A Wanted Man

by Susan Kay Law

  “Don’t think so,” Sam said. “Though I am a bit sorry I haven’t killed you already. Save me from having to listen to you yap.”

  “You don’t know who that is, do you?” Crocker chortled. “That’s Hamilton. And he’s made almost as much off of this place as I have.”

  “Hamilton?” Sam swung his gaze over.

  Worry darkened Laura’s eyes, drew her brows together, her mouth tight. But she did not fight the man’s embrace, leaning against him as if to draw his strength, welcoming his support.

  Back where she belonged.

  “Got here mighty fast,” Sam said.

  Hamilton nodded. He was barely half a head taller than Laura, with the round middle of a man who’d been hungry once and now could afford to indulge every craving. Power sat well on his broad shoulders, as if he knew that he could stroll into any place, any situation, and take command. “Hoxie cabled me as soon as he hit a town. Good man, that. Amazing how fast you can get out here if you’ve got the train to yourself and pay ’em not to stop. Especially if you offer extra to clear the tracks out in front of you.” He spoke mildly but his eyes were sharply focused, fiery with intensity. Exhaustion carved deep lines at his eyes, along his mouth. He probably hadn’t slept since he’d gotten word that Laura was missing, and Sam liked him for it.

  “Now that I’m here,” he said, “Laura, you want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  “Now, Leland, you know that—” Hamilton gave Crocker a hard glare that had him swallowing his words before they made it out of his mouth.

  “I’d rather hear it from Laura, Crocker.”

  “’Course you would.” He gave a sickly chuckle.

  “Father.” Laura straightened, turned to face her father, her hands knotted before her. The last three days had marked her. Her clothes were ruined, her hair snarled, her complexion pale. The only wonder was that her father was asking questions first instead of shooting every single person who might have been the slightest bit responsible for putting her in that state. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’d assumed it was.”

  “The important point is that Mr. Crocker—” Her hands twisted again, and Sam felt it as a physical thing, a pain that lodged high in his chest. He wanted to go to her, wrap his arms around her, and take her away from it all. “He was using these people as slaves,” she bit out. “He brought them here, kept them here under guard, and forced them to work in the mines. No pay, no escape.”

  “That true, Crocker?”

  Crocker made a show of jolly unconcern, but sweat streamed down his brow and dampened his shirt.

  “I had labor issues.” He tried to shrug, ended up twitching. “Kept wanting a raise, wanting shorter hours, wanting cages instead of baskets to get ’em down the shaft and all other kinds of expensive safety devices. You know how it is, Leland.”

  “I do?”

  “Sure you do! Easiest way to keep the profits coming is to cut the expenses. And I never heard you complaining about the profits.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “There you go!” He tried to stride forward, winced when Sam yanked his arm higher behind his back. “Could you tell this asshole to let me go?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Daddy, you can’t!” Laura cried. “He killed Sam’s friend. He tried to kill Sam, and he would have killed me. I’m sorry we worried you, going off like that, but it was important—”

  “I was hoping not to have to tell you this,” Haw cut in, a great gush of desperate words. “You know how it is with young ladies sometimes. Their heads get turned by the wrong men now and then, especially when their parents aren’t around to point out the lies. They get so blinded by those sweet words that they can’t even tell the truth when it’s right in front of them.

  Sam’s grip tightened until Crocker yelped and sank to his knees.

  Hamilton took Laura’s hand—he wasn’t letting her more than a foot away from him—and strode to stand in front of the platform. He was nearly level with Crocker and had to look up to Sam, but nobody would ever view it and think him subservient.

  The poker face for which he was famous was firmly in place. “You telling me my daughter’s lying to me, Crocker?”

  “Not lying, exactly.” He gasped out the placating words, breath shortened by the pain in his shoulders. “Who knows what lies he fed her? Had her pretty head in such a spin she’s got no idea which end is up anymore. You’ll straighten her right out once she’s out from under the influence of—”

  For a man approaching sixty, Hamilton still had a pretty good right cross. Crocker’s head snapped back, and Sam’s hold was the only thing that kept him from toppling right over.

