Katie Rose (19 page)

Emily sighed with the pleasure of it. The feel of Thomas’s shirt beneath her fingers, the rough scratchiness of his beard against her skin, the erotic promise of his touch that simply begged to be fulfilled. Everything worked against her resolve not to succumb to his physical charms. The silk wrapper caressed her, inflaming her already heated skin, the brandy and wine intoxicated her, and Thomas’s kiss made her blood throb. She pulled him even closer, wanting more. Slowly he relaxed against her, and his mouth eased from hers. He embraced her tightly, tenderly, for a few long minutes. Emily never would have believed it was so pleasurable just to be held. She felt so warm, so safe, and so wanted. Then she heard something.

He was snoring.

“He’s asleep!” Emily cried out, in her dismay forgetting to be circumspect about talking to Rosie.

“Are you certain he’s out?” Rosie whispered.

Emily stood, her heart dropping in disappointment as Thomas’s head rolled to one side. He snuggled more deeply into the couch, then resumed snoring.

“Yes,” Emily pronounced. Her body ached with unfulfilled sexual promise, her blood still rang in her ears, and she was mortified that Rosie had witnessed her humiliation.

“Well! I never had a man do that in my house before!” Rosie sounded personally offended.

“Maybe this will work to our benefit,” Emily said practically.

“What do you mean?” Rosie asked, perplexed. “You don’t mean to … pick his pockets? We didn’t even do that! At least, not much.”

Emily was already unbuttoning Thomas’s coat. “I’m not going to steal anything, I’m just looking for information. I have to find out who he is.
Especially
now.”

Rosie gasped, but Emily ignored her. Thomas’s snores grew louder, and Emily was sure it would take Sherman’s army to wake him at this point. A true detective would never let such an opportunity go by. She slipped her fingers deftly into his pocket and pulled out a letter.

“Read it, sweetie,” Rosie encouraged, all her objections forgotten.

“It’s dated June fourteenth, and it’s from the Wells Fargo Company.” Emily’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
The same firm from whom that two-million-dollar payroll had been stolen. She opened the missive and scanned it quickly.

“Dear Thomas,” it read.

Emily frowned, rereading the letter, particularly the part about herself. From somewhere high above, she heard Rosie’s laugh.

“Looks like your gentleman friend was as suspicious of you as you are of him,” the bordello girl hooted. Emily only nodded slowly, lost in thought. What did Thomas have to do with Wells Fargo?

Thomas awoke with a start a few hours later. At first, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing: couples in various sexual positions cavorting in erotic
splendor. Leaping to his feet, he gradually recognized his surroundings.

He was at the bordello. Emily’s bordello. Emily herself was gone, probably to bed. The fire had long since died, and the gaslights had been turned down to a rosy gleam. Two empty glasses stood on the table beside the sofa, and he reluctantly remembered the brandy and the kiss that followed.

Surely he didn’t … couldn’t have … The wine and brandy had gone to his head, he knew that, especially after yesterday’s exertion and the shock of seeing Lizzie’s housekeeper dead. His fury returned as he recalled Emily’s stubborn refusal to listen to him, her insistence on using the bordello as a millinery shop, then her odd reversal. She’d invited him to dinner, seemed to want his friendship.…

Friendship. His body still burned and he knew it hadn’t happened. He hadn’t made love to her. Maybe it was for the best, for this situation got more complicated by the moment. He had practically declared himself her bodyguard, and now she wanted to be friends? It simply didn’t add up.

But then, Emily wasn’t like other women. He strode to the bookcase and fingered one of her hats, amazed at the elegant stitching, the beautiful feathers that crowned it, and the artistic arrangement of flowers and veiling. It was so different from her usual logical approach to everything, and so … romantic.

His fingers left the hat and wandered to the books. There were volumes on poisons, weapons, and crimes. There were legends of outlaws, train robbers, and common lawbreakers. There were detailed
accounts of Jesse James, Sam Bass, Butch Cassidy, and Billy the Kid. Every two-bit ruffian whose name had ever graced a wanted poster, and even some who hadn’t, had a place on her bookshelf.

Thomas sighed, putting on his hat and locking the door softly behind him. Despite all the danger this case had thrown at him, it was Emily who posed the greatest threat. She was artistic, self-supporting, unrealistic, nosy, terribly clever, and completely and utterly beautiful. And he had just made her a promise that would force him to be around her every single day. He didn’t think he could stand the torture.

Thomas climbed the stairs of the boardinghouse. Emily Potter had just become his responsibility. And now he was going to have to live with it.

“I’m sorry, miss, but you cannot have access to my newspapers. Run along, dear, I’m busy.”

Emily stared at the newspaper editor, unable to believe what she was hearing. This couldn’t be happening again! Yet the man squinted once more into the light and leaned over his copy as if she weren’t there. With a cup of coffee in one hand and a pencil in the other, he read over the morning paper, grunting in satisfaction.

Emily sighed. It was going to be another uphill battle. She’d left the house bright and early that morning, hoping to avoid Thomas’s interference. Even though she had pretended she would no longer investigate, she didn’t trust him to believe her. Yet it was oddly comforting to know the handsome preacher-turned-Watson was there to protect her, if she needed him.

Still, the last thing she needed was another obstinate male getting in her way. Forcing a smile, she stepped between the copies of the
Rocky Mountain News
, moving closer. A huge Hoe press took up half the room, and she practically had to climb around it to reach the tables covered with papers, gas lamps, files, and a telegraph where the newspaperman worked.

