Anita Mills (11 page)

“Fess up?”

“Tell me what it is they’re after.”

“But I have no idea! No idea at all, Mr. McCready, I swear it! I don’t even
know
anyone down here. And I assure you that there’s absolutely nothing in my life that could be of interest to anyone. Except for one miserable term of teaching in western Pennsylvania, I haven’t even been out of Philadelphia until this trip. No, they’ve got me confused for someone else—that’s got to be what’s happened. It just has to.”

“Like the man said back on the train, Verena’s not exactly a common name,” he reminded her. “And with Howard, it’d be pretty hard to mistake.”

“Nobody even knows I’m coming except Mr. Hamer—and you.”

“Somebody does.”

“Well, I can’t think of any reason they’d even care if they did know. I’m going to report this to Sheriff Goode,” she decided.

“I don’t think I’d do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, what are you going to tell him? You yourself admitted this doesn’t make any sense.”

“And just what would
you
do in my shoes?” she countered sarcastically. “Wait until you were murdered in your bed?”

It was a long moment before he answered, and when he did, he surprised her. “Let me finish dressing and shaving, and then we’ll go out and walk around. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll get a good look at ’em while they’re not expecting it. Right now, you’ve got some advantages.”

“Such as?”

“They don’t, know what you look like, and they’re looking for Verena Howard, not Elizabeth McCready. And you’ve got me—until Columbus.”

Somehow that didn’t seem like much comfort.

After a casual search of the ranch house and the immediate area around it yielded no trace of her mysterious pursuers, Matt and Verena joined the other passengers beneath the darkening sky to eat a late repast of cold beef sandwiches, homemade pickles, and dried apricots, all washed down with the sheriff’s own potent, well-aged cider. Mellowed with food and drink, everyone finally gathered by an old oak tree to hear an old fiddler play lively reels and to watch the ranch’s hired girls dance with enthusiastic, albeit, inebriated cowhands.

Sitting on the ground hugging her knees, Verena closed her eyes and thought longingly of a home so far away it might as well have been a foreign country. That it was a narrow rowhouse jammed between others just like it didn’t matter anymore. It might be plain and ordinary, but it was safe and familiar. Unlike Texas.

Against her will, her mind kept going over that strange conversation she’d overheard, trying to make sense of why two complete strangers were looking for

her, of why somebody called Gib would want to harm her. She didn’t even know anybody in Texas, except Matthew McCready, and she couldn’t claim to really know him. Nor did she have much of anything anybody would want. Everything she owned could be had for fifty dollars. No, that wasn’t quite true, she supposed. There was her father’s farm. But by the tone of Mr. Hamer’s letter, it wasn’t worth much either. He hadn’t even actually encouraged her to make the trip to claim it, saying if she preferred, he’d try to make the sale for her. After taxes, probate fees, and the expense of advertising it, she might clear a few hundred dollars, or it might be even less.

And somehow that seemed to fit what she knew of her father. In forty-six years, he’d managed to squander nearly everything that came his way—his family, his education, his reputation. A handsome man with an eye for the ladies, he’d been murdered, apparently leaving behind nobody to weep for him, not even her. No, least of all her.

And now this. It was preposterous—and frightening. For two cents, she’d turn around and go home. But if these men were determined enough to find her that they’d search every rail stop for her, what was there to say they wouldn’t try to look her up in Philadelphia? At least in Philadelphia there were places to hide, she reminded herself. Out here she stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. Out here she had no one.

Beside her, Matthew McCready leaned up against a stump, watching, sipping cider. As the warm night breeze ruffled his hair, his thoughts turned to the decadent elegance of New Orleans, to thick carpets and baize-covered tables, to high-stakes games played under glittering chandeliers. To those fancy salons where light-skinned octoroon girls presided like princesses over a court of wealthy, paying swains. To the stately brick mansions guarded by wrought-iron fences and ornate, locked gates. A heady world for a Tennessee boy with nothing to recommend him but a handsome face, a good memory, and a talent for games of chance. Until the night he’d killed Philippe Giroux, he’d enjoyed an extraordinary run of luck. Now he was just on the run.

If he’d had any sense, he’d have stuck to his original plan and headed straight for Helena. Instead, he’d gotten himself sidetracked into what should have been an amorous little adventure with the lovely Verena Howard. And the irony of that wasn’t lost on him. There’d been plenty of adventure, more than he’d bargained for, but without so much as a dash of romance to go with it. And his second notion of using her to cover his tracks wasn’t panning out either. Instead of drawing less attention as a married man, he’d attached himself to a girl with some pretty dangerous enemies. The way things were going, he’d be damned lucky if she didn’t turn to Goode for help. She wasn’t the kind to lie to the sheriff, and when she told the truth, they’d both be facing a lot of unpleasant questions. No matter how he answered, he’d be suspected of something.

