Romancing the West (16 page)

“I wanted to sparkle like her. I wanted to feel what she felt when she escaped to those far off places, so I learned my letters early and advanced my skills with fervor. Read everything I could get my hands on. The more I practiced, the more it greased my imagination and soon I was spinning my own tales.”

“That must have pleased your ma.”

She never said, but Emily had hoped. “Maybe at first. But then I made the mistake of sharing one of my stories aloud one summer at the annual church picnic. It was about a twelfth-century knight shucking his armor to skinny dip in an enchanted lake.”

Pinkerton’s lips curved. “How old were you?”

“Ten.”

He chuckled.

“The attending congregation failed to see the charm or humor as did my father. Directly after he gave me a lecture on decorum and reminded me who I was--a preacher’s daughter. That night Mother settled in with a copy of
Moby Dick
and sent me off to bed. Only before I went, she referred to the picnic scandal and advised me to channel my talents in a more respectable direction. Actually, it was more like an order.” She massaged the tightness in her chest, blinked back tears. “From that day forth, I kept the stories of my heart tucked away, some in my head, some under my bed. The only person I shared them with was Paris. She and I have no secrets. We share a special bond.” She paused, wet her dry lips. “Can I confess something?”

He reined Guinevere to the side of the road and gave Emily his full attention.

Maybe it was the knock to her head or maybe it was because she hadn’t had anyone to confide in since Paris left. Or maybe she was plumb tired of squashing down her feelings. She didn’t risk his gaze, but she did risk honesty. “I feel a similar bond with you, Poet. I know it sounds crazy. We’ve only known each other a couple of days, but . . . I . . . it’s just that . . .” She blew out a breath. “Drat. I hate it when I babble.”

“It’s not crazy, what you’re feeling,” he said. “Sometimes people just get on. Don’t waste your time trying to analyze what can’t be put into words, Em.”

Every time he called her that, her pulse skipped. So familiar, yet natural. As if they’d known each other forever. “Do you feel something? A connection of sorts?”

“I do.”

She chanced his gaze, quirked a shy smile. “Must be an artistic thing.”

“Life’s full of surprises,” he said gruffly.

“If one’s lucky,” she said, her mother’s ghost hovering like a dark cloud. “Sometimes life’s normal, too normal. Sometimes it plods along at a snail’s pace. Every day the same. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sometimes a body so badly needs an adventure they’ll risk judgment and condemnation to have one.”

“Who are we talking about here? You or your ma?”

Both, although she wasn’t willing to admit her part. As for her mother . . . No one knew the truth about Alice McBride’s dreams, her disappointments, her death, aside from Paris. Her friend hadn’t been around in months. Emily had suppressed thoughts and emotions since, and she was near bursting. “Her marriage was arranged. She married my father because he was a good match, according to her parents. She gave up her hopes and dreams and did what was expected. Became the wife and mother, the person society demanded. Meanwhile, she withered inside yearning for an adventure.
Everyone should have at least one grand adventure,
she once said.”

“How did she die?”

His question was so blunt, she answered in kind. “In search of an adventure.”

“Then I guess she went out of this world with a smile in her heart.”

She’d never thought of it that way. Truth told, she’d been too bitter. Emily’s Grand Design revolved around taking her mother on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. The two of them. She saw it as a chance to bond with Alice McBride, a fanciful, bitter woman who had never been comfortable with her parental role. But before Emily had been able to make good on her plan, the woman had taken the issue on herself. Alone.

“You certainly have a way with words, Poet,” she said by way of revealing the painful truth about her mother’s death. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

Feeling awkward, she settled back against the seat. “Thank you for letting me ramble. Without Paris here, I sort of keep things bottled up.”

“I’m pleased you feel comfortable enough to unburden yourself. Anything else you want to share?”

He was referring to the blackmailer, of course. The only thing left to tell was her secrets. She wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever feel inclined. She squinted into the twilight. “We best get moving or we won’t make it home before it turns pitch black. Mrs. Dunlap will be worried.”

“I imagine she’ll make a fuss when she sees the bump on your forehead,” he said, clucking his tongue and setting the horse back on course.

“I suppose you’re going to make sure I eat a big dinner.”

“That’s a fact.”

They rode in silence for a stretch, both immersed in thought. The silhouette of the house came into view, lights flickering in the downstairs windows, and Pinkerton mused aloud. “Shame about Wells Fargo suspending the Garretts. From what Paris told me about her brothers, they’re probably fit to be tied. Wouldn’t want to be in I. M. Wilde’s boots.”

Emily’s stomach flopped over and back, the thought of a big dinner enough to make her retch. “I confess, I’m a mite anxious about our fellow artist.” She stole a look at the poet’s strong form and profile. She was a mite anxious about a lot of things.

San Francisco, California

R
ome Garrett fanned his cards, scowled at a losing hand, and folded. Shit luck had been dogging him for days. Even his lucky half eagle coin had lost its shine. Tonight he’d tried to dispel his black mood with a quart bottle and a poker game. But nothing could cut through the gloom of the suspension. “Screw Wells Fargo,” he said to his little brother, the only man left at the table. “Screw Lancing.” Their uptight supervisor had cut them loose to appease a blowhard politician. “Spineless bastard.”

Boston smoothed his fingers over his moustache, collected his winnings with a mirthless smile. “That’s the whiskey talking. You might want to slow up,” he said when Rome poured another shot. “You’ve pert near polished off that entire bottle.”

“Not on my own, I haven’t.   You’ve kept pace, little brother.”

