“And the city? Do you think you’ll miss it?”
Her gaze drifted. “Not as much as I thought I might. As long as I can write—” she bit that off, started again. “I saw Jaimie in the barn today.”
“Nursing his little bull?”
Millie grinned. “Like a mother hen.”
“That boy.” Jim chuckled.
“He’s so young, Clegg. Why isn’t he home with his family?”
“His ma passed away last year and his pa’s a drunk.” Details that mirrored some of Jim’s own past. “I know something about that, so I hired him.”
Millie’s face softened into—admiration? “That was awfully decent of you.”
“When I was seventeen a sheriff gave me a second chance. It paid off. Maybe this one will too.”
The song ended and they stopped dancing, but Jim was loath to let go of her and didn’t. “Would you like to go for a stroll, Millie?” He liked saying her name.
She nodded. “Yes, it’s a lovely evening.”
Jim’s eyes shot past her and his attention shifted instantly. Dave Reynolds and Robbie Carpenter were squaring off to arm wrestle over the chopping block. Grinning like an angry coyote, Reynolds was slowly rolling up his right sleeve.
11
Jim escorted Millie toward the competition. “I’d like to watch this. Do you mind?” he asked, well aware his gaze—glued to the gathering group of men—didn’t really offer the girl a choice. Couldn’t be helped. He had to see Reynolds’ arm.
“No, not at all.”
They slipped in with the small crowd eager to see the contest. Reynolds gave Jim a hard look, tinged with challenge. Then the man scanned Millie top to bottom and topped off the appraisal with a smarmy smile. Jim liked that even less. A coal of anger glowed in his chest. Wouldn’t take much to light it on fire. Like, say, if the weasel regards her with such disrespect again.
Millie pulled closer to Jim. A subtle move, one he thought she wasn’t even aware of. She wanted protection from Reynolds, whether she realized it or not.
Robbie dropped his elbow on the block and offered Reynolds his hand. “Let’s go, Shamrock.”
The Irishman’s face darkened. Obviously, he didn’t care for the nickname. He finished with his sleeve and set his arm in place as well. The two locked grips. “Get yer bets in, fellas, and watch the Shamrock send the boy home to his momma.”
Money changed hands all around Jim and Millie. “You’re not betting?” she asked.
Jim shook his head, his gaze riveted on the glaring scar that tore down Reynolds’ arm. “Robbie,” he said quietly, “is going to lose and I don’t much care to put any extra cash in Reynolds’ pocket.”
“How can you be so sure of the winner?”
“This is fun for Robbie. For Reynolds, it’s business.”
“I wonder how he got that scar?”
“Most likely conducting some business.”
One of the other hands yelled go and Reynolds and Robbie commenced to wrestling, squirming, grunting, and sweating as their arms teetered first one way then the other.
Jim knew Reynolds wouldn’t do this if he thought there was a chance he’d lose. And how Jim would like to see him lose, but Robbie wouldn’t be the one to slam down the Irishman’s wrist.
I could do it. And I’d enjoy it.
He gave the idea a little breathing room, to see if it might kick to life. Putting Reynolds in his place might redeem Jim in Millie’s eyes. He knew it bothered her that the man hadn’t been disciplined for getting rough with her. A bout could settle a few things, send a message to Reynolds—and the beauty at Jim’s side.
“Wrap it up, Reynolds. I want my shot.”
The man grinned and slammed Robbie’s hand down. He’d only been toying with him. Robbie rubbed his wrist and a bruised ego as Reynolds straightened and faced Jim. The ranch hands fell silent. “Your shot, eh?” He slid his gaze over Millie, slow and oily. “What does the winner get? A kiss from the pretty lady?”
Jim clenched his jaw. No. To live. “I’ll agree to that.”
Millie gasped and stepped back from him. A deep, angry V formed in her brow. “Excuse me, I’ll have something to say about that.”
“I won’t lose.”
The circle of cowboys hooted and whistled. Henry Yadkin, the blacksmith, turned to the men beside him. “I’m givin’ odds on our foreman, boys.” He waved some bills in front of them. “Don’t think the Irishman’s got nothin’ for him.”
