“Very nice work, Miranda. You have a gift.” He looked into her eyes—so close she could see his eyes weren’t the pure dark pools she’d thought them to be—there were tiny flecks, as though someone had sprinkled gold dust into a cup of coffee.
“I’m no artist, Mister . . .” She swallowed. “Ben.” She turned to look at the picture she’d drawn; the simple lines were nothing special. “Not like bringing horses and men to life the way you did.” She still had a vivid memory of his battle scenes. “These are only pencil sketches.”
“They show a good eye, though.” Ben leaned closer as he examined the pictures again, and she could feel heat radiating from him. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw and made him look even more dangerous than usual. “And a steady hand.”
“Nothing like your work.”
“Better than I could do now.”
He stepped away from her and it was all she could do to keep herself from reaching out to him. She wanted to tell him she knew exactly how he felt about his hand. She wished she could hide her face as easily as he shoved his hand into his pocket, or covered it with a glove. The thought made her feel guilty and selfish. Her scar was ugly, but it didn’t keep her from doing simple tasks. She fisted her hand and wondered what it would be like to do without her fingers.
“Miranda and I are going to make them, Mr. Lansing. You’re a city man—what do you think? How do they compare to the fashion women are wearing in Boston these days?”
Ben looked back through the pictures. “I’m no expert on fashion, but I imagine Boston ladies would be pleased to wear these.”
“I think so, too.” Clarisse picked up the papers and walked over to the fabric lined up against the wall. “Don’t know if I have any cloth here that suits. We may have to order something nicer if we want to start a new fashion in Denver.”
Miranda was relieved to have an excuse to step away from Ben. She ran her hand over the many colors of cloth, then thought of Mrs. Wick. “I expect we’ll do better if we can sell them for a good price.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Clarisse pulled a red wool off the shelf, then set it back. “One thing about having money, it tends to make people appreciate a good bargain.”
“That is why the rich always grow richer.” Ben’s voice came from right beside her and Miranda jumped, causing her arm to brush against his. Instead of moving back as any decent man would do, he edged closer to her. “I think the blue there is very nice.” Ben reached for a sky blue gingham and pulled the end in front of her face. “It would bring out the color in your eyes.”
Miranda’s foolish heart was now thumping so violently in her throat she couldn’t speak. Even more vexing was the fact that nothing remotely clever came to mind.
“Oh, Mr. Lansing,” Clarisse said. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten to ask what you need.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Wyatt. You have good reason to be distracted.”
Again, his eyes met Miranda’s and she felt the same warmth as when his hand had touched her. It was time to escape. “ . . . I should go to Doc’s and find Pa.” Miranda hastened toward the door. “I’ll stop in later, Clarisse.” After Ben has gone and I’ve regained my ability to think clearly.
Once out in the bright sunlight, she stared up at the mountains. Dammit, Miranda, get some sense. May as well put the silver in a bag and hand it to the thief as fall for that man’s charm. She stood tall and marched down the street and right past the doctor’s office. She stopped when she reached Rita’s and looked up and down the street, hoping no one was watching as she turned and headed back to her destination.
That evening Ben was ready to do just about anything to take his mind off Miranda Chase. Hell, he’d even ordered a whiskey to try and rid his memory of the scent of lavender that filled his nostrils as he leaned over her—much too close for propriety. Damn it, he knew better.
He gazed across the table at the lovely lady he’d invited to join him. “Rita Diaz.” Benjamin toyed with the glass, swirling the amber liquid around. “You’re Spanish, then?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “Does this surprise you?”
“No, although I am surprised to see a Spanish lady running a saloon.”
She laughed again. “I’m a widow. This”—she spread her arms, indicating the saloon—“was the only thing my husband left me.”
He set his full glass down again, then looked into Rita’s dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am, for your loss.”
She acknowledged his words with a tilt of her head. “It has been many years.”