  “For God’s sake, Leland!” His eyes watered, and blood trickled from his split lip. “We’ve known each other for damn near twenty years! Let’s go back to the ranch, have a whiskey, and sort this out by the fire.”

  Hamilton turned his attention to Sam. “If I leave my men with you to help, do you have what you need to sort this all out?”

  “I—” It was happening so fast Sam’s brain scrambled to catch up. Hamilton regarded him steadily, giving Sam a glimpse of what accounted for Hamilton’s immense success. He made up his mind quickly, acted decisively, and very few men could hold under that commanding gaze without quailing. Sam himself, who’d stood up to many in his day, had to force himself not to glance away.

  But then, guilt niggled at him, too, making it harder to hold Hamilton’s gaze. Sam had dragged the man’s daughter into danger. He’d lain with her, and anything that Hamilton did to him was no more than deserved.

  “You’re Duncan, aren’t you? You should be able to manage. Or is your reputation only that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I’m depending upon you to make sure justice is done here.” When he drew Laura against his side his expression softened. Baron Hamilton might be one of the most powerful men in the United States, but Laura was obviously the center of his world. “Mrs. Hamilton was feeling a bit peaked—nothing serious, dear—so I wouldn’t allow her to come along. We’ll wire her at the first opportunity, but she won’t rest easy until she sees Laura is safe and sound with her own eyes. So we’d best get back to Newport as quickly as possible.”

  “Leland!” Crocker tried one last time. “You can’t mean to leave me here with him. God only knows—”

  “Enough! I am a businessman, Crocker. Not a thief, not a bully, and most certainly not a slaver. I understand that many call me ruthless. And while it is true I have little sympathy for those who lose to me out of stupidity, arrogance, or their indulgence of their personal weaknesses, that is a far cry from taking criminal advantage of unfortunates. That, Haw, is not only cruel, it is simply lazy.” He spat out the word as if it were the worst epithet he knew.

  And then he steered Laura away.

  “Father, I—” She stopped, looked back at Sam, softness shimmering in her blue eyes. “Could we have a moment?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Alone.”

  “No,” he said cheerfully, continuing to hold her at his side.

  Not like this, Sam thought. He did not want to say good-bye to her with hundreds of people around, some moaning in pain, a few lifeless bodies being carried away. Not with her father looking on, waiting, listening to every word. Not with Haw Crocker at his feet with the stench of fear roiling off him like sweat.

  But what did what he wanted have to do with anything?

  I’m sorry. You’re the best woman I’ve ever known. Take care. Thank you. Thank you so much. Take care. Keep well. Have a wonderful life. Don’t forget me.

  I’m so very sorry.

  How could he say all that to her, show her, make her understand, without ever saying a word?

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” she said at last, lamely, her free hand jerking toward him, as if she wanted to reach for him but knew she couldn’t.

  She loved him. He didn’t know how he knew it; he just did, the awaren
ess embedded as deeply in his bones as if he’d been born with it.

  He couldn’t let it matter. Her father would take her back to the world she belonged in, and he would go back to the solitary life that had been forced on him so long ago. There was no other way.

  The morning sunlight, gray and weak, misted over her. He tried to catalog each feature, score them into his brain where he could keep the memories safe. The precise shade of her eyes, the angle of her nose, the way the corners of her mouth trembled. But then he realized he already knew them all. She’d found her place inside him long ago.

  He swallowed hard, struggling to keep his voice level. “I am, too.” Sorry about a thousand things. Most of all, sorry about saying good-bye to you like this.

  “Well. Then.” He watched memories well in her eyes.

  “Good enough,” her father clipped out. Obviously considering the subject closed, the problem handled, he turned his back and dismissed them, marching Laura toward the horses.

