Song of My Heart

by Barbara Baldwin

  “When are you going to stop fighting my battles?” Monty sounded defensive.

  “When you stop doing stupid things.” Max was as stubborn as his brother, a trait they had both inherited from their father.

  “It sounded like a plausible way to diversify,” Monty said.

  Max remained silent. Monty would tell him everything. He knew Max wouldn’t let him go until he did.

  “A man named John Dillon talked to Jerome first, more than once. When he found Jerome only kept the books and wasn’t in charge of the assets in a way that helped, he started talking to me about investments and diversification of the business capital.”

  “You didn’t mention this to Father?”

  Monty shook his head. “You know how Father can be—always asking questions, demanding answers. I wanted to check everything before I showed him how much our investment would gain.”

  “What was it—the railroad, shipping?”

  “Mining ventures.” Monty ran a hand through his hair in a gesture that was all too familiar. “Jerome had made the initial withdrawal. I had the first group of mining stocks before I suspected Dillon was shady. He never produced the land office claims—said they were being mailed from Denver. He had assay reports, but they were no doubt from bogus mines.”

  Monty wouldn’t meet Max’s gaze. “I tried to call off the deal—get the initial payment back—but every time I went to see Dillon, he was conveniently out. The night we were supposed to pay the rest of the money, I arrived at the warehouse early to warn Jerome off.” Monty’s voice cracked. “I was too late.”

  “Jerome was dead when you got there?”

  He nodded. “They had emptied the place, making it look like a robbery. I tried to track them before they had too much of a head start.”

  “You said they. I thought you only dealt with Dillon.”

  “I did, but I figure he didn’t clean out that warehouse by himself. He had to have partners.”

  “More than likely just hired thugs,” Max said. “He probably didn’t even move the merchandise very far—possibly to another warehouse on the wharf.”

  “Then there’s still time to recover it?”

  “No. The move would have only been temporary. I daresay the new warehouse was emptied within days, the merchandise distributed through a dozen or more brokers and unable to be traced.”

  “I might as well return to Boston and face the music,” Monty said. “At least we didn’t go through with the rest of the deal.”

  Max hated like hell to add to his brother’s guilt. “They got it all, Monty.”

  His brother’s gaze swung back to him. “What do you mean?”

  “I received a telegram from Father. Whatever information Dillon got from Jerome before he killed him, he used it to take it all—half a million gone.”

  Monty went white. “Good God, we’re ruined.”

  “Maybe not,” Max countered. He didn’t say any more as a waitress stopped to pour coffee from a blue speckled pot. He recalled the first time he’d seen Abby, working as a Harvey Girl in Topeka. He needed to get back to the hotel before long.

  Once the waitress left, he continued. “He can’t have spent that kind of money by now, much less marketed the merchandise and spent all that, too. The money has got to be in a bank somewhere. All we have to do is find out where.”

  “I’ve been following him for the same reason.”

  “Is that why you were in Chicago?” Max asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m the investigator, remember.” Max grinned, suddenly realizing how good it felt to see Monty and to know that he was alive and well, if not financially solvent.

  “I knew it was him. I accused him of stealing and demanded the money back.”

  “And you actually expected him to give it to you?” Max asked. “Did you add your watch to the bet as a clue, in case I came looking for you?”

  Monty looked thoroughly confused, then embarrassed. “I didn’t—”

  “You never were good at lying, and even worse at poker.”

  Monty scowled.

  “I happened to find your watch, hanging around the neck of a very pretty lady.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story, and if I don’t get back to the hotel soon, I have a feeling Abby will come looking for me.”

  “Oh, so that’s the way the wind blows.”

  “No, it’s not. She’s intelligent and stubborn and—” Max felt his cheeks warm. What had gotten into him, gushing about a woman?

  Monty laughed. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re not going anywhere except back to Boston,” Max argued.

