“It’ll be the last time I go after him, I can promise you that,” Yeager declared. “Next time, he dies.”
Scaramello picked up a shot glass of whiskey that had sat untouched in front of him until now and said, “I’ll drink to that.”
* * *
A man sat alone at one of the tables in the Pemberton House, nursing a glass of scotch. He was facing away from the bigger table in the alcove at the back of the room, where four men sat. As soon as this lone individual had come into the room and seen who was sitting at that rear table, he had taken care to position himself so that his back was to them.
Angus Crabtree didn’t believe that any of them would recognize him, even if they got a good look at him. He had never even seen one of the men, the one who was dressed like a westerner, and he shouldn’t have been known to any of the others, even though they were known to him. As a private detective, part of his job was keeping up with the crooks operating in his part of the world.
Tracing Count Giovanni Malatesta to Colorado hadn’t been difficult. The fugitive swindler was either incredibly self-confident or just downright stupid. Maybe a little bit of both. But he hadn’t taken any pains to cover his tracks. Crabtree had followed his trail to Denver, then here to Red Cliff, and earlier today he had spoken to a railroad porter who told him that the count and his servant had gotten off the train at the next stop, a place called Big Rock.
The porter had babbled on about some sort of gun battle that broke out as soon as Malatesta got off the train, which was the main reason the man still remembered the incident a couple of weeks later.
Malatesta had survived that outburst of violence. That didn’t mean he would survive much longer, Crabtree mused as he sipped the scotch. He was being paid good money to see that that didn’t happen.
His curiosity was aroused, though. He felt certain it had absolutely nothing to do with the job that had brought him to this Colorado backwater, but he couldn’t help but wonder . . .
What was a slick mobster from Little Italy like Nick Scaramello doing in a place like Red Cliff?
CHAPTER 41
The Sugarloaf
“Well, I still say we ought to have the man come out here for dinner,” Smoke declared. “After he helped you like he did, Denny, we owe him.”
“Trust me, Pa, you don’t,” Denny said. “I would have gotten away without Malatesta’s help.”
“There’s no way of knowing that, is there?”
Smoke looked at his daughter, saw the determined expression on her face, and shook his head.
“No, I reckon there’s not,” he agreed. “And since you feel so strongly on the matter—”
“I do.”
“We’ll say no more about inviting him out here.”
“Good,” Denny said. She was sitting in the big armchair in front of the desk in Smoke’s study. He had called her in here to discuss the idea of having Count Giovanni Malatesta out to the ranch—and Denny had shot that down with a speed worthy of her gunfighter father.
Smoke leaned back in his leather chair, looked thoughtful, and said, “Of course, there’s nothing stopping me from buying the fella a fine dinner at Longmont’s as a way of saying thank you for what he did.”
Denny’s lips tightened. “You think that’s better than having him out here?”
“He wouldn’t be on Jensen range that way. It would be a, what do they call it, neutral site.”
“Yeah, I suppose it would,” Denny said with a frown. “And I’m reminded of who I get my stubborn nature from.”
“Your mother, obviously.”
Denny blew out an exasperated breath. “Sure. I get it all from her.”
“And I thought we might invite Marshal Rogers, too.”
Denny leaned forward and frowned. “Brice?”
“Yep. The two of you are friends, aren’t you? I mean, your mother told me about how he was here when the count brought you home and you ran to him and hugged him.” Smoke smiled. “I’ll bet a hat Count Malatesta didn’t care much for that.”
Denny looked intently at her father for a moment, then said, “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“I try not to,” Smoke said.
Denny leaned back, thought for several long seconds, and finally nodded.
“All right, Pa. You do what you feel like you need to do. I’ll even go along. But I’m warning you, don’t trust Malatesta for a second.” She took a breath. “That’s how folks wind up getting hurt.”
Smoke cocked his head a little and said, “Do I want to ask you for any more details about that?”
“No. You don’t.”
“All right,” he said, nodding. “I’ll send word to Big Rock and ask the count to have dinner with us at Longmont’s tomorrow evening. And Brice, too. Maybe it’ll be an eventful evening.”
“I hope not,” Denny said. But the way things had been going, she wasn’t going to depend on that.
Big Rock
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you looking lovelier,” Smoke said to Sally as they sat at Louis Longmont’s private table the next night. He turned his head to smile at Denny. “Either of you.”
No range clothes for Denny this evening. She wore an elegant pale blue gown with white lace at the sleeves and neckline. Her blond curls were swept up and pinned in place in an elaborate arrangement. She had grown accustomed to dressing more comfortably since she had moved back to Colorado permanently, but she had to admit, it was nice to get all fancied up every now and then.
She hoped she would take Giovanni Malatesta’s breath away—and then leave him disappointed in the knowledge that he would never have what he had set his sights on.
She also hoped that Brice would be impressed. They had gone through a great deal together, but none of it had involved getting dressed up for an elegant meal.
Sally wore a dark blue gown, more conservative than her daughter’s, but no less lovely. Smoke was in a brown tweed suit with a string tie against the snowy white of his shirtfront. He wasn’t wearing a gun belt tonight, but Denny happened to know that he had a small-caliber, short-barreled pistol in a shoulder holster under his coat.
