Beauty and the Bounty Hunter (25 page)

Movement behind her, she nearly whirled and shot; then she caught the scent of cool spring rain. She hadn’t kneed Alexi hard enough if he was already walking without a limp and speaking above a croak.

“
Durochka,
” he murmured. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“Stay dead.” Then she could have sworn she heard him murmur, “For me.”

But she’d already snapped, “You or her?” punctuating the words with a sharp poke of the barrel into the small of her captive’s back. “Say it!”

“Y-y—”

Alexi sighed. Cat slammed her elbow into his gut, ignoring the puff of his breath past her cheek as she closed her eyes. Her captive blurted, “You or her?”

Hell.
Cat’s eyes flew open.
Not him.

“How could it be him?” Alexi asked, recovering with typical aggravating ease from anything she did to him. “He thinks you are dead. Everyone does. Or at least they
did.
”

That
had
been foolish. But his voice—

She’d heard it before.

Cat spun the fellow around. No wonder he’d sounded familiar. It was the liveryman, which explained why no one had been in the barn when she’d checked on the horses. He’d been following her. But why? As Alexi had mentioned, she was dead. And in this disguise, before she’d opened her big mouth, he could not have known she wasn’t Joe Enderly.

“What are you doing here?” Alexi demanded.

The man swallowed, glancing back and forth between Alexi and Cat, his gaze flicking to the barrel of the gun before settling on Alexi. “You ain’t gonna shoot me, are ye?”

“Doubtful,” Alexi murmured, and Cat cast him an exasperated glare.

“
He
isn’t the one holding the gun,” Cat pointed out. “Answer.” She waggled the weapon. “Now.”

“I was gonna rob the monk,” he blurted. “People were givin’ him all that money.”

And here she’d thought the man had been staring at Alexi because he was so pious.

“You weren’t following the monk,” Alexi said.

The guy glanced in his direction, then frowned as if he’d remembered something. Cat stifled a curse. She’d told Alexi he was too damn pretty to wear that robe. People would remember.

“You know, you look kinda—”

“Never mind that.” Cat stuck the gun in his face. His eyes crossed. Amazing how the endless black of that opening where the bullet came out mesmerized folks. “Why were you following me?”

“The monk went in before I could catch ’im. Then you come out, and I remembered that gold coin you give me.”

“You gave him a gold coin?”

Cat shrugged. She hadn’t been paying attention. She’d been watching Alexi work.

“I figgered there were more where that came from,” the fellow said. “As you had only one arm, couldn’t be that hard to take it.”

“You were going to rob a man of God,” Cat said. “But when you couldn’t find him, you decided to steal from a one-armed war veteran.”

“Yeah.” He lifted his chin. “So?”

Cat glanced at Alexi. “Yet you don’t want to shoot him?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to, just that I wouldn’t.”

The liveryman smirked.

“I wouldn’t be grinning if I were you.” Cat said. “Not only do I
want
to shoot you. I will.”

The smile faded.

“Now, now,” Alexi murmured. “No need for that.”

Until she’d asked the question, she could have let the fool go. But she had and now she couldn’t afford for him to tell everyone that Cat O’Banyon was alive and well and very close to Denver City.

“There’s every need,” she began.

“No. I believe he is sorry he tried to rob a
one-armed war veteran.
” Alexi emphasized the last words as he stared into her face with brows lifted. “Isn’t that right, friend?”

“Uh…yeah. Sure. Weren’t good of me. Him havin’ fought in the war and been wounded. Nope. Not good of me at all.”

It still took her several seconds to understand that not everyone in every town in the country knew of Cat O’Banyon and her bizarre habit of making men repeat after her. This guy obviously hadn’t. He still thought she was a crippled man, and therefore…

He got to live.

“How about we let bygones be bygones,” Alexi continued. “You, sir, may go back to your livery. If we see you again before either of us arrives to collect our mounts, you are dead. Fair enough?”

The man was nodding his agreement and backing away before Alexi finished his sentence. He paused next to his discarded weapon.

“Leave the gun,” Alexi said.

When the guy did, hurrying into the dark without another glance, Cat holstered hers.

Alexi’s gaze flicked to Cat. “You need to stop asking that question.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Try.”

