Romancing the West (24 page)

“What about revolvers?”

He snapped his suspenders, frowned. “Shooting yourself seems a mite extreme.”

That lured a smile out of him. “I’m interested in purchasing a gun for protection.”

Thompson glanced at the arm Doc had patched. “Been hassled, have you?”

The man reminded him of a big-eared innkeeper he knew back in Florence. A Nosey-Nate and a gossip.

“It’s for Miss McBride.”

“She been hassled?”

“If someone were to threaten her, I’d like to ensure she has the means to protect herself.”

Seth chose his words carefully, wanting them to get around. “I’ll be purchasing a firearm for Mrs. Dunlap, too.”

“Two women living alone, aways from town. I see what you mean. Mighty thoughtful of you.” Dollar signs shone in his eyes as he motioned Seth to the opposite side of the mercantile. “Don’t sell a lot of hardware, but I keep the store stocked. You never know.”

“No, you don’t.” He inspected a .32 Derringer revolver and Remington Single-Barrel Shotgun. “These will do.”

“I can dictate specifications--”

“No need. How much?”

Thompson stated a price, including ammunition, and a special holster.

Seth paid in cash. “Miss McBride won’t be coming into town today,” he said matter-of-factly as Thompson stowed the money in his register. “We’ll be riding for Napa City to replace her spectacles.”

The older man winced. “Mrs. Thompson was real sorry about the mishap.”

“Accidents happen,” he said with a pleasant smile. “As long as I’m here, I thought I’d check and see if any packages arrived for the ladies. I believe Mrs. Dunlap ordered a new pair of knitting needles.” His real interest was the mail in general and any insight Thompson could give him regarding the letters from San Francisco. Not so much the ones Emily had received from the blackmailer, but the ones she’d written in return. Where had she sent the money?

“Mail won’t arrive until later this afternoon. Don’t expect the needles for another few weeks, but there’s bound to be something for Emily. Between Paris Garrett, or whatever her married name is, and her special friend in San Francisco, letters and packages are always a comin’ and a goin’ for Emily.”

Seth’s mouth went dry. “Special friend?”

“Mr. Herman Beeslow.”

E
mily bathed, dressed, and ate breakfast, and still Pinkerton had not returned. What was taking him so long? Had he snooped in the barn, discovered her chest? Had he ridden into town to wire the Napa County Reporter with her juicy secret? Not that she thought he’d do such a thing, but
someone
had pried into her affairs at some point. Specifically, her
Savior.
Paranoid, she ventured outside and into the barn. To her relief, her treasure chest was exactly where she’d hidden it, lock intact.

She’d hoisted the small chest into the hayloft the day after she received the first blackmail letter. Then she’d filled it with every journal, every manuscript page, every draft of every story she’d ever written and saved. In his first letter, her
Savior
had included an original page from
The Downfall of Dutch McCree.
Proof that he knew her secret. There were no drafts of that particular story. She’d written the tale in one sitting and mailed it directly to Mr. Beeslow. Only he never received it. That had been almost two months ago.

Once she realized her Savior had intercepted the package, she refrained from mailing more tales. She did, however, correspond with Mr. Beeslow via two brief letters. She didn’t mention she was being blackmailed, simply that she needed a break. She’d been writing adventure yarns non-stop for a full year. He’d promised to break the news to the publisher, but encouraged her to continue work on her historical romance.

Like Paris, he believed she was destined to write novels in addition to her short pulp tales.

“Your yarns are fun”
her musical friend had said,
“but think of the lives you could touch with a novel-length adventure!’’

“You’ve only tapped the surface of your talent”
Mr. Beeslow often wrote.

If only her parents could have recognized her storytelling as a gift.

Emily unlocked the trunk and pushed open the lid. Beneath an art book and two research books on human sexuality, lay drafts of her swashbuckling tale, trial love scenes between Antonio and Constance. Scenes that read like a scientific breakdown of lovemaking. Scenes lacking the benefit of personal experience. She rolled her eyes at her attempts at eroticism. The scene she’d written after Pinkerton’s kiss gushed with twice the passion and yet the language was tame. Proving that the power is not in the word, but in the feelings it evokes.

Beneath those pages were tales from her youth, and beneath those, her adventure yarns. She lovingly touched the stories she used to hide under her bed. Stories unbefitting a preacher’s daughter. Stories her mother should have adored and encouraged because they were very much in the vein of the books she loved. They weren’t novel-length, but they were packed with romantic intrigue. Dashing, courageous heroes, and heroines of all manner--blushing, daring, in distress, in command. Bigger-than-life characters embracing over-the-top adventures.

Her tales weren’t scandalous. They were entertaining. Lots of people liked them, and the more she wrote, the higher her income had become. That money was supposed to finance her Grand Design. At first it had been about sharing one great adventure with her mother. Then it had been about surviving.

Now, she thought as she closed and locked the lid, it was about letting go and moving on.

Before Pinkerton, she’d felt stuck. Stuck in Heaven. Stuck living a lie. His friendship had yanked her out of the darkness, into the light. His kiss had inspired passionate prose and a new outlook on life. He’d touched and stirred something deep inside, something she dare not examine too closely. Instinctively, she knew she needed to detach emotionally for her plan to succeed.

