Demanding Satisfaction [Bride Train 9] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (29 page)

“If such nonsense were true, which I must state is not the case,” said Ben, ever the lawyer, “my clients would neither agree nor disagree with your comment.”

“What the laddie means te say is te mind yer ain bloody bizness!”

Harrison laughed at the freedom to say what he wished. “And if I don’t?”

He’d forgotten Ross was standing. A second later a knife, this one larger than the first, was at his throat. A wave of icy fear swept over him. He looked at Trace’s flat expression and the wave receded. He felt free for the first time in forever. Free to do and say what he liked, damn the consequences.

“You won’t cut my throat,” he said.

Ross tilted the blade so the light caught it. “Not until you sign the papers, no. But then…”

“You’re threatening a high-ranking member of a very powerful railroad with a knife?” asked Harrison.

“Knife?” Gillis roared to his feet. “’Tis nae a knife in me brother’s hand.” He reached over his shoulder. A soft hiss filled the room as the long blade slid out of the sheath on his back. He held the huge, heavy weapon confidently. “This is me great-grandfither’s claymore. Ross has a bloody great pigsticker. But this,” he turned the blade as Ross had done, making it shiver in the light. “Do ye nae think this is a bonny knife? ’Twill cut yer throat like butter, aye?”

He extended the blade until the point hovered a few inches from Harrison’s nose. A twitch of Gillis’s hand, a touch of weakness, and the sharp blade would drop. Just the weight alone would make it chop off, or at least pierce, a portion of his anatomy.

The sound of slow clapping made Gillis frown.

“If you Scots and Americans are finished playing with your toys,” drawled Sin, “there’s a contract to be signed.” He looked at them with obvious disgust. “I, for one, would like to have Mr. Baird sign so I can have another glass of his fine whiskey before you send him on the road to Hell.”

He said it with such a droll sense of humor that Harrison had to smile. The rough ranch clothing contrasted with an accent that had been tempered by the scorn of lords, dukes, and barons, perhaps even princes and kings. It proved the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

Gillis scowled, raised the blade, and stepped back. Ben was the first to laugh. Gillis at first snarled a curse, then looked at the hand holding his blade. He snickered, reached over his back and safely stowed the weapon. Then his laugh boomed across the room.

Harrison chuckled as well, more from relief than a sense of hilarity. He stopped when a heavy hand clasped his shoulder. Red hair sprouted, even on the knuckles.

“’Tis time to affix yer name to the paper, aye?”

“Aye,” he replied.

The hand “helped” him by grasping the back of his coat and hauling him to his feet. Ten minutes later the papers they’d used to silently bid were burned, the contract was signed, and their glasses refilled.

“I enjoyed this discussion,” Harrison admitted to Trace. “Negotiating with you is as good as, if not better, than a game of chess.”

Trace lifted an enigmatic eyebrow. “Why don’t you come for a visit? Get out of this stuffy place and breathe fresh air for a change. Our wives are good cooks.” He winced. “Except for Amelia. But she’s learning.”

“Slowly,” said Ross over his shoulder. He moved to stand where Harrison could see his empty hands. “But my mother and aunt make up for it.”

“My wife could take that cigar from your mouth with her bullwhip, blindfolded,” said Sin. He smiled, more like a mountain lion than the pussycat he might be trying to imitate. “But our library is bigger than anything west of the Missouri. Florence, Ben’s wife, shipped everything she could get her hands on. I think part of it was a law library.”

The bullwhip trick was something he’d stay away from, but books were his downfall.

“I’ll give ye a wee tot of real whiskey,” said Gillis. “It’ll put hair on yer chest.”

Harrison looked at the red sprouts escaping Gillis’s shirt. “I’ll pass on that.”

“How long before you retire?” asked Ben. “The valley is best in the spring.”

It proved they knew, and understood, his situation. “Any of you gentlemen play chess? Now that Walt Chamberlain has married, I’ve got few who can challenge me.”

