Circle Star

by Tatiana March

  “Thank you, but no.” Susanna fanned a hand in front of her face. “The heat…I’d prefer a glass of water.”

  “Fresh lemonade?” Hartman raised his pale eyebrows.

  The perfect host, Susanna thought, her heart racing. The enemy was confusing her by being not at all what she had expected. Instead of a barrel-chested savage with a bulldog head and uncouth manners, she was facing a handsome man, smooth of manner and fine of cloth, even if slightly too flamboyant for her taste.

  “Yes, please. Lemonade for both of us.” Her voice quivered, betraying her unease.

  Hartman moved away to bark an order through the open doorway. “What gives me the pleasure?” he inquired as he turned back, his bold gray eyes sweeping over Susanna.

  “Just a neighborly visit,” Pete growled and stepped protectively between them.

  Ignoring him, Hartman gestured around the room. “Please, sit down.”

  Before Susanna knew, they were seated. Hartman’s gangly frame lounged next to her on the padded sofa, while Pete perched awkwardly on a spindly chair with legs as bowed as his. It escaped her how it had happened, but without appearing to be doing so their host had manipulated them, getting everyone to sit exactly where he wanted.

  “I’ve heard you’re eager to buy Circle Star,” Susanna said as her opening gambit.

  Hartman nodded. “I’ve considered it. I understand there is to be a public auction.”

  “That is not certain at the moment.” Susanna kept her voice even. “There were alternative provisions in my father’s will.”

  “So I understand.” A wry smile twisted Hartman’s bloodless lips.

  “I can’t see how you would,” she said tartly. “A will is a confidential document not intended for public disclosure.”

  Hartman coughed into his fist. “You know how it is. People talk.” He shook his head, feigning embarrassment. His smile widened, but his eyes remained cold.

  “Indeed.” Susanna stiffened her spine. Icy shivers crept over her skin. How could she have at first glance thought him handsome? There was something sinister in the pale skin drawn taut over the sharply angled features. How could anyone live in the Arizona Territory and not catch the sun?

  “I’m sure you’d rather return to Philadelphia,” Hartman said. “Ranching is no life for a lady.”

  Susanna managed a polite incline of her head. “To the contrary,” she replied. “I very much would like to stay. I never realized how much I missed my life in the West.”

  She was spared from another inanity by a maid who entered without a sound and lowered a tray of glasses on the table in front of the sofa. Susanna could hardly believe her eyes. The girl—dark and plump, no more than sixteen—wore a formal uniform with a tiny white apron and a starched cap. Stifling an outburst of hysterical laughter, Susanna reached out to accept the cool drink Hartman had picked up and was offering to her.

  The stilted conversation went on for another thirty minutes. Pete Jackson hardly said a word. Hartman’s layer of polish turned out to be very thin. Susanna tried to introduce topics about the culture and history of the territory, but their host lacked both knowledge and interest, preferring instead to boast about his business empire.

  It seemed a long time before the customary hour was up and they could end the visit without appearing ill mannered. On their way out, Susanna searched the courtyard for any sign of Rafael De Santis, but she could see no trace of him.

  “What did you think of our neighbor?” she asked Pete as they made their way home, riding side by side, keeping the horses to an easy walk in deference to the afternoon heat.

  “The devil himself,” Pete spat out. “He’d put a bullet in me and smile.”

  Susanna slanted him a quick glance. “Yes.” A shudder rippled along her skin, like a warning. “I think he’s the most ruthless man I’ve ever met.”

  When they got home, she rushed into the house to change, leaving Pete to deal with the horses. Back in her cotton shirt and denim pants, she went to the stables and exhausted herself by mucking out the stalls—a chore she had taken on due to the shortage of men on the ranch, silencing Pete’s protests that shoveling manure was not a fitting task for a lady.

  But being physically tired didn’t reward her with restful sleep. Susanna tossed and turned all night. What little she slept, she dreamt of death, in the shape of a tall man, with pale skin drawn taut over his skull. When the dawn broke, she clenched her hands into fists against the bedcovers and sent a determined scowl into the empty air.

