Anita Mills (23 page)

“I’m taking my knife.”

“I couldn’t shoot anybody, Matt.”

“Somebody comes through that door without knocking, you’d damn well better try. Just pull back the hammer, and it’s cocked. Then all you’ve got to do is point it at his belly and pull the trigger.” Laying the gun down, he reached for the doorknob. “Good night, Rena.”

As he opened the door, he could’ve sworn he heard her say softly, “I’ve never even kissed anybody before,” but he couldn’t be sure. And he ached for her all over again.

No, he’d escaped that quicksand once already, and he ought to be damned grateful she’d come to her senses. He wouldn’t want to see himself in her eyes in the morning, not after he’d bedded her. Maybe he was getting soft, but he didn’t want it to happen like that. He didn’t want her to feel sorry or cheated. He didn’t want to feel like he had to marry her.

As the door to her room swung inward, he stepped on something hard. And looking down, he caught the glint of metal on the frayed carpet runner. A brass button. It could have fallen off anybody—or she could’ve pulled it off in the struggle. Leaning down, he picked it up and held it beneath the hall lantern. Yeah, he’d seen hundreds of those on battlefields, on Union Army coats. It didn’t mean much—a lot of men had kept those coats.

Once inside, his gaze swept the room, placing everything in case he had to fight his way out of it. Laying the knife on the nearby table, he sat on the edge of the bed, then looked down. Verena’s drawstring purse.

There was something almost sacrosanct, untouchable about a lady’s purse, and he felt a pang of guilt for opening it, for counting her dwindling money. Fifty-nine dollars. Not enough to get her home. But enough for a stake.

She came awake slowly, first aware of her aching head, then of her churning stomach. Rolling over, she looked into the semidarkness of the moonlit room. It wasn’t morning yet. Swinging her legs off the bed, she sat up. The room spun and the floor tilted. Lurching for the chamberpot, she barely managed to hold McCready’s whiskey down until she reached it, then everything came up. She retched until there was nothing left but dry heaves, and it was finally over.

She’d been so sick her whole body was clammy, and her nightgown felt like a wet sheet clinging to her. Her nausea gone, she peeled the gown off and moved slowly to the washbasin, holding her head to stop the terrible pounding in it.

Whiskey was better than wine, McCready had said. Well, it wasn’t. In her case, it was far worse, and it had left her what her father used to call skunked. She remembered the word well, having heard him quarrel with her mother over it while Verena had hidden under her bedcovers, afraid to come out.

She poured water from the pitcher into the pan and sopped the washrag in it. Dragging the wet, dripping cloth over her face, she tried to tell herself she felt better. As the air cooled her forehead, she wiped the perspiration from her skin. Then she tossed the rag into the basin, leaving it until morning.

The warm night air felt almost good touching her skin. Yes, now that she’d purged herself of that awful whiskey and washed herself, she did feel a whole lot better.

The gleam of McCready’s gun caught her eye, and for a moment she stared at it. Then the painful memories flooded her aching mind, and she was sure she could never face him again. But if he went with her as far as San Antonio, she would have to—somehow she’d just have to.

Dear God, what a fool she’d made of herself. Letting him hold her like that, shamelessly kissing him all the while. Lewd, wanton, reckless couldn’t even describe her behavior. And yet as she closed her eyes, reliving those moments, she couldn’t deny she’d wanted everything he did to her, and if some small shred of decency hadn’t prevailed, she would have let him do anything he wanted in those heady, sinful moments.

No, she couldn’t think about that—not now, anyway. Maybe in a few days, but not now. Maybe when she was in San Angelo, and he’d gone on to wherever he finally decided to go. Right now, she felt too foolish, too sinful to dwell on what could have happened. No, when she saw him next, probably the best thing to do was pretend it hadn’t happened.

Her carpetbag was on the floor. Picking it up, she carried it to the bed and opened it. Everything was a jumble, not the way she’d left it. Sighing, she pulled all of her things out, sorted them, and found her clean chemise. It still smelled of Sarah Brassfield’s strong lye soap. And it was the same with her drawers.

Pulling both garments on, she went to the window. She’d been mistaken when she first awakened. Instead of being the middle of the night, it was the crack of dawn, and already there was a faint pink haze pushing back the dark sky. In a few hours, she and McCready would be buying tickets and boarding the stagecoach bound for San Antonio. And the thought of being cooped up again, of bouncing along some rutted road, made her head hurt even more. It’d be like riding in that wagon after too much of Seth Brassfield’s wine all over again.

She hoped it didn’t cost too much. She’d spent at least eight dollars in three days, and at that rate, she was going to find herself alone and without funds by the time she reached San Angelo. And if Mr. Hamer couldn’t find a buyer quickly … well, she dreaded the thought. He had to. He just had to. Even if it meant taking a loss. Even if it meant she only got enough to pay her way back to Philadelphia.

