by Lisa Bingham
Susan shivered, releasing her death grip on the whip. Heedless of the distinct bite of the wind, she stayed in the valley for several minutes, allowing the riders a wide berth ahead of her.
From up above, hidden behind a screen of pines, Grant Dooley leaned on the pommel of his saddle and watched the sleigh skimming over the frozen snow.
His brother Marvin studied him consideringly, his face enigmatic and cool. The dark blocks of shade did little to enhance Marvin’s flat profile. Since birth, his skull had been oddly shaped, as if someone had pushed the bridge of his nose into the center of his head. “You think she’s the girl Floyd thought Crocker was trying to hide in that convent in Colorado?”
“Do you see any other nuns running around town? It’s got to be her.”
“So what’re we going to do?”
“When are the Pinkertons bringing Floyd through?”
“Sunday next.”
“That gives us over a week.” Grant offered a feral smile, causing the pock-riddled flesh of his cheeks to crinkle and fold. He wanted Crocker dead, and his attempt at stabbing the man had failed. This time he would succeed—and he’d make sure the Pinkerton suffered first. For three years Crocker had dogged the Dooley gang like a bloodhound. He wouldn’t rest until the last Dooley was dead or in jail, and Grant didn’t intend to give him a chance to reach his goal.
“Let me kill him, Grant.” Marvin’s eyes gleamed with malice. His own private war with the man had only intensified since he and Grant had been captured and sent to prison.
“What’s the rush?” Grant eyed the last glimpse of the sleigh. “We’ve got plenty of time for a little fun. I say we drag him through his own patch of hell first.”
“How?”
“I say we should have ourselves some fun with that little girl down there. Crocker’s a tough bastard, but I think Floyd might be right. He said he snuck into the man’s hotel room once and saw a photograph of some nun in his saddlebags. If she’s the one, I think we could break Crocker like a twig.”
Marvin’s features settled into deep lines of disgust. He’d hated Crocker for years. Ever since he’d shot one of his cousins in a shootout in Cheyenne. Grant might have enjoyed toying with Crocker like a cat batting a mouse, but Marvin wanted to slit the Pinkerton’s throat without all the fuss. He saw no reason to delay. If he saw his opportunity, he planned to take it. Soon. He wouldn’t even blink at going behind Grant’s back to do it.
Susan saw neither hide nor hair of the strangers once she arrived in Ashton. The busy streets were crowded with midday congestion: wagons, buggies, and townsfolk. Snow had fallen overnight, lending a crisp freshness to the air and a sparkling cleanliness to the wide store-edged boulevards.
Susan left the sleigh at the livery and, taking Essie’s list from her reticule, began her errands, stopping at the alchemist’s first.
The tiny brass bell above the door jingled as she walked inside. Susan had not been in Mr. Gibby’s establishment for several years, yet the familiar smells of hair tonic and alcohol brought back a rush of childhood memories. She strolled around the room admiring the jewel-colored liquids in the display jars. Who would have thought that tonics, hair oils, and perfumes could make such a wonderful sight? As the sun spilled through the big picture window, they gleamed and twinkled, looking like kaleidoscopic patterns. Or stained glass.
“Good morning, Mr. Gibby.”
The roly-poly gentleman who had been stacking supplies behind the counter turned. He gaped at her in astonishment, then beamed, his chubby cheeks flushing to the color of a bright persimmon.
“Susan? Susan!” His belly shook with a huge Saint Nicholas laugh. “You mean you’ve come all the way from that school in Colorado to attend the reunion?” He clapped his hands together in delight and trundled forward, enclosing her in a meaty, rib-snapping embrace. Then, standing back, he eyed her up and down. “My, don’t you look pretty.”
Susan doubted it, since she was once again wrapped in her black boots, dress, cape, and scarf. But Mr. Gibby had always been a flatterer.
“I’ve got some medicine here for Daniel Crocker. You remember Daniel, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The morphine powder was given to him by a doctor in Cheyenne. I wondered if you could refill it for me, please.”
“You don’t have the prescription?”