  Circle Star was her home, her birthright, and she wasn’t going to be robbed of it now that she had finally returned. She needed a place to make a life for herself, and she needed the income to provide for her mother.

  She had to find Connor McGregor.

  Marrying him was her only choice.

  ****

  Burt Hartman leaned back on the sofa in the parlor and swirled the fine Napoleon brandy in the balloon glass. “I slipped up,” he confessed to the lawyer. “I told the Talbot woman that I knew about the provisions in her father’s will.”

  “Don’t matter none.” George Catterill dragged on his cigar and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. “You could have heard it anywhere. My clerk. Town gossip.”

  Hartman glanced up before returning his attention to the drink in his hand. “She’s a fine looking woman.”

  “Her mother was a Haverhill from Philadelphia. Top drawer East Coast society.”

  “You don’t say?” Hartman took a careful swallow and savored the smooth taste of expensive brandy on his tongue. His pulse quickened as he considered the possibilities.

  He had money, and he had power. The one thing he craved was respectability. Susanna Talbot could give him that—not only was she Arizona ranching royalty, she was a society blue-blood brought up in the East.

  With Susanna Talbot as his wife, he’d be accepted anywhere.

  No longer would he be a swindler who’d clawed his way up from the Chicago slums. Abandoned by his mother at birth, he’d survived a childhood of starvation and violence and had grown up with the constant struggle for survival. As far as he was concerned, the world owed him, and he was going to make sure to collect.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly.

  “Go on,” the lawyer replied, rising to attention in the antique chair. “When you’ve been thinking, it usually means we both get rich.”

  Hartman took another sip of brandy. “Why pay anything for Circle Star, when I can have it for nothing?”

  The lawyer made an impatient gesture in the air with his cigar. “What are you talking about?” he said in protest. “There’s no way. Not even if you killed her.”

  “I’m not talking about killing her,” Hartman snapped, surprising himself with his vehemence. “I’m talking about marrying her.”

  Catterill clamped the cigar between his teeth. Hartman observed closely, fascinated to watch the expressions shift and slither across the older man’s face as the legal mind twisted and turned, searching for loopholes.

  “No,” the lawyer said after a long pause. “There’s no way in hell. I can’t stretch the will that far. Christian Talbot specifically named Connor McGregor.” He plucked the cigar from his mouth and reached out to tap the ashes on the floor, missing his host’s frown of irritation as the dirt landed on the rug. “Now, if the will had just stipulated she needs to marry, that would be a different story.”

  “Damn it,” Hartman said gruffly. “I could do with a high class wife.”

  The lawyer squinted, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Of course, there is a way.”

  “Spit it out. You’re bought and paid for, so there’s no need to be coy.”

  “You let Susanna Talbot marry McGregor first. You turn her into a widow, and then you marry her.”

  Hartman stared at the lawyer, who was puffing on his cigar, feigning a lack of concern. The corners of Hartman’s lips curled into an icy smile. He didn’t have to feign anything at all. For him, cruelty and
the lack of concern for others came natural.

  “She’ll no longer be a virgin,” he pointed out, his voice tightly controlled to hide the lust surging through him.

  “Does it matter?” The lawyer exhaled another cloud of smoke. “Hell, women are like horses. Better let some other poor bastard break them in first.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Hartman drained his glass and stood. When the lawyer didn’t take his cue and get ready to leave, Hartman dismissed him with a reference to some paperwork that awaited his attention.

  “Don’t forget,” Hartman said as they shook hands. “Make sure they find McGregor. I want the ranch as well as the woman. She needs to marry McGregor before she can be his widow.”

  “It would be a lot simpler to just buy the ranch at the auction,” the lawyer said. “That would give Susanna Talbot an incentive to marry you, and you’d get your money back when she becomes your wife.”

