by Robin Gideon
“Soon.”
A little voice inside Pamela warned her that she should leave it at that, that she shouldn’t try to pin Garrett down to anything more definite. But another voice, the one of that less secure woman who had just shared her passion in a most uninhibited manner with Garrett, spoke up and demanded, “When, Garrett? Don’t just say ‘soon.’ I deserve more than that.”
He bent to plant a light kiss on her forehead. “You deserve everything. I’ll be back very soon. Tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. And if I’m not back by then, I want you to ride to the ranch and demand to see me. Make a scene. Shout and scream. Threaten to burn the place down.”
Under normal circumstances, Garrett was not a man given to hyperbole, so his statement had special meaning for Pamela. She could not help but smile.
“And won’t you be surprised if I do just that?” she said at last.
“Not at all,” Garrett replied.
She pushed his hands away from her face and stepped into the circle of his arms once again to press her cheek against his chest. “Tonight was special for me,” she said softly.
“It was special for me, too.”
Pamela wanted to say she was in love with him, but she just didn’t dare. Not when he was about to leave. And despite the words he’d just spoken, there really was no guarantee he would ever return. In fact, if he wanted to bar her from the ranch, she’d never get past the high-arched stone gates.
“Yes, special,” Pamela said at last, her cheek against the fine fabric of Garrett’s shirt, her ear picking up the smooth, even beating of his heart. She loved the feel of her sensitive nipples against his shirtfront.
Garrett wondered if his feelings for her were what love really was. If so, what could he do about it? Despite the contempt he occasionally professed for politics, he could not ignore Pamela’s family history, which would get plenty of print in the newspapers. He couldn’t protect her from those headlines. And he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t bothered because she wasn’t the type of woman the voters expected at the side of their next mayor—or territorial governor.
He thought of many good reasons why this affair with Pamela wasn’t fundamentally different from any other he’d had, with the exception of Pamela’s lower social status.
But the others had been different. Pamela wasn’t fatuous and frivolous. She was vibrant, forceful, a little angry, wildly passionate, daring to a fault.
“I have to leave now,” Garrett said firmly, as much to himself as to Pamela, extricating himself from her arms. He turned away from her. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
“Turn around and you can see me one last time,” she said.
The impish quality in her tone, the flirtatiousness she was beginning to master, made it impossible for Garrett to do anything other than what she said.
He turned slowly, standing just outside on the narrow porch. Pamela was leaning against the doorjamb in what, had she been dressed, would have been a most casual pose. Legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded just beneath her breasts, her hair disheveled from hours of lovemaking that at times had been frantic, at times tender, she looked miraculously innocent.
Except that she was naked. Had she been a wildly insatiable princess from some obscure country, a woman with countless virile young slaves to see to her every desire, she would have looked perfectly natural.
Garrett admired those magnificent pink-tipped breasts, the sweeping curve of her hips, the smallish triangular thatch of pubic hair above the delicate lips of her pussy, and those long, strong legs that could hold so tightly on to him.
“I just wanted to give you one last reminder as to why you shouldn’t stay away too long,” Pamela said, a kittenish curl to her lips.
In a soft voice, Garrett said, “I’m doomed.”
“Haven’t got a prayer.”
Closing the door, Pamela had no idea that she’d managed to do what no other woman had—she’d had the last word. For her it had been a little teasing, for him, it was the breakdown of resistance. What difference did background and status make?
* * * *
Exhausted from lack of sleep, from lovemaking, from the emotional turnaround of believing she’d lost Garrett and then her helping him to attack the business of Jonathon Darwell, Pamela nonetheless knew that she wouldn’t soon be able to sleep.
Thank goodness Jedediah was gone. What would have happened if her brother, still employed by Jonathon Darwell, had been around?
She wasn’t as frightened as she originally had been. Though Jedediah was an extraordinarily skilled bounty hunter, Garrett now knew he was after him. Fortunately, Jedediah didn’t know who the Midnight Phantom was. This was an advantage that Garrett could use to his advantage.
