A Match of Wits (7 page)

She skidded to a halt right in front of them. “Didn’t you hear me yelling for you?”

Zayne lifted up a lantern and peered back at her, his face looking oddly green in the light. “I don’t believe what you were doing constitutes a yell, Agatha. It sounded more like screaming to me, and of course we heard you. I’m certain people in England heard you, but you’ll need to wait a moment before explaining your dramatics. I’m right in the middle of telling Mr. Blackheart how I placed this dynamite so that no unforeseen problems will—”

“There are three women riding this way. Drusilla and I believe they’re doing so in order to hold us up.” She drew in a breath. “They’re armed, heavily we think.”

Zayne tilted his head and, to her annoyance, barely batted an eye. “Three women you say? How odd, unless . . . I vaguely
remember spending time last night with three women, but . . . no, they’d have no reason to track me down out here.”

“You probably let them see that stash of gold you keep attached to your belt since you were, well, drunk,” Agatha snapped. “I would hazard a guess they’re here to divest you of it, and—” A shot suddenly rang out, and Agatha forgot what she’d been about to say.

“Stay here,” Mr. Blackheart ordered before he disappeared, a pistol gripped in his hand.

“Stay here,” Zayne repeated, his nonchalant attitude of a moment before gone. Before she had a chance to protest, he snatched the pistol out of her hand and hobbled away as fast as his bad leg would allow.

She stood frozen in place for a second, completely furious. It wasn’t as if she were some wilting flower who couldn’t handle herself in dangerous situations, but that dangerous situation would be easier to handle if Zayne hadn’t just made off with her favorite gun. Bending over, she set down the lantern, yanked up the leg of her trouser and pulled her second-favorite gun from the strap attached to her ankle and straightened. Snatching up the lantern again, she headed in the direction Zayne and Mr. Blackheart had disappeared, stopping abruptly when another shot rang out.

It sounded so close that Agatha had the unwelcome suspicion the ladies might have gotten past Drusilla and were now in the mine. Knowing she might have to make use of the element of surprise, she turned the knob on the lantern, shutting off the flame before she set it on the ground. Edging slowly through the dark, she bit back a yelp when she hit her head on something hard. Rubbing it for a second, she started forward again, slowing to another stop when she heard a lady’s voice echo down the tunnel.

“Gentlemen, I encourage you to put down those guns or this woman will definitely not like what we do to her.”

Pulse racing, Agatha inched ahead, using her hand against the roughhewn tunnel to guide her until the light from the main entrance finally made it possible for her to see. She stopped in the shadows right as Mr. Blackheart began to speak.

“What do you want?”

“Now, now, watch your tone, sir. I don’t care for aggressive men, and I’ve been known to shoot men who’ve aggravated me in the past.”

“Who are you?” Zayne demanded.

“Why, Mr. Beckett, how cruel that you don’t remember me, especially after we shared such a lovely time last night. I’m Mary, and that is Jessie, and the other lady is Hannah.” Mary laughed, the sound making the hair on the back of Agatha’s neck stand up. “We’ve come to relieve you of that delightful bag of gold we noticed you had last night.”

“You are more than welcome to it.”

A second later, a thump sounded, and then the woman laughed again. “I must say, that was easier than I expected.”

“I always try to be accommodating,” Zayne returned. “And since I’ve cooperated and given you what you came for, I see no reason for you to linger.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. Me and the girls don’t like to leave any loose ends, which is why I didn’t hesitate to give you our names. But speaking of loose ends, where’s Agatha Watson?”

“What do you want with Agatha, and how did you learn her name?” Drusilla asked.

“Everyone was only too willing to talk about the odd lady journalist who rode into town. I watched her drive away from
the hotel with you, Mr. Beckett, and, well, sadly for her, the last person I need to leave alive is a journalist.”

“She’s not here,” Zayne said. “Miss Watson and I suffered a slight misunderstanding on the ride over, and I’m afraid she got annoyed with me and jumped off the wagon. She’s probably back at the hotel by now.”

“You’re hardly the type of gentleman to leave a lady on her own out here in the wild, Mr. Beckett, and besides, I watched her climb up the mountain.” Mary’s voice got considerably louder. “We know you’re here, Miss Watson. You might as well come out of hiding and save all of us a great deal of trouble.”

Agatha took a second to consider her options. If she showed herself, she’d lose any hint of a surprise attack, but if she didn’t . . .

