She found Elena stooping beside Miss Rathbone. The older woman lay completely still. Elena turned to look up at Lucy, her expression fathomless.
“She was having fits. I called you,” Lucy quickly explained.
“She suffers no more. She is dead.” Elena’s voice betrayed not a glimmer of emotion.
Lucy stared, disbelieving. “She — she can’t be. She’s never been sick a day. We were just sitting here and talking. No, I don’t believe . . .”
Elena stood as Lucy knelt and shook Miss Rathbone. The older woman’s eyes stared, looking as shocked as Lucy felt. Her body moved a bit as Lucy tried to rouse her, but otherwise, she lay completely still.
“No!” Lucy cried again, and she laid her head on the woman’s chest. But nothing gave the faintest evidence of life, not a heartbeat nor a breath. At last Lucy had no choice but to admit that Elena had been right.
And then she noticed the crumbled pastry beside Miss Rathbone’s hand. The pastry that had tasted a bit off. The pastry from a basket that Lucy had not touched.
She thought about Ward Cameron, leaving this morning, eating a cuernito, not one of Elena’s fresh-baked dainties. Before this morning, Elena had been eager to present to him her new creations first.
Elena. Lucy lifted her head and then her gaze, which she allowed to travel to Elena’s face.
The raven-haired young woman watched expectantly, and Lucy decided there would only be one way to be sure.
“Unh!” Grabbing her midsection, Lucy bent sharply at the waist. She fell beside Miss Rathbone and struggled to imitate the woman’s jerking motions.
Looking up, she saw Elena. The Mexican woman watched impassively, appearing not at all surprised. The next time she glanced that way, Elena had vanished.
Lucy lay still at last and silent. From the kitchen, she heard the sounds of a woman’s singing. And though the Spanish lyrics mystified her, the melody was gay.
* * *
Even on Papa’s worst days, Horace Singletary hadn’t felt so low. He’d held onto his anger and his honor, even when Judge Cameron hinted that letting go of both could prove quite profitable.
Yet in the wake of the fiery attempt on his life, the illusion of honor had melted away. With his eyebrows singed, his hands bloody, and the greater part of his shirt burned away, Horace had fled his bunkhouse home. After hiding in some bushes for an hour or two, he’d caught his mare, which had been turned loose. He saddled her using items from the unburned tack shed and rode for town. Once there, he’d taken the first steps toward his new path.
He’d broken into Francis Knowlton’s general store and stolen what he needed. Even now, the thought of the theft made his blistered face burn with shame. Someday, when this was over, he swore he’d repay Knowlton. Someday, if he lived . . .
Huddled behind a clump of scraggly trees, he fumbled to load ammunition into the new rifle. It had been years since he’d last handled a gun, but back when Papa still had the ranch, he’d insisted that both his children learn how to shoot. Horace especially had been pushed to dispatch coyotes and the occasional rattlesnake. Too bad he’d been back east in college when the real predators arrived.
Funny thing was, he’d always been so squeamish about killing. Yet now he meant to use this stolen gun to kill a man, to lie in wait and ambush him as he left town on the way to try the cases scheduled in Broken Fork. Horace remembered hearing something about a couple of fellows accused of getting drunk and shooting up a local brothel. A soiled dove had been clipped by a bullet and later died.
Horace tied his mare behind a rock outcrop, then checked to be certain she could not be seen from the bend in the only road leading north from town. Then he found a thick clump of undergrowth to shield himself.
If Cameron were going to keep his schedule, he ought to come by soon. And when he did, Horace was going to stop this predator at last.
* * *
“Didn’t seem right, Ryan turning up alive — dragging home a woman and sayin’ that they’re hitched,” Max told the judge.
Max had ridden hard to catch Judge Cameron. His long-legged dun horse was already sweating, despite the morning’s chilly air. Max was sweating, too. This morning, Quinn had rousted him out of bed. Quinn insisted they were going after Hamby and his boys, and that this was something Cameron didn’t need to know about.
