An Unlikely Lady (8 page)

Hell, he didn't know
what
he wanted. But it sure wasn't to stick around this pathetic excuse for a town, or use a rusty talent he'd rejected years ago just to entertain a bunch of traveling drunks.

Jesse sighed and stared up into the overcast sky. Damn Scarlet for manipulating him with her sad story and bartered solutions.

And damn Honesty, too, for touching something inside him with her voice that hadn't been touched in years. Not since the day he'd discovered his father's duplicity had he allowed music to bond him with another soul. But for a moment there, he'd felt closer to Honesty than he'd felt toward anyone in a long, long time. Hadn't he learned his lesson?

Obviously not, or he wouldn't have gotten himself involved in another woman's problems.

Well, he'd play for Scarlet; he'd given his word. At least he'd have a soft bed to sleep in each night and a hot meal in his stomach each day. And considering his pockets were emptier than a dead man's eyes, he needed the extra cash to restock on supplies.

But then he was out of here.

And in the meantime, he'd keep as far away from Honesty as the situation would allow.

As if to mock his decision, the door opened and she stepped out onto the porch. She gave no sign of noticing that he stood a few short feet to the left, in the shadow of the overhang. Jesse opened his mouth to make her aware of his presence, then held his tongue. He really had nothing to say to her; she was part of the reason he was in this mess.

Then she stepped off the porch and made a right turn down the boardwalk, her head bent, her step swift, and the chance was lost anyway.

Jesse started to go after her, but stopped himself and leaned back against the post with his thumbs plugged into his waistband. Where Honesty went and what she did with her time were her business. Still, she was obviously upset about something, and he had a good idea what it was. He couldn't forget her expression the instant Scarlet brought up performing for the passengers; her creamy complexion had gone a ghastly gray shade, the luster in her eyes vanished, and her shoulders lost a measure of their proud carriage.

One of the things that drew him to Honesty was the almost regal aura she had about her, her way of taking command of a situation without saying a word. But at that moment she had seemed to shrink before his very eyes. Why
she'd be so reluctant to share that beautiful voice with others, Jesse couldn't figure. Talent like that shouldn't be kept in a bottle.

Yet the emotion in her eyes was beyond simple reluctance. It had bordered on panic.

What was she so afraid of?

They'd find her for certain.

The thought pounded through Honesty's brain in tempo with her footsteps, drowning out the hollow clack of her heels on the boardwalk. She couldn't remember what excuse she made when she walked out of the Scarlet Rose, but it must have sounded reasonable, because neither Rose nor Jesse made any move to stop her. Nor did they come after her, much to her relief. Rose had wasted no time diving into plans for the inspired event, and Jesse . . . she didn't know where he'd taken himself off to, nor did she give a tinker's care. If not for him playing that cussed piano, she'd not be in this predicament. Word would get out, and once it did, the shadows she'd acquired soon after her father's death would reattach themselves to her backside. And this time, Honesty feared she wouldn't be able to shake them.

Oh, why had she agreed to sing for the passengers? Had she lost the last ounce of common sense she'd been born with? She empathized with Rose, but she hadn't sung in public in
months—not since that horrible night of her father's murder.

Even now, the memory had the power to make her throat tighten and her stomach pitch. They'd only been in Durango a few days when Deuce made himself a regular customer at the Miner's Delight, a fancy dance hall and gambling parlor all in one stick. As was their ritual, he ingratiated himself with the management and soon convinced them that their profits would increase tenfold if they allowed Honesty to sing. Little did they know that Deuce had been using the same ploy for as long as Honesty could remember: while she acted as a decoy and distracted the audience, he worked the crowds—picking pockets, playing with stacked decks, selling deeds to mines that didn't exist . . . mostly penny-ante stunts that did little harm, but that often led to quick escapes deep in the night.

On a particularly dismal evening after one of her performances, Honesty found him slumped over a table, sotted out of his senses. They'd taken rooms only a few doors down, but Deuce was a brawny man, and there was no way she'd have gotten him home if not for the assistance of Robert Treat.

