Boots Under Her Bed

by Jodi Thomas

  “Answer me, Zeb.”

  “I’ll answer you as soon as we’re away from here and back with the horses,” he said, reaching out once more.

  But Maeve wouldn’t be budged and wrenched away, her eyes wild. “That watch belongs to Mick. Did that man steal it from him?”

  Zeb kept walking. He wasn’t saying another word until he’d seen to their supplies and left Mick Daugherty behind.

  “Who did you cut down and bury, Zeb? Was it Uncle Mick?”

  She was yelling now, loud enough in the clear air to be heard for miles. He wheeled around and came for her, grabbing her, shaking her. “Are you trying to let all of Texas know where we are?”

  “Did you just put my uncle in the ground?”

  He thought about lying, then about saying nothing. But in the end he nodded.

  She swayed, her hands coming up to cover her mouth, her knees buckling before he could reach her. She wailed once, then broke into sobs.

  “Why? Why would anyone do this to him?”

  Zeb was tired of keeping things from her. As ugly as the truth was, she deserved it. “Your uncle had something with him belonging to your father and, by association, to some very bad men.”

  “You’re saying my father had this association? Not Mick?”

  More truths. “Has, Maeve. Has. To this day.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to keep him safe from unsavory elements?” she asked, reaching up to rub at her temples.

  “I do keep him safe.” Not that the other man deserved it. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have dealings with them.”

  “He would never—”

  He hunkered down in front of her, wanting to know she heard him. “He does. He has for years. More years than I’ve been in his employ,” he said, reaching for a stick and dragging it across the ground. “It’s how I came to be in his employ.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d only been in the city a week,” he said, not even sure why he was telling her this. “I saw a group of thugs roughing up his carriage. I had nothing else to do, and pretty much no care if I lived or died, so I intervened.”

  “In a group of thugs.”

  He shrugged. “Turned out, the roughing up was for show. The men were in cahoots with your father.”

  She stared at him wordlessly.

  “He knows a lot of wealthy men. Their habits. Their assets. The contents of their safes.” He jabbed the stick at the dirt. The tip broke, but he kept jabbing. “Sometimes the combinations. Knows, too, the best time for a robbery to take place and go undetected for hours. Days, even. He’s made a lot of money this way. So have the thugs.”

  “How can that be possible?” she asked, twisting her hands in the fabric of her skirt. “My father is a respectable member of society. A trusted member of society. He’s a banker.”

  All of which enabled him to get away with his crimes. “It’s not unheard-of, rich men having their way at the expense of others.”

  “I don’t believe this. I won’t. Not of my father,” she said, surging back to her feet. “I don’t care what you or Fannie Porter say. There are honest men in this world. And my father is one of them. Are you an honest man, Zeb? Do you steal or lie or cheat to get what you want?”

  “Which part of that do you want me to answer?”

  “Never mind,” she said and turned.

  He reached out and grabbed her, spun her around. “Listen to me, Maeve. Yes, I’ve been known to lie.” He tossed away the stick he still held. “I’m sure you have, too. But I wouldn’t say that makes me a dishonest man any more than it makes you a dishonest woman. Lying’s not something I make a habit of. I don’t steal and I do my best not to cheat, though I suppose at some time in my life I may have committed both sins. But I think a man deserves to be judged on the bulk of his deeds, not taken to task on one or two that may have occurred under extraordinary circumstances. So, yes. I’d say I’m an honest man.”

  “But you would say that my father is not, and my uncle . . .”

  “Your uncle may very well have been trying to right your father’s wrong.” He doubted such was the case, but he’d tell the lie a thousand times if it gave Maeve some peace. “We’ll never know that now.”

  As she let that sink in, she nodded toward the paper now wadded in his hand. “What does the note say?”

  He held her gaze as he unfolded it, then glanced down, ready to choke on the words even before he spoke them. “‘You need to keep her safe. Promise me you’ll keep her safe.’”

  And when he promised her he would, Maeve cried.

