“All right, Mr. McConnell, you’ve proven what a smart boy you are and we’re all impressed,” she said in a coiled voice. “But with all your fine investigating talent, you’ve discovered nothing that explains how Bitsy Sisser went from being a dead whore to the mortician’s wife ... to the client who paid you so handsomely to catch Jack Rafferty. Only I can reveal that information—”
“And I wish the hell you would,” Jack muttered. Having associated with some of Dodge City’s less illustrious citizens, he wasn’t all that surprised at Douglas Nunn’s treachery and greed. Nor did all this talk of caskets explain why he’d been on the run for more than a year, an outcast from society and his profession. “I want to hear you tell it, Bitsy. Want to hear why you went to such trouble—and put me through so much—just so we could have this little chat today.”
It wasn’t the awed, chuckling response she’d envisioned all these months, but she could see Jack’s point. McConnell had ruined it for all of them, and it was up to her to redeem the sordid story he’d started ... to defend herself to Jack, and to Booth.
“As you’ll recall, the last night we were together, we had a lover’s quarrel and I ended up with a knife in my chest,” Felicity began quietly. She was talking to Jack but watching Amber’s reaction . . . could tell the sloe-eyed woman had heard all this and still loved Rafferty as loyally as his dog did.
“Yeah,” Jack replied tersely, “and as I recall, it was your knife, and this was after we were both pretty well stewed. And you tried to suffocate me with your pillow.”
She chuckled ruefully. “You ran like the wind because you thought I was dead—and so did everyone else. Miss Mattie didn’t want the incident to spoil a rip-roaring Saturday evening, so she had the undertaker fetch me before the stench could set in . . . it was a hot August night, you remember. But when he and Festus got me into the back room of Douglas’s store, they discovered I was still alive. Just unconscious from the shock and loss of blood.
“Well, you can imagine the possibilities an enterprising man like Nunn saw in that,” Felicity went on with a shake of her head. “He offered to keep me in his apartment, in exchange for my favors and some housekeeping. He was fifty-five years old and shunned by everyone in town because he was, well—odd, even for an undertaker. The thought of keeping such a secret appealed to his baser nature. And his offer seemed a better choice for me than returning to Mattie’s, after the man who proposed had stabbed me there.
“So I agreed. He gave Bitsy an elaborate closed-casket send-off ... I watched the funeral procession from the apartment window, and was sickened by the hypocrites who made such crude jokes about two-ton Bitsy when she was alive, yet were weeping and wailing—drunk on Mattie’s free booze, no doubt—all the way to her grave.”
Rafferty sensed the elegant woman across from him was milking the emotions of everyone present, to justify her actions these past several months. Yet he knew she was right. Men—and even the other whores—had teased her mercilessly about her size. He’d always suspected her jovial attitude was a cover for the hurt she felt down deep . . . knew she liked him because he didn’t make jokes about getting lost between her bulges. He couldn’t feel sorry for her, though. “So Douglas kept you hidden away, and kept Festus quiet with a bribe—”
“You could call it that,” she mumbled.
“—and in the meantime, you melted down into a willowy young woman with natural blond hair. Helluva deal for Nunn,” Watson broke in.
Felicity nipped her lip to keep from lashing out at him. “It was no picnic, living as a prisoner upstairs from where Douglas prepared dead bodies,” she pointed out shrilly. “He was a joyless man, frugal to a fault, and it was a living hell to never feel the sunshine on my face, or talk to another soul for all those lonely months. Yet it was heaven, compared to my life at Mattie’s.
“You can’t possibly know the shame—the degradation—of being a fat whore unable to support herself any other way,” she said. Her voice was shaking but she went on, determined to vent the rage and frustration she’d lived with for so many years. “Your customers ask you to do unspeakable things with your body—and you’re being paid, so you can’t refuse. Men who cry out in ecstasy while they’re in your bed will either laugh in your face or act like they don’t see you at all if you meet them on the street. Even the girls thought I was a joke. Teased about how I ought to charge double for giving the customers so much to love, and speculated about how quickly I’d wear out a mattress because I weighed so much and sweat a lot. Didn’t I have wonderful friends?”
