Boyd Johnson began to frown. He rubbed his jawline with his thumb and continued to study her so intently that his concern communicated itself to her. She became increasingly worried, especially when she heard him sigh.
"Why didn't you write to me first, Mrs. McKenna? It would have saved you some time."
"I couldn't wait to put the past behind me. If you can just tell me where Lane is, I'll go there directly. I promise not to become involved in his work. I won't even try to contact him yet, if it would jeopardize his safety, but I would like to be close by."
"It's not that easy, ma'am." When he stood up, his heavy-soled shoes hit the hardwood floor with a resounding thud. He paced the room, walked over to a window, looked down on the busy street below and, rubbed the back of his neck above his collar.
Rachel clutched her reticule tighter. "You mean you don't know where he is? Surely you know his assignment."
"No. I don't."
He was so solemn, staring at her so sadly, that a terrible dark fear crept into her mind and quickly snaked its way to her heart.
"Is he dead?" she whispered.
"Not that I know of."
She had expected him to simply say no or to laugh off her fear, but instead he had been bluntly honest.
Her palms were perspiring inside her new kid gloves. "You haven't heard from him at all?"
Boyd sat down again, heavily this time, and stared across at her. "Lane's not with the Agency anymore. I had to let him go after the McKenna killing—"
"But Robert was a thief and a murderer—"
"And Lane was told more than once that he had to learn to use a modicum of control when he was on a case. He didn't stop to think before he initiated that parlor gun battle that might have gotten you killed, not to mention the McKennas.
"I did everything I could to save his job, but I was outvoted. I told him in Last Chance that he was no longer one of our general operatives. I'm afraid I have no idea where he is or how to get ahold of him. I'm sorry you've come all this way…"
Rachel bit her lips together to keep them from trembling and stared at her hands. The house had been sold. She was on her own.
She forced herself to think. She could feel Boyd watching her closely, could feel his pity. She didn't want it. Rachel straightened her shoulders and met his sad brown eyes. His lips worked beneath his thick mustache, as if he was searching for words.
She didn't need his pity.
She needed his expertise.
"I want to hire your services, Mr. Johnson. Your agency is paid to find people, is it not?"
"We are," he said, suddenly smiling. "The best in the business."
"Good. Then I want to pay you to track down Lane Cassidy."
The door to his outer office swung open and in walked a statuesque blond woman with more than ample breasts, full, swaying hips and laughing brown eyes. Her full lips formed a slow, knowing smile as she carefully studied Rachel.
"I couldn't help but overhear. You're looking for Lane Cassidy," she said without apology. "What's he done now?"
Boyd stepped in to quickly introduce the woman, who looked to be in her mid-thirties.
"Mrs. McKenna, this is Miss Priscilla Simmons. She's one of our most expert special operatives. Priscilla's known Lane since his training."
Rachel could feel her face grow warm as the sloe-eyed, buxom blond took in every inch of her, from her new ankle-high boots to the crown of her fur-trimmed hat. In that instant Rachel knew, as every woman immediately, instinctively knows, that this woman had known Lane intimately. She was certain Priscilla Simmons was the woman who brought Lane out of the darkest chapter of his life and taught him all the consummate lovemaking techniques that he knew.
Rachel didn't know whether to thank Miss Simmons or rip every hair out of her luxuriant blond head. Instead she did neither.
"I'm looking for Lane because I'm in love with him, Miss Simmons. I have reason to believe he loves me."
If Priscilla Simmons was shocked or angry, it didn't show. She merely smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and said, "If he loves you, Mrs. McKenna, you are one special woman. I congratulate you." Priscilla flashed a smile at Boyd and added, "I'll be happy to do anything I can to help you find him."
Relieved, Rachel stood up and prepared to leave. "I don't know how much something like this costs, Mr. Johnson, but—"
"Since this is a special case, please don't worry about our fee, Mrs. McKenna. You don't have to pay a dime until we track down Lane—if we can. All I need to know is how I can contact you."
