by Jill Gregory
She’s not yours. She’s Brett’s. And you’d be no damn good for her anyway.
He’d been forgetting what kind of man he was, what cold savage poison ran through his veins. No woman deserved that, least of all this one. Annabel Brannigan was an angel with nerves of iron and a will stronger than the Rocky Mountains.
But she was still a woman, and any involvement with her would only bring her grief.
“What’s wrong?” The sharp concern in her voice shook him from his thoughts. “You look so strange. As if you were ready to shoot someone or something!”
“Not you, Annabel.” A curious sad smile twisted his lips. “I would never hurt you.”
Annabel. He called me Annabel. She sat very still, her hands clenched upon her skirt, and gazed at him in astonishment. She’d never heard that gentle note in his voice before, and the fact that it was mixed with a kind of bitterness as he spoke her name wrenched at her heart. Staring at him she realized that the mask of ice had fallen away from his face and for the first time she glimpsed an inner sorrow held rigidly in check, but a sorrow nonetheless.
Instinctively, she reached up and touched his strong, handsome jaw, wanting to soothe the hurt and the harshness inside him, but at her touch the breath whistled from his chest as if she had burned him with a lighted torch.
He tugged the horse to a halt, and behind them the pack horses stopped abruptly as well. At least, Annabel heard them stop as if in a dream, but she didn’t look back to see. Her gaze was locked with Roy Steele’s. His eyes bored into hers with such riveting intensity that she literally could not tear her glance away.
Then he yanked her close and kissed her. Her breasts were crushed against his chest as he enclosed her in fierce arms. His mouth burned hers, searching, no —hunting, hunting for softness, sweetness, vulnerability, and finding it, conquering with violent, relentless kisses. He showed her no mercy. And she was whirled into a hot, sweet maelstrom that spun her up, down, and about like a feather in a cyclone.
It was over as quickly as it started.
Breathing hard, he yanked back and pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length in the saddle before him.
“Well, Miss Brannigan, I reckon we’d better stick to riding or we’re both going to forget about Mr. Brett McCallum.”
The chilling mockery in his drawling tone sliced through her like barbed wire. But he was right? What was she thinking of? To have kissed him as she had again—and felt for him what she had—no, no, she didn’t feel anything for him, not really. It was only that they had gone through so much together, with a strange fast friendship springing up between them, intensified by the silly things she’d been so foolishly confiding to him.
Friendship?
Was it friendship she felt for this tough, unpredictable man? Was it friendship she wanted from Roy Steele when she melted into his embrace and forgot everything else: her mission, her whereabouts, even her own name? Was it friendship she wanted when he looked at her with that cool level gaze of his, or brought those hard, demanding lips to hers?
An ache filled her. Oh, God. Brett, I’m sorry. What is wrong with me?
She couldn’t speak. She turned her head away, because tears were filling her eyes and she had told Roy Steele she never cried.
With a quick movement, he forced her around in the saddle once more, so that she faced forward, looking blindly at the trees. Then he spurred the horse to a trot. He said nothing more, but she felt the tension in his body as they rode, and she sensed the fearsome anger engulfing him. She wasn’t sure if he was angry with her or with himself. She wasn’t sure of anything.
I need time to think, Annabel cried silently.
But it was impossible to think with Roy Steele so near.
The minutes fled by and the horses plodded on and the sun blazed high and golden in the sky. Annabel stared numbly out at the rock and sagebrush country they were entering, trying to remember who she was and what she was doing out here in the Arizona territory. She reminded herself how precious little time she might have left, and she reminded herself of how important Brett was to her.
In particular, she thought back to the time he had saved her when she’d fallen through the ice at the park while they’d been skating one blustery winter day. That was the first time she’d known that she’d loved him, that she would always love him.
The first of many such times.
And now it was her turn to save him, and she had to do everything she could. There was no time, no place, and no point in kissing another man, thinking about another man, wondering what it would be like to touch and know and love another man ...
