"So those plates are in Tarrant County?"
She hesitated. In truth, she didn't know.
"They could be in Tarrant County," she admitted, thinking their location depended entirely on where Ned Wilkerson was hiding out.
"Does Applegate know?"
"No. At least, he didn't two weeks ago. Marshal Brand and Sheriff Applegate are square—unless you count weakness for loose women as a crime."
Cord pressed his lips together. She had the distinct sense he'd disapproved of the loose woman dig, which was more in keeping with the ethical Cord she'd come to know.
"Looks like I'll be heading back to Fort Worth, then," he said.
A ray of hope broke through the chinks in her doubt. "Tomorrow?"
"No." His voice held a note of apology. "Tomorrow I wire Clem Applegate. Hopefully he's had enough time to cool off since the jail break. Then I'll be taking you to Carson."
"But—"
"Fancy." He spoke with that firm, caring tone he usually reserved for the boys. "I'd have to jail you at Fort Gates if I didn't take you north. This way, I can talk to Governor Underwood in Nevada. I can tell him how you've turned the plates over and try to work out some kind of deal. A legal deal."
Disappointment dragged her back down to earth. She should have known better than to aspire so high. A deputy U.S. marshal didn't have the power to pardon her, even if he really did want to see her go free. So whether in Fort Gates or Carson City, she didn't see how she was going to avoid jail time. Unless...
"I think I know who has the plates," she blurted.
Cord arched an eyebrow. She tried to appear calm, even though her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs that she could scarcely catch her breath.
"If I tell you who it is, you can't come back to Texas without me. That's the deal," she added hurriedly. "They're my contacts. They can smell the law a mile away. I have to go in for you. And I have to have Diego's help. In exchange, I want our pardons."
"What? Pardon Santana?"
She winced at his vehemence. Still, she thought Diego might cooperate if the charges against him were dropped.
"Diego knows all the tricks. And he has a reputation in the underground. My contacts will accept him. Besides, it could take months for some agent like a Pinkerton to earn their trust. By that time, the plates will disappear again."
Cord reined in his temper, but just barely. Pardon Santana? God in heaven. Had she forgotten how the bastard tried to put a bullet through her head?
Filling his lungs, he held his breath for a judiciously long count of ten. Then he spoke again.
"Robbing a government train is the least of Santana's offenses. You're talking about loosing a murderer. And I won't stand for that."
"I can't let him hang, Cord."
"Why? After what he did to you, hanging is too good for him."
She stiffened. He imagined he saw a flicker of pain cross her face before she turned away.
"It's true that Diego and I have had our differences—"
"Differences? Lady, Diego Santana's not good enough to lick your boots."
She started. For a moment, she looked genuinely surprised. Then doubt crisscrossed her features. She tucked her chin and pulled her blanket closer.
"You just don't understand. Diego was the only person who ever saw something in me. Something worthwhile. There's no escaping what I am, Cord."
He frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"You said it yourself. Back in Fort Worth."
He must have looked as puzzled as he felt, because she smiled mirthlessly.
"A lying, cheating thief. Don't you remember? And a whore, Cord. I'm also a whore."
He flinched. God in heaven. Had he really called her such things? To his mortification, he remembered he had.
"Fancy, I'm sorry," he said, his heart climbing to his throat. "I was angry. That's no excuse, of course. I should never have—"
"Called a spade a spade?" she whispered hoarsely. "But that's what you're good at, Cord: the truth. My talents lie elsewhere."
His face burned with his shame. If he could have taken back every careless word, every unkind thought, he would have. He couldn't bear to know how she'd taken them to heart.
"It takes more than talent to be honest," he said, his tone gruff with remorse. "It takes courage. And you've got that, Fancy. You proved it with Blood Wolf, and you proved it with Slade."
She bowed her head. "Maybe I need a different kind of courage, then."
Her voice sounded so tiny and ashamed, it nearly ripped out his heart.
"Fancy..." He crossed to her side and knelt, reaching out to hold her.
