Romancing the West Page 9

  “What about blackmailers?”

  She averted her face, not wanting him to see her distressed expression. The thought of her Savior made her anxious.

  He reached over and relieved her of the weighty picnic basket without breaking stride. “We need to talk, Emily.”

  She made the mistake of looking at him. Shirt torn and stained red, forehead and arm bleeding. The Pinkerton of yesterday would have fainted dead away. Then she thought back on her first impression of him--Warrior of God. Someone who fought against evil. Or evildoers. Although he hadn’t recited a lick of poetry since his arrival, he most definitely had a silver tongue. His obsession with her blackmailer spoke volumes. She wanted him to be an artist, but his true passion was in detective work. She could see that now. Why was he only an intuitive detective and not a working detective? Nothing worse than being unable to pursue your real passion. She knew that all too well.

  Emily felt a sudden and fierce connection with the man as surely as if they were spiritually mated. She didn’t know what to do with the feeling, overwhelming as it was. She swallowed a lump of emotion and looked away. “I need to get you to a doctor.”

  “I don’t need a doctor.”

  “If you let Doc Kellogg examine you, I’ll talk.”

  “Deal.”

  Territory of Arizona

  “This was more than I bargained for.”

  “Was I too rough?”

  “You were everything I’ve dreamed of and more. Thank you, Athens.”

  “For ravishing you like a common trollop?”

  “Honestly? Yes.”

  They lay side by side on her tapestry carpet, one of the few things she’d had shipped over from Kent, staring up at the ceiling, and trying to catch their breath. They never made it to the bedroom. They’d torn off each other’s clothes and made torrid love in her small, but comfortable parlor. He’d pinned her against the wall and done unspeakably intimate things to her naked body. She’d felt no shock or embarrassment, just wonderment and intense pleasure. Her knees gave way upon reaching orgasm and they ended up writhing around on the carpet like two animals in heat. When he entered her, she’d climaxed again, which only heightened his excitement. The man pleasured her in countless ways before finding his own release.

  Her muscles ached and her skin glistened from exertion. Somewhat self-conscious now that the fog of passion had dispersed, she reached for the calico quilt on the sofa and covered herself.

  Still splendidly nude, Athens rolled onto his side and gently brushed her hair off of her damp face. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Just thoughtful. I never knew it could be like this. Sex,” she clarified, cheeks flushing. “Although I had hoped.” She turned her head and smiled at him. “You are an imaginative and energetic lover.”

  “You inspire me.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “I’m not being kind. I’m being truthful.”

  “May I speak frankly?”

  “Haven’t you been doing that since the moment we met? It’s very attractive, by the way.” “Few men would agree.”

  “Why do I get the feeling your husband was a controlling man?”

  She dragged her fingers through his fine, fair hair. “Handsome and perceptive.”

  “Beautiful and interesting.” Propped on one elbow, he traced his fingers over her arm. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve never made love in the afternoon. I’ve never done most of what we just did. Charles was conservative. Cold and conservative, and vaguely disinterested. I feared I was . . .”

  “Frigid?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Far from it, honey.”

  The endearment made her heart flutter. Her husband had been a practical man, sparing with his compliments and affection. Athens Garrett was giving and warm. Far from the dangerous gunslinger she fantasized about, but equally exciting.

  “So tell me,” he said with a cocky grin. “Was I bloody good?”

  She laughed. “Bloody hell, yes.”

  His green eyes sparkled. “You’re an intriguing puzzle, Kaila Dillingham. You’re obviously well-born, cultured. Yet here you are.”

  “In Phoenix running a bakery?”

  “With me. Making love on a carpet.”

  He looked so befuddled. So deliciously handsome. A gentleman with a wild streak. She longed to ask him if he was indeed brother to the famous Garretts featured in I. M. Wilde’s adventurous tales. Zoe had mentioned two uncles in a dime novel. She’d put two and two together last night while reading Showdown in Sintown. She was terribly intrigued, but feared if she asked he’d think she was merely fascinated by his association with pulp heroes, Rome and Boston Garrett. She knew the wretched feeling of people wanting to get close to you for ulterior motives only too well.

  “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, English? What are you about?”

  Another endearment. Another flutter. “Would you like me to clear up the mystery?” Maybe if she opened up first . . .

  “I would.”

  On second thought . . . “Do you think it’s wise? Perhaps the less we know about one another, the better. It would make this, us, less personal.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “From what you said before, it is how it has to be.”

  His expression changed from playful to somber. “Unfortunately. I’m afraid--”

  She pressed her fingertips to his lips. “I don’t want to know. Not now. I don’t want anything to spoil this moment. This memory.”

  He furrowed his brow. “When I walk out that door, are you going to be able to act like this never happened?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve had years of training in the art of denial.”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  She knew next to nothing about this man, but sensed he wrestled with his morals and actions daily. She pushed herself up and kissed him softly. “You are a tormented man.”

  “We all have our demons.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Thank you for taming mine. At least for awhile.”

  He kissed her slow, deep, leaving her breathless and dizzy with yearning as he rolled away and gathered his clothes.