More than one set of eyes lit up. It was Ben who answered.

“I’m sure Walt and Emma would enjoy an extended spring visit from you. Judge Thatcher and his lovely wife, Lily, are just down the street.”

“And the Double Diamond library is a short ride up the valley,” added Sin.

Harrison realized how much he’d missed this type of man. There were too many oily shysters in town. He had things to tie up, but come spring he’d be ready for some fresh air. Tension from years of strain eased from his shoulders, his neck, and his temples. It was time to live his life for himself rather than the greed of others. He nodded to Trace.

“Smythe will know about this meeting,” said Ben, “but he’d never guess the extent of our purchase.”

“Smythe will be chomping at the bit when the others arrive,” said Sin. “Jed Adams and Luke Frost will keep him busy.”

Harrison finally saw a touch of humor on the man’s face. It suggested he looked forward to doing whatever he could to make Smythe furious.

“Do you have any information on Smythe?” asked Ben.

Harrison nodded. “We believe he has the missing two hundred shares. I spoke to Max Gibson, the Pinkerton agent, about this. He has someone working on drawing Smythe out.”

Once more, invisible messages flashed between the men. Decision made, Trace gave an abrupt nod to Ben.

“Max has an identical twin, name of Sam,” said Trace. “And there’s a younger brother, Josh. He looks nothing like them, especially as he dresses rough.”

Tumblers clicked in Harrison’s brain. Two men, identical. That would explain the range of information they could gather. Trust the Pinkertons to do the job right.

“I take it they’re all here?”

“Yes. In addition to Smythe, they’re investigating a man known as Isaac. The Pinkerton Agency has followed a trail of tortured and murdered women all the way to Bannack City. Isaac’s always masked so no one knows who he is. Yet.”

“Two of our women have been harmed by him,” added Trace with a growl. “Stopping Isaac is more important to us than putting Smythe away. If they’re not the same man,” he added.

Now that Harrison had decided to leave the railroad, his priorities had shifted. “How can I help?”

“Did you hear about Queenie, the new dance girl at Ruby’s Saloon?” asked Ross.

“My assistant was furious about a reprobate miner who hauled her upstairs and…?” More tumblers clicked. He turned to Trace. “The other Pinkerton agent?”

Trace nodded. “And Queenie is Mrs. Sophie McLeod, owner of the Tanner’s Ford Hotel. She will do anything to catch Isaac.”

“You allowed a woman to get involved in this?”

“When you meet the women of Tanner’s Ford,” said Sin drily, “you’ll understand we don’t ‘allow’ our women anything.”

Harrison rubbed his temple. He’d met a few like that. “A bit uppity, are they?” The men who looked so dangerous a few moments ago suddenly had a sheepish cast to them. He snickered to himself. He enjoyed a challenging woman. Especially if she could play chess.

“You’ll see for yourself in the spring,” said Ben. He set his glass down with a loud click. “We’ll tell the Gibsons you’ll do what you can.”

“I expect you brought a few of your rougher employees?” asked Ross.

Harrison nodded. The railroad preferred to trust their own men rather than the law. Gold fever had touched too many members of the legal profession. The railroad had no problem taking the law into their own hands when the situation demanded it.

“Dinna let the wee bastard run,” demanded Gillis.

“The Pinkertons might not find enough proof for a court of law,” added Ben.

Now that he was almost free, he could enjoy his own revenge. Smythe had badgered the railroad, and specifically him, for too long.

“Mr. Smythe will be treated in the manner he deserves,” he replied gravely. Then he winked.

Trace lifted one corner of his lip in assent and approval before they turned to file out. Ross turned at the last moment.

“The real safe is under your desk. There’s a ridge in the carpet you might want to fix.”

Harrison stared at the closed door. He stepped back, bent over, and looked. Light from the window shone under the desk. A thin line of black showed a shadow.

“Damn, the man’s right!”

He’d have to use a knife to slice off a sliver of the trap door to remove the ridge. Ross could have kept quiet, knowing it was there, vulnerable. But they’d shaken hands.

