by Lori Austin
Delbert Haney reined in his lathered horse. “Railroad payroll comin’ on tomorrow’s stage. We gotta ride.”
Lass scowled at Annabeth, as if she’d purposely ruined his plans. Everyone else’s eyes shifted to Lass. What would he do? Killing Annabeth the way that he wanted took time they didn’t have and might lose them the chance to rob the stage.
Business? Or pleasure?
Annabeth, who’d spent months gauging Lassiter’s moods, reading his face, peering into his eyes and seeing nothing but death, saw it there again. For just an instant, he considered shooting her now, not saving her for later.
Do it, she thought. Please.
The smile that had faded with the arrival of Delbert blossomed. He uncocked his gun. “You’d better still be breathing when I come back.” Several full canteens landed in her lap.
Annabeth didn’t answer. He couldn’t make her drink water when he wasn’t here, and in this heat, she wouldn’t last two days without it. In this heat, she might not last one.
“You refuse to drink,” Lassiter continued, “or somehow hang yourself with that rope . . .”
Annabeth frowned at the bindings on her hands and feet, as well as the one that securely lashed her middle to the tree. What did he think she was, a magician?
Lass snapped his fingers, and she met his gaze. “You die before I kill you, and he dies. I’ll walk right into that no-account town and gut him like a downed buffalo.”
The man’s lips curved, and Annabeth understood he was going to do that anyway. No one touched Lassiter Morant’s woman. At least while she was still his woman. Apparently, once she’d been labeled traitor and spy, other labels no longer applied. Confusing, but then Lassiter was crazy.
“Lass!” The men milled about near the entrance, mounted, ready, impatient. She’d hate to be her if they missed the stage. Hell, she’d hate to be her if they didn’t.
Morant wheeled his horse far too close to Annabeth’s bound feet. Grass, dirt, and rocks sprayed over her boots and a hoof ticked against her toe. She yanked her legs to her chest as he raced to join them. The thunder of retreating horses filled the small, secluded area. Dust rose up beyond the scrub that shaded the trail and then moved east.
She was going to have to live, to endure whatever came next. Either find a way to escape, or—
“No,” Annabeth murmured. If she escaped, Lass would only follow. How long before she found a newly carved knife buried in Ethan’s chest?
She couldn’t let that happen. The only way to keep Ethan safe was to kill Lassiter Morant.
• • •
“How are you gonna find Wonderland when half a dozen Pinkerton detectives couldn’t?” Farquhar asked.
“I didn’t say I’d find it.” Ethan struck a match, lit the lamp. “My—” He turned and the word brother stuck in his throat as the lamplight illuminated his companion. “What the hell is that?” Ethan pointed to Farquhar’s neck.
“What does it look like?” Farquhar pulled at the collar. Which belonged on a priest.
“You’re not a priest,” Ethan said, though he wished the man were. Then Ethan wouldn’t continue to imagine just how close Farquhar and Annabeth had once been, might still be.
Foolish jealousy, but he couldn’t help himself. Annabeth had betrayed Ethan to Moses Farquhar at Chimborazo; she worked for him now. If he was truly a priest, Ethan might be able to squash the ever-present desire to throttle him.
“You’re right; I’m not a priest,” Farquhar agreed. “But let’s hope no one but you figures that out.”
Ethan narrowed his gaze. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing I’m going to tell you about.”
Ethan couldn’t imagine anyone appearing less priestly than this golden-haired, green-eyed, far-too-smooth and clever man. If it weren’t for the hook in his nose, Farquhar would be as pretty as Fedya. Although now that Ethan thought of it, Fedya’d had a crook in his nose the last time he’d seen him that hadn’t been there before.
“I need to locate my brother,” Ethan said.
“He was the best scout you blue belly’s had. He could find anything.” Farquhar blinked as he caught up. “Anyone.” The Pinkerton priest started for the door.
“Wait,” Ethan said. “How are you going to find him?”
Farquhar cast Ethan a withering glance. “What kind of spy do you think I am?”
“I . . . What?”
“Your brother is now known as Mikhail, and considering his size, he’s kind of hard to miss. Fedya, on the other hand, slips off now and again. Or at least he did until recently, when he decided to keep one name and stay in one place.”
