Hooked (31 page)

Meg planned on telling her grandmother who she was, only not right now. She nodded and fumbled her way up the stairs, switching her fishing rod to her tackle holding hand so she could grip the bannister and not slip-slide her way up the stairs. Wayne's boots were too big, even though she'd stuffed the toes with
socks; her stockinged feet slid around in the shoes making walking difficult.

Matthew followed right behind her. Directly behind her, without so much as an inch of breathing room.

Once they rounded the corner on the second floor, she hissed beneath her breath, “What's the matter with you? Are you trying to get me to fall down?”

“I think you can do that on your own.”

Meg stopped in front of her room, took out the key from her trouser pocket and gave Matthew one last parting glance. Unfortunately, room thirty-three was the only vacant one in the hotel when she'd checked herself in. Her room was directly across from Matthew's. He stood at his own door, shoulder leaning against the jamb, making no move to turn the knob and let himself inside. He just stared at her. Watched her.

She felt itchy and hot. Sweaty and bothered. Needing to shiver, but unable to do so with his eyes, pinned on her.

“Tomorrow. Same time,” was all she managed before letting herself into the room and closing the door behind her.

Meg dropped her tackle and all but slid down the door, melting. That's what she was doing. Melting. Right beneath his nose. He had to be aware of what he was doing to her by simply
looking.
Making her feel like a chip of ice in a warm mouth. Slowly melting no matter how much she wanted the coolness to stay on her tongue.

She just couldn't let him do that to her.

Meg left the door, flung her beard onto the bed and began to unbutton her shirt. She was hot. Stifling hot. The room was stuffy and warm.

She went to the window and stuck her hands into the part in the sheer curtains. She flung the sash up, allowing a breeze to trickle through the opening.

Sitting on the bed, she took her boots off, then slipped out of her shirt. She rose to her feet and undid the fly to her trousers. Standing in bloomers and corset, she dressed in her petticoat and shimmy.

As she tied the ribbon on the top of her corset cover, she took in a deep breath of satisfaction. From this day forward, no more of those newfangled straight-fronted corsets for her. She'd gone back to her old short hip corset. It might be plain and not give her meager bosom a lift, but it was a lot more comfortable.

Once she was put together, she left her room and went downstairs into the lobby.

Grandma Nettie had been at the front doors recommending the Home-Style Restaurant as a nice supper place to a newly arrived couple. They left just as Meg approached.

“Come with me to the registry book, Margaret,” Grandma Nettie said. “I have a question for you.”

“Grandma, you don't have to call me Margaret anymore,” Meg said while walking. “I've decided to go back to Meg.”

“Oh—well, that's good news. Meg suits you much better.” She nodded her head once with gladness. Then, “Now, about the registry book . . .”

Meg knew precisely what her grandmother wanted to question her about. That entry she'd made earlier when her grandmother had been busy with Delbert.

“Meg, you wouldn't happen to know who this is, would you?” Grandma Nettie pointed to the line in the registry book where Meg had signed a name. Her
grandmother squinted behind her spectacles and tried to read the sloppy slants in black ink.

“Suppose I do?”

“I'm quite certain you do. Who is it?”

At the time, Meg hadn't come up with a name for her character. She'd merely signed the book in her sloppiest penmanship. “Let's see . . . I would say that's . . . Arliss Bascomb.” She remembered the author's name on Matthew's fishing book and decided to use it for her character.

“Arliss Bascomb,” Grandma Nettie repeated.

“Uh-huh.”

“With red hair?”

“Uh-huh.”

“About your color?”

“Yes.”

Grandma's knowing eyes leveled on her. “You could have at least told me ahead of time what you were going to do.”

Meg lifted her brows. Although it had been obvious her grandmother had recognized her, Meg really didn't think the disguise was all
that
telling. From a distance. “How did you know he was me? I had a beard on.”

“It's a thin disguise, Meg. I recognized your brother's clothing.”

Sliding the heavy bicycle chain aside, Meg plopped her elbows on the registry counter and frowned. “Do you think anybody else will figure it out?”

