“We’d like to see Miss Boudreau.” Brock swiped his hat from his head and held it in his big hands, his fingers worrying the brim.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, ma’am, but we’d like to see her just the same. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
The woman nodded and, moving aside, opened the door wider. “Please come in. I will tell Miss Boudreau you are here. Make yourselves comfortable.” She gestured toward the chairs and sofas in the parlor, then crossed the room and climbed a long staircase.
No girls crowded the large, airy parlor, but she heard giggling and quiet conversation coming from the second floor. Stevie Rae moved farther into the room, brushed the dust from her split skirt, and sat on the edge of one of the leather chairs. Brock laid his hat on the table between them, then lowered himself to the matching chair next to her with a long sigh, his hands dangling between his spread knees.
Lily Boudreau’s house was nothing like the houses on Dona Luz and she realized why the girl at the last bordello had wanted to be here. The color scheme was subdued and charming, like a real home. No crimson or gold filled the tasteful parlor, but rather pastel shades of greens and blues and even soft pink. Sheer lace draperies in the wide windows fluttered and flowed gracefully from ceiling to floor, letting in plenty of natural light that highlighted the nature paintings adorning the walls. Tasteful divans and comfortable leather chairs were grouped throughout the room, interspersed with small round tables covered in lacy cloths. Fresh flowers in crystal vases placed on those tables lent their aroma to the surroundings.
Lily’s patron must have left her a lot of money. She’d certainly made the most of it. The house, or what Stevie Rae saw of it, could rival the governor’s mansion or a railroad baron’s manor in elegance.
A grandfather clock chimed the hour, then chimed again fifteen minutes later. Brock rose to his feet and began to pace. Stevie Rae watched him, which was quickly becoming her favorite pastime.
A slight noise drew his attention. He stopped moving and looked toward the stairs where the maid had disappeared. Stevie Rae stood and stared at the stairs as well, her breath stuck in her throat as Lily Boudreau paused on the landing. She was, in a word, stunning. And regal. Dressed in a gown of pale blue with white lace, her creamy white shoulders exposed, she descended the carpeted stairs, her hand sliding along the polished banister, as if she were a queen being presented to her loyal subjects. A huge diamond on a thin gold chain dangled between her breasts, drawing the eye.
Not a line marred her smooth cheeks, not a strand of gray spoiled the darkness of her sable hair. She could have been twenty or forty or even sixty, but no one would guess her age by looking at her.
She stepped off the stairs and practically glided toward Brock, her hand outstretched, her eyes only on him…as if Stevie Rae were invisible, which was fine. The last thing she wanted or needed was another madam giving her the once-over, inspecting her for her worth.
“I am Lily Boudreau. You wished to see me, handsome?” Lily asked, her voice as smoky and smooth as fine whiskey.
Without hesitation or introduction, Brock unfolded the poster and held it up. “Have you seen this man?”
Something flickered in Lily’s bright green eyes, though she only glanced at the picture. Was it fear? Disgust? The coy smile she had given him disappeared and her lips tightened as she shook her head. “Not recently.”
“How recent is ‘not recently’?”
“Three months and two days.” Her lips tightened even more and Stevie Rae was able to define the look in her eyes. It wasn’t fear or self-preservation. It was hate. Pure, unadulterated loathing. “I could check my books, if you’d like, but I remember his visit like it was yesterday, and I can tell you, Zeb Logan is not welcome here, not after that night. I run a nice house, mister, and I treat my girls well. So does my clientele.”
“What happened?” Stevie Rae asked.
The woman’s shoulders slumped before she stiffened, every muscle taut beneath the pale blue gown she wore as she nearly staggered to one of the leather chairs and slowly lowered herself to the butter soft cushion. Brock followed and took the seat next to her. He reached for Lily’s hand, wrapping her long, slim fingers within the warmth of his own. When she looked at him, Stevie Rae saw the tears in her brilliant green eyes.