Especially a man like Roy Steele, a man with no soul and no roots, a man who killed without regret and who had no space for a woman in his life.
I’m loco, Annabel decided, swallowing hard. That’s the only explanation. She straightened her shoulders and made a decision. From now on, everything between her and Roy Steele was to be strictly business. No more chats, no more discussions. He was a means to an end, a guide helping her to reach Brett quickly and safely. Nothing more.
And she refused to glance at him the rest of the journey, keeping her gaze fixed resolutely upon the surrounding rocks and scrub. Her thoughts busied themselves with what message she would send to Mr. Stevenson over the telegraph. She tried her best to ignore Roy Steele.
But she couldn’t ignore the feel of his body against hers with every step of the horse, the pine and sage scent of him, the even sound of his breathing behind her.
And she couldn’t ignore her pounding heartbeat, or the uncertainty that had wormed its way into her mind and was eating away at the edges of her soul.
It gnawed at her, and Annabel had no defense against it. They reached Silver Junction in midafternoon, by which time Annabel felt physically and emotionally exhausted, but she fought against the urge to relax her body against him, and sat rigidly upright in the saddle as they entered the dusty little town, rode past peddlers’ carts and wagons and horses tethered near a watering trough, and finally came to a halt before the Last Chance Hotel.
Chapter 14
Annabel slipped soundlessly out of her hotel room and down the narrow staircase, her feet skimming over the threadbare carpet with barely a whisper. But her heart was pounding all too loudly in her chest. She half expected Roy Steele to emerge suddenly from his room down the hall and demand to know where in hell she thought she was going.
But he didn’t. In fact, as she reached the bottom step she saw no one other than a sweet-looking, elderly couple who passed her in the lobby and proceeded into the little dining room arm in arm. Even the hotel clerk had disappeared somewhere, and she darted outside without a hitch.
The sun was sinking fast and she’d have to hurry to reach the telegraph office before it closed. She knew it was beside the mercantile, because she’d asked the maid who’d brought bath water to her room, so now she gathered her skirts in one hand and hurried down the planked boardwalk, intent on sending a message to Mr. Stevenson before the sun was set on this day.
She felt fresher and more invigorated than she had since setting out on the train from St. Louis. She’d bathed with her own delightful lilac soap, sudsed the trail dust from her hair, and patted herself dry with a thick towel until her skin shone. Then she’d selected one of her favorite Sunday best dresses—the blue and white gingham with the gently scooped neck and the flaring, lace-edged sleeves. To her relief, her wound was much better today, only aching the tiniest little bit, and she could use her arm without any real discomfort, so she’d had no difficulty in brushing and pinning up her hair. She’d done so rather hurriedly, but with deft precision, then, on impulse, had allowed several plump curls to spring free, letting them cascade down her neck and dangle about her cheeks. After threading a lovely blue velvet ribbon through her chignon, she’d concluded that the effect was quite fetching, if she did say so herself. In her good calf boots, with her reticule dangling from her arm, she felt fresh and neat and competent as s
he strode past the dry goods store, the apothecary, and Brown’s Mercantile Emporium, at last reaching the telegraph office.
But when she pushed open the door and stepped into the tiny, low-ceilinged office, she found that another customer preceded her, a stocky, redheaded young man in a plaid shirt, red bandana, and black vest. She bit back her disappointment and closed the door. There was nothing to do but take a seat on the low bench against the wall, and wait.
“Now, let me see.” The harried-looking clerk squinted down at the paper before him and nervously licked his lips. “ ‘Getting close. Heading into New Mexico. Expect job done within week.’ Is that it, Mr. Cobb?”
Annabel froze. Mr. Cobb. Red Cobb? Oh, dear God.
She casually turned her head and glanced at the man before her as the words of the message sank in and took on an ominous meaning. Red Cobb was obviously headed into New Mexico after Brett and, by his own message, planned to kill him within the week.
