tanned cheeks. “Kill you?”
“And I tell you more.” Her chin lifted, the news she was about to impart. “This man, he wants terrible things to happen to the American people. But mostly to the president.”
Marcus’s jaw dropped. “McKinley?”
Her eyes narrowed. “It scares Creed very much. He does everything he can to protect him. Like he protects me.”
Marcus nodded, but only once, as if he began to comprehend.
“So he’s off fighting another of his wars.” He spoke with some annoyance, but not so much as before. “What’s he thinking? That he’s a one-man army or something? Has he gone to the police?”
Gina shook her head. To all his questions.
Marcus tightened his mouth in the disapproval he didn’t say, but Gina could hear as plainly as if he did.
This rift between them troubled her. They were brothers. Family. Had her being here made it worse?
There was little she could do to make things right, but she had one small attempt left.
“Come inside,” she said, sweeping past him. “There is something you must see.”
His hesitant glance slid toward the shack. “What is it?”
“Come.” Giving him an impatient gesture to follow, she went inside.
In a few moments, he joined her. She stood next to the table; Creed’s saddlebag still lay on top. Wordlessly, she removed the assortment of weapons inside and laid them all out, side by side, to show Marcus the man Creed was.
But the look on his face said he already knew.
Somber, he trailed his fingers over the rifle, the derringer, the knives. He picked up the brass knuckles and nickeled handcuffs, then examined them, only to frown and set them down again. He had to read the label on the container of spirit gum to discover its use, to know that it was a deceptively crucial part of the disguise Creed was able to create. And finally, the disguise itself, the woolly mass of beard and brows lying in a heap.
“He is a master at what he does,” Gina said softly.
Marcus’s throat worked. “Reckon so.”
“Maybe now you respect your brother a little more, eh?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “He was gone a hell of a long time, ma’am. He never told us what he did. His work. That it…”
He drew in a long breath. And Gina understood.
“… means so much to him that he will die so you—all of us—have freedom,” she finished firmly.
“Well, why didn’t he say something?” he demanded. “It would’ve made things easier between us if we knew.”
“And then you worry for him. Or maybe praise him.” She shook her head slowly. “I do not think he wants that from anyone.”
Marcus’s hand tightened on the brim of his Stetson. “I reckon not.”
“An honorable man, your brother. There are not many like him.” This she had seen for herself, again and again.
Marcus angled his head away, keeping from her his struggle to shed the resentment too long inside him.
Gina marveled that he wanted to. And tried. She knew, then, she had done all she could.
Her head cocked in consideration. “Now, maybe we can be friends, eh?”
He looked at her with uncertainty. “I think I’d like that, ma’am.”
She thought of Creed, that he’d be back soon. “I have hot soup. We will have lunch.”
Marcus’s uncertainty faded with his smile.
“I’d like that, too,” he said.
Nikolai rode toward the log bathhouse, nestled in the sprawling hills outside Los Angeles. Anticipation curled through him. There wasn’t a finer place in America than the hot mineral springs enclosed within.
In the soothing waters, he could forget the despair in the city. From their serenity, he could immerse himself in his dream, plan the many ways of revolution. And he could nurture his hate.
At first, he came for Alex, so often plagued by the pain in his stomach and in his bones. The bubbling waters provided relief from the ulcers he’
d battled most of his life. They helped him breathe, to move as free as a child, and Nikolai marveled at their healing magic.
But today, he came for himself. For the fire in his thigh.
He hadn’t expected to see her at one of his meetings. The beautiful Gina Briganti. Her courage had astounded him. Her daring infuriated him. Driven by her passion and ideals, she had defied him in front of everyone.
Then, she shot him.
His lust stirred. A woman of valor. A shining example for the rest of his comrades on how to rise up from the masses.
And act.
He might’ve hated her for what she’d done if it hadn’t been an accident, an unfortunate result of the panic of the spineless men who’d run away from their own wild imaginings.
A spy for the police, they said.