“As you’ve seen, we’re very secluded out here, which is what my clients want but that had never been a problem before…that night.” She took a deep breath and her voice grew hoarse. “It was a Sunday. My girls were at a private party on the other side of town, so it was just Patrice and me. We were enjoying the peace and quiet.” She disentangled her fingers from Brock’s and reached into the sleeve of her gown to retrieve an embroidered linen handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes, then touched the square of linen to her nose delicately before resting her hands in her lap. “Neither one of us heard him ride up before he came crashing through the door. I’d never seen him before but it seemed like Patrice knew him. And she was scared. So scared.”
She pulled air into her lungs and stared at the hands folded in her lap. “She started talking fast, trying to…appease him, I guess. But it didn’t work. He kept asking her where it was and Patrice kept denying she had anything.” She glanced at Brock again and such pain radiated from her face, Stevie Rae gasped. The urge to comfort this woman rose in her and yet, she couldn’t move. “I didn’t know what they were talking about, and I didn’t care. I just wanted him out of my house before he hurt her. I care about my girls, Mister…what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t, but it’s Brock MacDermott. Please continue.”
She gave a slight nod. “I tried to help her. To stop him from whatever he intended, but I was no match for his strength. He hit me.” She touched her jaw with the tips of her fingers. Though the bruise was long gone, the memory was obviously still vivid. “I hit my head on the banister when I fell and everything went black. When I finally came to, he was gone. So was the money box and the house was quiet. Too quiet. I picked myself up off the floor and went looking for Patrice, but she…” She inhaled deeply and dabbed at her eyes once again. “I found her in the dining room. She’d been beaten so badly, I hardly recognized her.”
Tears pricked Stevie Rae’s eyes as she imagined what Patrice had gone through at the mercy of a madman, but she learned something she hadn’t known before. Zeb Logan wasn’t only proficient with his pistols. He was equally as dangerous with his fists—at least toward women.
“Is Patrice still here? I’d like to talk to her.”
The woman shook her head and reached up to fiddle with the necklace hanging between her breasts, as if it were a talisman bringing her strength and comfort. Finally, she whispered, her voice full of pain and regret, “She died from her injuries a day later.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Boudreau.”
She dabbed at her eyes and drew in a breath, her pain clearly evident on her pale face. “I am, too. Patrice was a good woman and a good friend.”
Brock rose from his seat. “I know this was hard for you, but I appreciate what you’ve told me.” He once more grasped her hand, his eyes peering into hers. “I know it doesn’t help Patrice, but please know I will see Zeb Logan hang.”
Lily remained in the chair but she raised her gaze to his, the brightness of her eyes shadowed by sadness, the lashes spiky from her tears. “Why do you want him?”
“Patrice wasn’t the only person he hurt. He has a lot to pay for and I’ll make sure he does.”
The woman nodded. “Thank you.”
Brock pressed her hands one more time, then reached for his hat and jammed it on his head, clearly uncomfortable with the gratitude radiating from Lily Boudreau’s tear-filled eyes. He left the room quickly, the door closing with a soft snick behind him.
Stevie Rae swallowed against the constriction in her throat as she laid a comforting hand over Lily’s. “Thank you for your time, Miss Boudreau.” She gave the woman a warm smile. “Re
st assured, we will find him and he’ll never bother you or your girls again.”
The woman said nothing but there was appreciation in her eyes. Deeply touched, but unwilling to give in to the swirl of emotions whipping through her, Stevie Rae gave the woman’s hand another quick squeeze then fled the house.
Brock waited for her on the porch, his back toward her, hands on his hips, his gaze focused on the river flowing gently to his right. His shoulders moved as he drew air into his lungs.
Stevie Rae came up behind him, her heart pounding, her vision blurred from the tears pricking her eyes. “Brock?”
He didn’t speak as he turned to face her, weariness written clearly on his features, but it was the sadness in his eyes that nearly became her undoing. Stevie Rae tamped down the sudden urge to wrap her arms around him and just hold him. She took a step closer and raised her head until her gaze met his. “We will find him, Brock.”
