“It may be a lie, or…” Riot stopped there.
“Or Alex Kingston is trying to get even,” Coleman filled in the rest.
“Maybe so.” Riot removed his spectacles and studied the blood pattern on the glass. “Alex isn’t my only enemy. I have a host of them. I think the tongs, at least, would do the deed themselves.” As he mused, he poured a bit of whiskey on a handkerchief and went about cleaning his spectacles. “Kate would certainly pay to have me brought in, but only so she could shoot me herself…”
“Kate?” Coleman asked.
“Spanish Kitty, at the Strassburg.”
Coleman stiffened. “Is there any criminal in the Barbary Coast you haven’t offended?”
It was, Riot realized, a joke of sorts. Riot gave the Inspector a rueful smile. “I seem to offend lawmen in equal measure.”
Coleman chose his next words carefully. “Often times, as you know, the two are indistinguishable. But really, Mr. Riot. Why did you go to the Morgue? You wouldn’t catch me in there without a squad of men.”
“I needed to send a message.”
“And what message was that?”
Riot looked the man square in the eye. “That a thousand dollars is not worth the risk. Four men drew on Tim and me in the Morgue. Though I’m sure you won’t be called to clean up the mess we left behind.”
“Four men?” Coleman asked.
“Inspector, I can’t have my hands tied when there’s a price on my head. They didn’t just go after me, they targeted my agency. My men. And my wife.” He stressed the last.
Coleman leaned back, thoughtful. “Smith only reached me because he telephoned my home. No one at the station seemed overly eager to come to your aid.”
“Are you surprised?”
Coleman met his eyes. “No,” he said simply, then considered his next words. “I’ll be sure to mention the bounty on your head in my report. That should offer you some protection if you find yourself in front of a judge again. In the meantime, try not to leave a bloodbath in the wrong place.”
“I’d like to question the policemen who were on patrol.”
Coleman shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I plan on questioning them myself. I’ll let you know what I discover.”
It was something, at least.
“I’ll also see that men I trust patrol this area.”
“Are there any?”
“There are,” Coleman said with a sigh. “We’re few, but we’re growing.”
“Take care, Inspector. Helping me could make you a target as well.”
Coleman gave him a tight smile. “I have plenty of enemies already. Inside the department, and outside. Don’t worry about me.”
Riot nodded. “Is that all, Inspector?”
“As long as Mrs. Riot comes by tomorrow and gives us a statement.”
“I’ll poke around too,” Sergeant Price said. “I have a few contacts who might know who put the bounty on your head.”
“I’d appreciate it. And one other thing while you’re at it…”
“Name it,” Sergeant Price said.
“Before the ambush, Bel and I were looking into the disappearance of a fifteen-year-old girl. Elouise Spencer. Her brother, Lewis Fletcher, was supposed to report it today, but who knows where the report landed.”
“Don’t I know it. I’ll see what I can do.”
“And a girl by the name of Madge Ryan. A redhead. She supposedly ran away months ago. I’d like to know if her parents reported her missing.”
Price wrote the names down.
“Watch yourself, Mr. Riot.” Coleman offered a hand and Riot shook it—the two men a small but determined force of justice in a sea of corruption.
15
Afterdrop
Cold air seeped under her collar, cut right through the wool, and gripped her bones. Isobel welcomed it. She shook with anger. At least that’s what she told herself as she walked up to the gate of a secured harbor.
Another gift from Lotario.
‘My Lady requires a proper berth—not the dumps you moor her in,’ her twin had said. The renovated cutter did deserve better than Isobel had given her. And Lotario had spared no expense. He’d paid for a berth at the yacht club. It also meant better guards. After being rammed by assassins and nearly drowning with Riot in the Lady’s cabin, Isobel appreciated Lotario’s generosity.
Isobel greeted the watchman with a curt name. He checked his list, and nodded her through the gate.
