Calico (26 page)

Antonio grinned. “He is a little fat man. Room six.”

Maggie released her grip, and the bag disappeared inside the boy’s shirt. He was gone before she thought to thank him. She wiped her damp palms down the sides of her pants and opened the hotel’s back door. Far down the hall a wall lamp flickered, but it provided enough light for her to see the stairway.

Before she climbed them, Maggie checked her gun and made sure that her knife was untied from its sheath. She hadn’t lied to the padre. She had a debt to pay Thadius Cornwallis for causing her uncle’s death and the attempts on her own life.

She hugged the wall as she tested each step before she put her weight on it. And when she reached the upper hall, it was with a sigh of relief that no one was about to stop her. Here were several wall lamps, turned up high, so that the gleaming brass numbers were clearly revealed.

When she came to number six, Maggie pressed her ear against the door but didn’t hear anything that offered a clue as to whether or not Thadius was there. She had figured that the door would be locked, but a man living in a hotel wouldn’t want his key lost and would likely leave it in the lock. She counted on Thadius having done just that and used the tip of her knife in the keyhole. It wasn’t thin enough to fit all the way in.

Swearing, Maggie stood back a moment. She wasn’t going to be defeated by a locked door. She could knock but that would steal the advantage she wanted of surprising Thadius.

No, she had to get that key.

Staring at the door number, Maggie realized that it was held in place with nails. A nail would come in handy, she thought, just the right thickness and length. But not those holding the number to the door. She took a few steps over to the wall lamp and pried one nail free with her knife.

Minutes later she was rewarded by a soft thunk as the key fell out of the lock and hit the carpeted floor inside the room. Her knife, flat side down, barely made it under the door, but Maggie was standing and holding the key seconds later. Please let him be inside, she prayed, fitting the key to the lock and turning it to open the door.

The light from the hallway did not penetrate the dark room. Maggie stepped inside, her boots sinking into a thick carpet, then closed the door behind her. She stood still, giving herself a few minutes to let her eyes adjust.

After sheathing her knife, Maggie pulled her shirt free from her pants and unwound the rope she had wrapped around her waist. Coiling it into a loop that would easily slip over her head and one shoulder, she tied off the ends, then secured it in place until she would need it.

Bending slightly, with her hands extended in front of her, she turned to her left and began to work her way around the room. Having come this far, the last thing she wanted was to trip over a piece of furniture. She shaped each bulky piece with the same delicacy of hand that she had used to learn how to skin hides.

The thick carpet muffled any noise, and Maggie found velvet draperies pulled across two windows before she found the bedroom door. It wasn’t fully closed, so she heard a man’s snoring before she stood by the bed with her rope in hand. While she listened to make sure that no one else was in bed with him, her nimble fingers quickly made a noose from the rope. Giving it a few hard pulls, she was satisfied that the knot would hold. Now, she knew, came the hard part.

Maggie eased the covers back from his head and shoulders. She could make out the lumpy form of his body, and by carefully listening to the uninterrupted snores, she determined that he was facing away from where she stood.

Giving the noose slack, she draped it over the pillow above his head, then slowly lowered the other side so it could drape around his neck. Two wraps of the rope around one hand gave her leverage she would need to pull it tight. Drawing out her knife, knowing that she didn’t want to slice his throat when he woke up startled, she placed the tip of it below his ear.

“Thadius Cornwallis?” she whispered, bending lower. “You bastard bottom of the dung heap, wake up,” she said a little louder and was rewarded by the cut off snore. She sensed he was awake and tense. “Listen to me,” she warned, gently adding a bit of pressure to the tip of the knife.

Thadius raised his head off the pillow. “Who—” His word was cut off by the noose around his neck. He tried to bring his hands up to free himself, but the knife bit his skin.

“Lie still.” Maggie had to turn away from breathing his fetid breath. “If you move again, you good for nothin’ cow plop, I’ll slice you open an’ feed you to the hogs. There’s a whole pen full of them out by Fort Marcy. Just raise your hand a bit to let me know you’re hearin’ me.”

Maggie wanted to see him badly, but she knew she would have to wait for that. It was enough that he obeyed her and managed to lift the cover and bring up his hand.

“Now crawl backward till you’re off the bed.” She backed away and gave the rope just enough slack to allow him to move. “An’ if you touch that noose, I’ll send you to the devil right now.”

