Romancing the West (19 page)

“Last evening in the mercantile. I heard.”

Of course.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

She quirked a nervous smile. “Perfectly fine.”

“I also heard you took on a male boarder.”

“Phineas Pinkerton.”

“People are talking.”

“They always do.”

“Your father--”

“--wouldn’t have approved. I know.” She thought about the fateful night that had allied her and Mr. Bellamont. Standing over her father’s body, he’d described the circumstances of the preacher’s death and why they should twist the truth. She felt ill. “In all honesty, my head aches something fierce, sir. Forgive me, but I’m not up to company just now.” What was one more lie on her list of many?

He stroked his moustache, nodded. “I’ll make this quick. I understand Cole Sawyer invited you to the Blossom Dance.”

“Yes.”

“You turned him down.”

“I’m not comfortable with socials.” Or with Cole Sawyer.

“I understand, child. But I feel you should make the effort. There’s talk as to your . . .” His eyes flitted over her attire. “. . . state of mind. Allow me to escort you to the dance. Drink, eat, and make merry. Prove to the town you’re just like any one of them.”

She looked away, over his shoulder toward turbulent skies. “But I’m not.”

“Indeed,
mademoiselle.
You are quite special.” He stepped forward causing her to step back. “I’ve never seen you without your eyeglasses, Emily.” He surprised her by skimming his fingers along her jaw.
“Vous êtes charmante”

She jerked back and smacked into something solid.

Mr. Pinkerton.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” He casually finessed Emily to his side. It reminded her of the first day they met, when he’d shielded her from Cole. Ever polite, he extended a hand to Mr. Bellamont. “Phineas Pinkerton, poet.”

“Claude Bellamont, winemaker.” The older man smiled easily, though his eyes lacked warmth. “I’m an avid reader, though I can’t say I’m a fan of poetry.”

“I prefer whiskey to wine.”

“To each his own,” Bellamont said.
People are talking.

“Indeed. Although to enjoy life to its fullest one should sample all life has to offer,” Pinkerton said. “Do you not agree?”

Emily blinked up at him. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that he adopted a more formal manner of speech when in the company of others. Was it deliberate? Unconscious? His duality fascinated her. She realized in that instant she knew next to nothing about Phineas Pinkerton. Maybe they’d bonded because they were, in truth, very much the same. Perhaps he too lived a double life.

Bellamont ignored the question and focused on Emily. “About the dance--”

“How awkward,” Pinkerton said, placing a hand over his heart. “Miss McBride has already accepted my invitation to the Blossom Dance.”

“But--”

“I confess, I pressured her. I do so love a gay affair.”

“I couldn’t let him attend alone,” Emily said, snagging the lifeline he’d just thrown. “He’s a guest. A friend of the family.”

“Gracious! Where does the time go?” Mrs. Dunlap rushed down the hall, securing a straw bonnet on her head. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She glanced at a confused Emily while wiggling her fingers into a pair of gloves. “Yesterday, Mr. Bellamont kindly agreed to escort me into town this morning. Don’t tell me I forgot to mention it?”

The look on the winemaker’s face indicated this was news to him, though he was quick to recover. He inclined his head, repositioned his bowler. “I am happy to be of service.”

A crack of thunder prompted the woman into action. She looped her arm through his and ushered him outdoors, preventing lengthy farewells. “We best hurry if we’re to beat the worst of it,” she said, gesturing to the ominous clouds. She glanced over her shoulder at Emily. “Breakfast is on the table, dear. Toodles.”

Emily stood dumfounded as she watched her neighbor help her boarder into his fancy surrey. “Is she imagining things now as well as forgetting? I think she took Mr. Bellamont unaware.”

“I think she knew exactly what she was doing.”

Emily turned and faced Pinkerton, her breath catching when she noted the hard glint in his eyes. Once again he’d transformed from delicate poet to dangerous warrior. “And what do you think she was doing?”

He closed the door, shutting out the blustery winds and the rest of the world. “Affording us time alone.”

If Seth had to guess, he’d say Mrs. Dunlap acted on a spontaneous urge to play matchmaker. Or maybe she had it planned. She’d questioned him about his marital status and had bragged about Emily’s numerous glowing qualities over the past two days. She had her forgetful moments, but the rest of the time she was pretty sharp. She probably hoped her absence would inspire a little chaste romance.

Seth was too fired-up about what he’d just witnessed to indulge in handholding and sweet talk. He could tell by the wary look in Emily’s eyes she sensed his agitation, so he came right out with it. “Bellamont makes you nervous.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does. Why?” Seth’s thread-thin patience snapped the moment the weasel winemaker touched her. Even from a distance, he’d seen lust in the smooth-talking devil’s eyes. Maybe she didn’t recognize it for what it was, but she sure as hell didn’t welcome his familiarity. Neither did Seth. He couldn’t give in to his feelings for Emily but, by God, he didn’t have to stand by while other men, namely Bellamont, Sawyer, and her Savior, tried to have their way with her.

“Our breakfast is getting cold.”

“You don’t have an appetite. Especially after that exercise in forced cordiality. You know it and I know it.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I think I do. I think your discomfort has something to do with those wine bottles you used as targets.”

She paled and he knew he was dead on. She tried to sidestep him but he blocked her way, trapping her between his body and the front door. Frustration flashed in her eyes. “Would you please move?”

“Not until you answer my question.”