Reynolds shook out his arm and flexed his fingers. “You dumb cowboys are about to lose your week’s pay.” He returned to the block, dropped his elbow, and raised his hand. “Let’s have a friendly contest, Mr. Hoyt.”
Friendly. Reynolds grinned like a bear about to eat its young. It was then Jim realized Millie was squeezing his arm, gouging her fingernails into his bicep. He peeled her off him, brushed her cheek, and winked at her. “Will you pay the winner?”
She crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air. “Yes. I will.”
Jim pursed his lips to keep from laughing at her. Millie Swank did not like being a pawn. But, then, Jim didn’t plan on losing. He peeled off his hat and handed it to her. “Thank you for playing along.” She didn’t return his smile.
He settled opposite Reynolds and the two wound their hands together, resting their elbows on the block. Jim flexed his fingers. “Get your bets in quick, boys.” This won’t take long. “Jaimie, I want you to call it.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy tensed, cleared his throat. “Ready?” Both men, arms entangled, staring holes in one another, nodded. “Go!”
Jim snatched Reynolds’ arm back, simultaneously shoving his own grip up the man’s hand a bit past halfway. He then twisted his hand clockwise, exposing his opponent’s wrist. He shifted his body a touch, and slammed Reynolds’ hand down with a definite thud. The match was over in the blink of an eye. Cheers and laughter erupted as a wide-eyed, disgusted Reynolds leaped back from the chopping block.
As Jim straightened, the man waved an accusing finger at him. “Ye cheated.” He scanned the group. “Ye saw him, he cheated.”
The cheers died as suddenly as if someone had slammed a door. Jim dropped his hands on his hips. “I didn’t cheat. You don’t know how to arm wrestle. But we can do it again, if need be.”
Everyone waited. Reynolds rubbed his arm, moved his jaw back and forth like he was gnawing on a bone. “Next time, Hoyt. Next time.”
“That’s Mister Hoyt to you.”
Reynolds eyed the cowboys staring him down with unfriendly expressions. Cursing, he snatched his hat from the fence and stomped off into the dark. Cheers and applause erupted once more and the wagered money passed into the right hands.
Jim took his hat back from Millie, settled it on his head. “How ‘bout that walk now, Miss Swank?”
She hooked her arm through his and they wandered off into the barnyard, lit by a huge full moon. They ambled along in a comfortable silence until the cowboys’ voices and the music were faint and indistinguishable. Finally, she asked him, “Did you know you were going to win that easily?”
“I had a strong suspicion. And that is the only reason I was willing to make the bet.”
“You were so sure you’d win?”
“Arm wrestling is like any kind of wrestling or boxing. There are techniques. Reynolds is a street-fighter, self-taught, and strong. I surmised a little skill and a lot of speed would undo him.”
“Thank goodness you were right. I’d sooner kiss a dead frog than that man.”
Jim stopped and pulled Millie around to face him, slipping his arms around her. Her eyes glittered like diamonds in the silver light. “I would not have let him win.” She didn’t say anything and he huffed a breath. He wanted to talk about things he had no business investing time in. No business at all. “Let’s head back.”
“You don’t want your prize?” Her mouth formed a little O, as if she couldn’t believe she’d made the offer.
She was adorable. An
d terrifying. “What do you want, Millie?” The question was too much. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t push this.”
“No, I understand. You sent off for a wife. You’d like to know my answer—”
He pressed his fingers to her lips. “Not yet. I can’t explain, but I need you to wait.”
She looked perplexed, but shrugged. “All right.”
He pulled her in closer. “But I sure wouldn’t mind that kiss.” After all, he was drowning in his feelings for her. Sinking fast. One more kiss wouldn’t make it any worse. Their lips met and he drank her in, savoring the feel of her breasts pressed against him, his hand on the curve of her waist, her hand caressing his neck, the delicacy of her body molded to his.
He allowed his rational mind to dissipate like smoke and, in her arms, he became light and heat . . . and desire.
Jaimie handed Jim the plain yellow envelope. “Mr. Moseby asked me to deliver this to ya, Mr. Hoyt. He said he was sorry he didn’t get it to ya yesterday but he couldn’t make it out. Anyway, one come for Miss Swank so I killed two birds for him with one stone.”
