by Delynn Royer
Ever since foiling her escape yesterday, Cole had been wrestling with the elusive feeling that he had met her somewhere before, but that had to be his imagination. He would never forget that face.
"So, what's your game, Shepherd? Poker? Three-card monte?"
Cole glanced down just in time to see her cut the deck three times, square up, then flip over the top card. Ace of spades. Of course.
"I don't have a game, Miss Pierce."
Those dazzling blue eyes turned on Cole full force. "Everyone has a game."
Cole folded the Topeka newspaper on his lap, closed his eyes, and rested his head back against the soft bolster seat. "I don't play games unless the odds are in my favor."
"Or unless an assignment demands it of you. Am I right?"
"That's right."
She stage-whispered to her brother. "In other words, he's a skinflint."
Cole let the taunt pass. Having picked up its best speed by now, the train traveled over straight, flat track. The constancy of motion and the steady clicking of the wheels began to seduce him into sleep.
"We don’t have to play for money, Shepherd."
He cracked one eye open. She wore a cunning smile. Oh, that lovely mouth. It was just too darned bad she was a crook, too darned bad that those kissable lips were so adept at lying. "What would you have us wager?"
"Oh, I don't know." She tapped a corner of the deck on the table, pretending to think, then she batted her eyelashes at him. "How about, if you draw the winning card, my brother and I promise to behave ourselves for the rest of the trip?"
"And if you draw the winning card?"
"We get off at the next stop."
"Not likely, Miss Pierce."
She sniffed and turned away. "You know, over the span of four long days, you're liable to 'Miss Pierce' me to death."
Cole straightened up in his seat with a sigh. It was clear she wasn't about to let him have any peace. "Would you prefer I call you Gwendolyn?"
"Why would you do that?" Arthur asked. "That's not her name."
"Really?" Cole was surprised. "That's the name in your file at the Agency."
She arched a brow. "Your precious file is wrong."
"Her name is Guinevere," Arthur said.
"Guinevere?" Cole looked back at her with interest. "Like in—"
"Yes," she said curtly.
Arthur wasn't daunted by his sister's annoyance. On the contrary, he appeared delighted. "She was named after Queen Guinevere of Camelot."
Guinevere sank down in her seat and scowled out the window. Cole winked at her brother. "Then you must be none other than King Arthur himself."
The boy beamed. "You bet!" He scooted to the edge of his seat and plunged one hand deep into the side pocket of his overalls. "And this," he announced, proudly displaying a ratty-looking slingshot, "is Excalibur."
"I thought Excalibur was a sword."
"You thought wrong, Mr. Shepherd."
Cole couldn't help but like this kid. He was bright, ingenuous, and had a good sense of humor. "Ah, I see. I'm honored to be in such royal company."
Guinevere turned back abruptly. "Could we just dispense with all this nonsense and get down to business?"
"We don't have any business to get down to, Guinevere," Cole said.
"No one calls me that. My name is Gwin. Maybe our mother believed in fairy tales, but I certainly don't."
Cole appraised her. "No? You mean, you don't believe in 'once upon a time'?"
"No."
"Not princesses in white towers, not knights in shining armor?"
"Certainly not," she said.
"Not even happy endings?"
"Especially not those."
"As you say, your ladyship."
"My brother has a big mouth. I suppose now we'll have to put up with your feeble attempts at humor all the way to San Francisco." She threw Cole a shrewd look. "That is, if we make it that far."
"Oh, we'll make it that far," Cole assured her.
She didn't answer him. Cole looked over in time to catch Arthur's sudden change in demeanor. He was biting his lip and looking expectantly at his sister, all traces of good humor vanished.
"What's the matter?" Cole asked.
The boy didn't look away from Gwin, who pointedly ignored him. "Gwinnie? Why don't you tell him?"
She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the featureless prairie that passed outside the window. "He wouldn't believe us anyway, Arthur, so just save your breath."