“I know. I just…it’s…how many other people will he hurt before we do? How many other girls will be beaten? How many others will die?”
She touched him then, rested her hand on his arm, the muscles beneath his shirt bowstring tight. “It isn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it is. If I had captured the bastard when I had the chance, when he killed Kieran, this would be over, but…”
She shook her head and tried to ease the guilt from him. “From what you’ve told me, it wasn’t possible at the time. You were shot.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered before his lips tightened into a thin line and the muscle in his jaw began to spasm. Stevie Rae drew in a deep breath. No matter what she said, no matter how many arguments she could give him, he’d never believe her. She also knew there would be no more conversation just by the expression on his face. He moved away from her, his gait stiff, and stepped off the porch, heading toward Cushing and the waiting carriage without a word.
Chapter 10
“Stevie!”
“In here.” Stevie Rae looked up from the letter she’d been writing to Martha in the small sun parlor off the main room of the hotel as Brock rushed into the lobby. Instantly, her body stiffened as she stuck the pen into the inkwell and rose to her feet. She’d been waiting for this—an end to this idyllic respite. Though they’d only been at the Hacienda for three days, she’d seen how uncomfortable Brock had become, even though it had been his suggestion they stay.
Was it being within the embrace of a warm, loving family? She hadn’t missed the expression of longing in his gray eyes when he was with the de la Cruzes, nor had she missed how the de la Cruz children seemed to gravitate toward him.
Was it the fact that out of all the people he had talked to, no one claimed to have seen Logan except for Lily Boudreau and that had been months ago? Brock had spoken to Sheriff Heriot, relating all that the madam had told them, but Heriot had been unaware. Lily hadn’t reported what had happened, which, according to Brock, had made Heriot so very angry, for more than one reason—a murder had occurred in his town and he hadn’t known and by Lily remaining silent, another opportunity to find Logan and end his madness had come and gone.
Or was it something else?
Perhaps the kiss they’d shared had made him uncomfortable. She could still feel, days later, the pressure of his mouth on hers, still taste him and see the look on his face when he pulled away—a mixture of fear and pleasure, and perhaps a touch of regret. She herself had no regret. Truthfully, she had wanted to kiss him for quite some time, longed to feel the touch of his lips on hers. And wanted to again, though she had been a coward and hadn’t acted on her desires.
He rushed into the small room. “We have to go.”
She studied his face, pale and tight with anger, and realized there was a fourth reason for his unease. Logan. While they were resting at the Hacienda, Logan was free to dole out his particular brand of mayhem. She approached him, her palms already damp, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Where?”
“Española.”
Stevie Rae nodded. She was familiar with the town, though she had never visited. “What happened?”
“Tim Heriot received a telegram from the sheriff in Española. A family has been murdered.” He drew in his breath, visibly shaken. If possible, his face became even paler and sweat made his forehead gleam beneath the brim of his hat. “I can’t be sure it’s Logan—at this point, no one can, but…”
Stevie Rae nodded, her stomach already tightening. “I can be ready in a few moments.”
“I’ll get the horses and meet you out front.”
He was gone as quickly as he’d come, his movements relaying all the anxiety and fear he felt.
Sadness overwhelmed her as she sealed the letter to Martha, dropped it on the desk in the lobby for posting, and headed upstairs to gather her belongings. A short time later, no more than fifteen minutes, Stevie Rae left her room and strode down the corridor, her saddlebags slung over her shoulder, gun belt once more riding low on her hips. She stopped on the second floor landing, her breath wheezing in her lungs as pain assailed her heart.
More people dead by the hand of a madman. Could she and Brock have prevented this? Instead of staying at the Hacienda, they could have ridden to Española, but how could they have known? The last they’d heard, Logan had been heading to Taos…and they had followed. Had Annie at the saloon lied to them? Offering them one direction when Logan, himself, had gone in another?
