He turned his attention to inspecting his wife in the soft twilight. Colin was continually amazed at her ladylike air, at the inborn elegance of her bearing. She was dressed in a rust brown silk gown, a dark, shimmering hue few women could carry off; but with her glowing complexion and rich auburn hair, it was electric, a signature color. The clear blue of her eyes matched the evening sky, and the russet tint of her hair was highlighted in a sleek bouffant pompadour with a chignon holding the thick tresses in place at the crown of her head. A few wispy tendrils escaped at her ears and nape, softening her strong, arresting face.
Maggie was uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny, never certain if he was pleased by her handsome looks or angry because of his reaction to them. She returned his perusal for the sheer perversity of it. In a black homespun suit with a dark wine brocade waistcoat, Colin looked every inch the prosperous Western businessman. He wore dress boots as did most Arizona stockmen, and he carried a gun, albeit well hidden beneath the immaculate tailoring of his jacket. He was so tall and splendidly handsome she felt the urge to reach up and caress his cleanly shaven jaw line with wifely possessiveness. But the coolly assessing look in those restless whiskey eyes held her impulse in check.
“I'll be a gracious lady for Stanley and all his cronies and be especially charming to Mr. Potkin,” she said.
He tipped his fingers to the wide brim of his flat crowned hat and nodded. “I'm sure you'll act the perfect lady.”
Had he emphasized the word act or was she merely hearing the echoes of her own insecurity in his voice? Before she could think about it any further, they were ushered into the dining room. A small crowd conversed quietly, the men in dark suits and their ladies bedecked in the finest fashions from San Francisco and New Orleans. The women clustered around Sophie Stanley, except for a couple of brave legislators' wives who joined in with the men who surrounded their guest of honor, Leonard Potkin.
Colin swore beneath his breath as he swept the room and fastened on Potkin, with Win Barker at his side. “When the hell did he get here? Must've burned up the road from Tucson.”
“How did he know the special investigator was arriving today?” Maggie asked.
Remembering Ed Phibbs' eavesdropping on Barker's conversation with some unknown legislator, Colin knew the answer. “Someone here wired him well in advance.”
Maggie's eyes narrowed on the assembly and swept from face to face, then collided with the spiteful glare of Sophie Stanley. The haughty ice queen imperiously looked away as if dismissing Maggie McCrory as no one of significance. “Are we to sit with Mr. Potkin at dinner?” Maggie asked as they made their way into the special investigator's presence.
“Charm him enough and we will,” Colin whispered beneath his breath just before he made introductions between his new wife and Win Barker, Councilman Styles and Representative Smithe.
Before he could say anything to Edward Stanley, who was discreetly standing with Leonard Potkin's considerable bulk as a shield, Maggie smiled graciously and said, “Of course, Councilman Stanley and I have already met.” Her eyes held his for a pregnant instant that spoke volumes, then she quickly turned a blinding smile on the Washington visitor. “But I've never had the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir.” She extended her hand like Queen Victoria at a royal reception.
Leonard Potkin was dazzled as he bowed and saluted her delicate fingers. What a superbly beautiful wife McCrory had—dressed as elegantly as any of the cabinet officers' wives in Washington. And such an air about her. “I am honored, Mrs. McCrory. Special Investigator Leonard Potkin from the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Washington, at your service.”
Allowing him to hold her hand just a scant moment beyond propriety, Maggie took his arm with her free hand and turned him toward Colin—neatly placing his back to the luckless Stanley. “This is my husband, Special Investigator Potkin, and I'm certain a man with your influence in President Hayes’ administration will be very interested in what Colin has to say about the situation at White Mountain.”
“Indeed, Mr. McCrory,” Potkin said, shaking hands gravely with Colin. “Your charges about living conditions on the reservation are very serious.”
“Then it might be best if the two of you had the opportunity to discuss them, perhaps over dinner? Oh, dear me,” Maggie feigned distress, “but I may be interfering with Governor Gosper's seating arrangements.”
