The Fall of Rome (17 page)

“Noted,” he said with a contrite smile.

“But certainly it’s common knowledge wherever dime novels are sold, thanks to I. M. Wilde.”

Rome had breathed life back into Sarah, the sole survivor of a stage robbery. She’d thanked him with a kiss. Wilde had found out about it and, as of a way of weaving romance into the deadly adventure, had made public the indiscretion that blossomed into an affair. “Guess you read the tale.”

“Showdown in Sintown,”
she said. “I’ve read all of I. M. Wilde’s tales. Gifted storyteller. Too bad he gave up writing.”

“Wilde didn’t give up writing. Just moved on from dime novels.” She raised a brow. “You know Wilde personally?”

“You’ll have to win another hand if you want the answer to that.”

“Bastard.”

He winked and gathered the cards.

“Wait. About Sarah--”

“I’m not proud of what happened, Kat. Not to make excuses, but she seduced me with . . .” He paused and considered his words. “Let’s just say aggressive affection and a tale of marital woe.”

She arched a suspect brow. “You’re joshing, right?”

If he hadn’t felt the fool before, he felt downright idiotic now. Still, he wanted to confess all. Kat listened, he realized, without judging. Commented frankly, but rationally. He appreciated her tolerance and candor. Besides, if he was honest about his life, hopefully she’d be inclined to do the same. “She told me her husband was a cold, cheating bastard. Told me they had an arrangement. So long as she stayed out of his affairs, he’d ignore hers. A lie. Obviously.”

Kat scrunched her brow. “Even if it were true, why would you want to get involved in something so . . .”

“Tawdry?” He shrugged. “If you ask one of my brothers, they’ll say I was thinking with my--”

“I get the point.” Kat crossed her arms. “What would
you
say?”

“That I thought I was saving Sarah from a cold, loveless existence.”

“With hot, meaningless sex?” She bit her bottom lip, but her eyes telegraphed her amusement.

“Believe me, I’m paying for my arrogance and stupidity.” He riffled and cut the deck. “I believe I’ve answered your question and then some.”

“Actually you veered off course. Not that I mind. You quenched my curiosity about the Smith scandal without my even asking. But as far as my original question, you left me dangling at Percy’s Poker Palace. How did that lead to your becoming a detective?”

“You’re relentless.”

“I’m sure you’ll reciprocate when the tables are turned.” Her mouth tilted in a playful smile. “Of course, you’ll have to win another hand first.”

“I’m aware.” He matched her grin. “Hope you’re prepared.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Where’s Frankie now? How long has she been in your care? What’s she like?
“All right then,” he said, bracing his forearms on the table. “Let me get this out so I can beat your bloomers off. So to speak.”

She leaned forward, eyes twinkling, neck flushed. “So to speak.”

For a moment words failed him. He was hypnotized by her enigmatic presence. Encouraged by her mutual flirting.

He was in deep shit.

He dug down and grabbed hold of his senses. “The year after I started frequenting Percy’s, Boston started tagging along. Before long we were drinking beer and stealing time with Calico Queens. If a brawl busted out, we joined in, fists swinging. In general, we were naturally inclined to defend the underdog. Always knew we would end up fighting the bad guys one way or another.”

“Sounds to me like you enjoyed playing the part of the hero early on.”

“That’s a fact.” Uncomfortable now, he drank coffee, then rushed on. “The older we got, the more action we craved. We spent more time in San Francisco, but we were bored even there. Hungry for an adventure, we jumped at a chance to hire on with Wells, Fargo and Company as shotgun messengers. Brandishing a sawed-off shotgun, I rode alongside the drivers of the company’s stagecoaches, watching for road bandits and protecting the passengers, the U.S. mail, and the coveted Wells Fargo treasure box stored beneath the seat. The padlocked chest contained everything from gold dust to gold bars, from checks to drafts to legal papers. Ruthless thieves killed for that box, and after witnessing one such event, I made it my mission to stop the sons of bitches at all costs. If they rode in hardware-jerked, I didn’t think twice about smoking them first.”

She shuddered. “Dangerous work.”

“Important work.” He clenched his jaw. “That’s my point. It should have been enough. But it’s a thankless job. No meaningful recognition.”

“No glory.”

“That came with detective work. With tracking and apprehending outlaws. Boston followed in my footsteps, and between our unconventional tactics and outgoing personalities, we garnered attention and praise.”

“I. M. Wilde dramatized your adventures, and dime-novel heroes were born.”