“Where are they?” Ethan asked.
“Colorado.”
• • •
Ethan wasn’t certain how Moses Farquhar wrote a telegram that convinced Fedya and Mikey—he still couldn’t think of his little brother as Mikhail—to board the next train from Colorado to Kansas. But they arrived within two days.
Two days where Ethan barely slept or ate. But at least he didn’t drink from a blue bottle—and not because they were empty. He spent half his time filling them. The other half he spent staring at them, when he wasn’t staring north, waiting for the cloud of dust that would signal incoming riders.
It appeared early Wednesday morning. Ethan stepped onto his porch, glancing toward the hotel as Farquhar emerged and started his way. At least he’d left his collar behind.
Fedya and Mikey dismounted; Ethan led them inside. He could feel folks watching through their windows. If the stage into Ellsworth hadn’t been robbed of the railroad payroll, requiring the marshal’s presence in the posse, the lawman would not only have been watching them, but joining them.
Ethan wouldn’t have minded, but he thought Fedya might. He had no idea what the man had been up to since the war, but considering the dead sheriff that had ended their last meeting, it probably wasn’t completely—or even remotely—legal.
Despite what had to have been a long, dirty trip, Fedya’s black suit coat, which would look more at home in a gambler’s hell, appeared pristine. His ruffled white shirt was slightly limp and his black boots just a bit dusty, but those imperfections served only to make his immaculate black gloves shine. In contrast, Mikey looked like a farmhand—homespun shirt, tattered trousers, cracked boots, stained hat.
The four of them stood in the front hall. Mikey inched into the corner nearest the door, removed the hat, and wrung it in his large hands as he peered outside. His gray eyes and dark hair were very like Ethan’s own, but there the similarities ended.
Or perhaps not. Right now the two of them rubbed raised ridges on the same sides of their foreheads. Mikey’s was much larger and deeper, but more of his was covered by hair than Ethan’s.
“What happened to you?”
Ethan lowered his hand. The former sniper was still handsome enough to cause women to stare. Ebony hair, sapphire eyes . . . Ethan could go on and on, but he might just nauseate himself.
“None of your concern.”
Fedya’s gaze narrowed; then he shrugged, removed his gloves and flicked dust from his cuff. “I’m merely curious.”
“You know what they say about curiosity,” Ethan murmured, and was treated to another narrow-eyed glare.
“I am not a cat.”
At their last visit, Ethan had threatened to kill Fedya the next time they met. And that was before Fedya had tattled to Annabeth. Nevertheless—
“I won’t,” Ethan said.
Fedya peered at his fingernails and murmured, “Sicher nicht.”
Farquhar cast a glance at Ethan, who shrugged. “I have no idea what he said.” He wasn’t even sure what language the man had said it in.
“I said, ‘certainly not,’” Fedya translated.
“Certainly not what?” the detective asked.
Blue eyes met green. “He most certainly will not kill me.”
From the corner, Mikey growled.
Without removing his gaze from Farquhar�
��s, Fedya said, “Do not worry, Mikhail. Everything is all right.”
Ethan had to tighten his lips to keep from correcting his brother’s name. Mikey was now Mikhail, and he probably always would be. Unless Ethan wanted to attempt to cure him as he had been cured, and he wasn’t sure about that.
“If everything were all right, you wouldn’t be here,” Ethan said.
“Pravda.” Ethan cast the man an exasperated glance, and Fedya smirked.
The only language besides English that Ethan understood anything of was Gaelic, and it annoyed him when Fedya said things he did not comprehend, which was no doubt why the man did it.
“Maybe we could stick to English,” Farquhar suggested.
“I will do my best, but sometimes the words just ”—Fedya waved a long-fingered, clever hand—“slip out.”
Ethan grunted, causing Fedya’s smirk to widen, until he asked, “How’s your wife?” Then Fedya’s expression froze.
“Did I not tell you to forget about her, about me, the instant we left?”
“You knew that wasn’t going to happen.”
“How did you find me?” Fedya asked.