No, he ought to cut his losses and run, he reflected soberly. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, but then he wasn’t a gentleman. If he could just get her out of Eagle Lake without any more trouble, he could still part company with her at Columbus. Then, if she went to a lawman, he’d be out of it. To be on the safe side, he’d make sure she thought he was on his way to Austin, but just as soon as he put her on the stagecoach bound for San Antonio, he’d buy himself a horse and strike out alone for Helena.

With almost everybody there either hiding from the law or running from an unsavory past, it wasn’t a place where anybody’d be asking him any questions. From what he’d heard about it, a nosy man didn’t last long in Helena, and when he turned up dead, nobody knew anything about it. Even in death, there was a certain anonymity there, and the town cemetery was said to have more than its share of desperados buried under colorful ephithets instead of Christian names. While he hadn’t been there to see it, he didn’t doubt the stories.

Yeah, that’s where he’d go, all right, but it wasn’t anyplace he. wanted to stay. It was just a place to get lost for a while, he told himself. Just a place where he’d change his name again, grow a beard to change his looks, and lay low long enough to be forgotten. A lawless, rough-and-tumble, wide-open town, where laundresses were said to practice another, less respectable profession, where men in dirty flannel shirts and bandanas indulged their vices. To fit in there, he’d be giving up his baths and his fancy clothes, and about the only things he’d be keeping were his knife, his Army Colt, and his silk underwear—and the latter only because it couldn’t be seen.

There was a certain irony in going to Helena, too. While he’d grown up a dirt farmer’s boy in Tennessee, he’d left home at sixteen, determined to give himself a better, easier life. It had taken him years to acquire the polish and style that got him into high-stakes games in

New Orleans’ fancier establishments. No, he didn’t want to go back to dirty, dingy saloons, where all a man could smell was sawdust, cheap tobacco, cheaper whiskey, and rank sweat. And he didn’t want to grow that beard.

Forcing his thoughts from his bleak prospects, he considered Verena. On the one hand, she was as prim and proper as the schoolteacher she claimed to be. On the other, she had to be hiding something. Something more valuable than the nearly worthless farm she was coming to claim. And yet she’d been so concerned about her expenditures, about getting him to pay for her ruined dress. As if she couldn’t afford another. But somebody—no, make that at least
two
somebodies— wanted whatever it was that she did or didn’t have. And it had nothing to do with her being a fine-looking girl; he’d go bail on that. So that made her either the innocent victim of some sort of coincidence—or a damned good liar.

He had to admit it had him intrigued. Yeah, if she were lying, she was a convincing enough actress to earn her living on the stage. The way she told of her teaching disappointment in backwater Pennsylvania was pretty damned believable. So what did she have that total strangers wanted so badly they’d talk of killing her for it? The thought crossed his mind that maybe she was a runaway heiress. Then he discarded that. She didn’t behave like somebody used to having money. He knew that much. He’d worked too hard to learn that act himself.

Well, it didn’t matter, anyway. He couldn’t afford to get himself tangled up with her. He had enough trouble of his own, and it would only fake one mistake to get that noose around his neck. If he got caught now, Alexandre Giroux would intimidate or bribe whoever it took to make sure he was hanged. And to folks who didn’t realize the old man’s power, the fact that Matthew Morgan ran made him guilty. No, he had to keep going. He had to hide in Helena, a place where everybody was on the run.

“You’re certainly quiet,” Verena said finally.

“Huh?”

“You haven’t said ten words in ten minutes.”

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing about you,” he countered, recovering.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I was thinking this is the most peace and quiet you’ve given me since we met.”

“It wasn’t I who forced the acquaintance,” she reminded him stiffly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a stranger watching her speculatively. It was probably one of the ranch hands, but he wasn’t about to take any chances right now. Grabbing at a low-hanging branch, he pulled himself up, then turned to lean over her.

“I don’t suppose you know that fellow over there either, do you?” he said low.

“Who?”

“No, don’t look yet. Wait until I’m between you and him, then you can just sneak a peek over my shoulder.” As he spoke, he grasped her hand to pull her up. “You dance, don’t you?”

“Not very well—why?”

“ ‘Cause that’s just what we’re getting ready to do.”

“What?
Oh, I couldn’t—I just couldn’t—not in front of everybody, anyway. Really, I can just barely waltz— nothing else, I assure you. In fact, I’m not even very—” “Shhhhh.”

