Boots Under Her Bed

by Jodi Thomas

  They sat in silence for several minutes. Rachel stopped shivering as the sun warmed her. Or maybe that was Richard’s nearness. Or her lascivious thoughts about him. She was pathetic.

  The old couple came out of the shack and walked back toward the hotel. From a second-floor window overlooking the boardwalk came a woman’s high-pitched voice demanding that the deputy stop pawing through her things.

  “What about the farm boy with the chicken?” Richard asked. “It would be an ingenious way to hide, say . . . stolen jewels, if he fed them to her.”

  “Ingenious, but probably fatal. I think he cares too much for her to do that.”

  “Which leaves Harvey King.”

  “Does it?” Rachel smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt.

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “He wasn’t in the dining room. Did you see him upstairs?”

  “No.” Uneasy with his line of questioning, she rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I must make certain Deputy Beemis isn’t trying on my corset.”

  Whitmeyer’s brows shot up. “Corset?” Surprise gave way to a grin that was positively wicked. “Since when do you wear a corset, Mrs. James? You certainly weren’t wearing one the other day when you so kindly warmed my hands.”

  The heads of several onlookers outside the lobby turned their way.

  “You are vile beyond belief. Good day.”

  “Does that mean no poker later?” he called as she swept inside.

  • • •

  THAT ought to keep her fretting for a while, Richard thought, settling back to watch the comings and goings without her distracting him. And she definitely was a distraction. Whenever he looked into those blue-green eyes, he forgot how to think.

  Upstairs, the search continued. Several guests came out onto the boardwalk, protesting the intrusion. The farm boy seemed more upset about his chicken than his rights, and one man vowed to write to President Hayes.

  The old couple returned. Rachel was right about the footwear. Richard had once owned a pair just like them, only in a larger size.

  Still no sign of Muttonchops. Surely, if he held stolen goods in his possession, he would want to get them out of the hotel before they searched his room. So where was he?

  Disheartened, Richard rose and went into the dining room for another look around. Seeing only a few late diners, he turned to go, then saw a figure move past a back window.

  Rachel. In a hurry. Going where?

  Dread and anticipation warring within him, he followed.

  • • •

  HARVEY should be doing this, Rachel fumed as she slipped and slid down the slushy lane behind the hotel. This wasn’t her part of the arrangement. She was only to watch and report. But he wasn’t in his room or the hotel dining room, so here she was, slogging through half-melted snow, muddying her hem and her new high-heeled lace-up suede walking shoes. If they were ruined, she would make certain he got the bill.

  Slipping into the narrow space between the side of the hotel and a millinery shop, she crept toward the main thoroughfare and peeked down the boardwalk.

  Richard Whitmeyer wasn’t at the bench in front of the hotel. Harvey was nowhere in sight. Relieved at the one and irritated at the other, she took a chance, stepped out into the open, and continued at a brisk pace down the boardwalk.

  When she reached the abandoned shack the old couple had gone into, she paused outside the door to pull the derringer from her reticule. She listened for movement, heard none, and pushed open the door. Stepping inside, she looked around.

  A broken chair, sagging shelves, and a freestanding rock fireplace that separated this room from the one behind it and was filled with a lacework of cobwebs. Dozens of footprints crisscrossed the dusty floor, all coming to and from the fireplace—too many for just the old folks. Had Harvey been here, too?

  She crossed to the hearth. The cobwebs appeared undisturbed, but two stones were out of alignment with the others. On closer study, she saw that they had been sprinkled with loose dirt to disguise the fact that the mortar had been dug away. Clever, that.

  Crouching down, she set her reticule and pistol on the hearth within reach, then, using her hanky, brushed away the dirt. The stones were still a tight fit. When she finally worked them free, she saw a bulky oilskin pouch buried beneath them. She carefully lifted it out and set it on the hearth beside her bent knees. Hardly daring to breathe, she untied the closure and peeled back the flap.

  And there they were. Safe. Dry. Her chance for a better life.

