Gideon, Robin - Desire of the Phantom [Ecstasy in the Old West] (Siren Publishing Classic) (47 page)

The Phantom, at least, had been seen. He wore a black cape and mask to hide his identity and moved like a shadow in the night. But who was it?

Jonathon’s anger began to burn once again inside him, so he set his coffee aside. Lately, his stomach had been giving him problems, making it difficult for him to sleep
at night, causing him to avoid some of the foods he most
enjoyed.

The Midnight Phantom was making it difficult for him to enjoy his life! Jonathon Darwell just couldn’t imagine what he’d done to be treated so badly, so unjustly. To
put everything in his life back on course, he had to crush
the Phantom.

But how?

He belched softly, and this time the burning sensation
went all the way up to his throat. Jonathon Darwell grimaced
in pain.

Again he determined that, when he caught the Phantom,
he’d carry out the only punishment equal to what the Phantom
was doing to him—castration.

* * * *

Angie wiped her hands on the skirt of her dress. She just
couldn’t seem to keep her palms from feeling slick and sweaty.

Squinting against the sunlight, she scanned the horizon
again and still couldn’t see a rider. Then she looked to the south,
where the scrub trees were thick. No one.

Richard would come to her, wouldn’t he? What if he’d
finally grown so tired of her excuses and lies that he sim
ply no longer believed she would ever make him “happier
than a cat licking cream” as she’d promised?

Stop thinking that way,
Angie thought irritably.
He’ll
come. He’s a sick bastard, so he’ll come.

But her fears persisted. She knew she had been pushing
Richard for a long time, taunting him,
hinting at improprieties. But she couldn’t help telling him
how repellent she found him, calling him an overweight pig of a man, dim-witted and gluttonous.

Even Richard couldn’t be pushed forever, Angie reasoned.

Pulling a white hanky from the small purse hanging from the cord encircling her left wrist, she
dabbed her
forehead and temples once more.
God, but it’s
hellishly hot,
she thought. She imagined herself at home
on the veranda, being fanned by one of the servants, drink
ing cool lemonade, or maybe even a mint julep.

Angie closed her eyes and, for a few moments, thought only of all the terrible, nasty things Richard had said to her over the years. She thought about all the times he’d “accidentally” opened her bedroom door while she was
undressing, “accidentally” walked in on her when she was
in the bathing chamber.

When she opened her eyes, she was smiling once again,
and feeling confident. She hated Richard all over again, and this hate could not allow her to fail. He was a fat, evil man, stupid and vain, and he could not outwit her in a thousand years.

Suddenly, Richard approached on horseback. She consid
ered waving to her brother, indicating she was happy he’d
come out to be with her, but then she stopped
herself. It would be too great a departure from her normal
behavior to be thrilled to see Richard, and if ever she needed
to appear as normal as possible, now was the time.

He tapped his heels to the horse’s ribs, hurrying the last
three hundred yards to her. When he reached Angie, she saw that his shirt was sticking to him, and perspiration was running in little rivers down his neck and temples.

“You just had to pick a place way the hell out here, didn’t
you?” he said irritably as he got down from his horse.

Richard’s annoyed tone hid his surprise that Angie was actually waiting for him. He hadn’t really thought she’d follow through with the plan to meet privately, even though the plan was hers. A dozen times he had told
himself that she was just toying with him one more time.
He guessed if he saddled up and rode all the way out to
the deserted Barlington Mine #4, he’d only end up wasting
his time. And when he finally rode back home, he’d find her waiting, cool and poised, laughing softly to herself because she’d have put one more thing over on him.

But now Angie smiled softly, maintaining a ten-foot sepa
ration between them. “Well, we could hardly conclude our deal at home, and I certainly wasn’t going to take a
hotel room in Whitetail Creek, where every majordomo and door
man knows us.”

Richard reached for her, but she skipped out of the way.
“Now wait a minute, I want to get something straight first.”

He grinned obscenely. “So do I. That’s why I’m here.”
He pulled loose his necktie and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Wait, don’t you want to talk first?”