A pleased smile curled Pamela’s lips. She and Garrett had shared that tiny bed. Neither had complained about lack of space. The feel of his warm, naked body against her had made the little bed just right.
Remembering her chores put a momentary frown on her face. At night, she’d been riding with mask and cape to thwart Jonathon Darwell, but during the day, she still had to feed the cattle and the six hogs. There was time for everything except sleep, it seemed.
About to go to her bedroom, she heard a horse approaching. The hoofbeats were slow and uneven. In her mind, Pamela pictured Garrett tapping his heels to his horse’s ribs, then reining back to turn around. He didn’t want to return to her, but he had to.
“I knew you couldn’t leave me,” she said, her grin broadening triumphantly.
Still completely naked, she wondered how to appear for Garrett at the door. Perhaps the nice white nightgown? No, he’d already seen her in that. Her meager wardrobe provided her with limited options, so she would greet him exactly as he’d left her—with a smile on her face and open arms.
She went to the door and took off the locking bar so Garrett could let himself into the cabin. For at least a little while, she would pretend to be surprised that he’d returned to her. Outside, the horses—Garrett’s horse and the trail horse he’d brought for her to use—had stopped.
Pamela waited, standing near the door. The seconds ticked by, and still no knock came, nor did Garrett burst into her cabin to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bedroom.
What was taking him so long?
Perhaps he lingered outside, angry with himself for lacking the willpower to leave, yet wanting to kick the door down.
Then, at last, boots thumped across the porch, the crude latch on the door was raised, and without a knock, the door was opened.
“I knew you couldn’t leave me,” Pamela said, victory ringing in her tone.
When Garrett stepped into the cabin, clutching onto the door for support, she saw that his face and shirt were soaked red with blood. Blood streamed from a cut over his eye, and his lips were cut and swelling.
When he collapsed in her arms, she was too frightened even to scream.
Chapter Twenty
Regarding the three men, Richard kept the smile from his face, though he was overjoyed with their work. These hands—illiterate hired thugs who two days earlier had been paid to watch cattle—were making no effort to hide their pleasure, however.
“We did just like you said,” Jack, the leader of the three, said. “We beat him bad, but we didn’t kill him. He won’t be going nowhere soon.”
“You’re sure you didn’t leave him to die?” Richard inquired. Personally, it wouldn’t have bothered him if Garrett Randolph had been killed, but for now that wasn’t the plan. Besides, it wasn’t what he’d hired these three men to do.
“No, sir. We got him back up on his horse and headed back to his whore’s house,” Jack answered.
Richard reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out his wallet. He extracted a stack of ten-dollar bills and peeled them off slowly, handing each man three, one at a time. Then he paused, smiled at the men, indicating he was a leader and realized that capable talent was sometimes hard to find, and gave each man an ad
ditional twenty dollars.
“The extra twenty is to see you get out of town,” Richard explained.
“Out of town? You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout us having to hightail it,” Jack said.
“That’s right, I didn’t. But you should know that a man as powerful as Garrett Randolph might well hire someone like Jedediah Bragg to track down the men who beat him. Now do you really want to be around when Jedediah rides up and tries to arrest you?”
One of the younger men unacquainted with Jedediah Bragg’s lethal reputation grumbled, “Let him come. I’ll have him runnin’ with his tail between his legs in two seconds.”
Jack looked at him and said quietly, “You’d be dead in one second.” He then turned to Richard. “How long you want us gone?”
“Three months should do fine,” Richard answered. “You’ll still have a job here when you return. Do yourselves a favor and don’t spend all that money in the first week.”
When the men left him, Richard’s spirits were so exuberant he could hardly contain himself. Garrett Randolph had been beaten bloody! It had cost Richard just a hundred and fifty dollars to have it done. Looking back, Richard wondered why he’d never had it done before. Garrett had certainly been a thorn in his side for a number of years, yet Richard had never openly struck back. Until now.