“But if you think he’s looking for me—” she tried desperately.

“Ever hear of hiding in plain sight?” he whispered, his head bent within inches of hers. “Right now, you’re just dancing to a little fiddle music with your husband.” Seeing that she drew back, he explained, “Look, you can’t run like a scared rabbit without giving yourself away.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Trust me.” As he said it, he slid his hand around her waist. “Put a smile on that face, your hand on my shoulder, and follow me.” When she didn’t move, he added, “An adoring look or two wouldn’t hurt anything either. What you need to do now is play your role to the hilt.”

“I’m not an actress, Mr. McCready,” she retorted.

“Oh, I don’t know—you did a damned good job of fainting. And it’s Mac, in case you’ve forgotten again.”

“Matthew,” she reminded him. Smiling sweetly, she added, “And if I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t trust you as far as the corner of that house, so don’t go getting any notions otherwise.”

“Is that any way to talk to your beloved?” he chided, leading her into the small open area. While clasping her hand with his left, he placed his right one against her back, then held her so close she could feel his breath against her skin. “Think of this as your bridal trip. Pretend there’s nobody else in the world but you and me.”

“I feel as if I’ve descended into the pits of hell,” she muttered. “And I don’t know what he’s playing, but it’s
not
a waltz.”

“It doesn’t matter—just do the opposite of what I do. I go forward, you go back.”

“And when you go left, I suppose I go right?”

“Tell me one thing,” he murmured, easing her around to the music, “were you born contrary, or is it just something you’ve cultivated?”

“Do you really expect me to smile?” she countered. As his arm tightened around her, forcing her almost cheek to cheek with him, she demanded, “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Dancing, but it’s not easy.”

“I tried to warn you—you can’t say I didn’t.”

“All right. If all you can do is waltz, then I guess it’ll have to be a waltz.”

He stopped and dropped his arm from her back. Still holding her hand, he led her toward the fiddler. Reaching into his coat pocket, he fished out a bright, shiny dollar, and flipped it at the man. The musician nimbly caught it, then grinned.

“Slowest damned waltz you’ve got,” Matt told him. “For the prettiest lady this side of the Atlantic Ocean— my wife.”

“Yessirree, suh!”

“That was a whole dollar,” she protested.

“Frugal, too,” Matt added, straight-faced. “Ready, my dear?” Before she could pull away, he rubbed his cheek against hers, murmuring into her ear, “Try not to look like I’m getting ready to strangle you, will you?”

This time, when he maneuvered her into the dance area, everybody cleared away, leaving them alone. As his arm encircled her waist, a huzzah went up from the crowd. She could feel her whole body go hot as the blood rushed to her face. Thoroughly embarrassed, she all but buried her head in his shoulder and held on.

“Now
that’s
more like it,” he said softly.

The music was slow, and Matthew McCready’s arm was steady, but she was too self-conscious to give any fluidity to her steps. She felt stiff, almost wooden, and his next words did nothing to dispel the feeling.

“You’d never shine in a New Orleans ballroom.”

“I never aspired to.”

“Maybe if you hummed the music to yourself, you’d get the rhythm,” he suggested hopefully.

“I have no musicality whatsoever,” she gritted out.

“You’ve got to have some—everybody does.”

“None. My piano teacher wouldn’t even take Mama’s money, saying any expectation of my having any rhythm or of my hearing the difference between the notes was wishful thinking of the highest degree.”

“You can’t sing either? I thought that was a required accomplishment for a lady.”

“Nothing recognizable. Please—now that we’ve established I can’t sing
or
dance, can we sit down?”

“Not until I get my dollar’s worth.”

“You’re making fools of both of us—I hope you know that.”

“You’re the one who told me you could waltz,” he reminded her.

“You cut me off before I could say ‘not very well at all,’ ” she shot back.

“You know, I’m beginning to think everything about you is a sham.”

“Because I can’t dance? That’s just about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Because nothing you’ve ever told me seems to be the truth. For all I know you aren’t even Verena Howard.”

“What? Oh, now that’s too much!
Everything
I’ve said is the truth, whether you choose to believe it or not. Which is a great deal more than can be said for you, Matthew McCready!”

“Smile, Rena.”

“What?”

“He’s still looking at you.”

“Why should I care? I’ve already made myself look like a clumsy idiot, anyway.”

“Do you know him?”

“Which one?”

“The one smoking a cheroot—over by that tree.”

Forcing her most dazzling smile, she dared to look as McCready took her into a wide circle. “I’ve never seen him before in my life,” she declared flatly. “Ever.”