Thadius felt his panic die hearing her last words. She wasn’t going to kill him. At least not yet. He didn’t know who she was, but the trickle of blood from the cut behind his ear warned him that she was serious. He inched his way to the edge of the bed, trying to pull down his nightshirt, but a light tug on the rope forced him to get off the bed quickly. First Ryder had broken into his rooms and now this wild woman. He would have to hire himself a bodyguard before this could happen again.

Maggie was in the awkward position of having almost two feet of rope taut between them. If Thadius took it in mind to grab hold of it, she didn’t know if her strength to hold on would be enough to stop him. She had to keep him worried and too busy to think.

“Find the lamp an’ light it. Then you an’ me are doin’ some business. An’ just remember I’m real quick with usin’ this knife. I’ll have your liver cut out an’ fed to you before you can call out.” Maggie cursed herself for her choice of words. They were the same ones she used about McCready on her supposed-to-be wedding day. But when she heard the rattle Thadius’s shaking hands made lifting the glass from the bedside lamp, she pushed McCready out of her thoughts.

It took three tries before Thadius managed to light a match and hold it steady enough to fire the wick. His damp hand almost lost its grip on the glass, but he replaced it and faced his attacker. The battered felt hat covered her hair and grime was smeared over her face, but her green eyes held him, for he had never seen hate that was so cold it was deadly. She topped him by nearly six inches and Thadius began to understand he might not get out of this situation easily. His gaze dropped to the wickedly gleaming blade she held in one hand and the rope loosely coiled in the other.

Desperate, he opened his mouth to speak only to find that his voice was dried up. Swallowing was hard with the rope around his neck, but he forced himself to do it until he felt some moisture in his mouth.

“I’ve got money,” he croaked.

“That’s good. Real good. ’Cause you’re gonna give me all you’ve got.”

Robbery. That’s all she was after. He almost breathed a sigh of relief, but she yanked on the rope, then with a quick flip of her hand twisted it once around his arms and chest.

Maggie had to force herself to look at him. He was as pink as a porker with the eyes to match. “Pick up the lamp an’ we’ll go into the other room. You’re gonna do some writin’ for me.” Maggie almost snatched the lamp from him; he was shaking so bad that she was afraid he would drop it and start a fire. She was taking a gamble that he would have all that she needed in the other room since the padre didn’t tell her that he had an office anywhere.

“Move, Cornwallis,” she ordered, following him. His nightshirt flapped against his hairy legs, and he waddled from side to side into the other room.

A quick look showed Maggie a large wood desk set before closed dark red velvet drapes. She gave him a shove toward it. “Go on an’ set.” Once he was in the chair, Maggie eased the rope looped around him. “Free your writin’ hand.” Once he did, she wrapped the rest of the rope around him and the chair’s back and tied it off.

Taking a place on the corner of the desk facing him, Maggie lifted the knife to his throat and shoved his inkwell forward. “Get your papers.”

Thadius had been waiting for this. He eased open the top right-hand drawer, keeping his eyes on her. Beneath the leather case of writing paper was his gun. His sweating fingers closed over the handle and slowly began to ease the weapon out.

Maggie watched his eyes. She knew he was up to something by the sudden gleam in them. Leaning forward, she raised the knife and nicked his chin. “Put it back, fat man. You’ll do no more hurtin’ to me an’ mine.”

Thadius released the gun, flinching under her murderous look. He raised the leather case and brought it out to put on the desk. He didn’t even wait for her to tell him, but removed a sheet of paper.

“That ain’t gonna be enough for what you’ve got to say.”

He took out another. Maggie shook her head, and he added a third sheet in front of him.

She backed up but kept the knife slightly raised in case he needed a bit more convincing. “This is what you say. You tell how you killed me uncle—”

“No!” Thadius reared back with shock. Now he knew who she was: Quincy’s backward bride. “You’re—” He stopped himself from saying dead. He stopped himself from asking her what happened to Ryder, Quincy, and Andrew Burton. If she had found him, they had talked. But he wasn’t going to take the fall by himself. “Listen to me. I didn’t kill him. Berger, William Berger—”

“Berger’s dead,” Maggie announced calmly.