He had persuaded Rita to join him for a few moments, but he hadn’t yet found the words to ask his question. He wanted to have a sense of Rita’s position in the town first. After a few moments of conversation, he had found her open and charming. No doubt she knew as much as anyone about everything that went on in Fort Victory. This saloon, perhaps even more than Wyatt’s store or the church, provided a central meeting place for the community. Everyone in the area—ranchers, townspeople, miners, and soldiers—came to Rita’s occasionally. Even Thad Buchanan. According to Rita, he was a regular at her poker table.
“My mother was Italian,” he said. “I spent some time living in Italy and France. I visited Barcelona once.”
“I have heard that Barcelona is beautiful.”
“Yes, it’s very impressive. My father has always been so proud of the traditions we have in Boston, all of our history. Barcelona had a university and great cathedrals before Boston was even discovered.”
Rita laughed. “You do not agree that God created the world, starting with Boston first?”
“Certainly not.”
“That is very strange. I was told that you are a brother of Arthur Lansing.”
Ben laughed. He liked Rita. The small glass in his hand seemed far heavier than it should. He set it down. The last thing he needed was to journey back to those months of darkness he had experienced last year in Europe, when he marked time by the number of wine bottles that accumulated in his rooms. When he’d finally run out of money and sobered, six months had passed. That was a lot of time to waste, even for someone who had nothing better to do with his life. If his prudent father hadn’t insisted Ben buy a return ticket when he left Boston, he might still be in Paris.
He’d come home intending to write Arthur and insist his brother pay the money he owed. It was a shock to learn that his brother was dead and no one had bothered to inform Ben. He lifted the cup and swirled the whiskey around again. Liquid courage—but he was afraid to drink it.
“I’m keeping you from your drink, Señor Lansing.” Rita started to rise.
“No.” Ben lifted his hand indicating she should stay, then swallowed the whiskey in one gulp, feeling it burn down his throat. Liquid courage. He used his maimed left hand to wave to the bartender for more whiskey, then let the hand remain on the table where Rita could see it. Hell, the whole town may as well see it now. Miranda had managed to hide her repugnance, but he could see she had been shocked when she set her eyes on his mangled fingers.
Rita glanced at his hand, then back up to his face. “Perhaps you will tell me what you wish to discuss?”
Her accent was dark and exotic, like her eyes. There was no pity in those eyes, just the same friendly light he had seen when he first met her.
“May I call you Rita?”
“Of course. Everyone calls me Rita.” She rolled the “r” delicately.
“What brought you to Colorado, Rita?”
“I was born in what you call Colorado Territory.”
A tall gentleman suddenly appeared at her side. “Rita’s people were here long before your people, Mr. Lansing. Rita’s family came here with a grant of land from the Spanish government—”
“Our land was far to the south of Fort Victory,” Rita interrupted. “Mr. Lansing, may I present my defender, Dr. Calvert. Cal, this is Benjamin Lansing.”
Ben shoved his left hand into his pocket and stood to shake the doctor’s hand.
“Arthur’s brother,” Rita said.
“Ah.” The doctor nodded. “Most folks hereabouts call me Doc, or Cal. I answer to pretty much anything.”
“Please, join us.” Benjamin indicated a chair. He sat when the doctor did.
Almost before they could be seated, the bartender arrived with another glass and a bottle.
“Real Scotch whiskey,” Doc said, pouring a healthy shot into his glass, then holding the bottle over Ben’s empty cup. “Would you care for some?”
“Thank you,” Ben said, against his better judgment. As the doctor poured, Benjamin noticed the man’s coat was worn, the cuff of his sleeve beginning to fray. He turned back to the saloon owner.
“How well did you know my brother, Rita?”
The light in her eyes dimmed, but she didn’t turn away from him. She wasn’t one to avoid an unpleasant topic, but he had no doubt that the subject of his brother was distasteful to her.
“Everyone knew Arthur Lansing. He made certain of that.”
“Did he?”
