by Carol Finch
“Yes, make sure you don’t drink your salary at Valmont Saloon. I want you to remain alert and observant at all times. I’m paying you according to your impressive reputation. Do not disappoint me.”
“Don’t worry, Chester,” he said and snorted. “This isn’t my first investigation. I’ll even tell you how many times a day Webster relieves himself and behind which tree, if you want to know.”
Alexa tried not to react to the comment. She decided there were some disadvantages to disguising herself as a middle-age, overweight man.
“Thank you, Coop, but my only interest is acquiring a list of Webster’s associates and his social activities,” she replied, careful to give nothing away. The less Coop knew the better.
Alexa’s attention remained on Coop while he swung effortlessly onto the muscular black gelding that sported four white stockings and white circles around both eyes. The horse was as striking and unique as his rider. Her gaze and thoughts remained fixed on the impressive masculine silhouette until it blended into the night.
She had a good feeling about Wyatt Cooper. With this legendary ex-lawman on the case, she could conduct her own discreet inquiries from a different angle. Of course, she would have to portray the role of a fluff-headed socialite to quell all suspicions about her real reason for being in Questa Springs. However, if it provided her with valuable information and helped her father, she’d do it.
“I do not like this, Lexi. Your father won’t, either.”
Alexa nearly leaped out of her padded disguise when Miguel Santos’s quiet voice drifted from the darkness. She clutched her palpitating chest and drew in a calming breath.
“How did you find me?” she demanded as her walking conscience approached.
“I have the nose of a bloodhound where you are concerned.” Miguel gestured in the direction Coop had disappeared. “This man, he is dangerous, querida. I can feel it. No matter how you try to sugarcoat it, he is a gun-for-hire and his kind walk a fine line between good and evil.”
“This man is superbly skilled and experienced and that’s all that matters,” she countered as she lumbered awkwardly toward the horse she had tethered in the trees. “And if you breathe one word about my taking an active part in this investigation to Papa I won’t speak to you for the rest of my life.”
“What will it matter?” Miguel scoffed as she shed her disguise then crammed it into the carpetbag tied behind the saddle. “If you persist in remaining in harm’s way, you’ll be dead.”
“Pfftt!” she erupted in contradiction. “You worry too much. You always have. I’ll be fine.”
“Si, you and Mr. Chester. He will be back here next week?” Miguel gave Alexa a boost onto her horse and she thanked him kindly.
“You will indeed see Mr. Chester on occasion. He can go places that I cannot.”
“Then you should be prepared for more off-color comments from your detective,” Miguel said as he mounted his horse. “Since Coop doesn’t know you’re a woman he will speak to you man-to-man.”
“I have no problem with that,” Alexa assured him as she reined toward Hampton Ranch where she was staying with her school chum, Kate, and her family. “At least he won’t be putting on airs. I’ve had plenty of that already.”
While Miguel categorically listed everything that might go wrong with her charade and her self-appointed investigation, Alexa turned her thoughts back to Wyatt Cooper. She knew she had chosen well. The gunfighter would help her ferret out information that she could take back to her father, who would undoubtedly be impressed with her abilities. Meanwhile, she had to make herself available to Elliot Webster’s courtship and pretend she enjoyed his company.
Alexa sincerely hoped her acting ability was up to snuff. Pretending to like Elliot would require considerable effort.
Scowling, Coop limped along on his cane, silently cursing that toady little Yank named Mr. Chester, who had dreamed up this stupid ruse. Coop never should have agreed to it. Yet, he had tied splints to his right knee to ensure that he didn’t forget to walk stiff legged. Mr. Chester apparently thought that a lame gunfighter-turned-bartender wasn’t as intimidating as a shootist with two good legs under him. Fact was, Coop had trained himself to be a crack shot, whether he was at full gallop on a horse, rolling across the ground to dodge bullets or squaring off for a showdown in the street.