Arthur turned back to Cole. "You're not such a bad guy, are you, Mr. Shepherd?"
"I suppose that depends on who you talk to about it."
The kid forced a weak smile, but it dissolved into another worried frown. "If you take us back to San Francisco, they're going to try to kill us, just like they did the others."
"What do you mean, 'they'?"
"I mean—"
Gwin reached across the table to grasp her brother's wrist. "No."
The boy gave her a pleading look before continuing. "I mean, the ones who killed Silas and the others."
"I thought there was just one man," Cole said.
Gwin released her brother and sat back. "There was just one man."
"And you both saw him."
"No. Arthur saw him. I didn't get a good look at his face, but I'd sure recognize that voice again if I heard it."
"Well, together, you can both still identify him. You can testify at his trial, and that'll be the end of it. He won't be able to hurt you or anyone else again."
Gwin shook her head. "It's not that simple. The man they arrested is not the same man who killed Silas."
Arthur nodded soberly to confirm his sister's words.
"And did you tell this to the authorities?" Cole asked.
Indignant anger sparked in Gwin's eyes. "Of course we told them! That's when the trouble started."
"Wait a minute. Back up. What trouble?"
Arthur pushed up in his seat. "I told them, Mr. Shepherd. I told them that the fella they had in jail wasn't the one who shot them. I saw the man who shot them, and he was a giant. Big as Goliath himself. Swear to God. I saw that giant's face."
Cole eyed Arthur dubiously. A giant? Wasn't Arthur too old to be making up stories about giants? Cole looked back at Gwin. "I don't understand."
"Well, understand this, Pinkerton man. They told him to look harder and to think about it. They said maybe he would change his mind, and when he didn't, they said, 'Look, kid, it was dark that night. How can you be sure of anything you saw?' And then, when he still wouldn't change his mind, this one detective, he took me aside and said to me, real quiet so nobody else could hear, 'You better talk to your little brother, miss, cause things might start to go hard on the two of you if your story doesn't begin to make more sense. '"
"Are you saying they were trying to force him to make a false identification?"
Gwin folded her arms neatly. "Aren't you smart? No wonder you work for a famous detective agency."
Cole ignored the sarcasm. "What you're telling me doesn't make any sense."
"It didn't make much sense to us either, but we got the message loud and clear. Either we identified Cortez as the killer or we would be considered suspects ourselves."
"That's not so unusual. I'm not saying that you had anything to do with it, mind you, I'm just saying that as the only two survivors, it's normal procedure for them to include you in their list of suspects."
She rolled her eyes. "That makes about as much sense as two turkeys strutting up to the chopping block on Thanksgiving Day. Who do you think reported the murders in the first place?"
Arthur interjected eagerly. "It was after I told them that they had the wrong man that they tried to kill us!"
Cole held up one hand. "Who is this 'they' you're referring to?"
"We don’t' know," Gwin replied. "Someone took a potshot at us outside our hotel. Two nights later, someone tried to break into our room. That was enough for me. If we waited much longer, we'd end up eith
er in jail or dead."
Cole studied Gwin's face. There was no indication that she was lying; then again, lying was her specialty, wasn't it?
Doubtful, he looked away only to catch the eye of an attractive blonde in the next compartment. She smiled at him, and he had the passing thought that she looked like Cynthia.
Cole had always prided himself on his ability to size people up, but he had soon discovered, fresh out of college and newly inducted into the New York City Police Department, that when it came to women, he had a lot to learn.
He had met Cynthia and had soon, like a fool, grown incapable of thinking with anything but that which riseth below his belt. For six months, he'd fancied himself in love with her. He had been so bowled over by that pretty, lying face, he had managed to overlook the small fact that she was married. Hell, she wasn't just married, she was married to a Tammany Hall-backed city councilman. In allowing himself to become involved with Cynthia, Cole had taken a chance on destroying his career before it could get started. And for what?
