An Unlikely Lady (10 page)

She caught sight of Jesse in mid-swing, stopped, and shaded her eyes with her hand.

Hoping she might keep makings on her shelf, Jesse pushed away from the wall and cut across the road at a leisurely stroll.

She leaned against the handle of the broom and watched him approach. “You must be the tall drink of water staying over at Rose's,” she
said when he reached the step then gave him one of those up-and-down inspections he'd come to expect from the opposite sex.

“For the time being.”

“She always could snag the good ones.” She struck out her hand. “Name's Sarah Wentworth. I own this heap of spit and boards.”

“Jesse Jones,” he said, returning the introduction. He glanced behind her into the storefront window. The glass was spotless and Jesse could see that pickin's were running awful slim. “You don't by chance carry tobacco and papers, do you?”

“Are you ever in luck—I think I've got some Georgia Fine left over.” She picked up the broom and carried it inside the store.

Jesse followed her waddling steps, absently taking in the empty shelves behind the counter, the scanty supply of canned goods and fabric, the utter lack of wares, period. “How long have you been here, Mrs. Wentworth?”

“First to arrive, last to leave. And call me Miss Sarah. Aha, I knew I had bit left.” She set a pinch of tobacco onto a piece of paper and rolled it into a tube, folding the ends. “So I hear you'll be playing the piano for the stage passengers come Saturday night.”

“News travels fast.”

“It doesn't have far to travel around here,” she replied with a reedy laugh. “Rose was just
in, gloating about her catch. She said you came in looking for work.” She added a packet of papers to his purchase and shoved both across the counter top. “I'm surprised you didn't head over to the Black Garter. Everyone else did.”

A puzzled frown pulled at his brow. “The Black Garter?”

“A saloon over in Poverty Gulch, a few miles east of here. It sits on the main route, so it gets a steady business, and Eli Johnson is always looking for helpers.”

She leaned over the counter and looked both ways, as if someone might overhear. “Back in the days when Rose worked for Eli, before she built the Scarlet Rose, he fell for her like a load of iron ore. Rose didn't return his affections, though, and I can't say as I blame her. The man's got a temper like a keg of explosives. One spark, and
phooosh!
When she spurned him, he swore he'd make her pay.” She gave a succinct nod. “He's doing a fine job of it, too. First he lured her girls away, now he's set on stealing her business. It does my heart good to see her fighting back with both barrels.”

Now he understood Rose's dogged determination to see the Scarlet Rose succeed.

Still, she could have told him about the Black Garter when he'd asked her about a job. What other tidbits of information might she be keeping from him? He'd had no reason not to
believe Rose when she'd said she hadn't seen McGuire; what if McGuire detoured through Poverty Gulch?

“Do you know if this Eli Johnson ever hired himself a big Scotsman?”

“It's possible, I suppose. Foreigners have been swarming these hills ever since the Leadville strike. Of course, most of them wind up going bust and packing it on home, but it might be worth checking out.”

That it was. “I appreciate the tip, Miss Sarah.”

“Just don't tell anyone that I sent you over there. If Rose finds out, she'd skin me alive and roast me over an open fire.”

Jesse gave her his most charming smile and winked. “My lips are sealed.”

More than likely it would turn out to be another long shot, Jesse thought as he left but at this point, a long shot was better than nothing.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a flurry of preparations and frenzied cleaning. Not a smear existed on the drinking glasses, not a speck of dust remained on the woodwork, and freshly washed sheets hung on the line out back.

Honesty didn't like to think she was using her chores as an excuse to avoid Jesse, but ever since the morning's rehearsal, she'd been
plagued with a restless energy she could neither explain nor expel. She wished she could blame it all on anger toward him for getting her riled, or for evoking sensations she'd vowed not to feel again, but the truth was, he frightened her. Just when she thought she had him pinned, he changed on her, smashing her perceptions of him to smithereens.

Which was the real Jesse Jones? The shiftless drifter, the torrid lover, or the aristocratic pianist?

