by Connie Mason
“Connie Mason’s steamy narrative and spirited dialogue are recognized by fans of romance everywhere.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“DAMN YOU, CASEY WALKER!”
Casey grasped Belle’s wrists and brought them to her sides. “I’m only thinking of you and Tommy, Belle. How long can you keep running? You need someone to take care of you.”
Belle pulled from his grasp, breathing hard, her eyes flashing angrily. “Are you suggesting you’re that man?”
“Is that such an outlandish idea? We’re explosive together, Belle!” Seizing her arms, he pulled Belle against him. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I had to try one last time to—”
His lips came down on hers. And Casey’s words were lost to her in the heat of his mouth and the melting strength of his arms….
A LOVE TO CHERISH
CONNIE MASON
© 1997, 2011 Connie Mason. All rights reserved.
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Prologue
Yuma Territorial Prison, Arizona
May 1876
“This his is the last time I’ll be able to visit you for awhile, Mark. I’m leaving for San Francisco in the morning. Try not to worry about a thing. I’ve hired the best lawyer in the territory to get you out of this murder rap, so don’t give up.”
It nearly broke Casey Walker’s heart to see his younger brother behind prison bars. Two months ago he had been convicted of murder and sent to Yuma Territorial Prison to serve his life term. Once a happy-go-lucky young man, Mark had aged quickly during his trial. His hazel eyes were shadowed with hopelessness and resignation. He was far too cynical for his twenty-four years and much too apathetic Sure, Mark had always been a little wild, but he wasn’t a murderer. He had shot that card cheat in self-defense, and the only witness to the shooting had fled to parts unknown before Mark’s trial came up.
Mark raised defeated hazel eyes to Casey, looking as if he wanted to believe him but feared to get his hopes up. Casey’s younger brother had never recovered after that day several months ago, when a gambler at the Dry Gulch Saloon had falsely accused him of cheating and drawn on him. Mark had been faster, his bullet going straight into the gambler’s heart. The jury hadn’t believed his plea of self-defense and the judge had sentenced him to life in prison.
“San Francisco?” Mark asked listlessly. “Does Allan Pinkerton have a job for you?”
“Yeah, one I can’t refuse. The man who contacted Allan wanted the best detective in the Pinkerton Agency, and offered a bonus for finding a missing person.” Casey grinned, revealing the deep dimple in his left cheek. “And since I’m the best man, and have need of the money to pay your lawyer, I’ve accepted the assignment.”
The shadows in Mark’s eyes deepened and he shrugged with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “You’re wasting your money, Casey. You’ll never find the man who can clear my name, so it doesn’t matter how much you pay that fancy lawyer. I’m going to die in prison, I know it. I’m resigned to my fate, why don’t you just forget about me?”
Casey drove strong fingers through his thick black hair, nearly defeated by Mark’s apathy. He had to get Mark out of prison before it destroyed him. Unfortunately the money needed to offer a reward for the missing witness just wasn’t available. Without the witness, filing an appeal was useless. This job had come at a time when Casey had nearly given up hope.
“Dammit, Mark, don’t talk like that. I’ve tried my best to locate the missing witness. Before I leave I’m going to tell lawyer Levy to spare no expense in finding the man who was present during the shooting at the saloon that night. We can’t reopen the case without positive evidence. Offering a substantial reward is a surefire way to bring the witness forward. Whatever it takes, I’ll get the money for that reward.”
Casey’s strong jaw clenched with determination and his eyes, a curious greenish-brown flecked with gold, were incandescent with purpose. No one who heard him could doubt his utter confidence or sincerity.
His eyes downcast, Mark turned away. “It’s all right, Casey, I know how hard you’ve worked on my behalf and I know you’ll do everything in your power to set me free, but I fear it’s out of your hands. No man could ask for a better brother. I won’t think any less of you if you fail to find the witness. God knows you’ve neglected your job and run yourself ragged in my behalf these past few months. I really appreciate it. I haven’t always been the best of brothers. You’ve put your own life on hold trying to clear my name. I know for a fact you’ve turned down assignments. I’m glad you’ve taken this one, for whatever reason.”
If Casey could have reached inside the bars, he would have shaken some sense into Mark. The boy was far too accepting of his fate. Drawing himself up to his full, impressive height, Casey flexed his shoulders, sending tense muscles rippling across his broad torso. Somehow, some way, he was going to get the money to offer the kind of reward that would bring the missing witness forward. If he didn’t do it, and do it soon, he feared Mark would lose all hope.
“I won’t let you give up, Mark.” His voice had taken on a hard edge and the chiseled planes of his rugged features were utterly ruthless with resolve. “I’ll get that money for the reward and I’ll see you free again. Nothing or no one will stand in my way. I swear it.”
Chapter 1
San Francisco
May 1876
“I’m Casey Walker, from the Pinkerton Agency. And you’re Mr. McAllister, I presume.”
Casey held out his hand to the owner of the McAllister Winery, a robust man with piercing dark eyes and thinning brown hair just beginning to turn gray. Though past his prime, McAllister possessed the vim and vigor of a much younger man. One totally obsessed with his own power. Intuition told Casey that and more about the wealthy businessman.
