Annie cut in. “I don’t reckon we need to—”
“I had sex with Annie.”
“All right,” Annie finished. “Looks like it’s a sharing kinda morning.”
Temperance struggled to process the matter-of-fact pronouncement. Palmer and Annie together delighted her, but the Reverend…the upcoming court hearing…now all their money, gone. Her mind spun. Doggedly, she clung to her own advice.
Faith. Have faith.
“It was my doing,” Annie said. “I asked him to.”
“No,” Palmer countered. “It was my fault. I agreed.”
“I don’t care whose fault it was.” Temperance glanced between them. “You’re both forgiven.”
“Hmph. ’Course we are.” Annie glowered, as if that was the worst news she’d gotten all morning.
Sophia threw everybody a bleak look. “I’ve been thinking. The Reverend comes for his tithe tomorrow. Now that we don’t have it, who stands to gain the most? He does, of course.”
Temperance worried at her lower lip. “Honey. You’re saying the Reverend robbed us himself?”
“He knows we have the journal.” Sophia winced. “Because I told him. By accident.”
“Oh, Lord.” Temperance digested that. She sighed. “You’re forgiven, too, of course.”
Sophia ducked her head in acknowledgement. “He’s trying to force our hand. He knows he can turn the court hearing his way with the journal. And now our only choice is to hand it over tomorrow. That, or let this place burn.”
Temperance rubbed at her temples. As much as she hated that theory, it made a grim sort of sense.
“I have some money,” Palmer said. “I could—”
She and Annie chorused together. “No.”
“But—”
“Absolutely not. This is our mess, honey, and ours to clean up. You work hard. Keep your money.”
Sophia hopped off the barstool. “Can’t we just expose Gray for what he is? The Mounties might not help us, but will the townspeople?”
Annie sighed. “Well, for starters, hell, no, they won’t. They think he’s a saint. And for seconds, I tried to track down the men who bought those claims up on Mayhem. But they’ve all hightailed it outta town with empty pockets. Which means we got no witnesses, no victims, and no way to tie those sales to Gray.”
Sophia’s brows lowered over storm-dark eyes. “I hate him. So much.”
“Christ,” Annie said, with a ghost of a smile, “am I glad to hear you say that, at least.”
Temperance snuck a hand to her forehead. In the silence, emotions swirled. Fear, foreboding, failure—such alien thoughts. She tried to let them go, but they whirled, clinging to her with cold fingers. “Tomorrow, I’m going to ask him to stop this madness. Maybe he’ll see reason.”
Sophia shook her head. “He won’t. Our only chance is to pay him. Again.” She sighed. “I imagine someone’s just bursting with ideas for making ten thousand dollars in a single day.”
“Actually, I know a way.” Annie’s eyes glistened, impossibly deep and gut-wrenchingly sad. “Y’all ain’t gonna like it, though.”
43. Annie.
Forcing herself to offer up the idea had been like chewing on glass splinters. Each word had come out sharp and slicing, each syllable cutting her heart to pieces.
At nine o’clock, you find Samuel. Tell him exactly where to find me.
Sophia’s eyes had widened to an awful, glassy stare. “Are you sure?”
“Sure,” she’d said.
But now, Annie leaned her forehead against her bedroom window and sighed. As a matter of fact, no, she damn well wasn’t sure. Not then, not now. The idea had just come to her, poisoned its way into her mind. And she’d run with it, because it was the only way she could set things right. The Blossom was broke because of her—she was the one who’d gotten all moony-eyed and swoony, and spent the evening using her nether regions for brains. And such a spectacular evening it had been, which only made things worse.
Her only consolation was that Palmer didn’t know what she intended—she’d sent him out back before spilling her not-so-brilliant plan. And good thing, because if Palmer tried to talk her down, she was damn near certain she’d let him.
Gazing down at the muddy sprawl of Paradise Alley, she watched miners through the wavy glass. They waded through the muck, pushing past each other on the sidewalk, desperate to make it inside the Blossom before nine o’clock. Already, the crowd overflowed into the street, men milling around the door as they strained to see inside. To see if the rumors were true.
