She hesitated. Jim West. Yes, that fit much better. They shook hands.
“Ellie Blair,” he said again, enunciating her name and nodding his approval. “I find that moniker far more fitting. And now your turn. Why are you here?”
“I was hired by the O’Toole Detective Agency in Boston to pose as Millie Swank. Michael O’Toole said his agency had been asked to assist in finding O’Dea and they had information he might be hiding at Whiskey Creek. They discovered that Mr. Hoyt was corresponding with Millie as a potential mail-order bride.” She shrugged. “It was the perfect cover.”
Jim scowled. “Asked to assist? By whom?”
“All he said was the government.”
Jim shook his head in disgust. “That’s typical. In government, the left hand never knows what the right hand is doing.”
This lack of communication worried Ellie. How would the investigation change now? Was an arrest imminent? What about those dies? More importantly, what about her byline?
“Mr. West, for posing as Millie Swank, I was promised this story would be mine exclusively. That’s very important to me.”
Had she imagined the hurt that flashed across his face? “That all you care about? Gettin’ your story? You must be pretty ambitious to have even managed an assignment like this, much less be so willing to lie to everybody around you.”
How dare he? “And just what have you been doing?”
“I’m a law enforcement officer. What I do saves lives.”
“And me being here, being willing to lie to everyone around me, could save lives, too.” She stomped up to him and tried to go nose-to-nose with him, but he towered over her. Undaunted, she poked him in the chest. “My story, my testimony, my investigation could help break the Murphy gang and put the members in jail for a long time. That will save lives.”
Jim raised his hands as if to clutch her shoulders, but dropped them and stepped back. “You have a point, Miss Blair.”
He said her name with such formality it actually hurt. “Then what do we do now?”
“My boss wants me to send you packing.” He took his hat off, rolled it around in his hands for a moment, then dropped it back on his head. “We need the dies. If we go straight to O’Dea and tell him what we know, he’ll bolt and we could lose this whole investigation.” He lifted an eyebrow at her. “He seems to like you. I say we dangle you as bait. A hard-driving, ambitious reporter like you wouldn’t mind a few more lies. A few more chances to pretend.”
To show a little ankle? It sounded awful when he said it, this selling of one’s . . . integrity. But every man on her newspaper would do anything to get this story. Ellie could do no less. Besides, this was the only way she could stay in the game. The O’Toole agent could be here in a matter of days and then she might just get sent back to Boston. “What do you want me to do?”
“Mr. Hoyt,” Jaimie’s voice brought Jim’s head up from his breakfast of eggs and sausage gravy. “There’s a man here to see you about a job.”
Jim handed the plate off to Tucker, the old bunkhouse cook, and wiped his mouth with a bandana. “I’m not hiring.”
“I told him I thought that was the case, but he’s pretty insistent.”
Jim gave the other ranch hands a resigned look, rose, and followed Jaimie.
Outside, a short, stocky fella, who looked about as tough as the worn chaps on his legs, grinned up at them. He hurriedly tied his horse’s reins around the corral fence rail and rushed to offer Jim his hand. “You must be the boss man.”
“Clegg Hoyt.” The two shook as Jaimie excused himself with a nod and returned to play nursemaid for the little bull. “What can I do for ya, Mister—?”
“Patch. Folks just call me Patch.”
“All right, Patch.”
“I was in the Lucky Lady last night and saw one of your boys get the stuffing beat out of him.”
“Do you know who?” Who wasn’t at breakfast?
“I believe the bartender called him Lindy.”
Jim almost cursed. Lindy was more trouble than he was worth. The man dragged out of his cot in the morning, dragged himself around to all his tasks, then dragged himself back to the bunkhouse. The only thing he showed any excitement for was Friday night. Well, now that might even be tamped down. No great loss.
“One of the girl’s is tending to him for the next few days. I could use the work so I thought I’d come and see if you could use me in his stead. Even if it’s just for a few days. I could use the stake.”
