She left the palazzo and walked back to the hotel. If any of the Italian men she passed made crude comments, she didn’t notice them this time. She was focused completely on what she had to do next.
When she reached the Hotel Metropole, she went up to the suite for a few minutes and then returned to the lobby. She crossed the ornately furnished room to the desk and told the clerk, “I need to send some telegrams.”
“The telegraph office will be closed at this hour, signorina,” the man said with a helpless shrug.
Denny reached into her bag, but instead of taking out the gun, she brought out a wad of money and slapped it on the desk in front of the clerk.
“This is important. Offices can be opened if the price is high enough. Give me some telegraph forms and wake up one of your bellboys. We’ve all got work to do.”
The clerk probably wasn’t used to such a tone of command coming from a woman, but if he had any misgivings, the look in her eyes—and the money—must have caused him to set them aside. He swallowed hard, bobbed his head up and down, and said, “Sì, signorina.”
* * *
Louis woke up to a whirlwind of activity the next morning. Denny was packing, had in fact finished with some of the bags already.
“What’s going on here?”
“We’re leaving,” she told him. “I’ve had more than enough of Venice.”
He stared at her. “Just like that?”
“Yes,” Denny said as she fastened the clasp on a bag. “Just like that.” She gestured toward several bags resting on a table in the sitting room. “I packed some of your things, but you can finish up. We’re catching a train to Naples, and from there there’s a boat going to England.”
“I know that,” Louis said in exasperation, “but why now?”
She looked at him and said, “It’s time.”
Louis cocked his head to the side, squinted at her, and said, “This is about Giovanni, isn’t it? The two of you have had some sort of falling-out!”
“Can’t I just want to go back home?” she asked. She couldn’t quite keep the note of misery out of her voice.
Louis heard that and went to her, still in his dressing gown, and took her in his arms, patting her lightly on the back. “Of course you can,” he told her. “To tell you the truth, I’ve seen plenty of Venice myself. I don’t care if we never come back here.”
“Neither do I,” Denny said, her voice tightly controlled now. “You’d better hurry.”
“Won’t there at least be time for breakfast?”
“On the train.”
* * *
The bags had been loaded on a small boat, and a gondola was waiting at the landing in front of the hotel to take them to the train station. Denny stood there, waiting, dressed in a blue traveling outfit with a matching hat on her blond curls. Louis was next to her in a brown tweed suit and brown felt hat.
“I thought you were in a huge hurry,” he said.
“We are,” she said, “but we need to wait just a minute longer.”
She caught sight of Giovanni then, hurrying along the street, hatless, his hair slightly askew as if he had just raked his fingers through it when the insistent knock on his apartment door pulled him out of bed with the Englishwoman Vanessa. His clothes were a little disheveled, too. But when he spotted Denny and Louis, he bounded down the steps to the landing and pasted the usual big smile on his face.
“Cara mia,” he said, “what is so important that you must see me so early in the morning?”
“I wanted to catch you before you went to the bank,” Denny said, “so you won’t waste your time.”
Giovanni managed to keep smiling but frowned in confusion at the same time. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I thought everything was arranged—”
“It was,” Denny said, “but I’ve unarranged it.”
He shook his head. “What?”
“You can go to the bank if you want, but there won’t be any money waiting there for you. I sent more wires last night canceling everything.”
Now he looked shocked, angry, and a little scared. “Cancel . . . Why in the world would you do that?”
She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him that she had eavesdropped on him and his mistress, although more than likely he would figure that out if he stopped and thought about it. Instead she said coldly, “I have my reasons.”
“But you cannot do this!” he burst out. “I need that money. Tomasi is expecting—”
“I don’t care,” Denny said. “You’ll have to handle that problem yourself, some other way. But it won’t be with my family’s money.” She paused. “Maybe you can talk to your grandfather’s emissary again.”
His eyes widened. She had said too much, she realized. She turned away quickly, motioned Louis toward the gondola.
“Let’s go.”
“Wait!” Giovanni grabbed her arm. “Cara mia, please! Whatever you think, you are wrong, mistaken—”
“What I think is that you’d better get your hand off me, mister,” Denny ground out.
With only inches separating their faces, Giovanni looked into her eyes for a couple of seconds and then released her arm. He stepped back, his face stricken.
“You do not know what you’re doing to me,” he said.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Denny said, “and I still don’t care.”
With that, she held out a gloved hand to Louis, who took it and helped her into the waiting gondola. He stepped in after her and they both sat down on the padded seat. Louis nodded to the gondolier, who pushed the boat away from the landing and poled it farther out into the canal.
Giovanni Malatesta stood there on the landing, staring after them.
Quietly, Louis said, “I suppose I should be glad you didn’t haul out that hogleg of yours and shoot the varmint, as folks in Colorado would say.”
“How did you know I was considering it?” Denny asked without looking over at her brother.
“Because I felt like doing the same thing,” Louis replied. “If I’d had a gun, I just might have.”
For the first time in awhile, Denny smiled. It wasn’t much of one, but it was still a smile.
