The Fall of Rome (3 page)

London rocked back on his boot heels, preparing to deliver the humbling blow. “Think of it as redemption.” Rome narrowed his eyes. “What do I have to do?” “Reunite with Katrina Simmons.”

Time crawled as Rome processed London’s stipulation. His breathing slowed. His pulse ceased. A thousand images of Kat in action--at the tables, on horseback, in his arms, in another man’s bed--exploded in his mind. Vivid, bittersweet shards that cut deep. His entire body ached. “What the hell for?”

“For the good of mankind.”

“You’re joshing me.”

London arched a brow.

“Well, hell.” Curiosity demanded details. “Define
reunite
.”

“To resume your relationship. At the tables and behind closed doors. Strictly for show. Just long enough to lure a snake out of the grass.”

Adrenaline jolted his seized vitals. “Deal.”

“Simple as that?”

“Like I’m going to turn my back on mankind,” Rome drawled, tongue in cheek. Not to mention the opportunity to exorcise Kat from his being. He’d reached a turning point in his life, and he couldn’t move forward in any direction until he’d dealt with the past. Man to she-devil.

But concerns still tumbled through his whiskey-addled mind. “Last I heard, Kat married a city slicker and settled back east.”

“You heard wrong.”

“About the marrying or settling part?”

“Both.”

“Huh.” He gripped the bars, steadying himself as the news rooted. He hated that she could shake his world after all this time. “How do you fit into this? Personal vendetta?”

“In a way.”

“Not like you to be so cryptic. It’s irritating.”

“My heart bleeds.”

Rome fought to wrangle his stampeding emotions. Facing the man he looked up to from the wrong side of justice was near as vexing as learning Kat was still free and this side of the Mississippi. “Why Kat? You used to complain she was a troublemaker back when she gambled at the Gilded Garrett.”

“She was.”

“What, then? You want her to breathe life into that new saloon of yours?” London had sold a thriving opera house and moved from San Francisco to Phoenix in order to be closer to their sister as well as Athens and his two kids. The saloon he’d purchased--Last Chance--was small and rustic and boring as a church social compared to the Gilded Garrett. Before the man could answer his first question, Rome asked another. “Who’s the snake?”

London tossed a meaningful glance toward the outer office. “What I’ve got to say needs saying in private.”

The implied secrecy pumped Rome’s adrenaline. Questions burned, but he doused them while London called for the assistant marshal to unlock the cell. Once they entered main office, however, one question slipped free. “What are you doing here?”

He hadn’t expected to find Seth Wright conversing with Burke. London hadn’t mentioned the pain-in-the-ass lawman coming along, and Rome wasn’t pleased. Though they acted on the same side of the law, they’d knocked heads more than once. He expected a spark of disapproval when he met the lawman’s gaze, and that’s exactly what he got.

“You’re in my custody now.” Seth barely spared him a glance before touching the brim of his hat, bidding the marshal farewell. He scooped up Rome’s holster and made tracks. “Let’s go.”

“You telling me I’m still under arrest,” Rome grit out as they hit the boardwalk.

“Protective custody.” Seth looped the holster over the horn of his saddle, then untied his bay from the hitching post and mounted.

Saddled and waiting, Rome’s horse pawed at the dirt, anxious to get going. Rome commiserated. He mounted the spirited mustang, London swung on his sorrel, and the three men rode for the outskirts of Gila Gulch.

“How’s Emily?” Rome asked while keeping his eyes peeled for a vengeful rancher.

“She’s visiting with your sister for the next couple of weeks,” Seth said.

“Then she’s on top of the world,” Rome said. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I pity Josh.” Paris and Emily were a heap of trouble, doubly so when together.

“Figure it will toughen him up for when the baby comes along,” Seth said with a wicked grin. “Any offspring of Paris’s is bound to be an ornery cuss.”

London grunted, but they all knew Seth spoke the gospel.

Done with pleasantries, Rome fell silent, though his mind jawed plenty. He tugged down his hat, shielding his eyes from the sun as he scanned the desert landscape. A variety of prickly cacti and random mesquite, but not a man--present company excluded--in sight. “What exactly are you protecting me
from?
I don’t see hide nor hair of Gaffey and his lynch mob.”

“That’s because we stopped by his ranch on our way to town,” London said. “Had a talk.”

“Real polite,” Seth added. “Over Arbuckles.”