“We don’t have time for this, Mary,” one of the other ladies snapped. “And it doesn’t matter if she comes out or not. Once we dynamite the place, no one will be left alive to identify us, and we’ll finally be able to collect that fee we’ve been promised for—”

“Shut up,” Mary snarled. “Miss Watson, if you don’t stop this game immediately, I’m going to start shooting your friends, starting with the lady who tried to kill me. It really was a shame when her gun jammed, depriving her of my death.”

Agatha took a small step forward but tripped on something and fell to her knees, ripping her trousers in the process. Pushing upright, she glanced down and smiled when her gaze settled on Zayne’s fuse line, a line that just happened to be attached to . . . dynamite.

Plucking it off the ground, she straightened, but before she could consider how to proceed, squeals split the air.

“Oh no, not Matilda,” she whispered as the squeals changed
to threatening-sounding grunts, something Matilda seemed to do right before she was getting ready to charge.

“Stupid pig, stop trying to bite me,” Mary shrieked before another shot sounded and Matilda’s grunts turned to terrified whimpers.

Agatha rushed into the room. “Stop shooting,” she yelled, dropping the fuse line to the floor as she aimed her pistol at the woman who was chasing after Matilda.

The woman stopped chasing Matilda, which allowed the pig to disappear behind a large crate that seemed to be filled with dynamite. Swinging her pistol around to face Agatha, the woman had the audacity to smile. “Ah, Miss Watson, I presume?”

“Indeed, and you must be Mary.”

“But of course I am,” Mary agreed. “And now, since we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way, I’m going to have to insist you drop that little weapon of yours and place your hands over your head.”

“I don’t think I’m going to do that, Mary,” Agatha drawled as she glanced to the right and found Zayne, Mr. Blackheart, and Drusilla being held at gunpoint by another lady, one who looked remarkably mean. She looked back to Mary. “The only thing standing between me, my friends, and death is this pistol, so you and I are going to have to come to some type of compromise.”

Mary considered her for a long moment and then smiled again. “Shoot her, Jessie.”

Agatha dropped to the ground right as another pistol went off. Rolling to her side, she squeezed the trigger and her pistol fired, but instead of hitting the woman who’d just tried to kill her, her shot went wide and hit a lantern attached to a heavy beam. Kerosene went everywhere, followed immediately by
flames, and some of those flames were heading directly for the fuse line she’d dropped, while others were traveling toward the crate filled with dynamite.

“Run,” she yelled as she scrambled to her feet.

No one seemed to need any prodding.

Mary and her girls rushed from the tunnel first, without a backward glance, followed by Drusilla and Mr. Blackheart. As she ran, terror struck Agatha and brought her stumbling to a stop.

Zayne’s leg would never be up for the task of carrying him to safety fast enough.

Mr. Blackheart must have been of the same mind, because he rushed back into the tunnel, ran to Zayne, bent down, flung Zayne over his shoulder, and raced back the way he’d just come.

Her feet swept into motion, and she pounded after them, breathing a sigh of relief when fresh air hit her and she ran through the entrance of the mine. Her relief was cut short when an explosion split the air, hurting her ears, and then the mountain began to tremble as more and more explosions erupted.

She lost her balance and pitched forward, unable to stop herself as she tumbled over and over down the steep mountain, barely feeling the rough rocks tearing her clothing and skin. She finally came to a stop and could only lie there as dirt and debris settled over her and the air turned dark with dust.

The air gradually began clearing around her, and she pushed aside a mound of dirt that was covering her, but before she could sit up, the mountain gave another shudder and more explosions erupted, sending an avalanche of dirt her way. She covered her head and began choking as dirt clogged her airway.

The trembling seemed to go on forever, and every time she thought it was finished, it began again. Minutes dragged by, and then, the mountain stilled, the dust in the air thinned, and she began to unbury herself.

How long it took, she couldn’t really say, but as she pushed dirt away, panic settled deep in her bones.

She needed to find the others—see if they were hurt, or more importantly, alive. Finally managing to free herself, she sat up, frowning when she couldn’t hear a thing. She patted her ears and patted them again before she finally heard what sounded like horses in the distance. Squinting in that direction, she saw three horses racing away, ridden by none other than Mary and her girls.

“Good riddance,” she said before she stumbled to her feet, looking around for any sign of movement.

