Lawman (4 page)

But Megan knew she couldn't put them off
with excuses for long.

"Three days isn't much time," Addie said,
coming to stand beside the bed. "What if you can't find your papa
by then? You're hardly familiar with town, and—"

"I can do it."

She
had
to do it. She'd dreamed of
her dressmaker's shop for so long now, dreamed of something her
very own to feel proud of. Something secure to keep her safe. She
couldn't give up when it was almost within reach.

Addie's gentle hand touched her shoulder.
"Sheer grit might not be enough."

"I don't see why not."

With a sigh, Addie smoothed the brown
worsted shoulder seam it had taken Megan a week straight to sew
correctly. The shaping technique had been new and difficult to
master, but in the end she'd done it.

Determination had worked then. It would work
again.

"Maybe you should've told Joseph the truth,
Megan," Addie went on. "Told him your plans for your shop. Maybe
none of this would've happened at all."

"And maybe it would've happened even
sooner." Megan shook her head and picked up her wide-brimmed
traveling hat, then carried it to the looking glass. "I've got to
do this on my own."

"It ain't like you're alone." In the glass,
Addie's reflection twisted her apron hem. "We all would help ya' if
we could."

Pausing with her hat on but untied, Megan
met Addie's gaze. Her fingers trembled on the wide grosgrain
ribbons in her hands, making them flutter against her dress. "I
know you would," she said quietly. "And I love you for it,
Addie."

She turned, ribbons whirling past her
shoulders. "I just plain love you for no reason at all," she said,
catching Addie's spare, strong shoulders and pulling her close for
a hug.

With no mother she could remember well, and
a father more often afield than underfoot, she didn't know what she
would've done without Addie nearby. Sniffling, Megan kept her
forehead buried against Addie's familiar, crisp apron for a moment
longer, then squeezed once more and stepped away.

"But I'm still heading to Tucson to bring
papa back—and my nest egg money—and this time I won't take no for
an answer."

She tied her hat ribbons beneath her chin
and scrutinized the effect in the mirror, comparing it with the
illustration she'd seen in the latest
Godey's
from Fort
Lowell. For an ordinary straw bonnet, it looked right fine with the
embellishments she'd added. The thought that she looked nice gave
her the extra courage she needed to face the highbrow ladies in
town—and their wagging gossips' tongues.

She pulled on her mother's old linen
gloves—the only pair she'd ever owned—and turned to face Addie.
"Well? How do I look?"

"Like you outta take Mose along with you for
protection," Addie answered sourly, crossing her arms again. "Them
ruffians in town will take one look at you and toss you over their
shoulders for Maiden Lane."

What a thrilling notion! "Do you really
think so?" Megan asked, pirouetting in front of the looking glass.
Her bustle swayed behind her with just the right amount of swoosh
to be stylish, but....

"Megan! Ravishment is nothing to look
forward to!"

She examined the embroidery at the wrists of
her gloves and tried to look contrite. "Only if it's not done
properly," she couldn't resist saying. "Why, in the French novel I
read last week—"

"That's it." Addie picked up both satchels
from the floor. "You're not venturing an inch from this station
with notions like that in your head."

"Yes, I am." Megan grabbed a satchel and
tugged. It didn't budge.

"No, ma'am." Addie tugged back. "And no more
French novels, neither."

She tried a smile. "If you let me go, I'll
bring you back some of those fine Mexican vanilla beans from the
marketplace."

Addie's grasp loosened.

"You haven't had any of those since that
last drummer came through, remember?"

Addie's gaze softened. "The one with that
fine tinware," she murmured, clearly remembering. Nothing was
dearer to Addie's heart than her cooking and baking.

"And a fresh cone of sugar," Megan said to
sweeten the deal.

"Cinnamon?"

"Yes, that too." With a friendly pat, she
slipped the satchel handle from Addie's left hand, then her right.
Helpfully, she steered her toward the door. "Vanilla, sugar, and
cinnamon. Just think of all you could make with that."