He would’ve known if she was. For many weeks, he watched her in the shirtwaist factory. Each time, he saw only a dutiful daughter and a hard worker—one of Silverstein’s best.
She could be one of Nikolai’s as well.
He had only to convince her of the merits of anarchism. Teach her to be strong against the crush of authority and their hypocrisies. With her intelligence, her impassioned way of speaking, and most of all, her bravery, she would be his very own Emma Goldman.
Together, they could accomplish amazing things. The reform so necessary in America.
The distinct smell of sulfur roused him from his fantasies. Reminded him he’d come here to be strong again. That the infection festering in his thigh must be healed.
It had been up to him to remove the bullet last night. He didn’t dare go to the Los Angeles Infirmary, not for the money it’d cost or the suspicions it’d raise. And Alex couldn’t do the surgery for him. He’d paled and clutched his stomach at the idea of it.
So Nikolai downed the last of his vodka and managed it on his own, though not without great damage to the muscle inside. He couldn’t sleep from the pain afterward, and this morning, the raw, angry flesh told him he must sit in the magic waters for a while.
He pulled up in front of the bathhouse but didn’t dismount. He scrutinized the rangeland around him, more acres than he could count. All of it, owned by one man.
Gus Sherman.
Nikolai had taken care to ask questions before they began using the waters. He’d learned Sherman was a powerful and wealthy cattleman, and his greed filled Nikolai with contempt. The rancher had more land than he could ever use, yet thousands lived crowded lives in dingy tenements in the city, many of them children who craved fresh air and the brightness of the sun.
Nikolai and Alex helped themselves to the bathhouse whenever they wanted. In this small way, Gus Sherman would share his riches with the poor and downtrodden.
Nikolai smirked at the thought, but the ache in his thigh reminded him his need was real. The solitude of the morning assured him he was completely alone. Today, not even Alex was with him. Nikolai was expecting a letter from Washington and had sent him into the city to wait for it.
Nikolai dismounted awkwardly, and his teeth clenched from the effort. After the pain subsided, he untied his knapsack from the saddle and limped toward the structure.
The dim interior provided a safe, private haven. Flat rocks encircled the gurgling spring, their surfaces moist, like the air. Buffalo skins covered the ground, offering protection for bare feet. He stripped naked and delved into the knapsack for a towel.
His fingers closed around her dark fringed scarf instead.
The beautiful Gina Briganti had left it behind in her haste to escape the chaos of his meeting, but Nikolai found it, forgotten between the chairs.
His eyes closed. He pressed the soft babushka to his nose and inhaled deeply, his mind alive with the smell of her hair within the delicate threads. The fabric draped around his wrist and down his arm, inciting his senses; he trailed the cloth around his neck, floated it over his face and across his head, as if the scarf were Gina herself, her body an undulating wave of sensuality and motion, her desire only to pleasure him.
Love him.
His eyes opened, and the illusion shattered.
Twice, she had escaped him.
With the help of the men who protected her.
Suddenly furious, Nikolai tossed aside the babushka. He stepped into the warm, swirling waters and immersed himself in their depths. Something in his memory nagged him. Persistent and foreboding.
The first time, at her apartment. The tall American, then. The one who swaggered with authority. And the second, at Nikolai’s meeting, this one bearded and poor.
Each had pounced to defend her. Each fierce and dangerous, like the powerful tiger in Siberia.
But both different.
Or were they?
Chapter Sixteen
Creed hunkered in the grass and chewed absently on a slender stem of foxtail. The park across from Premier, the one where he’d taken Gina to escape the horrific fire, was a good place to meet Graham. Except for a few children playing ball at the far end, there was no one else around to hear what Creed had to report.
He’d decided leaving a message with Collette was the most efficient way to contact the Secret Service agent. She recognized Creed’s urgency and promised she’d send word to her brother; Creed had trusted that she would, and Graham was due any minute.
Creed used the time in between to make a few inquiries. The Los Angeles Infirmary first, in hopes of information on Louisa Briganti, but the tired-looking nursing nuns could offer nothing, claiming she was still listed as missing.