Jim sized the man up. Scars on his face, especially around his chin, and banged up knuckles hinted at a brawler. But he was muscly—belying no dislike for hard labor—and didn’t look to have the fog of alcohol in his eyes. “You’ve ranched?”
“Yes, sir, down on the Bar B in Texas, the Circle J in Oklahoma, and most recently the Sanderson Cattle Company in Colorado.”
“You headed somewhere?”
“I’m working my way back out to California. Got family there.”
Reasonable enough. And Jim really didn’t have time to be down a man. There was no telling how long Lindy would be out if he had one of the girls from the Lucky Lady wiping his brow. “All right, you can start today, if you’ve a mind to.”
“Yes, sir, got my bags on the horse.”
“And if you work out, you can stay as long as you like.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Since he was already half way there, Jim decided to amble on over and see the ladies this morning. There were so many things he would like to talk to Ellie about, yet he knew nothing could come of them. Why bother? Things between them had become muddled, lies weaving among truths, passion and attraction crossing boundaries. Now, without saying a word, he sensed they’d both snatched themselves back to reality. And it was painful.
They were going to play O’Dea carefully. Distract him—which is where Ellie came in—and give Jim a chance to go through the man’s belongings. Those dies couldn’t be far. She had agreed with simple, understanding nods. And when this was over, they would both go home, to opposite coasts, and never see each other again. And it felt all wrong.
Pulling his hat off, he knocked on the screen door and peered into the shadowy hallway. “Miss Stella? Miss El—er, Millie?” He’d almost slipped. It was easier to call her Ellie, almost natural. Millie didn’t fit. Period.
“Mornin’, Clegg.” Miss Stella pushed the door open for him. “Millie’s upstairs changing into some riding wear for a trip to town. I’m gonna let her take Bo.”
“Yes, ma’am. Good choice.”
“Join me for some coffee?”
“Thank you.”
Settled in the dining room, Miss Stella poured him a cup, but kept her eyes trained on him. “Something amiss between you and Miss Millie?”
She slid the cup to him. Jim wished he could tell the old girl the truth. What was he supposed to say? Truthfully, Miss Stella. I’m no cowboy. I am a U.S. treasury agent based out of San Francisco. Ellie is an ambitious reporter living in Boston who is only here for a story. A wide, yawning canyon of impossibilities separates us and neither is willing to cross it. Once a criminal is arrested, we will go our separate ways.
Instead, he said simply, “No. Everything’s fine.”
“My personal guess is she’s scared.”
“What?”
“And so are you.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Miss Stella.”
“I think neither one of you bargained on real love in this arranged, mail-order bride story. It changes the way you see yourselves and each other. You’ve got all your chips on the table, as the gamblers say. And that’s scary.”
Jim was willing to concede Miss Stella was a breath away from the bull’s eye. Again, though, none of this mattered. And, mercifully, Ellie slipped into the room just then. “Good morning.”
Jim rose to his feet. “Good morning.” She was fresh and pretty in her bright red shirt and split riding skirt. And he was staring. “I understan
d you’re taking a ride into town. I didn’t know you could ride.”
Ellie started working into a pair of lambskin gloves. “I dare say, Mr. Hoyt, there is a lot you don’t know about me. Suffice it to say, my father wished for a son and I reaped the benefits of a more manly upbringing.”
“All right, well,” He picked up his hat and waved it at her. “I’ll saddle Bo for you.”
As they walked to the barn together, Ellie repeatedly tapped a riding crop against her leg. Finally, she said, “Things have changed between us. I’m not sure I like it.”
“I was thinking that same thing.”
“I think I liked pretending . . . ” she faded off.
“Pretending what?”
“That this was real.” She motioned to the world around them. “Not that I would really want this—to give up my career and live on a ranch—but the pretending . . . ” She cut her eyes at him, “You know, that we were together, wasn’t unbearable. It was agreeable.”