Lotario had rented the last berth, the farthest point on the docks and closest to the open sea. Isobel hurried along the floating dock, her footsteps hollow on the planks. Salt air soothed her, but she still shook. She stepped aboard the Lady and opened the hatch, then climbed down into darkness.
Feeling her way along, she struck a match and put it to the hanging lantern. Light filled the cabin. Home. Her chest was tight. Her heart was somewhere in her throat and her ears rang, but she could almost breathe again.
As Isobel shed her borrowed hat and coat, something plopped onto the ground. She froze. A grayish-pink lump attached to a jagged bone lay on her cabin floor.
The night rushed back, starker in her mind than when it happened. The creak of a door. A standoff. Guns blazing. The split second when she’d thrown herself at a man drawing his gun. But Tim was quicker and the man had taken a header. Isobel stared down at the bit of brain attached to a skull fragment.
Bile rose in her throat.
She grabbed the galley bucket and retched. There was nothing in her stomach, but she kept at it until she was gripping the rim and shaking.
They were scarcely a week into their marriage, and after all they’d gone through and all his promises Riot had ordered her to stay behind in typical male fashion.
Isobel was not a woman to be coddled, and he damn well knew it. But she had been useless, a smaller voice argued. Her arrival had sparked a shoot out.
A distraction.
Blood on sawdust.
A dying gasp.
Another dry heave wracked her.
Isobel quickly shed her coat and checked her clothing. Other fragments clung to the coat. She looked in a bit of mirror hanging on the wall. Dried blood smeared her face and more pinkish-grey fragments clung to her collar.
Isobel swallowed. She grabbed the bit of brain from her cabin floor, climbed on deck, and chucked it into the water. Her skin was crawling.
Her heart thundered in her ears and clawed up her throat. She needed to move. She stripped down to her skin, dumped her clothes on deck, and dove overboard. The shock of frigid water hit her. It cleared her mind of memory, and the sea washed her clean of grime. With every reckless stroke towards the seawall she left the night behind.
The Pagan Lady was in her berth. That was a good sign. Warm light seeped from between shutters and a thin line of smoke joined the fog from the stack. A knot unwound in Riot’s chest as he walked towards her in the dark, and climbed aboard. “Ahoy there,” he called, his voice bouncing against the lap of water.
No answer.
The fog obscured the moon, the dark was absolute, so when his toe ran into something wet, he paused. He bent and felt the shadowy lump. Clothing.
Riot moved to the hatch, and opened it. He stuck his head inside and peered cautiously into the cabin.
Water spots spattered the companionway, and a trail of water led to a small copper hip tub and a scrub brush. Isobel stood near the tub. She held her robe closed with one hand and her other held a revolver. When recognition flashed over her eyes, she cursed softly and lowered the weapon.
Riot hesitated before walking into the tiger’s den. But as Tim had said, time and silence wouldn’t fix this. He steeled himself, and stepped down the companionway ladder, hands in the air. “Now’s an excellent time to shoot me. You’ll walk away with the house and my not so impressive fortune.”
Wet hair, chattering teeth, she shivered violently. Her lips had a decidedly blue tint. And yet, there was steel in her eyes.
“Wh
y the hell do you still have your hands up?”
“You still have a revolver in hand,” he said softly.
It was a precaution. A lifetime of training, conditioning, and frightening innate reflexes meant that Riot’s brain didn’t always catch up to his instincts until after he pulled the trigger. If she was furious enough to fire, then so be it. He’d take a bullet. But he’d take no chances of triggering his own reactions with the woman he loved.
Isobel paled in realization, and quickly set the revolver on a shelf.
Riot lowered his hands. “Bel, I shouldn’t have—”
“But you did.” The words hung between them. She cinched her robe with a grudge, and turned to the Shipmate stove for warmth, hugging herself. Clothes on deck, slicked-back hair, a trail of water drops leading into the cabin. Riot surmised she likely dove overboard for a bracing swim.
He wanted to put his arms around her. Warm her. Keep her safe. But then perhaps that was the issue. The silence between them was vast.