Halfway into the short hall leading to the
stage station office, Addie's vision cleared. She gave Megan a
sharp look, but her accompanying smile was kind. "You're a wily
one," she said, shaking her finger. "You'd better take care,
though. That fancy talk won't always work on folks."

"Of course not," Megan replied with a demure
shrug of her shoulders. "Some people just can't be persuaded."

But about ninety-nine percent of them could,
she figured—and those odds were favorable enough to suit her
fine.

"If Joseph Kearney isn't here," Gabriel said
tightly, "then someone else must be—someone who knows where he's
gone."

Gripping his horse's reins in his fist, he
scrutinized the yard of Kearney Station again before returning his
gaze to the station hand who'd greeted him.

If a grunt could be called a greeting.

"'Spect so," the man said.

Tall, blond, and well-muscled as the dappled
gray chomping at the bit beside him, the man put Gabriel in mind of
a Swedish boxer he'd once seen in the ring in Chicago. If his
taciturn responses were anything to go by, he, too, had been bashed
in the head one too many times.

"When's Mr. Kearney expected back?"

The station hand muttered something
unintelligible.

"Has he been gone long?"

"Can't rightly say."

Clearly, he was going to be here for a
while. Swearing beneath his breath, Gabriel tried to force some
patience into his voice. "Who
can
say?"

The man's eyebrows pulled together like
caterpillars sneaking over the same Palo Verde branch. "What'd you
say yer name was?"

"I didn't."

Gabriel led his horse to the hitching post
and got the mare settled in for a long haul. When he finished, the
big Swede was still standing where he'd left him.

Maybe he hadn't noticed things had changed
yet.

"I need to see the man in charge," Gabriel
told him. He inclined his head toward the rough adobe station
building, trying not to smile anew at the pink blossoms painted
over the doorway. "He in there?"

"No."

He tipped his chin toward the stables. "In
there?"

"No."

He gazed over the horizon, past acres of
rocky soil, creosote bushes, and prickly pear. "Out there?"

"No."

"Hmmm." Gabriel passed his hand over his
face, wishing he could scrub away the weariness that had trailed
him since crossing the Territory line. "Thanks for your help."

He turned and headed for the stage station
office. Before he could take four steps, the hand lumbered into his
path. The movement was a veritable flash of speed for an ox of a
man like that.

And because of it, Gabriel knew he'd guessed
correctly.

Joseph Kearney might be away from the
station—or he might just want folks to think he was—but
something
important was in that office. Gabriel meant to
find out what it was.

"Folks ain't allowed in there," the hand
said.

Tipping back his hat brim, Gabriel took a
leisurely look at the man. "Is that right?"

"Yeah."

"Why's that?"

He appeared to think on it. He got all the
way to befuddled before scratching his head and giving up. "They
just ain't."

Gabriel pulled back his coat, exposing the
badge pinned to his vest. "Pinkerton men are."

Behind the man, Gabriel saw someone open the
stage station door. A female-shaped figure stepped into the
doorway, holding up one delicate, gloved hand to tip her hat brim
toward the harsh sunlight. And all at once, Gabriel understood who
the big man had been trying to protect.

"Get better excuses," he advised the station
hand. "Or get out of the way."

Then he stepped forward to meet the woman
who was about to provide his first case-solving clues.

No sooner had Megan's vision adjusted to the
glare of the September sunlight than a stranger stepped from Mose's
shadow and came toward her.

A drummer
, she thought instantly,
assessing his expensive navy suit, flashy vest, four-in-hand
necktie, and shirt through expert eyes. He looked like a fashion
picture in
Godey's
, and she expected he talked like a book,
too.

Something in common
, some traitorous
part of her whispered.

She banished the thought instantly as he
left Mose behind and approached the station office. She hadn't time
for girlish notions of flirting with a passing peddler—however
handsomely turned out he might happen to be.

He stepped closer, extending his hand in
greeting. He was big, nearly as big as Mose, and good-looking, too.
Beneath his hat brim, his dark-shadowed face was lit with the white
slash of his smile. With it, he looked every inch the sharper, a
man who could likely sell steaks to a rancher, and charge him for
the butchering, besides.