  Sam watched them go until his throat ached, and he had to blink rapidly. He turned to the nearest of Hamilton’s men, a giant in black with enough ammunition for a regiment strapped across his chest. “You are?”

  “Miller.”

  “Can you handle this one?”

  Miller smiled at the ridiculousness of the question. Sam shoved Crocker at him and turned to the other men. “Come on, then,” he clipped out. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter 26

  December

  Laura squinted at the canvas propped on the easel before her.

  Her studio was on the second floor of Sea Haven, at the back of the house, facing the cliffs and the ocean. It was supposed to have been her mother’s salon, centrally located at the top of the grand staircase between the two wings that rambled off in each direction. But the light was best here, and so here was where she worked.

  And that work was good, for all that she’d abandoned the panorama project. Better than good, the best she’d ever done. Though she’d probably never drum up the courage to show it to anyone.

  She’d painted Sam from the shoulders up. It should have been an absolutely proper portrait. But it seethed with sensuality. His hair was tousled, his eyes slumberous, his mouth relaxed as if just coming from a kiss. She’d gotten every detail, each tiny nick and scar, the way his left brow curved slightly higher than the right, and his nose hooked a fraction, the likeness so precise it had to be either painted from endless sittings or the artist knew her subject in intimate and besotted detail.

  There wasn’t a grown woman on the face of the earth who could view that picture and not suspect its creator had gone to bed with her subject.

  Sometimes, when working on it, the memories and the passion gripped her so strongly her hands shook and she had to stop and go on to something else to distract herself.

  There were a half dozen other portraits around the room, in various stages of completion, each on their own easel, awaiting her moods. Jo Ling, a moody piece, far more impressionistic than the rest, the background a seething swirl of red and black. A blooming Lucy, who’d finally forgiven Laura, her hair around her shoulders, a soft work in pastel colors and sweeping sunshine. Her parents, laughing and relaxed, a canvas she had promised him she would never show in public before his death, because it would destroy his ruthless reputation.

  She painted for the joy of it again, something she’d lost along the way, and she reveled in having it back.

  But even that wasn’t always enough. During the day, yes, while she worked furiously or visited with her family, she was happy. But at night, and despite her best efforts, her mood turned pensive and lonely. She wondered how long it would be, if ever, before she could drop off to sleep without feeling as if something was just wrong because he wasn’t there beside her.

  Outside, the wind blew in off the ocean, rattling the windows in the big French doors that stretched along the entire length of the room. Twin fires burned in the two fireplaces on either end of the room.

  It hadn’t snowed yet. But winter was threatening, the skies and the sea gray as pewter.

  She picked up her brush again. A bit more warmth in the eyes, she decided. It hadn’t been there when she’d first met him, his eyes cool, dark, and controlled, but—

  Noise burst in the front of the house. Thumps, the crash of a vase, wood splintering.

  And then “Laura! Laura!”

  Her stool tumbled over as she sprang to her feet and dashed toward the source of the sounds. The marble steps that seemed as wide as a stable, spilled down to the grand foyer. A chandelier nearly the size of a carriage spangled star-bits of light over the floor.

  A small table rested on its side, the shattered remains of a crystal vase strewn in a wide, glittering arc. The pink hothouse roses her mother favored were being ground to pulp beneath some very large boots.

  Four of her father’s biggest men struggled to drag Sam out of the house while he surged toward the staircase, shouting all the way. “Laura!”

  “What took you so long?” she asked, while her heart lifted inside her until she thought she might drift up to the chandelier.

  Her words froze everyone below her, a half dozen heads swinging in her direction.

  Sam grinned. He looked much the worse for the wear, hair sticking up every which way as if he’d forgotten how to brush it, his dark shirt ripped at the shoulders, his boots tracking mud across her mother’s gleaming floors. And he looked so wonderful she would have flown down the stairs and straight into his arms if she’d thought there was a hope in hell she would have made it there before her father got in the way.