Jim lodged the ax he was about to swing into the log and took the telegram. “Thanks.” He waited till the boy was climbing the steps of the main house before he dared read it.
MILLIE SWANK CURRENTLY STILL IN BOSTON. FURTHER INVESTIGATION SUGGESTS YOUR M.O.B. MAY BE ELLIE BLAIR, REPORTER FOR WORLD DAILY NEWS. SUGGEST YOU SEND BLAIR AWAY & CLOSE INVESTIGATION AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.
A reporter?
The air in his lungs escaped in one deep, knee-buckling sigh as he dropped down on the chopping block.
She’s been lying this whole time. She’s here for a story.
His gaze traveled over to Miss Stella letting Jaimie in the front door.
But what story?
Jim couldn’t think. He’d known something was wrong with Millie Swank but he’d expected her to be her. Just not a housekeeper. Possibly a teacher. A tutor.
But a reporter?
His hand went to his stomach and he realized he felt . . . betrayed. Duped. Angry.
No wonder she was curious and so eager to talk to the hands.
What story was she after?
Exhaling a disgusted breath, he strode to the corral fence and grabbed the top rail. He needed to put his hands around something, otherwise it might be her pretty little neck.
Grasping the wood, he tried to connect the dots. She was curious about the ranch. She had shown a particular interest in Reynolds, and she’d been caught pilfering his things.
Had the newspaper somehow gotten wind of the counterfeiting? Did she know about the money? Had she tied Reynolds to O’Dea and Murphy gang?
He could stand here all day trying to guess. Or he could find his answers under Miss Stella’s roof.
12
Ellie rushed to her room and yanked out the telegram the second the door shut behind her.
O’DEA HAS NOTICEABLE SCAR ON RIGHT ARM. NOT KNOWN TO HAVE ASSOCIATE. ADDITIONAL SUSPECT COMPLICATES MATTERS. CONTINUE SEARCH FOR MONEY. WILL DISPATCH ASSISTANCE.
Will dispatch assistance.
Ellie did not take the telegram as a scolding in any way, yet she felt as if she was being removed from the case. Or at least moved to the back of the buggy, and nothing could jeopardize her scoop. Her story.
She had to find that money before the O’Toole detective got here.
The scar on Reynolds’ arm confirmed his identity. Obviously, he was O’Dea, so what he stole should be somewhere nearby. She went to her desk and pulled the dossier out of the valise.
“Millie,” Miss Stella called from downstairs. “Clegg’s here. He says he needs to see you.”
“Umm, all right,” Ellie called back, amazed at the rush of emotions his name stirred in her. “I’ll be down in a moment.” She opened the file on her desk, quickly scanned the paragraph on Clegg then flipped to the next page titled Sean O’Dea. She skimmed the words again. Six foot, blonde, slender . . . no siblings . . . a sporadic work history . . . known associates—
Something brought her reading to an abrupt halt. Her eyes traveled back up the physical description. Frowning, she flipped back to the page on Clegg, to the paragraph on his physical description.
Dark hair, dark eyes, five-foot-nine . . .
Five. Foot. Nine.
She stepped back from the paper suddenly, as if it had slithered to life.
He’s not a fraction under six-foot-four. How could I have missed that?
The doubts raced through her mind again. He hadn’t recognized his own handwriting. He didn’t recall having written about a cabin. That look when she’d mentioned his observations on the Old Testament.
She had to be wrong. Surely this suspicion was misguided somehow.
“Millie?” Miss Stella sounded fretful.
Ellie’s heart hammered in her chest. If he wasn’t Clegg Hoyt, then who was he? Rubbing her temples, she tried to piece things together . . . to no avail. The feel of his lips on hers, mixed with an unexpected sense of betrayal fogged her reasoning.
Lord, what am I missing?
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. All she could do was what Nellie Bly would do: be a reporter and get some answers.
Ellie descended the steps and saw instantly something was amiss with her Mr. Clegg Hoyt. A furrow in his brow, the restless tossing of the hat in his hand, the warm light in his eyes when he saw her that darkened to something ominous. Her step faltered, but she smiled nonetheless and met him at the bottom stair, as she had the other night.
