Until she did that, he couldn’t go back to Cheyenne. That would be too close to her, and last night had proved he couldn’t be that close without doing something about it. She’d never get her divorce that way. She’d end up having his baby instead.
The thought went through him with a jolt, and the realization that came with it was worse. He wanted her to have his baby. It was the one way he could have her for good, with no more talk of divorce, and he might as well own up to it. He wanted that meddling woman for his own more than he’d ever wanted anything else.
But that wasn’t what she wanted. And if d be a rotten thing for him to do, to wish his baby on her. So whoever said he was a nice guy?
Two men came out of the dining room just then, heading for the entrance to the hotel. Angel wouldn’t have noticed them, except they suddenly stopped directly in front of him, blocking his view of the front desk. He didn’t object. He’d been about to move anyway so Cassie wouldn’t see him if she happened to look in his direction. Now he didn’t have to… and to hell with that. He wasn’t going to deny himself these last few moments of being able to savor the sight of her. It would be too long before he saw her again.
He got up to move to a new vantage point, behind one of the tall Grecian columns that supported the two-story ceiling in the lobby. He had to pass behind the two men to do so, and that was as far as he got when he overheard what the pretty-faced one was saying.
“She calls herself Mrs. Angel. I barely noticed her at first, but now — I don’t know, there’s something about her that intrigues me.”
“I don’t see it,” his friend said in sincere bewilderment as they both stared at Cassie.
“Good, because I don’t intend to share this one.”
Angel reminded himself that Cassie was leaving St. Louis. He didn’t need to say anything. He felt like it anyway.
“Neither do I,” he said, causing both men to turn toward him. It was automatic for his hand to fold the yellow slicker back behind his gun.
“I beg your pardon?” Bartholomew Lawrence replied, then took a step back as he got a good look at the man who had interrupted him.
“The lady’s married,” Angel said in his slow drawl.
“Bart happens to like married women,” the friend offered with a snicker, since “Bart” had lost his tongue staring at Angel.
“He tries to like that one, and he’s a dead man.”
Bartholomew had realized, as soon as he’d taken in the gun resting on Angel’s hip, that this had to be the man Cassie had called the Angel of Death. And after that last remark, he fainted dead away.
“Aw, hell,” Angel said in disgust.
The collapse of a man on the lobby floor was sure to draw both Cassie’s and her mother’s attention, but one glance in that direction showed they’d already left the area. He turned just in time to see them pass through the entrance and out of sight.
“Do you do that just for fun,” Phineas asked at his back, “or can’t you help it?”
Angel gave one more disgusted look at the man on the floor before he turned toward the detective. “What do you want, Kirby?”
Phineas laughed. “I guess you can’t help it. But you really ought to cover that gun back up. You might not know it, but city folks get nervous when they see anyone other than the law wearing weapons.”
“I’m used to making folks nervous,” Angel replied indifferently. “So if that’s all you stopped by to tell me—”
“I might mention that you look terrible.”
“You could have kept that to yourself, too.”
Angel turned to leave. Phineas fell into step beside him. “You’re in a rotten mood, aren’t you?” Angel ignored him. “Maybe this will cheer you up.”
A piece of paper flashed in front of Angel’s face. He stopped, but he didn’t reach for the paper. Phineas drew it back when it occurred to him that Angel might not know how to read, a distinct possibility with the kind of upbringing he’d had. Phineas decided not to ask.
“You found an old newspaper?” Angel guessed.
Phineas nodded. “One that had a very conscientious reporter at the time. The story did make the front page, and damn near filled it.”
“The names?”
“Cawlin and Anna O’Rourke.”
“O’Rourke?”
“That was my reaction. I never would have guessed you were Irish. Every Irishman I’ve ever met, even second- and third-generation Americans, retains something of a Gaelic accent, but you’ve lost yours entirely.”
“O’Rourke,” Angel said, and then again, rolling it off his tongue.
He could get used to a name like that real quick. And that was all he’d wanted, he reminded himself, a name to put behind the one he had, because he was damn tired of having to tell folks, “Just Angel.” But he didn’t walk away from the detective when he started giving an account of that newspaper story.
“Anna O’Rourke came here with her son to visit a childhood friend. I’m sorry to have to tell you she’d just been widowed. Your father, Cawlin O’Rourke, was a second-generation American who was a surveyor for the railroads, which is why you probably don’t remember him. A job like that takes a man all over the country.
“Your mother had immigrated here from Ireland and married your father soon after she arrived in America. But apparently she was homesick, and when he died, she decided to take you back to the old country. Only she wanted to say good-bye to her friend first.
“The reporter claimed Anna had been here just over a week when her four-year-old son, Angel, disappeared from the front lawn of Dora Carmine’s house. One minute you were there, the next you were gone.”
“You mean she really did name me Angel?”
“Sounds like it.”
“And if I was only four at the time, that would make me twenty-five now, rather than twenty-six as I’d thought.”