“We have to keep that up. We can’t give O’Dea any kind of signal that we’re not who we say we are.”
“I know. But it feels different now for some reason.”
“Because we know it’s ending?”
She stopped and he did, too. She regarded him with a tortured expression, as if a thousand words needed to tumble from her lips and she couldn’t share one. He wished he could read her mind. Her eyes seemed to be trying to send him a message, but he couldn’t decipher it. Going out on a limb, he took her hand in his. “We can enjoy what time we’ve got left.” He leaned down and kissed her tenderly.
“I wish it could work,” she said against his lips.
He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Me, too.”
Ellie didn’t like withholding information from Jim.
Her pace along the busy boardwalk slowed as the guilt intensified.
He didn’t know there was an agent on the way, neither did he know she was sending word to her editor and O’Toole confirming O’Dea’s identity. A resourceful reporter, she was merely trying to protect her interest in this story by being first with the news.
Then why do I feel as though I’m doing something wrong, Lord?
To be a female reporter in an industry dominated entirely by men—well, she had to make hard choices. When the dust settled, Jim would understand. It wasn’t as if the relationship they’d started building was real. He had his duty and he was putting it first. She had her job and she would put it first.
“Here, boy, that’s my bag.”
A familiar voice pulled her from her thoughts. Alarmed, she peered through the crowd for the face that went with it. She caught a glimpse of a man in a loud yellow and brown plaid suit tipping a porter in front of the Cheyenne House.
She knew that suit.
No . . .
She pushed through the backs and arms, praying she was wrong, ready to kill someone if she wasn’t. She tapped Reese on the shoulder, hard. Scowling, the man spun on her. “Hey, what’s th—” He cut himself off as recognition dawned in his dark, beady eyes. “Nellie Bly. Why, I’ll be.”
“What are you doing here, Bill?”
“Hey, just following a story. That’s my job.”
“Did Mr. Taylor send you?”
“Of course he did.”
“You think you’re just going to waltz into Wyoming and take my story?”
“Listen, little sister,” Reese bent down and picked up his bag. “It’s time for you to step aside and let the men handle this. It’s bigger than you know.”
“And Mr. Taylor didn’t want to risk having a woman write it up?” More an angry accusation than a question.
“Go around thinking you’re always a victim, kid, you’ll become one.” Something in Bill’s I’ve-seen-it-all face softened. “Or maybe he just wanted somebody more experienced on this.”
“Am I supposed to help you? Help you get my story?”
His furry eyebrows arched. “You would, too, wouldn’t you? ’Cause your still wet behind the ears.” He shook his head. “Nah, you’re on your own and so am I.”
Ellie wasn’t sure she understood. “So, Mr. Taylor didn’t send you?”
“My source in the bowery told me about this O’Dea and what he really stole. That’s too hot for a toddler like you to handle.”
What a pompous—oh, she wanted to claw out his eyes. Maybe Bill read her mind. He took a step back. “First one to file the story in Denver at the Rocky Mountain News gets the front page.”
13
“Mr. Reynolds, would you take a walk with me?”
A shirtless Reynolds jerked his head out of the trough and slicked his dripping hair back. Wiping and blinking the water from his eyes, he gave Ellie a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “A walk, is it? What, do ye think ye’ll be getting another chance at me wallet?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’d like a chance to convince you I’m not a thief.”
“Well, now,” he snatched his shirt off the pump handle and wiped his neck with it, showing off a tightly rippled stomach. “Aren’t you worried your Mr. Hoyt will take offense if he catches ye?” He started slipping back into the shirt.
“He can’t object to a walk.”
Reynolds studied her intensely for a moment, but Ellie could see his vanity winning.
Watching from the Blacksmith’s shop, Jim waited till O’Dea rounded the corner of the barn with Ellie. He had to act fast as he knew he couldn’t leave the girl with the scoundrel for too long.