“He wore only the finest clothing and built the grandest house this side of Golden and Denver.” She glanced at the doctor seated beside her, then turned back to Benjamin, raising her chin to look directly into his eyes. “Everyone knew him.”
There was something she was holding back. What, and why?
“What is it you want to know?” Doc spoke slowly, before tilting his cup for a sip.
Ben lifted his cup with his left hand, just to prove he could. He trembled slightly but didn’t spill a drop. He tasted the whiskey, then set the cup back on the table, dropping his hand onto his lap.
“I’d like to know more about how he died, to start with.”
Rita had been leaning an elbow on the table, but at Benjamin’s question she sat upright, straight and stiff.
“I reckon you heard about the fire, Mr. Lansing.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed on him.
“Ben, please.” He hoped to return the conversation to the friendly tone they’d enjoyed a moment ago. “I’ve heard there was a house fire, but I haven’t heard any details.” Ben curled his fingers around his glass, bringing it halfway to his lips. “How’d it happen? Who was there?” He took a swallow, feeling heat clear to the pit of his stomach.
“You should speak with Mercy and Thad Buchanan. They can tell you the entire story. You know they saved young Jonathan’s life.”
Ben couldn’t help wondering whether the Buchanans would tell him everything. If they had something to hide, listening to their version of the facts would be unlikely to help him find the truth. “Yet they weren’t able to save my brother.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. Lansing?” Rita drew herself up as though she’d been personally offended.
Hell, he wasn’t suggesting anything, just inquiring. “It seems to be quite a coincidence that Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan were the only witnesses to the fire. Where were the hired men? I understood that my brother employed a large number of men, yet they were all gone that day. It might be a coincidence, but it still means that the two people who most stand to benefit from my brother’s death were the only witnesses when he died.”
“Benefit?” Doc asked. “You mean because of the boy?”
“Yes.” Ben slammed his glass down, splashing whiskey over his fingers. “They adopt my nephew and have control over Arthur’s entire fortune. It could be a coincidence. Or it could have been planned.”
“If you are looking for someone to confirm your suspicions, you have not asked the right woman, Señor Lansing.” Rita glanced at Doc, then back to Ben. “Mercy Buchanan has honor. Enough that she will raise the son of the man who tried to—”
“Rita!” Cal placed his hand over Rita’s.
“He must hear it, Cal.”
Cal held Rita’s gaze for a moment, then relaxed, withdrawing his hand from hers. He nodded.
“Señor Lansing, I am sorry to be the one to tell you. Your brother was not an honest man. He sent men to kill my friend—Mercy—”
“No!” Ben would not believe his brother was a killer.
“She owed him a great deal of money.”
“More reason for him to want her alive. Why would he—”
“He wanted her ranch.”
Ben stared at the Spanish beauty. She was either lying, or she had lost her mind.
“It is true, Señor, when Mercy went to your brother’s house, she found him trying to burn the evidence that he was behind the theft—”
“Theft?”
“Mr. Lansing,” Doc said, “it’s all rather complicated. As I said before—talk with Thad and Mercy.”
“They’ll tell me that my brother intentionally burned his own house?”
“No, most likely that was an accident,” Doc said. “He used too much kerosene, apparently.”
“According to Mercy.”
“Sí, sí!” Rita clucked impatiently. “Kerosene everywhere and soon the house went up in flames.”
“Kerosene?”
Rita raised an eyebrow. Hell. Someone had set the fire intentionally then. Damn! He thought again about his young nephew. Ben determined to find out exactly what had happened.
“Thank you for the information,” Ben said.
“I hope we’ve set your mind at ease, Mr. Lansing.”
At ease? Hardly. He was more suspicious than ever.
“I think you’ll agree in the end that your brother made his own problems,” Doc said. “A shame really, for the boy’s sake. Have you seen your nephew?”
Ben nodded, breaking away from Rita’s gaze to study the doctor. “Yes, I met him yesterday.”
“I’m glad. Then you saw for yourself how well he’s doin’ with the Buchanans. He’s a fine boy.”
