Rocky Mountain Marriage

by Debra Lee Brown

  “Water? I’ve got some right here.”

  “No. Brandy.” Her gaze flew to the decanter on the oversize walnut desk.

  “Oh.” He looked surprised, but instantly catered to her request. “Here,” he said after he’d poured it, and handed her the tiny glass.

  It was little more than a thimbleful. Dora knocked it back the same way she’d seen Lily do a dozen times in the saloon.

  “Better?” John said.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Go on.”

  She considered that he’d neither scolded nor reprimanded her for refusing his offer to put her up in town tonight. He was neither judgmental nor vindictive. John Gardner was simply a good man, and she no longer believed she deserved his good opinion. Another minute of explanations on her part, and she wouldn’t have it.

  “I…allowed myself to be taken in by his lies.”

  “Lee Hargus’s lies? The ones about your father?”

  “No. Chance’s lies. What the Hargus brothers believed about my father, the rumors, it’s all true. There is a secret fortune hidden at the ranch, and I know where it is.”

  From the look on John’s face she could tell he was flabbergasted. Either that, or he thought her completely insane.

  “Here,” she said, opening her diary to the last entry. “It’s all right here. Read it.”

  He took the diary from her and scanned the page. She elaborated as he studied the drawing of the tortoiseshell comb and the other clues. Finally, she flipped the pages backward to the beginning, and pointed to one of the earliest drawings she’d made after her arrival at the Royal Flush.

  “I wondered all along why he left you the comb. I mean it’s pretty, but—”

  “All along?”

  He blushed, redder than a hothouse rose in winter.

  With a shock it dawned on her. “You knew what was in my father’s safety deposit box before I opened it.”

  He bit his lip, but had the courage not to look away from her.

  “You opened the box before I arrived.”

  He hesitated, then said, “I did. It was a horrible thing to do. I can’t tell you how many nights I lay awake afterward, regretting I’d done it.”

  “That doesn’t matter now. What does matter is that the money is real. My father had a silent partner, a counterfeiter who fed him fake currency. Who knows how much real money is hidden right here?” She tapped her fingernail on the drawing in her diary.

  He closed the journal and handed it back to her. “I want to ask you a question, and I want you to think before you answer.”

  “All right.”

  “This silent partner of your father’s…do you know who it is?” He stared into her eyes so intently it unnerved her.

  “No.” Which was the truth. Regardless of how Chance had used her, she’d never believe he was a counterfeiter and a murderer.

  For a moment John said nothing. He stood up and began to pace the length of the rich carpet in front of the desk. “That money belongs to the government. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But how do I return it?”

  “Leave all that to me. Wait here. I’m going upstairs to dress. I’ll be right back.”

  She watched him as he took the steps leading up to the second floor two at a time, then listened as he thrashed around upstairs. Certain she’d done the right thing in telling him, she relaxed a bit. The rest of what she had to tell him, what she should tell him about her and Chance, could wait.

  Besides, there were still some things she needed to get straight in her own mind, the most nagging of which was why Chance hadn’t come after her to get the diary. On second thought, why hadn’t he simply threatened her? He’d had two very big guns.

  And if he hadn’t wanted to do something that distasteful, he could have used his most effective weapon on her—he could have lied. If he’d continued to make her believe he cared about her, she would have just told him where the money was. Surely he must have known that.

  So why did he demand the diary?

  “Of course!” Dora spun toward the door. That was it all along. He knew she’d bolt. He knew it. He knew her. That’s why he pretended to turn on her. To get her to leave. With the Hargus boys there, as long as she stayed, she’d be in danger. As long as she had the diary, she’d be…

  “Good Lord.” She stuffed the diary back in her pocket and made for the door. Locked!

  John crashed down the stairs. In one hand he held his coat, in the other a rifle. “No!” he said. “You stay here. I’ll deal with this.”

  “But you don’t understand.”

  “I do understand. More than you know.” He set the rifle down and donned the coat, then pulled her back into his office. “I know you cared for him. Wellesley wanted the money, didn’t he?”

  Embarrassment heated her face. Despite the fact that she’d kept her diary secret from everyone, John read her like an open book.

  “You don’t have to explain it to me. I know men like that draw women. And men like me, well…”

  “Don’t.” She started to touch his cheek, then stopped herself. “Besides, things aren’t entirely what they seem on the surface.”

  Perhaps Chance did care for her. She knew he was caught up in something serious that in some way was tied to her father. She just didn’t know what it was. He was shielding her on purpose. Or maybe he was shielding himself.

  “I want you to promise me you’ll stay put while I’m gone.”

  “What?” Her mind had drifted from the task at hand. “No! I want to go back to the saloon with you.”

  “Absolutely not.” He grabbed his rifle off the bank’s counter, then jumped over it and made for the door.

  Dora followed.

  “One last thing.” John turned and swept her against him. Before she could stop him, he kissed her.

  She tried to like it, but didn’t. John Gardner was everything a decent woman could want in a suitor, but he simply wasn’t the man for her. He simply wasn’t her Chance.

