by Pam Crooks
“No. Too far and too dangerous.” Trig had devised a plan during the long, hot journey through the California wilderness. “We bring her to the Tijuana prison instead.”
“Just like that.” Gif looked skeptical.
“Jorge Esteban is still the Prison Director, isn’t he?” At Gif’s nod, he continued. “We convince him to let us meet with her. Once she sees Carleigh, she might reveal what she knows about Chandler.”
“What if she’s bluffing?”
“We won’t know until we talk to her.”
Gif sucked furiously on a fresh piece of horehound. “It could work.”
“It’s got to.”
They didn’t have any other options, not with his father at the judge’s mercy in San Francisco.
Trig’s gaze slid toward Carleigh. She had tossed aside the straw hat and rolled up her dress sleeves to help Flower dry and trim Spencer. The little dog sat on a table between them, patient and docile, clearly a veteran of the grooming routine.
The gentle breeze blew strands of hair across her cheek, and she angled her head into the wind, allowing them to be swept away again. She caught Trig staring, and her movements stilled.
A new round of regret swelled inside him, a fierce longing to have known her in a different time. A different place. Under circumstances that wouldn’t tear them apart in the end.
She would hate him by the time she was settled back in San Francisco. And he regretted that, too.
Regretted it deep.
“You’re smitten with her,” Gif said, watching him.
“Carleigh?” Trig roused himself with a start.
“Yes. Carleigh.”
“Hell, no, I’m not. She’s Chandler’s daughter. She’d be the last woman I’d--.”
The rest of the sentence stuck in his throat.
“She’s innocent of her pa’s doings, but she’s entitled to know about them. And yours.” Gif straightened. “Here’s your chance to level with her. She’s coming our way.”
Trig’s belly flipped. He glanced up and watched her approach them, her stride unhurried. Graceful. The breeze flattened her skirt to her legs, outlining their length, their shape. The sway of her hips seduced him, reminded him of their night together in Visalia, when they joined to rock and arch with his.
Abruptly, he rose and turned away. His fingers groped in his pocket for a cigarette. Anything for something to do to hide the arousing effect she had on him.
“Got that little fur ball spruced up and looking real nice by now?” Gif asked. His jovial tone jovial revealed none of the seriousness of his conversation with Trig.
“Yes, thanks to Flower,” Carleigh said. “She’s finding him a treat in the kitchen, so I thought I’d join you two.” She paused. Trig sensed her gaze upon him. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. We were just finishing up anyway, weren’t we, Trig?”
“Yes.” Cigarette lit, he turned to face her.
“You were discussing my mother, I see.” She indicated the letter Gif held.
“We were.”
He handed it to her. She refolded the paper along the creases with care and reverence. She waited, her expression expectant.
“Well, reckon I’ll join Flower. Might be she’s enjoying Spencer so much she might not give him back.” Giving Carleigh a broad wink, Gif sauntered off.
Long moments passed between them. Finally, she laced her fingers behind her back and moved to stand directly in front of Trig, her back almost against the trunk of the maple. Her mahogany head tilted, her gaze roaming his face, as if she tried to read all that was hidden in his mind.
“Will Gif help you find the person who shot you?” she asked finally.
“Yes.”
“How?”
She’s innocent of her pa’s doings, but she’s entitled to know about them. And yours.
Trig hesitated, a resistance to the advice Gif had given him. “It’s complicated. Way too complicated to explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“Carleigh,” he hedged.
She stared at him, the glimmer of suspicion darkening the depths of her eyes to a stormy blue.
“I asked you once not so long ago who you were, Trig,” she said quietly. Firmly. “You evaded my question then, but I’m asking it again.” Her eyes never wavered from his. “Who are you?”
She’s innocent of her pa’s doings, but she’s entitled to know about them. And yours.
Trig exhaled, long and slow.
“I’m a Special Agent for the United States Treasury Department,” he said at last. “A bounty hunter, if you will, for the Customs Service to arrest smugglers.”
“A Special Agent?” She blinked up at him in surprise. “I had no idea there was such a thing.”
“Most people don’t. We work in secret. Once our covers are blown, there’s little point in being a Special Agent any longer.”
“I see.” A little pucker of concern formed between her brows. “Does Papa know this about you? Is that why he hired you?”
Trig refrained from laughing out loud. Judge Chandler knew him only as a reputed bounty hunter by the name Trig had made for himself throughout the Great Northwest. The justice would choke if he knew of Trig’s association with the Treasury Department.
“Let’s just say he wouldn’t be happy to know all that I do.”
“Really.” She appeared bemused, as if she questioned why her father would disapprove of Trig arresting smugglers. After all, he was a judge wasn’t he? It was his job to enforce the laws.
If she only knew.
Little lines of worry appeared on her forehead. “Were you afraid I would give you away? Is that why you didn’t tell me before?”
“No.” He glanced again at the San Diego horizon and thought fleetingly of her father. Of the evidence Trig intended to gather against him when they returned to San Francisco and even before. “But the less you know, Carleigh, the safer and happier you’ll be.”