“Talk to me, Bel,” he urged. Scream at me, attack me, anything other than this, he thought.
She spun. “Talk to you? Talk? Like you talked with me before you left? You didn’t even bother to tell me where you were headed. You ordered me to stay behind.” Fury warmed her, and for the moment she stopped shivering.
Isobel snatched up the hip tub, pushed past him, and lugged it on deck. Water splashed as it was upended, and then silence.
At least she hadn’t asked him to leave. Small victories.
The night hit him like a train. Drained and sore, Riot hung his hat on a hook and shed his coat. The movement sent fire up his side and unleashed a fresh gush of blood. Moving more carefully, he divested himself of belts, holsters, and revolvers.
Some men felt powerful when they had a gun strapped to their hips. Others felt reassurance. But for Riot, guns were simply tools of his trade, and like any professional he was happy to lay down his tools at the end of a long day. A weight lifted from his mind, and he relaxed, turning to the gash in his side.
Riot eased out of his waistcoat, and was peeling off his blood-soaked shirt when he heard a slight intake of breath. He looked up. Isobel stood at the bottom of the companionway ladder, a bucket in hand. She nearly dropped it.
“You’re shot.”
“Only a graze,” he said.
Water sloshed over the rim, as she set the bucket down and hurried forward. Gunfighter number three had fired off a shot just as Riot’s bullet hit him. The bullet went awry and grazed Riot’s ribs, leaving a red trail along his side.
Isobel bent to study the wound. “It’ll need stitches.” She turned to retrieve her medical kit, but Riot caught her hand. Her skin felt like ice. Instead of pulling away, she stayed in place.
“You are my partner,” he said.
“I didn’t feel like it back there.”
“I apologize. I shouldn’t have ordered you. This is… all new for me too, Bel. I wouldn’t have let Ravenwood go either.”
“Maybe not, but you sure as hell would have discussed your plans.”
“I was angry. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Because I was threatened,” she accused.
Riot didn’t answer.
“Would you have asked Ravenwood to get the lights?” she pressed.
“Matt was closer.”
Isobel arched a brow. “Really, Riot? That’s the only reason?”
He squared his shoulders. “The explosion shook you. You were dazed and your hands were trembling. You were in no state to come with me.”
Isobel bristled. Steely eyes flashed and she was set to unleash hell on him, but then she looked him in the eyes and saw the brutal truth of it—no amount of arguing would change the fear she’d felt in that moment.
Adrenaline and fury rushed out in a breath. “And yet I did,” she said softly.
“You did,” he said.
She searched his eyes. “Would those men have drawn on you if I hadn’t provided a convenient distraction?”
Riot knew what she was asking. It was a hard question. But shielding her from the truth wouldn’t do much good. “One man would have.”
“How can you be so cocksure of that?” she demanded.
“Think, Bel. What did you see when you entered?”
“I saw a man draw on you, so I charged him.”
Riot inwardly winced at the memory. Tim had fired his rifle from his hip. It was fortunate he was a crack shot and Isobel was short. “But there was a split second before that. What did you see?”
“My husband about to be shot.”
He waited.
Isobel growled in frustration. She took a calming breath and closed her eyes. “There was the pimp with his two guards. The grizzly bear of a man, the bartender, three women, the man in the corner behind you, the one I tackled. A third man at the bar, one at a table with his side to you—” Isobel opened her eyes. “It was him. He would have fired. He was sitting at the table, with his right side facing you, but the bottle and tumbler were on his left side. He was left-handed.”
Riot inclined his head. “He was slowly reaching for his revolver, thinking I wouldn’t notice. The others weren’t going to gamble with their lives, but your arrival gave them courage. They took advantage of a distraction, just like I took advantage of Mack’s reckless charge out the back door.”
She swallowed as the full implication settled on her shoulders. “I nearly got you killed.”
Riot closed the distance, taking her face gently in his hands. “You nearly got yourself killed,” he corrected.