The first thing she saw was Matilda trembling a few feet away from her, bleeding from the snout, not a hint of her pink skin in sight. “It’s all right, darling,” she said softly, moving to squat down beside the pig. “Where are the others?”

Matilda let out a mournful whine and began walking over to a large pile of dirt, Agatha following a step behind. What met her gaze on the other side of the pile took her completely by surprise.

Three pairs of outraged eyes peered back at her from blackened faces, the sight causing relief, mixed with a surprising touch of amusement, to rush through her. Only people who weren’t suffering dire injuries would be remotely capable of summoning up that particular amount of outrage.

Mr. Blackheart coughed and then coughed again. “Where’s Mary?”

“She’s gone. I saw her riding away with the other two women.”

“Must’ve thought we were dead,” Drusilla muttered before she began wheezing.

“We should be dead,” Zayne rasped as he pulled a clump of dirt out of his beard before he scowled at her. “Why, pray tell, did you think it was a good idea to bring that fuse line out to the main entrance?”

Agatha stiffened. “I didn’t actually think about it, Zayne, and it certainly wasn’t my intention to blow your mine up. It was an accident, but one that brought positive consequences.”

“Positive consequences?” he thundered. “You destroyed my mine and almost killed all of us in the process. What exactly do you consider positive about that?”

“We’re still alive, and . . .” She cleared her throat. “Since it seems I did do a rather good job of demolishing your mine—
unintentionally,
of course—and you mentioned it’s about to snow soon . . .” She brushed dirt from her sleeve and summoned up a smile. “You won’t have enough time to build new tunnels, at least not until the spring, which means you have absolutely no reason to resist returning home to New York.”

Zayne’s mouth dropped open, he peered at her through dirt-encrusted lashes, and then . . . the yelling began.

Z
ayne stretched out his legs and leaned back against the plush seat as a distinct sense of disgruntlement settled over him. That disgruntlement made it next to impossible for him to enjoy the opulence of the private Pullman car on the train his family had sent for him. And that gave him yet another reason to be annoyed with Agatha.

She’d always been a meddler, but this time she’d gone too far.

Not only had she blown up his mine, she’d somehow decided—even though he thought he’d been more than clear about the matter—she needed to take him in hand. She’d been spending almost every minute of the past two weeks since the
unfortunate incident
as she liked to call it, ordering him around. She’d even gone so far as to personally pack up his meager belongings before they’d boarded the train to head east.

He was beginning to lose patience with her.

His foul mood increased when the door to the train car opened. Knowing the morsel of quiet he’d finally been able
to obtain was soon to disappear, he narrowed his eyes at the door but sighed in relief when only Mr. Blackheart strode into view. His lips curled just a bit when he got a good look at the man. Mr. Blackheart was wearing his ever-present scowl, but his normally well-groomed hair was slightly untidy, giving clear testimony that something was bothering him—something that probably went by the name of Agatha.

“What’s wrong with you?” Zayne asked.

“The ladies are what’s wrong with me, or more specifically, Miss Watson.” Mr. Blackheart dropped into a chair next to Zayne and began rubbing his temple. “I swear, once we reach New York, I’m off to my club—one that, thankfully, doesn’t admit ladies and one where peace and quiet is the order of the day.” He stopped rubbing his head and looked around. “Although, this setup you have here is very nice, very peaceful at the moment.” His gaze sharpened. “Is that Matilda’s tail sticking out from under your bed?”

“It is. She seems to have taken a peculiar liking to me.”

“Highly doubtful, since it’s become clear she doesn’t like men. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say she likes sleeping in here because it’s never quiet in the ladies’ Pullman car.” Mr. Blackheart eased his head back against the chair. “But do be sure to thank your family for me for sending us this train. I certainly wasn’t expecting to travel back east in such luxury. It’s made it easier to watch Miss Watson with no other passengers onboard, only highly competent members of the staff.” He considered Zayne for a second. “Why do you think your family sent us our own train?”

A tiny trace of remorse stole through Zayne’s dark mood. He knew full well he’d been horribly negligent when it came to his family after the accident. His mother and father had come to see him while he’d been recovering, but they’d left
before Helena had abandoned him. He’d sent them a letter, explaining briefly that he and Helena were through. He’d also let them know he needed to be by himself for a while, but he’d never bothered to tell them anything about the mining venture.