In retrospect, Honesty should have guessed Robert's true character right off, but at the time she'd been too smitten to notice. Any girl would
have been, she supposed, for he cut a slick and dashing figure in his fine frock coat and silk bowler, and his courtly manners could make a pauper feel like a princess.

It took Honesty only a week to realize that the man she thought her Prince Charming was nothing more than a blackguard in disguise.

She fought off the memory as she wandered through the deserted streets and alleyways, but it did little to ease the constriction in her chest or the knot of anxiety in her middle. As she stepped off the boardwalk and onto the packed dirt road by the crumbling foundation of the former bank, a gust of moist air hit her full in the face. Honesty wrapped her arms around herself. The weather had been the last thing on her mind when she'd left the saloon; now she wished she'd thought to bring a wrap. There was a sharp bite to the wind, even for June, and the scent of coming rain lay heavy in the air.

But the weather didn't have as much to do with the chill settling in her bones as the memories haunting her. The evening of Deuce's murder had begun like any other evening. She wore a low-cut, high-hemmed gown designed to keep the audience's attention on her. Thick smoke hovered above the heads of two dozen rowdy spectators; the crowd, made up mostly of miners and merchants, with a few cowboys from the outlying ranches thrown in, voiced
their approval of her performance with shouts and whistles that Honesty accepted with practiced grace. The attention always made her uncomfortable, but she'd learned to deal with it.

During the second stanza of “Johnny Sands,” Honesty spotted Robert approaching her father's table. The two spoke for a moment, and though the conversation appeared amiable, her father's stiff-jawed expression told a different story.

“What did he want?” she asked, going to Deuce's side after the song was over.

He brightened immediately at the sight of her. “Ach, nothing to worry your bonny head aboot. Now, get back onstage, me sweet Honesty, and sing for our supper.”

Honesty barely remembered getting through the rest of her show. The room seemed to have shrunk tighter than wool in hot water, and each step on the stage felt like a path to the gallows. Something was terribly, terribly wrong; her father's brogue was hardly noticeable unless he was bothered by something. But Robert and Deuce had become quite the pals, and a dispute—especially in so public a place—just didn't make she charged the uneasiness to the unusually wild crowd.

She wished now that she'd listened to her instincts.

During the last number, all hell broke loose.
The front window exploded into tiny shards, then the chandeliers within. People screamed, ducked, and dived beneath tables, while others returned the gunfire. Dodging the barrage of bullets, Deuce pushed his way through the frenzied crowd, flying glass, and choking smoke to reach her. He all but shoved her off the stage and out a back door she hadn't known existed.

They ran until Honesty thought her lungs would burst, and Deuce finally dragged them into an alley.

“No matter what happens, lass, remember that I love ye with all me heart.”

“Oh, Papa, what have you done?”

“I canna tell ye now, but ye'll know all there is to know soon enough. Should we be parted, run as far away as ye can and I'll find ye. Go back the way we came and do no' trust a soul, ye ken?
Trust no one
.”

She wanted to demand he tell her what was going on, but the urgency in his tone compelled her only to nod.

Then Robert appeared at the mouth of the alley, blocking their escape. “Thought you'd get away with it, didn't you, McGuire? Thought you could sneak off, welch on our deal, and I'd just forget about it?”

Honesty remembered staring at her father in
surprise. Few knew his real name; it was safer that way. Why would he have told Robert?

“I'm not sneakin' off. I told ye inside, I don't have it with me. I have to go get it.”

“And you expect me to believe you'll return?”

“I told ye I would, didn't I?”

“Your word is worthless, McGuire. Honesty, come to me,” Robert coaxed in a silky tone that sent shudders down her spine.

Her father's grip on her arm turned bruising. “Ye're not gettin' the lass, Treat.”

“You think not?” Robert raised his arm, and moonlight glittered off the pearl-handled pistol gripped in his hand. “Send her to me and no one gets hurt.”

“What's this about, Robert?”

“Perhaps you should ask your father.”

“Papa?”

“‘Tis nothin', lass.”

