by Beth Ciotta
THE FALL OF ROME
BETH CIOTTA
Book 3 of the Wild West Trilogy
Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.
Copyright © 2008 by Beth Ciotta. Cover Illustration by Adam Mock
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN# 9781933836041
DEDICATION: For my sister, Barb. Thank you for all that you do. Thank you for being you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: My heartfelt appreciation to--
Everyone at Medallion Press for giving my westerns a home and helping me to make them shine.
Booksellers and librarians for your enthusiastic support with a special shout-out to the fabulous and imaginative souls at the Brigantine Library.
All of the readers who embrace my tales and warm my heart with their kind and joyful feedback.
My friends and family, my critique partners, my agent and editor--you know who you are and why I adore you!
My husband, Steve. Writing about true love is easy when you’re living it.
CHAPTER 1
Territory of Arizona, 1878, Gila Gulch
“AN OUTLAW’S WORST NIGHTMARE--Boston Garrett--R.I.P.” The jailhouse cot creaked under the weight of a restless man trying to make light of his predicament. “Nah. Too cocky. What about, CHAMPION OF JUSTICE. SCREW CROOKED POLITICIANS AND THE LIES THEY RODE IN ON--Boston Garrett--R.I.P.”
DISGRACED WELLS FARGO DETECTIVE--Rome Garrett--S.O.L.--stared up at the crumbling ceiling of the Gila Gulch jailhouse, thinking this was as bad as it gets. Listening to a sibling create his own epitaph. Yes, sir. After a month of drinking and carousing, he’d hit rock bottom. Shit outta luck. “You’re not going to swing.”
“We killed a man.”
“I killed a man.”
“We’re both in the hoosegow.”
“Me for pluggin’ Wild-Man Dan. You for threatening a law officer.”
Boston swung his legs over the creaking cot and relaxed against the adobe wall. “This Marshal Burke’s a weasel.”
“No argument there.”
“No call for arrest. You shot in self-defense.”
But Rome wasn’t altogether innocent. He massaged his pounding temples, contemplating the summer indiscretion that led to this evening’s disaster. Admittedly, bedding a state senator’s wife hadn’t been his most shining moment, but did it deserve his being fired as a detective for Wells, Fargo & Company? Did it deserve the gut-dropping plummet from dime-novel hero to disreputable rake?
Guilty of adultery in the public’s eye when all he’d been was a fool. A sucker for any woman who claimed she needed saving. He could deny it to the world, but not to himself or the rest of the Garrett brood. The fairer sex was his Achilles’ heel. One had even managed to break his heart. But that had been a long time ago and he didn’t think about her anymore.
Except on their anniversaries.
The first day they met. The first night they made love. The first time she lost track of the hour and the first time he took her for granted. Some sort of curse, the way he remembered the dates and details. Though today held no special significance, his recent game of distraction was her game of profession.
Poker.
If he closed his eyes he could see Katrina Simmons sitting at the tables, dressed in a colorful bustled gown with a scandalously low neckline. Waist-length chestnut curls twisted into a sassy updo. Pert nose. Full lips. Soulful brown eyes fixed on the cards just dealt. Expression serene as she contemplated her bet.
Eyes wide open, he got a big dose of little brother.
Out of boredom Boston had recently cut his dark hair short and shaved off his moustache. Made him look younger, but no less dangerous. The youngest Garrett had always had a rough and tough edge. “Regrets?” he asked.
“Plenty,” Rome said, focusing back on the present. “But shooting Wild-Man’s not one of them.”
They’d walked into the Tarantula Saloon just as the locally feared rowdy backhanded a wrung-out dove. Her cut lip made Rome see red. He and his brother had only been in the boomtown two days--passing through on their tour of debauchery--but they’d heard a boodle of stories and complaints about a trigger-happy cowboy with a mean streak. Rome had intervened, knowing Wild-Man would strike back. Given his reputation, he wasn’t surprised when he pulled his iron instead of throwing a punch. Probably thought he’d make a name for himself, gunning down one of the famous Garrett brothers. Except he’d underestimated Rome’s lightning speed. Even if Wild-Man was a sure shot, a slow draw was a quick way to join the angels. ”Two hours ago we did what we’ve done for years,” Boston said. “Faced down a low-down ruffian. Only this time we landed in a two-bit jail instead of a ten-cent novel. This time, instead of looking up to us, people looked away.”