Max had had to do some smooth talking to buy himself an hour, supposedly for breakfast. He’d been lucky enough to catch the judge as he was riding out of town. Max didn’t want Cameron going anywhere until he shared what Quinn said, and what he’d realized, too.
“Quinn Ryan’s come back?” Judge Cameron turned in the saddle of his elegant palomino stallion. The horse pranced nervously, as if it scented either a rainstorm or a mare.
Max nodded, “And he’s mad as hell at Hamby. Says he’s gonna bring those boys in, one way or the other. Tells me I got to help.”
Cameron shook his head, then shrugged. “One can’t shoot a man like Ryan and expect him to do nothing. Ned Hamby will no doubt get what he deserves.”
The judge didn’t look too sorry, even though Max knew Ned sometimes took care of his unpleasantness.
Pulling a gold pocket watch from his coat, Cameron checked the time. “I’m late to meet Hadley. Oh, yes. What was there about a woman?”
“He brought back this pretty blonde — says he’s married her. She looked damned familiar, though, and their story didn’t sound quite right.”
The judge flipped the watch cover closed. He seemed to have lost interest in the time. “Blonde, you said?”
Max nodded. “Yessir — a damn good-looking blonde. The kind of woman a man don’t forget so easy. But it was her voice that really did it. Back when I was deputy in Broken Fork, I had to ride through Mud Wasp one day, and I don’t mind tellin’ you how dry that trail was that summer—”
“— Yes, yes,” Cameron waved a hand impatiently. “We all know how parched your throat gets.”
Max paused, seething, then decided his story was too good to withhold. “I stopped at this saloon to have myself a drink or two, and that’s where I heard this girl. She was singin’ like a regular canary. Never heard anything so fine. I asked around, wanted to see what a little visit with a woman like that might set me back. They said Annie Faith didn’t hold truck with that sort of goings on.”
A grim smile rippled Cameron’s thick mustache.
“Yes, sir, Annie Faith,” Max repeated. “She was somethin’ special, though, so I went ahead and asked her myself while she was takin’ a break. Offered her more money than I’d pay for ten turns with one of our Blue Streak whores. She turned me down flat. Didn’t even pause to pretend like she might think it over. Sort of riled me. Later on, I remember hearing how she disappeared after a charge of robbery.”
Max poked his own temple. “I don’t have a half-bad memory, for a pickled Texan. Won’t Ryan be surprised to found out he hitched up with a wanted woman?”
Cameron shook his head. “I daresay he knows already.”
“He knows? But why —”
“— Quinn Ryan was the gambler Annie robbed.”
Max felt his mouth drop open. With an effort, he moved it enough to speak. “Then — then what the hell’s he think he’s doing?”
Judge Cameron glanced sharply at Max. “I believe a lawman with your acumen deserves to be a sheriff, maybe even a U.S. Marshal at some time in the future.”
“A marshal —” Had the judge been drinking? Weren’t they just talking about Quinn? Recovering from his surprise, he added. “But the President appoints those fellas.”
“Who the hell do you think appointed me? My father-in-law is a United States Senator from the state of Connecticut. I assure you, Wilson, my name is well known to Chester Arthur.”
Max whistled. “Well, I’ll be. I always figured you was a man goin’ places.”
“And I can take you with me, Max. If only . . .”
Max leaned forward. He could already picture himself sport
ing that U.S. Marshal’s badge, a woman on his arm even prettier than Annie Faith. Yessir. He’d figured early that with Cameron, he’d hitched his wagon to a star. He might hit the bottle now and again, but Max Wilson was no fool.
“There are certain entanglements,” Cameron continued. “This blond woman, for instance.”
“I don’t care what Quinn says. I’m bringin’ her in.”
“Maybe I don’t want her captured,” Cameron told him. “Maybe I need her to disappear instead.”
“To disappear,” he echoed. Was the judge suggesting what he imagined?
“Perhaps you could hang back a bit while Quinn goes after Hamby. Perhaps you could double back and find this Annie Faith.”
“And then?” Max wanted everything spelled out. What he’d have to do and what he’d get. Cameron could be slippery with his promises, and he’d lost out a few times on the judge’s insinuations.