"I love you, Cole. I love how you touch me. Make love to me, Cole." He had believed her. Perhaps he should have been a little suspicious of the fact that the prim and proper Cynthia Ferguson had shown him a few surprising tricks in bed. Then, he'd gotten word that his father was ill, and he had taken a leave of absence to travel back to Kansas. His father had died a week later, leaving him alone in the world. Except for Cynthia, of course.
Cole hadn't given much of a damn about his career at that point. He returned to New York planning to ask Cynthia to leave her philandering husband and marry him. Instead, he'd returned to find that he'd been quickly replaced in Cynthia's affections. And her bed. Women. He had learned a hard lesson about them. They smiled when they lied.
Cole looked back now at Guinevere Pierce. She wasn't smiling. As a matter of fact, her chin was tilted up, challenging him. Cole challenged her back. "And so that's why you ran? That's why you don't want to go back to San Francisco?"
"When someone shoots at me, I don't stop to ask questions, I run."
"Gwin, you're asking me to believe that the San Francisco Police Department has conspired to convict an innocent man and to murder you and your brother, and even you can't offer up one good reason why."
Gwin held Cole's gaze as she addressed her brother. "See, Arthur? I told you he wouldn't believe us. They all stick together like glue."
Cole didn't bother to refute her statement.
After a long, tense moment, she picked up her deck of cards and resumed shuffling. She changed the subject in a cool tone. "So, Shepherd, from what I've seen so far, you don't smoke, drink, or swear. Now you tell me that you don't gamble, either. What is it that you do do?"
Arthur tucked his magic slingshot back into his pocket. He kicked the table leg and eyed Cole solemnly from beneath the brim of his cap. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Cole settled back and closed his eyes, trying to ignore that dull, steady, accusatory sound. All at once, he felt very tired. "What I do, Miss Pierce, is my job. That's all."
She didn't answer and Cole didn't open his eyes for a long time. He listened to Guinevere Pierce shuffle her cards and thought about the ridiculous story that she and her brother had just tried to foist on him. What was their angle? Did they hope to gain pity? Did they think Cole would actually let them go free before they got to San Francisco? Crazy. They were crazy as loons if they thought he was going to buy into some farfetched con story about murder conspiracies.
Chapter Four
San Francisco, California
"Mr. Ringo here tells me that our two little pigeons have boarded the eight forty express. They're due to arrive here in less than a week."
Sidney Pierce, better known these days as Phineas Taylor, stood facing the tall, polished glass window behind his desk, his back turned to his two guests. The view of San Francisco from Nob Hill was breathtaking, but Sidney wasn't feeling appreciative at the moment. He was a man in a hole, a deep hole. It was a hole that included obsequious servants, massive bank accounts, and an elegant mansion, but a hole nevertheless. It was a hole that he had eagerly helped dig for himself, and he saw little chance of clawing his way out of it at this late date.
He turned to face the man who had just spoken, his longtime business associate and lawyer, Jasper Barnes, whose squat, thick body sat mashed into an upholstered chair facing Sidney's desk. The little man puffed on a fat Havana cigar and smiled at Sidney.
Jasper Barnes always smiled. He smiled when he was happy. He smiled when he was nervous. He even smiled when he was angry. That smile, that face, even by the most generous of hearts, could only be described as ugly, but the brain that hummed inside that misshapen skull was something akin to financial genius.
"I still don't agree with how you handled this. When they left town, that should have been the end of it," Sidney said.
Jasper's eyes gleamed like a pair of obsidian marbles, indicating to Sidney that the smile he wore now did not bode well. "But they could always come back, and that is a loose end we cannot afford to leave untied."
Sidney rued the day he'd gotten involved with Jasper, but it was a little late for regrets. Sidney had been playing the Big Game for quite some time now. He had been born to play the Big Game. It was one of the reasons he would have left his brother, Silas, in the long run anyway. Silas had never thought big enough. He had never looked beyond the moment. Silas, unlike his ambitious younger brother, had been incapable of playing the Big Game.