The observation chafed. Like he needed a reminder of how far they’d fallen. He wished Boston would shut the hell up, but instead of biting his head off, he stated logic. “Figure they wanted to distance themselves should Newt Gaffey come riding in retaliation.” According to gossip, Gaffey was a big bug rancher and Wild-Man was his hired gun. “You heard the murmurs. Gaffey ain’t gonna like this”
“Seeing Gaffey supposedly pays Marshal Burke to look the other way, we’re dead as a can of corned beef sitting in his jail.” Boston rattled off another wry epitaph.
Rome didn’t see the humor.
“Corrupt officials,” Boston said with disgust. “Dangerous as standing bare-assed in a nest of rattlers.”
Rome knew he was stewing on how Senator Smith had greased palms to exact revenge. The vengeful bastard had twisted the facts to ensure he and his wife came out of the scandal unscathed while Rome got skewered. He supposed he should count himself lucky that the senator hadn’t paid someone to shoot off his offending member. Still and all, the powerful man had hurt Rome plenty without employing violence. One way or another, all of the Garretts were paying for his sins.
Most notably, Boston.
When Wells Fargo cut Rome loose, his brother gave the company an earful, forfeiting his own job. Principle of the thing, he’d said.
Integrity, Rome thought, suffering another twinge of regret. For a month running, he’d been mourning the loss of his high-profile job and stellar reputation. Shouldering a wagonload of guilt because he’d taken his little brother down with him. He’d wallowed in whiskey and cards, hoping to numb anger and regret. Now a man was dead, and Rome sat on the wrong side of the bars for the first time in his life. He’d made a bad situation worse.
Mucker, he could hear Kat taunt. Gambler talk for someone who throws away his hand. Except he’d thrown away his purpose.
Wild-Man wasn’t the only miscreant in these parts. The territory was littered with bandits, rustlers, and coldblooded killers. But instead of wrangling outlaws, he was locked in the hoosegow.
Guilt intensified, bearing down on his shoulders and soul. If he was destined to dance with the angels, he’d swing alone. Necktie party for one. Boston would not be a part of it, and he would do the only thing he knew to separate his loyal brother from his side. He could at least do something right.
He sat up and set his brother square in the confines of the stifling moonlit cell. “We won’t be shaking hands with Saint Peter, because we did not kill Wild-Man Dan. Sure as the sunrise, we did not have an affair with a married woman. I specifically recollect being alone in bed with the lovely, but treacherous Mrs. Smith. We didn’t piss off her husband. We weren’t scandalized in the newspapers. There is no we in the recent series of tainted misadventures, Boston.” He took a deep breath and delivered the final blow. “Do me a favor and butt the hell out.
Get your own goddamned life.”
His brother’s unspoken anger hit him like an invisible bullet, smacking the air from his lungs. They’d fought plenty in the past, but neither had ever been intentionally cruel. Rome rolled back his shoulders. “Just saying--”
“You’ve said enough.”
“Marshal Burke wants a word with you, Garrett.” Kerosene lantern in one hand, key in the other, the coyote-faced deputy unlocked the door and motioned to Boston.
Rome slouched against the wall. His brother didn’t spare him a second look as he jerked on his Stetson and exited the cell. He was pissed alright.
Good. Better pissed than dead.
The men disappeared into the front office, a bit of a room, sparsely furnished and overburdened with documents and dust. Rome listened but all he heard was muffled garble. No shouting. No shooting. A good sign. Maybe.
A minute later, Boston returned, clasping the buckle of his holster. “Burke says I’m free to go, so long as I leave town.”
The marshal hovered nearby, thumbs tucked in his sagging waistband. He glared at his prisoner while tapping stubby fingertips against his revolver. Coyote-Face struck a similar pose.