Ethan jerked a thumb at Farquhar. The Pinkerton spread his hands. “Did you think I wouldn’t keep an eye on you?” He glanced at Mikey, who was scowling mightily and rubbing at his scar as if he could erase it by touch alone, then lowered his voice. “On him?”
Ethan frowned. “You know each other?”
“We’ve met,” Moze admitted.
“Where? Why?”
“I didn’t just stroll into Castle Thunder without an escort,” Fedya answered.
Ethan’s eyes widened. “Him?”
“Oui,” Fedya said.
“You were a very busy boy,” Ethan murmured to Farquhar.
“My job.” Farquhar looked away, discovered Mikey’s steely gaze upon him, and looked back.
“How close an eye did you keep?” Fedya wondered.
“Don’t worry. I couldn’t care less who you’ve fleeced.”
“Then why the eye upon me?”
“Never know when I might need a sniper or a scout. Like now.”
“But, Alexi—” Mikey began, and Fedya silenced him with a glance.
“You’re still using that name?” Ethan asked.
“It has become my own.”
“And your wife? How’s her—?”
“Her pregnancy is going well thus far,” Fedya interrupted.
Pregnancy? Was that the truth or another lie? As Fedya never coughed or twitched or did anything else that might give him away, it was impossible to tell. If the man didn’t want anyone to know the truth, about him or his “wife,” no one would know. Because if anyone learned a truth he didn’t want known, he would just—
“Mikhail,” Fedya murmured.
Mikey no longer stood in the corner. For such a large man, he moved both quickly and quietly. He snatched the detective by his shirtfront and lifted him several feet off the ground.
“Put him down,” Ethan said.
Mikey ignored him. He hadn’t taken orders from Ethan since he’d forgotten who Ethan was.
“What do you know of me?” Fedya demanded.
Farquhar attempted to speak, but Mikey was holding him too tightly. The detective turned an ugly shade of puce.
“Can’t speak if he’s dead,” Ethan pointed out.
“Precisely,” Fedya answered.
“How many men have you had my—” Ethan bit his lip before the word brother slipped out. That always upset everyone. “Have you had him kill?”
“Too many to count.”
Farquhar’s eyes bulged. Ethan wasn’t certain if that were a result of his lack of air or Fedya’s answer.
“A dead Pinkerton detective isn’t going to go unnoticed.”
“You’d be surprised,” Fedya said.
“No doubt,” Ethan answered, and Fedya laughed. For an instant, it almost felt like the old days.
In prison.
They’d been friends—until everything had gone badly and they’d wound up hating each other. Or Ethan had wound up hating Fedya. He wasn’t certain how Fedya felt about him.
Fedya waved his hand, and Mikey opened his. Farquhar crumpled to the ground, where he rubbed his throat and gasped for air like a fish upon a riverbank. Fedya didn’t even look at the man as he spoke. “You asked us here to help our friend.”
Ethan blinked, frowned, glanced at Farquhar, then at Fedya. “You came for me?”
“Who else?”
“Annabeth?”
“She’s here?” Fedya looked around, a picture of perfect innocence. Except Ethan knew he wasn’t perfect, or innocent, and never had been. “Since when?”
“Since you sent her. We’ll discuss that once I have her back.”
“What did you expect me to do, mon ami? Nothing?”
Farquhar peered back and forth between the two of them. “What are you talking about?”
“Shh,” Fedya murmured, and Farquhar did. “You said we must get Annabeth back,” Fedya continued. “Where has she gone?”
“It’s a long story,” Ethan said.
Most of which Fedya didn’t know. Considering Fedya, he’d probably discovered some on his own. Though Ethan doubted he knew that Annabeth had betrayed them or he wouldn’t be saying her name with such fondness. Should he tell the man the truth or shouldn’t he?
Ethan wrestled with the question. Apparently, his indecision showed on his face, for Farquhar found his voice at last. “Shut up, Walsh.”
“I don’t like him.” Fedya tilted his head as he gazed at the detective who still sat on the floor. “Do we need him?”
“No,” Ethan began, but then Fedya flicked a finger and Mikey started forward. “Yes! We do. We need him.”
Fedya cast a disgusted glance at Ethan before calling Mikey off. “Water the horses, Mikhail.”
