His Most Wanted (3 page)

She heard their squawks of protest as she marched to the back of the house and into her office, so she slammed the door behind her. Her pulse drilled with anger as she rounded her desk and collapsed into the chair.

It's my fault.

Certainly, it was. Just this one time, she'd thought it would be okay to let her ladies take charge. It had only been for a few hours. The local men knew her expectations—buy a token, enjoy a romp with one of the women, leave a happier man. Except the customer who'd visited Andrea's bed had paid in cash, directly to her, and when he'd finished his business, he'd struck her down, taking his money back before he fled the premises. No one had been there to stop him.

Why? Because Cora had been in bed with a gunslinger.

Not just any gunslinger though. A silver-tongued charmer with a granite chest and eyes like mountain spring water. She could still picture them, like looking into glass that warmed at her touch. And she could also hear his silken voice sharing intimate things about himself as he'd whispered in her ear while she'd relieved him of his stained shirt.

Growing up the daughter of a madam, she'd been propositioned nearly every day for as far back as she could remember. The taunts and offers had become as common and meaningless as dust motes in the air, but coming from Kit Wainwright, the words had struck a chord.

He'd been drunk. Dead drunk. He probably had no idea what he'd said, and it certainly hadn't been intended for her.

Yet what he'd spoken of, along with his entreaty for her company, had been an outpouring of his regrets. His confession had touched her so that she couldn't leave him alone, nor could she get it out of her head today…

He'd woken as she finished unbuttoning his shirt, wrapped his hand around hers and drawn her closer. “My uncle died last week. Do you know where I was while he was being beaten to death, Cora?”

Heat had radiated off his bare chest. He'd barely been able to keep his eyes open, his words coming in slurs, but his thumb had rubbed across the back of her hand—perhaps helping soothe himself…or her.

“No. Where were you?” she'd whispered, thinking maybe if she stayed quiet enough he'd drift off to sleep. Thus far, he hadn't tried to force himself on her, allowing her to ready him for bed.

“I was in the brothel…in the arms of my mistress.” His lips had skewered with self-disgust.

“You couldn't know your uncle would be assaulted.” She'd brushed a wave of dark hair from his brow, drawn to caress his handsome face.

“They say our true character is defined by the things we do when no one is watching. What does that say about me, Cora?”

“You didn't kill that thief tonight. That makes you a man of good character,” she'd said, wanting to believe it was true.

He'd chuckled and turned his face toward her. “No, sweetheart. I'm still a killer. I wanted to pull the trigger. I want to every time. That makes me as bad as any murderer. I want to do it…so I…simply…squeeze.” He'd fallen quiet for a moment, then his eyes drifted closed again, his breathing becoming shallow as he'd fallen asleep.

If just wanting to squeeze a trigger made Cora a murderer, then she was guilty too, and just as culpable as the gunslinger with his drunken confessions.

She supposed she could turn herself in for shooting the sheriff. Every day that she continued her perfidy, she put her girls further in jeopardy. The ladies had no idea she'd killed Sidlow, or that she'd scared the daylights out of Peter Matthews, the brick mason who'd beaten his own wife until she'd become an invalid, or scared Jim Hazen, the sheriff's deputy, when he'd tried to rape a lightskirt in a riverfront alley. These were two more so-called crimes added to Velvet Grace's list of offenses.

The part that made her feel guilty though, was that the girls might mistakenly be considered accomplices.

Kit Wainwright had described the experience correctly. Even as Cora was protecting herself from Sidlow's advances, she'd wanted to pull the trigger, needing something to vanquish his unwanted touch on her body. After all, it hadn't been the first time she'd been touched by a man without giving her permission.

Presently, she moved last night's money aside and opened her calendar to October, where one day was circled in red. In a few weeks, the Willows would host its annual fall party, opening its doors to the town and earning more in a single night than any month of the year.

Once preparations were in place, she would go see the judge, tell her tale and beg for his leniency. Maybe by then the girls would see how strong and independent they could be. But first, there was Andrea's beating to rectify. Velvet Grace would find the bastard who did it and make sure he wouldn't be back even if she was put behind bars.