She glanced at the clock on her dressing table. Even with a castoff negligee obscuring half the face, the hands clearly marked ten minutes to nine.
Her heart thumped against her ribs like a battering ram. Had Sophia found Samuel yet? Was he already downstairs? Might be. Laughter leaked up through the floor, brighter and more raucous than any other night.
The men below were in high spirits, which should’ve been a compliment. Still, she couldn’t help but stare at the pushing crowd and think of Palmer.
At least we had one night. Most of these poor suckers’ll never even know what something that incredible feels like.
The minute hand on the clock raced onward. A bottle of whiskey, still half full, whispered her name from the nightstand, but she kept her back turned, resolute. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d denied herself, but somehow, she had to do this sober. Had to make the choice herself, no gentling things with the soothing murmur of liquor.
Annie counted the last few seconds with rising despair. When the hour arrived, she forced her feet to move. She walked boldly—upright, her shoulders thrown back. Still, each step she took felt like a stab to the heart.
But that was the way of it, wasn’t it? Sacrifices didn’t actually count unless they hurt something fierce.
44. The Professor.
At nine o’clock precisely, the Flower of the North descended the stairs and the parlor erupted. Laughter and catcalls thickened the air, choking him.
Even so, Annie burst in his vision like the number thirteen, all sunbeam and yellow dress and joyous beauty. Glimmering golden taffeta accentuated her curves and her hair tumbled loose over her shoulders, a riotous wave of defiant red. Her color—a mysterious intersection of carnelian and blood, a shade only she could claim.
A parade of emotions tore through Palmer, each cresting higher than the last. First, a burst of primal carnality at the dreamlike remembrance of her velvet skin. Second, pride, because he’d satisfied her so many times, in so many ways. Wonder still caught at him as he recalled their twining bodies in the gentle lamplight of the room beneath the stairs.
Those lasted only moments.
Third, a desolate sweep of hopelessness, smothering everything else.
Her expression was wrong. Her lips curved upward, but the shape of her eyes didn’t match. The bottom half of her face smiled, while the top half frowned. He only noticed because he’d spent countless moments studying her—with anyone else, he would’ve missed the dissonance. But on her, he saw. And if he saw, that meant things were bad.
She was miserable.
A keen thrust of pain, blade-sharp, pierced his heart. How he wanted to save her.
Halfway down the stairs, Annie raised both arms. The laughter and jostling dried up—everything except the cigar smoke haze.
She reigned over that silver silence like a queen.
“I gotta thank y’all for coming.” Cornflower eyes traveled continuously over the crowd…searching for someone? Not him. Her gaze never touched him, not once.
“And I gotta lay down some rules. First one’s this: you’re buying me for a season. Three months. No more, no less. I don’t got a notion to bargain over it, so don’t even try. And I ain’t walking outta here until you put that money in my hand.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Second. No rough types. I don’t care what the final price is, you lay a hand to me in violence and I�
�ll cut off your arms. Both of ‘em. Cut off something you’ll miss even more, too. So don’t get no ideas about that.”
The murmurs intensified, punctuated by spatters of laughter.
“Last,” she said, lowering her arms. “Bid well, and, goddamn it all, bid high.”
The parlor exploded as men jockeyed toward the stairs. Hollered numbers assaulted Palmer’s ears—ugly, vicious things.
Cringing, he let the pandemonium push him toward the door. This part felt unbearable, even more than he’d anticipated.
When the door flapped, he found himself in the kitchen. Turning, he let the frenzied auction recede as he flung open the back door and escaped outside.
Time to go, anyway.
45. Annie.
They started in the hundreds, which raised Annie’s hackles and started the whole damn business off on the wrong foot. What did they think she was, a sack of beans? A load of timber?
She knew her worth, and it sure as hell wasn’t in the neighborhood of hundreds.
