by Robin Gideon
The Colt .44 was still in its holster at her right hip, close to her right hand. Pamela knew she could try to draw the weapon, but what good would that do? She could not possibly shoot her way out of the mansion. There were far too many armed guards. Even if she could make it to the grounds, she’d still have to get over the stone wall. Once the shooting started, she wouldn’t be able to climb over unnoticed, as she had when she’d entered earlier.
As disturbing as those questions were, Pamela could not ignore the fact that a man she did not know, one she had not really seen, was holding her closely pressed to his body. She felt the heat of his left palm against her ribs, touching her just beneath the rise of her breast. Because her back was pressed into him, she could tell that his stomach was flat and hard, his chest broad and powerful. From the beginning she’d realized her captor was a tall man.
“Just be calm,” the stranger whispered, bending slightly so that his lips were against Pamela’s ear.
When he straightened again, Pamela felt his pelvis against her backside. Was it intentional? She could not tell, though the touch of him was most disturbing.
Again, she grabbed the stranger’s left wrist and pushed down on it. But he pushed against her, pressing her even more tightly against him. His hand came up even higher on her ribs, now pressing against the taut lower curve of her breast.
“Don’t fight me or we’ll both swing from a rope,” the stranger whispered, his lips brushing Pamela’s ear as he spoke. “I’m not going to hurt you, but you mustn’t fight me.”
Pamela closed her eyes and released his wrist. He was right, of course. There wasn’t anything to be gained by fighting him, with the exception of putting some distance between her body and his.
Ignore him, she thought, struggling mightily to convince herself it was possible. Listen to what Jonathon Darwell is saying. He’s your real enemy.
Inside the bedroom, Jonathon Darwell sat at his desk. The judge and Andy Fields were seated on the oversized sofa. Each man held a drink from the bottle of fine cognac sitting on the table. Darwell was saying something about how good it was they were finally able to get away from the festivities long enough to be able to talk privately for a few moments.
As Pamela struggled to concentrate on what was going on in the bedroom, something behind her caught her attention. A faint breeze had swirled over the balcony, bringing the edge of a midnight-black cape into her peripheral vision. Her gasp of surprise was silenced by the hand still clamped over her mouth.
The Midnight Phantom!
She tried to turn in Phantom’s arms, but he held her tightly. She tilted her head, trying to look over her shoulder, not wanting to believe that her worst fears were true. At first the hand over her mouth prevented her from looking back, then her captor relaxed his hold and allowed her to turn just enough to look up at him.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said, smiling.
He wore a flat-crowned black Stetson, pulled low, and beneath that, a black mask over his eyes and nose. In the pale moonlight, when he smiled, Pamela could see that his teeth were strong, even, and very white. There was a dimple in his left cheek and in his chin a faint cleft. He wore a black cape that apparently came down to his ankles, and beneath that, though she could not see it, she was certain he was garbed all in black.
Pamela had not really believed the Midnight Phantom existed. She’d thought him a story created by bored journalists who had nothing better to write about and who were hoping to increase newspaper circulation. Now, seeing him, she could understand how the popular legend had taken the shape it had.
No wonder he was called the Midnight Phantom. Legend had it he could transform himself into smoke and then disappear into the night without leaving a trace or making a sound.
She turned away from him, her heart now beating faster than ever. The Midnight Phantom existed! He held her, at this very moment, captive, and all Pamela could think about was whether the greatest threat to her safety was in front of her in the form of Jonathon Darwell and the evil he represented or behind her in the form of the mysterious Midnight Phantom.
Now that she knew who held her in his arms, Pamela felt his touch even more acutely than before. The strength of Phantom had become fused with another element—the mystery of his manliness. An odd sensation passed through Pamela as she reflected on the power that compelled this man to do things even the bravest of men did not dare.
Very gently, Pamela touched the back of Phantom’s hand, the one covering her mouth. The hand did not move.