“It all depends.” Her grandmother closed the fat book. “Why are you dressing like a man? Does Mr. Wilberforce know who you really are?”

At the mention of that, Meg huffed. “There's a lot to tell you. But I'm not supposed to divulge a certain
identity. His
real
one. Suffice to say—the guest in our hotel isn't Vernon Wilberforce. He's someone else. And that's the part I can't say because I sort of promised I wouldn't.”

Eyes filling with wonder, her grandmother asked, “What are you going on about?”

Meg clued her grandmother in to what she could. Mostly, the simple facts. Vernon Wilberforce was a Bissell salesman, all right. Only the man checked into room thirty-two wasn't really him. He was a newspaper reporter.

“A
reporter,”
Grandma hissed. “I suspected he wasn't who he seemed but I cast a blind eye to him because . . . well, the man has charm. And you were taken by him. I never should have let my guard down.” Her tone mirrored her disgust. “What's he doing in town?”

“The long and short of it is,” Meg said in a flat tone, “this man who we know as Vernon Wilberforce, wants to reveal Wayne as a cheater in last year's fishing tournament.” Then she went into the details of what Matthew told her about his suspicions and how he wanted to expose her brother in the newsprint.

Grandma Nettie slammed her palm down on the countertop with a dry bang. “I'm so angry with myself. I can't believe I didn't do anything about my hunch. All that marble-mouth language of his when it suited him. I even asked him about writing and he said he'd thought about it. The bounder. He's done more than think about it. He
does
it. And to think we nearly bought a Bissell from him.”

“No wonder he said we didn't have to. He doesn't really sell them.”

“I'm turning him out right now. How dare he come
into my George's hotel under false pretenses. And to think I allowed him into my son's house, too. And had Mr. Finch feed him.”

“I know,” Meg commiserated. “But throwing him out won't solve anything. In fact, we have to stay in his good graces or he may very well write a slanderous article about Wayne without any proof whatsoever.”

“If he does that, I'll call my sisters. We know how to put men in their places. And I can physically incapacitate him, too. Would you like me to, Meg? Or have you already?”

“I haven't touched him.”
At least not in that way.
“I have another idea. And it doesn't require physical force.” She braced her hands on the edge of the counter. “I'm going to help him learn how to fly-fish so he can enter the contest and find out what really happened—nothing illegal. But I can't exactly go gadding about town with a married man—should that information become public.

“So I came up with the plan that the safest, and most respectable, way would be to dress up like a man. I picked the name Arliss Bascomb and I've given him an occupation, too.” Meg came in closer to put her head together with Grandma Nettie's.

Her grandmother's dour expression was exchanged by a smile of secret partnership for Meg to continue.

“Well,” she went on, “I heard Mr. Calhoon and Mr. Treber at the post office yesterday talking politics. If ever there was an occupation to make a person be avoided, it's to say they're from the Bureau of Internal Revenue.”

Sucking in a breathe, Grandma Nettie declared with a low whistle, “A Bureau man. That's a good cover, Margaret. Nobody likes them. I know I don't. The
government can't tax our income. It's unconstitutional. People will avoid him like the plague.”

“Those were my thoughts exactly.” Meg bussed her grandma's cheek. “So will you keep my secret?”

“Yes, of course I will, dear. Although it's going to be awfully hard seeing that man come and go. I'm liable to give him a good piece of my mind.”

“I trust you can control yourself.”

“Hmm. Yes. There is one thing, however.” With a broad smile, her grandmother asked, “What man do I get to dress up as?”

*  *  *

Gage concealed himself in the entranceway to Gale's butcher shop, keeping watch on Ham Beauregarde across the street. The salesman had left the hotel over an hour ago, stopped at the Blue Flame Saloon for twenty minutes, then moved on to the restaurant. From Gage's vantage point, he could see the man sitting at one of the front tables. Just the top of his head. The rest of him was hidden by the half-window gingham curtains.

Leaning back and folding his arms across his chest, Gage waited.

Waited for Beauregarde to make a move.