In a town without justice, men relied on guns for protection. And therefore the few women in Fort McNamara depended on their gun-toting husbands. But for the ladies of the Willows, there were no laws, no men to protect them.

Only Cora.

Tonight, for their sakes, Velvet Grace would make one last appearance.

Chapter Three

Fort McNamara stood in the Arkansas River Valley near the Indian Territory border, its citizens declaring it to be the last white civilization for hundreds of miles. But
civilization
was an ironic choice of words for the place as far as Kit was concerned. Steamboats made their final stop at its port before the treacherous and varying depths of the western waters, and the settlement's ramshackle businesses were the gathering ground for grizzled Ozark mountaineers like his late uncle. The town was also a former outpost for the United States Army before the government had gotten wise enough to move away to more worthwhile endeavors.

Today, the muddy streets not far from the wharf and the houses of ill-repute on the Row swarmed with male travelers, settlers, Indians and tradesmen. Unlike St. Louis and Memphis, cities he was more familiar with, this outpost had few women and no cultured society to speak of. Kit wasn't surprised though. His good friend Rory Campbell, captain of one of his uncle's steamboats, had told him he would be lucky to find a single book, let alone an educated man, among the locals. According to the mayor, the town had no sheriff, so Kit supposed he had better postpone his visit to his new ranch and instead find Judge Harvey Murtagh, an old friend of his uncle's and the only man in town who might keep him out of trouble for the shooting last night.

After making a brief stop to deposit money in the Fort McNamara bank, Kit caught up with the judge while court was in recess. Murtagh's office was in the former army barracks, a one-level brick building that served as the Western District courthouse. When Kit entered, the judge was smoking a cigar and staring out the window of his office.

“Good morning, Your Honor.” Kit put his satchel in an empty chair before facing his uncle's old friend.

Murtagh, an Irish-American whose hair had gone snowy white, regarded him from beneath thick eyebrows. Deep lines etched the corners of his eyes, forehead and mouth, turning him into a somber-looking man even before taking into consideration the heavy burden of his office and the men he sent to the gallows.

“My clerk said you claimed to be an acquaintance of mine,” he said, his distinguished voice was slow as molasses. “But I swear, I've never laid eyes on you, nor do I recognize your name, Mr. Christopher Wainwright.”

“You knew my uncle Bartholomew. He must've met you when he traded in Indian Territory years ago. Furs, mostly. He was a trapper in his youth.”

The lines around Murtagh's eyes relaxed with recognition. “Bart Wainwright?”

“That's right. He passed away last week. His last request was that I bring his ashes to the top of Dillard's Peak, cast them over the river and repay you for some old debt he said he owed.” Another wave of guilt washed over him. He uttered the words from memory that Rory, his friend who'd discovered the old man in a pool of blood, had repeated for his benefit. Besides Kit's remorse at not being there to protect his uncle from the bastard who'd killed him, he most regretted missing his dying words. “Sir, if my uncle owed you a debt, I'm here to make good on his pledge. I don't know the circumstances, but I know my uncle. He wouldn't make such requests lightly. If he borrowed money, I can pay you whatever amount he owed along with interest. He was a widower, and with me being his only heir, I inherited all his assets.”

The judge took a draw from his cigar and thumped the butt against his windowsill, sending the ashes into the breeze outside. “Your uncle didn't tell you anything about me?”

A flash of embarrassment brought heat beneath his collar. “Most of our conversations consisted of Uncle Bart's lecturing me about being a devil-may-care young scalawag he found so repugnant.”

Skepticism painted the official's features for a moment as he made a critical scrutiny of Kit. “We knew each other nearly thirty years ago. I was in the army back then, Company B, seventh Infantry. He made no mention of a Corporal Murtagh?”

“I'm sorry to say, I don't recall, sir.”

Kit ignored the sickness building in his gut. He could blame the whiskey he'd consumed the night before, but that wasn't the real cause of his discomfort. The source of his nausea was regret that he didn't know the old man's story. Without any hesitation, he could name every card cheat he'd shot down in duels, every opponent he'd faced across a poker table and every married woman he'd ever shared a bed with. But not this chapter of his own uncle's past. How many times had Uncle Bart regaled him with his wisdom and vivid stories? All these years, Kit had found his lessons for survival quaint and entertaining. Yet now, faced with the most important task of his life, he couldn't recall the details.