Honesty played tug-of-war with a northern wind for the last of the towels on the line, then dropped them into the basket at her feet. Like every other man she'd met, he made no bones about what he wanted. Unlike every other man she'd met, he had at least a measure of honor, proved in the way he'd dedicated his time and talent to helping Rose. And that's what drew her to him more than anything; more than his looks, more than his smile, more than his sensuality.

Scoffing at herself for finding something good in the scoundrel, she picked up the clothes basket laded with sun-dried towels and carried them to the back door. She had to get this . . . attraction for him under control. Just before stepping inside, she caught sight of Jesse's horse grazing in the paddock. Its front leg wore a red and blue paisley bandage, and the animal kept its weight off it. Jesse had been
telling the truth about the horse's injury, at least. Not that she'd doubted him, exactly; she just couldn't seem to rid herself of suspicion.

She glanced around, searching for the animal's owner. The sun hung low in the horizon, burning the land a deep, brilliant orange. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen his ornery hide all day.

With a puzzled frown, she carried the basket of towels into the kitchen and set it on the table. “Rose?”

“In here.”

Honesty wiped her hands down the front of her apron and sought out Rose, who stood by the stage with a sketch pad and pencil. “Have you seen Jesse?”

“Not since this morning.”

A peculiar combination of relief and disappointment churned in her middle. The relief she understood. The disappointment didn't make any sense. “What are you working on?”

“Plans for Saturday night. I figure if I drag out some of those old hurricane lamps, it'll give the room a soft glow and keep the fellows tame.”

“Do you always draw out your plans?”

“Reckon I do.”

“Why?”

“Don't know, really. I suppose I have to see something on paper to know if it'll work.”

Honesty hadn't seen Rose so alive in all the
weeks she'd known her. She took a seat on the stage and said, “I never know if anything will work. I always have to try it to find out.”

“Impulses like that can get you into trouble.”

“Don't I know it,” Honesty grumbled. But anytime she planned something, it fell apart. Spontaneous moves, on the other hand, seemed to gain results.

Honesty went suddenly still. Was that the problem? Up until Deuce's death, she'd lived for the moment, grabbing opportunities as they came with little thought to the future, holding fast to his faith that all would work out for the best in the end.

These last few months, though, all she'd done was plot and plan her search for the truth—from mapping out every place she and Deuce had ever been, as far back as she could remember, to amassing money in every manner conceivable and searching for an escort . . .

And look at the results.

What if she simply threw caution to the wind? What if, instead of finding fault with every prospect that showed up, she simply took a chance on the next one to walk in and see what happened? Lord knew she couldn't be any worse off than she was now.

Just then the front doors flew open, and Jesse was shoved into the room by a pair of men half his size and twice his age. Honesty's mouth
dropped open.
No.
When she'd decided to take a chance on the next man to walk in the doors, she hadn't meant
Jesse.

“Caught this varmint sneakin' around our claim,” one of the geezers declared, aiming a stream of chewing tobacco into the brass spittoon nearby.

Jake, Honesty quickly deduced. Rose's uncles were mirror images of one another: in their late fifties, with the same receding hair line and pale blue eyes, the same stoop-shouldered build from years of bending over stream beds in search of the elusive fortune. Only two things set the brothers apart: Joe had a milder disposition than his twin, and Jake chewed tobacco.

Another shove from the pair nearly sent Jesse to the floor. He glared at the men flanking him, bony hands gripping Jesse's arms as if to prevent him from escaping. Rose's uncles had to know as well as Honesty that Jesse had only to flick his wrists and they'd wind up flying through the window behind him. To his credit, though, he remained calmly in their hold.

“Scarlet, I can explain—”

“You'd best do it quick,” she said, folding her arms under her breasts. “Joe and Jake don't take kindly to claim jumpers.”

