The Ballad of Emma O'Toole (16 page)

He shook his head. “Even with the pump, there are no guarantees the Constellation will keep paying. I wouldn’t risk your money—”

“Our money,” Emma interjected. “And I understand the risk.”

“Hear me out,” he growled. “Even for a sure thing, I wouldn’t touch that money.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not? I’m your wife!”

“Is your memory that short? I shot your fiancé, Emma. I killed the man who staked that claim. You’re entitled to your inheritance. But for me, anything I took from the sale of that claim would be blood money. It would be like robbing the man I killed. I won’t have any part of it.”

Emma rose, quivering. “Of all the arrogant, self-righteous blather, Logan Devereaux, that beats all. The money’s mine to do with as I like. I’m offering it to you. And you’re refusing it out of stupid, stubborn male pride.” She folded the bank draft and stuffed it into her bodice. “Fine! Go ahead and lose the mine! At
least you’ll have your precious integrity. I hope that’s enough to keep you warm at night.”

Emma froze as her words died into silence. Had she really said those awful things to the man she loved? If only she could take them back. But when she looked into Logan’s lifeless eyes, she knew it was too late.

“I think we need some time apart, Emma,” he said, rising from the table.

Emma stood rooted to the spot as he strode into the bedroom. Minutes later he emerged carrying his packed valise. “If you need anything I’ll be staying at the mine,” he said. “But with all that money, I expect you’ll get along fine without me.”

Emma willed her legs to support her until the door closed behind him. She listened as his footsteps crossed the porch, descended the stairs and faded into stillness. Only then did she collapse onto a kitchen chair and bury her face in her hands.

At the mine, Logan stabled the horse and set up a cot in his office—if it could still be called an office, since he no longer had an operation or any employees.

It was too early for bed, and he wouldn’t have slept, anyway. As the moon rose above
the far hills, he prowled like a restless cat, his thoughts churning.

He’d been harder on Emma than she deserved. Her offer of money to save the mine had sprung from the sweetest of intentions. But after they’d both lost their tempers, it had seemed wisest to leave, so here he was, preparing to spend the night—and maybe the rest of his life—alone.

Emma, he knew, would be better off without him. She had plenty of money now, and no baby to care for. She could go anywhere, do anything she wanted to. And once she was legally free, she’d have no end of suitors to choose from. If she used her pretty head she could do much better than a footloose gambler whose fortunes depended on the whims of Lady Luck.

Everything she’d said about him was true—he was as proud and foolish as any man on earth. But right now, his manhood was all he had left. Sacrifice that, and he’d have nothing.

His gaze surveyed the grounds and climbed the towering height of the hoist works. Despite the worry involved, he’d relished being a man of property. Now he was on the verge of losing it all.

How long would he have before the bank foreclosed on the mine? If he could raise
enough money for the pump, he’d be back in business. But he needed to move fast.

Taking Emma’s offer was out of the question. That left him with just one fragile hope. Tomorrow he would go to the bank, withdraw the cash from his account and set out to do what he did best. He was, after all, a gambler—a damned good one, truth be told.

Could he win enough to save the mine? The odds against him were staggering. But he had to try. If he went down, by heaven, he would go down fighting to the end.

Tired beyond words, Logan turned and trudged back the way he’d come. Part of him yearned to fling a saddle on the horse, gallop back to the house on Rossie Hill and gather his wife into his arms. But any healing, if it ever came, would have to wait. What he had to do now, he could only do alone.

Emma walked out of Sam Raddon’s office, a handsome payment tucked into her pocketbook. Raddon had just bought a second editorial piece from her and paid her an extra $120 from the Eastern papers that had picked up her first story. Her work was beginning to catch on. She should have been dancing down the
boardwalk. But today she couldn’t even manage a smile.

Logan hadn’t been home in the past ten days. Emma knew he was living at the mine and spending his time at the gambling tables. But not until this morning had she actually seen him.

On her way to the newspaper office, she’d glanced across the street and spotted him in the doorway of a saloon. Rumpled, unshaven and hollow-eyed, her husband looked like a man who’d stumbled out of hell.

Not wanting to make a public scene, Emma had pretended not to see him. But she was sick with worry. After a stop by the bank, she made the decision to seek out Doc in the upstairs rooms he rented above his old dental office.

When Doc’s voice answered her knock, she opened the unlocked door and entered. The old man was seated in his cluttered kitchen, enjoying a breakfast of buckwheat cakes with maple syrup. He didn’t seem the least surprised to see her. “I was wondering when you’d be coming by, girl,” he said. “I’d have paid you a visit but, you know, my poor old knees…”

“I understand.” Emma’s hands fidgeted with her pocketbook. “I suppose you know why I’m here.”