“I can do this,” she mumbled to herself as she descended the ladder.

Hands encircled her waist as she neared the bottom rungs. “Do what?”

Pinkerton.

Drat!

A consummate gentleman, he helped her down. When she turned, he released her, but held his ground. They stood very close. Her heart beat very hard. Part of her wanted to rush him out of the barn, away from her stories. Part of her wanted to read her favorites aloud and see the approval in his eyes. Still another part of her wanted to ravish him where he stood. Her body thrummed with the memory of that kiss. Mercy. “I was just . . . there were . . . rats.”

“Rats?”

“I’ve had a problem with rats.”

“In the hayloft?”

“Precisely. Where were you?”

“In town. Didn’t you get my note?”

“Yes, but . . .” She cleared her throat. “You were gone so long and I worried that maybe--”

“What?”

“I’d scared you off.”

His Stetson shadowed his eyes, but she felt his keen regard.

Nervous, she focused on a horseshoe nailed to the wall for good fortune. Unfortunately, it had swung up-side down, allowing the luck to run out. “You know,” she said, throat tight. “The kiss.”

He remained silent and her discomfort intensified.

“Are you sorry?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did you hate it?”

“Wish I could say I did.”

She wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound bad. She’d definitely broach her proposal today. She chanced his intense gaze. Maybe.

She swallowed, took off his spectacles. “Thank you for sharing these with me.”

“Keep them. You need them more than I do.”

“But . . . aren’t we going to Napa City?”

“We are. When we replace your spectacles you can return mine.” He looked up at the hayloft.

Her pulse skipped. “Well then.” She breezed past him and out of the barn, hoping he’d follow. He did.

She stopped short of an unfamiliar horse. A beautiful Palomino. Taller and broader than Guinevere. “Where’d she come from?”

“She’s a he. His name is Streak and he’s mine for a spell. Roads are too muddy to travel by buggy.”

“So we’re going to ride?”

“That a problem?”

“No.” It’s just that she’d imagined them in the buggy, thigh to thigh, a lazy ride enabling easy conversation.

“Good.” He reached into Streak’s saddlebag, produced a small holster and gun.

“What’s that?”

“A Derringer.”

“What’s it for?”

“Protection.”

“Kind of puny compared to your Colt.”

“Deadly if you use it right.”

She thought back on her shooting lesson. “Strong stance. Tight grip. Focus. Fire--slow and smooth.”

He didn’t smile, but his eyes sparkled with approval. “Lift your skirt.”

She blinked.

“The revolver’s for you, Em. It’s a leg holster. You’re better off concealing your piece.”

“You bought me a revolver?” Her heart fluttered as though he’d presented her with flowers.

“And a shotgun.” He crouched and she hiked up the fabric of her split skirt. He worked swiftly, attaching the holster around her stockinged leg with detached expertise. “I’ll leave the Remington with Mrs. Dunlap. She ought to have more protection against an intruder than your busted shotgun.”

“She could always stab him with her knitting needles,” she joked. He didn’t laugh.

It occurred to her that Phineas Pinkerton was moody. Then again so was she. Paris had always been a tad dramatic. Must be an artistic thing.

His hands lingered at her ankle as he lowered her skirt into place. She imagined him unhooking her boots, rolling down stockings. His fingers gliding up her bare leg and touching her womanly center.

She sighed, thinking, she could live with moody.

He cursed under his breath then rose and withdrew the shotgun from its scabbard. “Wait here. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Dunlap then we’ll set off.”

He turned for the house, shotgun in hand, and she shivered. Her infatuation with his actions finally turned to the reality of them. “You’re expecting trouble.”

“Always.”

“See that stained glass front window? New. The mirror in the back bar? New. I’d be mighty peeved if they got shattered because a bottle or body smashed into them.”

Rome considered the barkeep of Percy’s Poker Palace with a raised brow. “That’s a hell of a welcome home, Tom.”

“Welcome home.” He slid two mugs of beer into the brothers’ hands. “Don’t bust up my place.”

“You’d think we get into a tussle every time we visit Percy’s.”

“Sounds about right,” Boston said.

Rome grinned. “Guess it does.”

They drank their beers, scanned the premises. Small and gaudy compared to the Gilded Garrett. Then again it wasn’t an upscale opera house. It was a gambling hall with a stage. A place to drink, play poker, ogle dancing girls, and get laid.

Late afternoon. Hardly a body in the place. Percy’s didn’t come alive until early evening. The few souls in attendance had noted the Garrett brothers’ entrance with nods and smiles. Old timers who wiled away the afternoons drinking coffee and playing cards. Poker and faro dealers. A house pianist and a few doves. Rome and Boston knew them all. They’d been frequenting Percy’s since they were barely young men. They’d raised a lot of hell in this bawdy. Tom had reason for concern.

It didn’t help that they were trail weary and wound tight. Just in from San Francisco, they’d decided to stop for drinks and a meal before heading home. They weren’t looking forward to the domestic task at hand. They’d rather be tracking I. M. Wilde.