Isobel deflated right into his arms. They clung to each other, her face tucked against his neck. He could feel her breath, feel her trembling. He held her close, willing warmth into her bones.
“I should have listened. I knew you were quick, but—” She stopped, unable or unwilling to voice the events of the night. Isobel was too practical to think him a monster. He knew that much. And he was too seasoned to feel even a twinge of regret for killing in self-defense. Still, he wagered that had been her first prolonged gunfight and duel, all in a single night.
Riot brushed her forehead with his lips. “For what it’s worth, Tim and I didn’t expect you to stay behind.”
“For all the good it did. I was useless.” Her voice was muffled against his skin.
Riot’s hands dropped to her upper arms, and he gently eased her back to catch her eyes. “You threw a stick of dynamite back at an assassin.”
“I blew up your agency.”
The corner of Riot’s lip raised. “Only partly.”
She frowned at him.
“I have a proposal regarding our continued partnership,” he said.
“I’m not jumping ship on our marriage just yet.”
“I’m relieved to hear.” He brushed his thumb lightly over a cut on her cheek. “Would you like to hear my proposal?”
“Are we really going to discuss this while you drip blood on my cabin floor?”
“I’m not positive I want to discuss this while you’re armed with thread and needle.”
“Sounds like perfect timing.” Isobel left to fetch her kit.
Riot poured water from the bucket into the kettle, and set it on the Shipmate stove. While the cabin warmed, he stretched out on a settee, half propped up so his side was accessible. Isobel pressed a bottle of medicinal brandy into his hand while they waited for the water to boil.
It was a long slice. Isobel washed it, and then disinfected it with carbolic acid. Needle and thread in hand, her brows drew together as she bent over his wound, tugging thread through his skin with each pass.
“What do you propose, Mr. Riot?”
Riot took another fortifying draught of brandy.
“I’m not going to jab you,” she said through her teeth.
He eyed her warily, but spoke anyway. “We’re both new to this partnership, professionally and in life. I might have a lifetime of experience, but, in some areas, you far surpass me.”
&n
bsp; Isobel snorted. “I doubt that.”
“You’re captain of this ship,” he pointed out.
“Boat,” she corrected.
“My point exactly. So when we’re on this boat, I’ll defer to your experience. And in agency matters, I’ll take the lead.”
“That’s hardly fair, Riot,” she argued. “How often do we sail?”
“Hear me out,” he said with a wince.
Isobel took a calming breath, and more care with the next pass of the needle.
“I’m a fair detective, as long as there’s a trail. Tim has a knack with people. But you... You leap ahead to the end, Bel. You have superb instincts for detective work.”
“My ‘instincts are incomparable but my judgment is sorely lacking’?” she asked, quoting something Ravenwood had often said of Riot in his journals.
“I wouldn’t say that about your judgment. Not anymore.”
“Is it because I have a needle through your flesh? Because tonight proved otherwise.”
He grunted. “You don’t need to prove yourself, Bel. You survived the past year. That’s proof enough. When I worked with Ravenwood, he led investigations and I handled anything dangerous that came along. That’s all I ask. That when it comes to a gunfight, you follow my orders.”
“Will you share your plans with me next time?”
“If there’s time.”
She raised her brows at him.
“Yes,” he conceded.
“Will you include me in those plans?”
“When appropriate.”
“Here’s the issue, Riot.”
“Only one?”
“You have a protective streak in you. But so do I.” Isobel brandished the needle at him, causing her robe to slip off one shoulder. “I know if I agree to this you’ll try to keep me safe like some princess locked away in a tower. Your proposal isn’t fair to me. I don’t need a knight protector.”
“It’s a logical proposal. I’m more experienced.”
“Until you get yourself killed.”
“I won’t.”
“Neither will I.”
Riot opened his mouth, and clicked it shut. As needle passed through flesh, he mulled the matter over.
Where Cowards Tread Page 11