“I can guess. Grab yourself a plate and have some pancakes with an old man.”

“I’ve eaten,” Emma lied, taking a seat. After what she’d seen, she couldn’t have swallowed a mouthful. “But please go ahead. We can visit while you eat.”

“So you won’t have to wonder, I talked to your husband a few days ago,” Doc said. “He told me what had happened. I’m right sorry. Hope the two of you can patch things up. Have you seen him?”

“Not until today.” Emma related the circumstances. “He looked terrible, Doc. Has he been drinking?”

“Not a drop, girl. He’s been gambling like a madman, day and night, living on coffee and not much else. He’s trying to save his mine the only way he knows how.”

“But that’s so senseless! I offered him the money.”

“He told me. He also told me that he wouldn’t take it.” Doc shook his head. “Logan’s a proud man, Emma. All you can do is let him work this out his way.”

“But you should’ve seen him this morning. He looked ready to collapse! Is he winning?”

The old man shrugged. “He doesn’t say, and I know better than to ask. But he’s been playing
with some pretty high rollers. Too rich for my blood, I can tell you that much.”

“He’ll ruin his health if he doesn’t stop. And he’s running the risk of losing everything he’s saved. Can’t you tell him that?”

“I doubt he’d listen. Not to me or to you.” Doc put down his fork and looked directly at Emma. “Do you love him?”

Emma twisted the thin gold band on her finger, the one that had belonged to Doc’s beloved wife. Logan had offered to replace it with something more impressive, but Emma had declined. This was the ring that had made her his bride.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I love him.”

“Then let him be a man. Let him do this, and if he fails, let him dust himself off and start over. The one thing you mustn’t do is mother him. Do you understand?”

“I think so. But it’s so hard, seeing him struggle when he could just accept my help.”

“I know.” Doc reached across the table and patted her hand. “But Logan loves you. If he didn’t he’d just pack up and leave.”

Thanking the old man for his advice, Emma left him and made her way back to Main Street. She hoped Doc was right about Logan. But blast it, what made men so stubborn? Why did
their pride demand that they do everything the hard way?

The saloon where she’d glimpsed her husband was closed now. She could only hope he’d gotten something to eat and ridden back to the mine for some rest. She toyed with the idea of making him a pie or a batch of oatmeal cookies and leaving them there for him to find. But no, Doc had the right idea. The less she fussed over Logan the better.

Even if it tore her apart to stay away.

Worries gnawed at her. Emma didn’t know much about gambling, but she couldn’t imagine winning enough money to install a pump in a mine. What if Logan couldn’t do it? What if he burned out before he’d won enough or, worse, lost everything on a desperate bet?

Would he come back to her then? Or would he slink out of town, too humiliated to face her?

What if she’d lost him for good?

It was time she faced that possibility. Now that she had money and no longer needed his support, what reason did they have to stay married? She could go her way. He could go his. Maybe they’d both be better off.

Was that what she wanted—her freedom? She’d have given anything for it once, but so much had changed since then.

As she passed the building that housed the
Park Record
, it occurred to Emma that she hadn’t seen Hector Armitage in more than a week. Her last sight of him had been in the alley with Phineas Barton, the bank president. Before that there’d been their ugly encounter on the street.

She’d expected some response from him—a sarcastic comment, at least—when her story had appeared in the Sunday paper. But she’d heard nothing at all. Maybe he’d taken a better paying job someplace else. Emma shook her head at the very notion. There was no way she could be lucky enough to be rid of the little weasel.

Dismissing him from her mind, she crossed the Chinese bridge and started up the hill toward her house. Two women were coming down the road toward her. Unlike most of Rossie Hill’s residents, they were shabbily dressed with braided hair and tired-looking faces. They probably lived in the town below and worked as hired help on the hill. Their husbands, if any, most likely toiled in the mines or the mills.

Accustomed to being ignored, Emma gave them room to pass and was walking on when one of the women called, “Wait, ma’am!”

Emma turned around. To her surprise the women were smiling at her. “You be Emma O’Toole, right, ma’am?” The speaker was unmistakably Cornish.

“I’m Mrs. Devereaux,” Emma said hesitantly.

“Aye, we know that. And it was you wrote that newspaper story about ’ow the mines should be safer for the men.”