But despite the apparent friendliness of
that smile, Megan felt a sudden urge to run. To grab the horse from
Mose's hands and ride until the sunset swallowed her up.

Surely such a notion was unfounded. And the
last thing she'd ever be called was a coward. Rather than run, she
dug her toes into the chilly packed station yard dirt and stood her
ground. With luck, she'd appear more composed than she felt.

He drew closer, hand still outstretched,
speaking words of greeting. They flew straight past her head,
chased by the lyrical huskiness of his voice. The unusual sound of
it turned his words to honey, better savored than fully
considered.

Lulled by the sound, she automatically
slipped her hand into his to accept his handshake. The feel of his
strong, warm fingers closing over hers sent unexpected shivers
coursing through her and, as instantly, she regretted not running
while she still had the chance.

"You must be Miss Kearney." He widened that
remarkable smile. "I'm here to see your father, but I'd rather do
business with a pretty woman any day."

Her shivery feelings vanished.
No, he
didn't talk like a book
, Megan amended. He talked like a
flannel-mouthed Irishman out to sell her the land beneath her feet
and the sky that arched over it. Only a fool would buy into the
same worthless deal twice.

She'd never considered herself a fool.

"You'll find those kind of businesswomen in
town," she said coolly, withdrawing her hand from his. "It's only a
few hours' ride." Nodding helpfully toward Tucson, she added, "Out
here, a man could get strung up for making such a suggestion to a
lady."

"My apologies," the stranger said, touching
a finger to his flat-brimmed hat. "I meant no offense."

"None taken."

Most men couldn't help the way they were
anyway, she figured. Near as she could tell, the majority of males
walked around with blinders on, thinking of nothing beyond the next
drink, the next card game, the next gunfight...or the next woman to
be taken advantage of.

If she could help it, that woman would never
be her.

He lowered his hand to the gun belt strapped
beneath his fancy coat. Thoughtfully, the stranger tipped up his
head and took in the station office behind her, the hands working
in the yard, and her new dress with equal parts interest and
appraisal, like her father did when sizing up potential gaming
opponents. Then, with a rapt expression, he reached past her
shoulder and smoothed his fingers over the pink roses she'd painted
along the doorframe.

"These are beautiful." He stroked them once
more, as if savoring the feel of them beneath his hand. His gaze,
startlingly blue in a rather rawboned face, shifted to her. "Are
you the artist?"

No one had ever admired her flowers. Mostly,
folks thought painting them was a waste of time. But this man
obviously did not agree. On the contrary, he stroked the painted
flowers as though they were nigh irresistible—and stood so near
that the warmth of his forearm teased her jaw, even through his
fine wool suit.

Megan found herself inhaling the scents of
tangy crushed creosote blossoms, leather, and rich tobacco that
clung to his clothes...and telling herself that surely the
breathlessness she felt owed more to her too-tight stays than any
stranger's compliments.

Until she realized his expression remained
intent on hers, waiting for her reply. Then there was no denying
her reaction was because of him. To her knowledge, the corset had
yet to be designed that could make her heart pound and her stomach
lurch with excitement.

"Yes, I am. How did you—"

Mose's approach cut off the rest of her
words. He shoved his huge body between her and the stranger, fixing
him with a poisonous look. "I'm powerful sorry, Miss Megan, but
this here man's a—"

"—about to leave, I'd say." Shaking her head
in amazement, Megan looked from Mose to the stranger. Good heavens!
He'd changed tactics so smoothly she hadn't even realized it. He'd
recognized the error of his careless compliment, and tried another
approach immediately.

Aside from herself, she'd never met anyone
who'd have tried such a thing.

Whoever he was, she'd clearly underestimated
him.

She looked up at him. "I'm sorry, but you
can't see my father today. He's been called away from the station,
and won't be returning for some time. But I'll tell him you called,
mister..."

"Winter," he supplied. "Gabriel Winter."

His voice held an intriguing lilt, like a
sun-warmed version of the Irish sisters' speech at
San
Agustín
church in town. Spoken by him, his name sounded like
poetry.