  “What did you mean when you said this was more than you’d bargained for?” he asked while fastening his trousers and shirt.

  She leaned back against the sofa, the quilt clutched to her aching chest. “I thought one divinely passionate encounter would satisfy me for a lifetime. Indeed, it only makes me hunger for more.”

  He bent over, framed her face in his hands. “Your frankness is going to be my undoing, English.” He brushed his lips across hers, groaned. With a reluctant farewell, he nabbed his jacket and made use of her back door.

  “You are fortunate, Mr. Garrett,” she whispered in his wake, “as I fear I am already undone.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Napa Valley, California

  Seth wrestled with whether or not to report the shooting incident to the sheriff. It was the right thing to do, but it might focus unwanted attention on Emily. On their way to the livery, he spotted the badge-wearing lard-ass snoring away on the jailhouse porch. That cinched it. No report. The last thing he needed was an inept lawman mucking up his investigation.

  After stabling Guinevere, they visited Doc Kellogg. The good doctor wasn’t inept, but he did rush the examination. He never looked Seth in the eye as he abruptly applied a smelly poultice and bandages and issued a clean bill of health. He had to know it was a gunshot wound, yet he didn’t comment or question. Maybe he was being discreet. Maybe he suspected foul play and chose not to get involved. Maybe he didn’t want to help a Nancy boy.

  Eager to leave, Seth settled the bill, mindful that Emily lingered after Kellogg showed him the door. Seth hovered just outside the office within earshot.

  “Are you sure he’s okay?” she asked in a soft voice.

  “For now. You best keep your eye on Percy there,” the doctor said
with a snort. “I swan, that man’s accident prone.”

  “His name is Phineas, and it wasn’t his fault.”

  “You would say that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that you’re always making excuses for other folks’ . . . eccentricities. Relax, Emily. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Speaking of odd sticks, how’s Mrs. Dunlap?”

  “Fit as a fiddle. Thank you for asking.”

  She didn’t seem all that pleased to Seth. She sounded pissed. He bit back a smile and eased away from the door when he heard her snap, “Thank you for your time, doctor, and good day.”

  He was shrugging into his frock coat and wearing his best poker face when she stepped out onto the boardwalk. While Mrs. Dunlap had cleaned his wounds with peroxide, Emily had changed into a fresh shirt and traded her suspenders and britches for a brown skirt and a wide black belt. Her effort to conform, he supposed, since they were coming into town, only she still looked the left side of conventional. Maybe it was the way she tied off her braids with leather thongs in stead of satin ribbons. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but her style was unique. She was unique.

  “Honest to gosh,” she huffed, her hands balled into tight fists.

  “Anything wrong?”

  She marched up to him, red-faced and harried. Damn, she was pretty when her back was up. Her blue eyes flashed behind her oval lenses. “You’ve been around.”

  His lip twitched. “Excuse me?”

  “Paris said you travel the theater circuit.”

  “Ah.”

  “So you’ve been around. Various cities, regions.”

  “Sure.” That was true enough. He’d ridden with the Texas and Arizona Rangers before signing on as Sheriff of Pinal County. His travels, up until now, had been limited to the Southwest and Mexico, but that covered an almighty chunk of territory.

  “Are people like this everywhere?”

  “Like what?”

  “Intolerant. Judgmental. Mean-spirited. Small-minded!”

  With every word her voice boomed louder. She looked madder than a rained-on rooster and he didn’t want her crowing in public. The sharp-clawed she-cat who’d ridiculed her at yesterday’s social club meeting had poked her head out of the mercantile. Not that Emily noticed. She was in the midst of a red-hazed rant. Others had stopped in their tracks to view the show, not that it would be long-running. Seth pressed his hand to the small of Emily’s back, guiding her quickly down the boards and across the street as she continued to spout mankind’s most negative qualities.

  “Got a key to the library, Em?”

  “What? Of course. Why?”

  “Let’s take this inside.”

  “Do you know how many churches are in this town?” she snapped as she jammed the key into the front door and let them in. “Methodist, Methodist Episcopal, Catholic, Presbyterian. Every Sabbath folks put on their go-to-meeting clothes and squeeze into pews to listen to sermons on how to live a Godly life. Meanwhile, the other six days of the week they drink, covet, lie, mock, and cheat on their spouses!”

  He closed the door behind them, leaned against it with his arms folded and watched as she paced and lamented under her breath. “Surely, you’re not referring to every citizen in Heaven.” The name of the town, given their discussion, struck him as ironic.

  “Of course not. Just a goodly portion. They shunned Paris. Did you know that? Just because she has this peculiar talent for being able to make up songs on a whim. Songs about people and situations. Like the time we caught Mary Lee and Rome canoodling by the creek!”

  That would explain, at least in part, the she-cat’s hostility. He’d heard Paris’s ditties, as she called them, firsthand. Frank, clever, and catchy, they’d endeared her to the miners and citizens of her new hometown, Chance. If one lacked a sense of humor or possessed a juicy secret, he could see where they’d want to steer clear of the freckle-faced half-pint.