Mentally reviewing her expenses, she worried that maybe it’d been more than eight dollars since she’d boarded the train in Galveston. It couldn’t be much more, but that wasn’t much consolation. No, she’d better count her money. The wicked thought that she should have taken the wad of bills Matthew McCready had offered earlier crept across her mind. No, that wouldn’t have been proper.

As if sharing a room alone with him for two nights had been. But it was the being beholden to him that bothered her. She couldn’t have paid the debt off, not on her teacher’s wages, and there wasn’t any guarantee that her father’s farm would bring in enough to cover her own expenses, let alone pay off McCready.

She ought to have fifty-eight or fifty-nine dollars. Unsure now, she looked for her purse. Then another, more terrifying fear assailed her. What if while she’d been kissing McCready like the worst sort of hussy, someone had filched her purse? As nearly as she could remember, she’d left the door open, all but inviting someone to take it.

Maybe when he’d brought her bag, he’d brought it over also. No, there was his gun, her carpetbag, her torn chemise. But no purse. Unless it was in her rented room, it was gone.

Forgetting her aching head, forgetting her embarrassment even, she dressed quickly and took a cautious look into the hall. The lantern had burned out, leaving it dark, but she could tell it was deserted. She went back for his gun, then eased into the hall, creeping along the wall to the next door down, where she tapped lightly.

“Matthew?” she whispered.

No answer. He probably couldn’t hear her, and yet she didn’t want to rouse the boarding house. She rapped louder. Nothing. So much for his being a light sleeper. Her hand closed over the doorknob, turning it. He hadn’t even bothered to lock himself in after what had happened. Trying not to waken him, she opened the door gingerly, ready to spring back, then peered inside.

The bed was empty. And so was the room. He wasn’t there. Panicked now, she hurried to the bed, dropped to her knees and felt along the edge, hoping against hope that her purse had fallen underneath. Her fingers found the drawstring, and she felt a surge of relief as she pulled the knitted bag out.

Tearing it open, she carried it to the window, thinking to count her money by the early light. Her comb and Mr. Hamer’s letter were there, as was her coin purse, but her stash of folded banknotes was gone. Her blood ran cold in her veins as she turned the purse upside down, shaking it over the bed. A lone dime fell out.

They’d come back, and she’d been robbed. No, if that were the case, McCready would have put up a fight, and she would surely have heard something. He was gone, and she just wasn’t facing the painfully obvious. He’d left her. Worse yet, he’d taken her money with him.

Her head was pounding, keeping rhythm with her thudding heart. Sinking down on the straight-backed chair, she tried to calm herself, to think this awful turn of events out. Without her money, she couldn’t survive. She couldn’t pay Mr. Holmstead’s bill, she couldn’t buy her stage ticket to San Antonio, let alone ride the mail wagon to San Angelo, and she couldn’t even afford to eat. All the coins left in her purse probably wouldn’t add up to a dollar.

In her mind’s eye, she could see Matthew McCready’s handsome face, that engaging smile, and she could almost curse herself for being so gullible. She’d trusted a dangerous man, and it had cost her dearly. Oh, what a fool he must have thought her.

Then reason reasserted itself. If he’d wanted to rob her, he’d had a dozen opportunities before now. Besides, he had plenty of his own money, so much that he’d even offered some of it to her. No, he had no reason to steal such a small sum from her, she wanted to believe that. But where was he? Where was her fifty-nine dollars?

This time, she looked around the room, seeking some degree of reassurance. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle. His coat was gone. But his valise was in the other bedchamber, and as fastidious as he was about his person, he wouldn’t have left that. Besides, he didn’t even have a horse. So where on earth could he have gone at this early hour of the morning?

The answer wasn’t an entirely welcome one. There were only three things to be had at any hour in Texas, she’d overheard a cowboy say on the train: whores, whiskey, and a poker game. While she didn’t really know him that well, she’d almost bet he’d found the latter, and while she was sitting here stewing in her own worry, he was in some gaming hell thoroughly enjoying himself. But that still didn’t explain her empty purse.

Rising, she went to the window and peered out over the street below. It was quiet, deserted except for several horses tied to a hitching post half a block away. In the pale, rosy light, she could make out the sign over a door there. It said saloon in large letters, then below it read any game you want to play. In less than five minutes, she’d gone from fright to anger, relief to annoyance, then back to anger. To suit his own ends, he’d gone off to play, leaving her and her money in danger. Either that or he’d taken her banknotes with him.

Turning around, she saw the gun she’d laid on the table, and she made up her mind. Returning to the other bedchamber, she put on her shoes, then picked up his gunbelt and buckled it around her waist. It slid down until it hung at an angle over one hip. She had to look ridiculous, but she was beyond caring. She couldn’t go outside alone with no protection at all, not after what had almost happened earlier. As long as Gib and his friends were out there, she had to be careful.

