by Robin Gideon
Angie was pleased. Her father’s color and disposition had at last returned to normal, and he sounded pleased with her for calming his temper. She wanted him to owe her.
“And now that I’ve got Jedediah on the Phantom’s tail, it’s only a matter of time before he’s hanging from the end of a rope.”
“Any man Jedediah Bragg captures doesn’t hang from the end of a rope, he just gets buried,” Angie said as she crossed the room to pour herself a cup of coffee. “But the Midnight Phantom isn’t the only problem we’ve got.”
“Oh?” Jonathon replied, unaware of how solidly Angie was inserting herself into the situation.
“There’s also Richard,” she said. As she turned to her father, she consciously schooled her expression to indicate that she didn’t like having to tell the painful truth, but it simply had to be put out in the open. “He’s been…I don’t exactly know how to say this, and in fact it might be completely in my imagination…but he’s been bothering me lately, Papa. Often.”
“If you didn’t run around in just your pretties, maybe he wouldn’t bother you.”
“Would you say the same thing to Richard?” Angie asked. There was no hesitation because she had this all well rehearsed. “Of course you wouldn’t comment on what little he wears, not even when his robe is open and his belly is hanging out.” She looked away as though terribly offended. “What you just said makes me feel I’m somehow to blame.”
Angie went to the office window and looked out, pleased with her performance thus far.
“It’s my house just as much as it is his,” she continued, after a suitably theatrical pause. “I shouldn’t feel as though…as though I need a lock on my bedroom door just to keep my own brother out.” She turned eyes that begged for understanding to her father. “He even hired some of the boys to beat up Garrett Randolph. He did this because he knows I want to be with Garrett when he moves into the governor’s mansion.”
Jonathon’s brows furrowed with confusion. “But Richard’s known all along that you intend to marry Garrett. Everyone in Whitetail Creek knows that.”
“Yes, Papa, that’s true. Only now it’s something more than that, and you know it. Garrett’s a lock for mayor, but that’s just a stepping stone.”
“What’s your point?”
She hadn’t anticipated that her father would question her reasoning. That worried her since she’d always believed she could exercise more control over him than now appeared possible.
“You know how much money could be made by having me inside the governor’s mans—”
“What’s your point, Angie? I’m the one who taught you the profitability of family political connections,” Jonathon said a bit testily.
“I think Richard wants me. Maybe he was trying to impress me by having Garrett beaten—you know Garrett went sniffing after that little whore, Pamela Bragg—or maybe he had it done because he knows I want to be with Garrett, and he’s jealous.”
“I don’t know…” Jonathon looked away from his daughter. “That just doesn’t seem much like Richard. He’s not a bright man, but he’s never really been attached to anyone or anything. Other than himself, that is.”
Icy fear stabbed through Angie. Her teasing and tormenting of Richard had produced his insistence that she follow through with her veiled agreement, but she had always assumed that her father would unquestioningly take her side and then give Richard a stern talk or, even better, kick him out of the mansion. She simply assumed he’d get sent to New York or San Francisco or anyplace where he could drink beer and indulge himself with the prostitutes he so enjoyed. Either way, Angie hadn’t anticipated Jonathon questioning the validity of what she claimed.
“Whatever you think is best, Papa,” she said meekly, her heart racing. “I just thought you should know. You know I tell you everything.”
She left the room before Jonathon could ask her any more questions.
* * * *
Pamela was sitting on the porch, sipping a cup of coffee, leaning back and feeling good about life. In the days that had passed since Garrett had been attacked, his recovery had been astonishingly swift and very soon would be nearly complete. Earlier in the day, Doc Jamison had stopped by, and his professional assessment of Garrett’s recovery confirmed Pamela’s. The stitches over Garrett’s eye were removed, and it didn’t seem as though there would be much of a scar. Garrett’s own assessment was that there was no reason in the world for him to stay in bed when there was so much for him to do, but every time he’d tried to get up, Pamela pushed him back into bed. When he still resisted, she reissued Paul’s threat of putting him into Doc Jamison’s private clinic in Whitetail Creek until he completely recovered from his wounds.
