The Reverend swept in, sporting a black suit and gold brocade waistcoat.
While clergymen weren’t exactly Sophia’s area of expertise, she was certain they weren’t supposed to look so fancy. Con men, however . . .
“Apologies for my tardiness, ladies.”
Madam’s spine straightened while her green eyes frosted over. “Have you decided?”
“I have.” The Reverend leaned on his lion’s-head cane. “I’ve concluded there simply isn’t room in Caribou Crossing for us both.”
Irene’s mouth tightened. “I never asked you to leave.”
“Of course not. With the pass open, I expect you’ll have no trouble removing yourself by week’s end.”
Madam’s brows gathered, slashing into an angry line. “Pardon?”
“I’m extending you an offer. Quite a charitable one, I must say.”
“Oh?” The word fell frozen solid from Madam’s lips. She stepped closer. In her heeled boots, she towered tall enough to look the Reverend in the eye.
Sophia pushed off the wall. If it came to it, she had no qualms about threatening a fake man of God.
“Give me the journal,” he said, “and I’ll let you depart peacefully. I’ll even oversee the Blossom myself. Your girls will be safe in my care.”
Irene’s voice rang like a steel blade being drawn. “Safe? You mean imprisoned, while you line your pockets with their earnings?”
The Reverend eased into his angel’s smile, utterly serene in the face of Madam’s mounting fury. “Call it what you must.”
Irene loomed like a scorpion poised to sting. “I’m not going anywhere, and you won’t touch a single hair on my girls’ heads.”
His pale blue eyes slid sideways, finding Sophia. He reached out, caressed a lock of her hair, dropped it again. “No?”
Heat rushed into Sophia’s face. “Touch me again, and I’ll break off something you’ll miss.”
He laughed. “Is that so? You hardly look threatening, little kitten.”
“Little kitten?” Anger sparked as she made two fists at her sides. He’s enjoying himself. “No wonder you chose the patron saint of the unloved as your own. Who could possibly love you? You’re insufferable.”
The insult must have struck home, because the Reverend Gray’s perpetual smile failed. Even Irene sucked in a shocked breath.
“Enough, Sophia.” Madam flashed a you’re-not-helping glance, then addressed the Reverend. “The last thing I want is to tell the Mounties what you’re doing. But I will, if that’s the only way to stop you. If that’s the only way to save you. You’ll have given me no choice.”
His narrowed gaze lingered on Sophia as he replied. “Such hasty threats, Madam. Are you forgetting that, of the two of us, you’re the lawbreaker here?”
“At least when money crosses my palm, men know what they’re buying. That’s more than I can say for you.”
“Hmm.” His smile recovered, Reverend Gray circled behind Sophia. His breath sifted through her hair, tickling at her scalp. “Even in men’s clothing, I imagine this lovely creature constitutes a good portion of your income.”
Sophia fought to control her breathing. She knew what he saw—a harmless slip of a girl, just a tiny scrap of winter-white skin and night-dark hair. But he didn’t know her strength, or her agility, or how desperately her hands itched for her guns when he looked at her like that.
Irene frowned. “What’re you playing at?”
“It would be a shame if something befell her.”
Madam’s hand moved so fast that Sophia barely saw it. The Reverend’s head whipped around, his cane clattering to the floor. Blood welled from a gash in his cheek—courtesy of one of Madam’s massive rings.
His lips drew back, his teeth glinting in the strange half-light from the window. “A grave mistake.”
“I don’t even recognize you anymore,” Irene hissed.
“Me? You don’t recognize me?” He laughed as if she’d told a wonderful joke. “The threat of violence unhinges you so?”
“Get out of my house. And expect the Mounties on your doorstep by morning.”
“Oh, I have every intention of leaving.” He tensed, the slant of his body revealing his purpose. “Eventually.”
He reached out to grab hold of Irene.
Sophia moved quicker. A nimble acrobat’s step brought her close, where she snatched hold of his arm and twisted it away. Stealing his momentum, she slammed her knee into the small of his back, forcing him to the floor. She looped the fallen cane over his head, leveraging the shaft against his windpipe. At his choked sputter, something leaped to life within her—an electric hum, the same dizzying sense of power she’d discovered that night with the Scotsman. Bending, she spoke against the rim of Gray’s ear. “Threaten me again. See what happens.”
