Desperate Hearts (21 page)

“Mitch, will you continue being a lawman? I’m scared for
you.”

He set his glass aside and removed his pants, then crawled onto the bed. “I don’t know yet. We’ll decide together what to do next. Right now I just want to spend the rest of the night making love to my new wife.” He took her glass from her and pulled her off-shoulder dress farther down, pushing it and her camisole past her breasts and grasping them gently in his big
hands.

Emma closed her eyes and drank in the joy of his lips gently parting hers as he laid her back on the bed.

Mitch rolled her onto her side, unbuttoning her dress. Emma enjoyed the ecstasy of letting him undress her, the keen pleasure of lying naked beneath him then, letting Mitch Brady taste every inch of her, touch all the secret places that brought fire to her blood. His kisses were delicious, a taste of wine on his lips, fire on his tongue. She had no idea when he’d managed to remove the rest of his own clothes. She only knew he was touching and exploring her body more intimately than the day before, perhaps because yesterday he didn’t want to do too much too soon—another sign of how much he loved
her.

This time he moved his fingers inside of her in a way that made her cry out with want for him, and in the next moment he was filling her almost painfully, but it was a glorious pain, not a frightening one. She hoped it wouldn’t take long for these moments to lead to a pregnancy, for she dearly wanted to give Mitch Brady a child, couldn’t wait to set up a real home and give him the family life he’d never known and so much
wanted.

They mated…and explored, and mated…and slept…and mated. Tasting, touching, sometimes gently, sometimes in wild passion. Emma felt as though she couldn’t get enough of him, and Mitch voiced the same. By dawn they were exhausted. Mitch pulled her close then, her back to him. He wrapped his arms around her and moved one leg over hers, just as he’d done the morning before when he professed his love for her and made her tell him the truth of why she’d come to
Alder.

“Mitch,” she said
softly.

“Hmm?” He sounded sleepy
now.

“What about…what if he finds
me?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to worry about that man? I’m not even going to say his name, Emma, and I don’t want you to say it either. Your own name is changed now, so you never even have to use his last name yourself.” He pulled her closer. “You’re Mrs. Mitch Brady now, and not only do you have a husband who will never allow that man to touch you and never allow you to be taken from here…you have a whole town behind you, as well as the Montana vigilantes. There are no
what-ifs
, Emma. It’s simply not going to
happen.”

Emma studied the hard muscle of the arm that enveloped her. “I just still have to get used to not being afraid,” she told him, “and used to being loved and
protected.”

Mitch kissed her neck, then pulled the covers over them against the cold morning air. Both of them were too tired to get up and make a fire in the little wood burner in the corner of the room. Emma thought how, no matter how hot the days were, it was always chilly in the Montana mountains at night, and by morning a small fire was usually
necessary.

Outside there came two distant booms. The mining continued in Alder Gulch, and by now most of yesterday’s crowd had gone home, returned to their mining, or were sleeping off a good drunk. She never dreamed coming to this place would lead to love and marriage and a whole new life, or that the man who charged into the stage robbery, guns blazing, would end up sharing her
bed.

“I love you, Mitch, more than anything or anyone on the face of the
earth.”

His reply was deep, rhythmic breathing. Emma closed her eyes and enjoyed the first true peace and joy and feeling of safety she’d known in a long, long
time.

Alan Radcliffe quickly splashed water on his face and ran wet hands through his hair to smooth it back. He rubbed a towel over his face to dry it and took a quick look in the mirror to make sure he looked halfway decent. Being awakened at 2:00 a.m. angered him but also alarmed him. His stableman had come in through the back door and up to his room to let him know Terence Giles was at the back
door.

That was not good news. Giles was Alan’s snitch. He was a man who seemed to have a knack for being in the right place at the right time to hear the right gossip. For Giles to come here at two o’clock in the morning meant an emergency of some
sort.

Alan pulled on his silk robe, irritated at the pile of clothes on the floor in the corner of his room. Bess and Matilda had both up and quit on him, and he’d asked Giles to find out why. He’d had trouble finding someone new—his laundry was piling up and there was a mess in the kitchen—and was embarrassed at having no help. On top of that, he’d lost considerably more money gambling. He blamed everything on Emma. When she ran off, she’d taken his hope of new riches and stirred up a lot of talk about her mother’s death. Gerald Hayes had never shown up with the warrant for Emma’s arrest, another thing he’d asked Giles to check
into.

He grumbled profanities as he grabbed some money from the top drawer of a large oak dresser, shoving it into a pocket in his robe and hurrying down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Giles sat at the table, smoking a thin cigar. Alan hated the pip-squeak of a man but had to admit he was good at his job. “What on earth are you doing here this hour of the morning?” he asked, going to a cupboard and taking down a bottle of whiskey and two small glasses. He brought them to the table and poured some of the liquor into each
glass.