Despite the attention he received as he hobbled down the boardwalk, he focused on familiarizing himself with the town. Questa Springs boasted a population of two thousand. One-fourth was the Mexican community that had settled the area decades earlier. Another quarter consisted of ranchers whose livestock grazed the nearby mountain slopes and grassy valleys. Another fourth of the population consisted of railroad workers who were building spurs to serve the copper and silver mines in the mountains to the west. The Johnnies-come-lately were drifters, gamblers and shysters who preyed on cowboys and miners.
Besides the bubbling springs in the town square, the community had ten saloons, four hotels, five restaurants, seven gaming halls, brothels and a lumberyard. There was also a bakery, two boutiques, a bank, livery stable, newspaper office and telegraph office. Coop had made note of the two dry goods stores—Webster’s and one that challenged its high-priced competitor.
When two women made a big production of crossing the street to avoid encountering him, Coop rolled his eyes and sighed. He’d told Mr. Chester that he was too well-known in the area not to be recognized. Obviously, word spread quickly that he was in town. The God-fearing and Cooper-fearing citizens walked on the opposite side of the street to prevent breathing the same air as a man with blood on his hands. They didn’t know the half of it.
Before Coop reached Valmont Saloon, the town marshal exited from his office—to lay down the law, no doubt. Coop blinked in surprise when he recognized the man who had a tarnished silver badge pinned on his vest.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Gil Henson said as he ambled forward. “Long time no see.”
Coop surveyed the rangy, six-foot-tall man whose reddish-blond hair protruded from the rim of his Stetson. The amber-eyed, ex-bounty hunter that Coop had worked with two years earlier had added several pounds since their last meeting.
“Didn’t know you were here, Gil,” Coop said as he draped his cane over the crook of his elbow so he could shake hands.
Gil gestured toward the cane. “What happened to you?”
“I found myself in a shootout against lopsided odds and took a bullet in the knee. I don’t remember much about it because it happened so fast.” He didn’t remember anything about it because Mr. Chester had made it up. Coop inclined his raven head toward the saloon. “I thought I’d do some bartending in this mountain haven while recuperating.”
“You came to the right place to convalesce. The scenery is magnificent. You might have to break up the occasional fight between drunken cowboys and crooked gamblers, but it shouldn’t be too strenuous,” Gil replied. “With your reputation, no one with any brains will try to cause trouble on your watch….”
His voice trailed off and his attention drifted over Coop’s shoulder. Bemused by Gil’s sudden distraction, Coop half turned to see a vision of mesmerizing beauty alight from a carriage. The blue-eyed blonde, dressed in the finest silk and lace that money could buy, twirled her frilly parasol—and sent his mind into a whirl.
Coop had seen some attractive women in his day, but this shapely specimen was a feast for the male appetite. Springy blond curls surrounded her heart-shaped lips and face. Her skin was the color of cream. Her blue gown accentuated her shapely figure and matched the vivid color of her thick-lashed eyes.
“I tell you for sure, Coop, that’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen,” Gil breathed appreciatively. “Every time she arrives in town activity grinds to a halt.” He motioned toward the other gawking men on the boardwalk.
Coop’s attention swung back to the young woman who looked to be a decade younger than he was—and a hundred years less experienced in dealing with the hard knocks of life. Lo
vely though she was, she represented the hoity-toity aristocrats who hired him to do their dirty work and resolve their unpleasant problems. His wealthy clients didn’t consider a man with his background their social equal. In their opinion, he was merely a second-class servant who was handy with a gun and whose tracking skills kept him dogging the steps of wanted outlaws.
When Elliot Webster strode from his mercantile shop to bow over the woman’s hand, Coop frowned. “Who’s the woman that Webster is slobbering over?”
“That is Alexa Quinn. Her father, Harold, is the territorial governor’s right hand man and his most valued advisor. As you can plainly see, Elliot Webster is at the head of the line when it comes to offering to escort Alexa around Questa Springs. I suspect Webster is interested in marrying her and her money.”
“Not a bad combination,” Coop murmured.
And then it dawned on him who his real client probably was. No doubt, Mr. Chester worked for Harold Quinn, who wanted his potential son-in-law checked out thoroughly. Coop speculated that his true purpose was to find out how many harlots Webster kept at his beck and call and how much corruption was involved in his mercantile and ranch dealings. Harold Quinn wanted all the dirt he could dig up on Webster, just in case Alexa decided to marry him.
