The Fall of Rome (12 page)

London shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t do. She’s ill. Nothing serious, according to Doc Vargas, just exhaustion and a mild case of influenza.”

She frowned. “All the more reason not to bring her here. Influenza is contagious, and children are exceptionally vulnerable. If--”

“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.” Not straight anyhow. Tori Adams had his brain working every which way His heart raced every time he thought about the fragile woman who’d walked through his swinging doors. Visually, she was stunning, and it had little to do with the dipping neckline of her form-fitting gown. Frankly, the woman could stand to gain a few pounds. A passing thought as he’d fixated on her unique face. Almond-shaped eyes. Button nose. Lush lips. Sleek, brunette waves cascaded down her back, the front portion anchored back with ornamental combs, accentuating her quirky, yet striking, features. Unlike most women in the theater, she didn’t favor face paint. Nor did she seem aware of her beauty. Hard to believe she was a veteran performer, which by virtue of profession meant she was somewhat worldly. Those pale green eyes said different. They said shy, wounded. Then again, she’d been traumatized by Bulls-Eye Brady.

“Maybe you could acquire a room at Mrs. O’Malley’s boardinghouse,” Kaila mused aloud. “If you pay extra, I’m sure Mrs. O’Malley would look in on her.”

“She has nightmares. The man who brought her here said she wakes up screaming in the middle of the night.” He mentally coldcocked Bulls-Eye Brady. “I doubt Mrs. O’Malley or her other boarders would appreciate the intrusion.”

“How dreadful,” she said, hand to heart. “Do you know what tortures her dreams so?”

He did, but in light of their very recent discussion, he wasn’t all-fired eager to bring up the famed outlaw. “A recent tragedy,” was all he said. Vague to be kind.

She furrowed her brow. “Mr. Parker said you hired Miss Adams to perform.”

“I did and I didn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but I intend to sort that out.”

She tucked limp curls behind her ears, expression intense. “Clearly, you’re responsible for this girl.”

“Not so clear, but I agree.”

“She’s ill and troubled, and you have a guest room at the Last Chance, do you not?”

“She’s there now. But I was thinking of her reputation--”

“I do not profess to understand the stereotypes and prejudices when pertaining to theatrical artists, but am I wrong to assume conventional rules do not typically apply?”

London raised a brow, intrigued by her tolerance. Although he didn’t know her background, it was obvious she was well bred. He would have guessed her more conservative. “You’re not wrong.”

“She’ll be prejudged by nature of her profession, yes?”

“Probably.”

She glanced at the steeping tea, and he registered her sudden impatience with his presence. “Right,” he said, then made a spontaneous request.

Two minutes later, he bid his future sister-in-law a hasty farewell and, clutching a spare tin filled with the makings for catnip tea, made his way back to the Last Chance. Tori Adams filled his head and heart. He realized now that seeking out Kaila had been a knee-jerk reaction. He realized fate had already determined a specific course. He not only understood John Fedderman’s desire to protect the woman, but upon locking gazes with the troubled soul, he experienced the same bone-deep urge. His feelings, however, were far from pure and paternal. The delicate beauty had upchucked on his boots, and all he could think was,
I’m going to marry this girl
.

A longtime bachelor, he was dumbstruck, to say the least. Of course, he had spent the last year pining for an adventure, anything to shake up his boring-as-hell life. Taking a wife certainly applied.

“Maybe you should try courting her before dragging her to the altar, Garrett,” he murmured to himself.

Right. As soon she recovered from the flu, and exhaustion, and, Christ, amnesia.

“You wanted a challenge,” he said to himself as he pushed through the swinging doors. “You got it.”

San Fernando

The half-moon illuminated the desert landscape in eerie lights and shadows. A coyote howled in the distance, a haunting cry that echoed Brady’s own desolate mood. He fidgeted in his saddle, anxious and loaded to the muzzle with rage.

As soon as the convent came into view, he signaled his men to halt. “Make camp here. I’ll venture closer and keep watch. Sister Maria’s last letter reported the kid’s in the habit of running off. If Frankie makes a break tonight, I’ll snatch her. If not, I’ll ride in at the crack of dawn, claiming Kat sent me to fetch the girl in her stead.”

Amos reined closer. “You sure you want to go in alone, Bulls-Eye?”

“No need to terrorize a bunch of nuns and little girls.” Brady wasn’t a religious man, but he didn’t figure he should tempt hell further when he could rely on manipulation to get what he wanted.

