by Robin Gideon
Who was he?
Tossing his cape to the side, he extended a hand down to her. She took it, slipped her foot into the stirrup, and then mounted his horse. Her arms eased around Phantom’s waist, though she knew it was dangerous for her to touch him.
“My mare is over there about a half mile,” Pamela said, pointing.
They traveled in silence, Pamela dealing with personal thoughts and private demons. Pamela was distinctly aware of the heat of his body. Touching her, it warmed her blood.
Was he angry with her for having cast him aside when they had been in Whitetail Creek? she wondered.
He had given her extraordinary pleasure with his hands and his kisses, making her climax with such force that the orgasmic contractions had almost been painful. She had not reciprocated in kind. He had asked her to untie her chemise so that he might kiss her breasts, and she had refused him that, too. But why had he insisted she be the one to untie the chemise? His hands had proved sufficiently skilled to accomplish such a mundane task. Why had he insisted she do it?
“Stop thinking about it,” Phantom said then.
A hot flush of embarrassment went through Pamela. Could he actually read her thoughts? Did he really know she recalled every second of the excitement that had been hers when he’d kissed her too-responsive, traitorous body?
“Thinking about what?” she asked, trying to sound innocent but sounding guilty as sin.
“About stealing the payroll. You’ll never get away with it.”
Pamela breathed a sigh of relief. The Midnight Phantom wasn’t as perceptive as she thought he was. She was grateful for that, for she now was able to think of him as fallible and far more human. This prompted her to once again consider her original goal for the evening, which was to hit Jonathon Darwell where he would feel it the most, by stealing his money.
“We’ll see,” she said after a moment.
“Stealing is a mighty poor way of making a living.”
“I told you it’s not for myself.” She clenched her teeth for a moment. “I hate it that you doubt me.”
When they reached Pamela’s mare, she quickly dismounted from Phantom’s stallion. She needed to think more clearly than she could when he was close to her. Whenever silence had stretched out between them, her thoughts had headed in a decidedly sensual direction, and that was a situation she did not appreciate.
“Go home,” Phantom said softly, the two words tinged with anger. “You’ll only get yourself in trouble if you try to break in there. Let me do it. I’ll get the payroll, and I’ll bring it to you.”
Pamela sensed that, in his true identity, Phantom was a man accustomed to giving orders and having them followed.
“Why do that?” she asked, her hands on her hips. “If you steal the money, you should keep it for yourself.”
“You really gave the money away, didn’t you?”
Pamela was shocked. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “I told you I wasn’t stealing it for myself.”
“I guess I should have believed you.” Phantom grinned then beneath his mask. “I’ve been helping people on the sly, too.”
“You, too?” Pamela muttered softly. “We seem to be working toward the same goal. Wouldn’t we be helping each other if we worked together?”
The statement was a shocking one for Pamela to make. She’d always been taught by her brother that the only person she should trust was herself, that if she took a partner, she’d end up getting cheated in one way or another. Jedediah always worked alone, and in whatever endeavors Pamela pursued, he warned that she would do well to follow his example.
“No.”
The single-word denial shocked and irritated Pamela. She changed tactics instantly.
“Fine. I’ll work alone.” She tossed a leg over the back of her mare and eased into the saddle, muttering, “I work best alone anyway.”
“You’re not going after Darwell, damn it!”
“You’re not going to tell me what to do, damn it!”
“Are you always this stubborn?”
She shrugged. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Then I suppose the only way I have any hope of keeping you out of trouble is to keep you with me,” he said, shaking his head slowly. He looked heavenward. “How did this happen to me?”
Hearing the words coming from his own mouth was surprising. He’d always felt that compromise, at the very least, was partial failure.
Pamela smiled at him. “Perfect. Now how are we going to break into Darwell Cattle #3? There’s a lot of money in there just waiting for us.”
* * * *
The more Phantom thought about it, the worse it seemed. Having Pamela with him was bad enough. Having Darwell’s guards on duty made it even worse.
And what if the payroll money wasn’t in that office, as Pamela had predicted it would be?
“You’ve got doubts,” Pamela said softly. “I can see it in the set of your mouth.”
Phantom smiled wryly. She was an extraordinarily perceptive woman in some ways, but in others, she seemed so daft it was confounding.
“Of course I’ve got doubts,” he at last replied. “I like to plan my moves in advance. Mistakes are made when you’re forced to act in a hurry, without knowing all the facts. In case you’ve forgotten, what we’re thinking of doing—”
“What we are going to do.”
“—is anything but well thought out.”
They were moving into position on the bluff so that they would be looking down on Darwell Cattle #3. Pamela had been in favor of simply moving in a crescent direction around the guards and then going straight to the payroll office, entering through a window. A little voice inside Phantom’s head, however, had warned him that danger waited at the end of that particular trail.
So they had circled wide around the payroll office and its surrounding buildings. Tethering their horses far from the encampment, now they were standing at the treacherous Fugina Bluff, looking down at the buildings.
“What do you think?” Pamela asked, looking at the roofs of the buildings. She couldn’t see any guards positioned on them, but then she hadn’t spotted the two sentries stationed in the scrub grass either. So now she sought Phantom’s opinion.