She swallowed over the lump in her throat, took a deep breath, and headed down to the lobby. Elicia waited by the etched glass doors, her hands clutching at the white apron tied around her waist, anxiety clearly written on her features. She pulled Stevie Rae into a warm embrace and whispered, “Be safe, mi amiga.”
When she pulled away, there were tears in the woman’s eyes. Stevie Rae ignored them as best she could.
It surprised her how quickly she’d grown fond of the de la Cruzes, but fondness had no place within her now. She had a criminal to bring to justice.
Stevie Rae nodded once, then slipped through the door without a word.
Brock waited outside with the horses, his hands gripping the reins of both Willow and Resolute. Whiskey Pete’s reins were tied to Willow’s saddle, his back laden with just a few supplies. Brock said not a word but his jaw was clenched, the muscle in his cheek ticking like mad.
Stevie Rae attached her bags to Willow’s saddle, then climbed into her seat. She tugged on the gloves that would protect her hands, adjusted her hat on her head, accepted Willow’s reins from Brock, then waited for him to mount up before she nudged the horse’s sides and rode out of Taos.
Despite the warmth of the late afternoon and the hot breeze that swirled the dust in the street, a chill snuck into her bones.
• • •
Taos was nearly an hour behind them when Brock noticed Stevie moving Willow closer to him. “Someone is following us.” Her voice was low and Brock clearly heard her fear.
“I know. Has been since we left Taos.” He didn’t turn his head to look behind him, though every muscle in his body tensed and his stomach churned with anxiety. “Follow me.” Despite the sudden burst of fear rippling through him, he tried to keep his voice calm for her sake as well as his own. Who had followed them? Was it Logan? The man knew he was being hunted. Perhaps, after killing the family in Española, he’d doubled back to Taos. It wouldn’t have surprised Brock—Logan, though a criminal through and through, could never be called stupid—but the logistics were all wrong. Unless the man had a touch of magic, it wasn’t possible to be in two places at one time.
Taking a deep breath to calm his unease, Brock guided them off the path they’d been following beside the Rio Grande and into a small copse of trees, then slid from his saddle beside an outcropping of jagged rock. Reaching out to Stevie Rae, he helped her down from Willow’s back. Her eyes were wide and filled with apprehension and she looked like she wanted to run. “Stay behind me.”
A flash of color—red and black—appeared between the t
rees, then more color as slowly the horse and rider became clear. Brock recognized the hat the uninvited guest wore as well as the horse he rode and the tension in his body eased.
Sam Whitaker. A fellow bounty hunter, friend, and all around good man.
He heard the sound of Stevie Rae’s pistol clearing leather and the distinctive click of a hammer pulling back. He whirled around to face her in time to notice the paleness of her skin, the determination on her face, the fear glittering in her eyes…and the muzzle of the gun wavering wildly in her shaking hand as her finger rested on the trigger, but she had yet to raise the pistol. The bore pointed toward the ground.
“Don’t shoot—” Before he could finish his sentence, the loud report of the Colt revolver echoed in his ears. The recoil made the pistol fly upward and instead of harmlessly sinking into the ground, the bullet expelled from the gun put a hole in the loose material of his trousers…right between his legs. An inch higher, and he would be missing…a very important part of himself.
Fear—and yes, anger—gripped him. Heat surged through his body, tensing his muscles as he snatched the gun from her shaking hands, tucking the Colt into the waistband of his trousers, the muzzle hot against his skin through the fabric of his shirt. “Holy hell, Stevie! What are you doing?”
“Protecting us,” she whispered as she took a step away, her body trembling almost as much as the pistol had, her expression one of horror.
“By shooting me?” he barked as he studied the hole in his trousers, then poked his finger through singed material. “Shit! If you were trying to kill him, you missed by a mile.” His gaze rose from the hole in his pants to her face and the tears shimmering in her eyes.
It had been an accident. She hadn’t meant to pull the trigger.
Or had she?
“You wear this fancy rig—” His fingers grazed the gun belt slung low around her hips. “But you don’t know how to shoot, do you?”
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 11