Romancing the West (25 page)

Rome’s mood soured every time he thought about the bastard. How had he learned about that kiss? What else did he know about the Garretts? Tipping off the public to an adulterous indiscretion had earned him a suspension. Betraying an industry secret could cost him and his brother their careers.

As much as he enjoyed the perks of being portrayed as a legendary hero, he despised the thought of someone infringing on his integrity. The possibility that Wilde had trailed them and listened in on private conversations made him want to pummel the man. No doubt part of the reason London had sent him and Boston to handle the sale of the estate. He wanted them to cool off before they confronted the writer or his publisher and made a bad situation worse.

Still and all, Wilde needed to be silenced before he wrote them into retirement. Or their graves. London was right. He was damn lucky Osprey Smith hadn’t shot him in the balls. That’s what he would’ve done were the situation reversed.

Rome set his empty mug on the bar. Tom refilled it. “Guess you boys will be cooling your heels here in Heaven for awhile,” he said with a knowing smile.

“Guess you heard about our suspension,” Boston said outright.

“Story ran in the Napa County Reporter yesterday.”

“Considering how fast news travels in this town,” Boston said, “stands to reason most everyone’s privy.”

“Yup.”

“What’s the word?”

Tom topped off Boston’s beer, slid a jar of pickled eggs their way. “They’re applauding you for sticking up for your brother.” He jerked a thumb at Rome. “It’s his behavior they’re questioning.”

“Can’t fall too far from grace,” Rome said. “I’ve never been an angel.”

“No,” Tom said. “But you never screwed another man’s wife neither.”

“That we know of,” Boston joked while helping himself to an egg.

Rome cast him a sidelong glare.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Tom said. “Your reputation ain’t taken nearly the beating as Miss McBride’s.”

“Emily?” the brothers said as one.

Tom spent the next few minutes filling them in on one Phineas Pinkerton, poet. It didn’t surprise Rome that she’d taken a writer under her wing. Emily had been cooking up stories since she was a kid. Part of the reason she got on so well with Paris. Vivid imaginations. Artistic sensibilities. He could imagine her sticking up for the scribe when folks called him names like Nancy boy and Fancy Pants, even though Tom was certain the names fit. Emily used to stick up for his sister when they called her Goofy Garrett. He’d always liked that about her. Shy until you insulted a loved one, then she said her piece. Didn’t look the offender in the eye, but gave them hell all the same.

“So she took in a male boarder,” Boston said. “From what you’re saying, Pinkerton’s harmless. Plus, she’s got a constant chaperone. Mrs. Dunlap.”

“Not so constant.” Tom braced his forearms on the bar, leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Yesterday, Mr. Bellamont escorted Mrs. Dunlap into town. First we’ve seen of her in months. Far as we can tell Miss McBride and Mr. Pinkerton were alone in that house for hours. Day before that they went off to Weaver’s Meadow. Together. Without Mrs. Dunlap,” he added in case they weren’t catching on.

“You hear that from Mrs. Dunlap?” Rome asked.

“Doc Kellogg. Later that day he treated the poet for a gunshot wound. Apparently he was giving Miss McBride shooting lessons.”

Boston scratched his forehead. “Are you saying Emily accidentally shot him?”

“Why in the hell is she handling a gun?” Rome added.

Tom shrugged. “Some folks think it might have been Cole Sawyer and that it might have been on purpose. He had words with Pinkerton at the Lemonade and Storytelling meeting.”

Rome inclined his head. “About?”

“Emily.”

He and Boston looked at one another then back at Tom.

“Sawyer asked her to marry him. She said, no, but he hasn’t given up. Doesn’t like that Pinkerton’s sleeping under the same roof as Miss McBride. Doesn’t like the way he touches her. All familiar like,” he added when Rome raised a questioning brow.

He then went on to describe how she fainted in the mercantile and how the poet had fussed over her. He’d gotten the lowdown from Boris Shultz and Frank Biggins. Being a barkeep and proprietor of the town’s only saloon, he heard all of the gossip. Want to know something about someone in Heaven? Ask Tom Percy or Ezekiel Thompson.

Rome didn’t know what to think of Phineas Pinkerton. The name sounded familiar. Possible he’d seen him on stage. Maybe even at the Gilded Garrett. If not him, his type. For that reason he wasn’t overly concerned about the man making inappropriate advances. Cole on the other hand . . . He and Rome were the same age. They grew up together, had the same taste in women. “What’s Cole see in Emily?”

“Same thing as Bellamont, I guess. An available young woman. Ain’t many around, you know. Least wise of the virginal nature.”

Boston held up his palm. “Hold up. Claude Bellamont proposed to Emily?” Tom nodded.

“He’s old enough to be her father,” Rome said.

“So what? He’s rich. She’d be set. Instead, she’s scraping by and taking in forgetful widows and swishy poets. I don’t know if she’s pining for her folks or skimping on meals, but she’s a skinny thing now. Folks say she’s gone . . .” He twirled a finger next to his ear.

The brothers pushed away their mugs and straightened.

Tom held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Forgot some used to say that about your sister. No offense intended.”

Rome dragged his fingers over his hair, braced his hands on his hips. “Did she turn down Bellamont,

too?”

“Yup.”

“That’s something,” Boston said. He wiped his hands on a towel, smoothed his moustache. “London said he was worried.”

“Guess he had cause,” Rome said.