Irene froze, her eyes as wide as silver dollars. “Don’t hurt him.”
“He tried to grab you.” Sophia pulled until the Reverend’s breath dwindled to a tortured wheeze. Blood from his cheek smeared the carpet, a black blight on the violet wool.
“Sophia. Please.”
Shaking off temptation, Sophia let go. Gray’s lungs inflated in a noisy rush as he coughed against the floor. And, as quickly as it had come, her coursing strength faded to silence.
Madam hovered, as if unable to decide whether to help him or kick him while he was down.
He rolled over, massaging his throat. “That was unwise,” he rasped.
Sophia dusted herself off. “Seemed like a good idea to me.”
He dragged himself upright, leaning on his cane. That angelic mask remained, but something else lurked behind it—a simmering calculation that slid down her spine like an ice chip. “So my kitten has claws, after all. How delightful.”
She understood, then, that all his masks were just that—lies, false faces, ones he could change at will.
“Out,” Irene said.
The Reverend bowed low. “As a man unaccustomed to admitting defeat, I must nevertheless acknowledge it when presented.”
At that, Irene stilled, her arctic fury thawing. “You’ll stop, then?”
“You shall never again have cause to worry about my business dealings. On my honor.”
Sudden brightness flooded Irene’s eyes. “I knew you still had goodness in you somewhere.”
Reverend Gray flashed his seraph’s smile and went to the door.
Nonetheless, dread gathered at the base of Sophia’s spine. No way is it that easy. “Something’s not right. He’s lying.”
Despite his bloodied cheek, the Reverend’s face smoothed into a picture-perfect portrait of reluctant defeat. “I assure you, kitten, I never, ever lie.” Turning, he sailed out onto the staircase while Irene followed. Two steps down, he turned and extended a hand. “Let us bid each other farewell.”
Irene hesitated. “Farewell?”
Sophia started forward, the gulf of fear inside her widening.
“Indeed. I’ll see the Mounties remove you before sunrise. As promised, you shall never again have cause to worry about my dealings. You won’t be here to hear of them.”
A flood of rage transformed Irene’s face. “You dare?”
“You dare, Madam. You are a blight on the face of this town, and I’ll breathe easier once this place is free of you.”
Irene drew back to slap him again, her expression thunderous. This time, though, the Reverend ducked away as her blow whistled past.
Sophia bolted forward, but she was already too late; the moment struck hollow and cruel. Surprise claimed Irene’s expression as she overshot into empty air. She teetered, then pitched headlong down the stairs, her petticoats pin-wheeling. Her skull struck the steps as she fell. The nauseating crack rang like a gunshot.
Downstairs, someone screamed.
Reverend Gray froze, staring after her. Already in motion, Sophia tried to dart past, but he caught her arm, wheeling her against the wall. Plucking a Remington pistol from his boot, he thrust the barrel beneath her ch
in.
Tears escaped, unbidden, as she tried to turn her head. “Let me go, you scum.” Below, the parlor was in an uproar, a tumult of voices clambering over one another.
“She’s merely stunned. You needn’t weep.” The Reverend studied her, seemingly unaffected. So this was his true face—cold and unfeeling, just as she’d guessed. “And you needn’t make yourself my enemy. You understand, do you not, that I mean to take the Blossom? This place will be mine, and—”
Sophia spat in his face. “Over my dead body.”
His blue eyes flashed. He leaned his cane against the banister and slowly wiped his cheek. His hand came away stained with spittle and blood. “I tried to save you, little kitten. Twice, in fact. Yet for some inscrutable reason, you’ve instead thrown your lot in with the one woman in Caribou Crossing I absolutely cannot abide.”
She quivered, her blood burning with the need to get downstairs, despite the gun barrel beneath her chin. “Let go of me.”
His gaze bored into her, his voice growing raw. “Answer me something, first. Why did you refuse my offer? That day on the street?”