But not if I have anything to say about it, she thought, her hands balled into tight fists. She had to do something, and quickly. She noticed that the clerk was regarding the red-haired man with great uneasiness, much the same way the hotel clerk in Justice had looked at Roy Steele. But she couldn’t afford to be afraid. She hadn’t come all this way to save Brett only to suddenly let fear and indecision get the better of her. She had to think, to think of a way to stop Red Cobb.
For a split second she considered leaving quickly, going to the hotel, and alerting Steele. But what would he do? He’d come here, call Cobb out, and then what?
Possibly get himself killed.
Stark fear swept through her. No. She couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let Roy Steele risk his life. Not here, not now. But it was what he did, a voice inside of her argued, it was how he lived. It was why he had come in search of Brett, to save him from Red Cobb, to fight Red Cobb in his place.
But now that the moment was here, even to save Brett, she couldn’t allow it to happen. Steele was fast, oh, she knew he was fast, as quick and deadly as could be with his Colt, but Red Cobb might be faster ... and then ...
She closed her eyes as a faintness washed over her. No, she would have to handle this herself and somehow keep Roy Steele from even knowing that Cobb was here in Silver Junction.
She flinched as the gunfighter’s smooth hard voice cracked like an oiled whip through the little office. “That’s it, my friend. Send it now. I’ll wait.”
And the telegraph clerk bobbed his thin balding head and bent swiftly over his machine.
Red Cobb turned lazily and saw her.
“Ma’am,” he said, and doffed his hat.
Annabel nodded. He was a square-jawed, good-looking man, not quite as tall as Roy Steele, but younger, cockier, with full lips and a snub nose, and deep-set eyes the color of robin’s eggs. Something in his wide smile gave him a boyish look, but there was nothing boyish in the way he was regarding her at this moment.. Her skin crawled. The man was stripping her buck naked right here in the telegraph office, and with a haughty insolence that made her want to slap him.
Instead she gave him her most winsome smile, and tried out a southern accent. “Well, sir, it surely is a nice afternoon, isn’t it? And isn’t this the pleasantest little town? Much nicer than some others I’ve been in recently. Why, my room over at the hotel is ever so much prettier than the room I had in Eagle Gulch!”
“Glad to hear it, ma’am,” he replied and sauntered over to sit beside her, holding his hat in one smooth, slender hand.
Repugnance filled her. He was handsome, he was outwardly polite, and he smelled of soap and sticky hair pomade, but there emanated from him somehow a stench of evil that filled her with disgust. She had once thought Roy Steele cold and immovable, but this man was of a far more despicable ilk. She sensed cruelty in the wide false smile, and in those bright blue eyes saw a love of death. It was all she could do not to shiver as he turned those eyes upon her, but she managed to keep the smile glued to her lips and kept on talking with the drawl familiar to her since childhood.
“Maybe you can help me with something, if you would,” she began, and hesitated prettily, waiting for his consent.
“Sure, ma’am. Anything at all.”
He leaned in closer.
Annabel smiled dazzlingly into his eyes. “Why, aren’t you sweet?” she exclaimed. “It’s so comforting to meet a real gentleman!”
“How can I be of help?”
“Well, you see, I’m traveling with my aunt and my fiancée, Mr. Everett ... er, Stevens, and we’re trying to meet up with Everett’s dear friend, Mr. Brett McCallum ...”
His eyes glowed brighter at this and he sat up straighter, but otherwise did not interrupt her, and Annabel plunged on.
“... and Brett was supposed to meet us here, but he left a message at the hotel that he had to go to Prescott unexpectedly on some urgent business, and dear me, it is rather tiresome to have to travel farther than one anticipated, but Everett really must see Brett and so, I was wondering, could you tell me how far Prescott is from Silver Junction? Should I perhaps let Everett go on alone and wait for both of them to return here, or is Prescott as amiable a town as Silver Junction ... at least by western standards, which I’m afraid are not quite up to the standards of the South, but ...”
She let her voice trail off wistfully, and gave her shoulders a delicate little shrug as she gazed dreamily up into Red Cobb’s intent face.