“Nonsense, my dear lady. As guest of honor, I may sit with whomever I choose.” He made an expansive gesture, signaling the harried Territorial Secretary, John Gosper, who in the perpetual absence of Governor Fremont, had taken over his title as well as his duties. “I'm certain Mr. Gosper will see to it—provided, of course, that you will also grace the table with your husband?”
If the man had not been such a pompous ass, Colin might have felt a twinge of anger at the way he fawned over Maggie—and at her skill in getting men to make fools of themselves. Then, Gosper arrived and further introductions were in order as they arranged the changes in seating for the banquet. Maggie charmed the men, all but Stanley, whom she subtly ignored. Even Win Barker, the crafty old devil, was smiling at her wit by the end of the lavish meal.
Barker had already made certain that his place at Potkin's table was reserved. The Stanleys had no choice but to change seating with the McCrorys, Sophie all the while looking daggers at Maggie over the forced smile pasted on her thin lips.
During dinner, Barker and McCrory went head to head over the issue of how the Indians were supplied by the government. “The merchants in Tucson sell prime goods to the reservations—the same as they do to the military,” Barker avowed at one point.
“I've seen those goods firsthand, Mr. Barker. Blankets my cowhands would call hen skins, so thin they wouldn't cast a shadow if you hung them on a clothesline at high noon. Cornmeal filled with weevils—the barrel count always short. And the beeves...” Colin shrugged. “It seems as if they just keep getting rustled off the reservation before it comes time for the Apaches to slaughter them.” His gaze met Barker's, whose eyes darkened and narrowed.
The mottling on his sagging jowly face gave away his agitation, but Win smiled expansively and turned his attention to Potkin. “There may be some problems out at White Mountain, but they're not the doing of the Tucson merchants. Ask to see General Willcox's reports on Army supplies when you return to Washington. We sell the best. Now, as to what Caleb Lamp does with our goods and livestock...” He shrugged.
Colin looked squarely at Barker and smiled evilly. “My dear departed father had a saying back in Scotland. ‘Talk is cheap but it takes real money to buy whiskey.’ ” Then, he turned to Leonard Potkin and asked, “Don't you think you might get to the bottom of our conflicting claims if you rode out to the reservation tomorrow and took a look for yourself? I’ll be happy to act as guide, if you're agreeable.”
The Bureau Agent blanched. “Back East all we hear about are Apache depredations—wholesale butchery and torture. Are you certain it's safe to venture onto the reservation?”
“Caleb Lamp still has his hair after robbing them blind for the past seven years,” Colin said dryly.
Maggie leaned forward and gave Potkin an earnest smile. “It's quite safe, I assure you. Crown Verde is one of the largest ranches in the territory and it abuts White Mountain land for about a hundred miles. My stepdaughter and I have ridden onto the reservation ourselves on numerous occasions—with an escort, of course. My husband would provide you with a large one.”
“Well, then, I imagine it would be expected that I see the evidence firsthand,” Potkin said, attempting to sound judicious instead of fearful. “What time should we depart, Mr. McCrory?”
* * * *
When Colin and Maggie had made their obligatory farewells to Acting Governor Gosper and the prominent legislators and their wives, they left the restaurant and waited on the street for the carriage he had hired earlier.
“I don't see that blasted driver,” Colin said, looking up and down Alarcon Street.
/> “Quick, before Mrs. Styles offers us a ride with them, let's walk. Our hotel's only three blocks away,” Maggie said, taking his arm. Councilman Styles' wife, Hortense, was a mammoth woman with a braying voice that could crack glass at fifty feet.
Colin chuckled. “She's got breath strong enough to raise blisters on a rawhide boot. I wouldn't fancy being cooped up in a closed carriage with her. Let's do walk.”
The night was typical for north central Arizona in summer, cool and dry, the sky glittering with brilliant stars. Once they turned the corner, the area was decidedly quieter for they were in one of the more respectable parts of town.
Gurley Street was liberally sprinkled with churches and private residences, well away from the raucous noise and laughter of “Whiskey Row” on Montezuma Street, near Granite Creek, where shootings were a nightly occurrence.