Phineas grinned. “First time I ever heard of someone growing younger instead of older. At any rate, the story went on to mention that search parties were combing the city for you and rewards were posted. It was assumed at first that you’d just wandered off and were lost, which would explain why no one thought to search outside the city. I found one other mention in a paper dated a few weeks later, stating you were still missing and any information about your whereabouts would receive a substantial reward. You probably had half this city looking for you.”
“What was the name of my mother’s friend?”
“Dora Carmine.”
“Does she still live here?”
Phineas nodded. “I just came from paying her a visit, to confirm the newspaper account.”
“You didn’t tell her about me, did you?”
“No. I told her I was from the mayor’s office, compiling an official report on the increase in crime over the last twenty-five years.”
Angel looked down at the floor. “Did she say if my mother’s still living?”
“She’s still living.”
“I suppose she eventually went back to Ireland like she planned to?”
“According to Mrs. Carmine, Anna O’Rourke never left St. Louis. She refused to give up hope that you’d show up one day, alive and well. She lives about nine blocks from here in one of the older city mansions. She married a wealthy banker about eighteen years ago. He was a widower with two children. She gave him a few more, so you’ve got some half brothers and a sister. And to this day, she’s still offering a reward for information about you.”
Angel gave him a level look. “You weren’t thinking about collecting it, were you?”
“I already bent my ethics once on this case. I wasn’t planning to do so again.”
“Good.”
Phineas frowned. “That sounds like you don’t intend to pay her a visit.”
“I don’t. She’s settled in with a new family. I can’t see any reason to disturb that.”
Phineas stared at him for a moment before he shrugged. “You’re probably right. She’s just your mother, a
fter all. What difference does it make if she never finds out what happened to her firstborn?”
“What happened to him isn’t pretty.”
“The truth is rarely as bad as what a person can imagine. She’s probably imagined worse.”
Angel scowled. “Worse than what I am? I doubt it.”
“Aren’t you being a bit hard on yourself? Compared to some of the criminals I track down, you’re a saint. You got taken west through no fault of your own, but you adapted to it. I’d say you’ve done all right for yourself.”
“So who asked you?”
Phineas gave up, handing over the sheet of paper. “The address is there if you ever change your mind. I’ll drop the agency’s bill off at your hotel. It’s been interesting — Angel O’Rourke.”
Chapter 34
“ Now can we talk about it?”
Cassie leaned her head back on the plush seat as the train pulled out of the station. She supposed she could be grateful that her mama’s private Pullman car had just arrived at the station that morning, or Catherine would have something else to complain about during the next few days. She could also be grateful that her mama had been silent this long, after coming into her room this morning and finding Cassie too tired to get up, her nightgown still on the floor, and buttons everywhere — buttons that didn’t match.
All Cassie had said was, “I want to go home today, Mama, but I need a little more sleep first.”
“Would you like to tell me why?”
Catherine was being sarcastic. She fully expected an explanation. She didn’t expect Cassie’s answer. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Amazingly, she let Cassie go back to sleep, and didn’t say anything when she finally got up, other than, “I’ve already arranged to have our new clothes shipped home when they’re completed.”
But Cassie had known she wouldn’t get through the entire day without satisfying her mother’s curiosity. She was going to avoid the truth, however, if at all possible.
“What did you want to talk about, Mama?”
“We can start with why we’re on this train today instead of next week.”
“We’d made our selections, finished all the fittings. Did you really want to wait around just so we could carry all those clothes home ourselves? With the weather so cold, it wasn’t as if we could get out and enjoy the city. You would have been bored by tomorrow, and probably suggested yourself that we go home.”
“I’m never bored in the city, warm weather or cold, and neither are you. Care to try again? Or shall we avoid taxing your store of excuses and just stick with the truth?”
“What makes you think—”
“I have eyes, baby. I saw your gunfighter in the lobby of the hotel.”
Cassie had, too, but then, ever since she’d first met Angel, bright yellow had been drawing her attention no matter where she was, so there was no way she wouldn’t have noticed that yellow slicker of his today. She hadn’t acknowledged him, though, or even looked directly at him. She knew why he was there— to make sure she left St. Louis — and that had brought her temper back up.
“Why did he follow you to St. Louis?” Catherine wanted to know.
“He didn’t. He came here for reasons that had nothing to do with me.”
“Did you know he was coming?”
“No.”
“I hate coincidences like that,” Catherine said with a sigh. “They’re just not natural.”
“Like fate?”
Catherine gave Cassie a sharp look, refusing to admit fate might have anything to do with it. “He came to your room last night, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
So much for avoiding the truth. “Angel has this problem ignoring his husbandly rights when I’m near to hand. He can’t seem to do it.”
“Why, that lecherous—”
“And I have a problem refusing him those rights.”
“Cassie—!”
“So he suggested I go home.”
That gave Catherine pause. “He did? You mean the man actually has some sense?”