He remained silent. He didn’t know what he thought. The payroll office was down to his left, and it would be easy enough to move slowly and quietly down the bluff. Once inside the building, there was the safe to open. Darwell had chosen a Barns & Bradley safe for the mansion, and he probably had one here, too. Phantom was reasonably certain he could open it, knowing the single flaw in the safe’s design.
So why, when he should feel confident, was that little voice of warning refusing to quiet down?
He squinted into the darkness, searching the shadows and moonlight below, struggling to see the danger his instincts and intuition told him was there. The pale yellow light that came from the few lamps glowing within the bunkhouses offered little help. The faint, warm evening breeze carried the occasional sounds of laughter and revelry coming from those cowhands who had already made it to the bunkhouse and were waiting for sunrise to get their pay.
In addition to the two sentries hidden in the scrub grass outside of camp, Phantom could see two more—one on the roof and one on the ground—outside what looked like an auxiliary bunkhouse. No guards stood outside the payroll office…and that just didn’t make any sense, not if that was where Darwell was keeping the money until it could be distributed the following day.
“The money’s not in the safe,” Phantom said aloud.
Pamela moved a little closer to him, looking into his eyes. “How do you know?” she asked quietly.
Phantom looked at her, stunned once again by her allure, especially when she was making no effort at all to be appealing. He immediately cast the thought aside, forcing himself to concentrate on the gun-toting guards below.
“Darwell wants us to think the money is in the payroll office.”
“Right,” Pamela replied, her tone indicat
ing that anyone who thought Jonathon Darwell wouldn’t keep the payroll in the safe was irrational.
“But he also knows that I opened his safe at home, doesn’t he? And he’s got no reason to believe I couldn’t get into his safe here.”
“Right. I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“So if he’s got the payroll in the payroll office, why is there a guard on that rooftop over there and another guard on the ground, when that building itself seems to be unused?”
Pamela looked at the building he’d pointed out. After a moment, she was able to spot the guards he’d indicated. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her mouth, and her respect for Phantom took another giant leap forward.
“The payroll office is a decoy. The money’s in that building, isn’t it?” she asked. She found it difficult to whisper because of the burst of excitement going through her.
“That’s my guess. He tried to trick us, and it would have worked if he hadn’t hedged his bets. That’ll cost him the payroll.” He looked into Pamela’s eyes and, at that moment, wanted very much to kiss her. His throat felt tight as he said, “That’s my guess. What do you think?”
“I think you’re a genius,” Pamela replied.
Phantom looked away, not wanting her to see how greatly the comment pleased him.
She’s just a girl, he thought. She’s very young, very impressionable.
They made their way down the bluff slowly, careful not to dislodge any rocks that would roll down and announce their presence. The sliver of moon cast only a little light, but this helped them. The guards were alert, but they were anticipating that the Midnight Phantom would approach from the south and would head for the payroll office.
It wasn’t long before Pamela and Phantom were pressed against the side of the darkened bunkhouse. Listening to the footsteps of the guard on the ground as he walked slowly back and forth, Phantom motioned for Pamela to stay where she was. Then he moved away from her, his boots silently touching the ground. He disappeared around the corner of the building, and Pamela quietly placed her hand on the grip of her Colt, her heart racing. She was now more afraid for Phantom’s safety than for her own.
In the darkness, she heard a dull thump. It sounded like flesh striking flesh. Just that sound then nothing else. Overhead, she continued to hear the soft tapping of the guard there. The man was absentmindedly tapping his boots against the roof. The cadence of the tapping didn’t change at all, and Pamela breathed a sigh of relief, confident that she alone had heard the thump.
A moment later Phantom returned, a too-confident grin on his too-kissable lips. On the tip of his finger dangled a large key ring. Without saying a word, he went to the side door, tried several keys, and then swung the door open. With a bow and a theatrical sweep of his arm, he indicated that he wanted Pamela to enter first.
She waited until he’d closed the door behind them before she hissed, “You’re absolutely incorrigible. Aren’t you afraid of anything?”
“Of course I am. Only a lunatic knows no fear. I just don’t let my fear stop me.”
Pamela wanted to be angrier with Phantom than she was. But when he smiled like that—and his words, in some strange way, made a certain amount of sense—she just couldn’t maintain her anger toward him.
Within the building, Pamela could barely see, but under the circumstances, she didn’t dare strike a match. Apparently intended to be used only once a month, the shed was poorly built, with holes in the walls that let glimmers of moonlight in.
Phantom managed to make his way around, though she did hear the telltale thunk of a shinbone striking a wooden chair and the muffled curse that immediately followed it.
“Over here,” Phantom said.
Pamela followed the sound of his voice, her hands groping before her in the darkness. She still couldn’t see a thing, and when strong fingers closed around her calf, just beneath the knee, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She was glad that she’d put her Colt back in the holster, or she might have accidentally pulled the trigger.
Phantom was on his knees on the floor, and as soon as Pamela composed herself, she got down beside him.
“What is it?” she asked, feeling something on the floor in front of him.
“A strongbox. The payroll’s in here.”
