An Unlikely Lady (27 page)

The memory made him smile.

Though Jesse would have liked nothing better than to spend the day in bed with her, they did have things to do. “Come on, lazy, we'd better get up.”

“Do we have to?”

“We do if you want to see those horses.”

Her eyes snapped open. “I'd forgotten all about them.”

“Well, I didn't,” he said, dragging himself to the edge of the bed. “I'm a man of my word.” He reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet.

Then the morning exploded.

Jesse threw himself down over Honesty as the window shattered behind them, showering glass over his back and across the bed. Three more shots followed.

Shouts in the street alerted him that the shooting was over. For now.

He lifted his weight from Honesty and helped her sit up. “Are you all right?”

She clutched the blanket to her breast and nodded. “I think so.” Brown eyes examined him with worry. “You?”

“Not a scratch,” he assured her, touched by her concern. It had been too long since he'd had anyone worry over him.

“Were those shots meant for us?”

“I don't think so; the others came from further away.” Nonetheless, it served a sharp reminder of the dangers that had been chasing him the last dozen years. “Come on. Let's get our stuff together and get out of here.”

“Why don't you go saddle the horses? I'll get our stuff together.”

“Are you sure?” He didn't like the thought of leaving her alone in the room.

“I'm sure. I'll meet you in the lobby.”

It
would
be faster that way.

After throwing on his clothes, he left Honesty to rummage through the debris for their belongings. The instant the door shut behind him, Honesty's knees gave out. She stumbled to the corner of the bed. Her chest hurt, her eyes burned, and her lungs didn't seem capable of taking in air.

The last few minutes replayed themselves over and over again. The gunshot, the shatter of glass, Jesse's body covering hers . . .

Oh, God. Honesty brought her knees to her
chest and rocked back and forth. Jesse could have been killed, and it would have been her fault.

Maybe that bullet had been a stray shot, but what about the next one?

The bliss she'd felt barely an hour ago withered like an autumn leaf. She could not do this anymore. She had to tell Jesse the truth of her relationship to Deuce McGuire, of his death, and of the danger he might be in just by being in her company. She still didn't know what he wanted with her father, or what he would do when he learned who she was, but he had a right to know of the danger so he could be prepared. He'd be angry that she'd kept her identity from him all this time, and might never forgive her. But wasn't that better than seeing him dead?

With a sense of resignation Honesty wiped her eyes, pushed herself off the bed, and gathered her clothes.

No sooner had she gotten dressed than a knock sounded at the door. The porter from downstairs said, “A message for Mr. Jones.”

She opened the door. “Thank you. I'll take it.”

“I was instructed to give this only to the gentleman.”

“I'm the gentleman's wife,” she said. “I'll see that he gets it.”

Plucking the folded paper from the porter's hand, Honesty then shut the door. Who would be sending Jesse a telegram? She turned the message over in her hand. No one knew they were coming to Sage Flat.

She split the seal with her fingernail and scanned the typewritten note. The letters blurred together in a senseless pattern, and Honesty almost folded the paper.

Then one word jumped out at her.

McGuire.

Voices outside penetrated the fog creeping through Honesty's mind. She whipped open the door, startling the elderly couple entering the room across the hall.

“Excuse me, sir, I wonder if you can do me a favor.” With a smile that Deuce once told her could rival the stars, she handed the silver-haired gentleman the telegram. “I just received this message, but I'm afraid I've misplaced my glasses and can't read a word of it. Would you mind?”

“Certainly.” The man cleared his throat and read.

“Does it say who it's from?”

“I'm afraid not.”

After thanking the man, Honesty returned to her room and drew the message through her fingers, sharpening the crease. It was a damning message, one that connected Honesty with two of the names her father had used. It wouldn't take Jesse long to put the rest together. She'd planned on telling him anyway, so that wasn't what disturbed her. But why would Jesse be getting a message like that? Who would have sent it? What business did he have with Deuce?

She and Deuce had spent some time in Sweetwater; that was one of the stars on her map. She couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve at the time, and they'd had to leave when those dreaded detectives had started snoop—

Honesty's hands stilled. Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

No . . .

She hastened to the bed and dumped out the contents of Jesse's saddlebags. She didn't know what she was looking for; something to tell her that her suspicions were unfounded. Some clue to his identity . . .

Her hand brushed the tinderbox and froze.

The catch sticks sometimes.

Her heart pounded erratically as she picked up the box and turned it over. Engraved at the
bottom was the shape of an open eye, and in the center, the initials J J R.

A memory flickered at the back of her mind, a handbill pinned to the wall of a Denver store, with the picture of an open alert eye.

“It's their motto, lass,” her father had once told her. “‘Pinkerton Detective Agency; we never sleep.'”

They never gave up, either. They pursued relentlessly and mercilessly, changing character and appearance as often as most people changed their clothes.

And she knew then why Jesse seemed so mysterious. He wasn't an innocent drifter-for-hire. He wasn't an unpredictable outlaw. He was so much worse. He was a detective. A
Pinkerton
detective, the best of the buch.

And heaven help her, she'd fallen in love with him.

J
esse saddled the horses with swift efficiency, anxious to get the hell out of town. His mind kept clicking back to the night before, when Honesty claimed to have seen Roscoe Treat. He hadn't believed her then, but what if she had been telling the truth? What if the brothers had somehow discovered where he and Honesty were staying?

It had happened before. Marks he'd been trailing would catch wind that he'd looked at a woman with interest, and the next thing he knew, she'd be threatened, or her family would be threatened, her house ransacked or her pet killed mysteriously. A man in his line of work couldn't form attachments, because it put the innocent at risk.

It was one of the reasons he'd encouraged his mother to move to Montana, so she would be safe from the consequences of his profession.