Cameron looked annoyed, as if Max weren’t smart — or sober — enough to take his meaning. “Take her somewhere private. Tell her you know who she is, and she’ll go with you. Who knows? She may even offer you her favors in order to secure your silence. But she can’t ever come back — and the body can’t be found.”
“And I’ll get to stay sheriff?”
Cameron nodded solemnly. “And so much more.”
Max nudged his gelding a step closer, then reached out to shake the hand of the man who knew the President. After a moment’s hesitation, Cameron shook it. Then the judge’s stallion backed away.
“What about Quinn Ryan?” Max asked.
“Just stay out of his way. I’ll take care of him myself.”
* * *
The rifle’s barrel shook, despite the support of the V formed by two stout branches. Through a screen of leaves, Horace watched Cameron wheel around his horse then urge it northward at a ground-eating lope. Horace eased his finger’s pressure on the rifle’s trigger and watched the deputy.
Max lingered for a moment, staring after the judge, before he turned his mount toward town.
Horace sighed at his own failure. Certainly, he couldn’t have shot Cameron with the deputy sheriff right there. Nor could he miss the chance to listen to the incriminating conversation between the two. But even if Cameron had been alone, even if no murder had been plotted, he couldn’t say with any certainty that he would have pulled the trigger.
As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t the sort of man cut out to ambush anyone, even someone as deserving as Ward Cameron. Or maybe the approach was right, only he had the weapon wrong. Instead of using the stolen Winchester to destroy the judge, perhaps Cameron’s conversation would do as well.
Clearly, this woman, Annie Faith, knew something. Something Judge Cameron was eager to conceal. If Horace could find her before Max Wilson, he could warn her. Perhaps then she’d be willing to speak out, to hammer yet another nail into the coffin of Cameron’s corrupt reign.
* * *
Quinn nudged open his front door and carried in a crate containing flour, lard, coffee, beans, and bacon. Thankfully, Max hadn’t found the money he had hidden at the house, money he had needed for supplies. His healing shoulder ached a reminder that he hadn’t yet recovered from his bullet wound, so he quickly set the box onto the table.
“We’re going to need a pack horse if you keep bringing food,” Anna said. She sat on the bed, where she braided her blond hair with quick, deft movements. He noticed she’d put on her jeans again, although she’d apparently brushed them to remove much of the dirt.
“The only pack horse I’ll need will be to haul Hamby — or his carcass — back to town. Most of these supplies are for you while I’m gone. I don’t want you going out.”
She raised her eyebrows in mock horror. “Not even to use the privy?”
“You can dump the pot at night.”
When her nose wrinkled, he continued speaking, not wanting to give her a chance to protest. “If you’re recognized, we both know what might happen.”
“There’s no might about it. Cameron would have me killed. That’s not the main reason I’m coming with you, but it’s a good one.”
He shook his head. “I thought we settled this last night.”
“We did. You need a guide, and I need to go home.”
“Why can’t this be your home, Anna?” Unable to keep his distance, he stepped closer and reached down to touch her face.
She stood before his fingertips grazed flesh, then flipped the completed braid over her shoulder. The serape slung over one arm, she took up her hat, which she’d stowed safely with her other things. Yet she didn’t move back. Instead, she stared into his eyes so intently that he couldn’t look away — could barely blink for fear of breaking a contact that felt as warm as summer sunshine.
Quinn measured the span of time she looked at him by the throbbing beat of his pulse in his ears. He’d never before told a woman how much he wanted her, never before even desired to be with one forever. It felt as if he’d cracked open his chest and handed her his heart — a heart he couldn’t be completely certain she desired.
She smiled and stepped into his arms. As he pulled her closer, he felt his lungs fill with air, though he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding his breath.
“There are people in the canyon who depend on me,” she whispered. “You have forgiven the unforgivable. You have even offered love. I will always love you for what you’ve given me. But you must see that Copper Ridge does nothing but bind me to an ugly past. The canyon is my present. The canyon — and Rosalinda — are my future.”