  • • •

  HE wanted to hold her, to wrap his arms around her and take all the grief she had to shed. Instead, he left her to her tears while he did his best to remove all traces of their having been near the grave. It was bad enough that he couldn’t bury Mick properly, but Maeve was going to have to accept that that was the way of it.

  Returning to do what he could for her uncle had been a risk. Now they needed to go.

  And even as he had the thought, he realized she was no longer crying. He turned around to see her standing still, hugging herself and staring at the long ragged patch of disturbed earth. The full moon lit up her cheekbones, damp from her tears, and her eyes, which were as bright as they were terrified.

  “If my father is the type of man you say, why would he send you after me?” she asked, looking up as he approached. “Wouldn’t the risk of his enterprise’s discovery be lessened with his curious daughter out of the way?”

  He held her gaze for a very long moment, long enough for her to realize things were about to get worse. He couldn’t deceive her any longer. “He didn’t.”

  “What?” Her voice scraped up her throat, a desperate, ragged sound.

  He hated himself for having to tell her the truth. But not as much as he hated those responsible. “Your father didn’t send me to fetch you home. He sent me after Mick.”

  “Right,” she said, confusion causing her to frown. “He sent you after both of us.”

  But he had to shake his head. “The day we left San Antonio, you mentioned that Mick had carried more supplies than we did. That’s because Mick’s packs were loaded down with money he’d stolen from your father. He wasn’t carrying supplies at all.”

  She was silent for so long he wasn’t sure she had heard him, but then, with a cold and level voice, she asked, “Mick stole from my father? Was it money he and his band of thugs illegally gained?” When he nodded, she asked more. “Was that the money he gambled away? It wasn’t our traveling money he lost?”

  Another nod, and more appreciation for her very sharp mind as she painted the picture of what had happened for herself. “The amount was enough that losing it would’ve earned him some unwanted attention.”

  “By the men he lost it to?”

  “Or by anyone who saw him lose it and thought there might be more where that came from.” Which was what he feared had happened.

  She closed her eyes again, the remains of her tears seeping from the corners. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe this is where he lost his life. I can’t believe he stole from my father, or that my father would even know the type of men that do what you’ve suggested.”

  For a long moment he said nothing. Then he yanked off his hat, plowed his fingers through his hair. “Have you ever wondered why your father isn’t interested in reforming Bone Alley?”

  “He thinks it’s a waste of my time,” she said, scuffing her toe at the loose dirt. “That it’s too dangerous for me to be in that part of the city.”

  “It’s not about you. It’s about your proposed changes getting in his way.”

  “I’m sorry, Zeb,” she said, her exhaustion evident in the crease of her frown. “I really don’t understand.”

  Seeing her so close to broken should’ve had him softening his words. But he couldn’t. She had to know. “There are a lot of folks down there desperate for money. They’ll do most anything to get it. Men like your fat
her know that. And they don’t want that source of willing manpower drying up.”

  “This is where he found the men, the thieves, the . . . thugs you say work for him?”

  He nodded as he returned his hat to his head. She took a moment to let that sink in, and he wished the moon was brighter so he could better see the play of expressions on her face. But a rack of clouds had scudded in front of it to block out the light, and the distance between them was greater than he wished.

  It was a distance of doubt and uncertainty, and he wanted those things out of the way of the long weeks ahead. He wanted her to know that, no matter his own crimes, he was not her father. He would not treat her so callously. And he was, if not honest, the best man he knew how to be.

  “Then why,” she finally asked, “if you’re here for Mick and the money, did you come after me?”

  He dropped his gaze to the ground, took a deep breath, then looked up. “Because I couldn’t do either of those things until I found you.”

  “But you had no reason to find me. You have no stake in what happens to me,” she said, bringing her fingers in a rush to her mouth. “Oh, Zeb. Without you, I would never have known what had happened to Mick. I would still be working for Miss Porter.” She swallowed, her lips trembling. “If you hadn’t come after me, I would never have seen you again.”