“You’re gonna need that stuff, that’s sure,” Giles told him, picking up one of the glasses and downing the
alcohol.

Alan only sipped his, still standing. “What’s going
on?”

Giles grinned, putting out his hand. “Ten dollars might save your ass, Radcliffe.”

Scowling, Alan took the bills from his pocket and grudgingly handed ten dollars to the man. “Out with
it.”

“Well, sir…” He shoved his glass over, indicating he wanted more
whiskey.

Alan refilled the glass while Terence Giles
talked.

“Seems Bess and Matilda quitting is all tied up with why you haven’t gotten that warrant yet from Gerald Hayes.” He slugged down the second dose of
whiskey.

Alan drank more himself, eyeing Giles darkly. “Go
on.”

“Seems as though
you’re
the one who’s to be
arrested.”

Alan slowly set down his glass. “
What?
”

Giles pursed his lips, then licked off the whiskey that still lingered there. “Seems that the little vixen you raped several nights ago went to the prosecutor—took the bloody sheet and took your maid Bess with her. Bess said as how she saw you drug the girl and carry her to your room passed out. The girl and her ma dragged her pa down to testify he’d paid a gambling debt off to you by letting you have his daughter for a night. He’s in jail on charges they haven’t even come up with yet, and you’re gonna be arrested for
rape.”

Alan’s hands balled into fists. Giles reached over and poured himself yet more whiskey. “It gets worse,” he
added.

Alan thought he might explode with hatred and anger. If Bess were here right now, he’d choke her to death and throw her into the sewer along with little Miss Andrea Tate. “That little bitch!” he snarled. He stood up and threw his whiskey glass against the iron cookstove, shattering it. “What do you mean by
worse?”

“I mean that Gerald Hayes also intends to charge you with murder. Seems Miss Bess also saw what happened the night your wife died, and saw you drag Miss Emma to your bedroom, most likely to be raped. Seems Miss Bess is pretty sure where she ran off to, and Hayes is gonna send somebody for her so she can testify as to what really happened that
night.”

Alan paced, enraged, wanting…needing…to slam his fist into something. “They know where Emma
is?”

Giles nodded, picking up the whiskey bottle and drinking more whiskey straight from the bottle. “Seems Miss Bess found a newspaper article with an ad in it inviting women to come to a place called Alder Gulch in Montana. They all think Miss Emma went there, thinking you’d never look for her in a place like that. Guess she was
right.”

Alan closed his eyes, so angry he feared he might have a heart attack.
Alder
Gulch
in
Montana!
The little bitch knew damn well he never would have considered she might go West. Maybe she hadn’t even survived the trip. The land west of Chicago was full of Indians and outlaws and miners hungry for women. A pampered Eastern girl couldn’t possibly survive in a place like that! He turned his gaze to Giles. “When are they coming for
me?”

Giles shrugged. “Tomorrow, I
expect.”

Alan took another ten dollars from his pocket and handed it to the man. “Take this and that whiskey and get out of here! And don’t you dare tell anyone you told me any of
this!”

“I won’t tell. My job is to tell you what I know and nothing more.” Giles took the money and the bottle and sneaked out the back
door.

Alan went to the window to see a light on in the room off the stables where the stableman slept. Good. He’d gone back to the stables and hadn’t heard any of his conversation with Terence Giles. Alan hurried back up to his room. If Gerald Hayes was coming for him tomorrow, he’d find no one home. He ached with a desire to beat Bess to death, and that damn spoiled bitch Andrea Tate! There was always the chance no one would believe what she told everyone, and Bess was nothing more than a waif off the streets who would do or say anything to have a job and a place to stay. That’s probably what Andrea had offered. The only person who could truly seal the accusation of murder was one Emma Radcliffe, and now he knew where to find
her!

Montana. What a godforsaken place for someone like Emma to go. The little trollop was more clever than he’d given her credit for, and a lot braver than he’d expected. But the fact remained that she’d run off, one strike against her when it came to his own testimony.
She
ran
because
she
was
guilty!
That’s still what he’d use against her, but the fact remained he had to find her before Hayes came for him. He damn well was not going to prison! And if he could find Emma and beat her into telling him what she’d done with that necklace, he could take it and head for San Francisco. He’d have to kill Emma then—shut her up so she couldn’t testify against him. He could always say she’d been murdered by Indians or ruthless outlaws. Then he could sell the necklace and get on a ship to South America or the Orient, someplace where a wealthy American could start
over.

