Love Finds You in Last Chance, California (26 page)

One quiet word to his stallion and Durango surged ahead, eager to run. Justin kept his mount reined to a steady lope, not eager to overtake the Grey woman yet. At the stream crossing he slowed and bent low from his saddle. Looked like the tracks following her headed upstream, away from town. Justin sat for a moment and considered, but then he decided to keep to his original plan. If they didn’t get another shower, he’d follow the tracks on his return—assuming he had enough light.

He’d keep his eyes and ears open in town, but with so many miners working claims in the vicinity, it wouldn’t help to ask about strangers wandering through. Besides, he was enough of a stranger to raise a few eyebrows if he started digging for answers. Better to keep quiet and see what he could find out on his own.

Christy stood back in the shadows of the saloon and watched Justin Phillips ride past on his tall black stallion. Dried lather covered the horse—it looked like Phillips had run him for a while before slowing down and cooling him out. She didn’t blame him; she could imagine the torment and anger that must have chased him down the trail. Nor was she surprised that he appeared in town on her heels. She’d half feared he’d jump on his horse and spur after her, overtaking her by the time she reached the stream. Thankfully her mare loved to travel at a fast trot. They’d covered the ground at a rapid pace and crossed the rushing stream without incident.

All the way to town she’d sensed something pursuing her. She’d kept looking over her shoulder, wondering if
he
were closing in. She didn’t fear Phillips, but she deeply feared the man who’d summoned her here. She breathed easier now, knowing the man behind her must have been Phillips all along. He’d probably had no more desire than she to meet on the trail and had held back when he’d spotted her up ahead. She’d barely had time to slip into her work clothes and take her place in the saloon.

A voice already slurred by drink sounded close behind. “Hey, Christy. You gonna get me another beer or stand there peekin’ out the door?” She swung quickly, not wanting whoever it might be to grab her arm or bare shoulder. More than one man had felt the back side of her hand when he’d gotten too familiar and she’d not been in the mood to tolerate his touch. Tonight would be one of those nights.

“Hurry up, would ya? I’m thirsty.” The sound of heavy footfalls drew near.

“Give me a minute, all right?” She tried to smile and headed to the bar, wanting nothing more than to be out of this place. A grubby miner reached for her skirt as she passed, and she pushed his hand aside. “Now, Calvin, you know better than that.” She winked and kept moving, sensing the bartender’s hawk eyes honing in. No need to give him an excuse to squeal to the boss.

The clamor of bottles clinking against the rims of glasses sounded around the room. The place had filled with miners when the day shift ended at the nearby New Caledonia mine. She’d heard the rumor that a group of townsmen had formed a temperance society, but it didn’t appear as though the miners cared to take part. It would probably be short-lived, regardless. She’d seen few towns that could persist in their decision to remain dry.

She leaned over the bar and placed the order for the thirsty miner awaiting his drink. The bartender shoved it the couple of feet to her open hand, and she plucked it off the bar. “Sam?”

The dark man scrunched heavy brows over brooding eyes and scowled. “Yeah? What’cha want?”

Christy did her best to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Can you get word to Mr. Sanders that I’d like to speak to him? Soon?”

Sam’s face was blank for a moment before realization dawned. “Sanders, huh? Sure. I’ll get word to Mr.
Sanders
.” His laughter conveyed anything but a sense of mirth and sent a shiver over Christy’s bare skin.

Christy dropped her eyes and kept her face passive. “Thanks.” She swung away from the bar and hurried back to the waiting miner. He reached out a meaty hand and she placed the drink into it without looking at him.

The rest of the evening dragged by, with the rotgut whiskey flowing from the bar almost faster than she could serve it. The piano found in most saloons was noticeably absent. Instead, a man who’d had a little too much to drink swayed on his feet and played a mouth harp, while another man tapped out the tune on the base of a wooden bucket. It didn’t appear that anyone cared whether there was entertainment or not, as long as the drinks held out.

After traveling the treacherous, steep canyon trail from Michigan Bluff, Christy could understand why a pack mule driver wouldn’t burden his animal with a piano. She shuddered, remembering some of the trails where she’d chosen to walk behind the animal, too frightened to ride. One misstep on loose rocks could easily send a mule—and its rider—over the edge to their deaths at the bottom of the ravine.

Maybe that would have been a better end for her than coming here. Quick and simple—but painful. No, she’d take her chances with Sanders, or whatever he called himself here. If only she could climb back on that mule and disappear.

Christy scrubbed the last table then leaned her fists on the counter and rocked backward, hoping to relieve the tension in her lower back. What a rotten job. She’d give anything to get out of the mess her life had become.

“Christy.” Sam beckoned from behind the bar and pointed to a door at the back of the room. “Get over there. Someone to see you.”

She straightened her back and dropped her hands to her sides. Finally. She couldn’t see the man’s face hidden in the shadows beyond the open door, but she hoped it was Sanders. A loud
thump
made her flinch and she turned. Sam picked up another chair and turned it upside down onto the table. She’d better hurry. He’d be cussing at her to get back and start sweeping if she took too long.

