Romancing the West (31 page)

Heart pounding, she leaned forward and scanned the crowd for one particular face. If this were one of her stories, the crowd would part and Pinkerton would be standing there in one of his stylish suits, holster slung low on his hip, Stetson set at a rakish tilt. Spurs would jangle as he strode toward her, a smile tugging at his lips.

The only jangling she heard was the harness as the driver snapped the reins. The cab lurched forward.

He didn’t come.
If he really wanted to be here she was certain he’d find a way.

Emily massaged the ache in her chest. She never knew a heart could hurt so badly. Her eyes burned with tears, and that’s when she took a deep breath.
You have to wait to cry, Emily. When you‘re home. Alone. You already know how to do that.

She did know how to be alone. She could do this. She was Emily McBride and no one was going to hurt her or her friends anymore.

Vowing not to lose, she braced herself for a confrontation. “Hang on, Mr. Beeslow.”

When the hansom cab stopped, Emily looked through the window and her heart sank.

Dark. Seedy. Dangerous.

“I can do this.”

During the drive, she started thinking about herself as a heroine in one of her stories, mostly as a way to distract herself from the absence of her hero. A Calamity-Jane-like figure who wouldn’t take guff from no one, no how. Emily had never smoked or chewed, but she tried to imagine the taste of tobacco. Imagined herself leaning forward and spitting a stream of brown juice into the street. It was disgusting and out of character for Emily but not for the woman she needed to be just now. A swaggering, tobacco-chewing, sharp-shooting, tough-as-nails mule skinner. She wished she hadn’t bathed for a week.

She reached under her skirt and withdrew the Derringer. She checked the chamber. It was a single-shot revolver. One bullet. If she followed Pinkerton’s instructions, she’d only need one. Instead of returning it to the holster, she dropped it into her reticule. Closer to her hand should she need to draw.

Steeling her spine, she jumped out of the cab and peered up at the driver. “How much do I owe you?”

“Already been paid, Miss.”

“By who?”

“Your silver-haired friend.”

“Oh. Well, I need you to wait for me.”

He glanced around the undesirable neighborhood. “How long you gonna be?”

She pulled her father’s pocket watch out of her reticule. Almost midnight. Her pulse kicked up, along with a heady dose of adrenaline. “Not long.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

He named a figure.

High, but worth it. “All right.”

When she turned, she noticed the scantily clad women loitering in the doorways, sitting on the front steps, and posing under the street lamps. Painted ladies, she’d heard them called. Calico Queens. Doves. They were everywhere. She tried not to stare. Although she knew they were staring at her, along with a few questionable-looking men.

She ignored the rude comments, the whistles, and walked directly up the steps of the building marked 1182 Market Street. She knocked on the door. No answer. She tried the knob. It turned so she let herself in. She crept down the hall, toward a wash of light coming from an adjacent room. Surely, he must be in there. But the room was deserted, near as she could tell, save for a kerosene lamp sitting on a pickle barrel. She smelled mildew, rotting food and . . . body odor.

“Yer as pretty as he said. ‘Cept for them specs.”

She wanted to turn and run, but she straightened her spine. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded over his middle. His clothes were rumpled and worn. She couldn’t make out his face. Shadows concealed him from the shoulders up. She imagined he was ugly. Really ugly, like his soul.

She swallowed hard. “I assume you’re referring to Mr. Beeslow.” Only Mr. Beeslow had never seen her.

“If you say so.”

“Where is he?”

“Hell if I know.”

She gritted her teeth. “Are you or are you not my
Savior?”

“I’m anyone you want me to be, Sugar Tits.” He lurched forward, grabbed her up in his beefy arms.

“Let me go, you bastard!” The vehemence in her voice surprised her. Yes, she was scared, but more than that she was incensed. Had he lured her here under false pretenses?

Where was Mr. Beeslow?

“Feisty thing, ain’t ya? This’ll be fun.” He pawed her breast, licked her ear.

She froze. Did he plan to rob her of her virginity as he’d robbed her of her savings? The thought sickened her. “Touch me and I’ll kill you.” Only her right arm was pinned. She couldn’t draw her gun.

He laughed and slid his hand up her leg.

She swung out with her free arm and smashed him in the head with her reticule.

He dropped her and staggered back, dazed.

The Derringer. In her reticule. She must’ve clipped him in the temple. She turned to run but he nabbed her wrist, backhanded her across the face and sent her flying. The breath whooshed from her lungs when she slammed against the wall.

Bleary-eyed, she struggled to her feet. That’s when she saw his gun.
Oh, my God.

“I will have you,” he said.

“I’d rather die.” She charged, head-butted him in the stomach and knocked him into the pickle barrel. The kerosene lamp shattered and his shirt caught on fire.

He screamed and flailed, socking her hard in the process.

She saw stars, saw him aim the gun. She heard the shot and blacked out.

They’d ridden hard, and still Seth and Boston arrived in San Francisco two hours after Emily. Two hours too late.

Guilt and anger pummeled Seth. His knees wobbled. He sank down on the mattress next to her, smoothed pale curls from her face. He’d only seen her without her braids one other time, the morning she’d raced into the barn, into his arms. His heart ached as he inspected her injuries. Busted lip, swollen eye, and an angry bruise on her left cheekbone. “Bastard.”