Rome rolled his eyes skyward then back to his brother. “You going?”
“I am.”
He dragged his fingers through his hair, struggling with a response. Alienating someone he cared about wasn’t new, but it was the first time he’d driven a wedge between himself and one of his four siblings. Even though he was doing it for the right reason, it felt wrong. The urge to make peace was strong.
Out of habit, he dipped his hand in his pocket and palmed his lucky coin. Which made him think of gambling. And poker. And Kat.
When the stakes are high, hold strong, steady. It had almost been six years. When the hell was he going to forget that heartbreaker’s voice? Focus, she said.
He rolled the half-eagle coin over his knuckles, pondering his bad luck of late, hoping Boston would see the wisdom in this heated split when he cooled. “Where you off to?”
“To get my own goddamned life.”
CHAPTER 2
Santa Cruz Valley
The Star Saloon was one of six buildings in Casa Bend, a small, lazy town smack in the middle of nowhere. South of Tucson. East of the Santa Cruz River and northwest of the Santa Rita Mountains. Rich bottomlands, rolling hills, and grassy range. Perfect for grazing cattle and horses. Perfect for escaping civilization.
Mostly it felt like heaven to Kat--freedom. As sole proprietress of the Star, she didn’t care that her clientele was sparse. Didn’t mind that they were scruffy cowboys, transient soldiers, and occasional drifters. As long as they didn’t cause her any grief. Low profile was more important than high finance. She’d learned to do without. She’d settled into a new life even though that life was far from perfect. Pity her contentment, such as it was, teetered on ruin.
Change was in the air. She could smell it, feel it. Not wanting to dwell, she cast aside the anxious feeling that had dogged her all night and manipulated a shiny new quarter with flourish. “Heads or tails?”
Johnson Pratt, a mountain of a man who doubled as barkeep and peacekeeper in Casa Bend’s one and only saloon, smirked at his boss. “Like it matters. You always win, Jane.”
Jane. Not her given name, but one of choice. One of a survivor, Jane Murdock--proprietress of the Star Saloon. She’d been living the lie so long, she’d started to believe it. Until recently. A string of articles from the Arizona Weekly Citizen had shattered the illusion. She itched to retire to her adobe, to snatch the newspapers--morbid keepsakes--from her secret drawer, but she resisted. The articles triggered a crushing sense of impending doom. Wallowing wasn’t her style.
Hip cocked against the crude bar, she rolled the silver coin over her knuckles and grinned at her sole friend and confidant. She’d told herself to trust no one, but she trusted Johnson Pratt. Gut feeling. Good feeling. “You’re exaggerating, Johnny. I’m certain you’ve won a toss of the coin a time or two.”
He snorted. “Not with you.”
She nabbed his meaty paw and slapped the quarter in his palm. “Toss and call.”
He did. “Tails.” And won. “I’ll be damned.”
She quirked a cheerless smile. “Had a feeling tonight was your lucky night.” Mostly because it felt like her luck had plumb run out. She’d been dodging her past for six years. Living under various assumed names, she’d been successful until now. Now everything, or rather everyone, was closing in. According to the newspaper, Rome Garrett was causing a stir up in Maricopa County and Bulls-Eye Brady was suspected of robbing a train and killing a female passenger west of Yuma.
The fallen hero and the heartless outlaw.
Both men were miles away, days away from Casa Bend, yet it felt like they were breathing down her neck. Tonight, especially, she’d felt threatened. Like someone was watching her, judging her, plotting revenge.
She shook off the ugly notion, but the truth of it was, she’d earned both men’s ire. Six years had passed, yet when that brief and turbulent period flickered in her mind, it felt like yesterday. Smitten with Rome and intrigued by Brady, she’d recklessly encouraged both suitors’ attention. Back then, Rome had yet to hit legendary status, and Brady was still Jed Brady, not Bulls-Eye Brady. Shifty, yes. Notorious, no. Although the signs of his bad streak had been present. If only she hadn’t been blinded by his poisonous words and tempting promises. She’d been younger then. Normally a better judge of character, but she’d been off balance, shaken by the death of her cardsharp daddy, her friend and protector. She’d been vulnerable. Just that once.