Damnation.

“No, son. I don't suppose he would. Especially as now I'm a judge, married to the same woman for twenty-eight years. Your uncle and I were both wild, foolish bucks back then.” His gray eyes crinkled in a half smile. “I'm sure you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Wainwright?”

Kit grinned, warming to the man. “Of course, I've always followed the letter of the law.”

The judge grunted. “That's good to know. To be honest, I'm not sure what Bartholomew was referring to either. Perhaps the fact that I convinced him not to settle in Fort McNamara. There was a time when he wanted to marry a girl and homestead here in the valley. I told him he'd be better off back east.”

Kit nodded. “Good thing you did. He met and married my aunt in Illinois and became a successful entrepreneur. Ever hear of Dillard's Peak Beer out of St. Louis? I'd say that would be enough to owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Murtagh chuckled. “A brewery? Wonders never cease. Well, as you can see, I don't want for anything.” The judge spread his arms wide, encompassing the room. While the office wasn't as grand as Uncle Bart's, it wasn't paltry either. A reading lamp made of polished brass and etched glass sat on his ornately carved desk built of stained mahogany. The judge dressed well too, in stately clothing befitting a man of his stature and importance. “How about I accept your thanks in lieu of Bartholomew's? After you've delivered your uncle's remains to their final resting place, you can consider his debt paid in full and go back to St. Louis and running his business.”

Kit waved a dismissive hand. “No. I sold nearly everything I owned back there and arranged to buy a large ranch west of town.”

The judge squinted. “The Tuckermans' place?”

“One and the same. My uncle wanted me to put down roots somewhere. I figure the frontier is as good a place as any to start something new.”

Murtagh pursed his lips. “I don't suppose I could persuade you to leave like I persuaded your uncle?”

Kit laughed. “Is the place that bad? I haven't seen it yet, but my lawyer said it was valuable land.” The Wainwrights' family lawyer had never misled him, but what if the man had made a mistake and this whole scheme was a disaster? To lose everything Uncle Bart had worked so hard for with one bad purchase…

“Oh, it'll hold a lot of cattle. Or whatever else you might want to do with it. There's a nice big house too.” The judge pushed to his feet and leaned across his desk, offering his hand to shake. “I need to get back to court. Let me be the first to welcome you to our valley.”

A vision of Cora Reilly's animated expression and vibrant eyes snapped into his thoughts before he recovered.

“You're not exactly the first person to welcome me. I paid a visit to a couple of the establishments down by the docks yesterday when I got off the riverboat.”

“You stopped at the Row?” Murtagh's face was hard but not condescending. “Mayor Thorntree allows those businesses to operate to keep his constituents happy. I'm neither opposed to them nor do I abide them. However, I should warn you, they are frequented by all sorts of dangerous men, murderers and thieves.”

“Yes.” He cringed inwardly, his hand falling to rest on his holstered gun. “I'm afraid I've already made my first greenhorn mistake. Last night, a thief tried to make off with Uncle's remains—” he waved a hand at the leather bag in the chair, “—but I stopped him.”

The judge ran his fingers through his snowy hair, reminding Kit for a split second of Uncle Bart. Then Murtagh grinned and patted Kit on the shoulder. “You're a Wainwright through and through. That's good to know.”

Kit shared his smile, but the tension in his neck refused to relax. Did the man not understand what he was saying? “I shot him in the ankle to keep him from getting away.”

“Very good. If he's been crippled, he's probably downstairs waiting in my jail. I'll have to release his sorry hide for doin' no more than stealing. But if you'd only aimed a few feet higher, there'd be one less criminal to show up in my court, eh?” He brushed past, trailing the thick stench of tobacco. “Now if you'll excuse me. My session is about to resume.”

Kit stared at the door after his exit. So this was frontier justice? He supposed he should feel relieved the judge had dismissed his actions, but instead, he only felt confused. What if he'd shot the wrong man? It had been dark last night and, truth be told, he'd been too drunk to stand. What if he'd missed?