  Hartman grinned, baring his teeth. “I prefer the idea of making her into a widow and getting the ranch for nothing. See to it. The usual percentage applies.”

  “All right, all right,” the lawyer said, and bustled into the evening twilight.

  Hartman stood at the door, watching his guest depart in a buggy. He didn’t trust the lawyer worth a damn. This was the Arizona Territory, for God’s sake. What kind of a man rode a buggy instead of a horse?

  Back to Contents

  Chapter Four

  It was neither the ranch hands nor the newspaper advertisements that flushed out Connor McGregor—the sheriff in El Paso found him in his jail.

  One Saturday night in early September, he hauled a drunken cowpoke out of the Silver Nugget. The bastard had shot through the ace of hearts in a tossed-up deck of cards on a wager, not realizing that he would also bring down the big mirror behind the bar.

  The following morning, when the stranger was sober enough to give his name, the sheriff made the connection. He set out to comb the town for the two riders who had posted the inquiry, hoping they might be good for at least part of the damages. Luck wasn’t on his side, though, for the men seeking Connor McGregor had moved on the night before.

  Back in his office, the sheriff located the piece of paper among the clutter on his desk. He studied the address printed in neat hand. His gut told him it had been written by a woman. He glanced at the man asleep on a cot behind the iron bars. Handsome bastard he was, with lean hips and broad shoulders and a face that a female would notice—and might be pay good money to look at again.

  What the heck.

  It was worth a try.

  The sheriff lumbered out to the telegraph office and sent a message to Circle Star.

  ****

  Susanna stood in the hall, the toe of her boot tapping impatiently against the tile floor as she tore open the telegram. She skimmed the single line of text and nearly swooned. Without a word, she handed the message to Pete Jackson, who had accepted the envelope from the Western Union rider and had brought it up to the house.

  He inspected the telegram carefully before handing it back to her. “Cutter and Winslow passed that way a few days ago,” he reminded her. “They’ll telegraph when they get to Santa Fe. They can turn around and pick up the boy.”

  “No,” Susanna said and clutched the telegram in her hand. A flurry of conflicting emotions choked her chest, barely allowing her to speak. “I don’t want anyone approaching him. You and I must go to El Paso.”

  “It’s a long ride. Close to two hundred miles.”

  Susanna looked at Pete, trying to hide her inner turmoil. “Can we do it in two days if we take spare horses?”

  Pete frowned with concern. “You ain’t used to that kind of riding.”

  “The sooner I get used to it the better. We’ll leave tomorrow at first light.”

  “You think the boy might not come back with Cutter and Winslow?”

  Susanna swatted at a buzzing insect. Pete’s searching gaze was straining her already fragile nerves. “I don’t know.” She lowered her lashes, then lifted them again and faced the foreman. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I don’t think he would.”

  Pete headed for the door. “Put some padding in them tight pants of yours,” he called over his shoulder. Then he disappeared in the direction of the stables and left her standing in the hall, remembered images of Connor McGregor flashing through her mind.

  ****

  Pete led the two spare horses and Susanna rode alongside him. They changed horses every two hours, keeping up the pace. It was a pity she didn’t have a spare pair of buttocks as well, Susanna thought with a wry grimace. Perhaps she should have saddled one of the horses with a side saddle. That way, she could have alternated her riding position and distributed the wear and tear on her skin over a wider area.

  The monotony of the endless hours of the journey left her mind free to think about Connor. Thirteen years was a long time. He’d been a boy, and now he would be a man. What would he look like? Did he hate her? Had he forgiven her—perhaps even forgotten her? And would he agree to marry her when she offered him a share in Circle Star in exchange for wedding vows?

  By the time they arrived in El Paso late in the afternoon of the second day, Susanna felt almost too exhausted to care. Every bone in her body ached. The skin on her buttocks was rubbed raw. The constant bouncing on horseback had killed her appetite. Dust clogged her lungs and grated in her teeth and coated every inch of her skin.

  A bath. Food. A bed.