“I seriously doubt you would have done that.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Louis said. “And just for the record, I have no doubt at all you would have, if he hadn’t let go of you when he did.”
“Well,” Denny said, “you’re right about that.”
CHAPTER 11
The Sugarloaf, 1902
Denny never told Louis all the details of what had happened, and he didn’t press her for them. She knew how smart he was, so she didn’t speculate on how much he might have figured out. She wanted to put the whole thing behind her, to never think about Count Giovanni Malatesta or that trip to Venice again, and for the most part she had succeeded.
But deep down, she knew the experience had hardened her, made her less likely to trust anyone again—especially handsome, glib-tongued strangers. Maybe that was why she kept Brice Rogers at arm’s length some of the time, even though both of them knew they were attracted to each other. Brice wasn’t glib or arrogant—far from it, in fact, more like humble and down-to-earth—but even so, Denny was leery of opening her heart again. She figured she would get over that someday . . .
But she had never expected to see Giovanni Malatesta step off the train in Big Rock, as handsome as ever and evidently doing quite well for himself, with his fancy clothes and his manservant and his tour across the American West. He must have found some other way to settle up with Salvatore Tomasi.
“You been about a million miles away the whole trip out from Big Rock,” Pearlie commented from the wagon seat beside her. They were almost back to the ranch headquarters.
“I’m sorry. I guess the way it turned out, I wasn’t very good company after all.”
“This have somethin’ to do with that ruckus at the train station?” Pearlie squinted over at her. “I know you’ve been in a hea
p of gun trouble for a gal, especially a gal your age . . . No, a heap for any gal. You’ve been as cool-headed as any child of Smoke Jensen ought to be, but still, it’s got to bother you a mite when you have to kill a man, like you did back there.”
“You think when we get home, I’m going to take to my fainting couch?” Denny asked, forcing a note of dry humor into her voice.
“No, not hardly. I’m just sayin’ that if anything’s ever botherin’ you, you ought to talk to your pa. Smoke’s done a heap of shootin’ over the years, but I know for a fact he never killed nobody who didn’t have it comin’. I don’t reckon he’s ever lost a minute of sleep over it.”
“Neither have I,” Denny said, “and I don’t intend to start now.”
Pearlie nodded slowly and said, “Well, all right. I won’t pester you about it no more. But you can always talk to me, too. I know how close you and your brother are, and with Louis gone, if you ever need a sympathetic ear . . .”
She patted him on the knee and said, “Thank you, Pearlie. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The big main house, the bunkhouse, the barns and corrals, and the other buildings of the ranch headquarters were visible up ahead now. As Pearlie kept the wagon rolling toward the main house, Denny told herself to put all thoughts of Giovanni Malatesta out of her head.
As far as she knew, her parents had no idea anything unusual had happened in Venice two years earlier. Louis had promised not to say anything to Smoke and Sally, and Denny believed him. She had persuaded her grandparents not to mention the money she had arranged to have wired to Venice, then backed out of the deal before the transfer could be made. Denny didn’t know if they had kept that promise or not, but her mother had never brought up the subject, so she believed there was a strong possibility they had honored their word.
So there was a good chance the subject was dead and buried. She wanted it to stay that way.
Unfortunately, Monte Carson had seen her slap Malatesta, there on the train station platform. The sheriff might say something to Smoke, and Smoke would know there had to be a good reason for what she had done. His daughter didn’t go around just slapping random strangers.
Brice had witnessed the unexpected encounter, too, she reminded herself, but Brice wasn’t one of her father’s best friends and wouldn’t have any reason to mention it to Smoke. Monte Carson was the weak spot in the wall Denny had built to keep all those bad memories at bay. All she could do was hope that it wouldn’t crack.
“There you go, wanderin’ off in the hinterlands again,” Pearlie said as he brought the wagon to a halt in front of the house. “You must have a whole heap of things on your mind today.”
More than the ex-foreman knew, Denny thought as she jumped gracefully down from the driver’s box. “I’m going for a ride,” she announced. She started toward the barn, taking long strides. That would puzzle Pearlie even more, and she figured he would probably say something to Smoke and Sally about it. But it couldn’t be helped. Denny wanted to be alone right now. She had a lot of thinking to do.
And she wished she knew if there was some hidden reason Giovanni Malatesta had shown up in Big Rock like that.
* * *
The sharp, precise rap of knuckles sounded three times on the bedroom door, followed by Arturo calling, “Count?”
Knowing that Arturo would repeat that twice more in his usual annoying pattern if he received no response, Malatesta stopped pacing and stepped to the door to jerk it open.
“What is it?” he demanded as he looked past Arturo into the sitting room of the suite in the Big Rock Hotel. It was the hotel’s finest accommodation, and paying for it would take just about all the money Malatesta had left. If he paid for it, of course. Such things were always open to question and a matter of the circumstances in which he found himself.
“The sheriff is at the door and wishes to speak with you,” Arturo reported.
Normally, that was the sort of news Malatesta never wanted to hear. A visit from the law always brought unpleasantness with it. But since he had just arrived in Big Rock a couple of hours earlier, he couldn’t think of any reason he needed to skip town yet.
