Romancing the West (23 page)

Meanwhile, he’d spent a sleepless night burning for Emily.

Frustrated, sexually and otherwise, he rose at dawn, washed and dressed. He’d fought an almighty desire to search the barn. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d stashed something in there, something she didn’t want anyone to see. But he had no idea what that something was and he worried she’d catch him in the act. He wanted to hang on to her trust for as long as he could because, for sure and for certain, he could kiss it goodbye when she learned his true identity. An inevitability that turned his gut.

So he resisted the urge to poke around. He saddled Guinevere, vacated the barn with haste, and set off for an early ride. The mare was too docile for his taste, but, damn, it felt good to be back in the saddle. It reminded him of who he was, where he came from, and where he belonged. A hard-riding, hard-living lawman, policing the raw and restless southwest.

He’d been detoured by a bedeviling librarian, but he’d get back to business, and he’d feel better, whole. Just now his mind was scattered to the four winds. He blamed the star-crossed situation, the Garretts. Mostly because it felt good to curse someone other than himself. Then he turned his ire on the weasel winemaker, simply because he didn’t like him.

The storm had long since subsided. The ground was soft, the roads muddy, but the sky was cloudless, and the sun bright. Too early to hit town so he rode for Bellamont Winery. He didn’t venture too close, just rode the perimeter, perused the vineyards and the rambling estate. Noted several Chinese workers. Cheap labor. Not uncommon, but it galled him. A person deserved appropriate pay for his work, no matter his race, gender, or religion. He’d bet his Stetson Emily shared the same view. He couldn’t imagine her living here, couldn’t picture her in Bellamont’s bed.

Or Sawyer’s, or Rome’s, or his goddamned boss’s. Well, he could, but it took its toll on his temper. He was in a hell of a fix.

Jaw set, he swung Guinevere around and spurred her toward Heaven.

Time to speed up this investigation.

Time to rid Emily of her blackmailer and to deliver Athens’s proposal. He had promises to keep, outlaws to wrangle, and a fierce need to distance himself from the woman who’d roped his heart.

Emily woke sprawled on her bed with her journal lying open on her stomach. Her heart pounded and her nightshirt was drenched with sweat. She’d fallen asleep writing about Constance and Antonio. She dreamt about them, too. Only, when they embraced, when he framed her face with his strong but gentle hands, Antonio transformed into Pinkerton. Constance faded away and Emily melted in his arms. The kiss.

She’d dreamt about it over and over.

Her body tingled and ached in intimate, scandalous places. Just as it had when Pinkerton swept his tongue into her mouth and moved his hands over her body. The sensations were intense and exhilarating. She knew there was more to lovemaking. She’d read explicit novels in her attempt to understand physical relations between men and women. If she was going to write about seduction and romance without the benefit of experience, she needed to learn about intimacy
somewhere.
Certainly her parents had never spoken of such things. She knew the words, the motions.

Desire. Lust. Naked flesh. Entwined limbs. Intimate body parts joined in a primal dance. Giving, taking. Harder, faster. A moment when mind and body reach an earth-shuddering climax.

Given last night’s encounter, she was as curious about the earth-shuddering climax as she was about the boner-inducing kiss. Her fondest
desire
was to ask Pinkerton for a demonstration. She was pretty sure what she’d felt for him was
lust.
But asking was impossible. Not because it would be inappropriate, although it would, but because it was Pinkerton. He’d already been so generous. She’d made a mad dash, escaped to her room, before branding herself a selfish, wanton fool. How could she ask him to appease her curiosity, knowing he wasn’t attracted to the female form?

Although he had been aroused. Enormously aroused. She couldn’t make sense of that part. And she’d given it plenty of thought.

Smiling, she stretched and squinted at her bedside clock. Ten o’clock a.m. That couldn’t be right. But then she realized her room was bursting with mid-morning sunlight. She also realized there was no need to squint. She could see fine.

She palmed her face and sure enough, she’d fallen asleep wearing Pinkerton’s spectacles. She fingered the rims and sighed. With or without his eyeglasses he was a striking man. She thought him even more handsome than Rome.

When had
that
happened?

It probably had something to do with his attractive inner qualities, she mused. Kind, generous, courageous. Yes, there were occasional spells when he turned cool and commanding. But mostly he was smart, and funny, and tenderhearted. He was sensitive to her feelings whereas Rome, as Cole had so rudely stated, barely knew she was alive. If the rakish Garrett had the choice between playing poker and reading a book, he’d flip cards, not pages. Pinkerton shared her love of literature. That was a powerful connection.

Uniquely arresting. Inside and out.

His description of her applied to him as well.

Mutual appreciation.

Mutual interests.

The bond.

Similar to what she felt with Paris with one big difference.  She didn’t want to experience an earth shuddering climax with her best friend.

“You’ve got to stop thinking about that kiss, Emily McBride. You have no future with Poet.”

Unless . . .

She bolted upright in bed, her brain sparking with an unconventional idea.

Could she? Would he? It’s not like it hadn’t been done before. She’d overheard Paris’s brothers talking about it. Common in the theater, they’d said.

Pinkerton’s in the theater.

Suddenly, she envisioned a way of being with Pinkerton as well as another way to utilize her talent. A way of cutting loose her
Savior,
Mr. Bellamont, Cole . . . this town. There was hope for her Grand Design. All she had to do was find someone to take in Mrs. Dunlap. Oh, and convince Phineas Pinkerton of the brilliance of her plan.