“Maybe because you’re the kind of person who threatens people at gunpoint after promising to steal their home?” She cast a pointed glance down at the Remington. “Just a thought.”
“I assure you, I would’ve given you far more than Madam Blumen has.” His gaze traveled over her thin chemise. “And asked for far less in return.”
She resisted the urge to spit again. “What do you care? You would never have thought about me again, if we hadn’t run into each other here.”
His lips thinned, his expression an enigma. Still, the pressure of the gun against her throat eased. “Don’t be absurd. It took me weeks to find you after you walked away from me. Imagine my dismay when I found you, of all places, here.”
Dull surprise churned in her gut, but it couldn’t pierce the haze of her panic. She had to get to Irene. “Let. Me. Go.”
He searched her face, as if looking for an answer besides the one she’d given.
But she had nothing to offer him. Nothing but a steel glare, even as tears leaked from her eyes.
“Do you wish us to be enemies, then?” he said.
Sophia didn’t stop to think. She simply spoke her truth. “Yes.” Amid the tangled hollers from below, her answer echoed in the hallway, steely and final.
The Reverend lifted one finger to stroke her cheek. His aristocrat’s voice returned, all smoothness and tranquility. “Then so we shall.”
When he released her and tucked the gun back into his boot, her knees buckled. After a single, edifying breath, she was up again, floating without knowing whether her feet touched the floorboards. Below, people milled against the stairs, jostling for a look.
From her vantage point on the landing, though, Sophia could see perfectly. Madam’s petticoats snarled around her waist while blood leaked from her temple.
Irene lay still as death.
8. Annie.
Madam Irene just tumbled outta nowhere and landed in a bloody heap at the bottom of the staircase. The sight struck the breath from Annie’s lungs.
Letting go of the miner she’d been towing toward her room, she threw herself to the carpet and cradled Madam’s head. “Damnation, damnation, damnation,” she cried, not knowing what else to do.
Temperance’s voice cut through the din. “What happened?”
“I don’t know!” Panic blanked Annie’s mind to hazy white. “She just…is she dead?”
Temperance knelt and pressed two fingers to Irene’s neck. “She’s got a pulse.”
A strangled puff escaped Annie’s lips. “Thank you, sweet little baby Jesus. I’m so sorry I never believed in you until this very moment. But if you let Madam live, I swear I’ll go to church every day. I’ll stop drinking so damn much, and—”
“Honey,” Temperance said. “Help me get her upstairs.”
Annie quieted. Cold, wet tears leaked down her cheeks, but she helped lift Madam’s limp body. Halfway up the stairs, someone stronger stepped in.
Sophia.
Emotions whirled in like a tornado, but Annie couldn’t catch hold of a single one. Trembling, she shouldered as much of Irene’s weight as she could.
She only hoped like hell that her heart wouldn’t break apart against the jagged edges of her fear.
***
Upstairs, the twist in Annie’s gut cinched tight. Settling at the edge of Madam’s mattress, she pressed a clean rag to Irene’s forehead, covering the gash she could hardly stand to look at. The others hovered, dark shapes in the background.
Then, by some miracle, Madam’s eyes fluttered open. “Ugh. What happened?”
Annie finally remembered how to breathe. “You tripped and fell.”
“I…” Madam blinked, wincing. “No…someone was here. Right?”
“Sophia,” Temperance said. “Send the Professor to fetch Doc Banks, will you? And hurry.”
From the corner, the new girl glared, like she might banish the command with a frozen look. But she glided out without a word.
Annie smoothed Irene’s hair, arranging the glossy dark curls on the violet coverlet. Her mind seized on the sight of her own hair mingled with Madam’s—red against rich brown, just like the leopard lilies back home. “Doc Banks’ll fix you up right quick.”
Irene’s smile didn’t touch her eyes. “No, sweetheart. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
A fresh bout of terror spun in Annie’s chest. She focused on Madam’s hair. Brown. Red. Leopard lilies. That was all her mind could hold. No room for anything else.