No matter what happened, this all boiled down to Emma and her mother refusing to give him the damn necklace. He’d by God take possession of it this time, even if he had to kill Emma Radcliffe to get it. She’d have no protection in a wild mining town. He could go there and accuse her of murdering her own mother. Maybe he could even get her hanged. What a sight that would be! Emma Radcliffe hanging by the
neck.

Mitch and Emma headed for the dry-goods store, where Emma intended to pick out material for curtains for their new home. It didn’t matter that it was only a twenty-by-fifteen-foot room for now. It had a wood-burning stove that would keep them plenty warm in the upcoming Montana winter: three windows; a real pinewood floor; a brass bed that Sarah and the girls had shipped in from Virginia City, with a real down-stuffed mattress and real bedsprings; a cupboard for their china; a rocker made for them by Sparky Thomas, the feed-store owner, who was also a good carpenter; and a table and two chairs from George Calus, the supply-store owner, and his wife, Mary.

Emma had almost everything she needed to set up house, and they had moved their personal belongings into it this morning. The house was even close to the town’s ground well, which was fed by water that seeped in from farther up in the mountains. Emma would have close access to the well, but Mitch had already insisted he’d be the one to carry the water. He didn’t want Emma having to do
it.

Sometimes Emma felt almost guilty for having found so much happiness from something that had started out with such tragedy and horror. She decided that God himself had led her to Alder just so she’d find Mitch Brady. Tomorrow they planned to travel to Virginia City for more supplies and a cookstove. In the spring they would decide if Mitch would continue as a lawman or if they would move farther out into the valley and start a ranch and build a bigger house. For now Emma was happy to stay in Alder, where everyone had been so good to both of them, and where she and Mitch could live cozily in their tiny
house.

“I hope you realize I have a lot to learn about cooking Western-style,” she told Mitch, “with big steaks, fried bacon, and potatoes.” They strolled together toward the supply store. “I grew up knowing how to cook fancy dishes you probably wouldn’t even
like.”

Mitch waved her off. “You’ve already learned a lot from Ma Kelly, and you make the best biscuits in town. And at the rate people keep bringing us beef and baked goods, you don’t have to worry about cooking for a while yet anyway.” Mitch patted his stomach. “You don’t want a fat husband, do
you?”

“I’ll always want you, whether you’re fat or skinny,” Emma answered. She hung on to his arm. “What about me? What if
I’m
the one who gets
fat?”

Mitch pulled her into an alley and moved a hand to the middle of her back, pressing her close. “If you get fat it means you’re carrying, and I couldn’t care less how big you get when it’s my kid in your belly.” He leaned down and kissed her
gently.

“Well, at the rate we’re going, that’s bound to happen sooner rather than later,” she told him. They started for the boardwalk when someone farther back in the alley called
out.

“Mitch
Brady!”

Mitch
turned.

“Today you
die!”

Mitch ducked and shoved Emma to the ground. To her dying day she would not know how he moved fast enough to get her to the ground and pull his own six-gun while the man who’d threatened Mitch stood there with his gun already drawn, but somehow Mitch got off a shot just as the intruder fired at him. The intruder cried out and fell, and it took Emma a moment to realize Mitch had also been shot. He just lay there on top of her for a moment, then wilted beside her, blood pouring from his
head.

Emma stared in horror, at first unable to find her voice.
Mitch! Mitch!
He looked
dead.

“No!” she finally screamed, ignoring her own scrapes and bruises. She managed to sit up and raise Mitch’s head. She put it in her lap and blood immediately soaked the skirt of her dress as she screamed his
name.

In the next moment Randy was there, followed by a growing crowd of
onlookers.

“He killed him!” Emma screamed. “He killed Mitch. He killed
Mitch!”

“Jesus!” Randy exclaimed. He knelt down beside Mitch. “Holy God, he’s been shot in the head.” He stood up. “Somebody get Len and Benny!” he screamed. “And get Doc Wilson!” He touched Emma’s shoulder. “We’ll get him to the doc,” he told
her.

“He’s already dead! He’s already dead!” Emma mourned, rocking back and
forth.

Randy ran farther back in the alley and more people moved
closer.

“Oh, my God, it’s Mitch!” a woman exclaimed. “It’s
Mitch!”

Suddenly Sarah was there. She leaned down and pressed her head against Mitch’s
chest.

Randy came walking toward them then, supporting a stumbling man who was bleeding badly from his middle. Emma looked up at him, recognizing he was one of the men who’d ridden with Trudy Wiley the day Trudy threatened Mitch at Alder
Gulch.

“Murderer!” she screamed at him. “Murderer!” She picked up Mitch’s gun where it still lay beside him and made ready to shoot the man a second time, but Len grabbed her
arm.