“Prescott isn’t more than fifty or sixty miles west of here,” he said slowly. “And it’s a fine little town. But are you sure your friend is there? I reckon you wouldn’t want to go, all that way if you were by some chance mistaken.”
“Well, I declare, of course, I’m not mistaken,” she exclaimed with a little trilling laugh, letting a bit of hauteur creep into her voice. “Everett has the note Brett left, and of course he showed it to me and Aunt Mae, and it said Brett would meet us in Prescott and the sooner the better, unless we cared to wait for him to return here, and it is all most mysterious, you know, but Everett will only say that he is certain we will understand everything when we see Brett, and of course, Everett knows best,”
She fluttered her eyelashes. “I believe he’s finished.”
“What?” The gunfighter regarded her blankly. “Who?”
“The clerk.” Annabel inclined her head toward the bespectacled little man who had risen from behind his counter and was waiting nervously for the gunfighter to notice him. “I believe he wants you to pay him now.”
Red Cobb nodded, glanced swiftly at the clerk, and then swiveled his head back to stare into her eyes once more. “Yes, indeed,” he muttered. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, for only a moment ...”
Annabel tried to keep from fidgeting with the clasp of her reticule as she waited for him to finish his business with the clerk. When he turned back to her, she met his gaze with a guileless smile.
“So you think Aunt Mae and I should make the journey with Everett to find Brett?” she inquired.
“Yes, by all means.”
“Then we shall.” She beamed. “Thank you so very much, sir, for your kind help and advice.”
“My pleasure, Miss ...”
“Rainsford. Miss Elizabeth Rainsford,” she informed him blithely, recalling the name of one of Brett’s many female companions in St. Louis. “But don’t let me keep you any longer. You’ve been too kind already.”
“A pleasure, ma’am. A most distinct pleasure.” He regarded her for another moment, a speculative gleam in his eyes, then he turned abruptly toward the door. “Good luck to you, Miss Rainsford.”
“And good luck to you,” she gushed sweetly. And may you rot in hell.
She was trembling by the time she rose to approach the telegraph clerk, but she managed to speak smoothly enough. “I wish to send a wire to the following address. It’s the Stevenson Detective Agency, and if you breathe one word of this message to anyone in this town I will personally bring Mr. Roy Steele in here to shoot you dead
. Is that understood?”
The clerk gaped at her.
“And also, I need to know to whom Mr. Cobb sent his wire a few moments ago.”
“But I can’t tell you that ...”
“Oh, yes, you can! If you don’t want Roy Steele to come in here and ask you himself, you’d better tell me! Well, what are you waiting for? Come on, my good man, this is a matter of life and death!” Annabel banged her fist on the countertop and the clerk jumped as if she’d struck him.
“Y-yes, ma’am.” He referred to a sheaf of papers before him. “He sent the wire to Mr. Lucas Johnson. At the Empire Hotel in St. Louis.” Hastily, the clerk seized a sheet of writing paper and a pencil in shaking fingers. “G-go right ahead, ma’am.”
* * *
Cobb went straight up to his room on the second story of the Tin Horn Hotel and reread the telegraph message that he’d received earlier that day. So, a woman investigator was searching for Brett McCallum. Damned interesting. And easy. Remembering the sugary sweetness on Miss Elizabeth Rainsford’s pretty, lying face, he grinned. Honey, my mama didn’t raise no fools. Why, beating you to Master Brett will be as easy as pissing in bed.
On the other hand, Cobb realized, prowling the room with light, eager footsteps, his mind racing, there’s another possibility that might be a heap more fun. And it won’t delay McCallum’s death by much. So why the hell not?
His booming laughter could he heard up and down the hall, echoing clear through to the rafters.
When he calmed down, he lit himself a cigarillo, grabbed his gear, and headed out to the Silver Streak brothel on the outskirts of town. Just in case the little investigator tried to check up on him to see if he’d bought her story, he’d leave straight from Mattie’s place in the morning. And make sure that anyone who asked questions about him reached a dead end.