Once she’d crept down the stairs, taking care not to waken the other guests, she let herself out, then walked purposefully toward the saloon. The early morning air was almost cool on her hot face, but it did nothing to soothe her anger.

Outside the saloon, the boardwalk creaked under her feet. She paused, then stood on tiptoe to look over the louvered door. As her eyes took in the place, noting the number of rough-looking men, she almost lost her nerve. And then she saw him.

He was sitting near the back of the room, directly under a tin lantern, his head bare, his coat off, his shirtsleeves rolled up almost to his elbows. As she watched, he took a sip of what looked to be whiskey, and lazily regarded his cards. When he leaned forward, he pushed a handful of crumpled bills to the center of the table. She’d seen more than enough. Forgetting the drunks, she drew the heavy Colt revolver, cocked it, and stalked inside, her fury showing on her face.

“A fine bodyguard you turned out to be,” she snapped when she reached him. “I could have been carried off, and you wouldn’t even have known it. And you probably wouldn’t have cared, either.” Before he could answer, she gestured with the gun, pointing to the pile of money on the table. “Is any of that mine?” she demanded.

“What the hell—?” One of the other players looked to McCready. “Who the hell’s she?” he demanded.

Matt allowed himself one glance at her, and what he saw was one hell of an angry woman. Standing ramrod straight, she faced him across the table like an avenging goddess ready to swoop down and kill. “My sister,” he answered baldly.

“You let her carry a gun like that?” another one wanted to know.

Ignoring them, she kept her eyes on McCready. “My money’s missing, Matthew—where is it?”

He didn’t look up. “I believe I’ve placed my bet, gentlemen—either raise me or call me.”

Her gaze dropped to the pile of money on the table. “Just how much of that belongs to me?” she repeated awfully.

He didn’t answer that either.

“Now wait a minute,” the first fellow protested, “you ain’t playing with stolen money, are you?”

“Not anymore,” Matthew murmured. “I figure I’ve been on mine for the last two hours.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. He was all but admitting it! Holding the gun steady with both hands, she pointed it at him. “Hand it over—I want my fifty-nine dollars
now.”
When he didn’t move, she waved the revolver, sending the other three men ducking. “You haven’t gone deaf, have you? I’m taking my share of that back now.”

“Hey now, little lady—” one of them said, raising his head to eye level with the table. “It ain’t his to give, lessen he wins. We got bets out.”

“I don’t care about your silly game! I want my money!”

“You’re a damned nuisance—you know that, don’t you?” Matt told her. Turning his attention back to his cards, he said softly, “Well, gentlemen, anybody care to call me?”

“I’d sure like to know what you have in that hand,” a burly man muttered, considering his own cards uncomfortably. “Damn.”

“If you want to know, you’ll have to call,” Matt reminded him.

“All right.” The fellow pushed two stacks of silver dollars out. “I’m seeing your twenty, and raising you ten.”

“Not me,” the man on his left decided, “I’m out.”

“Yeah,” a third player agreed. “I ain’t got enough to throw m’money away on. I’m in too deep already.”

Never having been fainthearted, Matthew leaned back lazily for a moment, then casually straightened up to push everything he had left to the center of the table. “I’m covering you and raising you another fifty.”

“What?” Verena gasped. “Matthew, you can’t—not with my money!”

One of those who’d already dropped out looked across the table. “Danged if it ain’t gonna cost you to call ’im, Bill. You got that kind of hand?”

She could see her whole future on that table, and they were talking like it didn’t matter. “Listen to me, all of you! Some of that’s mine, and I didn’t give anybody leave to play a … a … stupid game with it!”

Her words fell on deaf ears. Everyone was looking expectantly at Bill, waiting to see what he did. Bill flushed as his temper flared. “Damn you, Mister Herrick! You can see I ain’t got that kind of money! If you was a gentleman, you’d at least give me table stakes!”

Matt shrugged. “But I’m not—so it’s either pay or fold.”

“This ain’t fair!” Turning to the others, Bill pleaded his case. “You see what he’s doing, don’t you? He knows I ain’t got the money, so he’s bettin’ high! It’s cheatin’ to play like that, ain’t it?”

“He don’t have to give you table stakes,” one of them countered. “Be right nice if he did, but he don’t have to.”

Muttering something about a “damned tinhorn gambler” under his breath, Bill angrily threw down his cards and lurched to his feet. As he walked away, he was still complaining he’d been cheated by the “no-count sonofabitch.”

The youngest one at the table turned over the disgruntled bettor’s hand. “Jeez, did you see that? Three of a kind—aces!”