"For the time being, I've rented a suite at the Windsor Hotel."
"Fine." He took her arm and led her toward the door. "Don't worry about a thing. We'll be in touch with you as soon as we get a lead."
Rachel bid Priscilla good-bye and then paused just outside the door. "Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Lane spoke so highly of you. I believe you saved his life when you brought him into the Agency. I have every certainty that you'll find him."
Boyd frowned. "I hope we can live up to your expectations."
Indian summer sun threw long shadows across the dusty main street of the nondescript Idaho cow town that boasted of nothing that would distinguish it from any other such blemish on the map of the western states and territories. Lane sighed with a boredom born of loneliness and routine and waited patiently in the shadows between the butcher shop and the millinery. He pulled his Smith & Wesson out of its holster, checked to see that there was a bullet in every cylinder and then shoved it back into the holster.
"Come on out, Cassidy." The challenge was familiar, even if he didn't recognize the voice.
Lane sighed again and stepped out of the shadows. There wasn't a soul left on the street, although a few foolhardy inhabitants crouched behind counters and window frames, driven by curiosity and blood lust.
Let's get it over with.
He tried to let go of all thought, tried not to think of the woman who haunted every corner of his mind day and night. He tried to banish the image of Rachel as he had last seen her, with her blue eyes stricken by hurt and betrayal. He tried not to guess how much Ty might have grown over the past two months or how often the boy might have asked about him.
He could not afford to think of them now. He could not afford to concentrate on anything but the stranger at the far end of the street, the challenger without a name, the nameless, soulless individual who had no other reason to want to end Lane's life other than for the right to brag about it.
As he moved to the middle of the street, Lane reached up and tipped his hat down to shade his eyes.
"I'm gonna tell her I want a black hat, just like yours."
Lane wasn't sure if he had the words exactly right, but he knew he'd never forget the feelings. He closed his eyes against the dangerous memory, then snapped them open again. If he wasn't careful, he told himself, his eyes would be permanently closed by the gunslinger at the other end of the street.
"You're my best pal, Lane."
Lane held his hands away from his sides and started closing the distance.
"Can we do it this way?"
He saw Rachel pressed up against the jailhouse wall, felt her leg draped over his hip, could almost taste her lips on his.
"Shit."
Three more strides. Sunlight glinted off the murky water in a trough beside him. He squinted to keep the gunman in view.
He felt Rachel's fingers running through his hair.
"Your hair is getting so long, it's just past your collar."
"You can trim it for me when I get out."
He still hadn't cut his hair. It didn't matter anymore.
Two more strides and he stopped. He flexed his right hand, curled his fingers to his palm and then relaxed them.
He could wait all day for the man at the end of the street to make his move. He had no place else to go.
"I was only living half a life until you came back."
And now, sweet Rachel, I'm not living any kind of life at all.
&nbs
p; A warm wind picked up the dust in the street and set a miniature whirlwind dancing around the corner of the building that housed the jail. The tall, lanky drifter intent on ending Lane's life wore a long canvas duster. The wind played tag with the hem of the coat. The duster belled out away from the man's body, making it harder for Lane to gauge his movements.
The gunslinger made a slight move. Nothing more than a breath and the flick of a wrist.
"I'll die a happy man for having loved you."
He had been happy. Once. Briefly.
In less time than it took him to blink, Lane's fingers kissed the holster and caressed the handle of his Smith & Wesson. As he gripped the gun and whipped it out of the holster, he slipped his forefinger over the trigger. Simultaneously, he aimed and fired.
Both guns rang out.
A bullet whizzed past his head and ricocheted off a striped barber's pole behind him. The stranger down the street slowly crumpled and fell into the dust. Lane didn't have to see the wound. He knew he had hit the stranger's heart dead center.
He holstered his gun and turned his back on the crowd that was gathering around the body lying in the dust. Resigned to his fate, he walked toward the jailhouse.