“Same for the Blossom Dance,” Tom continued, clearly absorbed in Emily’s saga. “Refused Cole and Bellamont’s invitations. But she accepted Pinkerton’s. Attend the dance this weekend and you’ll get to meet the poet yourself.”

Rome set his hat on his head, tugged down the brim. “I’m thinking we should ride out there now.”

“You read my mind.” Boston paid for their drinks and pushed off of the bar.

“Won’t do you any good,” Tom said. “They ain’t home. Rode to Napa City. Got that from Cole who got it from Mrs. Dunlap when he stopped by to call on Emily. “Speaking of. . .”

He glanced up at the doves’ private rooms.

Rome looked that way, too. Cole was descending the stairs, tucking in his shirt. He looked spent and drunk, and Rome got pissed when he thought about him trying to seduce sweet Emily McBride.

Cole hit the last step and caught sight of him. “You son of a bitch.”

Rome unbuckled his holster, passed it to Tom. “You best hold on to this.”

Boston passed his hardware over the bar as well. “Just in case.”

“I knew it,” Tom complained.

Patrons who’d witnessed many a bar brawl cleared a path as Cole staggered toward the Garretts.

“If it weren’t for you,” he said to Rome, “I’d be married by now.”

“Fail to see how I’m standing in your way, Cole.”

“Emily’s smitten with you. Always has been. If you’d had the decency to tell her you weren’t interested, she’d have purged you from her heart by now. But, no. You led her on.”

“The hell I did.”

“The hell you didn’t.”

Even though Boston held silent, Rome knew his mind. He was siding with Cole on this one. Not that he’d ever say. And, dammit, he was right. He knew Emily had a crush on him and he’d never addressed it. He hadn’t taken her seriously. He’d even winked at her a time or two, just to see her blush. Shit.

Cole clenched his fists. “You ruined Emily as sure as you ruined that politician’s wife.”

“Take it outside,” Tom said.

Nobody moved.

“You look pissed, Rome.” Cole swayed a little, flashed a cocky smile. “Have a change of heart? Interested in Emily now that she’s tainted?”

Rome shrugged out of his duster.

“I’d shut up if I were you, Cole,” Boston warned.

“You can have her.” The booze blind rancher swiped his hands together as if wiping them clean of Emily. “I’m through with the crazy slut.”

“Hell,” Tom grumbled. “There goes my mirror.”

T
he ride to Napa City didn’t go the way Emily had planned. She’d intended to ease her way into her proposal by learning more about Pinkerton and his past. She knew nothing of his family, his friends, his work, while he knew a good deal about her world. She wanted to know about his parents, his life as a traveling poet, his experiences as an intuitive detective. But every time she asked a question, he maneuvered the focus back on her.

After a while she got miffed. “If you don’t want to talk about your life, just say so.”

“I don’t want to talk about my life.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not as interesting as yours.”

“Surely that’s a matter of perspective.”

“From where I’m sitting, your life is infinitely more intriguing.” He leaned forward, flicked away a fly from Streak’s twitching ear. “Any chance Herman Beeslow’s
Your Savior?”

She started and slipped sideways, her left foot jerking out of the stirrup. The question was out of the blue and packed an almighty punch. “How do you know about Mr. Beeslow?”

“I offered to pick up mail for you and Mrs. Dunlap when I was at the mercantile.” He urged Streak closer, reached over and helped her realign her foot as she struggled for balance and composure. “Nothing as of this morning, but Thompson said there might be something later today. Mentioned the steady flow of packages exchanged between you and Herman Beeslow.”

Ezekiel talked too much. Why was her correspondence anyone’s business? “Did Mr. Thompson also mention Mr. Beeslow’s a bookseller?”

“He did. And that his bookstore is in San Francisco.”

“So?”

“Those blackmail letters were postmarked--”

“I know. But he didn’t send them.” She bit her lower lip, looked at the trees, the flowers, anything but Pinkerton. “The library does not fill all of my needs. What I can’t find there, be it fiction or nonfiction, I get from Mr. Beeslow. I can’t afford to purchase every book, so we established a borrowing system.”

“What does he get out of it?”

“That’s awfully cynical.”

“Realistic.”

Careful not to look him in the eye, she relayed their concocted tale. “Mr. Beeslow is writing a children’s book. I’m critiquing his work.” There. That sounded plausible. Didn’t it?

“Is he returning the favor? Critiquing your pirate story? The love scenes between Constance and Antonio? Did he send you those art books you were telling me about, the ones with nude sketches?”

Her face burned red. “It’s not like that. Those were legitimate art books. You make it sound so--”

“Tawdry?”

Flustered, she jerked her gaze to his. “Mr. Beeslow is not blackmailing me.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Her stomach turned and she realized, no, she was not sure. How could she be sure? She’d never met Mr. Beeslow in person. But he was so kind. So accommodating. She hated that Pinkerton had planted a seed of suspicion.
I know your secret.
Mr. Beeslow certainly did.

“I’m only trying to help, Em.”

“I know.”

“I’d like to rid you of your blackmailer, so you can get on with your life.”

“I’m thinking along the same lines.”

“You’re not going to tell me what this person has on you, are you?”

Her heart raced, her brow beaded with sweat. It felt so huge, so complicated. Her reputation was at stake along with cherished friendships. She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t breathe. The reins fell away as she clasped her hands to her chest and bent forward, gasping for air.