“Nothing?” Robert barked. “Your father and I had a gentlemen's agreement and he is trying to break it. You are my insurance. When he holds up to his end of our bargain, I'll release you.”

Deuce instantly pushed Honesty behind him and withdrew his pistol. “You'll take her over me dead body!”

Robert smiled then. “That can also be arranged.”

Her memory grew vague after that. The crack of bullets, the acrid stench of gunpowder, and the sight of Robert lying lifeless on the alley floor while Honesty and her father ran for the train station and jumped the first car leaving Durango . . . It wasn't until they'd sunk against the car's plank walls, and she caught sight of his blood-soaked shirt front, that she realized how prophetic his words would be.

“Papa? Oh, God . . .” She scrambled to his side and gathered his bulky form in her arms.

“My sweet Honesty, there's somethin' you must know . . .”

“Don't talk, Papa.” Frantically she tried to stem the blood that gushed from his middle. “We've got to get you to a doctor.”

He caught her hand in a frighteningly feeble grip and whispered, “Listen to me, lass, there isna much time.”

Her breath caught on a sob.

“I done ye wrong, and I pray ye can find it in yer heart to forgive me.”

“Papa, please . . .”

“That's what I must tell ye.” His head lolled to the side, and the light in his blue eyes dimmed. “The truth is . . .”

“What?” she asked, unable to catch his fading words.

“. . . Hidden in the flowin' stones . . .”

And he was gone.

Honesty swiped at her damp eyes. God, how she missed him. His gruff voice, that gravelly brogue. His thick arms and long flame-red hair with the balding spot at the crown . . .

Oh, curse Jesse for playing that song! Curse him for coming to Last Hope in the first place. She'd kept a low profile since that fateful night, making her way north, town to town, mine to mine, saloon to saloon, searching for the secret he'd taken to his grave. She hadn't sung since.

Until this morning.

And because of it, because of Jesse and his resurrection of days best forgotten, she was once again committed to putting herself on public display.

She should have left town the minute she'd woken up in his bed. No, she should have left town long before that, as she'd originally planned. She'd managed fine without anyone's help before.

But somehow she hadn't been able to bring herself to abandon Rose. And now . . .

“You shouldn't be wandering out here alone.”

Honesty jerked, startled as much by the sound of Jesse's voice as the sight of him. She glanced around, aware for the first time that she'd circled back to the saloon. Her attention returned to him, where he leaned against the outside doorframe, knee bent, heel propped be
hind him. Despite his casual pose, she sensed a restless energy inside him.

Honesty ignored the traitorous leap of her heart and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I don't see that it's any concern of yours.”

“When I see a young woman putting herself in possible danger, I make it my concern.”

“Danger from whom?”

“Any scoundrel who finds his way into town.”

Honesty gave him a scathing once-over. The remark hit too close to home. “The only scoundrel I see about is you.”

“Really?” His brow lifted in mock surprise. “Just this morning I was the most incredible lover you've ever had.”

Honesty grimaced. She should have figured he'd throw her own words back in her face. “What else would you call a man who rides in and worms his way into a job for reasons I have yet to fathom?”

“I'd hardly call being backed into a corner worming my way into anything.”

“You could have told her no.”

“Why? I needed a job, she needed a piano player.” He shrugged indifferently. “Besides, I didn't see you turning her down.”

“That isn't always as easy as it sounds. Rose helped me when I needed help. Singing for her for one night is the least I can do.”

“Whether you want to or not.”

The words brought an unexpected sting of tears to her eyes. He sounded so . . . protective. So compassionate. How often, when she'd been young and naive enough, had she dreamed of finding someone with those qualities? “Your concern for my welfare is touching, cowboy, but it's also misplaced. I've been taking care of myself for quite some time now, so I would appreciate you keeping your thoughts to yourself.”

Fearing her emotions would get the better of her, Honesty tried to push past him but found herself halted by his grip. She glowered at the long fingers wrapped around her wrist, then at his face. His eyes, a compelling swirl of green grasses and blue skies, glittered with a demand for answers. “Let go of me.”