A monthly telegram telling them he was still alive was all he’d managed. It had been a very telling statement of how much his parents wanted him home when, after sending them word he was coming back to New York, they’d immediately arranged for this train.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

Zayne forced a smile. “I’m fine, simply lost in thought.”

“Those must have been some thoughts.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t care to discuss them.” His smile dimmed. “I’d offer you a drink, but Agatha poured out every drop of alcohol I tried to bring with me.”

“I’m fairly sure, if you’re really thirsty, the staff should be able to provide you with whatever you want.”

“Agatha got her greedy hands on their supply as well, and told them she’d be very disappointed if they purchased additional quantities during the route to New York.”

“She is thorough when she gets her mind set on something.”

“She’s irritating. It wasn’t her place to dump out my whiskey.”

“Whiskey rots your insides.”

Zayne shrugged. “I use it to numb the pain in my leg.”

“Understandable, but at least now your insides won’t start giving you trouble.” Mr. Blackheart tilted his head. “I did find it interesting, though, that you didn’t protest too strenuously when Miss Watson insisted you stop drinking. Makes me wonder why you gave in so easily.”

“
Is
there a reason you sought me out?”

Mr. Blackheart’s lips twitched, but then he coughed behind his hand, and when he lowered his hand, he looked as grouchy as ever. “I’ve been trying to eavesdrop on the ladies.”

“Brave of you.”

“Indeed, especially since I keep getting caught. . . . But I am concerned about Miss Watson. I get the distinct impression she’s not going to stay behind closed doors once we reach New York.”

“And that surprises you?”

“Given that her life is in danger in the city, yes. I was hoping she’d be reasonable and agree to lay low until I have time to assess the situation.”

Even though he was incredibly irritated with Agatha, Zayne couldn’t stop the worry that began trickling through him, worry that was distinctly mixed with guilt. “You do realize that I didn’t
want
her to accompany me back to the city, don’t you?”

“You were quite vocal with your protests. Although, I have to tell you, the more you protested, the more determined Miss Watson became to see you safely home.” He released a snort. “You turned into a challenge for her, and unfortunately, Miss Watson views a challenge the way most ladies view a delicious tart. Even if she hadn’t blown up your mine, she’d have found a way to get you back to the city.”

Fresh irritation replaced the guilt. “But she
did
blow up my mine.”

“You may not appreciate my reminding you of this fact, but I did warn you that putting her in the direct vicinity of dynamite wasn’t exactly a stellar idea. It shouldn’t surprise you in the least that something of a dastardly nature occurred. Although, I suppose we do owe Miss Watson our thanks for getting us away from Mary alive.”

“That was completely unintentional.”

“Everything is with Miss Watson.”

“Exactly my point,” Zayne said before he folded his hands over his stomach. “Do you know that I stored a whole cache of gold in that mine? It’s gone now, buried under an entire mountain of dirt, and it will take months of hard work to unbury it again—if I can even find it.”

“That explains why you’ve been a bit sulky of late, but . . . don’t you think it would have been more prudent to store your gold in a bank?”

“And let everyone know how much I was uncovering? Certainly not.”

“You’re supposed to be a businessman, Mr. Beckett, but burying your fortune in a mountain is hardly good business, which makes me question your mental capabilities at the moment. I would have thought you’d have invested your profits in the market, earning you additional, and probably substantial, money.”

“Weren’t we talking about the ladies?”

“You’re the one who brought up the mine and your loss of what seems to be a fortune.”

“I still have a fortune, one I earned working in the family business, and then there’s the trust I received from my grandparents.”

“Then you have absolutely no reason to sulk. Most people never acquire one fortune in a lifetime, let alone several.”

“Getting back to Agatha,” Zayne said loudly. “Any ideas on how you’re going to keep her safe?”

“Not a one. She’s unpredictable, fearless, and doesn’t enjoy being told what to do. Quite frankly, I have no idea how I’m going to keep her alive once we reach New York.”

“The threats to her are really that severe?”

Mr. Blackheart’s almost pleasant expression immediately changed to menacing. “Forgive me, Mr. Beckett, but you’ve spent a great deal of time with Miss Watson during the past two weeks. Surely she explained the threats that have been made against her.”

“She did mention that someone wants to kill her.”

“And?”

“Well, that was about it.”

“You didn’t press her for details?”

“No, I didn’t, because right after she mentioned the threats I realized she was trying to manage me, and . . . I suppose I didn’t take the time to sufficiently sort out the idea that she truly is in serious danger.”