  “Mrs. Dunlap is a goodhearted woman who contributed generously to this community for years. But along the way she lost her husband and two sons and slowly but surely her mind. She’s not crazy, she’s forgetful. Cole’s pa took advantage and manipulated her out of her land. Granted, he paid for it. But not a fair price. No one wanted to take her in because they considered her a nut and a burden.”

  “You took her in.”

  “It was the decent thing to do. I can’t fathom how someone could turn their back on someone in need!”

  Seth pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, attributing the twinge in his ticker to spicy stew and heartburn. Mrs. Dunlap had forgotten she’d stocked a picnic basket, although he and Emily hadn’t sampled the fare what with his mishaps waylaying lunch. The stew had been waiting on their return and Seth had been unable to deter the old woman. “It’ll make you feel better” Like hell.

  “Then Doc Kellogg,” Emily vented, flailing her arms wide. “Could he have been any less concerned with your injuries?”

  “I’m fine, Em. Let’s talk about you.”

  “Who cares about me?”

  He knew the question was rhetorical, but it bothered him all the same. “I do.”

  She stopped in her tracks, met his gaze. “That’s a mistake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a lightning rod for ill luck.”

  “I’m not a superstitious sort.”

  “I’m not who you think I am.”

  “And that would be?”

  “A good girl.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Too late.” He came toe-to-toe with her, hitched his thumbs in his vest pockets so as not to pull her into her arms. He didn’t figure she’d cotton to that kind of comfort. “What happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something set you off and it wasn’t Kellogg.” She shook her head, her blond braids bouncing along with his twitching heart. Christ.

  “Em. If you believe nothing else, believe that I’m your friend. Can you do that?”

  “He won’t listen to reason,” she said, by way of an answer.

  “Kellogg? Sawyer?”

  “My Savior.”

  For once she sounded like the bible thumper’s kid that she was. “I’m a little rusty in the religion department, but--”

  “I’m not referring to a forgiving spirit, Poet,” she said, whirling away. “I’m talking about a judgmental person who’s seen fit to condemn my behavior. Someone who’s making me pay for my sins. Literally.” She slumped into a chair next to a table splayed with various periodicals.

  Seth took the seat across from her, angling the chair so that their knees practically touched. “Your blackmailer.”

  “I sent a letter along with my last payment.”

  “How many payments have you made?”

  “Two, and they depleted my savings. I said as such in the letter, vowed to adjust my ways, and asked that he please leave me alone. I thought if I asked nicely, you know, appealed to his sense of decency. . .” She trailed off with a dejected shrug.

  He wished she’d stayed fired up. He cursed his knotted chest. She believes the best in the worst of people. Athens had gotten that much right. The thought of his boss and the man’s intentions prompted Seth to ease back in his chair. “Decent folk don’t terrorize,” he told her. Nor do they console another’s intended by gathering her in his arms and kissing the worry from her brow, he told himself. Ditch those inclinations, Wright.

  “He wants me to suffer and I’m not sure why.”

  “You know for certain it’s a man?”

  “No. I thought maybe, well, Mary Lee crossed my mind.” She wrung her hands in her lap, chanced his gaze. “She doesn’t like me much. Then again, she doesn’t like any woman she views as competition. Ever since Cole showed an interest, she’s been down-right prickly.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Thing is, the letters were mailed from San Francisco.”

  “Ever been to San Francisco?�
��

  She looked away. “Never been outside of Napa Valley.”

  He digested every bit of information, every expression, and telling gesture. “When’s the last time you heard from this person?”

  “Today.”

  “What?” Distance be damned. He leaned forward and took her hand. It was bold, but he didn’t care and besides he was goddamned Phineas Pinkerton. There had to be some benefit to posing as a fancy pants poet. “You’ve come this far,” he said, sensing her withdrawal. “Don’t shut down on me now.”

  She eased her hand from his grasp, withdrew a note from her skirt pocket, and passed it to him.

  It nettled that she was still skittish of his touch, but at least it had jarred her into action. He noted the broken wax seal, unfolded the missive, and read.

  AS LONG AS YOU REAP BENEFITS, YOU WILL PAY THE PRICE.

  He read the words again before examining the note, front and back. According to the stamped wax, the letter had indeed originated in San Francisco. The only tangible clue as far as Seth could tell. The cream-colored writing paper was ordinary, no stationer’s mark, patriotic cartoons or any other symbol to make it easier to track. Nor could he analyze or attempt to match the handwriting as the blackmailer had used one of those new fangled typewriters.

  The message itself was a bald threat. But it was the signature line--YOUR SAVIOR--that wedged under Seth’s skin.

  He noted Emily’s trembling hands, took it slow and easy. “When did you get this? Where?”

  “At first, Doc Kellogg asked me to wait outside while he examined you, remember?”

  Seth nodded.

  “I slipped into the mercantile, just next door. Mrs. Dunlap asked me to pick up several skeins of yarn. I wasn’t expecting, that is, I collected the mail for the library yesterday. But Mr. Thompson said that he had a missive for me. Said it must have slipped his hold when he emptied Mrs. Frisbie’s cubbyhole. He found it on the floor when he swept up last night.”

  Seth spoke directly. “What’s this person got on you, Emily?”