An Unlikely Lady (7 page)

Jesse hadn't realized then that it had just been a curse.

He swallowed a mouthful of biscuit and it hit the bottom of his stomach like a bar of lead. “Not anymore,” he answered bitterly.

“But you
can
.”

Fifteen years had gone by since he'd last set fingers to keys, and another fifteen could go by, for all he cared. But yes, he could play. Jesse set the fork down and pushed the plate away, his appetite gone. “It's been a long time.”

“Maybe we can make a trade.”

The glitter in her eyes sent a sudden shiver of foreboding up his spine. “What did you have in mind?”

“Let's see what you can drag out of the old ivories. Then we'll talk.”

The instant Honesty made it to her room, she shut the door tightly behind her and pressed herself against it. Her heart thundered in her chest, her hands trembled. Oh, heavens. When Rose said to start praying for a miracle, surely she hadn't meant Jesse! Why had he come back? Surely he wasn't planning on staying. Or was he?

She started pacing the floor and nibbling on her thumbnail. Shoot, she hadn't thought to see him ever again! What if he expected her to . . . what if he wanted . . .

Oh, dear. Just the thought of him touching her the way he had last night sent a rush of heat into her cheeks. Getting away with her ruse for one night was possible. But for two?

Or more?

Or what if he discovered that she'd lied about it, and that he'd forked over three dollars for nothing? What would he do?

Well, she wasn't about to stick around and find out. Men did not like being made out to be fools; some even thought it an offense so great, they were willing to commit cold-blooded murder.

Spurred on by the thought, Honesty made a beeline for the armoire in the corner, threw open the doors, and dragged out a carpetbag that had seen more travels than Gulliver. She'd wasted too much time in Last Hope, anyway. A suitable escort was not going to show up, no matter how much she wished it. If she hoped to find someone willing to help her search for the flowing stones, she'd have to go elsewhere.

After tossing the carpetbag on the bed, Honesty began clearing her belongings out of the armoire. She didn't know how she would tell Rose. After their conversation this morning, the thought of leaving her to shoulder the burdens of her situation alone just didn't feel right.

But what else could she do? She'd spent almost three weeks in Last Hope and was no closer to solving the riddle her father had left her than she'd been the day he died. She couldn't hide out here forever. Surely the men
after her would either have found her by now or given up the chase.

As she swept her arm across the bottom of the cabinet for any garments she might have missed, the red satin evening costume she'd worn last night fell to the floor. Honesty paused, then bent to pick it up. Thoughts she'd kept at bay all afternoon came rushing back as the scents of patchouli soap and a manly essence that was Jesse's alone rose up from the fabric. She buried her nose in the scent and closed her eyes. Once again she felt Jesse's strength wrap around her, could almost feel the power of his arms and the bliss of his touch . . .

Honesty swallowed the lump of regret in her throat. She should have let him bed her when she'd had the chance.

Oh, now, there's a sensible thought. Yes-siree, just give yourself to the first man who turns your head.
She didn't have much anymore, but she still had her virginity. If she ever
did
give herself to a man—and that was a very big if—it would be to one who put a ring on her finger, not coins in her palm.

She almost laughed at the irony of it. Working in a saloon, playing the part of a well-versed doxy, and here she was, worrying about being ruined before the “I do's”. But she had no intention of marrying for marrying's sake. The only way she'd ever consider tying herself to a man
was if she found one with honor, courage, and unwavering devotion. Someone she could trust never to hurt her or use her. Someone who could make her heart laugh and her soul sing.

A man like her father.

Good cow feathers, this was ridiculous. She was acting like a smitten fool, and it had to stop. Her life was complicated enough without throwing some devilish drifter into the mix.

She crumpled the dress into a ball and tossed it into a corner of the armoire. The last thing she needed to take with her was any reminder of her folly.

She finished shoving the last of her garments into the bag and was just about to buckle the strap when a sweet tinkling sound drifted up the staircase. She froze, then lifted her head.

The piano? Who on earth . . . ?