  After it was over, he left her standing there in the bank in mild shock. His keys jingled in the locks, then he was outside. She bolted after him, but too late. He shut her in, locking both the double doors and the iron grate behind him.

  “Fiddlesticks!” She beat against the doors until she thought the glass would shatter, but it did no good. He was already gone, down the street toward the livery where he kept his buggy and horse. Like lightning, she shot around the counter and burst into the office, heading for the high window behind John’s desk.

  She had to get back to the saloon! She had to talk to Chance. She had to know, once and for all, how he felt about her, and what it was that consumed him, that drove him to push her away.

  The window was too high, and incredibly small. Like the insets in the front doors, it was fashioned of frosted glass. Likely it had bars on the outside, but she wouldn’t know that until she got up there. What could she use to stand on?

  The desk was too heavy to move, and John’s chair was the spinning kind, made of soft leather. She’d lose her footing for sure. No, what she needed was something solid, like—

  “A box!”

  She spied a large wooden box under John’s desk. A few seconds later she’d dragged it out and positioned it under the window. When she tried to step up the lid moved. She lifted it off, thinking to reposition it, and froze.

  “Good Lord.”

  The box was full of money. Bank notes! Why wasn’t it downstairs in the vault? Bankers didn’t keep money in big boxes under their desks. She set the lid aside and palmed a handful of the bills. Holding one up to the light, she inspected it, then another, and another, using the tricks Chance had taught her and one or two she’d read about in the handbills posted outside the bank.

  A sick feeling curled inside her.

  She dumped the box on its side and grabbed more notes, checking them at random, then letting them fall to the floor. Each one she studied was the same. The money in the box was all counterfe
it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  If Dora had learned anything in the past three weeks it was that things aren’t always what they seem to be, and that people aren’t always who they say they are— Chance Wellesley and John Gardner included.

  The trouble was that she could no more believe John was a counterfeiter and a killer than she could Chance, despite the evidence beneath her feet. The box of counterfeit money she’d found in John’s office would seem to implicate him, but she’d read too many good mystery novels where the person everyone suspected was the murderer really wasn’t.

  Like a sensible sleuth, she’d reserve her judgment for now and use the box the way she’d originally intended. It made the perfect platform from which to reach the high, small window above her head.

  A few minutes of rifling through John’s desk drawers resulted in her finding the key to the iron grate barring her escape. Unfortunately the key didn’t work on any of the other, more accessible grates. That would have been too easy.

  She’d already broken the frosted glass window and, using a letter opener, had smoothed away the remaining sharp edges around the sill. The key fit, and as she swung the grate out of the way it clanged dully against the brick exterior of the building.

  The only question remaining in her mind was could she fit through the small opening without getting stuck. She had to try. If she did get stuck, she could always call for help. Surely someone would hear her.

  Dora stood on tiptoes and peered out into the mist. The drop to the ground on the other side was a long one. This was the back of the bank and there was no boardwalk. She prayed she wouldn’t twist an ankle or break a leg on the fall. If only there was something on the other side of the window to stand on. Something tall and sturdy and—

  “What an excellent idea!” She wet her lips and tried to whistle. The sound was barely audible. Hmm. That wasn’t going to work. “Silas!” she called. She tried whistling again, this time with better results. “Silas! Here boy!”

  She’d tethered the horse to the hitching post outside the bank, but very loosely—and he was a very canny horse, a master escape artist, Gus called him. On several occasions she’d seen Silas come when Chance called him. Perhaps it would work for her. “Silas!”

  In response she heard a faint whinny.

  “Good boy! Here boy! Come to me! Here, Silas!”

  A few moments later she heard the gelding’s snorts and soft footfalls as he trotted around the building and materialized below her in the mist.

  “What a smart horse you are!” If only she’d had half his sense.

  Back at the saloon she should have listened to her heart and not her head. She should have known Chance was trying to protect her by demanding the diary. She should have known.

  Silas neighed and shook his head, then pounded the earth with a hoof, as if telling her to hurry up. She took the hint. Grabbing on to the window ledge with one hand and a sturdy-looking wall sconce with the other, Dora hoisted herself up and managed to get a foot hooked through the window.

  Her skirts bunched up around her middle as she pulled herself higher. One good grunt and she found herself straddling the opening. “There! That wasn’t so hard. Don’t move, Silas, I’m coming down.”

  She maneuvered her other leg through the window, and took the rest on faith. Blindly, she slid out of the opening, hanging on to the top of the window frame for dear life. Her hips barely cleared.

  “Silas!” Her skirts were pushed up around her face, still caught in the opening. Her bloomer-clad legs flailed in midair. “Where are you?”

  “I’m right here.”

  The familiar voice registered in her mind at the same moment his hands slid around her thighs and pulled her from the window. She let go. A heart-stopping moment later she found herself coiled around him like a snake, her legs twined around his hips, his hands cupping her bottom.

  “Chance!”

  She expected him to set her down, but he didn’t. “You okay?”