“I’ve talked to you my whole life.”

For an instant, Angie’s mind went blank. She had planned this afternoon’s events, but once again, she was discovering that in real life unexpected things had a way of happening.

“Don’t do that,” she said with a tight voice.

Richard, his eyes dark and menacing, stopped unbutton
ing his shirt. Way out here, too far for anyone to hear his
sister’s screams, he intended to collect on her debt to him—one way or another.

“Why not?” He shifted a little to his right, blocking any attempt Angie might make to rush for her horse.

She smiled with more confidence. Her plan might come
together after all. She’d always prided herself on her abil
ity to devise appropriate plans spontaneously. “How
would you like
me
to do that?” Angie asked, feigning em
barrassed shock at her own boldness.

Richard chuckled. “I would,” he said, grinning, his eyes
roaming over Angie. “I’d take that like I’d take a royal flush.”

Angie made a motion with her hands. “Button your shirt
again then wait your turn.”

“Wait my turn?” Richard snapped, preparing himself for
another deception.

Angie crossed her arms under her bosom and looked at her brother sternly. “I’ve been planning this for a long time. If you follow my plan, you’re in for the time of your life, I promise.”

For a few seconds, Richard regarded her, analyzing her intentions, remembering how many times she’d lied to him. Finally, with a wary expression, he rebuttoned his shirt.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Angie began unfastening the
buttons of her blouse. For a moment she thought Richard’s
eyes would bulge right out of their sockets, and she man
aged a modest blush.

When he took a step closer, she stepped back quickly. “I’m not ready yet!” she said sharply. “And I don’t like you looking at me that way. It’s so…so…”

“Vulgar?” Richard volunteered.

“Exactly!”

“What do you expect? I’m a vulgar man.”

He reached for Angie, and once again, she danced away.
Her blouse was open enough to show her chemise beneath,
and though she’d regularly shown more than that at home,
it now wasn’t enough to pacify Richard.

“Turn your back,” Angie said, adopting her most spoiled,
petulant tone. “I don’t want you watching.”

“What difference does it make?” Richard said, nearly bellowing. “I’m going to see it all soon enough anyway.”

“It makes a difference to me,” Angie explained. “Now
do as I say or we can call this whole thing off right here
and now.”

Richard grinned then. If Angie thought she could stop
him now, she had another thing coming. Just the same, it would be better if she went along willingly so that he
wouldn’t have to resort to violence.

Grinning crookedly, he turned his back on his sister.
“Hurry up,” he said. “I don’t want to wait forever.”

She moved closer to him, reaching into the purse hang
ing from her left wrist. “Trust me, this will be over before
you know it.”

The derringer was in her hand a moment later, pointed
straight at Richard’s back. He must have heard the metallic
sound of the hammer being thumbed back, but Angie did
not hesitate to pull the trigger.

Richard was dead before his body landed facedown in
the dirt, a single bullet through his heart. The fine wool of his jacket was singed with gunpowder.

For a moment, Angie stood over the corpse. What did
she feel now that she had murdered her brother? She thought it odd that she felt almost nothing at all
. Though she’d always loathed Richard, his
presence in the mansion had meant she had a fat pig to
insult and belittle. She’d always felt superior to him. Now
she wouldn’t have Richard to berate anymore, but other
than this minor loss, this sense of inconvenience, she felt
nothing at all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The ride back to the ranch had been slow in order to cater to Garrett’s broken ribs, but it had buoyed his spirits
to be in the saddle. Once home, he heard the ranch
hands declare themselves eager to take on whoever it
was that had attacked him—and they didn’t care if the fight required fists, guns, or knives. To a man, they reported vigilance for strangers and attention to any ru
mors as to who the cowards were who had attacked their
boss.

Later, dressed in freshly laundered clothes and sipping
a cup of Gretchen’s herbal tea, famous for soothing aches
and pains—an old German recipe, she said, handed down
from her sainted grandmother—Garrett reclined on the
sofa. He was feeling a strange sense of unease, though he
couldn’t say why.