“No. Daniel has lost it. Do I need the original paperwork?”
“We’ll see what we can do. I’m sure I can determine the proper mixture.” Mr. Gibby’s chins quivered with excitement. Bending low, he asked, “Is he still working for those Pinkertons?”
“I believe he is taking a … vacation. He was wounded on his last assignment.”
“No! Wounded?”
“Someone cut his side with a knife.”
“Ohhh.” Mr. Gibby gasped in horror, then took the vial. He peered at it from beneath scrubby brows. “The label’s been torn, but I think I can read enough to get you what you need. I bet it’s a basic morphine pain powder. You come back in an hour and I’ll have it ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gibby.”
Susan spent the rest of the time gathering Esther’s supplies. Nine out of ten shopkeepers recognized her right away—a phenomenon Susan found intriguing. They kept remarking on how happy and vivacious she’d become. As a child, Susan was always referred to as Benton House’s “sober” orphan. Perhaps now they no longer found her so sober.
Susan had completed her last stop, retrieving a specially crafted bonnet the milliner had made for Essie, when she felt a tug at her skirts.
“Miss Hurst? Are you Miss Hurst?”
The little boy couldn’t have been much more than five or six, but his sweet black face, curly hair, and shoe-button eyes glowed with excitement.
“Yes?”
“I thought you might be. He told me how to find you.” He held up the vial that Susan had taken to Mr. Gibby earlier that day. “This is for you. The man paid me a penny to bring it to you, and I did.”
Susan took the bottle and dug into the depths of her pocket. “And here’s a penny for a job well done.”
The boy’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Thank you!”
“Don’t spend it all in one place.”
“No, ma’am!”
The boy ran down the boardwalk in the direction of the mercantile. Susan had a strong suspicion that his pockets would soon be filled with penny candy, even if he had to make two stops in order to keep his promise.
She slipped the bottle into her reticule, then frowned. She hadn’t given Mr. Gibby any money for the medicine. Why had he sent it to her without letting her pay?
Since Susan didn’t want to strain the bounds of Mr. Gibby’s goodwill, she hurried back toward the shop. But when she tried the latch, she found it firmly locked.
“Mr. Gibby?” Cupping her hands, she peered through the window. The shop appeared deserted, yet it was far too early for lunch. “Mr. Gibby!” she called again.
No one answered, even though the sign at the door proclaimed that Mr. Gibby was open for business.
Shrugging, Susan stepped away. He’d apparently been called away on an emergency or some important business. She hesitated, rattled the knob again to make sure, then sighed and headed for the livery.
She would come back before the end of the week and pay him. In the meantime she had to hurry home. Daniel needed to take his medicine.
Chapter 14
Each time she rapped on the door, the bell shivered, issuing a silvered sigh of sound. Inside the shop, he waited, knowing that she would soon leave. He felt torn, wanting to peek around outside to watch her confusion, yet knowing that she mustn’t see him. Not until his plan was completed.
Crocker would die.
He heard the sharp echo of her heels striking the weathered planks of the boardwalk. Behind him the poor old alchemist sobbed.
“Hush. Hush.” He turned, his lips lifting
in a sweet, satisfied smile as he noted the way Mr. Gibby was sprawled on the floor trussed like a Christmas goose, his nose pressed against the splintered floorboards.
“You should have left well enough alone,” the man whispered, leaning forward to grasp Gibby’s collar and haul him close. “It never pays to be nosy. You should have simply filled the prescription without asking any questions.”
Mr. Gibby sobbed again. His eyes rolled like a frightened steed’s. But the man who hovered over him displayed no mercy. Mr. Gibby had interfered with the wrong person.
“You found out what was really in the vial, didn’t you?”
Mr. Gibby shook his head from side to side, making unintelligible noises behind the barrier of the kerchief stuffed into his mouth and held in place with a length of packing twine.
“Come, Mr. Gibby. There’s no need to lie.”
He held up the jar Mr. Gibby had been using to fill Daniel Crocker’s prescription. The label on the larger container of morphine matched the torn scrap of paper pasted to Crocker’s bottle, but the powder inside was yellow, not white.
