by C. A. Asbrey
Jake looked wounded. "We ain't gonna kill him. We ain't killers, Abi. We’re way more sophisticated than that."
"What, then? Why are you here?"
"I'm here to make sure you're safe. I hurt you, so I owe you. I need to make up for it."
Her face softened at his earnest tone. "You don't owe me anything, Jake. Get out of here. Please. You’re the ones who are in danger."
"Nope. I scared you real bad, and your neck’s still bruised. I hurt you like I never hurt a woman in my life. Either you come with us, or I stay here. It's a straight choice, but one way or another, I'll make sure you're safe. I owe you, and you need back-up around McCully."
"Jake, this is too dangerous. I can't let you do this. You've held up the bank in this town. This is just plain crazy. This job is no worse than anything else I've done over the years. If you really want to help, then don't give me anything else to worry about."
"You aren't going to change his mind, Abi. Not when he's in this mood." Nat put his gun away and walked over to stand in front of her. "He feels he owes you, and you may not think this is any different, but it is. Frank McCully is treacherous. As dangerous as they come. I wouldn't be surprised if he was already planning on putting a bullet in your brain if he thinks it'll save him from paying you once you've outlived your usefulness."
"Don't you think I've thought of that?"
Jake shook his head and muttered in exasperation. "Your ma must lie awake every night."
Abigail glared at him, refusing to speak as a grin of realization spread over Nat’s face. “She doesn't know, does she?"
Her porcelain brow wrinkled as she tilted her head provocatively. Nat chuckled, darting a look at Jake. "What does she think you do?"
"None of your business."
"I bet she'd have a conniption fit if she knew you were in a bedroom in your dressing gown with two outlaws at two in the morning."
"And one of us as naked as the day he was born." Jake chuckled.
She stood and pushed her way past Nat, heading for the door. "If you don't get out of here, I'll have to let Allan Pinkerton know. He may send someone out for you himself. Don’t say I didn't warn you."
Nat shot out a hand and caught her arm. "You aren't gonna do that, Abi. Otherwise, you would have already told him."
She glared at his hand as his face dimpled in a smile.
"No?" she muttered in challenge as she met his eyes.
"Nope." He shook his head slowly. "You're gonna let Jake look out for you. You do your job. He'll do what he has to in the background, and no one's upset. More importantly, no one’s hurt. Look on the bright side. We won't have time to rob anything when we're looking out for you."
She glanced over at Jake, still trying not to look at his rippling torso. "You don't have to do this."
"I do, Abi. I sickened myself in those woods, so God only knows what you must have thought." He beamed a determined smile at her. "I'm gonna make sure you're safe, one way or another. At least, this way, I'm just a businessman in the background."
Her chocolate eyes glittered in poor light. "You make sure you stay in the background!" She whirled away and stood with her back to him, sure of his nakedness, as he tugged back the sheets to stand. "And more importantly, right now, you stay in bed."
♦◊♦
"What do you want?" Abigail groaned as she stared into Nat’s laughing eyes.
He watched the maid's departing back and took a seat in the ornate parlor beside the huge fronds of the potted palm which filled the corner of the room with lush vegetation. He made sure he spoke loud enough to be heard by her. "You've missed your publishing deadline. I called to see you yesterday, but you were out."
"Deadline?"
He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Yes. Your cover for McCully. You publish dime novels, remember? I’m your publisher."
She sat simmering at him as his face displayed his unconstrained amusement at her obvious annoyance. "This isn’t a game.”
"Get McCully in here. On some pretext or other."
"Why? I thought you weren't here for him?"
"Jake isn’t. I never said anything of the sort."
Abigail glared at him. "Get out of here, right now."
"Nope. I need to speak to him. If he thinks a publisher’s around, he might be less likely to get trigger-happy. He may think he's being watched and written about."
"I'm warning you."
"Leave it, Abi. What’s the harm in a little subterfuge?"
"When you're involved, the potential harm is unquantifiable."
Nat chuckled as she stood and stormed toward the door. Abigail turned the handle and pulled it open. "I think you'd better leave."