“Our menfolk work in the mines,” the other woman put in. “Afore long, it’ll be our boys goin’ down in those cages. Somebody’s got to stand up for the lads, make sure they’re treated proper. We want to thank you, ma’am, for doin’ that.”

“And we want you to know you got a lot of friends in this town for what you done.”

Heartened, Emma thanked the women and continued on her way. At least something in her life was going right. What she’d just been told was worth more than all the money Sam Raddon could ever pay her.

Her first impulse was to share the good news with Logan. But Logan was gone. And after what she’d seen of him today—the wild look, the haunted eyes—Emma knew better than to expect him back tonight. She would not hear his familiar tread across the porch or the sound
of his key turning in the lock. She would not lie safe and warm in the night, lulled by the sound of his breathing.

It was time she got used to being alone.

She was mounting the front steps when she saw the ragged boy waiting on the porch. In one grubby hand, he clutched a white envelope.

“Gentleman said for me to give this to you, ma’am,” he said.

Heart pounding, Emma reached for the envelope, but the boy snatched it behind his back. “Gentleman said you’d give me a nickel.”

Emma doubted the truth of that, but she fished in her pocketbook for a coin. The boy took it, thrust the envelope into her hand and scampered down the steps.

The envelope was sealed, with nothing on the outside but small, dirty fingerprints. Emma’s hands shook as she worked a finger beneath the flap. Could it be from Logan? Was he coming home after all?

Scarcely daring to breathe, she unfolded the sheet of plain white paper. Her heart turned leaden as she read the terse message.

A
rmitage was waiting when Emma arrived at the Chinese café. The grin that lit his face made her want to turn around and leave. But the reporter was clearly up to something. She’d be a fool not to find out what it was.

“Mrs. Devereaux.” He rose and held out her chair. “I hear you’re becoming quite the little journalist. My congratulations.”

“That can’t be the reason you contacted me.” Emma sat on the edge of the chair, glaring up at him. “Get to the point, Armitage. What is it you want?”

Taking his seat, he leaned back in his chair and began polishing his glasses on his pocket handkerchief. The woman behind the counter brought Emma a cup of the same black tea she’d
had here before. Evidently Armitage had already paid for it.

Replacing his glasses, he chuckled. “Such suspicion. It’s written all over your face. You’re much prettier when you smile, my dear.”

He was playing her, making her writhe with impatience. Emma fought the urge to fling the scalding tea in his face. “It’s been a while since I last saw you,” she said. “I was beginning to hope you’d left town.”

His grin broadened. “Actually, I did take a quick train trip to confirm some evidence for a story I’m working on. I only wish I’d had more time to spare. New Orleans is a fascinating city, crawling with secrets…”

He was watching her with cold eyes, the way a snake watches a bird. A chill crept over Emma’s skin. She sipped her tea, willing herself not to react as she sensed what was coming. If he’d been to New Orleans, this had to be about Logan.

“Tell me,” Armitage continued. “Does the name Christián Girard mean anything to you?”

Emma’s heart was pounding. “No. Should it?”

“Indeed it should. You’re married to him.”

Emma’s silence and her stricken face betrayed her true emotions.

Armitage laughed. “So your husband didn’t tell you his real name? Goodness me, what a rascal!” He leaned closer across the table. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, my dear, I don’t suppose he told you he was wanted for murder, either.”

The teacup clattered from Emma’s fingers, slopping hot tea over the table. With effort, she found her voice. “You’re lying! I don’t believe you!”

“I rather thought you wouldn’t. So I brought along some evidence.”

Armitage took a folded paper out of his vest and smoothed it flat on the tablecloth. It was a faded poster. The portrait in its center looked to have been sketched from a photograph. The three-quarter view from the right showed a handsome young man of about twenty with dark hair, chiseled features and piercing eyes. Was it a younger Logan? The resemblance was uncanny, but it didn’t constitute proof.

“Read the text,” Armitage said.

Emma’s eyes scanned the yellowed page. The details jumped out at her.

Emma’s heart contracted. Most of the description could have matched any number of young men. But the mention of the scar, coupled with that striking image…

“My associate in New Orleans researched the police records,” Armitage said. “Seven years ago, Christián Girard murdered Henri Leclerc, the governor’s nephew. Evidently the two had quarreled earlier, something having to do with Girard’s sister. Girard’s knife was found in the man’s chest. Leclerc’s brother swore he’d witnessed the crime and that it was nothing short of cold-blooded murder. Trackers with dogs trailed Girard into the swamp and found his hat floating on a pool of quicksand. The police put out these posters in case he’d escaped, but no trace of him was ever found. Eventually, he was listed as missing and presumed dead.”