He slipped the bottle into his pocket. “Just in case,” he whispered. Then he collected the box he’d used to top off the vial that was now securely nestled in Susan Hurst’s purse.
“Crocker will die this time.” He smiled. “My original idea was quite clever, don’t you agree? Weeks ago Daniel Crocker was wounded. He summoned a doctor, who prescribed a pain-numbing powder. But before Crocker received the medicine, I altered the contents. Instead of morphine, he received a healthy dose of rat poison and table sugar. Just enough arsenic to make him slowly bleed to death.”
Mr. Gibby recoiled in fear. The stranger watched him in disdain, then pushed him away and stood. “But I made one fatal mistake. I put all my trust in the arsenic alone. This time I won’t be so careless.” He stroked his chin in thoughtful delight. “This time I have assembled an army of men who believe in my cause. In little more than a week, they will ride against Daniel Crocker and the rest of the Pinkertons. I’ve given Crocker a smaller dosage of arsenic this time so that his suspicions won’t be aroused—not enough to kill him, but certainly enough to weaken him. When next we meet I’ll kill the man myself.”
Mr. Gibby closed his eyes, tears of helplessness squeezing from his lashes. The figure snorted in disgust and kicked him in the ribs.
“You shouldn’t have meddled,” he stated again. In a sudden fit of violence, he took a broom from where it leaned next to the door and aimed it at the jars and concoctions lining the wall. The sharp odors of alcohol, medicine, and perfume filled the air.
“You’ll be happier with your Maker, Mr. Gibby. And Daniel Crocker … well, he’ll be plunged into hell.” He struck a match and touched it to the corner of the cardboard box he still held. The colorful logo of a tiny dead rat lying on its side caused the man to laugh. “Imagine. Soon the poison will be coursing through his system—more subtly this time, since I halved the dosage. By midweek Crocker will feel an ache in his belly. Come Sunday next … he’ll barely have the strength to stand. Then I’ll shoot him right between the eyes. What an idea. What a clever, brilliant idea!”
He dropped the flaming box onto the floor and walked back through the front room. Once there, he paused to straighten his vest and run a hand over his hair. Then he reached for the sign hanging from the blind on the front door, turned it around, and went outside, locking the door behind him.
Once on the boardwalk, he glanced back at the building. Deep in the interior an eerie glow had begun to build. As if disturbed by some unseen force, the sign still quivered on its cord. He chuckled when he read the message: “Mr. Gibby regrets to inform you he is no longer open for business.”
Chapter 15
Daniel woke to the muffled noise of childish giggling. Still groggy, he frowned, then blinked. He’d spent most of the previous day helping Donovan Reed clear the barn of animals so the children could sleep in the loft during the reunion. The effort had taken its toll on his strength. Judging by the glaring sunlight pushing through the net curtains, Esther had let him sleep until noon.
The giggling came again, more clearly this time. And something about the sound caused Daniel’s lips to twitch with a nostalgic smile. Basking in the texture of fresh sheets next to his skin and the faint scent of hot bread and coffee, he yawned, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms over his head.
The laughter came again.
Daniel stiffened. He felt a tingle of unease, as if he were being observed. Surreptitiously, he gazed around him, but the room was empty and there was little space left unused by the bed, dresser, and nightstand.
Deciding his mind had been playing tricks on him, Daniel settled a little deeper beneath the covers. Ten more minutes. It had been so long since he’d been allowed the luxury of a lazy day in bed. He’d give himself a little more time.
Once again he heard a muffled giggle. And once again Daniel had the distinct impression that he was being watched.
Daniel had trusted his instincts too long to shrug off the feeling a second time. Opening his eyes to a slit, he studied the room more carefully this time. He noted the iron bedstead, the pink and green flowered wallpaper, the crisp net curtains, an old oak dresser, a plain silver-framed mirror …
Mirror.
The high-pitched laughter came again.
Peering through half-closed eyelids so he could appear to be sleeping, Daniel saw that the mirror hung crooked. In the wall behind it was a good-sized hole.