“Worst thing that ever happened to me.” Not that he’d ever admit as such to Wilde. “Fame, for someone like me, works like a drug. The more you have, the more you want. The more you believe you’re invincible and above it all. In hindsight, I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. Whiskey soothed a smarting conscience.”

“But you’re not drinking anymore, and you’ve also done a lot of things you should be proud of.” Kat reached over and grasped his hand. “The quest for glory may be shallow, but it was never your sole motivation, Rome. You said it yourself. You have a deep-rooted desire to save women from hurtful or dangerous situations. A natural inclination to defend the underdog. As a Wells Fargo detective, you battled the bad guys. Courageous, selfless work. So you got a big head. So you messed up.” Her cheeks burned, and he knew she was thinking about herself, too. “We all mess up.”

He marveled at her compassion and cursed himself a thousand times for treating her ill their first time around. He stroked his thumb over her wrist, noted her racing pulse.

“To err is human.”

She quirked a tiny smile. “You and I just happen to be
extremely
human.”

He laughed at that.

She laughed, too, and he had a sudden and exhilarating image of her laughing and playing with a little girl. He could see it now. He could absolutely see Kat raising a child. He set the deck in the center of the table. “Cut. High card gets to ask a question.”

“So now you’ll have a fifty-fifty chance of winning instead of twenty-eighty?”

He grinned. “Cut.”

She did and he did and--hell, yeah--he won.

She rolled her eyes. “Ask away.”

“Can I kiss you?”

She blinked, opened her mouth, shut it, then, thirty-Godawful-long seconds later, spoke. “That’s your question?”

He’d meant to ask about her niece, dammit, and he would. But . . . “Just now I have a fierce need to kiss the hell out of you. Not ‘for show.’ Not ‘for the good of mankind.’ For me.” His blood burned hotter when she pressed a hand to her heart. Was it beating as hard and fast as his? “So, yes. That’s my question.”

“Ask again.”

“Can I kiss you, Kat?”

“Yes.”

They shoved out of their chairs at the same time and collided. A clumsy, frantic meeting of two aggressive participants.

Hands skimming, grabbing, stroking.

Lips and teeth clashing, meshing.

Tongues dueling.

Her eagerness flamed his actions. He lifted her and pinned her between the wall and his hard, hungry body. He held her beautiful face captive as he satisfied his fierce need. He kissed her long. Slow. Thoroughly. He felt her knees buckle and bolstered his own. He kissed her still, feasting on her velvety tongue, drinking in her strong, kind spirit.

She melted against him, moaning into his mouth, asking for more. He smoothed his hands over her body, wanting her naked and writhing beneath him. Restraint was hard won, his heart pounding with the almighty effort.

Christ.

More pounding. In his head. No. The door. Insistent knocking.

He eased back.

Eyes glazed, Kat rasped, “Don’t answer it.”

“I say, Miss Simmons,” the voice called through the wood, “I’m looking for Mr. Garrett.”

“Athens,” Rome and Kat groaned as one.

Another rap. “Sorry for the intrusion, but I’m desperate for a word.”

“Sounds important,” Rome said.

“Go,” Kat said.

“Not without regret.” He’d yet to move.

She’d yet to shove him away. “Dinner. Later.”

“Then the tables. Then--”

“We’ll see.”

“Fair enough.” He brushed one last kiss across her warm mouth then, cursing another knock, swept up his hat and wrenched open the door.

Athens, dressed as Shakespeare, backed up to allow Rome space to breeze by. “This better be good, Sherman.”

“It’s bad. I received a telegram from London.”

Chest tight, Rome led his brother two doors down and ushered him into his room. He shut the door, then turned, heart filled with dread. “Is it Paris? The baby? What happened?”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Athens said, abandoning the English accent. “Manning’s dead.”

“Fuck.” Rome’s lungs whooshed with relief. He punched Athens’s shoulder. “Don’t scare me like that. Dammit.”

“Sorry.”

“Fuck.”

“You said that. Calm down. What’s wrong with you?”

“You just scared the hell out of me.”

“You’re usually made of sterner stuff.” Athens arched his fake bushy brows. “Catch you at a vulnerable time?”

As a matter of fact
. . . Rome placed his hat on the bureau. “Just tell me about Manning.”

“Gunned down in a cantina north of Tubac.”

“By whom?”

“The owner of the place. Apparently they squared off. Both dead.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“No, it doesn’t. At any rate, London’s volunteering to ride to San Fernando in Manning’s stead.”