  “Not today, it seems,” Monty replied, and Max followed his line of vision. The rain had begun again, cutting deep gouges in the road, myriad tiny rivers crisscrossing each other as the water ran down the street.

  They walked up Pine Street toward the Teller House Hotel. There wasn’t a person to be seen anywhere, but Max was sure the saloons were still making a killing. Any of the miners coming to town last Saturday were stuck until the passes into the mountains were once again dry enough to traverse.

  The hotel clerk did a double-take when they entered the lobby. Max almost looked over his shoulder to see what the clerk gawked at before he remembered. It wasn’t often he and Monty were seen together. Back in Boston when they did happen to be at the same event, most of the other people in attendance already knew they were twins.

  The clerk found his voice. “May I help you?”

  “Already registered,” Max answered. “Markham, room nine.”

  “No, I’m sorry, but Mr. Markham is…taller,” the clerk said. He looked at Max, then nodded. “Yes, definitely taller…and with a beard.”

  To save time and arguments, Max simply agreed. “You are absolutely right.”

  The clerk beamed in self-satisfaction and Max waved Monty to the stairs. They chuckled as they strolled along the hallway.

  “Abby?” He knocked on her door.

  He knocked again. Frowning, he turned toward his room.

  “Don’t tell me you misplaced her,” his brother teased.

  Max ignored him, bursting into his room only to find it empty as well. Where would she have gone in the rain? Taking the extra key from the bureau, he hurried back to her room, twisting the key in the lock. Quickly he flipped through the items she’d left scattered across her bed.

  He returned to his room, pulling off his jacket and grabbing different clothes from the pegs on the wall.

  “She’s gone after Dillon.” He checked the cylinder of his gun.

  “What? You have a woman doing your investigating now?”

  “Don’t be an ass. She did lead me to Dillon, and you. Under the circumstances, it’s hard to leave her out of it.”

  “Circumstances? As in…?” Monty glanced at the rumpled bed.

  Max wasn’t about to tell his brother about his personal involvement with Abby. “As in—she’s a damn good poker player.”

  “What makes you think she’s after him?”

  Max pulled his hat low over his forehead as he opened the door. “Her money, her knife and her Derringer. They’re missing.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Abby had felt relatively safe venturing out on her own while Max was gone. After all, she wanted to talk to Star, not gamble with Dillon. She had decided to try and convince the girl to leave Dillon and go to Denver. She would have preferred to talk without Dillon around, but that was not to be. She found Star hanging close to Dillon at a poker table in the Silver Streak Saloon.

  The air in the saloon smelled of stale beer and cigar smoke, and she almost turned around and returned to the hotel room. It was impossible for her to imagine that men would want to spend all their time in places like this. Trying not to breathe too deeply, she wound her way to the table Dillon occupied.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Can’t a man gamble in peace?” He no longer even made a pretense of being a gentleman.
>
  She forced a smile. “Why, Mr. Dillon, you look somewhat the worse for wear.” One eye was almost swollen shut, and a purple bruise colored his jaw. “Perhaps I should come back another time.”

  “The other guy looks worse,” he replied. Abby couldn’t tell if that were a boost or a lie. “Besides, if you came to finish our little game, it would be a shame to deprive these gentlemen of their pleasure.” His low-pitched, oily voice implied an intimacy between them.

  All the men nodded rapidly. Word of their outrageous bet must have circulated throughout the mining town. One man even jumped up and offered his chair. Apparently they all felt responsible for helping Dillon win. She knew they all anticipated her downfall.

  She glanced past Dillon to where Star stood. A fresh bruise colored the girl’s right shoulder. Abby decided then and there that her reward for winning would be that Dillon release Star.

  An hour later, she was still in control. Even though it was early in the afternoon, Dillon had begun drinking heavily. He lost hand after hand.

  “I raise,” she said, dropping five gold eagles onto the green baize of the table. She looked at Dillon. He would have to fold. She’d made sure when she laid the money down that he didn’t have enough to see her bet, much less raise it.