She cringed. "Please. Don't touch me. I... couldn't bear it."
He dropped his hands instantly. Frustration welled up inside him. He remembered the scars on her back, and his frustration surged to anger. Had Santana made the simple touch of kindness something for her to dread?
Damn him. Damn the bastard to hell.
"Fancy." He struggled to keep the helpless outrage from his voice. "Maybe once, a long time ago, you didn't have a choice. Maybe you couldn't change the kind of life you led. But you have different choices now. As long as Santana stays in jail—"
"No. You don't understand," she broke in tremulously. "Diego didn't make me a whore. I was born to it. My mother was one, and when she started getting too old to attract regular customers, she threw herself over the balcony. I didn't want to end up like her, so I tried to run away... many times. But they always found me and forced me to come back."
Cord's gut knotted to hear this newest evidence of the horrors she had lived through. "Who? Who forced you?"
"The madam. Old Barrows, the owner. All their thugs." She shrugged bravely, but her face had paled with private torment. "Even if I could have found a lawman who wasn't in Barrows's back pocket, Barrows had a contract for my services. My mother signed it, and I was bound by it until my twenty-first birthday.
"One day," she continued wistfully, tears glimmering on her lashes, "Diego started visiting me at the house. He said if I went away with him, if I helped him work the suckers and the fools, I would never have to whore again. Ever.
"At the time, it seemed like a dream come true. He staked his casino for my freedom, and he won. While Barrows stood there red-faced and fuming, Diego lit a cigar and burned my contract. I thought he was the most wonderful man in the world. And I fell in love with him that day."
Cord swallowed. Love. She'd said it again. And this time, he had reason to believe her.
"But Fancy, surely your feelings have changed. I mean—" he fidgeted, trying to find a delicate way to discuss an indelicate situation, "Santana didn't treat you with kindness. Or respect."
Her chin trembled. She hugged her arms across her chest and refused to meet his gaze. "Diego may have done hurtful things, but he never went back on his word. He never forced me to whore. That in itself was like saving my life. I can't turn my back on him now. He needs my help."
Cord felt his patience slipping away. He grappled with the intense desire to grab her shoulders and shake her until some sense rattled loose in her brain.
"Fancy, Diego Santana beat you within an inch of your life. And he would have shot you down if I hadn't fired on him first during the robbery."
Her head jerked up. Too late, he realized his mistake. Santana's treachery was something she had carefully blanked from her memory. He could see the resentment smoldering like branding irons deep inside her eyes.
"I don't know why I expected you to understand," she said harshly. "All you're really interested in is hanging outlaws. And recovering the plates so you can cash in on the reward."
"Fancy, that is not true."
"So prove it."
He ground his teeth. He thought he had proved it. Several times.
"All right," he said. "I might be able to get Santana's charges reduced. But that's as far as I'm willing to go."
"You said you would help me!"
"I am he
lping you, dammit. Setting Santana free is the absolute worst thing that could happen to you. He'll talk you into running away with him again. He'll have you cheating and robbing, maybe even killing a few men. Where's it all going to end, Fancy? And what are you going to do next time if I'm not around to stop him from putting a bullet through your head?"
A big silvery tear rolled down her cheek.
"Go to hell," she whispered fiercely, snatching up her bedroll.
She stalked to the other side of the fire, spread her blankets, and flopped down, tugging the wool to her chin.
Then, as if sensing the heat of his glare, she turned her back on him.
Chapter 14
Cord had been too frustrated to sleep well that night. To lie in such proximity to Fancy, her lush curves silhouetted by amber flames and violet shadow, had been only part of the distraction.
True, he'd been sorely tempted to bridge the space between them. With no brothers, no aunt, no dishonorable promises to come between them, the only way to keep his mind off the simmering heat in his loins was to repeat silently over and over that she hated him. With a passion. And that wasn't the kind of passion he wanted from a woman.
He didn't understand why his best intentions always went wrong where Fancy was concerned. She seemed determined to misinterpret or flat out disbelieve everything he said. What was worse, she seemed equally determined to put all of her faith in Santana. He couldn't fathom such blind loyalty.
