ANGEL - JOHANNA LINDSEY

by asdf

  It was worth a little teasing. “You know, that wouldn’t have happened if Angel were here.”

  “You’re boasting because that man scares people just by looking at them?” Catherine said incredulously.

  “I guess I am. That trait of his would come in handy on occasion. Imagine how easily you’d get rid of the Misses Potter if Angel walked into the room.”

  Catherine snorted. “Don’t kid yourself. He’d be scared off by those two chatterboxes.”

  “Then there’s Willy Gate who harangues you every Sunday with his Civil War stories, and you’re too softhearted to ignore him.”

  “He was a hero—and you wouldn’t happen to be hinting that Angel would be nice to have around, would you?”

  Catherine’s look was so stern, Cassie chose not to answer. “We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry,” she said as she moved ahead on the crowded sidewalk, leaving no chance for further teasing—or hinting.

  A few minutes later they arrived at the dress shop, just in time to be delayed entering by another arrival, that of a well-dressed young gentleman and his overdressed lady friend. The man was so handsome, Cassie couldn’t help staring at him. Catherine didn’t notice that, but she couldn’t help noticing that, after a brief glance at them, the man so dismissed them from his mind that he didn’t even hold the door open for them, but followed his companion into the shop.

  “Some people have no manners.”

  Catherine had said it before the door closed behind the man. He heard and turned to give her a disdainful look that had her cheeks glowing. Cassie decided she’d better not mention that that wouldn’t have happened, either, if Angel were there.

  But their conversation on that subject was too recent, and Catherine glowered at her, warning, “Don’t say it.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “I’ve a good mind to complain to Madame Cecilia,” Catherine continued, “and take our business elsewhere.”

  “It’s not her fault,” Cassie protested.

  “Isn’t it? When she schedules our fitting at the same time as that loose woman’s?”

  “What makes you think she isn’t a lady?”

  “I know a man’s mistress when I see one,” Catherine replied huffily.

  Cassie rolled her eyes. “Mama, you’re getting all upset over nothing.”

  “Am I?” Catherine countered. “When you’re still thinking about that gunfighter?”

  So that’s what this was all about? Cassie should have figured her mama wouldn’t get that heated up over a little rudeness when they’d encountered much worse before in big cities.

  She gave in to avoid an argument. “So I won’t mention him again.”

  “Good. And now I think I’ll show that ill-mannered fellow some rudeness of my own— Wyoming style.” And as she walked into the dressmaker’s shop, Cassie heard her add, “I wish to hell my Colt wasn’t packed away.”

  Cassie wished Angel didn’t have to be packed away, too.

  Chapter 30

  That evening, Cassie didn’t wait for her mother, who stopped by to compliment the dining room staff on another excellent dinner. She wandered out to the lobby of the hotel, far enough until Catherine could no longer see her, then hurried over to the front desk to find out if any messages had been left for her.

  She’d managed to get away from her mother a couple of times each day to check at the desk, even if she had to wait until Catherine retired for the night. Since they had separate, though connecting, rooms, that was easy enough to do, but she didn’t like going down to the lobby that late by herself.

  Tonight she wouldn’t have to, or so she had hoped. But when she was only about five feet away from the desk, she was stopped.

  “Don’t I know you, miss?”

  Cassie couldn’t help staring—again. It was the young man from the dress shop, who Catherine had been disappointed to find wasn’t there when they’d entered it. He’d been whisked away to a back room with his lady friend, so she couldn’t repay his rudeness that afternoon. Cassie was being rude herself by staring, but he was mesmerizing in his handsomeness, with russet-tinged blond hair, dark emerald-green eyes, a smooth-shaven face without an imperfection on it, and such style in an impeccable charcoal three-piece suit.

  “Miss?” he repeated.

  “No,” Cassie replied abruptly.

  She managed to control her embarrassment at being asked twice, consoling herself that he was probably accustomed to having women of all ages stare bemusedly at him. She wondered where his lady friend was tonight, and if she really was his kept woman.

  “Are you sure we haven’t met?”

  “Positive,” Cassie assured him. “We merely frequent the same dress shop.”

  He smiled then. “Ah, yes, the young lady with the harridan for a companion.”

  She arched a brow. He was certainly consistent in his insulting manner. “That harridan was my mama. Is it arrogance that makes you so rude, mister, or maybe you just don’t know any better?”

  “It’s an art form, actually, that the ladies of my acquaintance find quite challenging.”

  Cassie had a feeling he really believed that. She almost laughed, but restrained herself. Instead she warned him, “You’ll be in for a challenge of the real sort if you stick around, mister, because my mama will probably unpack her gun if she finds you talking to me.”

  She thought that that would send him on his way, but he merely gave her a sure-she-will look and humored her by asking, “Your mama carries a gun?”

  “Only when she comes to the city.”

  “But St. Louis isn’t dangerous.”

  “That’s why she packs her Colt away. She usually wears it, you see.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re from out West?”

  Cassie wondered at the man’s sudden surprise. “What if we are?”