“T.J. McAllister, here,” McAllister said heartily, shaking Casey’s hand. “What took you so long?”
“It’s a long way from Fort Yuma to San Francisco by stage,” Casey said by way of an explanation. “Allan Pinkerton didn’t elaborate on this assignment, so if you’ll tell me who it is I’m looking for I can get right on the case.”
“Sit down, Walker, and I’ll tell you what you’re up against. I want you to find a woman. A conniving whore, to be exact. Belle Parker trapped my only son into marriage. She plied her trade at a local brothel, where she met my son. When young Tom announced his plans to marry the whore I flew into a rage. I tried to tell him she was after his money, but he wouldn’t listen to reason.”
Casey nodded sympathetically, committing McAllister’s every word to memory. He’d met plenty of whores in his life, some schemers, some honest, but Belle Parker sounded like a woman who knew what she wanted and went after it.
“Tom went ahead and married the woman against my wishes,” T.J. continued. “I promptly disowned him. Told him I wouldn’t acknowledge him until he got rid of the conniving bitch. I made it clear that he was being cut off without a penny. The young fool had more spunk than I gave him credit for,” McAllister allowed with a hint of admiration. “He got a job on a ranch and somehow managed to support himself and his wife without my help. By then the bad blood between us made it impossible for either of us t
o cave in. The little slut Tom married did a fine job of alienating my son and I.”
“Is your son missing?” Casey asked, growing impatient with McAllister’s rambling.
“I’m getting around to it, Walker,” McAllister groused. “A few months after they married, Belle gave birth to a son. I refused to acknowledge the child, even though he is my only grandson by my only son. You have to understand how bitter I was over Tom’s defection. I expected him to become disenchanted with the whore once he got his fill, but instead he had a child with her. I couldn’t find it in my heart to forgive him.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. McAllister, but you still haven’t told me the name of the person I’m to locate.”
McAllister gave him a blistering look and continued. “My grandson is five years old now, and I want him. The tragedy in all this is that my son drowned on a trail drive over a year ago. Now my grandson is being raised by a woman unfit to raise pigs. To my knowledge she still plies her trade somewhere. Belle Parker is a money-hungry bitch who knows I’d do anything to get my grandson. She doesn’t want the boy, I’d stake my life on it. She’s just holding out for the right price, and I refuse to barter for my own flesh and blood, or give that whore a penny of my money. The law is on my side. I have every right to take the boy from his mother and raise him properly.”
Walker thought it was rather late for McAllister to worry about his grandson’s welfare, but maintained his silence. He was in desperate need of the bonus the man had offered and didn’t want to risk losing this job.
“If the law is on your side, why don’t you just go and take the boy?” Casey asked.
“I wouldn’t need you if I knew where he was,” McAllister countered caustically. “His mother got wind of my plans and took him away. They’ve disappeared from the face of the earth. I’ve been searching over a year for him.”
“How old did you say your grandson is?”
“He’s five, and old enough to know that his mother is a whore who sleeps with a different man every night. I have to get him away from her before she ruins him. The boy is the last remaining McAllister. There is no one else to inherit my fortune.
“Allan Pinkerton said you were a top-notch detective. I hope to God he’s right. I want that boy, McAllister, and I’m offering an extra bonus of two thousand dollars in addition to your regular fee. The way I figure it, Belle will give up the boy with the right kind of persuasion.” He gave Casey a searching look. “You’re a good-looking man, I’m sure you’ve had experience with women. Find Belle, sweet-talk her, hell, bed her if you have to, promise her anything, if she’ll give up custody of the boy without a fight. After you find her, if you fail to convince her to give up the boy peaceably, I’ll be forced to do it my way. I have the law’s approval to take my own flesh and blood away from a woman like that. Hell, she even has a whore’s name.”
Casey’s heart pounded with excitement. Two thousand dollars was a helluva lot of money and he needed every penny of it. But something about the job stroked him the wrong way. Taking a child from his mother, whore or no, didn’t seem right. If Belle was willing to give up the boy, she wouldn’t have gone into hiding in the first place. Unless, he reflected, she was holding out for money, like McAllister said.
“You’d be doing the boy a favor by taking him out of an unhealthy environment,” McAllister persisted when Walker hesitated. “Tell you what I’ll do, bring that boy to me without creating a messy scandal and I’ll increase the bonus to three thousand dollars. I’d prefer to take the boy without a fuss. I don’t like the idea of dragging my name through the mud or digging up family secrets. Gossip can be cruel. I don’t want the boy to go through life known as the son of a whore.”
“Would you be willing to pay the bonus in advance, Mr. McAllister?” Casey held his breath. An advance of that size meant he could send the money to Simon Levy right away. The sooner the money was in the lawyer’s hands, the sooner he could post a reward for the missing witness.
“That’s highly irregular, Walker. How good are you? My own men have failed to turn up a single clue to Belle’s whereabouts.”
“Good enough to be counted one of Pinkerton’s best men. I haven’t lost a case yet, or failed a client.” Too bad he couldn’t say the same about his own situation, Casey thought glumly. He’d spent months looking for the missing witness, to no avail. Perhaps the reward and Simon Levy would succeed where he had failed.