He wanted Frankie Hart.

He’d ridden night and day to get her and shot an Arizona Ranger along the way. A man he’d once escaped. All Brady and the boys had wanted was a meal. Same with Manning, he supposed. The badgeless lawman had looked up from his plate just as the gang strode into the remote cantina. Brady had had the advantage since he wasn’t holding a pair of utensils, otherwise likely he’d be the one staring up at the sky and seeing nothing. Manning was a quick and sure draw. Or at least he used to be. Now he was dead.

After gorging on beans, pork, and tequila, the gang had covered their tracks and moved on. Brady had promised them, once they had Frankie, they’d hole up until Kat came calling. He knew they were uneasy since he’d littered the region with dead bodies. But since robbery wasn’t involved, with luck, the law wouldn’t associate the killings with Bulls-Eye Brady and the Ace-in-the-Hole gang. Not that there’d been much to steal from that fly-ridden cantina or the Star Saloon.

He still couldn’t imagine a pampered, cultured creature like Kat living in an isolated pit like Casa Bend. Couldn’t imagine she’d been happy pouring rotgut for rank cowboys. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to hide from him, so far as abandoning her profession and name. After reading the bundle of letters in his pocket and absorbing the image of Frankie he’d found tucked within, he was pretty sure he’d pegged the reason for her sacrifice.

Brady tucked his .45 into his waistband at the small of his back and passed Amos his holster for keeping. He traded his black duster and Stetson for his cousin’s worn brown coat and slouch hat, hoping to look less menacing, then he spurred his horse onward to San Fernando.

If Kat thought she’d won this game, she was sorely wrong.

Tucson

“You in or out, Casanova?”

Rome held his dog-eared playing cards close to his chest while gauging the bushy-browed, barrel-chested man seated to his left. Tall and broad as a sequoia. Loud as a foghorn in a funeral parlor. Giant Jim, they called him. Rome preferred Big Bastard.

A foul-smelling miner looking to increase his recent good fortune, Jim’s mood turned black when his luck got to running muddy. Though the rest of Rome’s opponents paid more mind to hygiene and manners, they were a far cry from the perfumed and sensual Kat Simmons.

The El Dorado Saloon was situated at the far end of Tucson, the designated starting place of their whirlwind poker spree. The place where Kat was supposed to sashay in on the arm of her traveling companion . . . over an hour ago. Rome didn’t know whether to be worried or pissed.

Because she was notoriously late, and because he preferred to think of her dawdling in her room over a gown, rather than lying in the desert alongside his brother, bleeding to death--he went with pissed.

On any other night, the surrounding activity--the chatter, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the tinkling of the piano--would’ve blurred into seamless cacophony. On any other night, after wiling away several hours in a bawdy, Rome’s senses would’ve been dulled by booze. Tonight, he was stone-cold sober. Tonight, he was acutely aware of every sound and movement. He didn’t feel quite himself. He felt better.

Big Bastard drummed sausage-sized fingers on the tabletop.
Thumpety-thump. Thumpety-thump.

Contemplating his bet, Rome resisted the urge to pull Kat’s coin from his pocket. Seth had already ribbed him on the ride.
“Don’t suppose that coin you ‘re always fingering is the same one Kat gave you for luck? I mean, you wouldn’t treasure a gift from a woman you despise, right?”

Rome had responded with silence, chafing at the amusement in Seth’s tone. The man was a damned pain in the ass.

Though not as irritating as Big Bastard.
Thumpety- thump. Thumpety-thump.

“Any day now, Lover Boy.”

If he’d been drinking whiskey, he would’ve bloodied the man’s big mouth by now.

When a barmaid had recognized Rome as one of the famous Garretts, the bastard had slammed Rome with the Smith scandal, citing him a fool for diddling the wife of a powerful politician, an even bigger fool for getting caught.

Hard to argue the truth, plus, somehow, bar-brawling without Boston around lacked appeal. They’d always fought their battles side by side. He wondered how his little brother was faring with Frankie. A terror, Kat had said. Rome’s lip twitched. No doubt Boston had his hands full. At least he and Frankie were safe.

Though the other players silently waited for Rome to make his play, Giant Jim muttered under his breath, using double-barreled syllables seasoned with cuss words.