Still unnerved by what had just happened, and disturbed by her own admission, Cat fired back, “Can you stop? Even when you’re wearing a monk’s robe, you’re taking things that aren’t yours.”

“I take nothing that isn’t offered freely.”

“You took payment for doing things you aren’t qualified to do.”

“I don’t plan on doing them.”

She fisted her hands, shoved them against her temples, and fought not to shriek in frustration. “How can you not see that it’s wrong?”

He stepped in close, crowding her. “How can you not see that it’s death?”

She dropped her hands but refused to move back. “I’m not dead.”

“You keep saying that. Then you turn around and just beg to be killed.”

“I never beg.”

His eyes flared; she thought he might shake her. Then those eyes shifted, and he cursed, pushing her to the
ground, following her down, pinning her there as a gun fired and a bullet whooshed over their heads.

Her right arm was pinned, the left tied beneath the shirt, as useless as she had pretended it to be. Footsteps approached. Cat shoved at Alexi. For an instant he didn’t move, and she feared he’d been hit. Then, with a speed that impressed even her, he pulled a Colt from her holster and fired. The sound of a body collapsing to the ground echoed as loudly as the report of the gun.

Alexi stood. In the moonlight, his face shone gray. He dropped the weapon; it landed next to her with a thump. She reached for it with a hand that did not look at all like hers.

“I did warn him,” Alexi murmured.

Then he turned his head to the side and threw up.

T
he shakes followed; they always did. Alexi could barely stay on his feet.

“What is wrong with you?” Cat asked. But she kept him standing, and she got him out of there.

He should have considered that the man had another gun. Didn’t everyone?

Two gunshots near midnight. It was only a matter of minutes until someone in authority arrived. Certainly the fellow had deserved shooting. However, the explanation would take time, involve a bit of lying and Alexi Romanov—King of All Liars—just wasn’t capable of it right now. Besides, the longer anyone stared at Cat, and the better the lighting, the less she would appear like a man. In truth, how anyone could see anything but her beauty shining through was beyond Alexi’s understanding.

Voices from the end of the street. Cat cursed and hauled him toward the fissure between the buildings, thrust him in, followed. There was barely enough room to slide along sideways. If either one of them had been any larger, they’d have gotten stuck. As it was, Cat continued to shove him along none too gently.

He’d scared her. Hell, he’d scared himself.

Alexi fought not to vomit again, covering his mouth to muffle the sound of gagging.

Cat pinched his arm. “Do
not,
” she ordered, as if her will alone could stop him. The only thing that did was the fact that he’d already left the entire contents of his stomach next to the body.

They reached the other end, and she grabbed his hand before he tumbled into the open. Hers was warm and dry in contrast to the chilly dampness of his.

“Look first!” she snapped. “What is
wrong
with you?”

More than he could ever say.

Alexi peeked out. Everyone on the street at this time of night—and there were quite a few; gunfire often had that effect—were either hurrying toward the commotion or peering in that direction. He and Cat were able to slip out and blend in.

Cat threw her arm around his shoulders, nearly knocking him down before she pulled him close, weaving along with him as she began to sing—voice deep and slurred.

“Buffalo gals, you comin’ out tonight, comin’ out tonight, comin’ out tonight?” She stumbled, almost taking them both down. Then she belched, loud and long and luscious. Anyone in their vicinity moved out of it. “Buffalo gals, comin’ out tonight? To dance by the li-i-i-ight of the mo-o-o-o-n.”

Her off-key rendition got them to the door of the hotel. No one stood behind the desk. The clerk had no doubt gone to see who had been shooting.

“Hurry up, before someone comes back.” Cat pushed Alexi toward the steps. He fell onto them, lay there shivering and sweating and trying not to feel the kick of the rifle, the smell of the blood, and the sound of the screams.

“No,” he muttered. “That was then. Not now.” He hadn’t used a rifle.

This time.

“Alexi!” Cat shook him until he opened his eyes. Hers were so…What? Concerned? Scared? Furious? Maybe all three. He managed to drag himself to the second floor and into his room.

“We need to go.”