“Jackhammer Jim Robertson,” she shouted. “You ain’t gonna buy me for five hundred dollars. What’re you tryna do, squeeze each nickel ‘til the buffalo screams?”
At that, every man quieted.
“Get outta my auction.” She laced the words with steel. Could she even do that? Never mind. She just had. And maybe she was glad to see Jim go: she didn’t care to be walking funny clear into October.
Swiftwater Rob called shyly into the silence. “Four thousand?”
That was more like it. At her terse nod, the room erupted again, Rob warring with some other Klondike King whose name she couldn’t remember.
Five thousand.
The King threw a wink. He was a handsome one, dark and roguish, if a little on the short side.
Couldn’t possibly match Palmer for sweetness, though.
Not that it mattered. She already knew who’d buy her. As the crowd thickened, Annie searched—dreading, hoping—for Samuel St. Clair’s wrong-eyed face. What would he look like, after all these months? Would he still weaken all sensibility?
No, she figured. Not after last night.
So far, she’d studiously avoided looking at the barman, but now she stole a secret glance, hoping to borrow some strength.
Her heart keeled over like a ship with a cannon hole blown though the side. The bar was empty.
Damnation, but she deserved that, didn’t she? She hadn’t even worked up the courage to say goodbye.
She tried to shake it off. But the desertion stung, and the thought of never seeing Palmer’s face again…
It don’t matter. It can’t.
That was her last thought before Samuel stepped through the door.
He muscled his way inside in all his drink-of-water glory, a specter of her past. That mismatched gaze collided with hers, accompanied by a silent earthquake only she could feel. Dread followed like an impalement, pinning her to the stairs.
Ten months, but it might’ve been ten years. Though still as devil-dark as ever—still handsome—faint new lines framed Samuel’s eyes. Cruelty, they shouted. Greed.
Had he always looked that way? She couldn’t remember, only knew that one or both of them had changed. She’d softened beneath the pliant sweetness of Palmer’s innocence, and Samuel…
Well, who knew. He just looked like evil now, standing there. Evil wearing a goddamn gorgeous face.
Her heartbeat stumbled and her resolve faltered, even as Swiftwater Rob and the Klondike King shouted prices at each other. Six thousand dollars now—rich territory.
“Sixty-five hundred.” Samuel St. Clair’s voice tolled like a sinister bell. He spoke directly to her, as if surrounded by a sea of lesser souls beneath his notice. No doubt he considered that true.
Swiftwater and the King faltered, eyeing their opponent.
“Sixty-six,” the King offered.
In response, Samuel tipped his Stetson—a lazy gesture, full of ironclad confidence. “Seven thousand.”
Swiftwater opened his mouth, then closed it again. The Klondike King turned away, his face pinched.
Annie flashed Samuel a cold smile. She’d known it would end this way—hell, she’d designed it to. It had been inevitable, only a matter of time until he found her. Might as well get something in exchange for such a bitter ending.
But the ease with which Samuel bartered infuriated her, pulling bile up her throat until resentment infected her like a disease.
Still…if she only did one unselfish thing in her whole damn life, let it be this, and let it be for her friends. “Going once.” Her voice came out weak, like a scuttling cockroach shying away from the light of day.
Holy buckets, what’ve I done?
“Going twice.” Better this time. She sought Sophia’s desolate face, then Temperance’s. They’d stayed to witness her fall from grace, even though they’d argued against it with every breath.
My fall from grace. Funny to think of it that way—a downhill slide from whore to wife. But it felt like a fall, sure enough. “Going three times.”
Samuel grinned, triumphant—a brutal twist in his perfect face. Nausea answered, but she pushed it down, saving it. May as well throw up later, all over his scuffed leather coat. Maybe even barf into his Stetson, then pop it right back onto his head.
Sold.
She had to say it. Had to. But forcing out the godawful word proved impossible, and she hesitated, hoping for a miracle.
“Ten thousand dollars.”
The voice rang from the boardwalk outside, sonorous and resonant and sweet as a soaring bird. Annie lifted up on tiptoes, but men crowded the doorway, blocking her view.