He knew he’d caught a peeping Tom in the act of spying when he saw the looking glass swing back into place to the accompaniment of quiet shrieks and squeals.
Stifling a snort of surprise, Daniel scrambled out of bed, wound the quilt around his hips, and raced into the hall, intent on capturing the culprit—or culprits—who were hiding in the adjacent boys’ dormitory room. He’d taken only a few steps when a door on the opposite side of the hall opened and Susan stepped out.
The two of them collided with a whoosh of surprise. Daniel reached out to steady her, but the quilt threatened to slip below his hips. He scrambled to save it from falling, immediately drawing her attention to the expanse of his chest and stomach.
She stared at him wide-eyed, and Daniel felt the heat of a blush seeping up his body.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know … That is, I didn’t mean—”
“I can see that.” She dug into her purse to remove a medicine vial. “I had this refilled for you.” He grimaced. “I told you I don’t need that.”
“Take it anyway.”
He took the container and slammed back into his room.
Susan regarded the closed door in bemusement—partly from the impact of bumping into Daniel but mostly from Daniel’s intriguing blush.
The door to the boys’ room squeaked open, and Susan lifted a curious brow when she caught one of the younger girls peering into the hall. As soon as the child caught sight of Susan, she threw the door shut again.
Sensing that the youngsters were up to some kind of shenanigans, Susan decided to confront them. “What in heaven’s name is going on in here?” she asked as she entered the room. Staring back at her were six too-innocent orphans in assorted shapes, sizes, and sexes, who sat innocently on the far bed.
“Nothing,” one of them answered with a guileless grin.
Knowing she’d get no answers—yet—Susan continued. “Miss Essie wants you dressed in boots, hats, and coats and on your way back to the schoolhouse. As soon as the bell rings for the afternoon dismissal, she needs you back here for chores.”
Grumbling and complaining, the children reluctantly filed into the hall. Folding her arms across her chest, Susan followed them as far as the doorway, just managing to catch one boy’s whispered demand: “All right, pay up. Penny a peek.”
Penny a peek?
Turning, she surveyed the room, wondering what kind of animal had been trapped in a box and was now being displ
ayed like a circus sideshow wonder. As far as she could tell, the room was devoid of anything worthy of a penny’s fee.
She was about to leave when she noticed the mussed covers of the bed and the crooked angle of the picture on the wall. Automatically she drew the quilts into line. She was about to straighten the frame when she caught sight of a peephole the size of a quarter. Something on the wall in the guest room covered the opposite side. Frowning, she tugged on the picture. To her surprise, when she pulled the picture down, the obstruction on the other side swung free.
Of all the ingenious little tricks. Those children had been spying on whoever stayed in the guest room since … only heaven knew how long.
Susan shrugged her shoulders at the follies of youth. And yet the temptation to look—to take just one peek—sidled into her mind with the artless persuasiveness of a favorite cat. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew it was wrong. But she couldn’t make herself back away.
Even though she knew the boys’ bedroom was now deserted, Susan glanced over her shoulder just to make sure she was alone. Then she pressed her eye to the peephole.
Sweet Mary and all the saints! He was buck naked! Wide shoulders tapered down to slim hips, tight buttocks, muscular thighs.
She blanched and jumped away. But the sight of him—tall, muscular, and proud—was emblazoned on her mind. Fatalistically she knew she had to take one more look.
Once again she peered through the hole. This time it wasn’t Daniel’s body she saw, but one steel blue eye staring right back at her.
With a squeak of surprise she slammed the picture back into place, hiked up her skirts, and ran from the room.
A low, delighted chuckle followed her into the kitchen.
Once he’d dressed, Daniel retrieved his medicine and shook the prescribed powder into a cup of water. He took one small sip, grimaced, then regarded the bitter liquid.
He didn’t feel sick enough to warrant drinking the brew, and he hated the way drugs of any kind clouded his judgment and made him feel weak. Deciding that he’d rather suffer the pain than endure the effects of the medicine, he tucked the vial into his saddlebags. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little on hand for some future wound.