They strolled in silence for a few moments. Then Colin cleared his throat and said, “You were wonderful tonight, Maggie. You charmed that pea-brained pompous old goat.”
“Which one—Potkin, Styles or Gosper?” she quipped.
Colin chuckled. “Potkin, but you have a point. They are a bunch of jackasses.” His expression turned grim. “I only wish Win Barker were as much a dupe as those idiots in the government he deals with.”
“He is cagey, but he seems to have a good, healthy respect for your power, Colin. All that sweating he was doing while you outlined the schemes of the Tucson merchants wasn't just because the restaurant was stuffy.”
“He's afraid of me—and the connections I've been making back in Washington, but that only makes him more dangerous—like a cornered rat.”
“Be careful on your way to White Mountain tomorrow, Colin,” Maggie said with sudden intuition.
He looked down at her face, bathed in the moonlight. “Wifely concern?” His voice was puzzled.
“Something of the sort,” she replied. Just then a cloud scudded across the moon and he could not read her expression.
As they crossed an alley between a barber shop and a dry goods store, a shot whistled past his head. “That was close,” Colin whispered as he clamped an arm around Maggie and pulled her against the side of the two-story brick building.
She could hear him cock the .38 caliber pocket revolver he had taken from inside his coat as he shoved her behind him. “Don't make a sound,” he commanded in a soft whisper. His eyes pierced the darkness, scanning for any movement, listening for the faintest sound. The only noise they could hear was the distant din echoing up from Whiskey Row, in full swing on a Friday night.
Maggie held her breath as she, too, peered around, looking at the other corner of the building. Suddenly, the moon reappeared and a shadow materialized in the shape of a man, emerging from the opposite alley.
“Colin, behind you!” she cried, shielding him with her body as he whirled.
Two shots rang out almost simultaneously. The assassin's bullet missed his target because Colin threw off his aim by hitting him first. With a curse, the man vanished around the corner. Intending to kill McCrory, the shooter had instead shot Maggie, who stood in front of her husband.
When she staggered back against Colin, he knew she’d been hit. “Maggie!” He shoved the gun into his pocket and grabbed her. “Let me see.” He pulled her right hand free from where it clutched the darkening stain on her left arm.
“I'm only grazed. It does sting a bit,” she said, knowing she sounded fuzzy-headed and feeling it.
“Sting! I guess so. It's a flesh wound! Why the hell didn't you stay back?” he barked furiously as he wound his handkerchief around her arm to slow the bleeding.
“He would've shot you,” she said with perfect lucidity. Then everything went black.
Chapter Fourteen
Maggie awakened to the sharp sting of carbolic being applied to her arm. She was in their hotel room, stripped down to her camisole and under drawers, lying on their bed. Colin's large hands were surprisingly gentle and deft for such a big man as he cleansed a shallow scratch that furrowed its way across her left arm just below her shoulder.
He sensed her eyes on him and looked up, his face pale and haggard. “Thank God you're conscious,” he whispered.
She forced a gamine grin. “How could I stay unconscious through this? It still stings.” She wrinkled her nose at the pungent aroma of the disinfectant.
“You're damn lucky it's only a graze,” he growled. “Doc Torres is away—something about some Indians being sick on White Mountain. There, that shouldn't bleed anymore.”
“You don't make a bad doctor,” she said, watching the concentration with which he applied a healing ointment, then began to wrap her arm with a strip of clean linen.
“I've had lots of practice with gunshot wounds, mostly on myself.”
“So I've noticed,” she said, thinking of all the scars on his body. When he looked up suddenly and their eyes met, she felt heat creep into her face.
“For a woman who just regained consciousness after fainting dead away, you're acting amazingly spunky,” he said crossly. In fact, he had been frightened to death when she crumpled against him with blood dripping from her arm.
“I don't faint,” she replied tartly. “When you turned to fire, you knocked me against the brick wall. I hit my head at the same time the shot grazed me.”
“You risked your life.” His tone was accusatory. “He could've killed you!”