With a puzzled frown, she slipped out her door and went down the hall to the balcony overlooking the main room. An angel sat at the piano—an angel with streaked golden hair spilling past a set of broad shoulders . . .

Jesse?

Astonished, she could do nothing more than gaze down at him as his long fingers glided over the dingy keys. It took her a moment to recognize the tune, but once she did, it knocked the breath out of her.

“Lorena.” One of Deuce's favorites.

Honesty closed her eyes against the swell of bittersweet memories. Of riding with her father across windswept prairies, of roasting chestnuts over a mountain lodge cookstove. Of curling up in his big arms on a cold November night, his deep voice lulling her to sleep.

Of their own will, the words of the second stanza slid from her mouth. “A hundred months have passed since, Lorena, since last I held that hand in mine, and felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena, though mine beat faster far than thine . . .”

She hardly noticed when Jesse's playing slowed, but she knew the instant he turned his head in her direction. Their eyes locked, and as she sang the lyrics of a lover who'd lost his one true love to duty, their connection became a tangible thread, drawing her down the staircase. Memories of her father dimmed. In Jesse's eyes, she watched last night replay itself, and felt as if he were seducing her all over again. Not with his eyes and hands and mouth, but with his music, melody and harmony blending together in a mating of such poignancy that it pierced her to her soul.

With the last note still fading, they continued to stare at one another. The air hummed with an awareness that transcended the physical attraction she'd felt last night, a longing bordering on
pain. Her eyes shimmered, turning the interior of the Scarlet Rose into shades of green and blue. And in the back of her mind, she could hear a small voice calling out her name . . .

Clapping broke the spell. Honesty swung toward the bar, where Rose was slapping her hands together with such enthusiasm that it made her cheeks burn.

“That was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard in my life,” Rose declared, then dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Honesty, why didn't you tell me you could sing? With a voice like that, you could make a for—” She gasped. “That's it! Oh, I knew if I waited long enough, the solution would drop into my lap!”

The solution to what?
Honesty wondered.

“How long did you say you planned on staying, Jesse?” Rose asked.

“I'm not sure. A couple days, a week, maybe. Depends on how long it takes my horse's leg to mend. Why?”

Absently Rose tapped her lips with steepled fingers. “That don't give us much time . . .”

“Much time for what?” Honesty asked.

“Why, to rehearse, or course!”

“What are you talking about, Scarlet?” Jesse asked.

Dread curled up Honesty's spine as Rose turned to him with a calculated gleam in her
eye. “I want you and Honesty to perform for the Durango-Denver passengers this Saturday.”

Stunned silence fell on the air like iron notes.

Honesty's attention swung from Rose to Jesse, then back again. “You can't be serious!” she declared, once she found her voice.

“Serious as an April blizzard. Between your singing and Jesse's playing, folks will be lining the street, beggin' us to take their money!”

Her and Jesse, performing together? In public? She struggled to catch the breath caught in her throat.

“Hold on there, Scarlet,” Jesse interjected. “Playing for you is one thing; playing for a bunch of strangers is something else.”

“Look, you wanted a job, I'm offering you one.

“This was not what I had in mind.”

“Maybe not, but you just said you couldn't leave till your horse mends, so what's the harm? The way I see it, you've got nothing to lose.”

“What about her?” he countered, gesturing toward Honesty. “Has she ever even sung for a crowd before? How do you know she can do it? What if she gets up on stage and freezes?”

Honesty didn't know whether to laugh or cry at his attempt to help her. If he had any idea how many times she'd literally had to sing for her and Deuce's supper . . . but she hadn't done
so since that horrible night when her world had crumpled at her feet.

“Honesty, not be able to sing for a crowd? This girl was made for the stage!” Rose crossed the few feet between them and clasped the girl's hands in her own. “Hon, you know the position I'm in. If I don't do something to attract business, it'll be the end of the Scarlet Rose. I'm not asking for much—just one night. And in return, I'll cut you both in on ten percent of the profits.”