“You mustn’t make a sound,” Phantom whispered, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke. “Promise me that.”
She nodded. She would bide her time.
The hand covering her mouth released its pressure, hesitated a moment, then moved lower to rest very lightly upon her shoulder. But Pamela knew he could silence her again in a heartbeat if he wanted to.
The sensation of bondage Pamela felt, trapped between dangerous men was overwhelming, infuriating, and slightly erotic. She wanted to strike out, to attack these men who frightened her, but to do that would only put her in even greater jeopardy.
“I won’t hurt you,” Phantom whispered. “But you must remain very quiet. Jail cells are smelly, vile places, and I don’t intend on spending any time in them.”
Pamela could feel his lips against her ear, and she wondered if he was leaning into her a little more than he absolutely had to, letting them caress her ear more than was necessary. She felt his pelvis against the cheeks of her bottom and made very sure she did not rub against him in any fashion that could be construed as sensual.
Could she draw the Colt from its holster before he could stop her?
Pamela had heard the stories of Phantom being lightning quick on the draw, but she’d really never given anything concerned with the Midnight Phantom credence. Whenever a so-called bad man surfaced in Whitetail Creek, the gossipmongers always made the scoundrel out to be the fastest gun anyone had ever seen. And, almost without exception, there wasn’t a shred of truth to the story.
Bad men, criminals of one stripe or another, tended to be cowardly, Pamela believed. She’d heard enough stories of senseless murders, of violence, of rape, for her to know that criminals were not the types of men who fought face-to-face. They ambushed their prey, just as Phantom had silently ambushed her, grabbing her from behind.
The difference was he had grabbed her so she would not be caught by Jonathon Darwell’s untimely, unexpected entrance into his own bedroom. But if his intention had been to save her, why hadn’t he released her? Why was he still holding her so close that she could feel the heat of his body, his great strength, the life force that coursed through his veins?
In the bedroom, Jonathon Darwell laughed, drawing Pamela’s attention.
“You’re a wicked one,” Darwell said to Judge Robert Dahlmann. “I never knew you had that kind of mind.”
The judge leaned back on the sofa, smiling coyly. He sipped the cognac and glanced at the businessman, Andy Fields. “When Andy found out Mexicans had stolen the horses, it was pretty much fair game on all Mexicans as far as I was concerned. Before the whole thing was over, there’d been nearly a dozen lynchings.”
Andy Fields laughed, and Pamela thought he’d had too much to drink. “We lynched a Mex for every horse that was stolen.”
“You got involved in it yourself?” Darwell, leaning back in his chair, asked Fields.
Pamela noticed that Darwell brought the cognac to his mouth often, but sips were extremely small. He wasn’t as casual about this meeting as he tried to appear.
“Me? Nah! I don’t get into the lynchings myself, just in case somebody’d see me. There’s gonna be another election coming up, you know. I just let the voters know where I stand and urge them to do what they think is best.”
Judge Dahlmann was shaking his head slowly, as though he found the businessman-as-politician a buffoon, but a valuable one. Like Darwell, the judge was taking very small sips of his cognac, appa
rently careful not to let his intellect become dulled with liquor.
“This talk is all fine and good,” Dahlmann said, his tone changing slightly to indicate a man of considerable power, a man accustomed to giving orders and having them followed. “But it doesn’t get me what I came here for, now does it?”
Jonathon Darwell smiled. A crooked smile, Pamela thought. “No, judge, it doesn’t. I like a man who cuts the fat and serves only the prime.”
Suddenly, Pamela could hardly believe her eyes and ears as she watched Jonathon Darwell move over to his bed, hesitating a moment when he saw the portrait was not quite secured, then swing aside the portrait of his deceased wife. He spun the dial on his safe. A few seconds later he turned the handle and opened the thick, heavy steel door.
On the couch, Andy Fields was subtly craning his neck to see into the safe without actually changing his position. Judge Dahlmann was leaning back on the couch, his legs nonchalantly crossed, his demeanor one of a man in complete control of his life and his future.