"Who should?" A male voice demanded from the hallway. Abigail's stomach sank as she saw the unmistakable cropped, blond hair of Frank McCully enter the parlor, his broad shoulders betraying his bullish body language.
"Meg said you had a visitor. I thought I'd come and see who was calling, this far from your home town."
He pushed the door fully open and looked around the room as Nat stood and proffered a hand in greeting.
"Walter Perceval. Miss Ansell promised me a draft of her story about her time with Quinn and Conroy. It's late."
Frank McCully's eyes darted over to Abigail as he closed the door behind him and leaned on it, blocking the exit from the room. His chilling blue eyes transmitted an earnest warning. "My name’s Frank McCully, and she’s workin’ for me. It ain't her real name, mister. Suppose you tell me the truth?"
The smile dropped from Nat’s eyes, but the grin remained as thought set in ice. "I know that. I wasn't aware anyone else did. Suppose you explain how you know it?"
"I’m payin’ her."
Nat nodded and sat again, but Abigail noticed he concealed a Derringer in his right hand, crossing his legs casually before he glared at Abigail.
"What are you playing at, lady? You promised me the story; exclusive! Now, I find you've been dealing with—" He threw out a hand toward McCully. “—Mr. McThing here."
"McCully. Frank McCully. And I ain't a publisher."
"No?" Nat enquired, innocence oozing from every pore. "What are you and what business do you have with this woman? I have a contract, and she has a legal obligation to fulfill it."
"That ain't none of your business." McCully’s eyes narrowed. "What's her real name? If you know her, you know it."
Nat looked Abigail full in the face before he turned to McCully. “Her name’s MacKay, and she's the only woman ever to be held by Nat Quinn and Jake Conroy. I want that story, mister, and I'm prepared to fight dirty to get it. I have a female readership that’ll pay dearly for it."
"How’d you find her?" McCully demanded.
"Her mother. She writes to her. Now, suppose you answer my questions. Who are you, and what do you want with her? If you think, for one second, I'm about to lose out another prize to Street and Smith, you got another thing coming."
McCully paused, sensing the anger simmering beneath the surface of a man so single-minded in pursuing the prize.
"I told you. I’m Frank McCully!"
Nat snorted dismissively. "You keep saying that as though it’s supposed to mean something. Am I supposed to know who you are?" He tensed. "You work for the New York Daily Tribune, maybe? The name’s vaguely familiar. I promise you, if you're planning on running a series, I'll tie you up in court for years.”
“I’m McCully. You must have heard of me.” The man turned puce, his starched collar looking tight and uncomfortable around his thick neck. “You publish books about men who’re either fantasists or liars. Do you really think all those tales are true?” He thrust a thumb toward his chest. “There are true heroes out there who face down the worst criminals in the West, and you’re not interested? Men like me!”
Nat shook his head and affected a slightly mystified air. "Nope. I can't place you. Are you a friend of her mother’s? She mentioned a florist called Mac—something. Or, her hairdresser, maybe?”
McCully glanced at Abigail, his annoyance growing. "I did more’n a woman keeping company with a couple of outlaws. I’m a bounty hunter. The bounty hunter."
"Bounty hunter?" Nat shook his head in confusion. "Nope. Never heard of you. Who are you after, around here?"
McCully paced across the room and glared at the smiling man who refused to be intimidated by his bellicose demeanor.
"Surely if you were that good I'd have heard of you? Who’ve you brought in?" Nat pressed, seemingly oblivious to McCully’s mounting ire.
McCully's hands formed into fists, but Nat was comfortable enough to push him.
"Some of the most dangerous men in the country."
"Yeah?" He looked vaguely interested. "Like who?"
McCully opened his mouth to respond as Nat’s head turned to face the opening parlor door. Jake Conroy strolled casually into the room, a newspaper thrust under his arm. His blue eyes glittered around the room before he spoke. "I hope I ain't interruptin’ anythin'?"
"Nope. Just ready to leave Mr.—" Nat stood and smiled at Jake.