I never miss.

Even as hardened as he was, Kit didn't think he could live with himself if he killed an unarmed man over something as harmless as stealing.

At least he could relax now. The mayor's threats wouldn't hold water against him as far as the judge was concerned, and Uncle Bart would be proud he'd made a respectable ally in his new hometown. Life here would be hard, but he'd spent his youth in idleness, living in excess. Now he could finally grant the old man his greatest wish and put away his gun for good.

By the time Cora reached the farrier's, the sky was about to open up. The coming storm made the air thick, and the wisps of hair that had escaped from her braided bun rose up to tickle her cheeks. She batted them away before she slid open the big barn door, setting the iron bell overhead to clanging, alerting Jupiter that a customer had arrived.

The town's only blacksmith looked up from the mare he was shoeing and grinned when he saw her. “Cora? What brings you in? I know it's not a horse.”

She closed the distance between them, smiling as her friend wiped his hands on a well-used apron. Wrinkling her nose, she replied, “You got that right. Can't a woman just stop by for a social call, Jupiter?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, and she noted a few more strands of gray in his brown hair since she'd seen him last, months ago. Newly married, he never crossed the threshold of the Willows, and likely hadn't been to any of the other houses on the Row, either. He'd always been one of the town's few decent men, and she liked him immensely. Too bad he was taken. He would've made a fine husband for Millie or Bernadette or one of the girls. Not for herself though. Marriage had a way of changing people, so far as she'd seen, and she was glad to have his friendship.

“Sure you can. I can't talk long though. I got a buyer coming to collect Raven.” Jupiter slanted his head at the black mare he'd been working on. “Ain't it about time the Willows had a horse? Or even a mule?”

Cora laughed. “I can't see the need. We can walk anywhere we need to go, and the doctor comes to us. Most men do, you know.”

Jupiter nodded, conceding. “I s'pose so.”

She glanced over her shoulder, making sure no one else was in the building, then opened her reticule and withdrew a couple of dollars. “Remember that pistol you gave me last year?”

Jupiter nodded again, his expression growing serious. He'd insisted she keep a personal weapon after there'd been a series of attacks at the wharf, and the customers were getting rowdy. Of course, the sheriff and his deputy had kept a watch on her door—as long as she lined their pockets—but Jupiter hadn't taken no for answer, insisting she take the pistol.

She chose her next words carefully, hoping her friend wouldn't make the connection to Sidlow's killing. “Well, since the sheriff hasn't been replaced yet, I thought maybe I should keep more ammunition. Just in case. The girls and I may have to defend ourselves.”

He scowled. “You told me you kept a loaded rifle.”

“I do.” She patted his arm to soothe his ruffled feathers. “And none of us are ever alone with the clients in the parlor. But if something were to happen, leaving me by myself with a customer, I wouldn't feel safe…”

Jupiter turned around midway through her sentence. He stalked to a bench chest, opened it and rummaged through its contents. “Keep your money, Cora. I just want you to be safe. Lord knows, the mayor won't do anything about our problems.” He spoke over his shoulder.

Behind her, the iron bell sounded again. She turned around and locked eyes with the gunslinger from last night.

In the stormy afternoon, his tall figure dressed all in black from hair to his clothing, evoked danger with the ominous gun holster peeking out from beneath his coat. She trembled involuntarily as she remembered their last encounter.

He inclined his head in greeting with a slight smirk on his mouth, and came to stand beside her. “Well, good afternoon. We meet again, Miss Reilly.”

She frowned, her temper rising along with the heat running up her neck. Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea letting the gunman think he'd enjoyed her services. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wainwright.”

Jupiter stood and turned around. “I only found five in the box. I'll order more directly.” He extended his closed hand for her.

Cognizant of her audience, she opened her reticule to accept the ammunition, and he dropped them inside. Unfortunately, the cartridges made a telling clatter in the bag, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Wainwright stiffen.

“Your horse is almost ready, sir.” Jupiter gestured at the animal he'd been working on when she had interrupted him.