Honesty looked into the pleading gray eyes and felt her resistence crumble. She knew what Rose was doing, giving her a chance to seize her dreams.

But at what cost?

She thought about the packed valise waiting on her bed, the measly twelve dollars trapped in an old mason jar, and a worn map that hid a mysterious truth somewhere in its crooked lines. More, she thought about how Rose had opened her doors to a frightened orphan on the run, with no questions asked.

And Honesty knew the battle was lost before it had begun. “All right,” she sighed. “I'll do my best.”

After rewarding her with a blinding smile, Rose turned to Jesse. “Now, what about you, Jesse?”

Honesty waited for his answer with bated
breath. His eyes glittered like chips of ice, and his jaw was set so hard she wondered that he didn't break his teeth. He reminded Honesty of a trapped animal, waiting for the doors of a cage to open so he could spring free. Oh, how she knew the feeling.

“If I'm busy banging out tunes, who will keep an eye on your customers if they get too rowdy?”

“Oh, me and Honesty'll handle the customers. You just provide the music.”

He turned to Honesty then, and stared at her in silence for several long, tense moments. She had no idea what he was thinking when he looked at her like that, but the grim set of his mouth told her louder than words that he didn't much care for what he saw.

“Yes,” he finally said in a flat tone, “I'm sure the customers will be well satisfied.”

J
esse strode outside to the porch, feeling as if he'd barely survived a twister with his hide intact. In the space of twenty-four hours, two women had taken control of his well-laid plans and turned them upside down. And all because he'd set out to repay a debt he owed to a man who'd saved his life.

What the hell kind of trouble had this cursed assignment landed him in now? More important, how was he going to get out of it? He didn't have time to dally away the next week in this two-bit town.

Unfortunately, damsels in distress had always been his weakness.

Propping the bottom of his foot against the
wall, he leaned back and scanned the darkened town with cynical distaste. Mountains loomed before him, capped peaks shimmering in a haze of setting sun. Shadows crept along the ground from the trunks of aspens and bounced off the sides of rocks in every shade from sand to rust. Far in the distance, a train whistle blew.

Rebirth? Hell, Scarlet wanted a miracle. Oh, Last Hope had been a grand place once, that was evident. In its heyday, it had probably never known a moment's peace. He imagined raucous laughter pouring from the eight saloons, and dance hall trulls calling out their wares; merchants conducting business on every corner, and bankers discussing the latest hike in ore prices. There may even have been a few ladies strolling down the boardwalk, parasols shading their delicate skin as they passed by shops with hats, dresses, children's toys, and hand-made furniture, while miners, the backbone of the community, led their pack-laden mules down the center of the road and traded nuggets for new handles, pans, and picks.

Yeah, Last Hope had probably been a grand place once. Now it was just tired and dreary, a broken-down poverty-stricken skeleton of what it once had been.

Much like he felt.

When had it happened? he wondered.
During the Appleton Stagecoach heists? While chasing the James Younger gang? He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, but it had been creeping up on him for some time now. And that last job . . .

If anyone had told him he'd tire of being a Pinkerton Agent, he'd have laughed himself loony. Twelve years ago, fed by noble intentions and an outrage at injustice, Jesse had packed his boots, his hat, and his horse and walked out of his father's upper-crust Chicago house. He'd been young and rash and reckless—hell on hooves, McParland used to say. No assignment was too dangerous, no subject too elusive. He'd spent every waking moment racing from one end of the country to the other, rooting out the bad seeds of society, and he'd loved every blazing moment.

Until the day obsession for the job gave way to passion for a woman, and landed him six months in the deepest bowels of hell.

That had been the beginning, Jesse thought. What he felt lately seemed to go beyond tired, though. He couldn't explain it, couldn't define it, yet he felt it sucking at him like quicksand around his ankles, draining the life out of him. He'd spent so long immersed in a world of deception and intrigue, pretending to be someone he wasn't just to expose the criminals, that he didn't even know who he was anymore. As
soon as he found McGuire and took him back to Denver, he wanted to . . . to . . .