A handshake, a signature, and a drink together meant something to these men. And to him. The deal was done. Thousands of acres of land would never be touched by mining unless these men, or their descendants, allowed it. And he was welcome to explore every inch of it.

In the spring, after Smythe and Isaac were far away, or dead.

Buford Hames pocketed the coins before accepting a whiskey and cigar. He rarely smoked in public, but Smythe would have been insulted if he refused. There was more money to be had from the man, so he would tolerate him for now.

“You sold those shares to that boy from Tanner’s Ford?” he asked.

Smythe leaned back in his chair, puffing smoke like a train. Buford took his silence as a reply. Smythe liked to gloat, and for that he needed an audience.

Willy Wright had no idea of the value of the shares he now held. If the railroad went through where Hames expected, the shares could make the boy very wealthy. If, that is, they were genuine. Buford had a good idea they were counterfeit. Smythe needed gold, but he wouldn’t part with a sure thing unless there was a very good reason.

“I told the boy to hide them and tell no one.” Smythe turned to Buford. “When he tries to sell them, he’ll go to jail!” Smythe’s donkey-like bray erupted.

Buford returned Smythe’s smile as if he cared. The man’s days were numbered. He had his hands in so many pockets someone would trip him up. His insistence on selling counterfeit shares while a big bug from the same railroad was in town showed his stupidity. He was worse than those damn Yankees.

Wright, however, was a Southern boy, raised in the mountains. Though he was just learning to read, Buford had a good idea the boy was smarter than he looked. Not much, but he lived with those Elliotts, and they were smarter than most. There was every possibility that Willy’s eagerness to buy was encouraged by those infernal ranchers.

“I ever tell you how close I got to killing that damn Elliott whore?”

Buford perked up his ears. “Jessie?”

“Rivers had men watching the cabin,” said Smythe. “He was going to fuck her to death and leave her body where that Goddamned Langford could find it.”

“Like you did with Mrs. Sinclair?”

Smythe puffed as he stared at Buford for a moment, frowning. He smoothed his face into an expression of complete innocence. “I didn’t touch the woman.”

“Did you touch her daughter?”

Smythe’s eyes turned hard. “I suggest you keep your questions to yourself.”

Buford shrugged, expressing ease as if he didn’t care one way or the other. “You like young women and Rivers was a business partner. It would make sense to take what was offered.”

“I can find my own girls,” said Smythe, grimacing. He shifted in his chair. Buford heard the clinking sound of coins being tapped against each other.

“I see you’ve got a new girl. She looks fresh. No bruises that I could see.”

Smythe leaned back. The clinking sound increased. Buford hid his disgust at what he knew the man was doing

“She got one on her arm from Potts. She bruises easily.”

Smythe looked at his glass of whiskey. The man only had two hands. Buford could see him having to make a decision whether to drink, smoke, or touch himself. Smythe set the cigar on the edge of the desk, burning end out, and picked up his drink with his free hand. He let it trickle down his throat. He turned to Buford with a smug expression.

“I made her show it to me. When I touched it, she cried out.” He looked into the distance, nostrils flaring. “I love it when they realize I’m going to make them hurt. Their eyes widen, their mouths open in a scream. But no one helps them.”

He set down his drink and brought his other hand under the desk. He closed his eyes, baring his teeth, and groaned

“I can see you’ve got more important things to do,” said Buford. It was difficult to hide his disgust under the light sarcasm. Smythe, now puffing with his teeth bared, didn’t notice.

“Tell Mary to get her fucking mouth in here,” he demanded.

Buford gave the order as he strode to the kitchen. He demanded hot water and soap. He spent a long time scrubbing his hands, but he couldn’t get the sight or sounds of Smythe from his mind.

It wasn’t the first time Buford had heard the man speak about hurting women. Max Gibson wanted to catch Mr. Isaac. He’d be interested in learning about Smythe’s disgusting habits.