A quick glance told her that the stranger was no longer standing at the door. She hurried to the rear of the smoky saloon and placed the palm of her hand against the rough wooden door, giving it a slight shove. It squealed in protest but finally swung open. She slipped through. The darkness in the small storeroom was almost complete. Only the little bit of dim light from the main saloon penetrated into this hovel. She sniffed, not liking the odor that assailed her nostrils. Sweaty clothing and damp, earthen walls. The back of the building must be up against some type of hill, or else a cellar lay beneath.

“Is anyone here? Mr. Sanders, is that you?” She stepped another foot into the room, willing her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

“No, Mr. Sanders ain’t here, but I am.” A low voice spoke from a nearby corner, sending chills up Christy’s bare arms. “Now ain’t you a pretty thing.” The leering voice drew closer, and Christy took a step back.

“I asked to see Mr. Sanders.” She tried to stand her ground and keep her voice level. This type of man preyed on the fear of others, and she didn’t intend to feed that lust.

A sharp bark of a laugh came from a few feet away, and a shadowy figure loomed in front of her. “Don’t matter what you want, missy. It’s the boss what calls the shots, not you, and you’d do well not to fergit it.” He rubbed his hands together then wiped them down the sides of his pants and leaned closer, staring into her face. “What you want with him? He tol’ me to talk to ya and bring him word, so spit ’er out whilst you got the chance.”

She drew back a short step then froze at the gleam of satisfaction on the man’s face caused by her nervous gesture. “I want him to let me out of our deal. I tried to do what he asked, but it’s not working. Tell him I’ll help him in some other area.”

“So yer sayin’ you won’t do what he tol’ you? That what I’m hearin’?” The leer on his face changed to a snarl. “Yer playin’ with fire, girl.”

“No.” Christy blurted the word then drew a deep breath, rubbing her hands over her bare arms. “I tried. Tell him I tried, but the man says he has proof that I’m lying. I’ll do whatever Sanders wants me to do, if he’ll just let me slip out of town and forget this.”

“I’ll tell him for ya, but he ain’t goin’ to like it.” The man stepped back in the shadows and a floorboard squeaked. Christy heard his hand rattle what sounded like a doorknob. Light flooded the dank room, and just as quickly the door shut behind the man, leaving her once again in the murky dark.

Justin exited the tiny telegraph office with a paper clutched in his hand. The answer had come back sooner than he’d expected from the sheriff in Auburn. He dreaded opening the missive, as he’d expected a reply from the minister.

He glanced up the street, thankful to see few pedestrians lurking on the streets or boardwalks. As much as he wanted to rip into this message, he’d rather find a quiet spot. It looked like there might be a small clearing below the blacksmith and livery stable, from what he could see through the scattering of oak and small pine trees.

He struck out up the street and cut behind the dry goods store, going across the narrow, sparsely wooded area to the side of the smithy. He headed down the slight embankment and into the clearing that encompassed at least two acres. A sparkling pool of water lay on the east side. A fallen log drew him, and he sank onto its rough surface.

The telegram lay in his lap. Its contents could protect his right to keep Toby and clear him with Alex, or it could once again turn his world upside down. It had been hard enough being married to a woman who didn’t love him, but the way she had tried to keep Toby from him had cut deep. He’d fight to keep this boy—he’d done so with Molly, and if need be, he’d do it again with this woman claiming to be her sister. Time to face whatever this small scrap of paper might contain. He held it up to the sunlight filtering through the trees and carefully unfolded it. It contained just a few terse words.

Preacher died last year. Courthouse burned three weeks ago. All records lost. Sheriff Jeffers.

Justin let the paper flutter to his lap and groaned. Maybe he should pack up Toby and hit the trail. Go somewhere Molly’s sister wouldn’t think to look. But what about his promise to Travers? No matter that the man no longer lived—Justin’s promise extended to Travers’s daughter.

Alex.

He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. Even without the promise to Ben, he’d have stayed at the Circle T after meeting its new boss. Classy, that’s what she was—classy, smart, beautiful, and capable. Never would he have believed that a woman could take up the challenge of running a ranch full of wranglers and succeed, but she appeared to be making progress. No other wranglers had quit since he’d arrived, and the ones who’d stayed seemed to respect her position as boss.

If only he could talk to Alex about his past. But why would she care? She wouldn’t. Sure, she might feel sorry for him and the boy, but he didn’t want any woman’s pity. Would she believe him if he told her the truth? If the courthouse hadn’t burned…if the minister had lived… But wishing wouldn’t make it so. Alex had no reason to trust his word over anyone else’s—and if she ever discovered that he’d come at her father’s request and not told her, she’d send him packing.

It looked like God had abandoned him this time for sure. He’d prayed for help when he came into this town, and look what a mess he was in now. A solid wedge of bitterness settled into his soul, and this time he didn’t push it out. Hadn’t he cleaned up his act after Toby was born? He’d never darkened the door of a saloon again. Stayed away from women. Done his best to raise his son. So why was God still against him?