Jake Conroy thrust out a hand. "Black. Jonathan Black."
Nat’s eyes lit like a Christmas tree in recognition of the name. "Not the Jonathan Black?"
Jake adopted a coy look and dropped his head. "Yes. Have we met?"
"No. But I'd like to have the honor." Nat eyes sparkled as he strode ever to meet him. "The Jonathan Black. You are exactly the type of man I want to speak to. Walter Perceval. Knight Perceval Press. We're always interested in speaking to men like you. I'd like to publish your story."
"I've never heard of Jonathan Black. What's he done that's so all fired important?" McCully interjected.
Nat’s eyes glittered in McCully's direction. "Sir, if you knew anything about the West, you'd know who he is."
Nat stood and put an arm around Jake's shoulders as they wandered out to the hall, leaving Abigail with a seething McCully. Nat’s voice drifted behind them as they walked away. "You have so many tales and I'd like to talk to you about a publishing deal. I can arrange a ghost writer—" He turned at the doorway and looked straight at Abigail. "Miss MacKay, we have a contract. I need the first draft by Tuesday, and no excuses."
♦◊♦
Meg snapped open the leather valise, her eyes darting around as she realized she had made more noise than she had intended. She paused, sure her rasping breath could be heard even in the hallway. She was not an experienced malefactor but she was the most obvious choice of accomplice to search Jonathan Black’s bags as a maid had a ready excuse for being in anyone's room.
Frank McCully had worked his magic on the gullible girl until he had persuaded her she was the most bewitching creature he had ever laid eyes on, and their fortunes would be inextricably linked from this point on. She had to find out about the mysterious stranger attracting the publicity and money that should be going to her Frank so he could afford to marry her.
Her trembling hands raked through the clothing and paused on the battered notebook. She opened it, and out dropped two folded documents. Wanted posters. There was nothing out of the ordinary about them as few bore more than a rudimentary description, as the cost of reproducing photographs was prohibitive. Nat Quinn and Jake Conroy were wanted dead or alive—everyone had heard of them, but why would he be carrying these around with him?
The notebook contained cryptic notes; lists of banks with an amount of money beside each one, trains and stagecoaches also had a price beside each one along with a place name. As she flicked through the pages she could see a few rudimentary maps one of which was labeled ‘G.C.’. The rest of the scribbling meant nothing to her, so she tucked it back under the blue shirt and picked up the bank book.
She gasped as she saw the quantity of money in Mr. Black’s account, every penny of it paid in sums of thousands of dollars. The most Meg had ever seen in one pile had been one hundred and seventy-two dollars, so a total of over sixty thousand dollars was unimaginable to her. Jonathan Black was a rich man. Probably the richest man she had ever met.
"Lookin' for somethin'?" Jake Conroy stood in the doorway staring at her with a furious glower.
Meg dropped his bank book and twirled round to face him, her heart thumping against the panic rising in her breast. "I'm sorry. I—I was just—"
He strode over to her and snapped the bag shut, towering over her as he stood inches from her face. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't get you sacked? Right now."
She shook her head furiously, her light-brown ringlets dancing against her shoulders as her blue eyes widened in entreaty. "Please, I need this job. I've never done anything like this before. I was—” Her voice drifted off to a choked grizzle, unable to finish the sentence against the scrutiny of his chilling gaze.
He opened the bag and rifled through the contents before he closed it again, satisfied everything was still inside. He arched a threatening eyebrow.
"It looks like everythin's there, but you never know. Maybe I should search you?"
She gasped and backed off. "I never. I never stole anythin' in my life, mister."
"No? Then you'd best tell me why you were in my bag. What were you lookin' for?"
His hot breath burned into her face as she stammered her reply. "I was curious. Search the bag. Nothin’s missin’. Honest.”
His eyes narrowed as he stared into her eyes, appraising her before dismissing her with a curt twitch of his head. "Go. Get out of here, before I change my mind, but if I find anythin's missin’ later, I'll skin your hide."
"There's nothin’…honest,” she stammered as she bolted for the door. "Please don't tell Mrs. MacPhee."