  “I—I think so.” The fog enveloped them like a shroud, the gray light of dawn barely penetrating the ghostly ether. “Where’s Silas?”

  Chance whistled, and the horse stepped into view. He set her lightly on her feet next to the gelding, then drew his gun. “Where’s Gardner?”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “No.” He glanced up at the broken window. “He’s not here?”

  “He’s gone to the ranch, to the saloon. Surely you must have passed him on the trail.”

  “No.” He holstered the Colt. “It’s pea soup out there. And maybe he didn’t stick to the trail. Why did he go to the ranch?” Again he glanced at the window. “And what the hell were you doing up there, breaking in?”

  “Breaking out.”

  “Son of a—” Chance grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the street. Silas followed. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Of course not. He locked me in so I wouldn’t follow him. At first I thought he’d done it to protect me, but now—”

  “What happened here? What did you tell him? Are you sure he headed for the ranch?” He lifted her onto the boardwalk, leaped up beside her, then took her firmly by the shoulders. “Tell me everything.”

  She’d waited for this moment, had planned it in her mind. She just hadn’t expected it to happen here, and so soon. You first was what she’d planned to say to him, and when he didn’t answer she’d say, You lied to me.

  Looking into his eyes, feeling the tension in his grip, the slight trembling of his hands, she realized none of that mattered now. What mattered was that she trusted him. What mattered was that she loved him.

  Reaching into her pocket she produced her diary. “Here,” she said and offered it to him. “Isn’t this what you want? Isn’t this what you came for?”

  He was silent for a moment. Dora didn’t dare breathe. In his eyes she recognized the same longing she’d seen before, once as they’d looked out over the range together at what remained of her father’s cattle, and again when he’d stood a hairsbreadth from her in her father’s study and told her she was right not to trust him.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I came to make sure you were all right.”

  She drew the chill morning air into her lungs and felt suddenly renewed. “John’s gone for the money. I told him where it’s hidden. The tortoiseshell comb my father left me…it’s a clue. It’s the same comb that—”

  “I know.”

  “The money’s hidden inside—” She stared at him, stunned. “What?”

  “I know where the money is. I’ve always known.”

  “But…”

  “Why didn’t I just take it?”

  She nodded.

  “I have my reasons.”

  Her head was spinning, trying to make sense of what he was telling her, to somehow put it in context along with the other clues, the evidence.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He said nothing to that.

  “This counterfeiter, this man who killed my father… You’ve been trying to…draw him out?”

  “Yes.”

  She took a breath, then asked him the same question she’d asked him twice before. She’d done what her father had wanted her to do. She’d taken a chance. She’d trusted the man standing here before her in the fog, and now she hoped he would trust her. “Who are you?”

  He stood there for a moment longer, looking at her, studying her features as if it was the final time he’d lay eyes on her. Then he reached into the pocket of his vest and retrieved the last thing she expected.

  A silver star.

  “Charles Wellesley, United States Secret Service.” He handed her the badge.

  A dozen seemingly unrelated enigmas suddenly made perfect sense to her. She turned it over in her hands, running her thumb along the engraved lettering. His eyes registered surprise when she pinned it on him. “There,” she said. “That’s better.”

  “I couldn’t tell you, for a lot of reasons.”

  There was mo
re he couldn’t tell her, or wouldn’t. Much more. She could see it in his eyes and feel it in the way he softly grazed her cheek with the back of his hand.

  Barely an hour ago she’d watched him with the Hargus brothers as he’d changed before her very eyes into a man with deadly intent, a man with more than justice on his mind. He wasn’t simply another lawman tracking a counterfeiter.

  Something else was at work here. Something evil and dark.

  “I found a box,” she said. “In the bank under John’s desk, after he’d gone.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was full of counterfeit bank notes.”

  She watched him as his mind worked. “Is John the man you’re hunting?” she asked.

  Chance whistled for Silas. “I don’t know, but I’d best get out there.”

  She didn’t bother asking if she could go along. She knew his answer would be no. “Be careful,” she said instead.

  He smiled at that. “Go to the hotel and stay there until I come back for you.”

  “You will come back, won’t you?”

  His face tightened. He mounted Silas, then touched her on the cheek one last time. The fog swallowed him up as he spurred the gelding down the street.

  Dora ran after him. “What I said to you in your room…”

  Silas’s hoofbeats stalled.

  Chance’s hat was pulled low over his eyes, his oiled slicker wet. The silver Secret Service badge she’d pinned on his chest was already damp with dew. He looked like a ghost in the mist. A goose walked over her grave when she met his gaze.

  “I meant it,” she said. “I meant it, Chance.”

  “I know.”

  With the dawn came a still, gray silence that spread out over the range like a cold fever. Chance knew the moment he rode up over the last hillock and spied Gardner’s horse but no one else’s tied to the hitching post in front of the saloon, that the day of reckoning he’d lived for, had burned for the past eighteen months was finally here.

  He dismounted, then turned Silas loose in the tall grass under the oak tree beside the well. The dissipating mist curled like smoke around his withers.