It made perfect sense now. The discreet and elegantly written notifications arriving at his office. A secret meeting in the upper canyon with Mr. Chester. It was understandable that the financial director of the whole damn territory would want to ensure his future son-in-law was not a crook who might become an embarrassment to the politician.
His thoughts wandered off when the enchanting female tittered and cooed at whatever Webster had said to her. No doubt, she was a spoiled, pampered tenderfoot whose world consisted of soirees, fine dining and expensive accommodations. She was everything he wasn’t and had no desire to be. For that reason, he disliked what she represented, even while her outward beauty continued to dazzle him.
“Probably as shallow as a tub of bathwater,” he said under his breath.
Gil tossed him a quizzical glance. “Pardon?”
“Nothing. Where’s the royal princess staying?”
“At Hampton Ranch. I heard that Alexa Quinn and Kate Hampton were best friends at boarding school in Albuquerque.”
Coop was sure he would have remembered this beguiling beauty if he’d seen her before. But then, they didn’t travel in the same circles and Albuquerque was a damn sight larger than Questa Springs.
He was sorry to say that his thoughts scattered again when the voluptuous blonde pivoted away from Webster and swanned across the street. A short, wiry man of Mexican descent, who looked to be in his late twenties, followed ten paces behind her.
The bodyguard or chaperone, no doubt. Bodyguard, Coop decided when he noted the nasty looking, foot-long dagger strapped to the man’s thigh. Apparently Harold Quinn didn’t allow his dainty daughter to traipse around the rugged Sacramento Mountains without a competent protector watching her.
As Alexa approached, all dimpled smiles and radiant beauty, Coop forced himself not to change expression. He willfully battled down his unwanted physical attraction. In addition, he reminded himself that there were too many Alexa Quinns flitting around high society and he didn’t like any of them.
“Good morning, Marshal,” she greeted Gil then nodded politely to Coop. “And good day to you, sir.” She glanced directly at his battered cane. “I’m sorry to see you are nursing an injury. I hope it isn’t too serious.”
“Nothing I can’t live with,” he replied as she swept past.
The alluring scent of her perfume infiltrated his nostrils. Coop took a step backward to prevent the fragrance from clogging his brain and smothering his good sense. Distracted though he was, something familiar niggled him. Maybe he had seen her before in Albuquerque. Maybe he had heard her voice somewhere. No, that was impossible, he told himself. He would have remembered everything about this woman.
With her expensive hat sitting at a jaunty angle on her head, twirling her parasol on her shoulder like a carousel, she sashayed into one of the boutiques. No doubt, her greatest interest in life was shopping. Here was the crowning example of the idle rich. She might be every man’s fantasy, but he doubted she had a brain in her pretty blond head.
“Damn Webster’s luck,” Gil grumbled enviously. “Can you imagine the possibility of marrying a woman like that and bedding down with her every night?”
“Nope,” Coop replied. “Wipe your mouth, Gil. You’re drooling.”
Gil shook himself from his erotic thoughts. “Well, I won’t keep you from your part-time job. Maybe we can have dinner and a drink tonight when we’re both off duty.”
“Sounds good.” Coop cast one last glance at the boutique to note the bodyguard waiting outside with feet askew and arms crossed over his chest. As one servant of the affluent to another, Coop nodded and the Mexican nodded back.
There is one job I’d refuse to take, Coop thought as he headed for the saloon. He wouldn’t want to be Alexa Quinn’s lackey. He sincerely hoped the bodyguard was well paid for his trouble.
As for a potential match between Harold Quinn’s daughter and Elliot Webster, they probably deserved each other, he decided. Nevertheless, Mr. Chester had paid Coop considerable money to monitor Webster’s activities. Coop would do his job to the best of his ability. The last thing he needed was the high and mighty Harold Quinn spreading word that he was an incompetent investigator.