“You do remember, even though Miss Watson is a progressive sort, that she’s a lady, don’t you?”

“What’s your point?”

“Even if you realized she was trying to manage you, Miss Watson, as I’m sure you remember, doesn’t lie. She might exaggerate the details of a situation, but she puts her dainty foot down at speaking an untruth.”

“I have no idea where you’re going with this.”

“You should have shown her concern. Ladies, whether they be independent or not, like to know we gentlemen will do everything in our power to keep them safe.”

“Our conversation went downhill rapidly when I started laughing and she got testy, but . . . ” Zayne paused as an intriguing thought sprang to mind. “You’re right. Agatha is a lady, which means”—he caught Mr. Blackheart’s gaze—“we need to find her a man.”

Mr. Blackheart blinked, just once. “I beg your pardon?”

Pushing himself up in the chair, Zayne rubbed his hands together. “A man, that’s exactly what Agatha needs. Someone
strong, possessed of a great deal of patience, and . . . well . . . I suppose he’ll have to be somewhat attractive.”

He looked Mr. Blackheart up and down. “Hmm . . . you’re a man, and you’ve put up with Agatha for an entire year and haven’t killed her yet, so . . . you’ll do nicely.”

“I don’t think I like the direction this conversation is taking.”

Zayne ignored him. “It’s genius, sheer genius. If Agatha settled down to a more traditional life, she’d no longer be running amok looking for riveting stories or trying to save wounded gentlemen. The danger that constantly seems to stalk her would simply go away.”

“Miss Watson has never been traditional, nor do I think she has any desire to become so.”

“That is exactly why you’d be a perfect candidate. You understand her, but you’re a strong man, so you wouldn’t get browbeaten into agreeing to her madcap plans.”

“Really, Mr. Beckett, you’ve heard some of the adventures we’ve had on our trip this past year. They should show you that I have little to no control over the woman.”

“She’s still alive though.”

Mr. Blackheart began drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair. “She’s still alive because it’s my job to keep her that way. But I’m paid to protect her, not court her. Becoming overly familiar with Miss Watson would be a serious breach of ethics.”

“Ah, but if you were to tell Theodore you wished to be released from the case because your feelings for Agatha have changed, there’d be no problem, would there?”

“I don’t have feelings for Miss Watson.”

Zayne arched a brow. “Everyone has feelings for Agatha. She’s very beautiful, and you have to admit, life would never be boring with her by your side.”

“I like boring.”

“But you do find Agatha beautiful, don’t you?”

“Mr. Beckett . . .”

“I thought we agreed you’d call me Zayne.”

“Fine. Zayne then, but I have to . . .”

“And don’t you think you should allow me the privilege of your given name, given the personal direction this conversation is taking?” Zayne pressed.

“No.”

“Come now, Mr. Blackheart. What is it?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s an unusual first name.”

Mr. Blackheart rose from his chair. “I think I’ll go check on the ladies.”

“I thought they were annoying you, which was why you sought me out in the first place.”

“
You’re
annoying me, so I’ll take my chances with the ladies. I vastly prefer trying to eavesdrop on the women over this ridiculous conversation we’re having.”

“We’re not actually having much of a conversation, since you’re being stubborn and won’t agree to go along with my idea.”

Mr. Blackheart let out what sounded remarkably like a huff and slowly resumed his seat. “Fine, we’ll discuss this further, but know that I’m in no way interested in pursuing Miss Watson in a romantic fashion. Though I find her to be very beautiful and intelligent, which has always appealed to me, she’s much too young and . . .”

Mr. Blackheart continued speaking, but Zayne barely heard him. For some reason, the moment the man had admitted he found Agatha beautiful, a sour taste began filling Zayne’s mouth and his stomach had taken to clenching.

It was rather disconcerting and made absolutely no sense, because it wasn’t as if he thought of Agatha
that
way. He . . .

“ . . . given that Miss Watson does seem to hold you in a slight bit of affection, you should be the one to court her.”

Zayne’s mouth dropped open. “Me?”

“But of course. I remember noticing the two of you back in New York before you left for California, and I always thought you made a lovely couple.”

“We were never a couple.”

“But you could have been, if not for Helena.”

Zayne paused for a moment in order to formulate an adequate response. Had he spent most of his time with Agatha when he’d been in New York? Certainly, but they’d been friends—good friends, but friends.