Malatesta had taken off his coat and loosened his collar. He quickly remedied those two things to make himself presentable and told Arturo, “By all means, let the sheriff in.”
Arturo nodded and went to the corridor door. By the time he opened it, Malatesta was standing nonchalantly by the window, lighting a thin black cigar.
“Ah, Sheriff . . . Carson, was it? So good to see you again.” Malatesta shook out the match he’d been using, dropped it in a glass ashtray on a small table near the window.
“That’s right, Monte Carson’s the name,” the lawman said. “I hope you’ve gotten settled in good here at the hotel.”
“Of course. These are very comfortable accommodations.”
“Probably not what you’re used to, being a European nobleman and all.”
Malatesta smiled and said, “I have stayed many places, Sheriff, and have always found that the pleasantness of the people is more important than the luxuriousness of the furnishings. So far, I have to say that Big Rock is a pleasant place.”
“Mighty generous of you,” Carson said drily, “considering that as soon as you stepped off the train, folks started shooting at you.”
“Ah, but those scoundrels were not citizens of your fine community, were they?”
“That’s what I came to tell you. I had a look through the wanted posters in my office, like I said I would, and I turned up those two fellas who are down at the undertaker’s now.”
Carson pulled a couple of sheets of folded paper from his pocket and held them out to Malatesta. The count took them, unfolded them, and studied the words and likenesses printed on them.
“‘Casey Murtagh and Wilbur Morrell,’” Malatesta read. “‘Wanted for murder, assault, train robbery, arson . . .’” He looked up from the reward dodgers. “Outlaws, just as I thought.”
Arturo had been standing in the background, listening. He said, “They sound like villains from some American dime novel.”
“Yeah.” Carson took the wanted posters back and put them in his pocket again. “I have to say, the posters make those two seem a mite more impressive than they actually were. They’re known to have run with a man named Ned Yeager. You may have noticed his name on the posters as being the leader of the gang. Yeager’s the genuine article, a really bad man. If you want somebody dead, he’s the man you hire.” The sheriff looked intently at Malatesta. “What I’m curious about, Count, is who wants you dead bad enough to hire somebody like Yeager?”
Malatesta took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a perfect smoke ring that hung in the air for a couple of seconds before starting to dissipate.
“Unfortunately, Sheriff, I have no idea,” he said in reply to Carson’s question. “I wish I did, because if someone has such a grudge against me, it would be a good thing for me to know.”
“Yeah, I imagine so.”
“But on the other hand,” Malatesta said, “isn’t it still possible that those men just intended to gun me down and then steal whatever they could find on my body? They’re thieves. Those wanted posters said so.”
Carson shook his head slowly and said, “That fracas didn’t strike me as a simple robbery. They were waiting to ambush you.”
“I can’t help you, Sheriff,” Malatesta said flatly. “I have no enemies that I know of in America.”
“How about in Italy, or somewhere else over there?”
“Do you really believe trouble would follow me all the way across the ocean?”
“You tell me.”
Malatesta put the cigar back in his mouth. His teeth clamped on it harder than before.
“I can’t tell you, Sheriff, because I don’t know,” he said. His smile had disappeared, and there was an edge to his voice. “But I’m confident that with you on the job, I’ll be safe as long as I’m in Big Rock.”
“You can rest easy on th
at score,” Carson said with a little edge in his own voice now. “And I’ll assume that if you think of anything I ought to know, you’ll tell me.”
Malatesta made a gesture of agreement with the cigar.
“Don’t reckon there’s anything else to say.” Carson started to turn toward the door.
“One moment, Sheriff, if you would.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Those two men, Murtagh and Morrell . . . The only reason you have those posters with their pictures on them is because there are rewards posted for them. Correct?”
“That’s right,” Carson said.
“Dead or alive?”
“That’s usually the way it works.”
“Then since Miss Jensen killed one of them and Marshal Rogers took care of the other, I suppose they are entitled to those rewards?”
“Well, as a federal lawman, Brice Rogers can’t claim a reward like that,” Carson explained. “And the bounty on Murtagh . . . he’s the one Denny ventilated. . . is only three hundred dollars, so I doubt if she’d bother to collect it.”
“Because she is rich, or at least her father is,” Malatesta said.
“Because Denny’s not really the sort of person to be interested in blood money.”
“Yes, I would say you are correct about that. She looked very different today than she did the last time I saw her, two years ago in Italy. I’m sure she is still the same sort of person she was then.”
“She’s a fine gal,” Carson said. “One of the finest I’ve ever known.”
“Then we are in total agreement on that, Sheriff,” Malatesta said with a smile. “I have never met another woman quite like Denise Nicole Jensen.”
CHAPTER 12
Harkerville, Wyoming
Eight people on horseback sat their saddles and looked down at the settlement in the valley below them. Evergreens grew thickly atop the ridge where the riders had paused, and on this cloudy afternoon, the shadows were thick enough that anybody in Harkerville, half a mile away, who glanced up here wouldn’t be likely to spot them.
Rising Fire Page 7