London squeezed his shoulder.

He knew he needed to let her rest, but he didn’t want to leave her. He never wanted to let her out of his sight again. They’d both been living a lie, a hell of an obstacle to hurdle, but she loved him and he loved her. They were friends. Soulmates.
The bond.
He’d make sure they had a happy ending if he had to write it himself.

Seth brushed his lips over her forehead. “I’m here, honey.” He tucked the quilt around her, doused the light then followed the senior Garrett out of the small bedroom into the hall.

They were in a private wing of the Gilded Garrett Opera House. Boston had led him straight here.
“Stop worrying,”
he’d said repeatedly through the trip.
“Rome will protect her. Guaran-damn-teed they‘ll end up at the Gilded!’’

He’d been right about the last part.

London closed the door, leaving it open a crack. “I know she looks bad, but she’ll be fine. The doctor gave her something to help her sleep. That’s why she’s out cold.”

He heard the words, but they didn’t sink in. His ears buzzed with a simmering rage.

“Come on.” London led him into the next room, where they could still hear Emily if she needed them. A study with leather furniture and a mahogany desk. “Sit.”

Seth didn’t want to sit. He wanted to kill the son of a bitch who’d inflicted those injuries. Only, according to London, it had been Rome’s pleasure. Why in the hell hadn’t he shot the man
before
he hurt Em?

The rage burned hotter. He wanted to visit the morgue, wanted to see for himself the bastard was dead. But that would mean leaving Emily.

London poured them both a double. He handed a full glass to Seth. “Sit.”

He sank down into a plush wing chair. Not because London told him to, but because it was wiser than punching a hole through the wall. He’d rather break his knuckles on Rome’s jaw.

Boston joined them, poured his own drink. “Horses are taken care of.” He swigged a shot of whiskey, poured another. “How’s Emily?”

“Still sleeping.” London looked at Seth who was imagining fifty ways to make Rome Garrett cry. “Listen, Wright. I know you’re upset about Emily. Probably blaming yourself. I know you’re blaming Rome. I’m telling you right now you can’t say anything to him that will make him feel worse than he does. We’ve known Emily all her life. She’s family.”

Seth fixed his gaze on a poker near the ornate fireplace.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah.” He drank some whiskey.

“He was shaken when he brought her here. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Rome rattled.”

“That’s a fact.” Boston dropped on the sofa next to his brother.

“I’m confused,” London said, “and I’m counting on you to clear things up, Wright. So drink up and stop fuming about Rome. This isn’t about him or you. It’s about Emily.”

Seth’s first impression when he’d met London Garrett months back was that he was a bossy son of a bitch. Time had not changed that opinion. But he was right. Seth needed to reach past his anger and focus on Em. He took another drink.

“Emily was being blackmailed,” Boston told London. “Did you know that much?”

He fell back against the sofa, surprised as they’d all been. “No.”

“Been going on for a while,” he added then looked at Seth. “Right?”

“A couple of months.”

“What kind of dirt could anyone have on Emily?” London asked.

Boston shrugged. “Beats me.”

They both looked at Seth. “Do you know?”

“I do.”

London waited, sighed. “But you’re not going to tell us.”

“I’m not.” He polished off the drink, welcomed the slow burn of the whiskey and its relaxing effects. “If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”

Boston picked up the tale. “Emily received a letter today, we’re guessing from her blackmailer. She withdrew money from the bank and took off. Rome tracked her. I collected Seth, but we were already behind.”

“I can take it from here,” London said. “Rome had her in his sights for the entire trip. She sat with Claude Bellamont.”

Seth’s head snapped up. “The winemaker?”

“A Heaven local. He’s in San Francisco on business. I have an appointment with him tomorrow.” London sipped his drink. “You have a problem with Claude?”

Seth didn’t mention his role in Preacher McBride’s death. Emily didn’t want people to know about her pa’s drinking problem. No reason they should. “He makes Emily uncomfortable.”

“He asked her to marry him,” Boston said.

London raised a brow.

“Cole Sawyer asked her, too.”

The other brow shot up.

“Athens--”

“Can we get back to what happened to Emily?” Seth snapped, interrupting Boston. He didn’t want to talk about Athens. He didn’t want to think about that damned proposal.

London spit out the rest of Rome’s report right up to where Emily got into the cab and Bellamont went his way. “Rome unloaded his horse from the ferry, was set to trail her when he was detained by the local law. Osprey Smith is investing a fortune to make Rome’s life hell. By the time Rome broke free, Emily had a ten-minute head start.”

“Goddamned corruption.” Rome stalked into the room looking as though he’d been drug backward through the bushes. “I should have been out of that police station an hour ago. It was a clean kill. This is Smith’s damned doing.”

Seth glared at the man.

London glared at Seth. “I should’ve been with him to grease palms. He insisted I stay here to look after Emily.”

The whiskey had numbed his rage just enough that he didn’t come out of the chair swinging. He was weary of this conversation. He wanted to check in on Em. Bottom line: Her
Savior
was dead. He hated that he hadn’t been the one to rid her of the menace, but he hadn’t been there. Rome was. Better she suffer a few bruises, than . . . He didn’t want to imagine worse because he’d witnessed worse.