  Oh, that was where she was so very wrong. But he was stopped from saying so by the crack of twigs off to the side, and before he could reach for his gun, two men with theirs cocked and drawn came into view.

  Chapter 7

  MAEVE spun in the same direction as Zeb, her hands going to her mouth to muffle her cry, but the effort was too late and in vain. The man she assumed was in charge waved his gun in her direction, eyeing her rather than Zeb. He and his companion were both filthy, as if they’d been riding for days, stirring up dust, using the coating as some sort of disguise.

  Or perhaps they were simply as uncouth as they were dangerous, because not for a moment did she think either man incapable of pulling the trigger. The mottled moonlight shining down through the trees showed her that in their eyes. They glinted with a hard and violent purpose, not unlike the look of the rats in Bone Alley as they scurried about with bold disregard.

  “Miss Daugherty, I presume?” the nearest man asked. “Your uncle said a lot of nice things about you, but damn, the man could not hold his drink or his cards, I’m sorry to say. Sorry for you, that is.”

  “What do you want?” Zeb asked, having moved to guard her with his body in front of hers.

  The other man came closer to Mick’s grave and looked down. “I want what’s owed me. And since I won’t be getting it from him”—he kicked the toe of his boot into the pile of loose dirt—“I’ll just have to get it from his kin. In whatever way I can.”

  Maeve looked up at Zeb in time to see his gaze harden and glint like railroad steel. “I don’t know who you are, but you won’t be laying a finger on Miss Daugherty and living to tell the tale.”

  “Lewis Brady’s who I am,” he said, “and this is my friend Sharp. Sharp here’s got a thing for redheads, and my holding the note on Mick’s debt means I’ll get to see if he’s right about how sweet—”

  Zeb stepped forward and swung, connecting with air as Brady feinted away. But Zeb wasn’t deterred. He spun and charged at the man like a bull, his boot heels stirring a cloud from the freshly turned earth.

  Maeve cried out.

  She needed Zeb. Oh, she needed him. For so many reasons. In so many ways. Losing him now . . . The thought choked her, crushing her chest as his protective efforts seemed close to costing him his life. If only he weren’t outnumbered. If only the derringer in her pocket were more powerful. But if she got it to him, because she’d never fired a gun in her life and feared making things worse, at least he’d have—

  Two guns cocking brought Zeb up short, and put an end to her thoughts. Brady dug his gun barrel into the hollow of Zeb’s throat, and Sharp pressed his to Zeb’s ear. Brady laughed. Sharp, a ragged skinny frame and silent thus far, laughed, too. Maeve rushed to Zeb’s side, holding tightly to his arm as they were forced from the site of Mick’s hanging through the copse of trees and back to their camp.

  They settled side by side on his bedroll and watched as Brady searched their belongings, taking Zeb’s weapons and tools, and most of their food, before leading their horses away. Sharpe kept his gaze—and his gun—trained in their direction the entire time, preventing Maeve from slipping the derringer to Zeb.

  They were two full days’ ride from San Antonio. Walking back would take them longer, but they were both strong and healthy, with a will to survive. They’d be fine. She had to believe that. They’d have nothing, but they’d be together. If the men didn’t separate them. If the men left them alive.

  “I should’ve waited for you,” she whispered, frightened by the course of her thoughts. “The horses were still here when I woke, so I knew you hadn’t gone far. This is all my fault.”

  He wrapped an arm around her and brought her close. His body was firm and solid and she wanted to soak in his strength. “I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened if Brady had found you alone.”

  She breathed deeply, his leather and musk and woodsy fragrance a comfort. “Would it have mattered if something had? Truly? There’s no one at home to miss me any more than anyone will miss Mick.”

  “Don’t say that—”

  “It’s true.” And how sad that they had that in common. “Mick was the only one in my corner. He was the only one who understood what I hoped to accomplish . . . And now, with what you’ve told me about my father, it seems that nothing in my life was even real.”