“That’s not funny, Mama.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be, baby.”
“At any rate, he was entirely too highhanded about it, thinking he can order me around.”
“All husbands tend to think that way. I’ve never understood why. Women may have gotten the right to vote in Wyoming, we can serve on juries, and we can even boast about having the first woman justice of the peace in the whole country, but husbands still think their word is law.”
“Papa was never like that.”
“Your papa was an exception.” And then Catherine laughed. “The Summerses are another exception. We know who wears the pants in that family, and they fit her very well.”
“That’s not nice, Mama. And it’s not true. I’d say they both fit into the same pants. If they have a difference of opinion, they hash it out. One spouse doesn’t arbitrarily say, ‘Do it,’ and think that’s the end of it.”
“Chase Summers would never be that stupid,” Catherine said with a grin. “But all right, I’ll concede Jessie tiptoes around him sometimes. However, most times she walks all over him.”
“Only because he lets her,” Cassie insisted. “There’s the difference.”
Catherine was suddenly frowning again. “How did we get so far off the subject?”
Cassie really wished her mama hadn’t noticed that. “By discussing arbitrary males. And before you embarrass us both by asking, yes, I will have to wait again before I can divorce mine.”
Angel knocked on the front door of the massive stone house. He knew he shouldn’t be there. He’d cleaned up. He was as neat as he could get without cutting his hair, which he wouldn’t do until springtime. But he shouldn’t be there. Only it was either come here or get roaring drunk to take his mind off his little wife. He didn’t feel like getting drunk.
The door opened. A man with curly white hair and side-whiskers, in a stiff-looking formal suit, stood there. His skin was so dark it was almost black.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like to speak to the lady of the house,” Angel told him.
“Who is it, Jefferson?” another voice asked, followed by the appearance of a tall, middle-aged man with blond hair and green eyes.
“I don’t rightly know, Mister Winston. This gentleman has asked to speak to Missus Anna.”
The green eyes narrowed as they gave Angel a more careful once-over. “Might I inquire what business you have with my wife?”
“You’re the banker?”
The eyes narrowed even more. “Yes.”
“I just found out this morning that your wife is my mother. My name’s Angel — O’Rourke.”
It was the first time Angel got to say it. It felt good — and it brought a sigh from Anna’s husband.
“I see,” the man said in a resigned tone. “You’re about the fifteenth Angel who’s come to my door, faying to collect the reward.” Contempt entered his voice as he added, “At least the others were Irish, or made an attempt to sound Irish. Can you prove that you’re my wife’s missing son?”
Doubt was the last thing Angel expected. He almost laughed.
“I don’t need to prove it, mister.”
“Then you won’t get a penny—”
“I don’t want your money,” Angel cut in. “I just came to have a look at her before I head back west.”
“Well, that’s a new approach,” Winston said, though his look remained skeptical. “Just out of curiosity, what story have you concocted to explain your disappearance all those years ago?”
“If she wants to know, I’ll tell her,” was all Angel said, and he was being generous in that, considering the man was starting to irritate him.
The banker hesitated a moment before he acquiesced. “For my wife’s sake, I’m forced to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I warn you, she’ll know just by the sight of you if you’ve told me the truth. And if she do
esn’t recognize you, I’d appreciate it if you would leave without mentioning who you’re claiming to be. My wife has been through enough agony over this. I don’t want all those memories stirred up again for no good reason.”
Angel nodded, unable to argue with that. He didn’t need to talk to her. He didn’t need anything from her. Just one look was all he’d like, so the image of her that he carried wouldn’t be so vague. And that was probably all he’d get, because he couldn’t see how a woman, even a mother, could recognize a four-year-old child in the man he’d become.
The servant opened the door wider for Angel to enter. “May I take your coat, sir?”
It was too warm in the house not to give it up. Angel didn’t want to start sweating and have them think it was caused by nervousness. But as soon as he handed the slicker over, the banker’s eyes went straight to his gun. He might have cleaned up, but he’d made no effort to hide what he was or where he was from. He wore his usual black, right down to a new bandana knotted loosely at his neck.
“Are you a lawman?” he was asked.
“No.”
The frown was back. “I’d rather you didn’t wear that thing in my house.”
Angel made no move to remove it. “If you’ve been good to my mother, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
The banker’s cheeks went florid, but he said stiffly to the servant, “Inform my wife that we have a guest. She may join us in the east drawing room.”
The servant went away. Angel followed his host down a wide hall to a door on the right. The room beyond was large, the furniture so elegant he was leery of sitting on it. He was nervous — no, scared was more like it. He’d never been so scared in his life. He had no business here. He should have got drunk instead.
“I can’t do this,” he said suddenly. “I thought I could, but — tell her — no, don’t tell her anything. It’s better she don’t know what happened to me.”
“As I thought,” Anna’s husband remarked with enough contempt to shrivel a lesser man. “Most of them back out at this point.”
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