“Bart, you made it back,” Maggie called out in greeting.
“I might say the same for you, Megs. Where the bloody hell have you been? I couldn't get any sense out of Emilio.”
“It's a long story, but first I have to get Eden a room and a hot bath.” She smiled reassuringly at the girl. “Eden, this pompous gentleman is my partner, Bartley Wellington Fletcher.”
“Your servant, Miss—?”
“McCrory. Eden McCrory,” Maggie supplied as he bowed gallantly. “And these formidable gentlemen are her father, Colin, and Wolf Blake,” she added as the two dusty riders climbed the steps onto the cantina's front porch.
Leaving the men to sort out further introductions, Maggie and Eden disappeared up the stairs.
Colin studied the tall, gaunt Englishman whom he knew must be the partner Maggie had spoken of, Bart Fletcher. Were they also lovers? Probably. The idea bothered him, and even more upsetting was the very fact that the thought had occurred to him.
What the hell difference did it make whom Maggie Worthington slept with? He'd be damned if he'd marry her. Every woman like her had a price, and he would pay it. After all, he did owe her for Eden.
Wolf watched the two older men take each other's measure, both wary and irritable as grizzlies in spring.
“So you're Colin McCrory, the man looking for his lost daughter,” Fletcher said in clipped British tones.
McCrory's burr thickened in response. “She's not lost anymore.” He felt an instant antagonism that went beyond the man's Sassenach ancestry.
“Bloody good show, getting her back. I daresay I'm relieved to see Maggie returned safely, as well.” He paused and stroked the point of his beard. “I don't like having her put in harm's way.”
Colin shrugged. “She insisted.”
Fletcher turned from the Scot to the half-breed gunman and smiled. “I assume you gentlemen would appreciate something to wash away the trail dust?”
* * * *
“You simply can't be serious, Megs.” Bart Fletcher stared at Maggie in shocked amazement as they faced one another across the big desk in the upstairs office.
“I'm serious, Bart. You've known for the past couple of years that I wanted out. You even talked about pulling up stakes yourself. You said Fernando Gomez was willing to buy the Eagle.”
“But why now?” His eyes narrowed to icy slits. “This has something to do with that Scot, doesn't it? Has he got some sort of hold on you, Megs?” He rounded the desk and placed his thin, elegant hands on her shoulders.
Maggie laughed softly and turned away. “More like I have something on him. Eden needs me. She's been through hell.”
“Ah, Maggie, Maggie, always the earth mother, trying to make up for the child you lost so tragically. But Eden McCrory is almost a woman grown.”
“She's the same age my daughter would've been...if she'd lived.”
He shrugged, still intent on her connection with Colin. “Surely, her father will have something to say about your accompanying them back to the States.”
A frosty smile wreathed her lips but did not reach the haunted blue depths of her eyes. “He's agreed, Bart.” She toyed with the pearls she wore at her throat. “Colin and I are getting married when we reach Tucson.”
He almost dropped the decanter of Madeira. Without turning and letting her see his face, he said, “I see.”
Maggie watched his shoulders stiffen as he finished pouring them each a glass of Madeira, but when he turned, his gambler's facade was in place. The ruined son of a baronet, banished from home and country in disgrace, Bart had learned how to hide his feelings from everyone—but Maggie Worthington.
“If you must know, Megs my love, this does my ego no good, no good at all. You've certainly been impervious to my charms for the past seven years. Perhaps if I'd asked you to marry me first?” He stroked his beard and studied her speculatively.
She sipped the wine, shaking her head. “You were always too good a friend to ruin our relationship with sex, Bart.”
“Surely after all your years of celibacy, you've not actually fallen in love—and with an ignorant Scottish cowman? Bloody hell, Megs, I simply don't believe it.”
“He isn't ignorant. In fact, he's read quite a few of these books.” She gestured around the room. “I'm not in love with him…exactly.” She could feel a most unaccustomed blush heating her cheeks.