Fed up, Rome pushed his remaining chips into the pot, even though he held a weak pair. “All in.”
A good bluff takes guts and consistency
, he could hear Kat say, her voice as smooth and intoxicating as aged brandy.

Where the hell was she?

Focus
, she would say.

He didn’t smile, didn’t fidget. No tell. No tilt. True to his behavior for the past few hours, he drank coffee and mentally rolled his pocketed coin over his knuckles. He didn’t need to throw a punch to hit the bastard where it hurt.

Seth, under the guise of Dwight Dupree, a professional gambler who moonlighted as a hired gun, studied his hand through oval, blue-tinted glasses. “Fold.”

Charlie, a gap-toothed geezer with a long, red beard, sighed. “Too rich for my blood.”

The fifth player, Silent Pete, dropped out with a shake of his bald head.

Giant Jim gnashed his teeth while gauging the situation. Thinking he held the winning hand, he’d contributed the bulk of his chips. Rome had rattled his confidence. He’d also raised the bet beyond the man’s immediate means. To call, he’d have to rustle up some silver ore or hidden cash. “You’re bluffin’, Casanova.”

Rome didn’t answer, didn’t react. He envisioned manipulating the coin--fluid motion, consistent pace--and sipped coffee.

Dupree
lit a cheroot, calm as an early morning pond even though the stale, smoky air rippled with tension. If he sensed an altercation, he didn’t let on. Still, Rome knew he was steeled for trouble.

Giant Jim studied Rome through squinty eyes, then slammed his greasy, dog-eared cards facedown. “Out.” Feeling cantankerous, Rome splayed his hand.

“Hell’s bells,” Charlie said in awe. “Pair a fives. You were right, Giant Jim. He was bluffin’. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you was a professional gambler, Mr. Garrett.”

Silent Pete nodded in agreement.

“Figure I’m good enough to compete in the upcoming poker tournament. Thanks to Jimmy-boy here,” he winked at the man, “I’m only a hundred shy of the buy-in.”

The burly loser bared rotten teeth and growled like a pissed-off bear.

Rome braced himself for a fight when Big Bastard pushed out of his chair. But instead of swinging his fist, he swung his body away and stalked across the saloon, muttering about
pulp heroes who believe their own press
.

Except I. M. Wilde, the dime novelist responsible for their legendary status, no longer chronicled the Garrett Brothers’ adventures. Not that their adventures of late were worth penning. The triple-W vices of the frontier--whiskey-drinking, whoring, and wagering--weren’t exactly heroic feats. Of course, they’d be celebrated in plenty of headlines when they brought down Bulls-Eye Brady and the Ace-in- the-Hole gang. Thing was, they needed Kat for that.

The bat wings swung in Giant Jim’s wake. The man disappeared into the night just as Sherman Shakespeare, Book Peddler Extraordinaire, made his grand entrance-- sans Kat. “I say, good chaps, someone point me to the bar. I am in dire need of a cocktail.”

Rome collected his winnings and stood. “Need to stretch my legs. Deal me out of this hand, boys.”

Dupree shuffled the deck, his voice accented with a lazy Southern drawl. “Whatever you say, Huckleberry.” Translation:
Don’t do anything stupid, Golden Boy
.

Rome passed several gaming tables--faro, monte, chuck-luck--on his way to the bar. He saw the curious looks, heard the hushed musings.

“Looked taller in those dime-novel renderings!’

“Now he’s hustlin’cards instead of wranglin’ outlaws.”

“Best keep our wives under lock and key. “

“Heard he shot a man in cold blood up in Gila Gulch. “

That last one took him by surprise.
Wasn’t the way of it
, he wanted to say, but kept walking. He reached the ornate bar and caught sight of his reflection in the huge back-bar mirror. His rough-around-the-edges image belied his inner sharpness. Unshaven jaw, unruly hair. No tie, no jacket, just a loose-collared shirt and a black vest--unbuttoned. In keeping with his new fallen status, he’d dressed down. In some ways, he felt naked.

He’d always been meticulous about his looks, his wardrobe. Some called him arrogant. Some, shallow. Truth of it was, the facade bolstered his confidence. He’d needed a passel of grit to face down the heartless marauders he’d dealt with as a Wells Fargo detective.

The illusion.

He leaned against the bar as a notion took form. Could it be? Was Kat’s previous preoccupation with her appearance a shield? If he’d stripped her bare all those years ago, seen her as he’d seen her this morning, what would he have found? An insecure girl? A frightened girl?