Thinking there must be something more he could say to hammer the truth home, Cord tried once more on their way to Fort Gates. In vivid detail, he pointed out all the dangers of living life on the run—especially with an inveterate sinner like Santana. He pleaded with her to supply her contacts' names so he would be bargaining from a position of power when he went to the governor.
Reasoning with the woman proved just as futile as before. Half the time, he suspected she'd turned deaf as well as blind.
She wore a stony, indifferent expression during their entire ride. When he fired off telegraphs to New Mexican lawmen, seeking information about Bart Wilkerson's old cohorts, she didn't even bat an eye in challenge.
During their stage ride to Waco the next day, she proved even more unreachable, if that was possible. His hopes of coaxing a confession out of her were dashed the instant the wife and daughters of Fort Gates's commander all clambered aboard the coach. They spent most of the ride giggling about charivaris and honeymoons and debating the merits of taffeta over satin for wedding gowns. As their chatter droned on and on above the jolts and bumps of the road, Cord thought he had never seen Fancy looking quite so grim... or so resigned. He imagined she was thinking of Santana again.
The thought gnawed at his gut all the way to Waco.
The stage pulled into town late in the afternoon, just as the commercial district was closing down and the saloons were picking up. Cord watched the proliferation of swaggering young gunslingers with a wary eye, but he didn't anticipate trouble. He guessed they had stopped in Waco on their way to Austin to sign up for the Rangers. Now that Yankee Reconstruction had finally released its stranglehold on Texas, the legislature had proudly reactivated the state's legendary law force. Cord suspected half the rowdies in town were eager recruits.
Main Street was bustling with people, most of whom were headed for the hotels or the saloons. The rare exception seemed to be the women from the stage coach. The belles of Fort Gates set off briskly for the dry goods store, which, they had confided earlier, carried a far better selection of nuptial fabrics than the trading post.
Fancy said nothing as the ladies hurried away, but Cord glimpsed the longing in the look she cast after them. The store's window was dressed with colorful bolts of calico, muslin, and silk. Even the plainest cloth made her own flannel and denim look shabby. His heart went out to her.
"Maybe the store has some traveling clothes," he said impulsively. "Let's take a look. I know the owner. He'll float me the money."
Her head snapped back around. Considering the glare she gave him, one would have thought he'd offered to fit her with a hair shirt.
"If my clothing embarrasses you, Marshal, you have no one to blame but yourself. You sailed my gown down the river. Remember?"
He felt his face heat. Of course he remembered. He remembered her burlesque only too well. Most nights, he had a dream about it.
"No offense, Fancy. It's just that Zack's shirt and jeans aren't... well, you know. And I thought you might have a hankering to get gussied up."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Or maybe get more comfortable," he corrected himself hastily.
This attempt at conciliation only kindled a brighter, more dangerous gleam in her eyes.
"I mean..." He fidgeted. Confound it, why did she always have to get so ornery? He knew he was digging a deeper hole for himself, but he didn't see any way of backing out now. "Look. I just thought you'd like to wear the kind of clothes that come natural to a lady, okay?"
She laughed. The sound came suddenly, and it startled him. Harsh and explosive, it was as bitter as day-old coffee.
"Save your money, tin-star. I'm no lady. Besides, where I'm going, I hear they wear uniforms."
"Fancy—"
"Let's just get this over with, shall we?"
She spun on her heel and marched toward the town marshal's office. The shadow of a nearby picket fence fell across her path—like bars, he thought uncomfortably. His stomach roiled.
"Wait!" Hurrying after her, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back against his chest. "I said I'd keep you out of jail, dammit, and I meant it."
He felt her shiver. Her breathing quickened, and a pale flush crept up her neck.
"Then where—?"
"The hotel."
She stiffened in his arms. A twinge of hurt stabbed his chest. He wished she would let him hold her. He didn't care that a hundred eyes might be watching. To hell with them all. He wanted to stroke her hair and taste her lips and swear that he would never let anyone hurt her again.