Heavy clops sounded. Almost like…
A massive dark horse appeared. Astonished murmurs rippled through the parlor.
Annie blinked, certain she was hallucinating. She hadn’t tasted whiskey in hours—couldn’t that make you see things?
But she felt clear-headed, aside from the impossibility in the doorway.
“Ten thousand dollars,” the stranger repeated. The crowd scattered, pushing outward.
The outlaw looked exactly as the newspaper had described. A dark bandana and wide-brimmed hat obscured his features, while long, oil-black hair spilled to his waist in lank clumps. His jet horse, glistening like a night sky, loped straight into the teeming parlor—not O’Cahill’s bay at all, but a great, greasy, wild-looking thing.
That horse…so familiar, somehow. She cleared her throat to dispel her surprise. “Ten thousand? Lemme see it, cowboy.”
The outlaw pitched a heavy sack. She plucked it from the air. Its weight spiked shocked disbelief up her arms. She didn’t need a scale to know.
Ten thousand. No doubt the very same gold he’d stolen from the Northwest Trading Company, but still—an impossible sum. More than a working woman earned in a lifetime on the Outside.
Here she was, holding it in her hands.
Even Samuel couldn’t afford ten thousand. Well, he could. But he wouldn’t. Chancing a glance, she found his face thunderous. The crowd held its breath, waiting to see how the Flower of the North would respond.
Annie considered. The outlaw sat motionless, hopelessly bizarre against the shimmering crystal chandeliers and ornate purple parlor. Still, he scorched in her vision like a beacon of freedom.
A wild edge of abandon pulsed. Do something reckless. “Whiskey,” she demanded.
Sophia poured a glass and handed it over the banister. Riley followed her, plopping down between the horse’s gargantuan hooves. The terrier stared up at the outlaw with limpid eyes, his stumpy tail whirling in a furious circle.
And then Annie knew.
Victory shot through her veins, glittering like an exploding firework. Upending the tumbler, she downed the whiskey in one long swallow. When she tossed the empty glass down the stairs, she returned to herself, stepping back into her body from some cold and distant—and sober—madness she had no notion to revisit. Ever.
“Sold,” she cried. “C
ome and get me.”
The crowd surrendered to chaos.
The outlaw pulled his horse alongside the banister. Annie climbed over, dropping right off the railing and into the saddle behind him. Her skirts puffed up around her legs, but who cared? Everything had suddenly veered into a bright landscape of bursting color.
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Let’s get gone, sugar.”
But, of course, someone stopped them. Samuel met them at the door, his naked revolver aimed at her face. The empty, threatening O blanked her mind over with a cocoon of ice.
“Get down,” her husband said, his voice a scrape of fury. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere with him.”
46. Sophia.
Taller than the Reverend—taller than Henry, even—Samuel St. Clair towered over the crowd. Which meant Sophia had to rise up on tiptoes to press her Colt to the base of his skull, but she did so with a song in her heart.
Samuel froze.
“You men are always pointing your guns, always making the same threats. Add a little panache once in awhile, will you? Maybe work in a few throwing knives. Or some explosives.” She cocked the hammer, earning a flinch. “No? Nothing? If you’re not feeling imaginative, I’m full of ideas.”
“You realize,” he drawled, “you’re threatenin’ a U.S. Marshal?”
“Ooh. I’ve got it. You could lasso people, like in those dime novels. That’d be neat.”
Samuel turned, his eyes wide. She breathed easier when his revolver strayed from Annie.
“You.” He stared down. “The mighty small girl with the mighty large guns.”
“Gee, I’ve never heard that one before.”
“You even know how to use those things?”
“It’s my first time,” Sophia said coldly. “But I’m sure I can figure it out.”
He laughed, his expression waffling between fury and perplexity. “I suggest you figure it out elsewhere. I’d hate to have to hurt you.”
“You’re threatening my friend.” Friend. Singular. She was very careful about that. “Who, last time I checked, was a free woman.”
The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 25