Kissing Comfort (54 page)

“There's no one here,” he said.

“Give them a moment.”

Bode put out a foot to halt the entry of a wet ball of orange fur that might have been a cat. Frustrated, the cat yowled. His cry brought Thistle running. Bode grabbed Comfort's cat before he pounced and slammed the door shut on the other animal. This set up another round of piercing cries. Thistle's claws dug into Bode's shoulder.

“What the hell?” Tucker peered down the long hall from outside the study. “Bode. Leave the cat be. He doesn't like to go out. Send him here.”

It took Bode a moment to understand that Tucker couldn't see Comfort and Crocker. They were hidden from view by the angle of the staircase. It didn't appear that Tucker had armed himself. And why would he? He'd come out to see about the cat.

Bode disengaged Thistle's claws from his shirt, bent, and pitched the cat lightly in Tucker's direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crocker motion him to go forward. He started down the hall. Once he was past Crocker, he rolled his eyes in that direction, hoping to make Tucker take a second look. Tuck's attention, however, remained on Thistle. Bode was tempted to echo Crocker's sentiment. Just now, he hated cats.

Tuck stooped and scratched Thistle between the ears. “The ginger's been making a racket all evening, lookin' for a female or lookin' for a fight. Wouldn't keep him around except Mrs. Hilliard thinks he's the best mouser we've ever had in the kitchen. I never thought too much about it, but you should see the pair he brought in tonight.”

The hesitation before Bode's next step was outwardly imperceptible. Bode, though, felt as if he'd been made to stop dead in his tracks. Tuck's words had an impact, but not only his words. Crocker had expected to find Tuck and Newt in the front parlor. So had Bode. When he and Comfort left her uncles, they had showed no inclination to leave it. It was, after all, a better location to see anyone approaching the house from the front. The study had almost no view except of the neighboring property, and like his father's library, it tended to be a quiet place where sound neither escaped nor intruded. Yet here Tuck stood. There had to be a reason for it.

Tuck straightened and caught Bode's eye, and no look at all passed between them. It was the complete lack of expression that communicated caution.

Bode knew the moment that Crocker pushed Comfort into Tucker's line of sight, because the older man's eyes swiveled in that direction, and although he had been expecting something like it, his loose-limbed frame went rigid. It made Bode wonder if Crocker had poked Comfort with the gun again.

“Go on,” Crocker ordered, nudging Comfort forward. “Everyone. Inside. We need to conclude this business.” He glanced briefly at the front door but kept moving Comfort ahead of him.

Tucker slowly backed into the study. Bode started to follow but was ordered to wait until Comfort caught up to him. They entered as a pair with Crocker close enough behind them to make his shots count if he fired.

Crocker stepped sideways, staying closer to Comfort than Bode. He waved Bode off, told Tucker to halt, and quickly took in his surroundings. His attention alighted on Newt sitting behind the wide walnut desk. “Let me see your hands.”

Newt raised them, palms out, fingers spread wide. “Nothing here.”

“Stand up.”

Newt did as he was told. “I'd be obliged if you'd point your gun somewhere else. I'd take it real kindly if you'd point it at me or my partner, say, instead of at my niece.”

“I like it where it is. Come around the desk so I can see all of you. Slowly. No need to be a jack-in-the-box just now. Jones. You sit on the sofa. Bode, you put yourself right beside him.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Kennedy, you stay just where you are. How you holding up?”

Comfort wondered if he truly expected an answer. She followed Newt as he moved around the desk and hitched a hip on the back edge. He folded his arms across his chest and looked for all the world as if there were nothing at all unusual about conducting business in the middle of the night and at the point of a gun. She wanted to be encouraged by the faint smile she glimpsed hovering about his lips, but Crocker's voice had unleashed an army of tiny spiders that were marching up and down her spine.

James R. Crocker did not like improvisation. He'd carefully thought through what he would do once Beauregard DeLong reappeared, but he'd never considered the possibility that Bode would find sanctuary with Jones and Prescott. There'd been no hint from Bram that he and Bode were rivals for the affections of Miss Kennedy. It made Crocker wonder if Bram had ever thought of his brother as a serious threat. Clearly, a winner had emerged.