Sweat beads popped out all over Thadius’s face, and he longed to wipe them away. He closed his eyes, his mind darting from this comer to the next, searching for a way out.

Maggie smelled his fear like that of a cornered rat searching for a way out. She wouldn’t give him the chance.

“Start writin’. I ain’t got all night, Cornwallis.”

“But why? What do you intend to do? Surely you know that forcing a confession from someone is against the law?”

“Law? You dare talk to me about law?”

“You can’t expect me to condemn myself on your say-so and not ask why.”

Much as she hated getting closer to him, Maggie brought her face up to his. “You’ll do what I tell you or you die now.”

“There’s money. Lots of it. I’ll give you—”

“Yeah. You will. But later,” she said, satisfied by his babbling that she had instilled fear in him. “Start.”

Maggie spoke slowly, wanting him to get all that she knew had happened right. She was gambling that Thadius would write exactly what she said. She had no way of knowing. If McCready had spent more time teaching her to read than learning about loving, she wouldn’t be so worried. She lost track of the time, fighting her own tiredness as he labored over the pages and finally dropped the pen after he signed his name.

Maggie had to risk a bluff. She snatched up the first paper and held it to the light. “Where does it say that Quincy was to kill me?”

“Here, here.” Thadius shoved the second sheet at her. “Right there in the middle of the page. Just as you said it.”

Maggie pretended to read and let him sweat.

“I wrote all of it just as you said,” he whispered in a hoarse voice, hoping it was over.

“Now, you’ll get me your money.” Maggie scooped up the papers, folded them in half, and tucked them safely in her shirt. “What are you going to do with them?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” She slid off the desk and stood behind him to untie the rope. Keeping a tight grip on the noose, she ordered him up.

Thadius decided as he wrote out his confession that if she took his money and let him live, he was going to come out all right. After all, what could a backward, filthy creature do with a forced confession? No one would believe it. He had friends. Powerful people whom he had helped place in office. All he had to do was hurry and get rid of her. He anxiously walked across the room to his safe concealed in a lacquered cabinet. But for all his own feeling of urgency, it took him two tries to open the safe. He stood back and let her see what there was inside.

Maggie was smarter. “No. You take it out.” But when he started to put the money bags on the floor, she stopped him. “Stand up an’ turn around. I’ll be needin’ somethin’ to carry them in.” Without warning, Maggie sliced down the front of his nightshirt. “Take it off.”

“You can’t strip me naked!”

His outrage would have been funny, but she was in no mood to laugh. Her voice became as cold as the look in her eyes. “I can’t?” she repeated very softly. “You stripped me of the only family I had by killin’ off me uncle. You stripped me pride an’ tried for me life. You tried to steal me mines. Take it off, Cornwallis, or I’ll make you fodder for hogs. Just be thankin’ the devil that it ain’t your hide I’m strippin’ in its place.”

The indignity was unbearable. He couldn’t look at her as he took off the nightshirt. “You’ll pay for what you’re stealing from me,” he blustered.

“Ain’t stealin’ a damn thing.” Maggie quickly secured her bundle. “I’m takin’ the money what was promised to me by Quincy to open me mines. An’ some for Pamela Burton to give her a new start. You stole from her, too.”

She caught Thadius’s slight move away and rose to her feet. “Drag that chair from the desk over to the middle of the room.”

Thadius no longer thought about arguing. He was mortified into silence by his naked state and the knowledge that she might still kill him. He dragged the straight-back chair from the front of the desk to a place under the crystal chandelier.

Maggie threw the end of the rope over the fancy light fixture. She tugged gently, feeling that it wouldn’t hold the porker’s weight, but it was the best she had.

“Get up on the chair.”

“Wait a minute. This is too much. I’ll yell and have help—”

“You got a choice. I’ll have that chair kicked out from under you or slit your throat before the first sound comes.”

Thadius climbed up on the chair, but his legs were shaking so badly that he had to hold the top edge of the chair to steady himself.

“Listen good. If you stay real still, you might make it till someone comes lookin’ for you. Move around an’ you’ll hang yourself.”

He clawed at the noose, but she had pulled it taut, and he couldn’t even get one chubby finger between the rope and his neck. He saw her wrap the balance of the rope twice around his desk and tie it off. There was no way he could pull the rope free.

