Romancing the West (14 page)

“Of course not. Just a goodly portion. They shunned Paris. Did you know that? Just because she has this peculiar talent for being able to make up songs on a whim. Songs about people and situations. Like the time we caught Mary Lee and Rome canoodling by the creek!”

That would explain, at least in part, the she-cat’s hostility. He’d heard Paris’s ditties, as she called them, firsthand. Frank, clever, and catchy, they’d endeared her to the miners and citizens of her new hometown, Chance. If one lacked a sense of humor or possessed a juicy secret, he could see where they’d want to steer clear of the freckle-faced half-pint.

“Mrs. Dunlap is a goodhearted woman who contributed generously to this community for years. But along the way she lost her husband and two sons and slowly but surely her mind. She’s not crazy, she’s forgetful. Cole’s pa took advantage and manipulated her out of her land. Granted, he paid for it. But not a fair price. No one wanted to take her in because they considered her a nut and a burden.”

“You took her in.”

“It was the decent thing to do. I can’t fathom how someone could turn their back on someone in need!”

Seth pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, attributing the twinge in his ticker to spicy stew and heartburn. Mrs. Dunlap had forgotten she’d stocked a picnic basket, although he and Emily hadn’t sampled the fare what with his mishaps waylaying lunch. The stew had been waiting on their return and Seth had been unable to deter the old woman.
“It’ll make you feel better”
Like hell.

“Then Doc Kellogg,” Emily vented, flailing her arms wide. “Could he have been any less concerned with your injuries?”

“I’m fine, Em. Let’s talk about you.”

“Who cares about me?”

He knew the question was rhetorical, but it bothered him all the same. “I do.”

She stopped in her tracks, met his gaze. “That’s a mistake.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a lightning rod for ill luck.”

“I’m not a superstitious sort.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“And that would be?”

“A good girl.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“Don’t be.”

“Too late.” He came toe-to-toe with her, hitched his thumbs in his vest pockets so as not to pull her into her arms. He didn’t figure she’d cotton to that kind of comfort. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something set you off and it wasn’t Kellogg.” She shook her head, her blond braids bouncing along with his twitching heart. Christ.

“Em. If you believe nothing else, believe that I’m your friend. Can you do that?”

“He won’t listen to reason,” she said, by way of an answer.

“Kellogg? Sawyer?”

“My Savior.”

For once she sounded like the bible thumper’s kid that she was. “I’m a little rusty in the religion department, but--”

“I’m not referring to a forgiving spirit, Poet,” she said, whirling away. “I’m talking about a judgmental person who’s seen fit to condemn my behavior. Someone who’s making me pay for my sins. Literally.” She slumped into a chair next to a table splayed with various periodicals.

Seth took the seat across from her, angling the chair so that their knees practically touched. “Your blackmailer.”

“I sent a letter along with my last payment.”

“How many payments have you made?”

“Two, and they depleted my savings. I said as such in the letter, vowed to adjust my ways, and asked that he please leave me alone. I thought if I asked nicely, you know, appealed to his sense of decency. . .” She trailed off with a dejected shrug.

He wished she’d stayed fired up. He cursed his knotted chest.
She believes the best in the worst of people.  
Athens had gotten that much right. The thought of his boss and the man’s intentions prompted Seth to ease back in his chair. “Decent folk don’t terrorize,” he told her.
Nor do they console another’s intended by gathering her in his arms and kissing the worry from her brow,
he told himself.
Ditch those inclinations, Wright.

“He wants me to suffer and I’m not sure why.”

“You know for certain it’s a man?”

“No. I thought maybe, well, Mary Lee crossed my mind.” She wrung her hands in her lap, chanced his gaze. “She doesn’t like me much. Then again, she doesn’t like any woman she views as competition. Ever since Cole showed an interest, she’s been down-right prickly.”

“I noticed.”

“Thing is, the letters were mailed from San Francisco.”

“Ever been to San Francisco?”

She looked away. “Never been outside of Napa Valley.”

He digested every bit of information, every expression, and telling gesture. “When’s the last time you heard from this person?”

“Today.”

“What?” Distance be damned. He leaned forward and took her hand. It was bold, but he didn’t care and besides he was goddamned Phineas Pinkerton. There had to be some benefit to posing as a fancy pants poet. “You’ve come this far,” he said, sensing her withdrawal. “Don’t shut down on me now.”

She eased her hand from his grasp, withdrew a note from her skirt pocket, and passed it to him.

It nettled that she was still skittish of his touch, but at least it had jarred her into action. He noted the broken wax seal, unfolded the missive, and read.

AS LONG AS YOU REAP BENEFITS, YOU WILL PAY THE PRICE.

He read the words again before examining the note, front and back. According to the stamped wax, the letter had indeed originated in San Francisco. The only tangible clue as far as Seth could tell. The cream-colored writing paper was ordinary, no stationer’s mark, patriotic cartoons or any other symbol to make it easier to track. Nor could he analyze or attempt to match the handwriting as the blackmailer had used one of those new fangled typewriters.

The message itself was a bald threat. But it was the signature line--YOUR SAVIOR--that wedged under Seth’s skin.