The worry lines deepened. “Is Gif a Special Agent, too?”
“No.”
She gestured toward the building the Cullins called both home and workplace. “But this is his office.”
“He heads up the division of the Customs Service for this part of the country. He’s a line rider. It’s his job to keep people from smuggling goods over the border into Mexico and vice versa. He collects duties from those crossing over legitimately. Different from what I do.”
“I see.”
He wondered if she truly did.
“He considers you a good friend.”
Trig nodded. “The feeling’s mutual.”
“And now you’re both going to help me find my mother?”
“We’re going to try.” Trig took one last drag on the cigarette before flicking it into the grass. “Gif will pull some strings to have her brought to Tijuana to meet with you. Us, I mean.”
Hope sprang into her features and chased away the worry. “That’s wonderful!”
“I’m not promising anything and neither is he. There’s always the chance we might not meet with her at all. A very good chance, in fact. Understand?”
“Yes.” She nodded, eager. “When can I see her?”
“A couple of days, at best.”
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, as if to hold in all the hope and elation welling inside her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve a long ways to go before we see this job through,” he said gruffly.
“I understand.”
Her hand settled onto his chest. His blood flowed a little faster from the rareness of her touch.
She hesitated. “I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I-I owe you so much.”
She drew back and turned, intending to leave him, but his arm shot out and braced against the tree trunk, preventing her.
His gaze drifted over her, and he was struck again by her purity. The beauty and innocence that were so much a part of her. The freshness.
His glance settled over her mouth, that full-lipped, rosy mouth.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said roughly.
Not when I’ll only hurt you in the end.
“Oh, but I do.” She studied him in that intense, searching way of hers. A shadow of a smile appeared. “You’re being much too serious again.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Given his conversation with Gif, he conceded she might be right.
Then two could play her game. He kicked aside grim thoughts of her father, of Pa and Nathaniel, of the battle that would ensue too soon.
He thought of Carleigh instead.
“And just how do you intend to settle up with me when we meet Belle, Miss Chandler?” he murmured. His head lowered; his burgeoning libido suddenly toyed with the possibilities, all of them pleasurable.
“I’m sure we can arrive at a satisfactory settlement, Mr. Mathison. Don’t you?”
Her sweet breath feathered over his skin. He hadn’t expected her provocative response, and his mouth took hers before he could stop himself, whatever suitable or clever reply he might have made forever lost in the sensation of her lips moving beneath his.
Tentative at first but growing bolder with every pulsating second, the kiss lingered. Trig angled his head with a groan, fitting their mouths to allow him to taste her fully. His tongue stroked her upper lip, then her bottom one, until she opened and allowed him entry.
The tip of her tongue seeking his banished his troubles, sent hurtling into his memory all that happened the last time she kissed him this way. But memories weren’t enough. He wanted more, and his arm slid around her waist to pull her full against him.
The blood raced hot in his veins. Her soft breasts nestled to his chest, and she molded to the length of him. His lust raged, but the sound of barking intruded, and he fought to comprehend it.
Carleigh pushed against him, breaking the kiss with a breathless gasp. “Spencer. Oh, Trig. Gif and Flower. What must they think of us?”
But before he could assure her they wouldn’t think anything, that they wouldn’t mind in the least if he kissed her a little longer, she pulled free of his embrace and hastened back to the house.
Chapter 11
Well, well, well. There they were.
Mathison and Carleigh, coming out of the Wells Fargo Stagecoach office right across the street.
Carleigh snuggled that prissy dog of hers close against her. Mathison held her satchel in one hand; he kept the other protectively against the small of her back. A pair of Colts rested in the holster slung low on his hips.
Liko Kwan stepped into the shadows and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. He could see the alertness in him, the taut awareness of all that moved, those dark eyes sweeping, missing nothing.
Mathison was a formidable foe.
Too bad the bullet missed its mark. Liko had been sorely disappointed about that. Mathison recovered quickly from the stunning graze to his shoulder and fled with Carleigh before Liko could fire off another.
More disturbing, though, was that the miss alerted Mathison he was being trailed. He would be more elusive than ever with beautiful Carleigh.
Reginald was furious at the mistake.
Liko glanced down at the telegram in his hand. It hadn’t been easy wiring him about the incident in the sand dunes. The judge’s message back to him seared the telegraph lines between San Francisco and San Diego and blistered itself onto the paper.
So now Reginald knew Mathison had betrayed him. The bounty hunter wasn’t bringing Carleigh home just yet. He was going to help her find her mother, instead of preventing it.
The tiniest trill of fear went through Liko. Reginald was seething at the delay. He wouldn’t tolerate another mistake. Liko had to stop Mathison before he found Belle Lamont.
His lip curled. As if it was that easy. What would Reginald know about tracking someone as shrewd as Mathison? All the judge did was snap orders from his well-appointed office while he kept his hands lily-white and baby-butt smooth. The rest of them, subservient like himself, scurried like rats in the dark to do his dirty work.
God, he hated the man.
This would be the last job Liko would hire out to do for the conniving bastard. Reginald Chandler would never control him again.