  He lowered his head, pressed his lips to her brow, warmed her and calmed her. “You are the most real person I know. You don’t hide behind causes the way your mother does. And I’ve seen you show more than one weak-chinned boy to the door once he starts calculating your father’s true worth.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve noticed those things.” The very things she had most recently resented.

  “I notice everything.”

  For a very simple reason. “Because you’re paid to do so.”

  “Not those things,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Then why?”

  He used a crooked finger to lift her chin, forcing her gaze up to his. “Because you deserve to be noticed.”

  She waited a minute, let his caring for her settle, let the flutter of joy in her chest come to a rest, then said, “Oh, Zeb. I think you’re going to break my heart.”

  “Then I’ll be here to put it back together,” he told her, and her flutter spread its wings and soared.

  “Enough with all the whispering over there. Shut up and go to sleep.”

  Maeve tucked her skirt around her legs and laid her head on Zeb’s thigh. She couldn’t imagine either of them would sleep, but soon enough the sun was rising, her eyes coming open to bright rays slicing through the treetops—and to the picture of Zeb with his hands laced on top of his head, Brady’s gun waving in front of his face.

  “Back away, Crow. You keep your distance or I’ll make sure you hang from the same tree as ol’ Mick did. In fact,” he said, cocking the hammer on his gun and stepping over the remains of the fire to where Maeve had pushed up to sit, “why don’t I send you to meet your Maker now and be done with it?”

  “You can’t,” she said, jumping to her feet and ignoring the burning in her stomach as she shoved past Brady to where Zeb stood, and faced the outlaw head-on.

  “And why’s that?” he asked, Zeb cursing ruthlessly behind her.

  She thought fast and didn’t blink even once as she told the lie. “Because I know where Mick hid the money. And if you harm a hair on Zebulon’s head, I will go to my grave without telling you.”

  • • •

  YOU need to keep her safe. Promise me you’ll keep her safe.

  Mick’s hastily scrawled words churned in Zeb’s gut. He knew the type of
man Brady was. He knew what he was capable of. Maeve holding the carrot of Mick’s money in front of the outlaw’s nose was the only reason Zeb was still thinking straight. She’d done what he’d been unable to—bought them both time. But he had to get to her before Brady bit. Once he realized Maeve was bluffing . . .

  Zeb refused to entertain thoughts of what might happen to her then. It was bad enough she was out there alone in his company.

  The two had left at sunup. Neither Zeb nor Maeve had slept much, though she’d dozed against his thigh in fits and starts. He didn’t imagine Brady would stop long for the night, if at all, and unless Maeve cleverly thought of a way to delay them, the pace he’d set as they left would put them in San Antonio the next day.

  Zeb could move faster, and ride straight through, arriving at Fannie Porter’s not long after. Because that was where he knew Maeve would take the other man.

  It was where she had allies. It was where she had the best chance at being safe. It was the most logical place for her to have hidden the money Mick had left her. Except he hadn’t left her anything. There wasn’t any money to hide.

  He looked over at Brady’s man Sharp where he sat staring at the sun, as if watching it set would make time pass faster. “You going to cut me loose?”

  “Brady said sundown. It ain’t sundown.”

  “It’s close enough.”

  “It ain’t sundown,” the man reiterated with enough meanness to have Zeb’s own stirring.

  “You’re taking my horse, leaving me on foot. What can another half hour matter? Give me that so I can gather what I need for the night while I’ve still got light to see by.”

  Sharp pushed up to his feet and hawked up a big wad he spat to the ground. Zeb was doing his best not to rile the other man, and instead to reinforce Sharp’s false belief that he held all the cards. The man seemed to believe the lie was true, because he made his cocky way to where Zeb was tied to the trunk of a tree, leaning down to loosen the knot of the rope as if doing so was a big favor Zeb would owe him for.

  Zeb turned his head, as much to avoid the stench of horse shit that clung to the man as to give himself the advantage of body weight. He freed his hand and swung his arm, his fist landing solidly against his captor’s neck. The other man stumbled, reaching for the Colt at his hip, but Zeb was there, his finger slipping through to the trigger and pulling as he forced the barrel down.