“Difference is I’m an amiable drunk. You’re an asshole.” Boston waved off the barkeep coming their way, shuffled the cards. At this point, aside from Hoyt, a loyal employee and ten-year acquaintance, they were the only two left in the private salon of the Gilded Garrett Opera House. Boston didn’t bother to curb his tongue but he did temper his volume. “Bert Lancing did what he had to do. Place blame where blame’s due.”

“When I get my hands on I. M. Wilde--”

“I was referring to you. You’re the one who brought the wrath of a state senator down on our heads. Diddling Osprey Smith’s wife wasn’t one of your brighter moves, Rome.”

“She started it.”

“That’s a hell of a defense.”

“Said she and her husband had an arrangement.”

“Guess she wasn’t clear on the boundaries. Or she was and ignored them. Or there was never an arrangement and you were just randy enough to swallow Sarah Smith’s lies.” Boston cocked a sardonic brow. “Knowing you like I do, I’m voting on the latter.”

Rome rolled his half eagle coin over his knuckles, partly for calm, partly for luck. He refused to believe his had run out. “You’re starting to irritate me.”

“I’ve been downwind of your pissy mood for two days now. I’m well past irritated. You want me to back off?” He thunked the deck of cards in the center of the table. “Cut the deck and shut the hell up.”

Rome pocketed his coin, reminding himself that Boston didn’t deserve his ire. When it came down to it, the only reason his brother had been suspended was because he’d raised hell on Rome’s behalf. When Lancing refused to listen to reason, Boston had retaliated with some disparaging remarks about the man’s mother. Those colorful insults had earned him temporary walking papers as well.

As for sleeping with another man’s wife, hell, no, it hadn’t been one of his better moments. But Sarah had seduced him with hot, needy kisses and stories of a cold, cheating husband. He’d enjoyed her company, her insatiable appetite. Her casual attitude had backed up her claim that so long as she stayed out of her husband’s affairs, he’d ignore hers.
The arrangement.
He didn’t want to believe she’d made it up. Didn’t want to believe he’d been that stupid.

“Sexual misconduct,” he grumbled as Boston dealt. “If that don’t beat all. Osprey Smith twisted the facts. Portrayed me as some sort of deviant. He wanted to punish me while salvaging Sarah’s reputation.”

“Can you blame him? He aims on running for governor. Last thing he needs is a tarnished wife.”

“I’ve never taken advantage of a woman in my life. It’s not in my character, and after eight years in Wells Fargo’s employ, if Lancing doesn’t know--”

“He knows. But Smith’s a powerful man and Wells Fargo can’t afford to ruffle political feathers. Lancing said it straight up. Mrs. Smith was enamored with your fame. You’re a hell of a lot more revered by her and the general populace than Osprey Smith. The double-talking, polecat resented that and gunned to make you pay. Public humiliation. Tit for tat.”

Fed up with the insult to his integrity, Rome slapped his cards face down. “I,” he growled, “was discreet. Wilde’s the one who made the affair public by penning the kiss that launched the indiscretion. How did he know about Sarah’s overzealous thank you? You were the only one alive on the scene other than us. I never discussed it with anyone aside from you.” “What are you implying?”

“Don’t get your britches in a twist. I know you wouldn’t speak out of turn. But someone did.”

Boston rolled his eyes. “Obvious, don’t you think?”

“Sarah wouldn’t risk pissing off her husband.”

“Where’s the risk if they had an arrangement?” Boston looked disgusted. “Get your head out of your pants and see the light. Sarah Smith didn’t take a shine to Rome Garrett, she took a shine to a dime novel hero. I’m telling you she bragged to someone about snaring you and it got back to Wilde who has elephant-sized ears when it comes to you and me.”

“Add elephant-sized balls for scandalizing a state senator’s wife.”

“Maybe he didn’t know. Smith’s a common enough name.”

“You sticking up for that pissant, Wilde?”

“Hell, no. Got my own bones to pick with that scribe. Some of that stuff he writes, it’s like he knows my mind.” Boston scowled, poured the last of the whiskey. “Downright creepy. Makes me feel, I don’t know, violated.”

“Good name for it. Violated.” Rome drained his glass then motioned to Hoyt for another bottle.

“Never mind that. Take yourself on home, Hoyt.” London Garrett, the eldest of the Garrett clan and chief proprietor of the inherited opera house, flipped a chair around and straddled it. Between his substantial height and confidence, he took up more space than Rome and Boston put together.

Boston collected the cards, stacked the chips. “Time to call it a night.”

Rome glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s just past midnight. Night’s young.”

“Two hours past midnight. Fun’s over.” London got that look, the one that said he was preparing to lecture them blue. “You’ve been drinking my whiskey, screwing my chorus girls, and generally irritating me with your bitchin’ for two days. This ends now. We’ve got family business to attend.”

As far as lectures went it was short but powerful. Rome sobered up right quick. Family was everything. “What kind of business?”

“I want to cut loose the Gilded Garrett. Relocate to Phoenix. Any objections?”

“To moving closer to Athens and the kids? Paris and her new one? To dumping this place?” Rome held up his hands in defense. “Not that the Gilded isn’t a money-maker.”

London had fashioned the family inheritance into a premier theater. In addition to this private salon, the three-story Victorian splendor featured a classy saloon, elegant conversation rooms, and a thousand-seat auditorium. The Gilded Garrett was popular and prosperous, the permanent home of London, sometimes home of Rome and Boston. Still, the establishment reeked of their father, and William Garrett was a bastard of the first water. Rome had no qualms about kissing the Gilded and the lingering spirit of his pa goodbye.