  Tears pricked her eyes. She ran her fingers over the bearer shares, needing to touch them to assure herself they were real. She had worked hard for this moment. Not even Harvey could take it away.

  Richard Whitmeyer’s image flashed through her mind, damping her elation.

  How would he react when he found out how she earned her money? Would he still think her deserving of his protection?

  No matter. She could sort all that out later. Right now she wanted to luxuriate in her success. She’d earned it.

  With trembling fingers, she undid the smaller pouch beside the shares and tipped it into her hand. Dozens of glittering stones fell out. Thousands of dollars’ worth within the palm of her hand.

  A feeling of power surged through her. No one could stop her now.

  “Rachel.”

  She bolted to her feet. “R-Richard!” she cried, when she saw him standing in the doorway. “W-what are you doing here?”

  “I followed you.” His gaze dropped to the bearer shares on the hearth.

  She stood frozen, her mind reeling, the stones still in her hand. That sad look in his dark eyes was like a blow to her heart. “Richard, you don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t.” He held out his hand. “Give them to me, Rachel.”

  “No.” She clutched the stones tighter, felt the sharp edges dig into her palm. “They don’t belong to you.”

  “They don’t belong to you, either.” He stepped closer, his hand still outstretched. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing. Stop now, before it’s too late.”

  Was he threatening her? She saw a slight tremble in his fingers and wondered what he was thinking, what he intended to do. She glanced down, saw her pistol on the hearth. Even if she could reach it in time, would she have the courage to use it? On Richard? The man she had kissed. The man who thought she was beautiful.

  “Hand them over, Rachel.” Another step, kicking up a tiny, glittering cyclone of dust to swirl through a beam of morning sunlight. “I’ll let you walk away. I promise. But you have to give them to me now.”

  “No.” She stepped back, almost tripped against the hearth. “I’ll not let you take them from me.”

  “We’re running out of time! You have to get out of here while you still can.”

  They stared at each other, the sound of their breathing loud in the small room. Regret mingled with the dust in the stagnant air. She watched his chest rise and fall on a deep breath and remembered the solid strength of it beneath her palm.

  “Rachel. Sweetheart. Don’t make me do this. Please.”

  Something shattered inside her. Trust. Her last lingering hope that he was a better man than he was showing himself to be. Bending down, she picked up the derringer with her free hand. “You do what you must, Richard.” Blinking hard, she aimed the pistol at his chest. “And I will, too.”

  He seemed less surprised than sad. “You would really shoot me?”

  “If she doesn’t, I will.”

  Rachel gasped as Harvey stepped out from beside the fireplace. Her knees gave way and she plopped down on the hearth, her heart beating so fast she felt light-headed.

  Grinning, Harvey pointed his Colt at Richard. “Good work, Rachel. I’ll take it from here.”

  • • •

  RICHARD looked at King, then back at Rachel. He felt like the floor had given way beneath his feet. “So, it’s true. You two are working together.”

  Rachel woul
dn’t look at him.

  Harvey laughed nastily. “She’s a good little piece, isn’t she? Had you drooling like a dog in a butcher shop.”

  At a small sound of distress, Richard glanced back at Rachel, saw her trying to manage the gun and pour the jewels into a pouch at the same time, but her hands shook so badly she spilled most of the stones in her lap.

  King noticed, too. “Be careful, woman! I want every one of those accounted for.”

  Not sure why he would still want to protect her, Richard tried to direct King’s anger back to himself. “Using a woman to do your dirty work, Harvey?”

  “Shut up, Whitmeyer. Whether you’re armed or not, I could shoot you now and get a citation for it.”

  Citation? From whom?

  A footstep outside alerted Richard to a new presence near the door behind him. The sheriff. Finally. To cover the sound of his approach, he raised his voice. “You won’t get away with this, King. I’ll hound you until you drop.”

  Harvey laughed. “Hound me how? You’ll be in jail.”

  Jail?

  “Actually, he’ll be dead,” said a voice—not the sheriff’s—just as something hard jammed into Richard’s back. “You, too, King, if you don’t drop that gun.”

