“Honesty, why don’t you show Mister—”
“Jesse,” he supplied, finding his voice. “Jesse Jones.” The false name fell from his lips with surprising ease, considering his tongue seemed to have affixed itself to the roof of his mouth.
“Show Mr. Jones to his room while I scare up something for supper?”
“Sure thing, Rose,” she replied in a spun velvet voice that wrapped around Jesse’s vitals. “Follow me, cowboy.”
Anywhere, he thought, watching black lace brush across her red satin clad bottom as she started up the stairs. A forgotten fever surged through his bloodstream and settled below his buckle. With her being just a few inches shorter than his own five feet eleven, it didn’t take a scientist to figure that their bodies would fit together like heat on fire, and the picture that formed in his mind sent desire slamming through him with the force of a cannon ball. Jesse saw himself walking up behind her, pulling her back against his front, her bottom to his groin, sliding his hands down either side of her rib cage, her hips, her thighs, then slipping up again beneath her hem to the dark stockings beneath . . .
She paused on a middle step and twisted around. The up and down gander she gave Jesse, as if judging his worth, left him with the impression that she found him sorely lacking. “Are you coming?”
Not yet, but he would if he stared at her much longer—right here in the middle of the Scarlet Rose.
Jess thanked the week’s growth of whiskers for hiding the color heating his cheeks. Never in all his thirty years had he felt such a swift and immediate response toward a woman; the fact that one sultry-eyed saloon girl could affect him so strongly, and at a time when he needed all his wits about him, left an acrid taste in his mouth. “I’ll be along after I’ve seen to my horse,” Jesse announced, pushing away from the bar. Best put some distance between himself and this lush-lipped distraction till he got himself under control.
With a tip of his hat, he strode out the door.
Long after he disappeared from sight, Honesty stared after him, her mouth agape, her heart tapping faster than musician’s spoons. Never in all her born days had a man looked at her like that—as if he’d waited his whole life to see her and finally got the chance. It was humbling and astonishing and . . . thrilling. Every inch of her skin tingled, and a strange, faintly wicked sensation danced deep in her belly.
“You gonna give me a hand, or are you gonna stand around gawking all day?”
Wrenched from her musings, Honesty snapped around to find Rose watching her with amusement. Good cow feathers, what was wrong with her? If she didn’t know better, she’d think the feelings their guest had stirred inside her were desire. Honesty shook off the disturbing thought. Impossible. The only feeling men roused in her anymore was disgust.
“I wasn’t gawking,” she denied, following Rose into the kitchen.
“You were gawking. Not that I blame you—that one’s got the makin’s of a true Lothario.”
Warmth flooded Honesty’s cheeks. “If your tastes run toward the scrawny desperado type.”
“You just ain’t looking at all the possibilities.” Rose opened the door to the cast iron stove and started shoving chunks of pine into its mouth.
Possibilities? Honesty caught sight of him through the window, leading a muscled brown horse across the back yard. Good gravy, he looked as if he’d been dragged through a riverbed and hung out to dry. It wouldn’t surprise her if his face was plastered on wanted posters from here to Mexico. All those whiskers, that long, matted hair . . . hadn’t she heard somewhere that long hair often hid the cropped upper ear marking a horse thief?
Yet despite his scruffy appearance, Honesty couldn’t deny that there was something about the man that sent her heart racing. Maybe it was the way he walked, with the straight-shouldered confidence of one at ease with himself and the rest of the world. Or maybe it was the aura of unleashed power and mystery he exuded.
Who in God’s green pastures was he? And what was he doing in Last Hope?
“Fetch me a kettle out of the pantry, will ya, hon?”
Once again snapped to the present, Honesty did as Rose bade and brought a large copper cooking kettle from the pantry, as well as a pair of banded wooden buckets to haul bath water. Thanks to Rose’s Uncle Joe, they weren’t forced to heat water over the stove the way they used to. He’d rigged up a cistern out back that sat upon a constant flame, so when visitors like Mr. Jones showed up, they wouldn’t have long to wait.