“That’s where Boston stashed Frankie? This San Fernando?”

“That’s where Kat stashed her. It’s a convent. A Mexican school for girls. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No.” He should have asked about Frankie and stolen the kiss. “So Boston’s shacked up in a convent with a bunch of nuns and little girls?” He grunted. “Priceless. How’s he holding up?”

“I haven’t heard from him. I tried to wire him about Manning, but according to the local operator, the telegraph office closest to the convent has been down for days.” “Coincidence?”

“I’m hoping. Mr. Winters said the wires that far south are unreliable.”

Rome frowned. “Inconvenient.”

“To say the least.” Athens rocked back on the heels of his shiny boots. “About London.”

Rome noted his brother’s tense expression. “You’re not keen on sending him south.”

Athens took off Shakespeare’s pompous top hat and fingered the brim. “It’s selfish, but I’d feel better knowing he was in Phoenix looking after Zach and Zoe and Kaila.”

“That’s not selfish, brother. That’s genuine concern. Family comes first.”

“But Boston’s family.”

“Boston can take care of himself. He can certainly handle a five-year-old girl.”

“What about Brady?”

Rome worked his jaw. “Brady doesn’t know about Frankie. He certainly doesn’t know about the Star Saloon or San Fernando. Kat covered her tracks. Hell, no one knew where she was until she reached out and made contact herself.”

“You’re right,” Athens said. “No reason to believe Boston and Frankie are at risk.”

Still something niggled. Manning dead. Wires down. “How far is San Fernando from here?” Rome asked.

“A full day’s ride.”

“Send Seth.”

“Need him here in case Brady shows.”

“Brady will show,” Rome said. “Trust me. When he does, I’ll handle him.”

“Who’s to say Brady will ride in alone? In fact, I know he won’t. He never acts alone. The cowardly bastard surrounds himself with a gang to keep him safe.”

“Bastard?” Rome poked a tongue in his cheek. “Colorful talk for you, brother. Now who’s acting out of character?”

“Never mind that. Just stick close to Kat.”

“I plan on it.”

“
I’ll
handle Brady.”

“Over my dead body,” Rome said. “You’re not a gunman, Athens. You’re not . . .”

“What?” The former politician folded his arms, angled his head. “Tough enough? Brave enough?”

“Oh, for chrissakes.”

“Ruthless enough?”

Disguised as a foppish book peddler, Athens didn’t look like he could take a feisty barmaid, let alone an outlaw. Rome kept the observation to himself. In truth, he’d always admired his gentler brother for his cool head and intelligence. He’d never seen the man throw a punch, let alone draw a gun, but he didn’t doubt his nerve. He was one of the strongest people Rome had ever known. As far as he was concerned, his brother had walked through hell and survived. “Who are you really chasing, Athens? Bulls-Eye Brady? Or the ghosts of the bandits who killed Jocelyn?” Athens held his gaze, clenched his fists. “I should’ve been the one to track them down.”

Rome cringed at the pain in his voice. “They would have killed you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Boston and I are trained to track. When a man jerks his hardware, intent to kill, we’re conditioned to draw and fire without a second thought. You would have tried to talk them into turning themselves in.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Rome blew out a breath. “I’ll make you a deal. When the time comes, we’ll face Brady together.” It was a magnanimous gesture on his part, seeing he wanted to rip off Jed Brady’s limbs one by one.

“I’ll think about it.”

Unbelievable.

Hat in hand, Athens strode to the door. “Are you going to tell Kat about Manning?”

“I don’t see any reason to worry her unnecessarily.” After a moment, Athens nodded. “Agreed.” He donned the hat, thumped the crown. “See you at the tables.” Then he affected Shakespeare’s vapid expression and sauntered into the hall.

Rome palmed his forehead, thinking that the moment he gave up whiskey, his world had turned inside out. He thought about Kat two doors down. “And this is only the beginning.”

The moment the door shut behind Rome, Kat slumped to the floor.

Ten minutes later and still she sat--knees to chest, head bowed. That kiss had robbed her of her last defenses. So different from any kiss they’d ever shared. A connection she’d never felt before. She credited his willingness to share his innermost thoughts, his yearnings, his regrets. His shame. She’d learned more about him in one afternoon than she had in their entire six-month affair. Although, if she had asked those same questions six years ago, she had no doubt Rome would have changed the subject or waylaid her with sex, because back then she was his distraction from the real world. The uncomplicated, independent woman who didn’t need a man to make her feel secure and complete. Or so he’d thought.