She wrenched herself free and rounded on him. Her eyes pierced through him like violet steel.
"You forfeited your chance at the ranch, Rawlins. Don't presume I'll deal you that hand again."
"What?" His neck heated so fast under his collar, he thought his ears might steam. "That's a helluva thing to say to me, woman. A helluva thing to say."
"Oh? But I thought you liked honesty."
He ground his teeth. Honesty, yes. Contrariness, no. "I was going to put you under house arrest. Your own room. No bars. No deals."
Her head tilted skeptically, and she folded her arms across her chest. "Do you really expect me to believe it never crossed your mind to—"
"Yes! Yes, I do, dammit. And frankly, I'm tired of paying for every bastard whose mind it did cross. When are you going to cut me some slack, Fancy? Even you've got to see I'm not out to do you wrong."
She looked chagrined then, but he was too furious to listen to an apology. He led her to the hotel across the street, locked her in a second-story room, then asked the town marshal to post a deputy beneath her window.
* * *
Thanks to Fancy's obstinacy, Cord spent most of the night sending out wires and piecing together information about Bart Wilkerson and his estranged family. Messages arrived for him almost hourly from lawmen in New Mexico Territory and counties across Texas. He finally deduced that Bart's cousin, Ned, was the man Fancy was protecting.
While watching her the next morning in Waco's train depot, Cord felt certain he had guessed correctly. A far cry from her usual poker-faced self, she turned whiter than bleached bones when he casually dropped Ned's name.
"You're shooting in the dark, Marshal," she retorted coolly, but her eyes held a wary, cornered look as he stood over her on the loading platform.
"I am, eh?"
She shrugged, clasping her hands over her knee, but she couldn't quite hide the tremor in them. Although he had relieved her of Wes's six-shooter, he hadn't bothered to cuff her,
even here, among the crowds. He'd figured she would stick by his side to avoid getting dragged off by a vigilante. Her wanted poster was staring down at them from every corner of the depot. So, too, were some locals who had dollar signs dancing in their brains.
"Well now." Propping his boot on the bench beside her, Cord leaned an arm across his thigh and pushed his hat back with his thumb. He couldn't help but notice the gray hollows under her eyes. He suspected she hadn't slept much.
She hadn't eaten much, either—for dinner or for breakfast. She was scared out of her mind, knowing she was on her way to Carson, but she'd rather be damned than trust him. Her smoldering hostility was beginning to stick in his craw.
"Your friend, Sheriff Applegate, doesn't think I'm following a cold trail," he said. "Fact is, Clem's been having a regular Wilkerson stampede. First Bart. Then Ned and the boys. Kind of makes you wonder what all those New Mexican outlaws find so consarned fascinating about Tarrant County."
Her pulse leaped, pumping hard in the hollow of her throat. She rallied quickly, though. "Perhaps they're paying their respects to Bart's grave."
He felt the corners of his mouth twitch. She really was at her wit's end. He didn't know whether to be disappointed or amused that she would try to divert him with such a weak excuse.
"Now that would be a switch, wouldn't it? Ned finding some Christian charity? 'Course, I'm not saying it isn't possible. Maybe he did ride to Fort Worth to forgive ol' Bart for gouging out his eye."
She reddened. She apparently hadn't known the reason behind the Wilkersons' bad blood. Maybe she'd never met Ned. That latter suspicion helped confirm in his mind that he'd made the right decision when he'd decided to hide Fancy at Aunt Lally's ranch. He didn't like the prospect of lying—and to Nevada's governor, of all men—but he just didn't see how he could keep her out of jail unless he insisted she was necessary to help him infiltrate the Wilkerson gang.
Of course, detective work was much too dangerous for a woman. He had no intention of taking her into that pit of vipers.
Watching her stare north along the tracks, he could almost feel the worry she tried to conceal. An outlaw usually wanted to talk when his back was against the wall. Fancy had been more stubborn than most, but her time was running out.
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