After filling the buckets she returned to the kitchen, where Rose was chopping a slab of beef into pieces. “So what does he want?” Honesty asked, hoping the woman read nothing more into the question than idle curiosity. She wished she could have heard the conversation between the two of them, but the stranger’s voice had been too low pitched to make eavesdropping possible.
“Same thing as every other man.” Rose shrugged. “Good whiskey, a hot bath, a soft bed, and a willing woman to share it with.”
She should have guessed, Honesty thought with a grimace. Why should he be different from nearly every other man she’d encountered? “He didn’t have to make a trip all the way out here for that.”
“He didn’t. Apparently his horse went lame.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Don’t see why I shouldn’t. No one comes to Last Hope willingly anymore.”
That was an understatement. Even she wouldn’t be here if fate hadn’t struck such a cruel blow. But when a girl found herself dodging predators left and right, the best place to hide was the last place anyone would look. A nearly deserted town in the Rocky Mountain foothills worked quite nicely.
“That water should be plenty hot, hon,” Rose remarked, steering Honesty’s thoughts back to the subject at hand. “So go on and take him his bath while I throw a stew on for supper.”
A sudden flurry of panic erupted in Honesty’s middle at the idea of being in the same room with the stranger. “How about if I cook the stew and you take him his bath?”
Rose’s brows dipped into a V; her face softened in concern. “Honesty, are you afraid of him?”
“Of course not!” She wasn’t afraid of any man. Cautious, yes. And why not? Her father had been a master swindler, and in the three months since his death, she’d found herself pursued relentlessly by every mark he’d ever swindled. Who wouldn’t be wary after that? “I just can’t shake the feeling that his showing up here isn’t as innocent as he wants us to believe.”
“That may be true, but his reasons aren’t any of our concern. He’s the first customer to walk through that door in weeks, and as long as he’s got the coin, we’ll oblige his every whim.”
The thought of obliging the stranger anything made the disturbing sensation in Honesty’s middle return full force. She couldn’t forget the hungry look he’d given her—as if given the chance, he’d gobble her whole . . .
“Look, hon,” Rose broke into her thoughts, “you and I both know I didn’t hire you to decorate the mantel. But I also know you’ve had a rough time of it lately. So go on and take him his bath. If he wants more than a good scrubbin’, just turn him over to me.”
The wink told her that Rose wouldn’t consider the task much of a sacrifice, and she drew comfort in the fact that the option was there if she needed it. Unfortunately, if she ever hoped to leave this place she had to make money, which meant doing the job she’d been hired for—tending to the customers.
Besides, maybe she was overreacting. If it turned out that Mr. Jones was her best chance of solving the mystery Deuce had left behind, could she really let a few silly worries get in the way of finding out whatever secret he’d kept from her all these years?
Managing a smile braver than she felt, Honesty patted Rose’s hand. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” She’d had plenty of practice in the last three months.
She turned from Rose and headed for the stairs. He was just a man, after all, she told herself, with a man’s strengths as well as his weaknesses
. And if he wanted more than a good scrubbing . . . well, she hadn’t spent a lifetime with the greatest con man in the West without tucking a few tricks in her pockets.
Chapter 2
Calling the ramshackle structure a stable was being generous, Jesse thought, leading Gemini across the yard behind the saloon. The gaps between the boards were big enough to fit a fist through, the tin roof bore rust holes the size of pie tins, and termites had chewed their way through several rafters. But if it kept the elements off the animals, Jess supposed he had no call to complain.
He guided Gemini into an empty stall next to one holding the sorriest excuse for a mule he’d ever had the misfortune to view. His nose curled as a stiff wind stirred up an unpleasant odor. “I hope that’s you stinking to high heaven,” Jesse told the mule. But he knew good and well where the odor came from—endless days of sweating under the hot sun and interminable nights of sleeping wherever his body landed.