He checked his pocket watch. A little past eight o’clock in the morning. He wanted to rush to Angie’s bedroom to tell her the news, but she’d crucify him if he did that. There was a standing order at the ranch that Angie Darwell simply wasn’t to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever before noon.
Too restless to stay in one place, Richard decided a quick trip to Lulu’s was in order. One of her girls could smooth the rough edges off his desire. Then later, around noon, he’d go to Angie and tell her what had been done. She would be overjoyed; he was certain of it.
Richard wondered which revealing nightgown Angie had worn when she’d gone to bed, and he quickened his pace on the way to the stables. Yes, Lulu’s was definitely the place for him to be.
* * * *
“You idiot! You worthless jackass! You stupid, fat slob!” Angie screamed, flying about her bedroom, completely unmindful of how her breasts were bouncing beneath the sheer nightgown.
Richard stood with his back to the door, not quite knowing what to say or do. Of all the reactions he’d thought his sister might have to the news that he’d had Garrett beaten, this wasn’t it. He had anticipated her sashaying around her bedroom in just her nightgown. Hell, that was half the reason he’d waited until the downstairs grandfather clock chimed noon before rushing to her room—but he hadn’t figured she’d be so angry.
“How could you have done such a thing?” Angie demanded, stabbing his chest with a forefinger. “Don’t you ever think?”
Richard swallowed his anger. “You were the one who came to me and said you wanted him beaten up. I only did what you asked. I thought you’d be grateful. You said you’d be grateful.”
Angie shot Richard a scathing look. “Don’t remind me of what I said.” She inhaled deeply, obviously forcing herself to be more composed. “There is no undoing what has been done,” she said aloud but to herself. “Tell me the whole story once again.”
Richard explained that he’d hired Jack and two other cowboys, giving them explicit orders to beat Garrett soundly but not kill or maim him. Since Garrett and Pamela had become lovers, the men had waited for him at the Bragg cabin, lying in ambush amid the trees. At sunrise, when Garrett had headed for his home, Jack and the other two had jumped him, punching him in the face and kicking him in the ribs repeatedly. Finally, they had tossed him back onto his saddle and headed his horse back toward the cabin.
Angie, shook her head slowly, astonished at her brother’s stupidity.
“Now Garrett’s face is all cut and bruised, and he’s in some goddamn woman’s bed,” Angie snapped through clenched teeth. “I didn’t want his face damaged, damn it. And, more than that, I didn’t want him in some whore’s bed. What good’s that going to do me?”
“But I thought you wanted him beaten up so that he had to stay in bed,” Richard said softly, still not quite understanding why what he had done was so wrong.
“Yes, but I didn’t want his face hurt!” she screamed. “And the only whore’s bed that man should be in is mine. Mine, damn it, mine.” The red glint in Angie’s eyes was homicidal. “Get out of here. Get out of my sight, goddamn you.”
Softly, Richard said, “You promised you’d be nice to me if I did this for you.”
“Nice? To you? I’d rather fuck every unwashed cowboy in the bunkhouse than be nice to you.”
* * * *
Two full days had passed since Garrett had collapsed into her arms. Actually, it had been fifty-four hours since she’d thought her entire world had suddenly come crashing to an end.
He was sleeping now in her bed, his face cleaned of blood, a bandage over the left eye. His cut upper and lower lips were still swollen where a fist or a boot had connected savagely.
Pamela leaned against the doorjamb of her bedroom. Garrett’s arms rested at his sides, the light blanket pulled up under them.
For hours she had watched his chest rise and fall as he breathed shallowly, and many times her heart had leaped in her chest when she’d thought he’d stopped breathing.
Who did this to him? she wondered, consumed with anger. Nothing had been taken from Garrett—not even his heavy gold pocket watch, which would certainly be worth the better part of two hundred dollars, its Swiss craftsmanship, diamonds on the hour stops, and intricate engraving testimony to its excellence even to the most untrained eye.