Jesse flicked a glance at Honesty, who watched the exchange with unabashed curiosity and—he would swear—amusement.
Enjoying this, was she? Jesse scowled and turned his attention back to his waiting hostess. “I wasn't jumping their claim.” Hell, he hadn't even known there
was
a claim. He'd merely been returning over the mountain when the pair jumped him from behind.

But he couldn't tell Scarlet that he'd just wasted half the day at the Black Garter. Considering her history with Eli Johnson, who was everything Sarah had said he would be—a loud-mouthed, arrogant braggart with more bitterness in his heart than good sense—he'd find himself run out of town on a rail.

If he'd learned anything over the last dozen years, it was to trust no one and make no enemies. You never knew when you'd be put in a position to need them again.

“Jesse, you might as well tell her—she's bound to find out anyway.”

Jesse's attention snapped toward Honesty, as did that of the others in the room. She stood a short distance behind Rose with her hands clasped loosely at her waist.

“Tell her?” Tell her what? How could Honesty know what he'd been doing?

Honesty nodded. “I know you wanted to keep it a surprise, but since the cat's out of the bag . . .”

What the hell was she doing? he wondered, staring at her through narrowed eyes.

She stared back at him, beseeching him to play along. “Jesse didn't mean any harm, Rose; he was only trying to figure a way to catch the stage driver's attention before he reaches the Black Garter. A diversion, so to speak. Otherwise, we've no guarantee that he'll be willing to travel off the main route to come here. I expect that's what he was doing on Joe and Jake's mountain,” Honesty finished. “It does have the best view, after all.”

Rose looked first at Joe, then at Jake, who were both studying Jesse with dumbfounded expressions. “Is that true, Jesse?”

He was in too deep to back out now. “Like she said, it was supposed to be a surprise.”

“That's brilliant! We
do
need a way to bring the stage into town.” She crossed the room to cup Jesse's face in her hands and planted a whopping kiss on his lips. “Jesse, you are amazing.” Grinning ear to ear, she said, “Looks like we got us more than just a piano player here.”

“Yes, it looks like it,” Honesty agreed with a sideways grin that had alarm bells ringing through Jesse's head.

“Uncle Joe, Uncle Jake, I'm glad you two showed up. We've got a big night coming up and I could sure use your help,” Rose began.

As she prodded her uncles toward the storage room door, Jesse released a relieved breath. That had been a close call. One of the first rules
of being an operative was to set a consistent pattern in case a subject ever checked into your background; that had been drilled into him before his first assignment. Yet he'd almost botched it. If not for Honesty's intervention . . .

His eyes suddenly narrowed on her. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make up that cockamamie story?”

“It was the first thing that popped into my head.” She set the lamp on the table and fussed with the red place mats. “I felt sorry for you. I mean, you've been shot once already; I didn't want to see you taking another bullet. Do you think I should put dried flowers around the lamp bases, or would that look too feminine?”

“They'll catch on fire.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head, telling her without words that he wasn't buying her reason. Honesty always tried to change the subject when she wasn't telling the truth. “What do you want, Honesty?”

“What makes you think I want anything?” She continued to carry the lamps to each table, more to avoid looking him in the eye, Jesse guessed, than to decorate the saloon. “Can't a girl do something nice for you without you second-guessing her reasons?”

“Not you. I may have been here only a couple days, but that's long enough to know that
Rose has trained you well. You don't do anything—nice or otherwise—unless you stand to gain something in return.”

She swung around to face him with a righteous expression. “I'm thinking I should be insulted by that.”

“Think whatever you want. Just tell me why you felt the need to come to my rescue.”

He could practically see the gears whirring in her head, and if he didn't want the truth so badly, he might have laughed.

“Maybe I was afraid Rose would send you packing,” she finally said. “She is fiercely protective of things that belong to her, including her uncles. If she thought you were out to steal from them, you'd be a goner.”

“I'd think you'd be glad to see the last of me. You've made it quite clear where I rank on your list of favorites.” Jesse unfolded his arms and strode toward her with a flat smile. “So why don't you tell me what you really want?”