Pamela knew Garrett wasn’t yet the man she’d known. Not by any means, no matter what he said. His strength and stamina hadn’t returned, though he was now getting up for his meals and was walking around on occasion. His appetite was nearly normal, though, after eating, he was always tired.
Still, Pamela was comforted to see the twinkle of mischief return to his eyes, to have to dance out of his reach as she passed by, to feel a naughty hand on her buns or brushing her breasts. He even teasingly promised that it would never happen again—as he was reaching for her!
Once having learned she could satisfy his desires without forcing him to strain his already damaged body, Pamela had become positively insatiable. Despite Garrett’s protests, always variations of “I’m too weak to fight you,” she enjoyed her newfound sensual skills. And Garrett found them delightful.
Out of the corner of her eye, Pamela saw movement. In the distance, riding on horseback over the crest of the hill and through the tree line was Angie Darwell.
Pamela’s anger flared at first. Angie was an outrageously determined woman, and this time, without carriage or bodyguards, she seemed prepared for a fight. Pamela wondered whether Angie’s change in mode of transportation had to do with her suspicions concerning what kind of woman Garrett found most beguiling.
As Angie approached, the long, white plume in her small hat became visible. Pamela smiled. How fitting for a preening peahen to have a feather in her cap. But then, how ridiculous she looked in her gray wool jacket, frilly white blouse, and matching oversized skirt, made especially voluminous to accommodate riding a horse.
Pamela rose to her feet. This kind of confrontation would be met standing.
“I see you’ve come alone this time,” she called out as Angie reined in her gelding, stopping aggressively close so that dust swirled around the porch and Pamela.
“I’ve come to talk to Garrett,” Angie stated sharply. The implication was clear—she did not wish to speak with Pamela.
“He’s sleeping.” Pamela’s pulse quickened, but she ignored that. For some reason, Angie didn’t seem quite the threat she had earlier. “Come back another time.”
Angie Darwell scowled at her, dismounting despite Pamela’s instructions.
“You’ve had your fun,” Angie said, standing very close. Her posture indicated she was secure in her superior breeding and in her ability to intimidate. “It’s time for Garrett to get back to his own kind.”
A smile crooked Pamela’s lips. “His own kind?” She enunciated each word with disdain. “Let me guess, you’re included in that select group, but I’m not.”
Angie rolled her eyes. “Look, you know society just as well as I do. Frankly, I don’t resent Garrett for stepping out of his own circle for a while. I understand that men like him need to, um, experiment. It’s in their blood, and women of my class simply have to accept and understand that.”
Angie put her foot on the porch, and Pamela took a step sideways to block her path. For an instant, when their gaze locked, an unrestrained hatred moving between them.
“Know your place,” Angie whispered malevolently, clearly indicating she meant violence if her demand wasn’t accepted.
“This is my place,” Pamela replied, refusing to back down an inch. When she saw the shock in Ang
ie’s eyes, her confidence soared. Then, to prove that she had teeth and claws of her own, she added, “And Garrett’s in my bed.”
Though Angie took two steps backward, she quickly regained her composure. Still, she’d been staggered by Pamela’s blunt declaration.
“Garrett’s been in many beds,” she returned, theatrically drawling out the words. “So that hardly puts you in exclusive company.”
Pamela would not take the bait. She said, “Yes, I’m aware of the past. The difference is I know something you don’t.”
Angie’s mouth twisted into a sneer, which distorted her cultivated beauty. “What could that possibly be?”
“I know what Garrett’s future is.”
Angie laughed bitterly. “Not likely, darling. You’re an amusement to him, a temporary diversion. You lack the staying power he will need. You lack the experience.”