“Have some pity. I did everything you wanted me to. You have the money you need. It pays for whatever you feel has been taken from you.”

“It’ll never pay for Pete’s death, you bastard,” she hissed. “An’ while you’re waitin’, I’ll be takin’ these papers to the
Santa Fe Gazette
. Hear Hezekiah Johnson ain’t got any use for the likes of you.”

Maggie looked around. She had done all she could. But as she went to blow out the lamp, knowing how being in the dark would add to his fear, she spotted the chunk of ore that her uncle had had with him when he was killed.

Thadius saw her pick it up and smooth one hand over and around it. “Listen. I’ve got friends. Powerful friends. They’ve got money, too. We could work out a deal. You’d have the lion’s share of ownership in the mine, and we’d make sure you never had to work again. You could buy—”

“Shut the hell up,” she ordered calmly. Killing him would end it all too fast. She wanted him to suffer and let the law take care of him. Pocketing the ore, she hoped that Pete could rest in peace now. She wanted to go home.

“All your fancy talk an’ even fancier ways ain’t gonna buy your way out. You’re a dead man.” Maggie gripped the palm-size piece of ore in one hand and walked out.

Cooney Camp was in an uproar. Every search party that McCready organized trying to find Maggie had come up empty. Slick had returned from making his rounds of the surrounding mining camps. He had left the three tarred men down in Albuquerque. His tale was worth the price of a drink to more than a few men, and he didn’t refuse their offer to head over to the White Elephant Saloon and tell his tale.

When he mentioned Mohawk Pete, a man pushed his way to Slick’s side and introduced himself. Once Slick heard his story, he offered to take him back to Cooney Camp with him.

And now he faced a McCready lit like a stick of dynamite ready to blow the Rawhider sky high.

“How do you know he is who he says he is, Slick?”

“Now, McCready, I ain’t a fool. Made him take me over to the foundry and machine shop he claimed to own. Men all called him boss. His name was on the sign out front. I took him over to Miss Mae’s for a room and said to come down here when he was ready. Figured you’d be wanting to question him yourself.”

Dutch set an unasked for drink in front of McCready. He knew McCready was suffering the guilt of the damned since Maggie had been gone. McCready couldn’t deal cards, he wasn’t drinking, and when Dutch thought about it, McCready wasn’t even talking much to anyone. The man brooded the days away. But he wasn’t ready to hear Dutch tell him what he knew was wrong.

“How many others did you tell the story to?” McCready finally asked when he had leashed his temper.

“Nearly every man I met heard it. Kinda of hard to be riding around with three tarred and feathered men and not explain why.”

Slick sipped his drink, exchanging a look with Dutch. He couldn’t help noticing that McCready hadn’t touched his drink. He wondered if the man was sick. A quick little shake of Dutch’s head warned him to leave the matter be. He slugged down the liquor, wiped his mouth, and headed for the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” McCready demanded.

“Figure I’d go find Ira and catch up on what’s been happening around here. You ain’t the most pleasant piece of business today, McCready.”

“He ain’t been pleasant since he lost my wife,” Mike said from the doorway.

“That’s a matter up for debate, young fella,” Slick said as Mike joined him at the bar. “You’re about to meet another contender.”

Mike looked to McCready for an explanation, and McCready answered, “He found another one on his travels, and Slick, here, is feeling real proud of himself.”

“Another one? Another what? You ain’t making sense, McCready.”

The door to the Rawhider opened again. Slick stepped forward to welcome the newcomer. “C’mon in and join us, Samuel. This here young fella is Mike Grant. He ranches up Montana way. This here’s McCready, owns the Rawhider, and the big fella behind the bar is Dutch, best friend a man could have. Makes the best damn whiskey ever to slide down a man’s throat.” Slick turned to Dutch. “Pour out a drink for Samuel Taylor and make him welcome. He’s here—” Slick caught McCready’s murderous gaze upon him and backed away from the bar. “I’ll just mosey out and find Ira and leave you all to sorta get acquainted.”

“Slick,” McCready warned, watching the man back all the way to the door. “Come back here or I’ll—”

“Later, McCready.” Slick was out the door before anyone could stop him.