“I can fight my own battles,” Rome said.

“Save your energy, Golden Boy. You’re going to need it.” He tossed Rome his holster and gun, implying he had worries other than the big bug rancher.

He reined Stargazer to a standstill and buckled his hardware around his waist.

London and Seth reined in on either side.

He glanced at his brother. “This thing that needs saying, I’m guessing Seth already knows.”

“He does.”

“Then let’s hear it.” He indicated the wide open desert. “Don’t get more private than this.”

London kneed his muscled sorrel closer, as if the cacti had ears. “Athens is heading a low-profile crime-fighting agency funded by the government.”

“Come again?”

“Shocking, but true,” Seth said.

Rome focused on London. “You’re telling me our tolerant, diplomatic, nonviolent saint-of-a brother is in charge of an elite government agency?”

“The Peacemakers Alliance.”

“PMA’s mandate is to investigate hard-to-solve cases. To tame the West,” Seth put in. “Personally assigned by President Hayes, Athens is the brains behind the outfit. The coordinator and strategist.”

“Granted, he’s as smart as they come,” Rome said, swatting a fly from Stargazer’s ear. “But that’s book sense, not trail sense. Athens knows diddly about tracking and apprehending outlaws.”

“That’s why he’s surrounded himself with the best of the best,” London said. “Trusted advisors, a personal assistant, and a team of field agents. Former Rangers and lawmen with a flair for espionage. Men who don’t think twice about bending the rules to dispense justice.”

“Playing loose with the law, huh?” Rome slid a glance at Seth. “Not your style.”

“It was for a spell. Fed up with the judicial system, I signed on. Then I met Emily.” He smiled, the same stupid grin Josh wore when he talked about Paris. “Realized I can make a difference while sticking to my own moral guns. That means maintaining order on the local level, within the written law.” Knowing Seth detested murderers and thieves same as him, Rome raised a brow. “But you’re still backing PMA.” The man nodded. “Serving as an advisor. Josh, too.”

“And you?” Rome asked London.

“The Last Chance is a front for PMA headquarters.”

“So Athens brought you into this, too.”

“My reputation as an upstanding businessman puts me in the unique position of obtaining valuable information and making arrangements on the sly.”

“You’re working undercover?”

“As the need arises,” London said.

“If that don’t beat all.” Rome sleeved sweat from his brow. What else had happened while he’d been getting his ass kicked due to the Smith affair? “How long has PMA been up and running?”

“Nearly two months,” Seth said.

“Yet this is the first I’m hearing about it.”

“It’s a semi-covert operation,” London said.

“I can’t be trusted with sensitive information?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Comes natural,” Seth teased.

“Go to hell,” Rome said, his mood worsening as he absorbed the revelation.

“Athens recognizes you and Boston as top-notch detectives,” London said. “But when he organized the team, you were high profile. First the dime novels. Then the scandal.”

“Noted. And now we’re undesirable due to our current reputations for drinking, brawling, and gambling.”

“Actually,” Seth said, resting his forearm on the pommel,” the lower you sink, the more valuable you become.”

“In this case, anyway,” London clarified. “Athens enlisted Boston and rode south to lay the groundwork. He wants you to tempt the devil out of hell.”

“Using Miss Simmons as bait,” Seth added.

Rome’s mind doubled back, then raced ahead. “You want us to lure a snake out of the grass by pretending to be a couple.” His gut twisted with deep-rooted jealousy.
The betrayal
. “Considering our short, but colorful history, only one man would care.”

The Rincon Mountains

Bulls-Eye Brady paused mid-shuffle. Irritated, he glanced from the deck of cards to the newest member of the gang. “Sit down, Cody. You’re getting on my nerves pacing like that.”

“Can’t help it,” he said, spurs jangling. “Feel like a caged animal.”

Brady’s hand fell to his six-shooter. “Want me to put you out of your misery?”

The man stilled at the sound of a hammer cocking. He dropped into a vacant chair, a good distance from where Amos and Mule, two of the gang’s original members, sat playing five-card draw with their boss.

Expressionless, the gambler-turned-outlaw holstered his piece. If he was going to kill Cody, he would’ve done it directly after the Southern Pacific debacle. He’d had good cause. But the gang was comprised of seven. There had to be seven. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t or wouldn’t inflict some pain, and Cody knew it.