He rushed over to the bunkhouse and rifled quickly through the box under Reynolds’ bed, ran his hands underneath the mattress, dug through the contents of the saddlebags hanging on the footboard. Nothing.
He couldn’t imagine Reynolds would take the dies too far from his person. So where? Think, man.
Jim scanned the room of beds, spartan in its furnishings. Blast it, those dies were here somewhere. His eyes landed on the windowsill near Reynolds’ bed. Then he noticed the lack of dust. Hoping it was relevant, he walked over and wiggled the sash. It moved. Encouraged, he wiggled it more and a piece came lose in his hand. He peered down into a space between the window and the frame. A space just deep enough to hold a leather case, roughly the size of two coin dies . . .
Ellie leaned back on the barn and batted her lashes at Reynolds. “I just wanted to make it clear I’m not what you think I am.” I’m worse. How far was she going to have to go to keep this man occupied for a few minutes? How far was she willing to go?
Reynolds placed a hand on the graying wood just above her head and leaned in, his way of asserting power. He wasn’t an unattractive man, what with his rugged appearance, sunny golden hair, and broad shoulders. But he carried himself in such a way that he communicated a coldness, an aloofness that hinted at something sinister. He reminded her of a sleeping rattlesnake, always on the edge of striking without much provocation.
“I think I’ve come to the conclusion ye want to play with fire.” He twirled a finger in a strand of hair hanging down her shoulder.
“Well, Mr. Hoyt is a very nice man, maybe too nice.” She found it difficult to stand his hungry gaze and found hers ricocheting about. “It strikes me that you might be more of the adventurous type. You’ve traveled around, lived on ranches and in the city. You’re very interesting.”
“Worried about being bored on the great windswept plains of Wyoming?”
“Maybe. A little.”
Her heart started pounding and she placed a hand on her chest. He grinned at the action. “Ye’r cheeks are flushed, love.” He stroked one with the back of his hand. “Maybe I did read ye wrong. Maybe ye do just like to mix it up, see a little blood.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“I would.” Without warning, he smashed his lips to hers, hard and hungrily. Whimpering, she squirmed, pounded on his shoulders, but he held her pinned against the barn. His hand groped her legs, pulling her skirt up.
“No,” she managed, turning
her head.
He found her mouth again and bit her lip. She felt the sharp pinch followed by the taste of blood. He pressed his whole body against her, grinding on her, forcing a knee between her legs.
Fury flared in Ellie like a roman candle. She clawed at Reynolds’s face, dragging her nails down his cheek. He bellowed and backed away from her, holding his face. “Why you—” he charged her again. She spun but Reynolds was on her, forcing her hands down behind her back.
“Jim,” she screamed, praying he was near. Lord, please . . . “Jim!”
And then he was there, a great and terrible rage mottling his face. He grabbed Reynolds, spun him around, and punched him with bone-shattering force. The man stumbled, nearly fell, but miraculously stayed on his feet.
“I warned you not to touch her again.” Jim growled.
Reynolds straightened, a hand cupped over his gushing nose. “Ye’r bride there, Mr. Hoyt, is a harlot. She asked me to walk with her. She is playing both sides of our fence and makin’ a fool of ye.”
“Well, you’re not going to have to worry about my bride anymore, Mr. Reynolds. Or should I say, Mr. O’Dea?” Jim pulled a leather case from his back pocket. “You’re under arrest.”
Reynolds’ eyes widened, then he turned and bolted like a jack rabbit.
“Ellie!” Jim tossed the case to her and launched after the escaping man. He landed on him like an eagle swooping in to take its prey. The two went down and commenced trading blows. Dust rose and blood spattered the dirt as fists met flesh. Jim’s hat rolled out of the fray as if it were running for cover. Sunlight glinted off a knife blade both men grappled desperately over.
Ellie gasped and laced her fingers over her mouth.
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