The magic was gone, however. For her or him, or for them both, she wasn’t sure, but something had changed and she was wary. “You needed to see me, Mr. Hoyt?” She couldn’t help but emphasize the name just a tiny bit.
“Yes, Miss Swank.” Had she heard his own emphasis? “I was wondering if you might take a walk with me. I have something to discuss with you.”
For a fleeting moment she wondered if he was dangerous, but the idea was nonsense. “Of course.”
He offered her his arm and they strolled out of the house, through a busy flock of chickens, and past the barn. “It’s going to be a lovely evening,” she said, merely to break the silence. She loved the calm and quiet of the day winding down.
“Yes.”
That was all he offered and they walked for several more minutes without another word until they were a hundred or so yards from the nearest human. Only milling cows kept them company. Slowly, the impression she was being taken to the woodshed for something began to dawn on Ellie. Lord, please guide me here. What’s wrong?
She glanced up at the man who only a day before had watched her with longing, even desire in his eyes. Now, Clegg’s expression was hard and guarded. Had he found out the truth about her somehow? Did he know she wasn’t Millie Swank? But that was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Maybe she should try to get out in front of this.
She and Clegg both stopped abruptly, turned to one another and spoke at the same time.
“Clegg, I think it’s time you told me—”
“Millie, I know the truth about—”
They stopped, frowned, took a step back.
“The truth about what?” she asked.
“Time I told you what?” he asked.
Gazes locked on each other, suspicion electrified the air between them.
“Told me who you are, really?” she said softly, regretting she had to ask the question.
He tilted his head and worked his jaw back and forth. “You think I’m not Clegg Hoyt?”
“Something seems amiss to me, yes. When my papers were blowing about in the street in Evergreen, you didn’t recognize a letter in your own handwriting. You looked like a deer staring into the wrong end of a rifle when I asked you about your observations on the Old Testament. Most telling to me, however, was the blank look you gave me when I asked about the cabin, whether it was near water or had a view of the mountains. Your response, as I recall, was ‘ummm’
.”
Admiration flitted across his face. Rubbing his jaw, he turned away from her and ambled over to the fence. “No wonder you’re a reporter.”
“What?” she yelped, completely taken aback. Only shock kept her from adding, how did you know?
She stood stock still, stunned by his statement. He slapped his palms on the top rail of the fence and laughed, but did not sound amused. “I’ve met some sharp operators. You are the knife’s edge. So why are you here?” He rounded on her. “What about a Wyoming ranch could possibly interest a reporter from Boston?”
Ellie swallowed and prayed for solid footing again. He had the upper hand. Only for the moment. She could turn the table on him. “I’ll tell you what I’m after if you tell me who you really are.”
“You’re so sure I’m not Hoyt?”
She considered the question for a moment. And she knew. “Yes.”
Emotions rolled across his face, lit his eyes with challenge, then defeat. “Fine. I’m a Treasury agent.”
“A Treas—” She shook her head, unable to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Treasury agents investigated . . . money. The twenty-dollar gold coin from Reynolds’ wallet streaked through her mind. “You’re after Sean O’Dea and the money. Reynolds is O’Dea, isn’t he?”
His eyebrows rose and Ellie felt pride surge clear through to her soul.
“You’ve missed your calling, Miss Blair. You should be solving crimes, not writing about them.”
She smiled, though the pride quickly faded into unexpected grief. Nothing they’d had was real. A compliment that would have normally puffed her up like a soldier getting a medal now only illuminated an unexpected heartache. Her enthusiasm for this assignment dulled considerably. “I’m not that good. I still don’t know what your name is. Or why you want O’Dea, or how you found me out.”
He rested his hands on his hips and ambled back over to her. “O’Dea stole one thousand dollars in gold coins from the Irish mob. Worse, he stole the dies for the coins from the mob who stole them from the mint in San Francisco. If they get to him before I do, both he and the dies will disappear, the illegal minting will go on, and I’ll be back at square one.” He shrugged. “As for you, well, I just couldn’t see you with a man like Clegg Hoyt. It didn’t feel right. I had the treasury department do a little digging. Things fell into place when we discovered Millie Swank still in residence in Boston.” He offered her his hand. “Miss Ellie Blair, I’m Special Agent Jim West. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
The Brides of Evergreen Box Set Page 35