“Give me the gun, Emma! We’ll take care of
this!”

“He killed Mitch! He didn’t even give him a chance,” she
screamed.

“Somebody get Doc Wilson!” someone
yelled.

“Emma, his heart is still beating,” Sarah told
Emma.

Len took the gun from Emma’s hand and began prying her away from
Mitch.

“No!”

“Emma, we have to get him over to Doc’s place. If you want Mitch to live, it’s important to move fast. Come on now, move
back.”

Emma watched as men hurriedly picked up Mitch’s body and made off with it. It took four men to carry him. She watched in stunned confusion. Randy walked past them, half dragging the man who’d shot Mitch. He was begging for water and for a
doctor.

“It’s Pete Bailey!” someone
yelled.

“String him up!” another yelled. “The sonofabitch killed Mitch
Brady!”

“Hang him!” shouted
another.

“Back off!” Len told them, waving a gun. “Bailey will get treated and get a trial.” He moved away from Emma and kicked Bailey in the back, sending him sprawling. “
Then
we’ll hang him!” Len
added.

The crowd erupted in cheers and angry shouts. They herded Bailey toward the jail while the man screamed for water and for help. Emma stared after him, Sarah standing beside her. She looked at Sarah, bewildered. “I…Mitch and I…we were going to buy some material. I was going to…bring it to you…for
curtains.”

“Emma, you’re in shock. Come on. Let’s get over to Doc’s place. Mitch needs
you.”

“I bet Trudy Wiley paid Bailey to kill Mitch!” someone shouted in the
distance.

“Bailey shot him in the head!” someone else yelled. “Nobody can survive
that.”

Some woman screamed Mitch’s name.
Probably
one
of
his
favorite
prostitutes,
Emma thought absently, still unable to absorb what had just
happened.

Sarah put an arm around her then. “Come with me, honey.”

“Oh, my God, Sarah, what will I do without Mitch? What will I do without Mitch?” Emma felt dizzy and lost in some kind of vacuum of
horror.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Sarah answered, urging Emma toward Doc’s office. “Wait and see what Doc Wilson
says.”

In moments they were surrounded by a bevy of prostitutes, and behind them half the town’s occupants, who all followed Emma and Sarah to Doc’s office. Emma could hear some of the women
crying.

“Poor Mitch! Why did God let this
happen?”

Why
indeed?
Emma thought. All her joy, all the beauty of the past ten days of marriage, was gone, dumped into the black hole of
death.

“What will I do, Sarah? I can’t live without
Mitch.”

“You won’t have to. He’ll be all right, honey, you’ll
see.”

Emma heard the slight break in the woman’s voice, and she knew Sarah was only trying to make her feel
better.

“He’s shot in the head, Sarah! No one lives through
that!”

“It can depend on a lot of things, Emma. And Mitch Brady is tough as nails. He’ll get over this, and God help Pete Bailey and anyone else who had anything to do with this, once Mitch is better. If Pete Bailey lives, you can bet Len and the others will beat the truth of why he did this out of him, and they will by God save Pete’s hanging for when Mitch is better and he can
watch.”

“I knew it! I knew something would happen to him. I saw the look in Trudy Wiley’s eyes, Sarah. I knew she’d kill him or hire someone to do it. I wanted him to stop what he was doing. I wanted him to quit vigilante work and raise horses and cattle—anything—anything besides risking his life like he
does.”

“I expect when he gets well he’ll give a lot of thought to that, honey, but what he does is in his blood and it will be hard to give it up. I’m betting he’ll do it for you, though. He’d do
anything
for
you.”

Emma hesitated at the door to Doc Wilson’s place. She took a deep breath. “Sarah, what if he’s dead? The last thing he did was kiss me and tell me he…couldn’t wait for me to be fat with his
baby.”

“Emma, you have to think positive. I’ve known men who were shot in the head and
lived.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sarah.”

Sarah sighed deeply, and Hildy moved up to stand on the other side of Emma. “Honey, Mitch is such a strong man, and he loves you so much. He’ll live for you. I just know he
will.”

Emma’s legs felt like rubber and her whole midsection—stomach, lungs, heart—hurt with dread and tension as she clung to Sarah and managed to walk inside. She thought about how violently and suddenly her own mother had died, how alone and terrified she’d been ever since then…until Mitch Brady came along. He was her lover, her protector, her friend. He’d promised her she never had to fear that anyone would ever hurt her again. If only she could have promised the same thing in return. Now there he lay, motionless, blood covering his head and face. She stumbled to his side, melting down beside the cot, realizing only then that her own dress was wet with her husband’s
blood.