“You promised you wouldn’t pry.”

“I didn’t promise anything.”

“You agreed--”

“That was pertaining to your blackmailer. Is Bellamont
Your Savior?”

“Don’t be silly. He’s a wealthy man. He doesn’t need my money. Besides, if I
knew
the identity of my Savior, I’d . . .”

“What?”

“I’d . . . confront him.”

It was all he could do not to shake sense into her. “Then what? He’s a criminal, Emily. A man with little to no conscience.”

“You agreed not to press me on the subject of--”

“Your Savior.
Who you’re certain is not Bellamont. So, let’s talk about him.”

Eyes bright, she balled her fists at her sides. He couldn’t tell if she was going to burst into tears or throw a punch. She could do both for all he cared. He wanted some damned answers, and he’d play dirty to get them.

“Why are you so persistent?” she asked in a choked voice.

“Because I care.” He jammed a hand through his hair to keep from touching her. If he touched her, he’d pull her into his arms. Comfort would lead to a kiss. It sure as hell wouldn’t be chaste. “Friends confide in one another. Help one another. You said you and Paris have no secrets. That you share a special bond. You said you feel a similar bond with me.”

Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I do.”

If he pressed, she’d crack. He pressed. “Why does Bellamont make you nervous?”

“Because he knows something ugly about me, about my father!” she blurted. “Now please let me pass!”

She shoved at his shoulder and, though he easily could have held his ground, he moved.

She stalked past him, clenching and unclenching her fists, muttering to herself.

He followed her into the kitchen, his mind sifting through bits of information. His bad temper simmered toward boil when he saw her scoop her plate off the table and toss the food out the back door.
Hold it in, Wright. Let loose and your cover’s blown. Channel Pinkerton. The gentle soul. The intuitive detective.

“Those bottles carried the Bellamont Winery seal,” he said evenly, as she discarded her plate in the sink. “By your admission, your father and the winemaker were good friends. Did your father have a fondness for liquor? Did he drink with Bellamont? Drink to excess? Did he do something inappropriate while under the influence? Is Bellamont holding that over your head, threatening to ruin your father’s good name unless you . . . what? Marry him? Sell him your land?”

“Stop.” She gripped the counter for support. Her body trembled, and he knew she’d cracked. He braced himself for a tearful, incoherent rant, but when she turned to face him her eyes were dry, her color heightened by anger.

“Paris was right,” she said, her voice steady and tinged with resentment. “You’re intuitive and clever. You have observed and deduced and mostly you are correct, Mr. Pinkerton. My father appreciated fine wine. Yes, he partook in a glass now and then with his friend, Mr. Bellamont. But it was not until after my mother died that he drank to excess.

“Yes, he did something wrong. He gave up on the living. He drowned his sorrows in alcohol. He passed out at night. Woke up with hangovers. He forgot to write sermons, so I wrote them for him. He slept through appointments, so I showed up in his stead and made his excuses. Only I was always nervous and I babbled, and when the person eventually questioned my father, he’d rattle off his own explanation and chalk up my ramblings to my overactive imagination.

“Yes, Mr. Bellamont enabled him by supplying wine, but only after my father threatened to purchase his drinks at Percy’s Poker Palace if his friend cut him off. Mr. Bellamont may have been wrong to feed my father’s thirst for numbness, but his heart was in the right place. He was trying to keep Preacher Walt McBride from making a public spectacle of himself. Trying to keep his sickness a secret, as was I.
“Walt will come around”
he kept telling me.
“Just give him time!”
Only time ran out.

“Mr. Bellamont found my father dead in his wine cellar. He snuck in and drank himself to death. Actually, he tripped and hit his head, but he did so because he was falling down drunk, so it’s all the same.” At last her voice wobbled. “Mr. Bellamont didn’t tell anyone. Not even his sons. Only me. He said we needed to alert Sheriff McDonald, but in order to avoid a scandal we should leave out the part about him being intoxicated. He said he’d fault a loose stair. He told me he’d take care of it. Told me to put it out of my head. So I did.”

She looked Seth dead in the eye and he felt his heart break. “I couldn’t handle it, Poet. So I put it out of my mind. Only every time I see Mr. Bellamont, it all rushes back. The guilt. The shame. Mr. Bellamont didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just that he knows my darkest secret. And now so do you.”

Thunder boomed and the heavens opened. Rain pelted the kitchen window as Emily hastened to leave the room. “Happy now?”

He sank into a chair as she disappeared into the hall. “Delirious.”

Territory of Arizona

Athens wondered if she’d want a fancy wedding. Emily wasn’t materialistic or pretentious, but she was a woman and this
was
her first marriage. She’d want a traditional ceremony, a special dress, flowers, and music at the very least. He could envision his sister and her friend pouring over a mail order catalogue, eyes and voices bright as they considered china and flatware for Emily’s new home.

Athens could easily imagine her sitting around the dining room table, enjoying a meal and conversation with him and the children. What he couldn’t imagine was Emily in his bed. Partly because he’d never considered her in a sexual way. Mostly because his heart and mind were full of Kaila Dillingham.

He had no business lusting after the sensual foreigner. He’d penned a proposal of marriage to a demure librarian--a respectable choice for a government official. A sensible choice for his children. Zach and Zoe knew and trusted Emily. They loved her. His children’s comfort and happiness took precedence over his physical needs and desires.