Watson glanced at Rafferty, who was looking justifiably impatient. “Let’s get back to why you were accusing Jack of murder, when you—”
“I did it because he turned out to be a shit, like all the rest of them,” Felicity spat. She looked away, composing herself with great effort. “I realized he was drunk that night, but he’d always been different— respectful of me. And when he ended up in another girl’s bed after he asked me to marry him, I went berserk. My one hope for a normal life with a decent man was shattered, and I was tired of taking that crap!”
Her voice echoed in the corner of the depot, but she was too agitated to stop now. “So when Douglas took me in and hid me away, I had a lot of time to think about striking back—at Jack, and at men in general. I started with Nunn. Kept him so hot and muddle-headed as I lost all that weight, that I convinced him the ultimate revenge on the people of Dodge would be for him to marry a beautiful younger woman they’d never seen before.
“He swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. Whisked me away to Garden City one night and bought me stylish clothes and perfumes—everything a lady of society should have—and then married me. Came back to Dodge on the train with Felicity Nunn on his arm and a story about her being from an elite family in Denver.
“Well, it stunned everyone . . . and it guaranteed my future,” she added with a sly chuckle, “because Douglas squirreled away every spare dime and he was wealthier than anyone guessed—partly because of that bronze casket he designed. We were quite an item, and with all the sudden social attention, plus a little help from my natural talents, it didn’t take long for old Douglas to wear out. One night I just kept coming at him until he didn’t have strength enough to crawl back to his coffin to sleep. He died with quite a smile on his face, gentlemen. Eat your hearts out.”
The way Jack and Booth—and even Scott—were gaping at her was gratifying, but it didn’t compare to the victorious thrill she’d hoped to be feeling at this moment. She saw pity in Amber’s eyes, an emotion she couldn’t accept from another woman, so she concentrated on saving face.
Months she’d spent dreaming of having Jack back once she became slender and socially acceptable, and thoughts of chasing him down had given purpose to her empty days. These past weeks with Booth had given her a different vision, however. And since Rafferty had taken to another woman, the handsome, decisive detective seemed a worthy target . . . certainly a man she could tolerate and respect, even if she could never give him her heart.
In fact, she wondered if she had one. Had it melted away with all that fat? Or had there always been a hole where Rafferty stabbed her? Perhaps the absence of a heart—except for the tattoo she’d gotten to cover the scar—would be her salvation, in the end.
As she looked into Booth Watson’s clouded blue eyes, she saw that her beauty and wealth had changed nothing: she was still a whore, a woman clinging to hopeless dreams who’d sold herself out to her own elaborate schemings this time. He wouldn’t want her now. He knew he’d spent the past weeks playing a pawn in a fantasy that was trumped up from the start. “Well,” she said, and as she stood up Watson made no move to stop her. She glanced at the investigator and his partner, and then focused on Jack as steadily as her teary eyes would allow. “I guess this brings the grand adventure to an end. I’ve had my fun with those Wanted posters, and seen some of the country, and made you suffer some of the hell you put me through . . . and maybe showed you the woman you threw
away that hot night in Dodge, Mr. Rafferty. Guess I got my money’s worth, and it’s time to go home.”
Chapter 32
Jack rose, but he was too befuddled to speak. He stared at Felicity, thinking he liked the overweight whore a whole lot more than this sleek, unfeeling siren he saw before him. He was about to retort—about to say how he’d gotten the best revenge by finding a woman who truly loved him—when Watson stood up, clearing his throat.
“So my hunches about you were right,” he said stiffly. “What a tale you told about your sister Bitsy—about chasing after Jack, your ex-husband, because you still loved him and wanted to save him from the noose.”
“Love,” Felicity jeered, though it hurt to see the man of her dreams so damned disappointed in her. “It makes for a pretty story, doesn’t it? And that little lie convinced the best-looking detective in the West to take my money and become my traveling companion, didn’t it? A woman does what she has to in this world where men hold all the high cards.”