It troubled him they were no closer to finding her. His gaze tarried over the deserted, soot-blackened factory building across the street. Where could she be, if not the infirmary?
Puzzled, he shook his head. While there, he’d taken the opportunity to ask about Nikolai. The Russian had been wounded last night. Might be he needed medical attention, and with the infirmary located closest to the abandoned warehouse, he might have gone there. But no one with an injury like his had been registered.
Creed went next to the police station, his mind on the factory bookkeeper’s list of names. A few discreet questions yielded the Sokolovs’ apartment address. A visit there revealed nothing from the landlord except that the brothers hadn’t been seen since several days hence. The day of the fire, to be exact. Creed had gone a step further, padded the landlord’s palm, and had himself a good look around their rooms. The search produced nothing, except that they’d all but packed up and left.
Creed rubbed his hand over his face in frustration. Hours of work, and nothing to show for it. Added to that, it was late. He’d already missed making it back for lunch with Gina.
He spied Graham striding toward him, dressed in his dark suit and shiny shoes, as always. Relieved the man was punctual, Creed tossed aside the foxtail and stood to meet him.
Graham drew closer, his arm extended. “When Collette said you needed to talk to me, I figured it must be important.”
They shook hands.
“It is,” Creed said. “I infiltrated an anarchist meeting last night. Learned some solid intelligence on the plot to assassinate McKinley. The Sokolovs are spearheading a plan, at least here in Los Angeles.”
“Nikolai and Alex. The brothers you told me about. Your information fits with what we’ve learned so far,” Graham said grimly.
“The news of the president’s impending arrival has leaked,” he added. “They know he’s coming. And how. They just don’t know when.”
Stunned, the agent stared at him. “The news has been top secret. I only received word myself yesterday. And it’s already being distributed?”
“To a bunch of crazy zealots. They’re planning to meet him at the train station with bells on.”
Graham paled and reached into his pocket for paper and pen. “I’ll arrange to have a detail of agents ready.”
“You could arrange a dozen of them, and they wouldn’t be enough,” Creed said, suddenly impatient with the man’s thinking.
“Sir?”
/>
“It only takes one bomb to kill the president and scores of people besides. A detail of agents won’t do a damn bit of good.”
“Yes, sir.” But Graham appeared unsure.
“The one thing in our favor is the Sokolovs don’t know when he’s coming. We have to keep that information confidential as long as possible.” His mouth tightened. “In other words, we have to find the source of the leak.”
“Our intelligence efforts are our best. But it takes time to counter espionage such as this.”
“Time we don’t have.”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“I have a theory.” Creed had torn apart the possibility, piece by piece. In the end, he’d become convinced. “There’s a spy in the War Department. Or the Secret Service. Maybe both.”
Graham blanched.
“I’m certain General Carson recognizes the threat,” Creed continued. “That’s why he ordered you to contact me. Someone with access to the White House has inside information to the president’s whereabouts, and he’s passing it along to the enemy.” His mouth tightened. “The Sokolovs.”
“I hope you’re wrong, sir.”
“I’m not. There’s no other explanation.”
Graham drew himself up. “Then we must proceed as such.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s next?”
Creed reached inside his pocket and withdrew a folded letter. “Send this wire to Jeb Carson at the War Department in Washington. Pull some strings if you have to. I want it delivered within the hour.” He squinted an eye along the city’s horizon. “It’s written in code. Only Jeb will know how to decipher it. He’ll relay my message to the general.”
Graham tucked the missive into an inside pocket of his suit coat, his actions protective, as if the words were priceless gold. “Consider it done.”
“In the meantime, I’ll do what I can to track down the Sokolovs.” Since the matter was top secret, he couldn’t risk informing the police. “The brothers are the spy’s contact. It’s imperative that communication between them is cut off.”
Looking overwhelmed from it all, Graham blew out a breath. “Anything else I can do, sir?”