Smoke wasn’t the only one who was armed. She had a two-shot, .41 caliber derringer in the beaded bag that lay on the table close to her right hand. It might be a new, supposedly more civilized century, but the Jensens had a long-standing habit of packing iron.
Louis Longmont wouldn’t be joining them this evening, although this was his private table, tucked away in a semiprivate corner, covered with a cloth of fine Irish linen, set with the best crystal and china and silver. A bottle of wine rested at a slant in a bucket of ice, ready to be opened as soon as the other two guests arrived.
One of them was here now, Denny noted as she saw Louis Longmont himself escorting Count Giovanni Malatesta across the room toward them. Malatesta was well dressed as always, this time in a charcoal-gray suit. Denny could tell he was trying not to smirk in self-satisfaction—but not succeeding too well at that—as he came up to the table with Longmont.
“Enjoy your evening, Count,” the former gambler and gunman murmured.
“Oh, I am certain that I shall,” Malatesta said, smiling.
He took the hand that Sally held out to him and bent to kiss the back of it, then shook hands with Smoke. Then he turned to Denny.
“Cara mia,” he said. She didn’t bother telling him not to call her that. It seemed to be a losing battle, and anyway, he would soon see that she wasn’t his “beloved.” She even allowed him to kiss her hand and didn’t pull it away in revulsion.
Smoke had stood up to greet the count. As they all sat down, Malatesta said to Smoke and Sally, “This is a lovely gesture, my friends, but not necessary. Knowing that my humble efforts were of assistance to your beautiful daughter is more than enough thanks for me.”
“We just thought it was the right thing to do,” Smoke said. “Clearly, you got our invitation all right.”
“Your man delivered it to my man, and he co
nveyed it to me. I very much appreciate your hospitality.”
The young cowboy called Orrie was the one who had brought the invitation to town and given it to Arturo, a task which he’d taken great pride in carrying out.
The waiter came over and asked Smoke, “Should I open the wine now, Mr. Jensen?”
“In a minute,” Smoke told him. “We’re waiting on one more guest.”
Malatesta arched an eyebrow and said, “We are?”
“That’s right.” Smoke nodded toward the entrance. “And here he comes now.”
Denny looked around and saw Brice Rogers coming toward the table, carrying his hat in his left hand. He wore a brown suit and an actual cravat with a pearl stickpin. This was one of the few times Denny had seen him this dressed up, and she had to admit that he was pretty handsome. He didn’t have a gun belt on, either, but she wondered if he had a gun somewhere on him.
From the corner of her eye, she saw that Malatesta was watching Brice’s approach, too. His eyebrows drew down in a scowl.
“I didn’t realize the marshal would be joining us,” he said.
“Well,” Smoke said blandly, “he and Denny are good friends, so Sally and I figured it would be all right. Celebrating her escape from those kidnappers and all.”
Malatesta made a little gesture and said, “Of course.” His polite, smiling mask was back in place, but for a second Denny had glimpsed the real Giovanni Malatesta. It hadn’t been a pretty sight, even dressed up in fancy, expensive clothes.
Brice came up to the table and smiled as he looked around at everyone, even Malatesta.
“Hello,” he greeted his hosts. “Mrs. Jensen, you look lovely, as always. Mr. Jensen, it’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise, Brice,” Smoke said. “You know you can call me Smoke, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I just like to be respectful.”
Sally said, “There’s nothing wrong with that. More young people should pay attention to their manners these days.”
Brice turned to Denny and went on, “Miss Jensen, you look very nice this evening as well.”
“Very nice?” Denny repeated.
“Well, I figure you get told how beautiful you are all the time, so you must get a mite tired of hearing it every now and then.”
“I’ll let you know if I do,” she said with a smile. “Until then, feel free to compliment me as much as you like.”
Brice smiled and said, “I might just take you up on that.” Finally, he turned to Malatesta and nodded politely. “Good evening, Count.”
“Marshal,” Malatesta said coolly. “How are you?”
“Doing fine.”
Smoke waved a hand at the remaining empty chair and said, “Now that the small talk’s done with, have a seat, Brice.” He nodded to the waiter, who was hovering nearby. “You can open that bottle of wine now.”
The man did so and poured drinks for all of them. Smoke lifted his glass and said, “Here’s to Count Malatesta, with appreciation for what he’s done for our family.”
“Yes, thank you so much, Count,” Sally said as she raised her glass as well.
Brice added, “I reckon I owe you a debt of gratitude, too, since Denny means quite a bit to me.”
Malatesta’s smile didn’t budge, but Denny thought he looked like he was struggling not to grind his teeth together in anger and frustration. That made her feel better than it probably should have and was almost enough to make her glad that her father had insisted on having this dinner.
“I suppose I should say thank you as well,” she murmured.
“Please,” Malatesta said, “as welcome as these sentiments are, none of them are necessary.” He lifted his glass. “Instead, I suggest that we drink to beauty . . . of which we have two such stunning examples right here at this table.”