She turned to go, thinking there was nothing more to say, but Booth’s hand closed around her arm. “Just one minute, Mrs. Nunn,” he said tersely. “Seems to me this little game of yours might have its consequences. Because of you, Jack Rafferty left a respectable profession and had to live as a hunted man this past year. True, he could’ve turned himself in—and been hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. But knowing what he gave up to save himself, and watching him almost die for it a couple weeks ago, I’m not about to let you go free, Felicity. You’re a menace to society.”
She felt the color drain from her face. “But—but I was only—everything turned out fine, and you got your money, and—”
“And I think Rafferty has the final say here.” Watson looked over at the lean, raven-haired man across from him, as serious as he’d ever been in his life. “I’m not the law, you understand. But you’re certainly aware of how this woman’s deprived you of your livelihood and defamed your character, among other things. If you want to press charges, I’ll be happy to help, Jack.”
It was an offer he’d never expected to hear, coming from this man. And as he thought about all the cold, hungry nights hiding out with only Maudie to talk to—or putting Amber at risk, as well—all the days he’d spent looking over his shoulder . . . the months he couldn’t go home to his mother because he’d killed a woman ....
Felicity’s throat clicked when she swallowed. The sound echoed in the silence that hung between her and Rafferty, a man who’d once been her friend yet now seemed miles . . . and a lifetime away. She couldn’t believe he’d retaliate for her innocent little—
“Thanks, Watson. But I’d be happier if I never saw this bitch again.”
Felicity hung her head. Why did his simple statement cut as deeply as that knife had? She should’ve expected this, she supposed—and by God, hadn’t she long ago convinced herself that there were bigger fish to fry than Jack Rafferty?
Yet when she looked at Booth, she knew it’d take a long time to forget the cool, detached disgust she saw in his beautiful blue eyes.
He released her. She walked away, feeling oddly hollow as her footfalls rang slowly across the depot floor. It was over. And as she blinked back the mist of first one foolish fantasy and then another, Felicity didn’t have the faintest notion what she’d do now.
Gideon Minnit was watching her warily from his seat on the bench—had probably heard most of her story. His eyes reflected a reddish cast from his hat, and she recognized the tortured, defeated look on his withered face.
“I’ve got a powerful thirst,” she said flatly. “Come on, Gideon. I’ll buy us a bottle.”
Watson watched the pair head toward the main entrance of the depot, and then walked over to stand by Rafferty, Amber, and Scott. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered. “Never heard anything like it.”
Amber reached for Jack’s hand, smiling kindly at the detective. “At least you held her accountable. Not your fault she told you a lie that sent you chasing after Jack. You were doing the job you were hired for.”
Booth managed a smile for her. Amber, too, had been on the run—with diamonds that turned out to be as worthless as the man she won them from—yet she remained pleasant, grateful to him.
“You’re a lucky man, Rafferty,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he studied the two of them. “I imagine you and your lady have better things to do than jawing with me, so Scott and I’ll be on our way. Strange as this sounds, it was a pleasure getting to know you two. I wish you every happiness.”
Amber blinked when the tall, burly detective reached out to shake her hand, and then she broke into a grin. His eyes were sparkling with a private joke, and as he released her fingers with a parting squeeze, she clutched the object he’d pressed against her palm: Mama’s gold locket!
“Guess I never thanked you for fishing me out of that lake and playing nurse,” Rafferty was saying as he, too, shook Watson’s broad hand.
“It gave me an excuse to stay out of the elements for a while,” Booth teased. “And wondering whether you’d live or die kept Gastineau toeing the line, too.”
The three of them laughed, releasing the tension of the previous moments. Then there was an awkward silence, the kind Watson recognized as a sign it was time to go, even though they could’ve bantered a bit—probably become friends, eventually—if one of them made the next move.