McCready saw Mike give the newcomer a quick once-over, then dismiss him. McCready made his own assessment, not as quick or dismissing. The man had hard years behind him, but his dark eyes retained a sparkle. The man would need to find humor to help him get through this, McCready thought, taking in his slight build and slightly shorter height than his own. Judging by the fine tailoring of his suit, McCready knew that Slick had not lied about this Samuel’s foundry making him wealthy. But he knew that he was meeting a gentleman, something that McCready forgot at times he once was.

He was so deep in his thoughts that it took him a few minutes to realize they were all waiting for him to speak.

“Have a drink on the house,” he offered. “Slick told Dutch and me why you’re here.”

“Wish someone would tell me,” Mike cut in.

“I’ll leave the pleasure of that to Mr. Taylor here,” McCready snapped.

“Well?” Mike prompted, turning to the stranger.

“I’ve come to see Mary Margaret O’Roarke.” Samuel spoke softly, revealing his southern drawl. “I don’t quite understand why you gentlemen will find this of any interest, but I’m her husband.”

“You don’t say?” Mike asked, carefully setting down his drink and hitching his gunbelt. “Stand in line, mister, there’s two more in front of you.”

“
Two
more? But that’s impossible. She can’t have
three
husbands. No woman can.”

Dutch took pity on him. “You see, it’s like this,” he began and went on to explain how Mike and Lars were both married by proxy to Maggie. When he finished, he looked at McCready with sympathy. The man was hurting, and hurting bad. “None of us can figure why Mohawk Pete did this,” he added.

“Gentlemen, you realize that this is a shock to me. I had assumed when I agreed to forgo paying Pete what I owed him for setting up the foundry and machine stop that I would be offering to share my home with a respectable woman. But I certainly do not want to be involved with a woman—”

“Shut the hell up,” McCready ordered but very softly. “Maggie had nothing to do with any of this. Pete is the one at fault. And he’s dead, so there won’t be a reason given for what he did.”

“And just what, may I ask, is your interest in this matter? Are you the other husband?”

“Don’t he wish,” Mike answered before McCready did.

“Seems to me,” Dutch said in an effort to calm them down, “that it isn’t hard to figure why Pete married her off. To more than one,” he quickly amended for the glares that both Samuel and Mike gave him. “If any one of you died, Maggie would have one less husband looking to collect her.”

“I’ll drink to that,” McCready stated, finally lifting his glass, but the sip of liquor had his stomach churning, and he set the glass down. Since Maggie had run off for a dowry, if Pamela told him the truth, he hadn’t been able to sleep or drink in peace. And now there was another man vying for her. If he wasn’t so worried about her, he would cheerfully wring her neck when she got back.

But one thing was certain. He and Maggie had to have a talk and clear things up between them.

No one was more startled than McCready a few minutes later when Slick stuck his head inside and yelled, “Maggie’s back! She’s over at the mercantile!”

Slick was gone before they could question him. McCready saw Mike gulp down his drink, wipe his mouth, and head for the door. Samuel was right behind him, and Dutch followed. Only McCready remained where he was.

What he had to say to Maggie was for her alone. He could wait. She couldn’t be surrounded by husbands forever.

When Maggie had accomplished her goal and retrieved Satin from where she left the dog guarding her horse, she wanted the miles to fly so she could get back home. But arriving in the middle of the afternoon to a sun-baked day and having a crowd demanding to know where she had been before she had gotten off her horse wasn’t the homecoming she had hoped for.

McCready was nowhere in sight. Maggie smiled and nodded but soon understood that he had not come to see her. Maybe he didn’t care where she had been or that she was back. The exhaustion that had ridden with her the last miles swamped her as she stepped down from her saddle into Dutch’s waiting arms.

“Maggie, you had us worried,” he whispered, feeling the slight tremble of her body. The press of men behind him had Dutch ordering them back to give her room, and he was rewarded by Maggie’s lopsided smile. But he read the question in her eyes before she could ask. “He’s inside, and yes, he knows that you’re back.”

“I need to talk to him, Dutch. Alone.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“Please. Help me.”

He couldn’t ignore the plea in her voice and her eyes. Pamela wedged herself a place next to them, and Dutch gave Maggie a quick nod to show he would do what he could.

“Pamela,” Maggie said, suffering through a quick hug, “I’ve a bundle in me saddle bag that you need to take inside. You’ll have your dowry an’ I’ll be havin’ mine.”