It was a good thing the men hadn’t robbed him. Had they bothered to go through his saddlebags, they would have found the cape and mask of the Midnight Phantom.
Pamela’s first inclination was to blame Jonathon Darwell. She tended to blame him for everything that went bad. But she realized she was biased. Besides, Darwell, from what Pamela had learned, was more inclined to make his problems disappear entirely. If he’d suspected Garrett was the Midnight Phantom, Garrett would be dead now.
And why would he have done this to Garrett anyway? Though the two were enemies, they had been able to maintain an appearance of civility, as witnessed by the work they’d done jointly on behalf of the charity hospital. Besides, Garrett’s identity as the Midnight Phantom was still a secret…or was it?
Pamela thought long on this. Finally she decided that Jonathon Darwell couldn’t possibly know Garrett was the Midnight Phantom. If he did, he wouldn’t have hired men to give Garrett a beating, he would have hired assassins.
So what was she to do now?
Take care of Garrett and protect him from the human vultures ready to pick his bones.
Vivid memories came back to Pamela of her recent confrontation with Angie Darwell. A day earlier, Angie had arrived in a carriage with several men to take Garrett to her mansion in Whitetail Creek. She assured Pamela that the finest physicians would tend to his wounds.
“He’s staying with me.” Standing in the doorway of her home, Pamela had refused to budge, even in the face of Angie and the gunmen she’d brought, and she was unimpressed by the ornately appointed carriage intended to take Garrett into town.
“Why should he stay in this drafty shack?” Angie demanded derisively. “I can give him everything he could want. What can you provide for him?”
Clearly, Angie would offer more than medical services to Garrett. The look in her eyes told Pamela that.
“Just get away from here,” Pamela whispered. “Get off my land. I can take care of Garrett.”
Angie tossed back her head, her eyes flashing with anger and condescension. “Sure you can. At least, you think so. But I know Garrett. I know the kind of man he is. You’d better learn some fancy tricks pretty quick if you want to keep his attention for very long.”
Those words and Angie’s look of scorn had been burned into Pamela’s mind, and no amount of time would
erase them.
Damn Angie Darwell! Damn her to hell!
Pamela turned away from the bedroom. She didn’t want to be so close to Garrett when such anger was in her heart, afraid that somehow her emotions might affect him adversely even as he slept.
She went to the kitchen area. Garrett would be waking soon, and he’d be hungry. When Paul Randolph had ridden over to check on his brother, he’d brought with him enough food to sustain ten people for several weeks.
“If there’s anything you need, just ask,” Paul had said. “Don’t hesitate for a second. If you need the doctor out here again, let me know. I want him to have everything he could possibly desire.”
Pamela had smiled her thanks. She liked Garrett’s brother. Though Paul’s inclination had been to take his brother home, he’d acquiesced to Pamela’s wish to take care of Garrett. However, so that Garrett’s presence wouldn’t be “any great financial burden,” Paul had sent a wagon loaded with supplies over.
What would it be this morning? Ham and eggs, with fried potatoes on the side? Yes, Garrett enjoys that. But perhaps before eating he’ll want to wash up a bit. He’d complained of needing a bath the last time he’d awakened.
Pamela set about putting water on to heat. As she did this simple task, she thought of what the future held. Not much, she sadly concluded. However much she hated Angie Darwell, the fact of the matter was the woman was dead on the mark about her superior standing in Garrett’s world. Pamela had been granted this time alone with Garrett to tend to his cracked ribs and his battered body, but these circumstances would never be repeated.
Don’t think about it, Pamela told herself. Since she could not change the past, and had little control over the future, she would make the most of these days with Garrett. And watching his extraordinarily rapid recovery, she knew she had best savor every second because soon her time with him would run out. The voters demanded a mayor, and they wouldn’t accept one without a wife, but that wife had to be from the right family, from the right class.