Bart scoffed. “Why are you doing this if you don't love him—exactly?”
She twisted her necklace back and forth across the bare expanse of her collarbone. Bart had given her the perfectly matched pearls as a birthday gift last year. Dropping her hand, she raised her chin proudly. “I want a chance to start over again. To try respectability. And who better than me to help Eden through this rough time? I've been there myself.”
He shook a finger at her like a teacher chiding a recalcitrant pupil. “You're still avoiding the issue of McCrory. Lud, if I'd known you fancied taciturn Scots in dusty trail gear”—he grimaced in distaste—“I might have endeavored to change my ways.”
Maggie smiled in spite of herself. “You would never change—even if you could, Bart. And what's more, I don't want you to. You've been good for me and I'll always owe you—”
“Bloody hell, don't go getting maudlin on me, Megs! If Colin McCrory is what you want...” He shrugged and gave her an insouciant smile. “I hope he appreciates how hard you worked for your ‘dowry’ ”
Her smile evaporated. “He appreciates it, Bart, believe me.”
* * * *
Although the food was prepared on short notice and the cook grumbled, he did manage to stuff and roast several fat capons, freshly killed that afternoon. Maggie had the best Wedgwood china set at the table in Bart's apartment. His were the larger quarters with a table suitable for small private parties.
Some party, she thought, looking about the gathering at the strained expressions on everyone's faces. Eden was withdrawn and pale, in awe of Bart's British charm, but oddly more comfortable with him than with the father she had always adored. Colin and Bart moved around each other like a pair of stallions ready to fight for a herd of mares. Only Wolf seemed to be taking the evening in stride, watching the interplay across the dinner table with detached amusement. Occasionally, Maggie did notice his black eyes linger on Eden; but as soon as the girl looked his way, he feigned disinterest.
Maggie had debated about including him in the invitation, knowing how Eden must feel about any renegade gunman, even her rescuer. But Maggie liked the quiet younger man whose past, like her own, hid a great deal of pain. He had learned impeccable table manners—or had some inbred ability to observe what others did and follow suit with practiced ease.
Maggie had warned Bart not to say anything around Eden regarding the marriage plans. He had already exhausted the conversation with a series of amusing anecdotes about his boyhood foibles in England and travels abroad. “So, you're a cattleman, Mr. McCrory.”
“A stockman. I run cattle and breed horses.” Colin volunteered nothing else.
Bart turned to Wolf. “And you, my young friend, will you be working for Mr. McCrory now that this dangerous assignment is complete?”
“I've hired on for the timber mills,” Wolf replied, no more forthcoming than Colin had been.
“Lumbering, too. What else does your father dabble in, Miss McCrory?”
His guileless smile and English charm had taken Eden's mind off her misery for a bit—and also provided a distraction from the disturbing presence of Wolf Blake. She was grateful. “Father has some mining interests. He owns a stage line and he's backing the railroad coming into Arizona Territory,” she replied.
Maggie was stunned at the extent of his wealth. She had believed he was just an ordinary rancher, perhaps prosperous; but she had never imagined he was filthy rich. She could feel Colin's whiskey eyes boring into her. He probably thinks I'm a fortune hunter now.
Fletcher's hand stroked his beard as he, too, looked at Maggie. “Well, Megs, did you
have any inkling our guest was so well fixed?”
Her eyes flashed a warning, almost a plea; then she lowered them. “No, I didn't.”
“Well, all things considered, we haven't done badly ourselves. I don't know how I managed before you came along, love.”
“You've always managed, Bart. You always will,” she replied quietly.
“This is excellent Riesling,” Colin interjected, holding up his stemmed glass to catch the golden reflection of the wine in the light. “The other night Miss Worthington served me fresh oysters and champagne. Your own business is obviously highly profitable.”
Colin's eyes met Fletcher's, but he was aware of Maggie's reaction to his implications. He gathered she had told Fletcher she was leaving him. The man was certainly acting the part of a jilted lover.