  Leland Hamilton stood in the doorway to his study, frowning so fiercely the corners of his mouth were nearly below his chin. “Get him out of here right now.”

  The men pulled, heaving their weight into it like cowboys trying to move a stubborn bull. Sam kicked in one direction, swinging in the other. He connected with both, two men dropping to their knees, yelping.

  “Stop!” Laura shouted, and started down the stairs.

  The two men who were still upright, wrestling frantically to maintain their grips on Sam’s arms, looked to Leland Hamilton for confirmation. He jerked his head in the direction of the door.

  “Father, if you have him thrown out of here, I’m going to be right behind them.”

  “I don’t think it’d be much trouble to stop you,” he replied.

  “Then I’ll try again tonight. And tomorrow. And the next day. Is that really how you’d like the rest of our life to go on?” she said. “Not to mention which you’re making quite a mess, and if you insist upon having him bodily thrown out, it’s going to get a far sight worse. I’ve seen him in action. Mother’s going to be most unhappy with you if she loses any more furniture.” She flew down the stairs, gaining the floor. “What could it hurt to hear him out?”

  “It could hurt quite a lot,” he said darkly. “Move him,” he commanded.

  “I tried to do it the right way,” Sam called to her, panting, as they hauled him across the floor. “I tried to ask his permission first. I knew I should have just kidnapped you and been done with it.”

  Laura skidded to a stop in front of her father. “Daddy, he loves me. I love him,” she burst out. “You’re not going to be able to change that by throwing him out in the street.”

  “Well shit.” He scowled as if someone he trusted had just absconded with his entire fortune. “You love him?”

  She nodded.

  “Dammit!” he burst out. “Let him go. For now,” he added meaningfully. “Stay close.”

  The room fell quiet. Waiting, as she did. She heard footsteps behind her, the easy, confident cadence she could have picked out of an entire army. “Laura,” Sam said softly.

  Suddenly unsure, Laura closed her eyes while her heart pounded frantically in her chest. She’d blurted out that she loved him. Even more, claimed he felt the same without his ever having said one word on the subject.

  But he did. She knew he d
id. And if he did not understand that yet, well, she’d make certain he did soon enough.

  Sucking in a shaky breath, she turned slowly.

  Sam. Her Sam. He’d traveled hard to get to her. Lines of fatigue hugged his mouth, his eyes, and he’d lost some flesh. He hadn’t cut his hair since the last time she’d seen him, and he had at least three days of growth on his chin. No wonder her father wanted him out. He looked like the worst sort of outlaw, dangerous and utterly without conscience.

  But the light in his eyes took her breath away.

  “I love you, do I?” he asked.

  She swallowed. “Yes. You do.”

  He took a step toward her, his trembling hand lifting toward her cheek. “You always did have the best of me.”

  “Enough of that,” her father said, knocking his hand away. “I said you could talk to her. I didn’t say you could touch her.”

  “Shouldn’t that be up to me?” Laura asked.

  “No. It shouldn’t. Now, Duncan, I assume you got things sorted out in Utah.”

  His gaze never wavered from Laura’s. “Can’t that wait? I’ve got a few other things on my mind right now.”

  “You’re pushing my tolerance as it is.”

  He sighed, then spoke as fast as he could. “It took a while. The sheriff, the army, immigration. The government in Utah and in California—they all wanted their piece of it. Jonce is awaiting trial for Griff’s murder.”

  “Sam,” she said softly.

  “It’s okay,” he said. Later. Later, he would let her hold him while he said his own good-byes to his friend, then they could go on and live the life that Griff never had the chance to, and do it twice as well because they did it for him, too. “Crocker was convicted of deliberate violation of the Exclusion Act, transporting immigrants illegally.”

  “That’s it?” Laura asked.

  He nodded. The necessity of staying to testify at Crocker’s trial, arguing until he was hoarse for more charges, was part of what had taken so long.

  “They don’t care what he did to those people, only that he brought them here?”