Crocker glanced at the lamp Comfort was holding. There was enough light in the study without it, but he liked having her hands occupied. Her quiet concerned him, and her pale, stoic features told him nothing about what she was thinking, or if she was thinking at all. Would she faint? Would she fight? Either would cause a disruption he didn't need.

Her trembling caused the lamplight to flicker and her diamond to flash. It was the ring that caught Crocker's eye. When he looked at Bode, it was with new appreciation for the situation he was confronting.

“You married her,” he said. His words were accompanied by a low chuckle that was as gritty as sand. “I'll be damned.”

“One hopes,” Bode said.

Crocker merely grinned, amused. “You DeLong boys really have no shame. I begin to understand this alliance. Bram said you'd do whatever it took to save Black Crowne. Even I didn't suppose that could mean you'd marry his fiancée.” He looked at Newt and Tuck for confirmation. “You did insist that he marry her, I hope, before you agreed to make an offer for his business.”

No one responded. Crocker took it in stride. “Where're my men?”

“Your men?” asked Bode. “That's the second time you've referred to them that way. Men who take orders, you said.”

“My
friends
.” He stared pointedly at Newt.

Newt shrugged. “I'm not sure why you need any friends save for the one you have in your hand. That's a Walker Colt, isn't it?”

“It is.”

“Thought it might be. Tucker and I each have one like it.” He held up his hands again to show they were empty. “Not on us. Not now. But we're familiar with it.”

“That so.”

Newt nodded. “Military issue. Colt sent a thousand of them to the Texas Rangers for the Mexican War. You recollect that, Tuck?”

“I do,” said Tuck. “Stamped them all. B Co. #41. Were you part of that company, Crocker? Seems like you might have been.”

Before Crocker could respond, Newt inserted another opinion. “Just as likely that he stole it.”

Tuck shook his head. “Don't think so. There're better guns around now. Bet you twenty that's a sentimental piece he's holding.”

“Twenty it is.” Newt raised an inquiring eyebrow at Crocker. “Sentiment or stolen? Twenty dollars hangs in the balance.”

Crocker stared at them, disbelief etched deeply on his face.

Bode's sardonic chuckle came from the back of his throat. There was no hint that it was forced or that it left the taste of acid on his tongue. “They're serious, Crocker. If you want to do business with Jones Prescott, you have to accept there will be certain peculiarities in the rhythm of negotiations. I don't suppose a gun changes that.”

“Christ,” Crocker said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and stretched his neck above the collar of his shirt. Out of habit he reached for his tin of lozenges. His hand hung awkwardly in the air as he remembered the tin he'd brought with him as well as the one he'd stolen were both empty. He patted down the bulge in his pocket anyway while he jerked his chin at Bode. “Tell them what I want.”

“I think they understand.”

“Tell them anyway.”

Bode shrugged. “All right. But you're confusing peculiar with stupid.”

“That's a fact,” said Tuck, looking sideways at Bode. “You do what he says. The gun's a distraction, but Newt and I will try to pay real close attention.”

“Mr. Crocker wants you and Newt to withdraw the offer you made Mr. Bancroft for Black Crowne. The men he represents aren't willing to offer more.”

“No surprise there,” Newt said. “Most of what comes out of Sacramento is shortsighted.” He addressed Crocker. “How's this supposed to work exactly? We tell you that we'll square things with Bancroft, and you go on your way?”

“More or less.”

“Which is it?” asked Tuck. “More? Or less?”

“I'll need more than your assurance.”

“Thought you might. It's insurance, then.”

“That's right.”

“Newt and I require specifics. Bode, too, I imagine, since Black Crowne is his family's business.”

Crocker angled his head in Comfort's direction. “I'll be escorting my insurance out of here.”

Tuck looked at Comfort. “What do you think about that, Comfort? You want to go with Mr. James R. Crocker?”