He shook his head. “You’re wrong. You only want to go back there to lick your wounds some more. You talk about a future, but what do you do there except relive the past? Relive our daughter’s death . . . You’re stuck there, Anna, stuck in a place that keeps you bleeding.”
In that moment, he could almost see the canyon walls, their red rock named for Christ’s blood. Red rock that lay so vividly behind every stand of juniper, every grove of white-barked aspen. Red rock that jutted upwards toward the crisp blue of the Arizona sky. Was he telling her the truth? Did those walls imprison her spirit? Or were his reasons selfish excuses to try to keep her for himself?
But selfish or not, he did want her, so he quoted, “What’s gone, and what’s past help should be past grief.”
“The Winter’s Tale,” she supplied, her eyes shimmering with tears. “But Shakespeare never gave birth, never suckled a child at his breast. There is no moving past what I feel in that canyon. I’m leaving, with or without you. You must have been confused last night. Making love to me is different from making up my mind.”
He pulled at her shirt, pulled it up and gestured toward the scar across her belly. “It was a bad wound, but it didn’t kill you. So don’t bury yourself there. Stay out in the world, with me. We don’t have to live in Copper Ridge. There are a thousand other places we could go. I’ll even take you to San Francisco. I remember, long ago, how you said you’d like to see it.”
She spun away from him, toward the door. For a moment, he thought she might walk out and leave him, but she drew her back ramrod straight and seemed to gather strength. “I’m going with you, Ryan.”
“You are the most exasperating woman. I’m not going to argue with you on this.”
“Good.” She favored him with a glance over one rigid shoulder. “That will save us both some time, and you can’t very well tie me up for weeks while you’re off hunting outlaws. So where’s this posse you’ve assembled meeting?”
“Ah, the posse . . .” Quinn fumed at the way she’d so deftly turned the conversation — and at her reminder of this morning’s failure. He’d gone out scouting for help, stirring up considerable excitement over his “resurrection.” He’d received four invitations for drinks, two for dinner, and one for a “free sample” from Liliana, who was hanging out the upstairs window of the Blue Streak. Her breasts, which appeared in imminent danger of escaping her low-cut bodice, further enlivened the crowd that gath
ered. But despite the festival atmosphere, Quinn couldn’t convince a single man to help him bring in Hamby. There were plenty of well wishers and quite a few hearty claps on his sore shoulder, but every able-bodied male in the vicinity suddenly remembered somewhere else he had to be. Quinn had even had to threaten to fire Max to make him come along. Sometimes, being on the side of right was damned humiliating.
Anna quirked a smile. “I’ll be your posse, then.”
“Oh, hell. Why not? At least then I can keep an eye on you, and you ignore orders just about as well as Max. I think he’s still mad about the house. Thought it was his ticket to matrimonial bliss.”
“So he’s not coming either?”
“Oh, he’s coming. Practically at gunpoint, I might add."
“Good. If he stayed, sooner or later he’d mention me, and rumor might get around to Cameron.”
“That rumor wouldn’t have to exert itself at all. Max is always slobbering at the judge’s heels, trying to catch some crumbs.” Quinn shook his head in disgust.
Max met them at the livery stable, where he was securing saddlebags on a rangy dun gelding already damp with sweat. The deputy regarded Anna’s jean-clad legs with a poorly disguised mixture of lusty interest and disapproval.
“You ain’t thinking of bringing her along?” Max asked.
“If you’re addressing me,” Anna replied, “my head is up here. And if you aren’t, I wonder why not. I answer for myself.”
A red flush formed a background for Max’s coppery freckles. His gaze swung abruptly toward familiar territory — Quinn.
“You can’t be serious,” Max complained. “Way I heard you talkin’, this is a manhunt, not a honeymoon.”
Before Quinn could reply, the redhead turned what he probably considered his most charming smile back on Anna.
“Ma’am, you don’t understand,” Max explained. “This may seem glamorous, but it’s hot, dirty, dangerous work. There’s rattlesnakes, bad grub, and badder outlaws out there. It ain’t fitting for pretty little ladies. You stay home and work on some of those apple pies, ‘cause I aim to eat my fill once we’re back.”
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