No wonder his hostess had been so insistent on that bath. It was a wonder she’d even allowed him through her doors.
He took his time tending to Gemini—bathing the wound, bandaging his leg, then brushing him down; doing his best to apologize for pushing him so hard lately and causing the injury. But even if the horse hadn’t needed the extra attention, Jess would have used it as an excuse to get himself under control.
What had come over him back there? So Scarlet’s girl was a looker. She wasn’t the first pretty woman he’d met in his travels, and he doubted she’d be the last. And the last thing he had time for was a blonde-haired, brown-eyed temptress distracting him.
Then, with a grimace, he realized that until Gem’s leg healed, all he had was time. Too much of it.
“What kind of trouble have you landed me into this time, huh, Gem?”
The horse looked at him with soulful eyes, then turned back to the bucket of oats Jess had filled for him. With a sigh, Jess gathered the strips of cloth and tin of ointment he’d used to doctor the wound, and stuffed them back in his packs.
Once he had Gem groomed and settled, he grabbed his saddlebags, returned to the saloon, and mounted the steps to the room he’d been assigned. The accommodations weren’t much to boast about. Plain walls, an iron bedstead and side table, two chairs tucked under a small round supper table, and a claw-footed wardrobe that smelled faintly of cedar. The red calico screen in the corner probably hid a commode and wash stand, if past lodgings were anything to go by. He’d slept in worse places, though. It came with the territory.
Jesse set the saddlebags on a chair near the door, then sat on the bed; the ropes strained and screeched in protest to his one-hundred-seventy-pound frame. The spread was a bit frayed, but at least he didn’t have fleas jumping at him from out of the mattress or questionable stains on the sheets.
After discarding his duster, he pulled off his Justins, draped his gun belt around the foot-post, and topped it with his hat. The few shots of whiskey he’d consumed had his head pleasantly buzzing. As promised, a tin tub sat in the center of the room, waiting for water. Once it showed up, he planned on indulging in the first good soaking he’d had in weeks and a full night’s sleep. Then, once Gem’s leg healed, he’d resume his search for “Deuce” McGuire.
A floorboard squeaked under his stockinged feet as he wandered to the window overlooking the deserted street below. It still amazed him that the case had been open for sixteen years! Just as amazing was that it had taken so long to call in professionals and expect them to close it.
Hell.
Jesse leaned against the window frame and wondered for the hundredth time what had possessed him to accept this assignment? A kidnaping didn’t run to his usual tastes. Cattle rustling, train robberies, stagecoach heists, and horse thieving . . . now, those were the cases he fed on.
Had fed on, he corrected himself. After twelve years, he was just fed up. He wouldn’t even have accepted this assignment if he could have avoided it. But with a majority of the agents tied up with the McCormick strike and the Denver Branch just getting on its feet, Bill McParland had thought Jess the most experienced man to take over such an important and highly confidential job. The West was his domain, after all, and discretion his middle name. What was a fellow supposed to do when the man who saved his life asked for a favor?
Jess rubbed his shoulder and continued staring out the window at the shades of black and red being thrown across town by the setting sun. Damn, he wished he had more than the scanty information he’d been given. Duncan McGuire, commonly known as “Deuce,” was wanted for the abduction of the daughters of San Francisco shipping magnate Anton Jervais.
“But as often happens in cases like this,” Bill McParland had informed him two months earlier, “he fled with the ransom money without ever returning the girls.”
With the pitifully thin file lying open on the desk before him, Jesse scanned the items his superintendent had collected—the profile sheet William Pinkerton had developed several years back for each subject the agency pursued, a couple of newspaper articles, a sketch of McGuire and another of two flaxen-haired, cherub-faced little girls. “What happened to them?” he’d asked, though he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.
Bill’s silence and averted face bespoke the worst. “Both of them drowned in San Francisco Bay.”
In spite of the emotional detachment Jesse tried to maintain as a Pinkerton Operative, his heart gave a tug.