“No wonder we can’t get any justice in this territory,” Pamela murmured.
She regretted saying anything instantly because the Midnight Phantom once again placed his hand over her mouth. This time, however, he did not clamp his palm as tightly over it, and for some reason, he lightly ran his thumb over her cheek. She closed her eyes for an instant, damning herself for speaking, wanting to push her captor’s hands from her body but not daring to do anything more to anger the man who now, quite literally, held her life in his hands. As he caressed her cheek with his thumb, she was more intimately aware of his pelvis pressing against her buns and his hand against her rib, pressing lightly against the undercurve of her breast.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw Jonathon Darwell hand the judge a small envelope he had taken from the safe. The judge removed three paper bills from the envelope, folded them in half, and handed them over to the would-be politician.
“Don’t spend it all tonight at Lulu’s,” Judge Dahlmann said sternly. “You show that much money at one time, right after you and I have been seen together, and people might start talking.”
“Don’t you worry about people talking, Judge,” Andy Fields said, draining the last of the liquor in his glass. “Anybody opens his mouth, I know just how to shut it for him.”
“None of that,” Judge Dahlmann snapped. His gaze became hard and unforgiving, and his jaw was thrust forward commandingly. This was a pose he’d used countless times to instill fear in the hearts of those men who stood before him in court. “Don’t draw any attention to yourself if you want me to back you in the next election.”
Fields frowned drunkenly, looking like a spoiled child who’d just been scolded. “Don’t worry ’bout me, Judge. I’ll go to Lulu’s and stay the night there. Won’t see anybody but my special gal.”
Judge Dahlmann nodded toward the door, and Andy rose a bit unsteadily to his feet. “Guess I’ll be moseying on,” he decided, making his way toward the door. “I’ll see me ownself out.”
Alone now, Judge Dahlmann and Jonathon Darwell exchanged smiles. They were, apparently, competent, capable thieves no longer needing to deal directly with one of the inferior, though essential, elements of their enterprise.
“Do you trust him?” Jonathon asked.
“I don’t trust anyone. Not completely, anyway. But he’s a good man for what we need done, and he has the gift of gab the common voters like,” the judge replied. “Andy Fields is a fool, but he knows his place, and when we make him territorial governor, he’ll listen to us and know who pulls his strings.”
Jonathon nodded. Pamela guessed that his thoughts about Fields went along the lines that such men, though displeasing to be near, were necessary to carry out profitable deals and still keep one’s hands unstained by the blood spilled.
A moment of silence passed as the two men simply looked at each other. There were many things that had to be said, Pamela sensed, and though these two were willing to smile at each other, they weren’t willing to trust each other.
Finally, it was Jonathon Darwell who broke the silence. “Do we know any more than last week?” he asked.
The judge shrugged. “Nothing definite. I’ve asked my questions when I’m at the courthouse. Nothing unusual about a judge asking questions of the marshals and sheriffs in courts now, is there?”
“What have you learned?”
There was an edge to Jonathon Darwell’s voice that hadn’t been there before, Pamela noted. She didn’t know him well enough to determine whether impatience was wearing at his nerves, whether he simply did not like the judge, or whether it was something else entirely.
“Like I said, nothing definite. If he makes a move, I’ll hear about it though, and when I do, I’ll let you know.”
“Do that,” Jonathon said, the edge to his voice this time more pronounced, dangerous, and undisguised. “We’re in this together.”
“I know that, Jonathon. I’ve never forgotten that.”
“Don’t forget how much of my money has gone straight from that safe”—Jonathon nodded toward the portrait of his deceased wife—“to your pocket.”
For several seconds the judge, his gaze hard and cold, stared straight at Darwell. Pamela thought if she were in the judge’s courtroom and he stared at her that way, she would shiver in her boots.