“I imagine you'll miss Maggie a great deal, Mr. Fletcher, since she's traveling to Tucson with us. I know I'll be ever so grateful for her company,” Eden said, pointedly ignoring the two men's veiled comments about Maggie's most unrespectable past.
Colin swore to himself. Damned if he wanted his daughter knowing about the sordid marriage agreement he had with Maggie Worthington. He must buy her off—the sooner the better. Eden was growing altogether too attached to the madam. He didn't want them spending two weeks on the trail together.
“I'll have a modest nest egg coming to me...when I leave here,” Maggie replied, raising her wineglass. “Here's to new beginnings in Arizona Territory.”
Everyone joined the toast, but Colin hesitated, watching Bart touch Maggie's glass with his own and seeing the intimacy between them occasioned by years of living and working together. Finally, when everyone else had toasted, he reluctantly moved his glass toward hers. As the crystal chimed, their fingers brushed quickly, but a jolt of lightning would have been less noticeable. Suddenly, the room grew very quiet. Their eyes met and held, soft blue and hard gold, each trying to read the other's thoughts...and failing.
Colin was shaken by the contact. What was it about this woman? He decided to go to her quarters secretly as soon as everyone was asleep and have a serious discussion about their absurd agreement. Surely, she would have her price, and he would pay it just to be rid of her.
* * * *
Maggie answered his quiet knock at her door as if she had been expecting him. She had changed from the elegant gown she had worn at dinner into a modest, dark blue wrapper. She ushered him inside, saying, “Eden's asleep.” She closed the door to the sitting room in her apartment, which occupied the south end of the second floor.
It was small and feminine, furnished with a cabriole-backed settee and a pier table between two windows. The wallpaper was a soft apricot floral and the Oriental carpets were rich rust, ivory and green.
She offered him a seat, which he declined, preferring to stand in the center of the parlor, dwarfing its diminutive proportions with his tall masculine presence.
Maggie was glad Colin had come. They needed to talk in private before they left in the morning. “I put a tiny bit of a sleeping preparation in the milk I had Eden drink. She’ll get a good night's rest.”
Colin narrowed his eyes, giving his face an even harder cast. “Sleeping potions, abortive herbs. Is there no end to your medical talent?”
She stiffened and met his harsh, cynical stare head on. “I didn't need to use the herbs on Eden. She just finished her flow three days ago. She's safe.”
His shoulders crumpled and he looked away. “Thank God for that, but what if”—he struggled to say the words—“what if any of those bastards were poxed?”
“Only Lazlo took her, and he was healthy.”
His head swiveled. “How do you—”
“He was a regular of Henrietta's. I make all my girls check their customers—and make the men wash—before they're even allowed near a mattress.” She felt that irritating urge to blush again and forced herself to ignore it. Better to confront him now and have done with it. “While we're discussing such indelicate matters, I suppose, for your peace of mind I should assure you I'm not poxed either.”
“I suppose that means your Sassenach lover is healthy, although he does look a bit gaunt of cheek—”
“Bart isn't my lover!” she said furiously, damning his mawkish display at the dinner table.
“Right,” Colin replied with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow. “That's why the two of you have this cozy arrangement with your private apartments adjoining each other. Do you meet at night in your office to do bookkeeping together?”
Her fingers dug into the back of the settee. If she let go she was certain she would fly at him and slap that cold, hard smirk off his handsome face. “We keep separate bedrooms because we sleep separately. Bart is not, nor has he ever been, my lover. I haven't had any other men since...” Her voice faded as she fought the memories that clawed at her. “If you don't believe me, there's a doctor—”
“That won't be necessary,” he said curtly. This was humiliating for her—he could tell by the rigid stance of her body, the heightened color in her cheeks, that small pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat. He felt a wholly irrational urge to reach out to her, to touch that pale golden skin and feel the fluttering of her heartbeat.