It was only a few years after Sidney had struck out on his own for the West Coast that he had been drawn to Virginia City. It was there that he met Jasper Barnes and they hit it off right away. Each had seen in the other a missing key to future success. Indeed, Jasper had recognized and articulated Sidney's special talents immediately. "There's something about you, Sidney, something rare and divine. Without being aware of it, people can smell it on you. They're attracted to you. They want to follow you. You've got charisma. We can use that, Sidney. We can use that in a big way."
Jasper had used the right word to capture Sidney's attention. Big.
Sidney hadn't realized then what high stakes the Big Game entailed. The big game was business. Politics. The cards were dealt: money, power, favors, graft, bribery, corruption, vice, even murder. Sidney had learned to close his eyes to the last.
He pressed both palms down on the gleaming surface of his mahogany desk and leaned forward. "This is not a loose end. This is my niece and nephew. They're family. Can't you understand that?"
"I understand that they're the offspring of a brother you despised and a woman who betrayed you." Jasper jabbed his cigar at Sidney. "You told me that story yourself, remember?"
Oh, yes, Sidney remembered. He remembered all too well that night in New Orleans when he discovered his brother and the woman he loved in a passionate embrace. The sight had cut into him like a cold blade. Some men would have drawn a pistol in jealous rage, but Sidney was not one of them. He had chosen instead to turn his back. He had caught the first ship headed for California.
Sidney looked down now at his hands, hands that had, without him noticing until now, grown old. The tiny web of skin between his little finger and ring finger had been a part of him since birth. For years, he had looked through it, barely realizing it was there. Now, the thin membrane flared before his eyes, reminding him that his own father had been afflicted with the same deformity.
Family and blood, blood and family. How often had Sidney's father drilled it into both of his sons' heads? You never betray family. But Sidney had severed the last of his family ties when he'd left Silas in New Orleans. Now, because he had not foreseen Jasper's knee-jerk reaction to a bad situation, Sidney felt indirectly responsible for his own brother's murder.
Jasper cut into his black thoughts. "Enough with the guilt. Your brother tried to blackmail you. He deserved the fate that was dealt him."
"I told you I would take care of it. You panicked."
"If he had exposed your past, you w
ould have been ruined. We all would have suffered."
"It was a mistake," Sidney insisted.
"Well, that's all water over the dam. Now we have Mr. Ringo here to consider. He's been compromised. After so many years of faithful service, are we to just leave him to twist in the breeze?"
Sidney observed the subject of Jasper's inquiry, the third party in the room who had remained typically silent. Mr. Ringo now perused the various pieces of medieval weaponry mounted on the wall opposite Sidney's desk. While they were only a small part of Sidney's collection, they were the most rare and valuable pieces, and Sidney winced as the big man reached to take down a silver seventeenth-century mace from its wall rack.
Normally, Sidney would have requested that his guest refrain from fondling his collection, but the laconic Mr. Ringo was not a man he wished to offend. He measured an impressive six and a half feet tall. With arms as thick as stovepipes, Mr. Ringo could no doubt snap a man's neck with one hand.
Jasper blew a perfect smoke ring. "The boy saw his face. That is a problem that will not resolve itself. And it's not only Mr. Ringo's security that's on the line, it's ours. There are people who know of his association with us. We cannot risk the possibility that he'll be indicted on murder charges."
Sidney forced a smile and turned his palms up innocently. "But it won't ever come to that, Jasper. Don’t you see? The boy doesn't want to testify. He ran away with his sister."
"The boy's father was blown to kingdom come before his eyes. Even if he's too frightened to testify now, who's to say his feelings won't change when he grows older? Mr. Ringo was only following orders. It's not fair to him or any of us to leave him exposed. If he goes down, we all go down."
Sidney glanced uneasily at Alphonse Ringo. The big man had just been following orders. Jasper's orders. His loyalty to Jasper was as certain and unmovable as a mountain.