  “Damn you!” He dug in his pockets, coming up empty. “Give me a piece of paper,” he said to no one in particular. He scribbled something on the slip and tossed it onto the table. “I call.”

  “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t look like money to me,” Abby said sweetly.

  “It’s my IOU. My word’s good—ask anyone. Besides, I’m not going to need it.” He turned his cards over. “Straight, ace high.”

  Abby turned over a card, putting the four in front of her. “I’ve found, Mr. Dillon, that men tend to stick together.” She turned over another four. “So, while everyone here may agree that your word is good,” she put the third four beside the other two cards, “I prefer not to accept your IOU.” She turned over her last two cards, an ace of spades and ace of hearts. She stared intently across the table at Dillon, watching his face turn red with anger.

  “Sinners!” The booming pronouncement bounced against the saloon walls and echoed even above the din of voices and loud piano music.

  Abby groaned.

  “Repent, before you all burn in hell!”

  She scrunched her head between her shoulders, knowing full well the wrath of Reverend Fishbone was about to descend upon her.

  “Deal.” The miner on her left poked her with his elbow.

  “But—” she hesitated.

  “Ah, don’t worry none about that preacher. They come here all the time. Most figure if they yell ’bout sinnin’ enough, someone will give ’em money just to shut ’em up. That’s all they really want.”

  She would have liked to turn around to see exactly where Max was, but she forced her attention to the players at the table. Dillon was scribbling another IOU. She decided now was a good time to leave the game.

  “I believe I am through for today, so I must insist on collecting my money, Mr. Dillon.”

  “You know I don’t have the money in front of me,” he barked at her. She wondered how far to push him.

  “Harrumph.”

  Abby recognized the disgruntled growl even without turning around. Three of the men at the table looked past her, scooped up their money and hurried away, chairs scraping the rough wood floor.

  “Christ!” Dillon muttered, looking up from his scribbling.

  “No, just one of his lowly disciples,” came the smooth, low response. A shadow crossed the table where her hands trembled slightly on top of her pile of money. When she dared to look, her gaze slid over hands clutching a prayer book and past the frayed lapels of a black frock coat. His eyes were fiery blue, boring into her from behind wire-rimmed glasses. His flat-brimmed hat was pushed low on his brow, and there was no mistaking the frown he wore.

  She quickly looked away, frantically thinking of an excuse. She knew how Max felt about her dealing with Dillon on her own. Even though that had not been her original intent, she now wished she hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave the hotel.

  Her hand brushed the scribbled IOU. She looked across the table where Dillon was getting ready to leave.

  “Excuse me, but you have neglected to pay your debt.”

  “Told you I didn’t have it on me,” he growled. “I’ll have to wire my account for it.” Then he sneered. “Why don’t you give me the key to your room and I’ll personally deliver it?”

  “See here, sir!” The reverend’s hackles rose.

  Abby widened her eyes, realizing the perfect solution. “Why, perhaps we can persuade the good Reverend—” She paused.

  “Fishbone,” Max supplied, his eyes narrowing.

  “Yes, Reverend Fishbone. I’m sure he would be more than happy to accompany you so you can telegraph your bank and get my money. I don’t intend to stay much longer in town. My father’s business, you know,” she added, recalling the story she’d given the bartender last night.

  “I don’t need a damn preacher following me around,” Dillon grumbled.

  Abby closed her eyes, silently asking for patience. She knew they needed to placate Dillon if they were to discover his secrets. “Mr. Dillon, I don’t know either of you at all, but you can see why I might trust the reverend?” Her brow rose in question.

  She turned before Dillon had a chance to protest. “Reverend, if you would kindly accompany Mr. Dillon to the telegraph office, I would happily give you a small percentage of what he owes me…for your church, of course.” She smiled sweetly.