  Rachel lurched to her feet.

  Harvey didn’t move, his eyes round with surprise in his slack face.

  Glancing back, Richard saw the mourning couple behind him, the old man holding the gun to his back, the old lady aiming at Harvey, a big grin on her bearded face.

  Hell. He’d been wrong about them, too. His mind racing, he tried to figure out what was going on.

  Rachel looked as shocked as he was, which meant she probably wasn’t in league with the old couple. Nor was Harvey, judging by his stunned expression.

  So it had been the old folks all along. How could he have missed that?

  Their disguise was perfect. Who would look too closely at an elderly couple in mourning? Or question an old lady’s footwear? Only Rachel.

  But if the old people were the Omaha City bank robbers, what role did Rachel and Harvey play in all this? Had they been running a confidence scheme, stumbled across these two, and decided to abscond with the spoils themselves? Or were they bounty hunters after all?

  Brother and sister? Lovers? Was she even a widow?

  What the hell was going on?

  He doubted the robbers intended to let them leave here alive. No one would know he and Rachel and King were missing until it was time to board tomorrow, and the conductor wouldn’t further delay departure just because a few passengers missed the train. The thieves could get off at the next stop, change their disguises, buy new tickets to throw trackers off their scent, then continue on with no one the wiser.

  Unless the sheriff arrived in time to stop them. Damn it, where was he?

  “You heard him, King,” the man in the dress said in a gravelly voice. “Drop it, or I start shooting.”

  Richard thought quickly. His gun was still in the shoulder holster—a big error on his part. He couldn’t tell if Rachel still held hers—both of her arms were straight at her sides, her hands hidden in her skirts. Harvey was the wild card. So far, he hadn’t relinquished his weapon, but if he planned to use it, he had better do so soon. If not, Richard would have to act on his own if he hoped to get out of this alive. But how could he protect Rachel if the thieves behind him started shooting? She was directly in their line of fire.

  And where the hell was Sheriff Bowman?

  “You heard him, King,” the one disguised as the old man warned. “Drop it.”

  With reluctance, Harvey set his Colt on the floor. Hopefully, he still had the pistol in his ankle holster.

  Knowing it was up to him now, Richard raised his hands and slowly turned to face the gunmen behind him. “Look, fellows,” he said amicably, shifting his weight so his body was partially in front of Rachel. “You start firing, half the town will come running. Then nobody gets anything. But I might have a way where we all can benefit without anybody getting hurt.”

  “Benefit from our hard work, you mean.”

  Richard shrugged and moved a few more inches to the side. “Better half the loaf than none of it, right?”

  “Better all of it.” The man posing as the woman thumbed back the hammer.

  Richard braced himself. Then saw a familiar figure move into the doorway.

  “Put your guns down!” the sheriff shouted, stepping up behind the two gunmen. “Real slow. You, too, King,” he added when he saw Muttonchops reach down for his pistol.

  “But I’m—”

  “One more inch and I’ll fire, swear to God.”

  Muttering, King straightened.

  The two gunmen didn’t move.

  Neither did Richard, since their guns were still pointed at him . . . and at Rachel, standing somewhere behind him next to the hearth. He waited, his heart bouncing against his ribs, watching to see what the men facing him would do.

  One wavered. The other held fast. When the old lady’s finger tightened on the trigger, Richard whirled and threw himself toward Rachel.

  Noise exploded.

  Something slammed into his chest.

  He flew backward. Heard someone scream. Smelled blood and spent powder. Then he landed hard, the back of his head cracking against the floor. A moment of terror as he fought to drag air into his lungs. Then darkness descended.

  • • •

  HE awoke confused and disoriented. Pain hammered at his head. His chest hurt so bad he was afraid to take a full breath. He had no idea how he had gotten back to his hotel room, or what had happened to cause him so much pain, until he lifted the sheet and saw the thick bandage on the left side of his chest.