“How do you know?”
“The room’s almost empty. Who would put a locked box in a vacant building then station armed guards outside if there wasn’t something very valuable in that box?”
Pamela was beginning to realize she still did not have the ability to think like a thief. Inexperienced as she’d proven to be, she realized she would have to learn very quickly to think like a thief or she would have to stop being one.
It was as simple as that.
“Here. Light one of these when I tell you,” Phantom whispered.
His hands surrounded hers. He had shoved a handful of sulfur-tipped wooden matches into her palm, and now their fingers touched for a moment longer than was necessary. Once again the now-familiar tingles went through Pamela.
Wasn’t she ever immune to the thrill of Phantom’s touch, not even when danger was all around? Or did the danger heighten her pleasure? Before she could give this much thought, Phantom asked her to light a match.
The flare of the burning match was blindingly bright in the dark bunkhouse. Phantom had closed his eyes tightly until the sulfur had burned away and only the wood was aflame.
She kept blinking until she could focus. When at last she could see clearly again, she noted that he had out his little leather kit, the one that looked so much like a cigar case. The strongbox was sturdily built, its lid secured with an enormous lock. Phantom was deciding which particular instrument he should use to pick that lock.
When the match burned down almost to her fingers, it was Phantom who blew out the flame before it singed her fingertips.
“You have beautiful hands,” he whispered in the dark. “When the match burns away, just blow it out and light a new one. Whatever is inside the strongbox isn’t worth burning your lovely fingertips for.”
Pamela lit another match, but her thoughts were not centered on what she was doing. Rather, she was thinking about Phantom’s comments. He had the most peculiar way of making her feel absolutely precious and feminine.
At least thirty to forty cowboys would come to this station to receive their monthly pay, which, as Pamela had heard, ranged from twenty to thirty-five dollars a month. For that kind of money, she’d gladly singe her fingertips by holding a match too long.
Several matches later, Phantom opened the old, heavy lock and raised the lid of the strongbox.
“Oh, my,” Pamela exclaimed when she saw the thick stacks of paper money.
Phantom was not so easily impressed. He picked up one of the stacks and fanned it with his thumb, scanning the denominations. The bills were all small ones, designed to appear hefty to an illiterate cowboy and to feel good in his pocket. The strongbox looked as if it contained a fortune, but Phantom guessed there was no more than fifteen hundred dollars in it.
Jonathon Darwell had not become a wealthy man by paying his employees any more than he absolutely had to.
“We’ll split it up later,” Phantom said, shoving several more matches into Pamela’s palm.
She watched as he took the bundles of money and began stuffing them into the pockets of his trousers and inside his boots. He opened his cape to reveal several more pockets into which he stuffed stacks of money.
“It’s not nearly as much as it looks,” he said, his pockets now bulging as Pamela lit yet another match.
“I can carry some,” Pamela volunteered.
Phantom grabbed a stack of money and reached for her, about to shove the bills into the breast pocket of her shirt. Had she been a man, the move would have been perfectly innocent. But she wasn’t, and the powerful response each had to the other could never be denied. For several seconds, Phantom’s hands hovered near Pamela’s breast pocket, so very near the br
easts he had kissed through her chemise, the breasts she had refused to reveal to him by untying her chemise as he’d requested—as he’d demanded.
As they looked at each other for what seemed an eternity, the match burned down to Pamela’s fingers. She gasped softly, shook it out, and lit another. But the gap in time had destroyed the moment of sexual tension between them.
“Hurry,” Pamela whispered, cupping the match in her hands to allow the light to be seen by Phantom, yet shielding it from the many cracks in the rickety building.
Phantom carefully dipped a single finger into Pamela’s breast pocket and then with his other hand stuffed a stack of money into it. It didn’t take long before all the money had been removed from the strongbox. And though it shouldn’t have pleased or aroused him as much as it did, he was glad that she had trusted him enough to allow the money to be placed in her pockets, and had allowed him to feel the warmth of her breasts, however fleetingly, against the backs of his fingers.
“Let’s go,” Phantom whispered.
Pamela blew out the match. She sensed rather than heard him stand and, for an instant, tried to see him but could not. Only inches from her, in his dark clothes, ankle-length black cape, black mask, and black Stetson, the Midnight Phantom was absolutely invisible.
As she got to her feet, Pamela wondered whether she could make just such a cape for herself and melt into the night like a mythological creature of no more substance than smoke.
She reached for him blindly, yet in that total darkness their hands met as though Phantom knew she needed him then.
It felt so natural to have her hand in his, Pamela realized, though she knew she should never voice this thought. He was the Midnight Phantom, a man who did not trust her enough to reveal his true identity to her, and she was Pamela Bragg, a poor woman—a tomboy, some said—out to destroy Jonathon Darwell, a man who would in all likelihood destroy her for her efforts.
“What’s wrong?” Phantom asked.
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
“Are you sure? I thought I felt something.”
“It was nothing. Let’s go,” Pamela replied. But she was already wondering if Phantom could somehow read her thoughts through her touch, and if he could, what other thoughts—thoughts of an infinitely more intimate nature—had he been able to sense?