“Whether McGuire committed the actual murders is still in question. He was a notorious con artist with a penchant for get-rich-quick schemes, but he wasn’t a killer.” Bill tapped the file. “The uncle, on the other hand, was a desperate man. According to reports, Phillipe Jervais had been in financial trouble for years. I suspect he never intended on them being returned. Not only would the ransom take care of his financial woes, but their permanent disposal would ensure that his son inherited the Jervais fortune.”
“And all this is coming to light sixteen years after the fact?”
“Local authorities worked on the case for a couple of years without a single lead. Phillipe Jervais covered his tracks well. He died last year, though, and some incriminating evidence was found among his personal belongings: directions to the ransom drop-off point, written in Phillipe’s hand to his hireling, Deuce McGuire, so a solid link between him and the abductions could be established. Anton Jervais found it and contacted us.”
“So what are my orders?”
“Find McGuire. Obtain a confession. Bring him back to San Francisco to stand trial.”
Simple enough, Jesse had thought at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure. After two months, he was no closer to finding McGuire than the day he’d started his search. The man moved around more than a Cheyenne hunter. A few days here, a few days there. Hell, Jess had had more luck tracking a raindrop through a downpour.
He’d thought he’d finally gotten a break down in Durango when McGuire had hightailed it north after shooting a man. According to witnesses, the unfortunate victim had shown an interest in a pretty dance hall girl McGuire fancied. McGuire ambushed the man in a back alley, then fled the scene with the woman. Jesse managed to track them as far as Silverton, where, the trail went colder than a Montana winter. He’d covered every nook and cranny between Durango and Leadville without a single trace of the fellow or his companion.
Well, he’d root McGuire out of whatever hole he’d crawled into—eventually. Jesse hadn’t earned his reputation without cause. And once he wrangled a confession out of the worm, he’d take him back to San Francisco as ordered. Then he was done with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Sure, Bill had promised him his pick of future assignments. But the prospect of jumping into another ruse just didn’t fill him with the same sense of anticipation it used to. A man could spend only so many years being shot at and beat up and left to rot in places unfit for the human race . . .
Jess pushed back the incident chewing at his memory. Yeah, the sooner he located McGuire and turned him over to the authorities, the sooner he could turn
in his resignation and decide what he’d do with the rest of his life.
Unfortunately, “sooner” was taking its own sweet time getting here.
“If I were a Scotsman, where would I be?”
A rap on the door broke into his musings. Jesse crossed the room, cracked open the door, and found Scarlet’s girl standing in the hallway balancing a stack of towels and soap in one hand and a yoke of water buckets across her neck.
As before, the sight of her commanded his full and immediate notice. Even with a yoke weighing down upon her shoulders, she carried herself with a regalness that made him want to touch her and keep his distance at the same time.
“Are you going to make me stand out here all day or are you going to let me in?”
Jess jerked himself to awareness and stepped away from the doorway with a grimace of self-disgust. What was it about this girl that just the sight of her had the ability to chase all conscious thought from his head? He hadn’t felt so tongue-tied and muddle-minded around a female since Christina Flowers had proudly displayed her blossoming wares to him in her daddy’s barn the spring of his thirteenth year.
When Scarlet’s girl—Honesty—set the buckets down beside the tub, Jesse belatedly realized that the least he could have done was to relieve her of her burden, but he seemed incapable of doing more than staring at her like a simpleton.
As she laid the towels on the bed, then poured the buckets into the tub, he leaned against the window frame with his arms folded across his chest. “Honesty. An unusual name.”
“My father was an unusual man.” She swiped a stray curl from her cheek. Steam billowed around her face and put a sheen on her flushed skin. “Do you plan on bathing with your clothes on?”
Ah, a forbidden subject, he thought, recognizing the diversionary tactic. He could respect that. He didn’t much care to discuss his father, either.
An Unlikely Lady Page 2