“How are the ribs?” Paul asked from a rocking chair,
eyeing his brother with the wary concern of a protective
older brother.

He’d always been proud of and fiercely loyal to Garrett.
This cowardly assault—three against one, from ambush,
at night—had to be avenged, and Paul would not rest until
the attackers were brought to justice. As a believer in
God, he wanted nothing less than Christian justice, an eye for an eye. Forgiveness was God’s business, not his.

“Itching, mostly. What really bothers me is the cut over
my eye.” Garrett touched the thin scar over
his left eyebrow. “Hard on the vanity, you know,” he added
with a self-deprecating grin.

Paul chuckled, though he really saw no humor in the situation. As far as he was concerned, this had been an
attack on the Randolph family, not just one member of it.
Garrett spoke of putting his assailants behind bars, but Paul
preferred a more private justice, where one thug at a time
would experience punishment both swift and sure.

“You’re getting too old to be the darling pretty boy
anyway,” Paul said. “Now how about explaining what
you’ve got going with Pamela. She doesn’t exactly strike me
as your type.”

“What’s that mean?”

Paul smiled at his brother’s readiness to defend Pamela.

“In the past, you always apologized for the women you romanced. Now you’re defending one.
That’s a nice change. What does she mean to you?”

Garrett stretched out a little more on the sofa, staring now at the library ceiling. “The damned truth of it is I
really don’t know. Sometimes I can’t think of living with
out her. Other times I know the only way we’ll ever get
along is if I live according to
her
rules,
her
standards. I
don’t think she can change enough to fit in here.”

Any notion that Garrett might marry and move away
from Randolph Ranch was not even a possibility. Both
Paul and Garrett had known from earliest childhood that
they were destined to live at Randolph Ranch until
becoming territorial governor forced Garrett to change resi
dences.

Paul recalled the few conversations he’d had with Pamela. She’d spoken like a man, he thought then, declaring what
she would do rather than deferring to a man’s judgment. He liked that about her, but he imagined she might be dif
ficult to live with.

Then there was Garrett’s political career to consider.
Pamela’s brusque forcefulness, her Levi’s, and the Colt at her
hip put her so far outside Whitetail Creek’s high society that the wealthi
est of the city would surely mount a campaign against
Garrett if she were at his side.

“Does she make you happy?” Paul asked.

“Enormously. Why do you think I wanted to stay at her
home rather than come here to recuperate?”

“Lots of women have made you happy, Garrett. She’s
not the first.”

“She’s the first one who makes me happy outside of bed. With the others, I did all the things I was supposed
to do. I danced with them, lavished them with flowers and
gifts, but I did that because it was expected of me. You’ve had
your share of lovers and know how it goes.”

“Yes, I know what you’re talking about. But continue.
There’s something more you want to say.”

“Oh? Hmmm. Yes, I think there is.” Garrett closed his
eyes. “What I mean
is, yes, what we have when the candles are blown out is
indescribable, but what we have the rest of the time—be
tween two people, a man and a woman—that’s wonderful,
too. I really like the time I spend with her.”

“Like it
or love it?” Paul asked. The difference was
enormous. “If you like it, then she’s your friend and a woman you are having a very enjoyable affair with. But
if you
love
the time with her when you’re not making
love, then you’re in love with her, little brother. And
you’d better ask yourself whether you can afford to be in love with a woman like Pamela Bragg.” Paul paused for a
moment to choose his words carefully, knowing the dangerous ground he was treading. “You’ve made a lot of
plans, set some very high goals for yourself and for the
family name. Whether you like it or not, a time may come
when you’ll have to choose between Pamela and all the pro
jects you put into motion prior to meeting her.”

Garrett rose gingerly from the sofa. “Damn,” he whis
pered.