Then, Liko would be free.
But first, he had to get to Carleigh. Beautiful, perfect Carleigh. He would leave his mark on her, and then she wouldn’t be so perfect anymore. Reginald would find out after it was too late. Liko would win.
The plan strengthened him. He re-channeled his attention on the pair, waiting on a corner for a carriage to pass before crossing over to Fourth Street.
Carleigh tilted her head, listened to something Mathison said. She laughed, and from his hiding place, Liko could see the sparkle in the blue of her eyes.
Disgust churned in his gut.
He didn’t like that sparkle.
It meant Mathison was enjoying the fruits of his labors. Just as he’d been that day with her in the sand dunes. Enjoying Carleigh before Liko could.
A renewed sense of urgency pulled him from the shadows onto the boardwalk. Mathison was headed toward ‘C’ Street and the Hotel Brewster.
Good. Very good.
Time was running out. But Carleigh would be his before it did.
As San Diego’s newest hostelry, Hotel Brewster was a glittering giant of a building, four stories tall, framed in wood and brick and lavish in its rococo styling.
Carleigh’s admiring gaze took it all in. Trig knew she’d stayed in places more luxurious than this during her travels, but after recent nights spent on the hard ground beneath a piece of canvas, he figured her perspective mellowed a little.
Upon entering the spacious lobby, he secured a room and registered them as husband and wife, using fictitious names, much to her disapproval. But Trig didn’t care about the impropriety. The less attention they drew to themselves, the better.
A passenger elevator took them to their fourth floor room. The hotel clerk proudly boasted the Brewster was the first building in San Diego to have one. Trig had never ridden in such a contrivance before, and he braced his feet against the unfamiliar motion of traveling upward. Carleigh, however, took the ride in stride.
They entered their room, equipped with electric bells, gas, even hot and cold water at the lavatory. Windows provided a magnificent view of the city and San Diego Bay.
He frowned at those windows.
But it was the bed Carleigh noticed first.
“This isn’t a good idea,” she murmured.
“Nothing will happen you don’t want to happen,” he said and hefted her satchel onto the mattress.
“I feel like a kept woman.” Her glance took in the dresser, the settee near the window, the wallpaper painted with scarlet and pink flowers. “Pretending to be man and wife with you.”
He wondered what she would say if he told her about her parents. That Belle had been Reginald Chandler’s mistress. His high-priced whore. That they would have taken a hotel room under false pretenses just like Carleigh and he did.
“Perhaps a suite would be better. Or adjoining rooms,” she said, persistent.
“This one will do just fine. I have to see you to protect you, and separate rooms would prevent me from doing that.” He removed his Stetson and tossed it onto the dresser, signaling an end to the discussion.
Her mouth thinned, but she said nothing more. She set Spencer on the floor, gave him a piece of rawhide, then unlocked her satchel, which had been held at the Wells Fargo & Company Express Office until she claimed it. Carleigh had been relieved Emerson hadn’t sent it back to San Francisco before she could.
She withdrew an envelope and handed it to Trig. “Here’s Papa’s money. Or rather, yours. It should all be there.”
He flipped through the stack of bills. “It is.”
“I’m sorry I stole it from you.”
She sounded so apologetic, Trig had all he cou
ld do to keep from reminding her her father wouldn’t have been so noble. “Under the circumstances, stealing the money was warranted. I would’ve done the same thing.”
“Would you?”
“It’s called ‘survival’. You were desperate to escape me that night. You did what you had to do.” He set his own bag next to hers on the bed. “But if you stole the money from me now, that’d be a hell of a different story. I wouldn’t be so forgiving.”
Her mouth softened. “I don’t suppose you would.”
She pulled out a leather purse, small but expensive-looking, and dumped the contents onto the mattress. She made a quick count of the bills and coins, and Trig surmised these were the funds she’d brought with her. She began putting it all back, tidier this time. “It’s a relief to have money again. I felt strange not having any.”
“Why? You had nowhere to spend it in the desert,” he said, amused.
She smiled and set the purse aside. “I’ve always taken my father’s wealth for granted. Our time in the wilderness changed that, I think.”
“For the better, I hope.”
“I suppose.” She glanced at him. “But don’t think I’m so redeemed I won’t still enjoy the luxuries in life. Probably more so.” She cocked her head. “I would love dinner in a nice restaurant tonight, Trig. Starched tablecloths and candlelight. Wine.” She hesitated, as if she feared he might scowl at the idea. “Could we?”
The image bloomed in his mind--being with her in an exclusive establishment, her hair swept up, the mahogany tresses shining from the glow of the candles scattered about the room. He envisioned her smiling at him, wearing her best dress, maybe even glittering jewels in her ears and around her neck. The atmosphere would be intimate, flirtatious. A promise of all that might transpire to ease the lust which never seemed to leave him of late.
“I can’t,” he said roughly.
The image shattered. He thought of the careful plans Gif and he had made, of the time ticking away too fast. He thought of leaving her here at the Brewster, with only Flower and a little dog for company and protection. And worried for it.