  It all came rushing back. The gunmen. The deafening noise of several guns firing at once. Rachel standing at the hearth, the smoking derringer in her hand.

  Rachel!

  Lifting his head, he looked frantically around, saw her familiar figure silhouetted in the window, looking out. Relief pounded through him.

  Alive. Whole. Safe.

  He slumped back as sudden emotion clogged his throat. It shocked him . . . the intensity of it. He didn’t know where it came from or what he was supposed to do with it or what it meant. All this over a woman he scarcely knew?

  A woman he desperately wanted.

  Turning his head, he watched her as he struggled to come to grips with the realization that this quirky, sassy, fearless woman had almost cost him his life, yet his first thought had been gratitude that she had survived the gunfight unscathed.

  The tears filling his eyes made no sense.

  “Rachel.”

  She turned, her look of worry giving way to a brittle smile. “You’re awake. We were getting worried. It’s been several hours. How do you feel?”

  “You shot me.”

  She made an airy gesture with one shaking hand. “It was bound to happen at some point. You are easily the most aggravating man I’ve ever met.”

  “You’re saying it’s my fault?” Unbelievable.

  “If you hadn’t lied to me, none of this would have happened.”

  “When did I lie to you?”

  “You never told me you were an investigator for Kingston Allied Insurance, the firm that insured the stolen jewels.”

  “Lead investigator. And that’s no reason to shoot a man.”

  “I was aiming at the old woman behind you but then you jumped in the way. Why would you do such a foolish thing?”

  Now he was foolish as well as guilty. Lifting his left arm, since it hurt too much to move his right, he pressed the heel of his palm against his throbbing temple. “The man in the dress was about to shoot.” Had he really said that aloud? “I knew you were in the line of fire and I didn’t want you to get hurt.” He shot her a look. “I forgot you don’t need saving.”

  “It’s unbecoming to pout. And it was obvious he was about to shoot you. Which is why I shot at him. And if you hadn’t gotten in the way, I would have gotten h
im. I think the other man fired, too, but I’m not sure. It was confusing.”

  “And yet, here you are, all safe and sound, while I’m”—he looked down at his bandaged chest—“not.”

  “Don’t be such a baby. It’s hardly a scratch. Two scratches at most. A little bruising, and less than a dozen stitches in all. The bullet hit the butt of your pistol and broke apart. Two tiny pieces went into you. Another piece went into your shoulder holster. You were lucky I didn’t pull both triggers.”

  “I certainly feel lucky. Thank you for only shooting me once.” In truth, now that he knew his wound was minor, he did feel much better. Not that he was going to admit that. The woman could have killed him, for God’s sake. She should feel some remorse. “Why does my head hurt so much?”

  “It hit the floor when you fell. In fact, when you went flying, I thought . . .” She turned abruptly to the window and cleared her throat. “I thought you might have cracked a board with that hard head of yours.”

  He saw her shoulders shaking and wondered if she was laughing at him. Then he heard a faint sniff and realized she was crying. Over him. Bless her heart.

  “Rachel.”

  “I didn’t mean to shoot you,” she said to the window.

  “I know. Would you mind stepping over to the bed?”

  “You might have died.”

  “But I didn’t. Please. Just for a moment.”

  She turned, tears streaming. “I’m so sorry, Richard. I would never hurt you. You must know that.”

  “I do, sweetheart. Now stop crying and come over here or I won’t allow you to kiss me.”

  She blinked sodden blue eyes. “Kiss you?”

  “A kiss of peace. Nothing more.” He motioned to his chest. “I am, after all, injured.” But not incapacitated, he happily noted as his body stirred.

  She came to him, docile as a lamb, unaware that once he had her in his arms, he wouldn’t let her go. Not for a while, anyway. As soon as she came within reach, he wrapped his good arm around her, pulled her down onto the bed beside him, and kissed her soundly.

  He tasted the salt of her tears, felt the quiver of her lips beneath his, and knew there were more tears to come. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, brushing his hand over her damp cheek, “it’s all right. I’m okay.”