“I don’t reckon anybody could argue with that,” Smoke said. “To my wife and daughter. To the Jensen ladies!”
“To the Jensen ladies,” Brice echoed.
“To the ladies,” Malatesta said.
They all drank. The wine was excellent, Denny thought, and not just for Big Rock. It would have been just as good in San Francisco, New York, even London or Paris. Louis Longmont spared no expense for special occasions.
Smoke nodded to the waiter, and soon plates with fine steaks and all the trimmings were in front of them. The man made sure their glasses never stayed empty for too long while they were eating.
Sounding like he was just making polite conversation, Brice asked, “How long do you intend to stay in Big Rock, Count? I thought you were making a tour of the West and I sort of figured you would have moved on by now.”
“Is that what you wish would have happened?” Malatesta said.
“Not at all. I reckon you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I just thought you would’ve gotten bored by now.”
“I could never grow bored anywhere such an enticing, intriguing person as Denise is.”
“You don’t have to flatter me, Count,” Denny said.
“As close as the two of us have been, you should call me Giovanni, cara mia.”
As he said that, he darted a spiteful glance at Brice, as if the reminder that he and Denny had shared a relationship in Venice scored points for him.
Denny quashed that by reaching over and briefly resting her fingertips on the back of Brice’s hand.
“I prefer to keep things on a formal basis,” she said to Malatesta.
She could tell it was getting more and more difficult for him to maintain his composure. He’d never liked being denied anything he wanted. Maybe if he got annoyed enough, he would give up and leave town. After all the things he’d done, she didn’t like the idea of him getting away scot-free, but that might be worth it to be rid of him.
Even if that happened, Denny would then be left having to deal with the aftermath of all this playing up to Brice. She didn’t want him getting too carried away in thinking he had won her over.
Those things were going through her mind when she became aware that a woman was approaching the table. She was young and pretty in a vacant way. Denny thought she was vaguely familiar but couldn’t come up with her name or a reason she knew her. Probably just someone she had seen around town.
But evidently the young woman was on a mission, because she stepped up to the table and said, “Please pardon me for interrupting, folks, but I really need to have a word with Marshal Rogers.”
CHAPTER 42
“Miss Sutton,” Brice said as he came to his feet. He tried to conceal his surprise at the sight of her. “What are you doing here?”
“I . . . I have to discuss something with you.” With a visible effort, she put aside her diffident attitude and lifted her chin in a brief show of defiance. “It’s important.”
He gestured at the others around the table. “I’m in the middle of dinner—”
“I wouldn’t have bothered you unless it was urgent.”
He remembered what she had told him of the man boasting about shooting a federal lawman. Maybe she had spotted him again here in town.
He had picked up his napkin from his lap when he got to his feet. He placed it on the table now and said, “I’m sorry about this, folks—”
“Don’t worry,” Smoke told him. “Most of the time, law business won’t wait. You go ahead and talk to the young lady, Brice.”
Brice was grateful to Smoke for assuming this was law business—which, of course, it was. Even so, Denny looked a mite irritated by the interruption. He would deal with it as efficiently as he could.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. As he turned away from the table, Rosemarie Sutton held her arm out as if she expected him to take it, and he was too much of a gentleman not to. As they started out of Longmont’s, the soft warmth of her breast pressed against his arm. He felt his face getting warm, too.
When they were on the boardwalk outside, he said, “Now, what’s this all about, Miss Sutton? If you saw that fella again, the one who bragged about
shooting a federal lawman, you could have told me about that in there.”
“No, that’s not it. I . . . I . . . Could we go down there?” She nodded toward the mouth of the alley next to the restaurant and saloon. “Please? Where it’s more private?”
Brice hesitated, but then shrugged and nodded. The sooner he listened to what Rosemarie had on her mind, whether it was actually important or not, the sooner he could get back to having dinner with the Jensens.
“All right. Whatever’s bothering you, though, you need to just go ahead and tell me.”
“I will, I promise.”
She took his arm again. They moved along the boardwalk and down the steps into the darkness of the alley. No one was near them on the street, and the alley was thick with shadows. Brice stopped and said, “All right, what is it that’s wrong, Miss Sutton?”
She turned to face him, opened her mouth—and screamed at the top of her lungs.
Brice stepped back, shocked by the unexpected cry. Before he could get his wits back about him, she reached into her bag, yanked out a gun, and fired a shot into the air.
“What in blazes!”
As Brice got the surprised words out at last, Rosemarie flung the pistol away into the alley and then screamed again. She grabbed the neckline of her dress and pulled hard on it. The cloth ripped almost down to her waist, exposing the frilly undergarment she wore.
Curious shouts came from people in the street as some of them hurried toward the alley. Brice heard rapid footsteps on the boardwalk in front of Longmont’s and turned to see Smoke and Louis Longmont coming quickly to find out what the gunshot and the commotion were about. Each of them had a gun in his hand.
Worst of all, Denny and Sally weren’t far behind them. Although Brice was still completely confused, every instinct in his body told him that Rosemarie’s shocking behavior might not bode well for him, especially where Denny was concerned.
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