Jake Conroy watched the maid’s retreating back, his grim face brightening with a wry smile after the door was closed behind her. So, the first bite of the bait had been taken. She had seen the fake bankbook. It would soon be time to play in earnest.
♦◊♦
"I don't understand. What was in the notebook?"
"Directions to a place called G.C., and lists—lots of lists of banks, railways, and coaches with prices beside them—huge prices."
"Prices or amounts? Amounts stolen, perhaps?"
"I don't know." Tears welled in her eyes as she felt browbeaten and put upon. "He caught me. He’s really scary when he's angry. I was lucky to get out of there alive."
"Why? What did he do? What did he say?"
She shook her head. "It wasn't what he said, it was how he said it."
Frank McCully sneered, disingenuous about how frightening the man he knew as Mr. Black could be when he put his mind to it. Hardened criminals took pause at one glance, so it didn't take much to scare a simple farm girl.
"You stupid—” He bit back his words, aware he might still need to use her. He strode over to the window and gazed out at the back garden, trying to ignore Mrs. MacPhee’s substantial bloomers fluttering on the line and using the moment to swallow his irritation at the girl. "I'm sorry. You ain't used to this life." He turned and smiled at her. "Only two wanted posters? Quinn and Conroy, lists of what could be holdups, and a map to various places, one called G.C.? You don't remember details?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Hmmmm. He’s got a real interest in Quinn or Conroy. He was probably listing all their jobs. G.C.? Ghost Canyon, maybe? They’re rumored to lie low there, sometimes.” He turned to face her again. "Did you see any other names?"
"No."
He paused, ruminating on her potential usefulness before he spoke again. "Can you bring me the book?"
"No! He’s dangerous. I'm not going near him. If you want that book, do it yourself."
He glowered at her through narrowed eyes, realizing he had to string along an annoying, dim-witted woman even though she had outgrown her usefulness. It would be easy enough to avoid her though, as Mrs. MacPhee was determined to keep rigid social boundaries in place. He smiled. "I don't want to place you in any danger, Meg. Leave this to me."
♦◊♦
"Mr. Black?
" Jake Conroy looked up from his newspaper, into the crystal blue eyes of Frank McCully. "Do you have a moment?"
Jake dropped his paper, leaving it open at the page he had been reading. The newspaper was local, and over a week out of date. McCully pretended not to notice as his eyes flicked back up to meet Jake's.
"I can spare you five minutes. Is it to do with a commission, perhaps?"
McCully sat in the opposite chair. "I couldn't even discuss anythin' like that until I got a better idea about what it is you do, exactly."
"What, then?"
"That publisher fella knew you real well. I can't say I've heard of you, but he knew you."
Jake gave him a wry smile.
"I guess that works both ways, mister. I ain't never heard of you, neither."
McCully tugged at his collar, clearly irritated. "I've worked as a bounty hunter for the last eight years. There ain't nobody who can compare with my record."
"If you say so, sir."
McCully’s color rose. “So? What exactly do you do? What’s he know you for?"
Jake Conroy delivered his best enigmatic smile. "You'd best ask him that, but I’d say it was discretion and success. I don't aim for fame. I get on with my work. The quieter the better in my mind. I’m not interested in his publishing deal."
McCully’s gaze dropped to the newspaper. "That's an old copy. It’s out of date."
"I know. I always like to get up-to-date in a new town."
"You're readin’ about the robbery. The Innocents. Do they interest you?"
Jake folded the newspaper and tilted his head at McCully. "Robberies always interest me. They probably interest you, too."
"Sure do. But why that one in particular?"
"I never said it was that one in particular. If you'd arrived five minutes ago, you'd have seen me read about the town drunk doin' ten days for startin’ a fight with a horse. You think I'd have a specific interest in that?"
"I think you're interested in Quinn and Conroy."
"You're welcome to your opinion, sir, as long as you know that’s all it is."
McCully leaned forward and fixed Jake with determined eyes. "Look, if you're after them, we could be conflictin’ with one another. I’m out for them, too, and we could get in each other’s way."