Ben nodded again. He’d seen how the boy cared for the Buchanans, but he had mixed feelings about how well they took care of him. Hellfire and damnation. Why does everything have to be so damn complicated?
“Señora?”
Rita turned to a young girl who was calling to her from the kitchen. “You gentlemen will excuse me?”
Ben stood as Rita walked away. He was definitely feeling the effects of the whiskey.
“Tell me, Mr. Lansing”—Doc leaned toward him and refilled his glass—“did you injure your hand in the war?”
Ben flexed his maimed appendage. He lifted the whiskey glass and swallowed the contents. “Stupid accident. War was nearly over.” He chuckled, though he knew it wasn’t in the least bit funny. “We were loading the cannons onto a train and one broke loose, slipped down the ramp.”
The doctor bent to examine the hand more carefully. “It was crushed? I’m surprised they were able to save your fingers at all.”
“One doctor wanted to cut off the whole damn hand, but another surgeon said he could fix it. You know the funny thing?” He didn’t wait for the doctor to respond. “It doesn’t make any difference. Might as well have cut it off.”
“I’m sure you’ll find as time passes that you can do quite a lot with your thumb and index finger intact.”
Ben chuckled. “You doctors. I’ll wager you’ve never tried to paint with a hand that can barely grip a brush.” He nodded to the doctor and made his way toward the stairs. What he needed was some time alone to decide what he would do next. Near the foot of the stairs a clumsy cowboy stumbled into him.
“Sorry,” the man mumbled, clinging to Ben for a moment until he regained his balance.
Ben shrugged out of the man’s grip and started up the stairs. A few steps up, Ben turned and watched the drunken oaf swagger out of the saloon. He slipped his left hand into his coat pocket and felt a piece of paper that hadn’t been there before.
Ben raced out the door, hoping to get a better look at the cowboy. Peering up and down the street, Ben found no sign of the man. Pulling out the sheet of paper, he stared at the sentence that had been scrawled across the surface:
If you want to know who kilt y
our brother, follow the road to the Lansing ranch tomorrow at sunrise.
Chapter 8
Benjamin Lansing was no fool. Although he was not in the habit of wearing a gun, he strapped on his old Colt Army before leaving his room. He’d arranged to borrow a horse for the day, and now sauntered over to the livery to pick up the nag and be on his way.
He walked warily down the quiet street as the sky turned from deep blue to indigo. Daylight was perhaps a half hour away. In spite of the whiskey he’d drunk last night, he’d slept poorly. He did not want to believe Thad and Mercy Buchanan were murderers. And he couldn’t bear the thought that Miranda was lying for them. No. It wasn’t possible.
He caught himself smiling at the thought of her. In spite of his better judgment, he was fond of the petite young lady with the grace of an antelope and the heart of a lioness.
His instinct to trust Miranda might be based on all the wrong reasons. The spark in her eyes that had intrigued him from the moment they met, the way her smile burned so easily through the layers of reserve it had taken him years to build up. Or the sway of her hips as she walked. Just looking at Miranda drove every bit of his good sense far beyond his reach. And yet he knew he was right to trust her.
He drew a breath and released it slowly—a trick he’d learned to help him keep his wits about him in every situation. He must concentrate on the facts. Miranda Chase was beautiful and he was drawn to her, true. As to her character, he admired the way she defended herself and her family. Her carriage and the determination in her voice conveyed as much as her words that she believed in her cause. He’d wager that she was convinced of her sister’s innocence beyond the natural loyalty of a sibling. If she was fooling him, then he could never again rely on his ability to judge honesty in a beautiful woman.
In the end, it didn’t really matter whether he trusted Miranda or not. He couldn’t let his feelings for her cause him to ignore the evidence against her sister and brother-in-law. Ben glanced around the sleeping town. He didn’t have evidence, yet. Suspicion and allegations in abundance, but no way to prove anything. And he couldn’t be certain that his meeting this morning would lead him to proof of anything. It could as easily be a trap.
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