Armitage lifted the poster from the table, folded it and replaced it in his vest. “But we know better, don’t we, my dear?”

Feeling sick, Emma stared down at the tea stains soaking into the tablecloth. The story
had to be true. Everything fit, including Logan’s reticence about his past.

She should have been furious with her husband. But right now all she could think of was saving him.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

Armitage smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “As I see it you have three choices. Whichever you choose, I’ll have something to gain, so I’ll leave it up to you.” He paused, leaning back in his chair to study her with narrowed eyes. “I understand you’ve come into a tidy sum of cash.”

“Who told you that?” The words sprang to Emma’s lips.

“Let’s say I have my sources. Five thousand dollars a month would buy my silence as long as you keep the money coming. Twenty-five thousand would buy the poster and my promise of silence for good.”

“Your promise!” Emma shook her head. “That’s a joke, Armitage. I’d put more trust in a skunk. Besides, who’s to say you don’t have an extra poster?”

“Point well-taken. Of course, you could always choose to make monthly payments. But let’s leave that on the table while you consider your second option.” Armitage’s tongue slicked
a path along his lower lip. “You must’ve guessed that I fancy you, Emma, and have from the first time we met. For a weekly visit to my bed…”

“Good Lord, I’d rather pay you!” Emma sprang to her feet, quivering with revulsion. “What if I ignore your blackmail? Say, I walk away and refuse to give you anything?”

“That’s the beauty of my plan. If you pick your third choice and walk away, I publish the scoop that will make my career. In the process, I’ll bring down a man I despise.” He grinned devilishly. “So what’s it to be, my lovely? Whichever choice you make, I win.”

Emma drew a painful breath, her taut ribs straining against her corset. “I need time to think about it. A few days, at least.”

“A thousand dollars cash will buy you twenty-four hours, not a minute more. Go to the bank right now and bring the money here. I’ll be waiting.” He fished his gold watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time. “If you’re not back here in twenty minutes, I’ll take that as your answer, and the story will be on the wire tonight. Understand?”

With a nod, Emma wheeled and rushed toward the door. The bank would be closing soon. She couldn’t afford to be late.

“Mrs. Devereaux.” Armitage’s mocking voice
halted her in the doorway. “I’m well aware that you might warn your husband. But it won’t make any difference. Once I publish my story, the authorities will know all about him. Even if he runs, he won’t be free for long.”

Emma fled toward Main Street. At the bank she withdrew a thousand dollars cash, stuffed it in her bag and rushed back toward the café where Armitage was waiting.

How had the reporter managed to track down Logan’s history? Was Logan’s birthplace listed on his bank account? Was it listed on their marriage record? Or had the reporter simply made an educated guess? A man like Armitage would have eyes and ears everywhere and connections all over the country. The fact that he’d made a trip to New Orleans to confirm Logan’s identity attested to the reporter’s dogged determination.

No doubt he would carry out his threat. Rather than let him destroy Logan, she would pay whatever money he asked. But she knew that no amount would satisfy the little fiend. His demands would only grow more strident. She and Logan would be at his mercy.

The clock was already ticking. Once she’d given Armitage the cash there’d be no question of what to do next.

She had to find Logan.

Storm clouds roiled like boiling tar above the peaks. A stiff breeze whipped Emma’s skirts as she urged the horse up the canyon road. She’d spent the better part of an hour running from one gambling den to the next in a frantic search for Logan. After asking at Doc’s place and going back to check the house, she’d rented a horse from the livery stable and headed for the mine.

Wind howled through the steep canyon. Shadows deepened as clouds flooded the narrow river of sky overhead. Emma slowed the horse to a walk. If the rain broke before she arrived, she’d be drenched, but she couldn’t go faster and take the chance of a fall.

As she rode, she prayed for understanding. She’d never known Logan to be anything but kind. If he’d killed a man there had to be a good reason for it. It wasn’t her place to judge, especially not until she’d heard his side of the story. But his duplicity was another matter. He’d married her, lived with her and hidden his past from her all along. Strangely, that troubled her even more than the murder charge.

Why hadn’t he trusted her with the truth? But she already knew the answer to that question. She’d sworn to punish him for Billy John’s
death. Telling her about his past would’ve been like putting a loaded gun in her hand.

His deception had protected her, as well. If he were to be discovered and caught, she could truthfully claim that she’d been innocent the whole time.

She was innocent no longer.