“No worries,” she told herself as she bounced out of bed. “You can argue a gopher into climbing a tree.” Today they were riding to Napa City in order to visit Zeke Karn’s Jewelry and Optical Shop. She’d have plenty of time to concoct a perfectly-worded, rational proposal. Then all she had to do was spit it out.

Mind churning, she padded to her chamber set, her breath catching when she noticed a letter slipped beneath her door. For a paralyzing second she feared it was from her blackmailer, but then she saw the handwritten script. Lovely penmanship for a man. Foolishly, she hoped for a poem. Instead it was a short note advising her that he’d ridden into town to handle errands.

I’ll alert Mrs. Frisbie of your dilemma and will return shortly to escort you to Napa City. I hope life experience inspired passionate prose and that you slept peacefully. Eat breakfast.

Yours, P

His direct note charmed her as surely as a flowery poem. Perhaps he was incapable of loving her as a man loved a woman, but he cared for her all the same.

For what she had in mind, that was more than enough.

His first stop had been the mercantile, but he’d peered through the window and noticed a gaggle of ladies stocking up on their weekly wares and decided to drop back later. He wanted private time with Ezekiel Thompson, so he continued on to the livery.

Given the state of the roads, it would take considerably longer to journey by buggy to Napa City. The less time spent alone with Emily, the better. Physical distance was preferable as well. Riding horseback would be quicker, not to mention easier on John Thomas, who, along with Seth, was almighty fond of the pretty lady.

He introduced himself as Phineas Pinkerton to the liveryman who said, “Ah, the poet,” and then tried to sell him a sway-backed mare. Seth opted for a spirited gelding, a Palomino by the name of Streak. He purchased suitable tack and said he’d return within the hour.

After that, he visited the telegraph office and wired Phoenix, attention: Fox

MISSION IN PROGRESS. S.W.

He figured that about summed it up. Parker collected all correspondence for Mr. Fox, a
client
of the law offices of Athens Garrett. At least his boss would know he was in place and working on the
venture of national importance.

He sent similar updates to Paris and Josh, though separately.

Next, Seth swung by the library to let Mrs. Frisbie know her assistant would not be reporting to work due to compromised vision. Turns out she’d heard about the fainting spell. She’d also heard that he was escorting Emily to the Blossom Dance, and he’d said, “News travels fast.” Then she sang Emily’s praises, which made him think she’d spoken to Mrs. Dunlap and agreed, for whatever odd reason, that a Nancy boy poet made a good match for a good-girl librarian. God help him. Although he did garner some interesting background on Em. Like the fact she didn’t charge Mrs. Dunlap rent, although they did barter her knitted goods for food supplies at the mercantile. Apparently the widow’s afghans sold fairly well.

Thirty minutes later, he hit the mercantile. Mrs. Thompson was in deep discussion with a woman over a bolt of fabric and a basket of trimmings. Other than that, the store was empty except for Mr. Thompson who had his nose in a newspaper.

“Just the man I wanted to see. Good morning to you, sir.”

Thompson looked up and greeted Seth with a face-splitting smile. “How can I help you, Mr. Pinkerton?”

Seth hitched back his frock coat, stuffed his hands in his pockets. Deep pockets, by Thompson’s way of thinking. Hence, the overly-friendly grin. “Let’s begin with writing paper.”

The request wouldn’t strike the store owner as strange seeing the man asking was a poet. He wouldn’t know that Seth was trying to locate the kind of paper used by Emily’s blackmailer. The letter had been mailed from San Francisco. Didn’t mean it had been written there. Seth’s gut said he was looking for a local.

“I’ve got patriotic stationary and some fine writing paper with various figureheads and symbols. Couple of different shades. Blue, cream, white.”

“No ordinary writing paper?”

He shook his head. “Plumb out. Reordered last week.”

Huh. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, he decided on several sheets of the fine writing paper, cream-colored and embossed with a leaf in the upper left hand corner.

“Quills? Ink? Pencils?” Thompson asked eagerly.

“Typewriter?”

“Not too much call for those new-fangled contraptions. Too pricey to stock. I could order you one!”

“Won’t be here that long.” Remembering Emily favored pencils over quill pens, he asked for a half dozen. While the man gathered the merchandise, Seth inquired about today’s news.

Thompson rattled off a few highlights, ending with, “Nothing near as interesting as yesterday’s scandal.”

“You mean the Garrett brothers.”

“The whole town’s talking. Not that we’re surprised. Rome always was a ladies’ man. Still, you’d think he’d know better. Athens, that’s one of his older brothers, being a politician and all.”

“Hard to believe,” Seth said.

“Believe it.” Thompson slapped yesterday’s paper on the counter, pointed. “Right there. Read it for yourself.”

Since he was without his spectacles, Seth had to squint and adjust the distance, but at last the words came into focus enough to read. Unbelievable. The stupid ass skirt-chaser had seduced a state senator’s wife. I. M. Wilde had tipped off anyone who had coin and the ability to read. Did Wilde have a death wish? Osprey Smith would kill his career (if not the man) as surely as he’d crippled the Garretts’. For that matter the dime novelist should be watching over his shoulder for Rome. Guaran-damn-teed he was mad as a peeled rattler.

“Carrying on with another man’s woman.” The mercantile owner shook his head. “Just ain’t right.”

Seth pressed two fingers to his temples, massaged.

“Head paining you, Mr. Pinkerton? Medical peddler came through a few weeks ago. Bought a few bottles of Dr. Daylight’s Healing Bitters. Doc Kellogg don’t approve, but the ladies swear by it.”