He looked up impatiently. “Look, I told you, Miss—”

“Potter,” Emily finished for him, extending a hand to introduce herself.

His keen eyes swept over her and she counted three different expressions that crossed his face. Emily knew he was reviewing the rumors about her, and correlating them with his own judgments. She didn’t fault him for it, for as a newsman, it was a necessary part of his job. Just as seeing those papers was part of hers. He ignored her outstretched hand, and Emily let it drop, leaning forward to meet his eyes.

“I only want to look through your papers,” she said evenly. “I won’t damage anything. I’m doing some research, and I need access to old copies of the paper.”

“What kind of research?” The man cocked his head at her like a sparrow.

Emily brightened. Maybe, once he understood her need, he would be more willing to help. “I am investigating my father’s death. I have copies of the Boston
Atlas
, but I thought a local paper would have a more thorough account.”

“I’m sorry, but I won’t allow that,” he said in a
paternal tone. “While I understand your curiosity, this is a matter for the sheriff. Leave it where it belongs. I have two daughters just about your age, and they, too, love to read the sensational stuff. Murders and mayhem! If you don’t mind, I’ve got a paper to put to bed. You can leave the same way you came in.”

Emily sputtered helplessly, “But I don’t understand! What objection could you possibly have to me looking at the files?”

The newsman plunked down his coffee cup and glared at her. “Miss Potter, I gave you my answer. If you continue in this manner, you will leave me no choice but to summon the sheriff myself. Now be a good girl and run along.”

His voice had changed. Now he was actually pleading. Emily glanced toward the files, her logical mind racing. Could she break in here later, and get what she needed? Her eyes went toward the window, and she began to form a plan. The editor had gotten up and was starting to walk toward her. Before he could physically throw her out, the door opened and a tall man in preacher’s garb strode inside.

“Thomas!” Emily and the newsman declared at the same time.

“Morning, Miss Potter. Mr. Tebbel. Is there a problem here? I could hear your voices in the street.”

The newspaperman’s demeanor changed immediately, while Emily stood by in stunned silence.

“No, there’s no problem, Reverend. Miss Potter wanted access to my files. I told her no. I advised her to leave investigation to the sheriff.”

“Sound advice,” Thomas agreed somberly. Emily
wanted to kill him. But a moment later, he surprised her again. “Still, I don’t think it would do any harm to let her look at a few articles. Miss Potter came all the way from Boston to claim an inheritance that was most unusual, to say the least. Her curiosity about her father and his death are natural. I think you could provide her some comfort by accommodating her request.”

The newsman didn’t look convinced. Thomas stood beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll stay with her and make sure she puts everything back in order.”

It was one thing to push Emily around. It was quite another to bully a preacher who had made it known he would do what it took to get what he wanted—in spite of his collar. The editor swallowed hard, feeling the pressure of Thomas’s hand on his shoulder. Nodding, he gestured to a wide table with more empty space than the others.

“You can look at them here. But don’t take anything home, and don’t mark them up.”

“Thank you.” Emily smiled gratefully, a smile she extended to Thomas as well. Although it bothered her to accept his help, she had to admit that he’d gotten much further with the newsman than she had. Maybe this partnership really would work. He returned her smile, and the twinkle in his eye reminded her uncomfortably of the previous night. Holding her head as high as she could, Emily reached for her case, then turned to the filing cabinets.

Mr. Tebbel was meticulous, if nothing else. Emily
could see that the files were arranged chronologically. Fingering through them until she found the date of her father’s and Rosie’s death, Emily took out the paper and laid it on the table. Oblivious to everyone around her, she scanned the articles, taking copious notes, squeaking with satisfaction when she found an item of importance, grunting when something didn’t match her theories. She didn’t stop with that issue, however, for in subsequent ones she found more details, and in previous ones, a few additional references to her father. One obscure item that seemed unrelated caught her attention, and she copied it down word for word.

Thomas watched her in amusement. He accepted a cup of coffee from the editor, and tried hard not to respond when the man made a twirling motion beside his ear, indicating that Emily wasn’t playing with a full deck. He sank down into a chair and picked up one of the papers, wondering what in God’s name she thought she was going to find. He chuckled at the sudden memory of her expression when he’d walked in. Emily had looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

Thank God Darrel had come to fetch him when he did. Thomas knew Emily was determined. He also knew that in spite of her agreement give up detecting, it would take a bit of doing to make that happen. But she was like a bloodhound on a scent. Intrigued in spite of himself, Thomas watched her dig through the papers. Research was fine, but nothing beat action. Yet as his thoughts wandered back over the last few days, he had to admit that he hadn’t made much progress on his own. China Blue was
gone or in hiding, Lizzie had disappeared, and the whereabouts of Bertie Evans, the housekeeper from Shangri-La, were still unknown.

Yet the murderer was closing in, he was sure of it. Although it went against his grain to encourage her, Thomas felt that at least her research was less dangerous than her roaming the countryside investigating. And he meant what he’d said to her last night.

He’d keep her safe, no matter what.

The noon hour arrived and the editor stopped the huge press. Piles of fresh newspapers lay in a neat bundle at his feet, and the scent of paper and ink filled the air. A pack of newspaper boys gathered outside, and as the clock struck twelve, the editor opened the door and stood to one side.

“All right, no running. Get these papers delivered. And remember, if I find a single paper in the trash or by the railroad tracks, you’re all fired. Understand?”