But what was he going to with Honesty? Turning her away would now reduce her again to the kind of life she'd led before.

He'd married her, and made her his wife in every sense of the word. She was his responsibility now, and it was his duty to keep her safe. He couldn't leave her here, or anywhere else. The risk was too great; by not believing her, he could very well have put her in danger. So his only choice was to keep her.

And if he did that, he had to tell her who he was.

Did he risk it? Would she expose him, too?

Maybe it was time to have a little faith in her. As Annie had pointed out, she wasn't Miranda and he had to stop making that comparison. If he trusted her a little, maybe she would learn to trust him back.

He returned to the hotel. Honesty wasn't in the lobby. Figuring she was still trying to get their things together, he took the stairs two at a time and entered the room. “Honesty, the horses are—”

He came to a sudden halt inside the doorway.

No. She
wouldn't
have done this to him again. Not after the night they'd spent together.

Spying the contents of his saddlebags spread
across the bed, he felt a sense of doom creep through his chest. Jesse's hand met the butt of his revolver. “Honesty?” Weapon drawn, he searched the room. The window was shut, the wardrobe open, and glass still littered the floor and bed.

But no Honesty.

Had Treat seen her last night? Followed her here? Taken her again?

Fearing the worst, Jesse started shoving his clothes into his saddlebags and flipped it over his shoulder, only to be yanked back by the bed's blanket, trailing from one pouch. Cursing, he tugged at it and flipped the rumpled blanket onto the bed—and saw that spots of blood stained the white sheet. At first he wondered if Honesty had been cut by the glass, despite her denial. In the excitement, he hadn't examined her closely.

If she'd been cut, though, how had the blood gotten beneath the blanket? He took a closer look at the sheets. It wasn't fresh, which meant it must have gotten there last night. Had she been having her menses? No, he'd have known.

The only other way it could have gotten there . . .

No.

It was too absurd to consider. She couldn't have been a virgin. He'd seen her taking men upstairs. Hell, he'd been one of them.

Or had he?

That night
was
a blank in his memory. All he had was Honesty's word that they'd spent the night together.

Honesty's
word.

Feeling as if the breath were being crushed from his lungs, Jesse examined every relevant moment from the night before.

She'd been so tight. She'd seemed unsure, even awkward at times. Then there had been that split second when he'd pushed against a resistance and her whole body had stiffened. He'd never been with a virgin before; there was no bigger trouble for a bachelor than an unsullied woman. But he'd heard stories from men who liked to boast . . .

Oh, God.

As senseless as it sounded, it all added up. The saloon strumpet he'd paid to bed, then been forced to marry, had been a virgin.

What the
hell
kind of game was she playing?

The winds blew a lonely wail across the plains as Honesty rode south toward the Palo Duro, the emptiness in her heart as vast as the plains surrounding her. Her eyes were dry and gritty from sand, and she wore a scarf over her nose and mouth to keep out the dust. Her heart felt cold and brittle.

Why hadn't she listened to her instincts the
very first time she'd seen Jesse? She'd known he was either evading someone or searching for someone, and that inkling had been clinched the night she'd overheard him talking with the Treat brothers. She was better off without him.

She would do this. She would survive. She would find whatever it was her father had left her, and she would build a future for herself. It was her legacy, and good or bad, it was all she had left to hold onto.

At the sound of hoofbeats, Honesty threw a glance over her shoulder and saw a cloud of dust bearing down on her at breakneck speed.

Jesse! How had he found her so quickly? Why couldn't he just leave her alone? She jabbed her heels into the mare's sides. The hoofbeats drew closer, and Honesty knew the little mustang would not outrun his faster mount. She pulled on the reins and brought her to a halt, intending on blasting Jesse with both barrels over his betrayal.

Instead, she found herself looking into the stormy eyes of Robert Treat.

Behind him, Roscoe chortled. “Told ye I saw her leaving the hotel.”

“That you did, brother. You are one slippery little bird,” he told Honesty, grabbing the mare's reins. “But you'll not fly the coop so easily this time.”

“What do you want?”

“What we've wanted all along. Your father.”

“My father is dead, Robert. You killed him three months ago.”

“I'm certain you would like me to believe that, but we both know the truth.”

“That
is
the truth. You shot him in the stomach down in Durango, and it killed him.”

Something in her tone must have convinced him, for his face went a mottled red and he began to pace. She'd never seen Robert be anything but calm and composed, and his agitation worried her down to her toes.

“Why didn't you tell us this in the first place?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“What are we going to do?” Roscoe whispered. “If McGuire's dead, we're never going to get our money.”

“We're going to have to kill her,” Robert stated, as if her life meant nothing. “She knows us. She could turn us in.”

“I ain't never killed a woman before.”

“Just shoot her.”

“That's awful noisy. What if someone hears the shot?”

“Then we'll hang her.”

“There ain't no trees.”

Robert gritted his teeth. “Smother her, then. I don't care how you do it, just get it done!”

Each method sent grisly pictures flashing in Honesty's mind. For just a moment, she wished Jesse were here, then chided herself for the thought. She'd spent most of her life depending on Deuce to be there for her when she needed him, and when he'd died, she'd been all but helpless.

Besides, he'd sworn not to come after her again. And when he gave his word, he meant it.

No, she'd have to get out of this herself.

“While you two are dickering over my murder, I hope you don't mind if I go collect the money my father hid.”

Both swung around to face her with expressions of shock. “What did you say?” Roscoe asked.

“You know where he hid the money?” Robert cried.

“Of course. My father would never have kept a secret like that from me.” It was as bold a lie as she had ever told, but desperation offered no other solution. Rose had once said that unless she had something to offer besides herself, her business would go under. Well, the same logic applied here. If she had nothing of value to offer these men, she knew she'd not live out the day.