Brady shuffled and dealt, ignoring the ache in his wounded shoulder, enjoying the boost to his wounded pride. John P. Cody was a gunslinger, mean enough to reserve a seat in hell. Knowing he could manipulate the rowdy soothed his smarting ego. No one crossed him without suffering the consequences.

Not even a woman.

The recent train heist had been his first qualified disaster. He studied his cards--most notably the pair of queens, which caused him to fixate on two dark-haired bitches. One had dared to slap him. He’d struck back, a natural response. There’d been a river of blood and an unexpected uprising from a male passenger. Pulling a concealed weapon, the fresh-faced kid got off one shot before Brady cut him down. Stupid bastard was dead now, same as the feisty whore. Didn’t trouble his conscience none, but it did rile his temper. Killing a man was one thing. But a woman?

The law would pursue him twice as hard.

He blamed the other gal, the skinny one who’d refused to give over her damned necklace. What nettled more was the fact that Cody had hustled him out of the chaos before he’d had a chance to snatch the locket from her birdlike neck. Wasn’t the necklace that rankled as much as her defiance and the fact she’d complicated his life.

It agitated an ancient gripe, festered as they escaped the ragtag posse and took refuge in the mountains. So much so, he’d sent Boyd and Itchy back to Yuma, the train’s final destination. If she thought she’d escaped him, she was dead wrong. Unlike the rest of his boys, Boyd and Itchy were weasel smart. They’d circulate in Yuma with relative ease, ask the right questions. Either they’d return as instructed with that necklace or news of the woman’s whereabouts. He knew the gang expected to ride for Mexico, but he wasn’t going anywhere until he got even. Unlike the charismatic cardsharp who’d once roped and hog-tied his heart, this wisp of a woman would bend to his will.

“A week,” Cody complained. “We’ve been here a damned week?

Mule took his time contemplating his hand. “What’s yer hurry?”

“If we would’ve kept ridin’, we’d be across the border by now, drinkin’ tequila and sparking senoritas. Instead, I’m starin’ at your ugly puss, drinkin’ tonsil varnish.” He snapped his fingers at Amos.

The seasoned outlaw tossed him the corked bottle of whiskey, then signaled Brady for three cards. “For a cooped- up cuss, his jaw’s gettin’ exercised plenty.”

“Reminds me of someone else,” Mule said. “Least Elroy wasn’t bossy.”

Brady had to agree. His cousin had more wind than a horse with colic, but he’d followed instruction without complaint. If he hadn’t crossed the gang by inadvertently flapping his gums to the wrong people, he’d be sitting here instead of Cody, and Brady would have that necklace in pocket. Back on the train, Elroy would’ve given him free rein instead of taking charge, no matter the risk.

The four men rose, guns in hand, at the sound of two short and one long bird caw. A warning from their lookout--the cantankerous hermit who owned this secluded shack. Brady had bought his hospitality and silence before. It helped that the crotchety coot held a grudge against the law. His signal was clear. Visitors. Three seconds later, Snapper burst in, filling the decrepit cabin with nervous energy and a dose of afternoon sun.

“Posse?” Brady asked.

“Boyd and Itchy,” he countered. “But they ain’t alone.”

He peered past Snapper through the open door, saw his men riding up, noted the trail-weary cowboy lagging behind, his horse lathered and winded. The man raised a hand in greeting, his index finger a knuckle shorter than the rest. “I’ll be damned.”

“If that don’t beat all,” said Amos.

Mule spit. “What’s he doin’ here?”

Bulls-Eye wondered the same. He sidestepped Snapper and moved outside, intent on knowing what had caused his cousin to defy him. Elroy was a lot of things. Stupid wasn’t one of them.

Boyd and Itchy dismounted first.

“We rode up on him as he was ridin’ through the hidden pass. Couldn’t talk him into vamoosing,” Boyd said. “Woulda plugged him, but he’s your kin and . . .”

“What?”

“You’ll wanna hear what he has to say, boss,” said Itchy. Curiosity piqued, Brady noted his cousin, who, so far, had had the good sense to sit quiet. “What about you?” he asked of the men he’d sent off to Yuma. “What’s the news?”

“Name’s Tori Adams,” Boyd said. “She’s an entertainer. A lawman’s escorting her to Phoenix.”

“Specifically, and you ain’t gonna believe this,” Itchy said, “to London Garrett. Guess she’s gonna perform in that new saloon of his.”