  Max returned her smile, but his gaze told her he was less than pleased with her machinations. He took her elbow. “Only if you allow me to accompany you from this…this saloon,” he finished exasperated, as though unable to think of a word vile enough to condemn the place. Abby would have grinned at his theatrics if it weren’t for the pressure of his fingers.

  “I am perfectly capable—”

  “I insist.” He steered her toward the saloon doors, directly behind Dillon.

  As Max hauled her along the street, Abby lifted her dress to keep from tripping and having the ruffles dragged through the rain puddles.

  “Would you please slow down?” she whispered frantically.

  “Not on your life, sweetheart,” he growled. “The sooner we get to the telegraph office, the sooner I’m going to blister your backside for taking off, again!”

  There would be no reasoning with him until he calmed down. Well, she could be stubborn, too. Glancing around, she decided it was time for a diversion. She dug in her heels and pulled back on his grip.

  “I would like to stop in here and purchase a few things,” she said calmly, nodding to the mercantile they were passing.

  Max looked toward the store, down the street where Dillon was still walking, then back at her.

  “Now?”

  She smiled at him. “Yes, now. You need to follow Dillon and find out who he wires for the money. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

  “Abby—” He said her name in warning.

  “It’s broad daylight, Max, and you will have an eye on Dillon. No one’s going to harm me.” She patted his coat front.

  “We are not through discussing this.”

  Abby decided to let him win. “Yes, I know.”

  Shaking his head, he opened the door to the store. “You don’t have me fooled for a minute, Abigail O’Brien. But you’d better be in that room when I return, or you won’t like the consequences.”

  She shivered, not in fear, but rather in anticipation. It wasn’t what he said, but his low, husky voice that told her he intended something other than what his words conveyed. She contemplated disobeying him on purpose just to see what he would do.

  She watched him hurry after Dillon. She shouldn’t have forced him into leaving her at the store, but she would rather explain why she was at the saloon after he had calmed. She really didn’t need anything, but
spent a few minutes looking around anyway, then walked straight to the hotel.

  She dropped her reticule on the bed and went to the washstand to freshen up. She decided instead on a bath. She longed to clean the saloon smell from her skin and hair. When she left her room to make her request, she heard noise from Max’s room.

  She knocked once and then entered the room.

  “That didn’t take lo—” Her breath caught in the back of her throat, cutting off her words. Max stood with his back to her, stripped to the waist. Muscles rippled as his hands stroked a straightedge up his cheek, then swished it in the basin of water. She saw his reflection in the mirror, brow furrowed as he scraped at his whiskers.

  His hand jerked the razor against his chin. “Ouch!”

  Abby hurried over, taking the towel he had draped on one bare shoulder and dabbing the spot of blood on his chin. Emotion swelled in her chest, for at that moment Max appeared totally vulnerable, a state she’d never seen before.

  He took a step back, pulling the towel from her hands and using it as a shield against his chest.

  She gazed into his clear blue eyes. She thought of him in all his disguises, knowing she loved the teasing banter of O’Flagherty and the gentlemanly charm of Markham. But she was in love with the real man—Maxwell Grant. He was tough, possessive and always telling her what to do, but she loved him anyway. Since he apparently wouldn’t tell her how he felt, she would have to do it first.

  She took a step forward.

  He retreated a step. “Abby?” He said her name like he wasn’t sure who she was.

  She did feel like someone else—a bold new person ready to set sail on an exciting adventure.

  “Max, I have decided to tell you how I feel.”

  “Oh?” Now she sensed curiosity in his voice.

  “Max, will you make love to me?” She gasped, not intending to just blurt it out, and from the shocked look on Max’s face, she should have been more subtle.

  He turned away from her and grabbed his shirt from the bed. He shook it, dust flying everywhere, before shrugging into the blue cambric.

  Abby wondered briefly why he’d changed from his Reverend Fishbone disguise, but figured it was all for the best. It would be hard to be so bold if he still had on the preacher’s disguise.