It had cost her dearly.
She’d ruined what she had with Rome and despised what she had with Brady. Escaping the controlling man’s clutches hadn’t been easy, but when she did, she ran fast and far. Needing to lie low, she relied more on her wits and less on her beauty. When life had dealt her a wild card, she’d held it close to her heart, even though she’d had to give it away. She did what she had to do to carve out a life as an independent woman, a young sharper turned saloon proprietress. She focused on doing the right thing, no matter how hard.
“If you’re gonna beat the devil around the stump, I’ll do it,” said Johnson. “I’d like to hit the mattress before sunrise.”
She snapped back to reality. Jane Murdock’s reality. Midnight. Closing time. All had vacated the saloon but one. She’d lost the coin toss and, as such, was obligated to send their last patron on his way. Skeet Appleby. One of the Star’s few regulars. Presently, a table served as the booze-blind geezer’s pillow. He’d been deaf to their verbal ousting, so one of them needed to physically rouse the man. She and Johnson had once bet on when the old miner had last bathed. They’d both been off by more than three months. “I’ll do it.” Tucking renegade curls into her loose bun, she rounded the bar and braced herself for the stench. “You won the toss fair and square.”
The barkeep grinned “That I did. Maybe I’ll horn in on a card game tomorrow. Got me a pocket full of... Ah, blazes.”
“What?”
“I plumb forgot to give you this.” He repocketed a wad of cash and passed her a folded letter. “Came with the mail when the stage passed through. We got busy and . . . dang. Sorry, Jane.”
She waved off his apology, heart skipping when she noted the originating town. She broke the wax seal and read. Her knees gave way. Fortunately, there was a chair in the vicinity of her backside.
“Bad medicine?” Johnson asked.
“Unexpected,” she croaked. Change.
“I’ll tend to Skeet,” he said, and hurried off.
Stunned, she reread the letter. A meticulously written missive from Sister Maria of San Fernando, a Mexican convent devoted to educating and caring for young girls. The sister’s English was impeccable.
I regret to inform you that we are no longer able to care for your sister’s daughter. Frankie is disruptive and unhappy. We do not have the energy or time to track her do
wn when she continually runs away. She’s determined to live with family, Miss Murdock, and due to the unfortunate circumstances, that would be you. We’ll expect you by month’s end.
Except Frankie wouldn’t be safe with her.
Not as long as Bulls-Eye Brady breathed free air.
Her heart bucked harder than a wild horse. Thoughts--past, present, and future--collided. Unfulfilled dreams. Missed opportunities. Bad judgment. Every action had brought her to this moment. Lucky in cards, unlucky in life.
“You were wrong, Daddy,” she whispered. “You can’t cheat fate.”
She snapped back to reality. Kat Simmons’s reality. Her shoulders sagged with the weight of her snap decision, but she quickly straightened, conviction singing through her blood. Even though she didn’t know spit about rearing a kid, even though she’d hoped the girl would benefit from a better influence, it was time to embrace the hand dealt. Time to stop hiding. Time to take the bull, or rather Bulls- Eye, by the horns. She’d do anything to keep the notorious and deadly outlaw away from her only surviving blood.
That included hunting down the killer.
Body vibrating with anxiety and purpose, Kat pushed to her feet and stalked past Johnson, the missive clenched in her hand.
Arms full of drunken Skeet, he yelled after her as she breached the swinging doors and moved into the night. “Where ya headin’?”
“To set things right.”
It was her.
He didn’t ask outright. Didn’t want to scare her off. He’d spent a good hour nursing a beer at a corner table, slouch hat tugged low to conceal the upper portion of his face. He’d been stone silent, minding his own business, a nameless, faceless drifter. After an initial once-over, the barkeep didn’t pay him much mind. She paid him even less. He’d watched her plenty, though.
At an opportune moment, he slipped away and mounted up. Too dark to navigate the terrain safely, he camped on the fringes of town.
It was her.