* * *
Chapter Nineteen
"I'm sorry, Mrs. McKenna, but we've run out of leads." Boyd Johnson shoved his hands in his pockets. The unconscious movement revealed the gold and green embroidered vest beneath his houndstooth jacket.
Rachel watched him rock back and forth on his heels and look everywhere around the hotel suite except at her. Three weeks had passed since she had walked into his office to ask his help. He had reported back to her once a week. Lane Cassidy had disappeared without a trace.
"Have you thought about what you're going to do?"
His question echoed her own thoughts. When it looked as if she, Delphie and Ty might be in Denver for a while, she had applied for a teaching position and, miraculously, was asked to step in when one of the full-time teachers broke her hip. Still, the Windsor was expensive. If they were going to remain in Denver, she should have to start looking for permanent housing.
"We can't live here indefinitely," she said. "Ty loves school and the excitement of the city, but he needs a home and a place to play." Rachel leaned back against the shining emerald upholstery of a delicate settee and sighed.
Boyd moved close to the fireplace, where a low fire took the chill off the room. Outside, a snowstorm threatened, darkening the skies as well as Rachel's spirit. Once winter set in, she knew, it would be more difficult for them to move.
"I haven't heard from some of my people in Idaho and Wyoming, so there's still hope," Boyd offered.
"May I ask you something, Mr. Johnson?"
"Of course." He shifted uncomfortably, tugged his vest down over his potbelly, and waited to hear what she would ask.
"You would tell me if any of your agents had found Lane and he refused to contact me, wouldn't you?"
"Mrs. McKenna, I might be a hopeless romantic, but if that were the case, I would be perfectly honest with you. So far, no one has been able to track him down. But that's not to say it's a lost cause."
"I have to get on with my life, Mr. Johnson. My temporary position will be up after the holidays. We've enjoyed the city, especially the opera. Ty loves Elitch's zoo. The hotels here are very grand, but far too grand for my pocketbook, I'm afraid."
"I realize you'll have to come to some decision soon. Actually, I'm surprised that we haven't found Lane yet. To tell you the truth, I'm just thankful he hasn't ended up in our criminal card file."
"And you would have heard if… if anything had happened to him?"
"Most likely."
Rachel smiled. "Then I suppose all we can do is wait a little longer."
Johnson's bowler hat was lying on a side table. When he reached for it, she stood up to walk him to the door.
"Will you be all right?" he asked as they stood in the doorway.
She appreciated the concern in his coffee-colored eyes. "We'll be fine. In fact, I was just telling Delphie that what we should do is dress up and have dinner downstairs in the dining room for a change. There's something about being surrounded by starched tablecloths and fine china and crystal, not to mention good food, that lifts one's spirits."
"I'm glad to see this hasn't gotten you down," he told her.
"I've been through trying times before, Mr. Johnson, enough to know that I can make it through this."
She had been dwelling on her situation for weeks now. She had cash from the sale of the house, as well as nest-egg money she had inherited from her parents. Her teaching position gave her a newfound sense of independence, one she had not known since she married Stuart. She, Delphie and Ty had quickly settled into a new routine. It was a far cry from life in Last Chance, and the ease with which they'd adapted proved to her that they could fit in anywhere.
Her battered heart no longer ached at the sight of anyone who might be mistaken for Lane, no longer stung when she recalled poignant memories of the time they'd shared. She missed him still, yet she knew she could survive without him. But if she were to write her own fate, she wanted him, for as long as she could have him.
"I'll be in touch," Boyd promised.
"I'll be waiting," she said.
When he heard Boyd's office door close behind him, Lane swung away from the frosted windowpane, shot Johnson a wordless glance and offered no other greeting.
"Well, you've been gone long enough," Lane said as he unbuttoned the first three buttons of his black duster and refused the chair Boyd offered.