She gave a small, fiercely negative shake of her head.

“I didn't think so.” His attention returned to Crocker. “She doesn't want to go with you. Perhaps you should reconsider.”

“Wish I could.”

Bode stood suddenly. “Take me.” He ignored Crocker motioning him to sit again. “I'll go with you.” He willed Comfort to look at him and gave her a glimpse of his guarded smile. “And I won't be half the trouble.”

“She's no trouble at all. I don't see how you can be half of that.”

“No trouble now,” said Bode.

“I'll take my chances.”

Bode offered a careless shrug. “You probably think that gun improves your odds of getting her to do what you want. I'm telling you, it doesn't. What I can't figure is why you don't know that.”

Newt knuckled the underside of his chin thoughtfully. “Have to say that Bode's got a point. It's hard to believe the Rangers didn't tell you what a scrapper she is. Tuck and I didn't do too badly against them when we were attacked, but Comfort here held her own better than either one of us.”

Crocker arched an eyebrow. Behind his mustache, his slim smile was mocking. “Right up until the moment they stole her away.”

“There were five or six of them,” Newt said, unperturbed.

“And not a gun among them,” said Crocker. “These Rangers like weapons that get them in close. I've always preferred some distance.”

Tuck clapped one hand on his knee. “I knew it.
These
Rangers, you said. You
were
with the Texas Rangers.” He pointed to the Walker Colt. “Sentiment trumps practicality. That's twenty you owe me, Newt, but don't trouble yourself to get it now. Double or nothing, James R. Crocker's a deserter.”

“I was thinking a thief,” said Newt. “But you could be right. Deserter fits. Still, I'll take the bet.” He jerked his chin at Crocker, who was simultaneously clearing his throat and tugging on the collar of his shirt. “Now see that right there, Crocker, the way you slip a finger inside your collar and pull at it? If I did that, everyone here would know my collar was too stiff or too tight on account of me having a neck like a bull, but we can all see that isn't the case with you. Not that you have a scrawny neck. Looks normal size to me. You, Tuck?”

“Normal size.”

Newton nodded. “Maybe stretched a little, though. I've been thinking about that. Sometimes when you give your shirt a good yank, I can make out the rope scar. You must've wiggled pretty good on the noose to get burned that deeply. Damaged your voice box, too. That's why you sound like you're swallowing glass when you talk, in spite of you always clearing your throat.”

“And,” Tuck said, “why you keep reaching for the inside pocket of your jacket. There's something in there you want. A tin, maybe? Could be you have a taste for Dr. Eli Kennedy's Comfort Lozenges. The peppermint ones in the red-and-white tin like you dropped at the opera house.”

“It's empty,” Bode said quietly. “That's why he took Comfort's.”

“Guess that makes him a thief,” Tuck said. He regarded Crocker through narrowing eyes. “You've always been one, I imagine. A thing like that goes bone deep. Unless you tell me they strung you up for deserting, it looks like I owe my partner forty.”

Crocker didn't say anything.

Newt watched the man swallow hard. “You must have a powerful urge right about now to give your collar another jerk. If you were a deserter all those years ago, I guess you've got some kind of notion what it was like for the men fighting with you. I can't help but notice no one's arrived to back you up. Seems you're the one that's been deserted this time. Always strikes me funny how things have a way of evening out.”

Crocker slowly reached into his pocket and took out the tins. At a glance he could see which one had belonged to Comfort. He slipped the more brightly colored one back inside his jacket and held on to the other. “It seems like there's been a lot of fuss made over a little thing like this.”

Tuck said, “She treasures it. You might want to give it back to her.” He glanced at Comfort. “Go on, Comfort. Put the lamp down so Mr. Crocker can give you back your tin.”

Crocker opened his mouth to tell her stay where she was, but she was already turning to set the oil lamp on a nearby table. When she was done, she faced him, not defiantly, not fearfully, but virtually without expression. Her hands hung limply at her sides, and her dark eyes were wide and vacant. She seemed oblivious to the gun he leveled at her. Neither did she look at the tin.