Still, a silent shudder overtook her. Madam had saved her, just plucked her up off the street one day and offered her a place to hide. In Annie’s darkest moments, she knew Samuel would go to the ends of the earth to track her down. Now the Blossom was the only thing keeping her safe. If something happened…
She swallowed the bitter dread creeping up her throat. She had nowhere else to go. And she’d rather die a hundred deaths than get dragged back to Texas by Samuel St. Clair.
Temperance approached, chasing away Annie’s ruminations with kind eyes. A faint line marred her brow, but otherwise, she looked just as impossibly peaceful as always. “Madam? What do you need?”
“A word with you.” Irene swept her eyelashes low against the lamplight. “Alone.”
Annie’s pulse jolted. “I ain’t leaving.”
“Please, sweetheart.”
She wavered, torn. She knew where this was headed. Eventually, though, loyalty trumped fear, and she handed the bloodied cloth to Temperance before stepping into the hallway. When she closed the door, that last glimpse of Madam’s stark gaze sliced her to the core. She knew that look—Pa had worn it, the day he’d succumbed to the fever in his blood.
Forcing down nausea, Annie searched for a distraction.
But the hallway stood empty, and she had a gut-churningly clear picture of the goings-on inside the boudoir—Irene would ask Temperance to take over the Blossom, in the event that she . . .
Annie’s stomach lurched. Couldn’t think about that. “I need a damn drink,” she announced to the vacant corridor, hoping the words would drown out her awful thoughts.
***
Downstairs, the crowd had dispersed and the parlor yawned wide and empty. One last wash of violet twilight seeped through the windows, gleaming against the fine carpet and mahogany wainscoting. Despite the finery, though, the Blossom felt shabby and mournful. The stage waited, barren, while Palmer’s piano sat as silent as a churchyard.
A clink interrupted the stillness. Slouching on a barstool, Sophia poured whiskey to the brim of a glass.
Annie took a seat alongside her, grateful she wouldn’t have to drink alone. Even Sophia, with her lovely face and unlovely manners, was a sight better than nobody at all. “Don’t you just look like someone fed you sorrow by the spoonful?”
“Whatever that means,” Sophia said, “it sounds about right.”
“
Well, I’m so low I couldn’t jump off a dime, if it makes you feel any better.”
Sophia downed her whiskey in two long gulps. “It doesn’t.”
“Careful, sugar. Don’t wanna have to peel you off the floor later.”
The new girl shrugged “If Madam dies…”
Annie’s heart skipped a beat. “She won’t. You saw her. Talking just fine.”
“If Madam dies, I’ll avenge her.” Sophia made a gun with her hand and fired at the wall.
“What, you gonna blow the staircase to smithereens? Show it what for?”
Sophia’s cryptic black eyes deepened in the dim light. “It wasn’t the staircase’s fault.”
“No? Whose was it, then? Yours?”
“You want some whiskey?”
“Do I ever.” Annie found an empty glass, relieved to let the matter be. The double Sophia poured went down easy, the taste of it like smoke and sunshine. And though panic lurked, waiting to snatch Annie up, fear receded beneath the onslaught of alcohol.
“You dug up the good stuff,” she said.
Sophia nodded. “I figured we’d need it.”
***
By the time Temperance came downstairs, the room tossed like the deck of a schooner. Annie tried to stand, but her legs turned to jelly.
Temperance frowned. “Are you drunk?”
“Sure aren’t,” Annie said.
Sighing, Temperance went behind the bar and took a bottle down—the one with the chipped bottom, which Palmer only filled with fresh-brewed tea.
Annie snorted. “Sugar, if there was ever a time to start drinking, it’d be now.”
“God blesses those who remain steadfast under trial.” Temperance laid something white on the bar.
Annie peered down at the folded paper. Its edges seemed to undulate, snaking fear into her marrow. “What’s that?”
Temperance shot her tea like liquor. “Something I’ll never need, Lord willing.”
“Madam left you the Blossom, then?”
“Would it upset you if she had?”
Annie tried standing again. No luck—the parlor had come unstuck from gravity, somehow. “Naw. Lord knows I couldn’t be Madam in her place. Truth is, none of us could. Not me, and not you.”
The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 5