Boyd stood for a long while, studying Lane carefully. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Well, hell, Cassidy. If I had known you were going to turn up unannounced, I would have been sitting here holding my breath. What rock did you crawl out from under?"
"It's a long story."
"I've got time."
"I don't. What do you want with me? Your agent said it was top priority. It took me three days to get here."
Lane wished he could shake his sullen, sarcastic mood, but since he'd left Last Chance, he had felt anything but cordial.
In a manner that at the moment Lane found irritating as hell, as if he had all the time in the world, Boyd sat down behind his desk and reached into a glass humidor for a cigar. A smile played around his mouth. "Want one?"
"You know I don't particularly care for the taste of dirty socks in my mouth."
Lane paced to the window, stared down at the carriages moving along the crowded street below. From this vantage point, he was treated to the tops of the numerous pedestrians' hats. The city folk, as they hurried about their business, seemed to him even more anonymous than usual bundled up against the growing cold.
Boyd lit up, puffed until the end of the cigar was glowing and then settled back in his chair. He looked at his cigar. "Don't know what you're missing."
"Could we get to the point?" Lane had just arrived in Denver and was already more than ready to leave. Impatience had played a large part in his life of late.
Boyd put his feet up on the corner of the desk, took a long drag and blew out a cloud of odoriferous smoke. His smile was smug. "I've got a job for you. Nothing permanent. A onetime shot."
Lane was tempted to head for the door. Boyd was up to something. "Get someone else."
"Nobody can handle this one but you."
"Couldn't you find anyone else impulsive or undisciplined enough to take it?"
"Let's just say this particular case needs your special touch." Johnson looked him up and down, assessing his hair and clothing. He pointed with the cigar. "You might want to get that hair cut. You look like a half-breed with it hanging to your shoulders."
Lane reached up and wrapped his hand around his hair. It was tied in a thick queue at his neck. Boyd could badger him forever. His hair had become a symbol, a reminder of all he had lost. He wasn't cutting it.
"You could use a shave, too. That stubble makes you lo
ok even more sinister than you do anyway. But then again, maybe that's what you're aiming for."
Lane shrugged. "I don't care about it one way or another."
"You care about anything anymore?"
"Not much. What is it you want me to do?" He hoped the job Boyd had for him was dangerous. Dangerous was just what he had been looking for lately. The cold threat of death was the only thing that reminded him that he was still alive.
Boyd kicked his feet off the desk and shuffled through a stack of papers. He picked up one or two, paused to briefly peruse them, shuffled a few more and then, without looking up, gave Lane the details. "I'd like you to go to the Windsor tonight around eight. You'll meet the client in the dining room."
"I'm not dressing up."
"I don't particularly care. Once you've made contact—"
"Exactly who is it I'm supposed to make contact with?"
"Someone you've dealt with before."
"Then why all the mystery?"
"Let's just say this case needs your special touch, that it's something you need to wrap up." As if Boyd could sense Lane was about to balk, he added, "Just humor me, all right?"
"Let's say I do meet this mystery client. What then?"
"Follow your instincts."
"According to the powers that be around here, my instincts aren't all that sharp. Don't tell me you're willing to risk a shoot-out in the middle of the Windsor dining room?"
"I trust you'll know what to do."
"Eight o'clock tonight?"
"Sharp."
Boyd's smile gave Lane the feeling he had just put his foot in a well-hidden snare.
"If I don't want to get involved, I'm walking out on this one—"
"That's up to you, but the client asked for you specifically. I'm only trying to oblige." Absently puffing his cigar, Boyd watched him closely. "You getting along all right, other than that hair and the fact that you look like you could melt iron if you stared at it long enough?"
Lane looked for lint on his hat, traced his finger along the iridescent emerald band. "Yeah, I'm doing all right." He felt compelled to add, "I don't hold anything against you, Boyd. You know that. I've just got a couple of things on my mind that only time can work out. I appreciate the offer, but if I can't work with this client, I'm riding out in the morning."
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