  “But I find that fascinating,” he replied, and she didn’t doubt for a second that he was sincere in his new interest. “Have you ever seen real Indians? Or witnessed one of those street duels we hear about?”

  She wasn’t going to answer that. She’d met people like him before who were avid to hear about the “wild” West, but would never try to experience it themselves. Even with the boom towns that continuously sprang up with the advance of new rail lines, the gold and silver towns that came and went with each new strike, the cow towns, all only days away now by train, folks like him wouldn’t leave their safe, civilized cities to see any of them, though they thrived on hearing about the primitive frontier and all its bloody aspects.

  She decided to be ornery and answer after all. “We spot small bands of renegade Indians every so often, but they only bother the isolated settler and the occasional stagecoach. They aren’t nearly as troublesome as they used to be. But I was in a Shootout myself just last month. It was over too quick to be all that exciting, and mine wasn’t the killing bullet. That honor went to a fast gun named Angel. Actually, they call him the Angel of Death. Ever heard of him?”

  “I can’t say that I have,” he answered. “Why ‘the Angel of Death’?”

  “Because he never misses what he aims at and he always shoots to kill.” And she’d wasted enough time being ornery. “Now you’ll have to excuse me, mister—”

  “Bartholomew Lawrence, but my friends call me Bart. And you are?”

  “Cassandra—Angel.”

  She’d paused too long over the “Angel.” His look said he doubted she’d told him the truth. She didn’t care what he believed. He was keeping her from her goal, and she’d run out of time. Catherine had suddenly appeared at the entrance to the dining room and was glancing around the lobby for her.

  “But that’d be Mrs. Angel to you,” Cassie added, curtly now, since she was annoyed with herself for talking to the man in the first place.

  She moved off without another word to him. She had about ten seconds, before her mama joined her, to ask at the desk for any messages. She did that, and was amazed to have a note handed to her. Cassie had just ma
naged to palm it when Catherine came up behind her. She’d walked right past Bartholomew Lawrence without recognizing him.

  “Cassie, what are you doing?”

  Cassie turned to find that Lawrence was still standing where she’d left him, within hearing distance. But if she did anything well, it was coming up with ridiculous excuses on the spur of the moment.

  “I was just checking to see if Angel had joined us yet, Mama.” And then she added meaningfully, “Right now is one of those times he’d come in handy.”

  Catherine followed her gaze to Lawrence and understood instantly. The man actually laughed, having heard Cassie, though he did leave then.

  But Catherine was now visibly bristling. “Was he bothering you?”

  “Not really. He recognized me and struck up a conversation to introduce himself.”

  “And to apologize?”

  “I hinted that one was owed, but he calls his rudeness an art form, obviously one he strives to perfect. At any rate, I found him obnoxious enough that I tried to put the ‘fear of Angel’ into him. He didn’t believe me.”

  “It takes seeing that gunfighter of yours to believe he’s a cold-blooded killer.”

  “He’s not—”

  “Never mind,” Catherine cut in and ushered them toward the stairs. “But I’m definitely unpacking my gun.”

  Chapter 31

  The detective’s name was Phineas Kirby. He had taken a room in the same hotel, even on the same floor. But Cassie didn’t rush off to his room as soon as she read his note. As much as she deplored the necessity of having to disturb his sleep, she hated even more the thought of having to explain to her mama that she’d hired a detective and why.

  So she waited until Catherine went to bed. And she wasn’t taking any chances. She even prepared for bed herself and lay there for several hours in case her mama couldn’t sleep tonight and wanted to come in and talk some—she’d done that before.

  It was shortly after midnight when Cassie dressed again and cautiously left her room. She found Mr. Kirby’s room at the far end of the hall. She knocked so quietly, it was quite a while before she finally heard grumbling on the other side of the door. A few moments later it was yanked open, and she was about to be snarled at by a very annoyed-looking man in a bulky yellow robe with socks peeking out below its long hem. He was middle-aged and on the portly side, with nondescript features and sharp blue eyes.

  He must have changed his mind about snapping at her when he got a good look at her. “Sorry, miss. I thought you were one of the hotel staff. Are you lost?”

  “No, sir, I’m Cassie Stuart. I sent for you.”

  He was back to frowning. “Do you know what time it is, Miss Stuart?”

  She winced. “Yes, I know, but I couldn’t wait until morning. I’m here with my mama, and I’d rather she didn’t know that I’m hiring you. She doesn’t like my husband, you see, and this has to do with him.”

  Phineas sighed. “Then I guess you better come in and have a seat.”

  There were two chairs before the fireplace. He moved to drop another log in the grate before he sat in the chair that his clothes had been draped over. He pulled a jacket down from the backrest and searched through it until he found a notebook in an inside pocket.

  “So what can I do for you, Miss Stuart?” He started scribbling in the notebook as he asked.

  Cassie sat down in the chair across from his. “I’d like to locate my husband’s parents.”