  But Connor first. The rest could wait.

  Pete led the way through the town. He located the sheriff’s office down a dusty street, between a saloon and the undertaker. They dismounted and tied their horses outside. Susanna rushed ahead, her boots clattering against the wooden sidewalk, their eager cadence matching the rapid beat of her heart as she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The low evening sun slanted in through the dirty windows, gilding the room’s bare plaster walls and worn plank floor. Two men sat facing each other across a rough pine desk, engrossed in a game of cards, barely reacting to the sounds of someone entering.

  Her throat closed up. The one with his back to her was young and lean. His hair hung to his shoulders. The color was darker than she remembered, but time had a way of changing things. Just to make sure, Susanna swept a glance over the single cell in the back. It was empty, except for an upturned bucket and a cot covered with a patterned blanket.

  She took a halting step forward. “Connor?”

  The older man stood. He was a big and burly, with thick brown hair that added to the impression of a bear. The tin star on his chest glinted in the sun.

  “McGregor’s next door.”

  Susanna stared at him, unable to speak as the placard outside flashed through her mind. It had advertised cheap coffins. The room spun around her. Her vision faded. She was only vaguely aware of Pete rushing forward to steady her.

  “Not the morgue,” the sheriff grunted, sounding exasperated. “The saloon. McGregor wanted a drink, and I don’t run to luxuries in my jail.”

  “I thought he was a prisoner,” Pete said. His hand remained on her elbow, and Susanna gratefully leaned against his wiry strength.

  “He is.” The sheriff twisted his bulk and pointed to the corner behind the desk. “He won’t go nowhere without those.”

  Susanna’s gaze followed his finger and her heart nearly stopped. A saddle lay on the floor, with a coiled gun belt propped on top of it. It was still the same, a pair of Colt Peacemakers with plain wooden handles. At the back of the saddle, she saw the embossed insignia of Circle Star. Her eyes misted. She remembered how proud Connor had been when her father had given him the saddle as a gift. It had been right after Connor asked to buy the big chestnut gelding he liked to ride.

  Connemara. That’s what he’d called the horse, after a place in Ireland where his father came from. To Susanna, the romantic sounding name had summed up the sensitive nature of the boy. The way Connor was inside had always been at odds with the har
shness of his life as an orphaned drifter.

  “He’s in the saloon next door?” Her voice caught in her throat.

  The sheriff glanced at the casement clock ticking on the wall. “Unless they’ve tossed him out on the street by now. He went in three hours ago.” He turned his attention back to the cards. “Tell him to come back so I can lock him up for the night.”

  Susanna forced her legs to move and returned outside with Pete. Although a solid boardwalk thudded beneath her boots, each step felt an effort, as though wading through a swamp. At the swinging doors to the saloon, she paused to draw a calming breath. No music came from inside, just the steady stream of rough voices and the mingled odors of whiskey and tobacco and unwashed men.

  Pete pushed past her and went in first. Before he allowed her to enter, he made a careful survey of the room. When he finally waved her inside, Susanna stepped through the swinging doors, out of the sunlight, into the shadowed interior of the saloon.

  She spotted Connor at once. He stood leaning against the bar, clad in a tan leather coat and tall boots that belonged in a colder climate. A hat lay on the counter by his elbow. The barkeep strolled up and filled the empty shot glass in front of him. Connor picked it up, tilted his head back and drowned the contents in one strong swallow. He slammed the empty glass back down on the counter and returned to his relaxed pose.

  Susanna felt Pete stir beside her, preparing to move.

  “No,” she murmured. “Wait here. I want to go first.”

  Pete grunted in protest but let her have her way.

  Her boots crunched on the sawdust that covered the floor despite the effort she made to keep her steps silent. The man at the counter didn’t turn, although he ought to have heard her approach. Could it be that he was too drunk to notice? Then Susanna saw his right hand creep along his hip, feeling for a gun that wasn’t there, and she knew that he was alert and listening.