Damn! This was exactly the opposite of what he had come here to do. “I don't need to know anything about your physical condition. If the marriage were to take place, it wouldn't be consummated anyway.”
His words fell like bricks in the quiet room.
“If?” Her eyes bored into him. “You mean you're breaking your word with no more regret than a Scots borderer would? No wonder you've called me Sassenach!”
“I'm not breaking my word,” he said defensively, spreading his hands across the delicately carved back of a slipper chair.
They faced each other like two combatants across the small room, each using a piece of furniture for a shield.
“Then what exactly are you doing?” Why was it so hard for her to breathe? Damn the man for his power to wound her.
“I'm making you a business proposition. As you probably gathered at dinner, I'm a reasonably wealthy man. And I'm grateful for your help with Eden.”
“But now that you have her back, you don't want me contaminating her. Who knows, after what she's been through, I might make her into a whore just like me,” she snapped.
“That is not what I meant,” he said, his jaw clenched. “You want out of this town, this life. I understand that. I'll send you ten thousand in gold as soon as I can get to a bank in Tucson.”
She nodded her head, looking at him with scorn radiating from every pore in her body. “Ten thousand. So that's the price you put on your daughter. Well, I guess you do care for her. She must be worth at least as much as...let's see, a good-sized herd of fine cattle or even one of your stagecoach contracts.”
“You conniving, gold-digging—”
“If I only wanted money, Colin, I'd take the fifteen thousand Bart and I settled on this afternoon and move to San Francisco. I could open a real fancy parlor house there and make a bloody fortune!”
“Just what is it you do want, Maggie?” His voice sounded as uncertain as he felt. Damn, the woman had money. Why in the hell had she stayed buried in this wilderness all these years?
Maggie turned away from him and walked stiffly to the door. Opening it, she said quietly, “I don't, for damn sure, want you. Consider our bargain finished. You welshed. I accept it. Eden's safe, and that's all I care about now. I don't need your money”
Colin started to say something, then stopped. He felt guilty and very, very confused. And he did not like it. Silently, he walked past her, inhaling the faint essence of lilies of the valley as she closed the door firmly behind him. His footsteps sounded hollow as he walked to the room at the end of the hall, wondering if he had just made the mistake of his life.
* * * *
Eden awakened early the next morning and lay staring at the ceiling in the small room in Maggie's place. It was part of her private apartment,
so Eden assumed none of the customers had ever used it. Just thinking of the terrible things men did to women in this very building made her shiver, remembering Judd.
She sat up, shaking the last cobwebs of a deep sleep from her head. “I hope he died slowly and painfully,” she whispered fiercely and threw the covers aside. In minutes, she had completed a simple toilette and brushed her corn silk hair until it glistened. Last night, Maggie had helped her wash it with perfumed soap and added fresh lemon juice to the rinse water.
Maggie. How would she have survived without her? Maggie had not spoken about her own hardships, the awful things that must have happened to force her into this kind of life. But Eden was grateful that Maggie Worthington was a woman of the world with experience enough to understand what she was going through—and compassion enough to care.
As long as Maggie was there as a buffer, Eden could live one day at a time with her father. Somehow, she had to gather her courage and tell him the truth about Judd. Once they were back home, the lie she had told Eileen and the stories she and Louise Simpson had made up to cover her trysts with Lazlo were sure to come out. Eden could see those accusing gold eyes turn on her in anger. She had witnessed her father's wrath on only a few occasions, for he held his fierce Scots temper in check most always; but there was not a man between Crown Verde and San Carlos who dared to cross Colin McCrory. And never in her life had she been the recipient of that cold, withering fury.
But I will be now. She buried her face in her hands, but no tears would come. She had cried them all out the other night when Maggie had held her and talked to her. Maybe, Maggie could think of something if Eden had the courage to confess her folly to her older friend. Of course, her father sure seemed hostile to Maggie at dinner last night. Perhaps, he was jealous of Mr. Fletcher.
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