He was angry! Do you really care this much, Colin? “He was trying to kill you. I just distracted him.”
“By taking a bullet intended for me? I'd appreciate your keeping out of the line of fire from now on.”
“You're welcome,” Maggie replied, secretly pleased when he had the good grace to look away as his face darkened with a blush.
“Look, Maggie...” He cursed beneath his breath as his hand reached out, almost against his will, and touched her cheek. “I am grateful that you were willing to risk your life for mine. You're a very brave woman.”
“So you've told me before. I didn't do it for gratitude, Colin.” The minute she said it, Maggie bit her tongue. If not his gratitude, then what—his love?
Would he look at her with pity or contempt now? She forced herself to meet his eyes, surprised to see neither. He was looking at her with—for want of a better word—bemusement on his face.
Damned if Colin McCrory knew what he felt for Maggie, his wife. “When everything is settled with Eden, we'll need to talk about us, this marriage. When I thought you'd been badly hurt, maybe even killed in that alley...” His words faded away but his whiskey eyes bored mesmerizingly into her blue ones, communicating an urgency that he only partially understood himself.
She worked up her courage and asked, “What do you want to do about our marriage, Colin?” Maggie would have given everything she owned to hear his reply, but a sharp rap on the door interrupted them.
“Mr. McCrory, Sheriff Briggs.”
Colin stood up and replied, “We'll be with you in a moment, Sheriff.” Then, he turned to Maggie. “Do you feel up to answering his questions now, or should I go downstairs with him and tell him my side of the shooting?”
“I'd just as soon see him now, for all the good he'll do.” As Colin went to the armoire across the room and extracted Maggie's yellow silk robe, she said, “Whoever fired that shot is the same person who tried before—Win Barker has marked you for an early grave, Colin.”
“I suspect we'll have a difficult time convincing the authorities either here or in Tucson that there's a conspiracy of leading merchants trying to kill me,” he said dryly. “Let's just tell the sheriff what we didn't see—the killer's face.”
* * * *
The following day Colin sent Maggie back to Crown Verde with a heavily armed escort. The thought that Barker might use her or Eden to get to him preoccupied him constantly. Indeed, after last night, he was determined to keep both his wife and daughter under careful watch at all times.
As he walked to the livery where he was to meet Leonard Potk
in and the Crown Verde men, Colin mulled over his very confused feelings about his wife. She had truly been willing to give her life for him. He knew she had been attracted to him from the first time they met, but even that strange affinity did not explain such sacrifice.
What did a woman like Maggie really want? What did he want? The feeling of compelling attraction certainly was not only on her part. She had become a part of his life in the past few months. Every night he made love to her. Even last night in the hotel, in spite of her injury; or perhaps because of it and the risk of losing her, he had turned to her in passion.
Maggie Worthington McCrory was a fallen woman with a tawdry past, but did he love her in spite of it? Perhaps, a woman like Maggie was more suitable for him than Elizabeth had been. He and Elizabeth had never shared the fire that leapt between him and Maggie every time they came together. At first, that fact had made him feel guilty and angry. But gradually, as he had watched the way Maggie earned her niche at Crown Verde, providing stability in Eden's life and making friends with his people, Colin had felt the old wounds at last healing, the pain and guilt of Elizabeth's death fading.
His reverie was broken by the commotion as he approached the stables. He could hear Ansel Jetter sputtering, “Why, Mr. Potkin, this here's the gentlest horse I got, 'cept fer the one out back, 'n I'm fixin ta send him ta the glue factory this afternoon.”
Potkin, red-faced and perspiring in spite of the cool morning air, turned to Colin. “I had hoped to take a coach or at least a wagon onto the reservation. I'm afraid I'm not much of a horseman, Mr. McCrory.”
“Well, Ansel here could scare us up a wagon, I imagine; but considering how far out of the way the wagon road is, I'm not sure that'd be wise. How long do you plan to spend at the reservation?”
Potkin stroked his chin. “Why, I had thought we could ride out for the day.”
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