McAllister thumped his fingers against his desk as he studied Casey, thinking that he did indeed look like a man who seldom failed. His ruggedly handsome features could have been carved from stone and his eyes were coldly dangerous. Though he carried only one gun in his holster, McAllister suspected Casey carried another beneath his jacket, and that he was a damn accurate shot. “Very well,” McAllister conceded. “You may have the bonus now. But I expect results, do I make myself clear? If you fail, the bonus is to be returned to me in full.”
Casey raked him with his cool gaze. “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” He uncoiled his lanky frame from the chair. “Give me the name of the whorehouse where Belle worked and I’ll be on my way.”
“Naomi’s Pleasure Parlor. But you won’t learn anything there. My men have already questioned the madam and all the girls.”
An easy smile played at the corners of Casey’s mouth. “If you don’t mind, I prefer conducting my own investigation.”
Placerville
Two weeks later
Casey rode into the mining town of Placerville at midday. Originally called Dry Diggin’s, the town’s name had been changed to Hangtown in 1849 after a series of grisly lynchings, but in 1854 the miners changed the name to Placerville to satisfy self-conscience pride. Now Placerville was an important mining center, surrounded by mines taking thousands of dollars a day out of the ground. While passing through Sacramento, Casey had inquired about Placerville and learned that the town had a couple of respectable hotels, a Wells Fargo office with weekly stagecoach routes, a post office, and numerous saloons.
Since Casey had no idea yet where to find Belle Parker, he headed down Main Street, looking for the hotel. At No. 543 Main Street he passed a store whose sign, weathered but still legible, proclaimed that the J.M. Studebaker Company once produced the best wheelbarrows in California at that site. A few doors down, Phillip Armour’s butcher shop and Mark Hopkins’ grocery store sat side by side.
Casey reined up sharply before the next building, staring at the cracked, hand-painted wooden sign posted above the door. The name, Isabelle’s Diner, captured his attention and he stared at it with interest.
After leaving McAllister’s office two weeks ago, Casey had paid a visit to Naomi’s Pleasure Parlor. As McAllister had predicted, the madam and her girls had steadfastly refused to talk about Belle Parker. Casey thought their protectiveness toward the woman extraordinary. No one claimed to know a thing about the former whore. The only useful bit of information occurred when one of the whores let slip that Naomi hadn’t received a letter from Isabelle in quite a while. The girl earned a stern look from Naomi.
But Casey wasn’t a Pinkerton detective for nothing. He paid for the services of the curvaceous whore named Pansy and accompanied her upstairs. It had been far too long since he’d bedded a woman anyway, and he decided to satisfy his yearnings while gaining a bit of information. Pansy had been so beguiled by Casey’s expertise in bed that his subtle questioning soon got her to reveal the location of Naomi’s room.
After satisfying both himself and the woman, Casey plied Pansy with liquor, and while she dozed contentedly, he slipped out of the room. Spying Naomi by the front door, greeting guests, he stealthily entered the madam’s room. In Naomi’s dresser drawer Casey found a letter from Isabelle Henderson. Evidently Belle had taken on a new name and identity. The letter said little beyond the fact that Isabelle and her child were both well and reasonably happy. The letter had been posted from Sacramento by way of Wells Fargo in Placerville. Casey had both a destination and a name when
he left the whorehouse a short time later. If McAllister’s men had an ounce of ingenuity, they could have ferreted out the same information he had.
Now, standing before Isabelle’s Diner, intuition told Casey that he was on the right track. Dismounting, Casey tethered his horse to the hitching post and entered the ramshackle building that appeared to have been one of the first built in the gold camp in 1848. The lunch crowd had already dispersed, and the large room set with trestle tables was empty but for one man, who sat nursing a cup of coffee.
A woman came out of the kitchen and smiled at him. “Can I help you, mister? It’s too late for lunch, but there might be a few leftovers in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
Casey returned her smile. Her voice appealed to him. It was throaty and soft, surprisingly arousing, and nothing like he’d expected. None of the whores he knew, and he knew plenty, had voices that made him think of bubbling mountain brooks and sighing winds.
It was more than her delightfully dulcet voice that made Casey think his intuition had failed him. This woman couldn’t be Belle Parker, the mercenary whore who had coerced McAllister’s young, naive son into marriage. This appealing young woman with rich brown hair, peaches-and-cream complexion, and wide brown eyes, was dressed conservatively in a serviceable gray gown covered by a large white apron. No woman who looked like Isabelle Henderson could possibly be a whore. He had expected to find a flamboyantly beautiful woman servicing miners sexually, not someone resembling the girl next door serving meals to them. Perhaps, Casey thought, this young woman was merely an employee, or not the same Isabelle Henderson he sought.
“Anything will do,” Casey said, taking a seat at one of the tables. “Whatever you have to hold me over till supper, miss.”
“It’s Mrs. Henderson,” Belle said, sizing the man up as a stranger in camp. She didn’t trust strangers. Being always on the lookout for her father-in-law’s men was beginning to take its toll on her. “I can serve you up a plate of beans and biscuits.”