* * * *

“Now mind you, I’m not one to speak ill of anyone,”
Angie said to Deputy Dylan McKenzie as she dabbed her
neck with a hanky, “but she was riding as though the devil
himself was chasing her.” Sniffing in disgust, Angie looked
around the sheriff’s office, wondering how on earth any
one could willingly spend even a minute there. Not only was the deputy a model of the hygienically neglected law
man, but to make matters even worse, there was a drunk
in one of the jail cells. The sound of his snoring was se
riously getting on Angie’s nerves.

“But you didn’t say what she’d done,” the deputy said. He was glad the sheriff wasn’t around because that gave
him a chance to speak with Angie Darwell, a woman who
normally wouldn’t have looked twice at him.

“Well, I don’t exactly know what she’s done, Deputy
Dylan. That’s why I’m here talking with you now. I saw Pamela Bragg riding away from our old mine like she had
the hangman chasing her, and it seems to me, if you were
the good deputy I think you are, you’d do a little investigating on your own to see what she was riding so fast
from.
”

Angie looked away, wishing to God it wouldn’t con
tinue to be necessary for her to have to deal with mental
inferiors. It galled her to explain to Dylan every move he
was supposed to make.

“But you didn’t see or hear nothin’ else? Can’t say I relish the thought of riding out in this heat on something as flimsy as a hunch.”

“You know the kind of blood she’s got running through
her veins.” Angie heard the anger rising in her tone.
“Her brother is Jedediah Bragg, the murdering bounty
hunter. Nobody really knows how many men he’s killed.
What makes you think his sister is any different than he
is?”

Dylan nodded slowly, wondering if the stories
of Angie Darwell’s promiscuity were true, and if they were,
whether they might extend to the deputy sheriff of Whitetail Creek
.

“I see what you mean,” he said, though there wasn’t much surety in his tone
.

Angie rose and finally offered the unwashed lawman a genuine smile. “I thought you would,” she said, then left
the smelly sheriff’s office, promising herself she
wouldn’t ever step foot in there again, even if her life
depended upon it.

Angie made three more stops before heading back home.
She went to see Paula Nearing, who charged a small for
tune for her services but simply did wonders for a
woman’s hair. At Paula’s salon, Angie reported to all the
women there that she’d been out for her morning ride—
she claimed, to the surprise of customers who’d never seen
her out before noon, that she had been taking morning
rides for months now—when she’d spotted Pamela Bragg
“riding like she had the good Lord’s wrath upon her.”

“She’s such a strange woman,” Angie said, keeping
her voice down just enough so that the salon clientele
leaned close to hear her. “You never know what she’s capable of. Her brother’s that bounty hunter that kills every
body.”

Angie’s next stop was at the seamstress’s shop, where
more rumors concerning Pamela Bragg’s “erratic, disturbing
behavior” were spread, blossomed, then took on a life
of their own.

Finally, Angie stopped at the Sundowner Hotel, where fashionable young women could sit on the north veranda out of the sun and enjoy cool drinks while their husbands
or beaus drank beer and whiskey in the hotel’s saloon.
Once again, her tale of seeing Pamela Bragg in the vicinity
of the old Darwell mine was served up for consumption. She simply couldn’t understand why the good people of Whitetail Creek
didn’t do something about women like Pamela Bragg. It was disgraceful, Angie insisted, verifying the reactions of
her listeners.

As Angie left the veranda, confident that tongues would
continue wagging about Pamela Bragg, she felt comfort,
marrow-deep, knowing that she, in one afternoon, had dis
posed of two of the most troubling people in her life.

* * * *

Deputy Dylan McKenzie hurried to ride into Whitetail Creek
before sundown. He wanted the townspeople to see him,
the corpse of Richard Darwell thrown over the saddle of the
trail horse he was leading.

He hoped his discovery of this corpse out in the prairie
would make him a hero. It couldn’t hurt his reputation
any. Generally he was considered lazy by the citizens of
Whitetail Creek.

As he rode down Main Street, he worried that Jonathon
Darwell would somehow find him responsible for his son’s d
eath. After all, a deputy was supposed to prevent crimes from occurring, particularly murder, especially the murder of a prominent citizen.