Alexa expelled a sigh of relief while she sorted through the day dresses in the boutique. She had underestimated her reaction to Wyatt Cooper. In broad daylight and at close range he was even more arresting than he’d been while he loomed in the gathering shadows of sunset. His piercing green eyes, wavy raven hair and muscular physique combined to make an impressive package of masculinity. She had noticed how other women on the street had taken a wide berth around him, but there was no mistaking the speculative glances he received from them. He might be considered a hard-edged, dangerous gunfighter, the angel of doom to outlaws, but he was still a tempting specimen.
Completely off-limits, she reminded herself sensibly. There could be no association between them whatsoever. Webster might become suspicious and she shouldn’t have spoken to Coop on the street, but she hadn’t been able to resist. From now on, she would avoid encounters with him.
A curious frown knitted her brow when she glanced out the window to see Elliot Webster striding into Valmont Saloon. She’d like to be a fly on the wall and hear what Coop and Webster had to say to each other, if anything. But she quelled her curiosity and reminded herself that tomorrow she’d have a chance to familiarize herself with Webster’s home. He had invited her to supper, as she’d hoped he would. As for tonight, Kate would be joining her in town to dine at one of the local restaurants.
Alexa sighed impatiently. She was anxious to hear what the townsfolk had to say about Webster. The more she could learn about him the better she would understand him. With that in mind, she turned a smile on the female proprietor of the boutique and made a few casual inquiries.
Coop had been on the job less than five minutes when Elliot Webster sauntered inside, looking arrogant and defensive at once. Out of pure orneriness, Coop plunked down the nameplate that said, Wyatt Cooper, Bartender and Bouncer on Duty. Provided by the efficient Mr. Chester, no doubt.
“Need a drink, friend?” Coop asked cordially.
Webster nodded his blond head and requested a shot of the best whiskey in the house—no surprise there. After he downed it in one gulp, he stared straight at Coop and said, “There’s an unspoken rule in society that states that men with your reputation don’t associate with women like my soon-to-be fiancée, Alexa Quinn. No offense intended, of course. I’m just reminding you of that fact.”
Better men than Elliot Webster had tried—and failed—to put Coop in his place. He had no respect for the rich, for they seemed to think they were entitled to privileges that he wasn’t.
“An
d you are?” Coop asked, as if he didn’t know.
He drew himself up to full stature and tilted his chin to an aloof angle. “Elliot Webster. I own and operate the town’s most profitable dry goods store.”
And you gouge miners, ranchers and cowboys to feather your nest, every chance you get, Coop thought.
“I also own a ranch outside of town and sell livestock to the forts and Indian reservations,” he boasted proudly.
Coop suspected this man was cheating the soldiers and Indian tribes to increase his profit. The bastard.
“Just for the record,” Coop said, “I didn’t strike up a conversation with your soon-to-be-fiancée. She spoke to me first.”
“Obviously she had no idea who she was talking to.”
“Obviously.” Coop forced a smile and envisioned himself planting his fist in Webster’s jaw. The man was an ass.
To his surprise, Webster leaned close to request another drink then said, “I wonder if I might hire you to check my neighbors’ ranching practices. A few of my cattle have gone missing lately.”
Coop suspected it was probably the other way around.
Three jobs at once? he mused. That might be an interesting twist. Mr. Chester wouldn’t like it, but he could work for the man he’d come to investigate. “You mean at night when I’m off duty at the saloon? This is gravy money. I’m not giving it up.”
“Yes, at night. That’s when the rustling takes place,” Webster replied sarcastically.
“Could be some of your own hired men,” Coop speculated as he refilled Webster’s shot glass.
“Doubt it. They are well paid to be loyal. You will be, too.”
This was too perfect to pass up, thought Coop. If he were on Webster’s payroll, he’d have an excuse to come and go from the ranch without inviting suspicion.
Coop shrugged. “Sure. Why not? As long as I don’t have to get into a foot race with rustlers. My leg won’t hold up.”
Webster grinned as he straightened away from the bar. “Just shoot them from horseback. I hear you’re good at that. And not to worry, the city marshal won’t arrest you.”