Anything remotely suspicious. They had two days until the contestants drew the lottery spots for the contest. Then two days until the contest itself. If Ham had plans about cheating, he'd have to do something from now until then to put the odds in his favor. Just his going out to Doolin's hatchery was suspect—even if Doolin hadn't told Gage what Beauregarde had wanted. Not that he would have.

Doolin was a tight-lipped man. Loyal to those he did business with. Gage hadn't been convinced Doolin
hadn't done business with Wayne Brooks, or Ham Beauregarde.

Cool evening air sluiced over Gage, and he decided to walk a moment to get the circulation back in his legs. There was no fear in being discovered. The time must have been going on nine. There was no one on Hackberry Way at this hour.

As Gage strolled up the road, he paused at a building that had a large sign in the window with bold lettering:
FOR RENT OR SALE
.

Cupping his hands together, Gage brought his face up to the glass and peered inside. Though the interior was dim, he could see the space was an adequate size. Whatever had been here before had a front counter, then a cleared space behind, as if there had been a lot of shelving. The lighting was nothing modern. He could see by the fasteners that were strung from the ceiling, the lamps weren't hooked up to gas. They were oil. Simple shop lamps. But they could throw off a lot of light at night.

Gage stood back to read the former establishment's sign, but it had been removed. Taking another step forward, he continued to study the place. The broker offering the building was Otto Healy of Granite Home and Farm Realty.

Behind Gage, came the good evening call of a patron as Ham left the restaurant.

Quietly, Gage disappeared into the dark night ready to go wherever Ham Beauregarde would take him.

*  *  *

The next morning, the soft April afternoon had a drowsiness to it that made Meg want to lay back, fling off her brother's hat, and bask in the sunshine. Watching clouds go by. Watching patterns in the leafy
branches overhead. Skimming her bare feet in the water as she gently kicked them from the boulder she laid on.

But she wouldn't. Because she wasn't alone.

She sat with her lunch bucket beside her, yards away from Matthew, who reclined on his jacket, which he'd spread out on the short meadow grass. Today he hadn't forgotten to bring a meal. Rather than having a sense of retribution, she didn't feel all that great about not offering to share some of hers yesterday.

Meg nibbled on her cheese sandwich, barely tasting it. She had none of the vigorous appetite she'd had the other day. After the smoke had settled from their initial battle of wills, she realized this was not a game. This was real. There could be no more tiny moments of emotional triumph in which she convinced herself she had no feelings for him, or of speaking her mind and not worrying about the consequences. Everything she did and said to Matthew Gage came with consequences.

She had to quit taking the situation lightly.

Wayne was in trouble.

She had to help him.

That meant being with Matthew. She had had to get over her hurt in one night. Not easy, but she had done it—or she thought she had.

She dared to slant her gaze toward him. He stared right at her. With those intoxicating eyes of his. Green, like a carpet of grass, just hazy and lazy enough to make a woman want to lie down in the lush lawn and put her hands over her head and murmur, “Kiss me.”

That's exactly what his lips were saying.

That's exactly why her eyes were now averted from his.

Meg's stomach knotted as if she'd swallowed a peach pit. She'd never been one for indigestion, but she felt a bad case of it coming on. With a soft groan, she gave up trying to eat another bite of her meal and dropped her half-eaten sandwich into her pail.

“Are you all right, Meg?” Matthew drawled. That voice of his could be like tempting candy—sweet and slick and slippery.

“I'm fine, Mr. Gage,” she all but snapped. “The afternoon is too hot, is all.”

“Feels fine to me.” He rolled onto his side and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Why don't you call me Matthew? There's a distinct distaste to the way you say ‘Mr. Gage.' I'm hoping you won't have that problem with my Christian name.”

Meg made no reply.
Matthew.
How could she call him Matthew? Matthew was a name a woman said when she felt something intimate for a man. She called him mister when she either respected him or was too enamored by him to dare call him something more personal. And since she was now feeling neither about Mr. Gage, she supposed that calling him Mr. Gage was a moot point.