How could they stay together now? Logan would be forced to run again, as he’d been running for years. This time he would probably need to change his name and appearance. Much as she yearned to, Emma knew she couldn’t go with him. Her presence at his side would only make him easier to recognize, heightening the danger.

Lightning cracked across the sky. Thunder boomed down the canyons as rain began to pour in stinging torrents. Within seconds Emma was soaked to the skin and the road had become a quagmire of spattering mud. Hunching in the saddle she urged the horse forward around the steep, hairpin bends.

One last chance
. That was what Billy John’s ghost had said. Remembering her dream, Emma shivered beneath her wet clothes. All She had to do was turn back, forget about warning Logan, and allow Armitage to publish his exposé. She could have her revenge without
lifting a finger. Logan would be dragged back to New Orleans and likely hanged, carrying out Billy John’s vengeance in the most graphic way.

But she’d turned her back on the ghost. Right now her one concern was saving the man she loved.

At last, through the murk, she could see the outline of the slope where the canyon widened into broad hillsides. A little beyond, she could make out the towering bulk of the shaft house and, lower down, a dim glow through a high window.

Relief lifted Emma’s spirits. He was there.

Minutes later, with the horse hitched under a sheltering eave, she was rushing up the wooden stairs to Logan’s office. The door was unlocked. She flung it open.

The shadowed room, lit by the glow of a potbellied stove, smelled of warmth and fresh coffee. Logan was standing next to his cot, a tin mug in his hand and a startled expression on his face.

“Emma.” The mug dropped unnoticed to the floor as he crossed the room in long strides. In the next instant she was shivering in his arms, holding him as if to bind him to her forever. Emma drank him into her senses, the hard-muscled warmth of his body, the smoky aroma
of his skin. Her arms clung to him until he peeled her away.

“Lord, you’re soaked,” he muttered, looking her up and down. “What are you doing out here on a night like this?”

Emma’s teeth were chattering so violently that she couldn’t speak. Only after he’d led her to the stove and wrapped her in a blanket was she warm enough to tell him why she’d come.

Logan listened gravely to her story about Armitage, his threat and the twenty-four-hour deal she’d made. “You’ve got to get out of the country now,” she said. “I’m willing to pay what he asks, but even that won’t keep you safe. As long as he knows who you are and where to find you—”

“Hush, sweetheart.” He gathered her close again, warming her through the blanket. His lips grazed her hairline, her forehead, her closed eyelids. “Nobody’s going to come after me tonight in this storm. We can talk about it and decide what to do. Whatever happens, I’m not letting that little worm take any more of your money.”

She stared up at him. “But you’ll be on the run once he publishes that story. If you’re caught you’ll be taken back to New Orleans
and hanged! You’ve got to disguise yourself and leave town before—”

“I said hush.” He laid a finger on her lips. “Don’t you even want to know what happened?”

“It doesn’t matter! I just want you safe!”

He kissed her gently. “Nobody’s going anywhere tonight, including you. I’m guessing your horse is outside. Get out of those wet clothes while I stable him. Then we’ll talk.”

Throwing on an oilskin, he strode out into the storm. Emma peeled off her wet garments and draped them over the spare furnishings in the room. By the time Logan returned, she was standing before the stove, wrapped in a flannel sheet she’d pulled off the bed.

“Now, that’s more like it.” He tossed the oilskin aside. “Want some coffee?”

When Emma shook her head, he took the leather-upholstered chair from behind his desk and moved it into the circle of heat that ringed the stove. Taking a seat, he reached out and pulled Emma onto his lap. She curled against him, feeling warm and protected.

Would it be for the last time?

He nested her head beneath his chin. “Husbands and wives shouldn’t hold back secrets from each other,” he said. “I should’ve told you the truth a long time ago.”

“How could you, knowing what I might have done with it?”

“It would’ve been a risk. But you deserved to know. You deserve to know now.”

“Tell me.”

His arms tightened around her. “My legal name is Christián Girard. I grew up in a loving family—my grandmother, my parents, myself and my younger sister, Angelique.

“My sister was a beautiful girl. Once she turned sixteen, plenty of men wanted to court her, but she was still a child in many ways. My father and I were very protective of her innocence.”

Logan shook his head. “Sadly, we couldn’t watch her all the time. Like too many young girls, she was impulsive and eager for romance. When she was seventeen, a man named Henri Leclerc, the nephew of the governor, met her in church and began to lure her with pretty words. Soon she was sneaking out to walk with him at night.” Emotion crept into Logan’s voice. “She was so naive. I don’t think she had the first notion of what went on between men and women. But she learned—when the bastard raped her.”