Mikey lumbered out.
“You need to stop making him kill people,” Ethan said.
“I don’t make him do anything.”
“Suggesting?”
“It’s a difficult world. Only the strong survive.”
Fedya was no doubt right, but Ethan still didn’t like the idea of his little brother as an assassin.
“Would you rather he was dead?” Fedya murmured.
“No,” Ethan admitted. Mikey might not remember him; he might think Fedya was his brother. The sight of him might make Ethan want to weep. But Mikey was alive, and it was because of Fedya that he’d stayed that way.
Considering it was Fedya who had killed him in the first place, that only seemed fair. And it only seemed fair to be honest about everything, even to a man who didn’t know what honesty was.
“Annabeth betrayed us.”
Farquhar cursed. As he still didn’t seem capable of standing, it was easy to ignore him.
Fedya lifted a dark brow and waited. Ethan had taught him that, or maybe it had been Mikey, during the time they’d spent in prison. According to the gospel of John Law, there was power in silence. Folks often felt compelled to fill it, and a patient man could learn much without ever asking anything.
Even though Ethan knew what Fedya was doing, he filled the silence. Not because he felt compelled to, but because he wanted to.
“The trap—Lee and Davis. That was her doing. She was a spy.”
“Interesting.”
Ethan considered the information many things. Interesting was the least of them.
“You already knew, didn’t you?”
Fedya shrugged. “It was a long time ago. There has been enough blame and anger. What good does it do? Can we change the past?”
“No,” Ethan agreed. He only wished that he could. “When did you become so . . . ?” Ethan searched for a word.
“Smart?” Fedya suggested. “Mature? Virtuous?” Ethan gave a derisive huff, and Fedya smiled. “Stones and glass houses, Doctor. As I recall, you were a spy, as well.”
“Annabeth still is,” Ethan muttered.
&n
bsp; “She and Cat would get along well.”
“Cat?”
“O’Banyon.”
“The bounty hunter?” That would explain the gunshot wound.
“Former. She is now my wife.”
Trust Fedya to marry a legendary bounty hunter.
“Does her being a bounty hunter have something to do with the dead sheriff?” Ethan asked.
“He wasn’t a sheriff but an outlaw by the name of Rufus Owens. He killed the man you’d hired to be your sheriff and took his place.”
“Why?”
“He was tired of being chased by bounty hunters. He thought he was safe until one turned up here.”
“Cat tried to arrest him?”
Fedya’s gaze darkened. “More or less.”
“But he fell out the window.”
Fedya’s lips quirked. “More or less.”
As Ethan had suspected, he would never know the whole truth of the dead sheriff.
“Your wife is Cat O’Banyon?” Farquhar asked.
Fedya hauled the detective to his feet. “My wife is Catey Romanov. If I hear any whisper of Cat O’Banyon—”
“No one will hear it from me.”
“I don’t ever want to hear from you or see you again,” Fedya continued. “I am a businessman. I have my own gambling hall and saloon. I came here only to help my old friend, not to perform any tricks for you. I am not a show pony.”
“Anymore,” Ethan murmured, and received an icy glance from Fedya.
At one time, the man now known as Alexi Romanov had traveled the country as Fedya, the amazing sharpshooting boy. Which was how he’d become the Union’s best sniper.
“Daylight’s wasting,” Fedya said. “Tell me everything.”
CHAPTER 30
Mikhail couldn’t wait to leave the town behind. Too many people staring, too many buildings too close together. And that man. That doctor. Who peered at Mikhail with light eyes full of so much dark. Whenever Mikhail saw him, he wanted both to run to him and away from him.
Which made no sense attall. Or maybe it did.
Alexi thought Mikhail didn’t remember Castle Thunder, and Mikhail let him. Because he knew that the place upset his brother. Hell, it upset Mikhail.
His memories of the prison were fuzzy. He was never really certain what was real and what was a dream. He remembered only waking there—hurt and alone, missing Alexi, needing to find him with a desperation he couldn’t ignore. He never could recall how it was he’d come to be in Castle Thunder in the first place, nor how or why he’d been hurt, not even how he’d escaped. He remembered only tracking Alexi and finding him.