“Yes, Jonathon, I’ve profited by our association but never forgot that you do not pay me out of the goodness of your heart. You pay me because I earn my money. If it were not for me, Richard would be spending his days and nights in a cell in Yuma instead of living here, fat and comfortable. And if it were not for the strings I pulled on your behalf just this spring, you wouldn’t have been allowed to reroute that creek near the Pellman range. When you rerouted the water, you destroyed Pellman’s pasture, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. But I had no choice. I needed the water.”
“So did Pellman.” Judge Dahlmann rose to his feet, setting his nearly full glass of cognac aside. “I only say this to illustrate the fact that our association has been profitable for both of us. We’re experiencing a little trouble right now, but it is minor trouble. As soon as I get more information, either you or I can assign men to it, and the problem will disappear as completely as if the Midnight Phantom had never been born.”
Pamela’s breath caught in her throat as the Midnight Phantom’s arm tightened unconsciously around her. A moment later the grip loosened, but she understood he wasn’t as fearless as she’d thought. He had a healthy respect for the power of Jonathon Darwell.
Darwell nodded, still leaning back in his chair. It was rude of him not to rise with the judge leaving, and Pamela suspected this was his way of showing that he was still the man in control, still the boss.
Moments after the judge left the room, there was a soft knock at the door, and a dangerous-looking man in his early twenties entered. He had a long, ugly scar on one cheek, which he seemed to bear with pride, and he looked like a man who enjoyed inflicting pain. Pamela trembled in Phantom’s arms.
At precisely that moment, from the room next to Jonathon Darwell’s, a young woman’s high-pitched laughter cut through the night air. A moment later, Pamela could see from their position on the balcony that a lamp had been lit in that room, and the sounds of laughter soon became more pronounced.
“Get down,” Phantom hissed in Pamela’s ear. “Get down on your knees.”
She was relieved when he took his hand from her mouth, but the relief was short-lived. In the next moment he pulled her down and removed her trusted Colt from the holster at her right hip.
Hearing the soft, distinct metallic sound of the Colt’s hammer being thumbed back to firing position, she thought frantically, I never should have expected I could get away with this!
Chapter Three
Cursing silently, Garrett got down on his knees, keeping the young blonde woman close to him. He tossed his black cape around her to conceal their position as Angie Darwell’s laughter contin
ued.
For several weighty seconds, Garrett was afraid that Angie would step out onto her bedroom’s balcony, dangerously near them. If he were seen, then what? Shoot it out with the men guarding the mansion? Garrett could picture the headlines in next week’s paper. Midnight Phantom unmasked! Local lawyer caught breaking into charity hospital celebration he cosponsored!
The laughter suddenly died away, and Garrett didn’t have to look into Angie’s bedroom to guess what she was doing so quietly.
He eased the Colt’s hammer down, shifting his position just enough so that he could tuck the weapon into his belt.
Keeping a grip on his captive, he turned his attention back to Jonathon Darwell’s bedroom. Though the name escaped him, Garrett recognized the man who’d entered as a hired killer. The scar-faced gunman was sitting quietly on the sofa while Jonathon read some papers at his desk.
Garrett turned his attention to the young woman kneeling on the hard balcony. Tall and broad-shouldered for a female, she was strong. He shifted his position slightly to get a better look at her honey-blonde hair, her classic profile with the rather Romanesque nose, her wide, sensual mouth. He remembered the woman’s name.
“Pamela,” he whispered.
She turned her face to him, her pale-green eyes wide with shock, but she said nothing for a moment. In the moonlight, Garrett found her strikingly beautiful, and this rather surprised him, since his taste in women tended to run toward petite brunettes rather than tall blondes with a propensity for wearing Levi’s and carrying a Colt.
“You know me?”
“Not really,” Garrett replied quietly. “Just stay quiet and I’ll get you out of this.” He used the flinty tone often written about in the Whitetail Creek Journal and which so effectively masked his own voice.