  “They’re missing?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “And he’s not really my husband—well, he is, but we’re soon to be divorced.” At his raised brow, she assured him, “This has nothing to do with that. I’d just like to reunite him with his family as sort of a parting gift to him.”

  “Very commendable,” he remarked. “So what are the names of these people?”

  “That’s going to be the difficult part. He was too young to remember their names. You see, he was taken from them, stolen by a mountain man right out of this city about twenty-odd years ago, and spent the next nine years in some isolated cabin up in the Rocky Mountains. He’s not sure if he was five or six years old at the time he was taken. And his folks didn’t live here. He recalls coming here on a train, so they were either passing through or visiting someone here.”

  “He was with both parents?”

  “Probably not. He doesn’t remember his papa being around much.”

  “Well, we at least have the boy’s name.” Phineas said it as if it were a foregone conclusion.

  Cassie gave him a small, helpless smile. “Not really. He goes by the name Angel because that’s all he remembers his mama calling him.”

  The detective seemed surprised. “That’s strange,” he said, more to himself. After a moment’s reflection he asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather find him?”

  “No, I know where I can find him. I’d just like to find his parents, both of them if they’re still living. I figured someone here must remember a tragedy like that happening, a small boy turning up missing and never found. I wouldn’t know myself how to go about locating anyone who might know something about it. Neither did Angel, I guess, since he came back here after that mountain man who stole him died, but he didn’t have any luck finding out anything.” She sighed. “I know this isn’t much to go on—”

  “On the contrary. I should have the names for you in a day or two. It may take a bit longer to get an address where these people are living now, but my agency has excellent resources in most every state, and the telegraph simplifies my job tremendously. An amazing invention, that. It’s helped to capture a great many criminals.” And then he was musing and mumbling to himself again. “Angel, huh? I wonder how many go by that name this side of the Mississippi.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing, ma’am.” Phineas stood up to escort her to the door. “I hope you don’t mind if I start working on this in the morning.”

  She blushed. “Certainly. I am sorry about the hour, but it’s not easy to get away from my mama during the day, and I’d never hear the end of it if she found out what I was doing. She really doesn’t like my husband.”

  “Then she’s urging the divorce?”

  “Yes, but it was already a mutual decision, since we got married by accident in the first place.”

  “That’s a new way to put it.”

  “Can you think of a better word for a shotgun wedding?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I suppose not. And I can see why you would want a divorce. It can’t be easy, being married to a gunfighter, even for a short time.”

  “How did you know he was a gunfighter?”

  “With a name like Angel—it was a good guess.”

  Cassie was impressed. The man was obviously a genius, and her money would be well spent.

  Phineas wasn’t a genius, he’d just been sent here straight from his last assignment in Denver and happened to sit next to a gunfighter on the train by the name of Angel. He’d even spent a pleasant hour grilling the man with questions, his instincts telling him that anyone who looked like Angel did had to be on someone’s Wanted list. His instincts had been wrong in that respect, and he’d come damn close to getting himself shot for his persistence, but he liked living dangerously or he wouldn’t be in the line of work he was in.

  And he didn’t go back to bed. An hour later, after trying three hotels and getting lucky with the fourth, he was knocking on a door himself.

  A gun cocked in his face the second the door opened. He stared down its barrel before looking at the man holding it.

  “Just met your wife,” Phineas said agreeably.

  “My what?”

  “She’s here in St. Louis.”

  “The hell she is. She’s on her way back to Wyoming.”

  Phineas smiled. “Little lady with great big silver-gray eyes?”

  Angel put his gun away to the accompaniment of a foul expletive. He’d gotten halfway to Wyoming before he decided he’d rather not be
in Cheyenne when Cassie got home. Putting distance between them hadn’t worked yet to get her off his mind, so he’d come to St. Louis to try once more to find his mother. That was one reason he was there. The other was, he figured it was about as far as he could get from his wife—and her damn divorce papers.

  “I guess you were telling the truth about not having any other name besides Angel,” Phineas was saying. “At least not one that you know of. Sorry I gave you such a hard time.”

  “You still are,” Angel said in pure disgruntlement. “So what do you want this time, Kirby?”

  “Just a little information. Your wife has hired me to find your parents. It would be helpful if—”

  “She did what?” Angel exploded. “Hell and I don’t believe that woman is meddling again this soon. She couldn’t even wait until she got home. And in my business this time!”

  Phineas rocked back on his toes. He loved watching human reactions. Drop the right word or phrase, and people behaved in the most fascinating ways. He wouldn’t have expected this man to lose control, though. Just went to show that everyone did have at least one weakness.

  Phineas tried again. “It would be helpful if you could supply me with a description of your parents, and anything else that you can remember about them.”

  Black, emotionally charged eyes came back to the detective. “She hired you. Get your information from her.”

  “Now, how did I know you wouldn’t be very cooperative?” Phineas replied. “They’re your parents, but I guess the little lady you married is the only one who wants them found.”

  “All right, Kirby, you’ve made your point,” Angel said disagreeably. “I don’t remember my father, but my mother had black hair, curly, and dark eyes.”