Instead, he glanced at his partner, who was struggling to his feet with the help of his crutch. “What say we find a hotel and a hot meal, Scott? You did a fine job holding up your end of this case—no matter how it turned out—and we both deserve a drink and a night off before we head home.”
“Amen to that! I’ve got a wagon out front,” McConnell replied, and as he propped his crutch under his arm he grinned at Amber and Jack. “You two try to stay out of trouble, all right?”
They walked toward the door as slowly as two men who’d taken a beating, Watson wanting to lend his limping partner a hand, yet knowing the kid had his pride. “How much’re you going to tell me about that leg?” he asked with a hint of a chuckle.
Scott let out a short laugh. “It was one of those freak accidents a man hates to admit to. You probably don’t want to hear about it.”
“Try me. I could use a little humor about now.” Booth swung the door open to let McConnell struggle outside ahead of him.
“Well, when I returned to Miss Mattie’s to thank the ladies for their cooperation, one of them—Karie, her name was—coaxed me up the stairway, wagging her finger like she had a big secret to tell me,” he began a little sheepishly. “Asked me if I had a third leg that needed seeing to, and I said I didn’t think so. Then she kissed me, of all things, and asked me about that third leg again. I told her if she could find one, she could see to it.”
Watson wasn’t sure he was supposed to laugh, but he wanted to. Scott was shuffling along, relating his tale with the earnest candor of a schoolboy confessing to the teacher, his face slightly flushed from the effort it took to walk ... or was it from something else?
“Damned if she didn’t reach for my fly!” he went on in a flustered voice. “I was so startled I fell backwards down the stairs. Landed wrong on my ankle, and it’s a wonder I didn’t break it!”
He was stopping beside a rented wagon, glancing around to be sure no one else would hear him. “Booth, what the hell’s a third leg?”
Watson choked. Behind his eyeglasses, Scott McConnell had a pleasant, youthful glow about him but the shadow along his jaw and well-formed chin proclaimed him a man. Rather handsome, in a bookish way many women found attractive. “How old are you, son?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
Booth laughed to himself as he assisted his partner into the wagon. “You and I need to have a serious talk, Mr. McConnell. Good thing it’s a long train ride back to Colorado.”
While Rafferty was staring after the two investigators, Amber slipped the locket’s delicate chain around her neck and let the
pendant drop down beneath her cloak. The golden heart felt cold against the bare skin above her blouse, but its weight restored a certain rightness to things, brought her adventures full circle with the promises she and Booth had kept. Life would return to normal now. The weeks of running and hiding were behind them, and she let out a sigh of enormous relief as she stroked Maudie’s silky head.
Jack looked at her for a long moment, as though he’d just awakened from a troubling dream. “Who would’ve thought Bitsy’d go to such lengths?” he whispered hoarsely. “I was just another man who talked loose because he was drunk . . . thought whores knew better than to care about the customers in their beds.”
Amber let out a humorless chuckle. “She didn’t care a thing about you, Jack. She was using you as a ticket out of Mattie’s, and then as a way to stay sane while she lived with that horrible Douglas Nunn, that’s all.”
“You can’t feel sorry for her!”
“Of course I don’t. The stunt she pulled on you was unforgivable,” Amber replied in a pensive tone. “But I understand her, Jack. That could’ve been me at a place like Mattie’s. Horrid little half-pint that Gideon was, he was basically harmless. I never liked him, but he could’ve made life with the Wild West Extravaganza a lot worse.”
She took his hand between hers, hoping to erase the rage and shock that still festered on his handsome face. “As dangerous and unpleasant as this past year’s been for you—as obnoxious as Bitsy turned out to be—at least she came clean. You met me while you were on the run, too. And you can’t be hanged for murder when the victim’s still alive, so you’re a free man, Jack!”
Rafferty blinked. So many surprises had come to light during the past hour that he’d lost sight of their meaning. The smiling, wavy-haired woman beside him was right! The noose, and the gallows, and the cold, dark prison bars he’d seen in his dreams had now vanished like the vapor from a train.
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