Intimating Pamela lacked the sexual skills necessary to truly satisfy Garrett had struck an open nerve the first time Angie had done it. Now Angie’s claim appeared absurd. Too many times in the recent past Pamela had seen a look of astonishment and absolute sexual satisfaction in Garrett’s eyes for her to believe the accusation.
“You’re right if you think I haven’t slept with as many men as you have, but you’re wrong about something.”
“And what might that be?”
“I don’t doubt for a second you know how to satisfy a dozen different men night after night after night. Even a dozen times in one night. But I know how to satisfy Garrett.”
Angie stared into Pamela’s eyes, expecting her to back down. When she didn’t, her fear—an apprehension like her father’s, that people were beginning to lose their fear of her—became stronger. She didn’t know what to say to Pamela, or what to do about her. She just wanted the impoverished sister of the dangerous bounty hunter to disappear without a trace and, once gone, to evaporate from Garrett’s memory.
Suddenly Garrett stepped into the open doorway. He was barefooted and shirtless, wearing only his trousers. There was a bandage around his ribs.
“She’s right about that, though she’s exaggerating,” he said quietly, looking straight through Angie. “A dozen times in a single night would kill me.”
Garrett had been standing near the doorway long enough to hear Angie’s comments, which sent his contempt for her to dangerous levels.
Angie was so stunned by Garrett’s bald admission she couldn’t even react. Did he really prefer the company of a commoner like Pamela Bragg?
“You must have gotten kicked in the head harder than you first thought,” she said, struggling for some version of a smile. “Garrett, surely you must realize—”
“That I wish you hadn’t come here? Yes, I realize that, Angie,” he said, cutting her off. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my bed. I’m not one hundred percent recovered yet, but I’m getting there.” He paused and looked at Pamela. “With her help.”
He turned then and disappeared into the cabin, leaving Pamela smiling.
“I’ll get you for this,” Angie whispered, positioning herself sideways on the horse. “Trust me, bitch, you’ll wish to God you’d never done this to me.”
“I didn’t do anything. You’ve brought this all upon yourself,” Pamela replied, but she knew Angie didn’t hear because she was already riding away.
* * * *
Angie was grateful for the long trip back to Whitetail Creek. She had so much to think about. Sitting easy in the saddle, she allowed both her horse and her mind their own easy pace.
There was just no way around it. Pamela Bragg had to die. But if it were discovered that she had put a bullet in Pamela’s back, Garrett would despise her. If he hated her, how could she be comfortably ensconced in the governor’s mansion? She’d mistakenly planned to draw nearer to Garrett by having him assaulted, and that plan had backfired, thanks in great measure to Pamela.
Angie realized that, however Pamela was dealt with, the plan must be well conceived to avoid another failure.
As she rode along, memories of Pamela’s defiance so enraged her that she actually trembled. The woman had changed, becoming strong in a way that Angie had never dreamed was possible for the common-born. Worst of all, Garrett found her strength admirable, yes, even pleasurable. Why was he, of all people, willing to spend so much time in that miserable little shack? Why not have Pamela stay at the ranch?
Angie knew she didn’t understand any of this, but she did know the wife of the territorial governor had virtually limitless power within the territory—and she would be the woman who held that power. Anyone who stood between her and that power would be eliminated.
And there was Richard to think about. Angie had pandered shamelessly to his lust in order to get Garrett beaten up, but then she’d given her brother nothing for his efforts. Not that he really deserved anything. He’d injured Garrett’s face. Even if she’d forgotten to mention avoiding damage to it, Richard, dim though he was, should have figured out that she didn’t want Garrett’s good looks marred.
What was she to do about Richard? About Pamela?
Angie sighed wearily, thinking that her father had become obsessed with the Midnight Phantom. Well, she had worries that were much more pressing than having some silly ledger stolen.
And then it hit her. In a single moment of brilliance, she realized that she could get rid of her two most pressing problems—Richard and Pamela—at the same time and, in the process, probably earn Garrett’s esteem.