He noted Emily’s trembling hands, took it slow and easy. “When did you get this? Where?”

“At first, Doc Kellogg asked me to wait outside while he examined you, remember?”

Seth nodded.

“I slipped into the mercantile, just next door. Mrs. Dunlap asked me to pick up several skeins of yarn. I wasn’t expecting, that is, I collected the mail for the library yesterday. But Mr. Thompson said that he had a missive for me. Said it must have slipped his hold when he emptied Mrs. Frisbie’s cubbyhole. He found it on the floor when he swept up last night.”

Seth spoke directly. “What’s this person got on you, Emily?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

She snatched back the letter, pushed out of the chair. Without a word, she strode past him and reorganized a shelf of books.

He stepped in behind her, replaying everything she’d said to him over the past two days, factoring in her personality and quirks.
Tawdry.
“Whatever it is, I’m not easily shocked.”

She gripped the shelf, lowered her head. “You’re asking me to reveal extremely personal information, Poet. I’m not comfortable doing so. Why should I?”

“Because Paris is worried about you.”

“A good reason. But not good enough. I told you I’d talk about the blackmail situation and I did. If you’re truly my friend, you won’t press.”

Well, hell. He jammed his hand through his hair. Rolled a cramp out of his neck. Damn. “All right.”

“You mean that?”

Her voice, a scratchy whisper, raked over his heart like barbed-wire. “Sure.”

She surprised the hell out of him. She turned and hugged him. “Thank you.”

In that moment Seth fell in love with Emily McBride.

The breathtaking plunge set his pulse back a spell, a couple of skips and then it settled on a lumbering pace. He’d loved plenty, many, but he’d never been in love and he never imagined it would happen like this. He thought it would be at first sight, if ever. Thought it would be an earth-rocking sensation, like someone buffaloing him with the butt of a six-shooter. But this was quiet and gentle. Achingly sweet and refreshing.

Like Emily.

Her grateful embrace was so brief that, when she walked away, he was left to wonder if it had truly happened. His only evidence--rubber knees and a hard-on.

“I forgot the yarn,” she said.

His mind raced and grappled.

The front door opened and closed. “Emily. Mr. Pinkerton.”

“Mrs. Frisbie.” Seth smiled kindly at the woman who’d championed her employee during the social club fiasco.  She’d also defended erotic, or rather exotic, fiction. Backbone, intellect, and heart. He admired her vibrant spirit and smile.

“It’s Saturday, dear,” she said to Emily. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“My fault,” Seth said in a sugar-sweet drawl. He pulled a book from the shelf and strode past the senior librarian. “I had a fierce hankering for Lord Byron.”

“The man or his works?” She covered her mouth, smothered a smile. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

“That’s what Byron said when he was caught seducing one of those Mediterranean boys.” He winked at the snickering woman while escorting a blushing Emily out the door.

“She didn’t mean any harm,” she said in defense of her employer.

“No, I don’t expect she did.” The majority of the town might be conservative, but the librarians, women usually noted for being straight-laced, were outspoken liberals. “I like her.”

She looked up at him, graced him with a small smile. “You’re a good man, Poet.”

He felt like a bastard. He was earning her trust. He could see it in her eyes. He wanted to come clean, admit his identity. He’d had the same urge this morning. But for sure and for certain, she’d resent him and shut him out. As it was, he’d agreed not to press for more information on the blackmailer. Right now he needed to quietly observe, investigate, and protect. And hope she’d break down and ask for his help.

He also needed to telegraph
Fox
as this might take longer than he’d anticipated. Hell, he hadn’t even broached the subject of the widowed Garrett with Emily. All he had was the man’s word she was fond of him and his kids. He knew straight-out she was infatuated with Rome. His own feelings couldn’t enter into this. He’d given his word. And truth told, out of the three of them, she was best off with Athens. Like Rome, Seth didn’t have it in him to remain faithful to one woman. He didn’t figure being in love would change that. After all, he was his father’s son.

They walked side by side toward the mercantile, Seth wrestling with the absurdity of his situation. The difference one day, one person, could make in a man’s life. With every step, he shoved his troubling affection for Emily deeper into the crevices of his heart. Denial was fast becoming his new best friend.

They entered the lively general store and Seth gave thanks for the absence of Mary Lee. He figured Emily had taken about all the upset she could handle for the day. She peeled off, heading toward the dry-good section and a cherubic saleswoman, probably the shopkeeper’s wife.

He instantly recognized the owner, Ezekiel Thompson, and the stick-up-his-ass cobbler, Frank someone-or-other. They stood in the hardware department, pouring over a newspaper with another man, a burly, ugly specimen chomping on an unlit cigar.

Thompson glanced up, bug-eyed. “You ain’t gonna believe it, Emily. Wells Fargo suspended Rome and Boston. It’s got something to do with I. M. Wilde’s latest tale.”

Seth registered her reaction with curiosity and confusion. She turned a whiter shade of pale, managed two shaky steps then promptly wilted, knocking over a display of canned beans.

E
mily came to with a groan. She shoved a green glass bottle of smelling salts away from her nose, squinted up at the circle of blurry faces looking down at her. “What happened?”