“Too…” Alexi reached up and swiped at the tickle on his cheek. His fingers came away wet. He peered at them and for an instant saw blood. But when he blinked, it was gone and he was left staring at sweat.

“Too what?”

He lifted his gaze. He couldn’t remember what he’d said. He couldn’t remember what she had.

Cat picked up his duffel. “We’ll head out while everyone is—”

“Obvious,” he blurted. “Too obvious to run away now.”

“I didn’t plan on running. More like sneaking. You know, the way we usually leave town?”

He shook his head and the room spun.

“I’ll get Mikhail.”

Alexi retched.

He’s going to die.

“No,” was all he managed, before he fell onto the bed and back into the war.

Captured south of Richmond, Fedya and his scout didn’t have far to travel to Castle Thunder Prison. Once there, they were tossed into Palmer’s Factory.

Originally, the place had housed Union deserters, and a disgusting lot they were—rough, violent, with no sense of morals or loyalty. By the time Fedya arrived, Palmer’s also housed prisoners of war like himself and his companion. Within a day, he discovered it was also home to at least one spy.

Dr. Ethan Walsh.

His scout disappeared soon after they were incarcerated. As the man could easily take care of himself, Fedya didn’t worry about him. By the end of the first day, he was a bit worried about himself.

Certainly, a lifetime with his
otets
had taught Fedya not only how to fight but how to fight dirty. Unfortunately, the people he had to worry most about were not the other inmates but the guards. They had guns; he did not. At least not right away.

“Hey, killer.”

Fedya hadn’t glanced up at the taunt. He didn’t think of himself as a killer. He was a soldier. He’d done his job, done it well. Which turned out to be the problem.

Someone punched him in the shoulder. Fedya, used to such sneak attacks from his father, merely turned. He was glad he had not started swinging his fists when he saw the guns pointed at his chest, held by sneering guards whose eyes plainly said, “Go ahead. Fight us. Please.”

“Hear you’re quite the sniper.” The closest man, as wide as he was tall, which wasn’t very, had a squashed nose that Fedya really wanted to squash some more and protruding black eyes. He prodded Fedya in the stomach with the barrel of his Richmond rifle.

Fedya didn’t answer. What could he say?
Yes, I’ve killed dozens of your brethren. Shoot me now.

Later, he wished that he had.

“You must be the best if they sent you to kill the president and General Lee. We’re gonna make you pay for that, boy. Pay long.”

They hit the back of his head with a rifle. When he went to his knees, they kicked him. The other inmates did not come to his aid. Instead, they shouted encouragement and placed bets on how long until he lost consciousness. Or died.

A scuffle. Grunts. The kicking stopped. So did the jeers.

Fedya lifted his head. His scout, and another fellow he’d never seen before—much smaller, but then who wasn’t?—stood between him and everyone else.

“I have enough folks in my infirmary,” the stranger said. “I don’t need another.”

Fedya’s scout growled, then glowered, and even though the guards had guns, they backed off and went away.

But they never forgot that first day; they didn’t forgive, and they made certain all three of the men involved were forever sorry for it.

Cat watched as Alexi shivered and sweated and moaned. Every once in a while he stiffened, and she feared he’d have a fit, stop breathing. Or worse.

She didn’t know what to do. She contemplated fetching Mikhail, but Alexi didn’t want that. Then again, perhaps he’d been saying
no
to something within his nightmare and not to her mention of Mikhail.

His eyelids twitched; his mouth tightened; his fingers clutched at the sheets. He was definitely having one helluva bad dream. Cat should know.

“No!” Alexi shouted again.

Cat slapped her hand over his mouth. She didn’t need the law knocking on the door. If anyone saw Alexi in this state, they would think him mad. But she figured the sheriff, and any deputies he might have, were occupied with a dead body. Still, shouting would bring someone eventually, along with attention they did not need.

She lifted her hand from his mouth. When he didn’t shout again, she set it on his brow. He was drenched in sweat. Which gave her something to do.

She released her bound arm, then shoved a chair beneath the doorknob. Apparently the town of Jepsum
did not believe in locks, or perhaps could not afford them. After undressing Alexi, she bathed him with the water from the basin. Tepid. Nevertheless, it was cooler than he was.