* * * *
Garrett was sleeping, and would until morning. He’d overdone it when he’d tried to playfully wrestle with Pamela then had required laudanum against the pain from his broken ribs. The laudanum always knocked him out for hours.
“Sleep well, my darling,” Pamela had whispered, looking down at his large form, which dominated the bed and, in fact, the entire cabin.
She bent to gently kiss his forehead then straightened and tiptoed toward the door.
With the sun down and her black cape around her shoulders, the silk mask ready to be placed over her eyes, Pamela was about to strike out at Angie. The heiress thought she could intimidate Pamela into walking away from Garrett without a fight, and she was so mistaken.
Before leaving the cabin, she had checked the load in her revolver then had returned the gun to its holster. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to use the weapon, but she didn’t want to be caught unprepared.
She walked outside into the night.
Let’s see, where should I strike tonight? she mused. The Darwell mansion in Whitetail Creek? No, much too risky, and it has already been done once. Darwell Cattle #3? Pamela discarded that thought, too, as she grabbed the horse’s reins. To do that would punish cowboys who might not want to work for Darwell, but who simply had no other option.
Pamela mounted up and headed out into the darkness. She felt confident. The Darwell empire had many tentacles. By sunrise, she intended to have inflicted damage to one more of those, and with any luck, some of the people who had been most injured by Darwell would benefit from her actions.
* * * *
Jonathon Darwell sipped his morning coffee. The Midnight Phantom was a very clever fellow, he admitted to himself, but nothing would be more rewarding than to personally castrate the loathsome bastard.
Most vexing to Darwell was the realization that the Phantom could not possibly be Garrett Randolph. Jonathon had been thoroughly convinced that Randolph was the Midnight Phantom, until last night’s raid on Darwell Cattle Outpost #2. Randolph, who was still in bed recovering from his wounds, couldn’t be the Phantom.
Jonathon Darwell had wanted to be able to tie up all the loose ends quickly and easily so that he could get on with the business of making money. Now, since Randolph wasn’t the Midnight Phantom, he was still the odds-on favorite to end up being elected mayor and then territorial governor. And Jonathon had no doubt that, when Garrett took the oath of office, Angie would be standing proudly at his side as his loving wife.
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He shook his head slowly, his vision distant and unfocused as he thought about his daughter. Much as he loved her, there were times when she frightened him. He had never met a more ruthless individual in his life, and that included himself. There was simply no doubt in Angie’s mind that, when Garrett took up residence in the governor’s mansion, she would move in with him. Even as a very young girl, Angie’s intractable determination to have everything that her eyes lit upon had astonished him.
Whether she or Michael was the brightest of his children was difficult to tell. Michael had the discipline and the foresight to see beyond a horizon that Angie never even noticed. But for sheer cunning, Jonathon wouldn’t want to wager his fortune on which of the two exercised it better.
Poor Richard. Even as a child, he’d always been on the portly side. Now his beer consumption had given him a sloppy waistline, and though he was not truly stupid, he’d never had the discipline to master anything completely. His personality inclined him toward gambling and wenching. The fact that he had never been of any true value to Jonathon was occasionally disquieting, but Michael had always been there to lean on. He had Michael to pass the reins of command to when the time was right.
Jonathon dismissed thoughts of his children. The Midnight Phantom needed his full attention.
The Phantom, at least, had been seen. He wore a black cape and mask to hide his identity and moved like a shadow in the night. But who was it?
Jonathon’s anger began to burn once again inside him, so he set his coffee aside. Lately, his stomach had been giving him problems, making it difficult for him to sleep at night, causing him to avoid some of the foods he most enjoyed.
The Midnight Phantom was making it difficult for him to enjoy his life! Jonathon Darwell just couldn’t imagine what he’d done to be treated so badly, so unjustly. To put everything in his life back on course, he had to crush the Phantom.
But how?
He belched softly, and this time the burning sensation went all the way up to his throat. Jonathon Darwell grimaced in pain.