Romancing the West (32 page)

“I’m sorry, Seth,” Rome said. “Bone-deep sorry.” Looking uncomfortable, he rounded the bar, nabbed a bottle.

Seth rose, set his glass on the bar.

Rome refilled it. “You gonna try to kick my ass?”

“Not tonight.”

“Good call.”

Seth bristled. “Tell me again about this bastard who hurt Emily.”

“He was a mess. He was on fire, for chrissake. There was a busted lamp. I don’t know if she hit him with it, but she sure as hell put up a fight. I broke in just as he aimed his piece at her.” Rome dragged his hands down his face. “Considering what he did to Emily, he’s lucky I shot him in his black heart. Should’ve let him burn.”

“You don’t mean that,” London said.

Rome didn’t comment.

Seth didn’t condone torture, but he wasn’t sorry the bastard suffered before he turned up his toes. Besides, the way he saw it, the man would burn for eternity. “Did you get a name?

“Everett Finn.” Rome threw back his whiskey, poured another. “Small-time thief. Thug for hire. Operates mostly in the red light district. That’s where the son of a bitch lured her.”

Seth hated that Emily had been subjected to such a gritty neighborhood. Yet she hadn’t asked the cabbie to turn around. She’d confronted her blackmailer, just as she said she would. He cursed and admired her courage. He puzzled on Everett Finn.

None of this sat right with Seth. “I don’t understand how a man like Finn could finesse Emily like he did. The blackmailer, a man who considered himself her Savior, seemed more sophisticated than that.”

That’s when it hit him.

Emily roused from a deep, painful sleep. She’d been shot. At least she thought so, given the pain in her heart and her last recollection.

Pinkerton hadn’t raced to her rescue. No fairytale ending for her.

Except she kept hearing his voice.
“I’m here, honey”

She squinted into the dark, realized she was lying in a bed. She bolted upright, heart pounding. Where was she? Where was the man she’d set on fire? Bile rose in her throat at the memory of his shirt in flames, his panicked scream.

She shoved aside blankets, scrambled out of bed. She ran her hands over her body. No gun wound. Just bumps and scrapes. She was stiff and sore, but very much alive! She found her spectacles on the side table and shoved them on, heedless of her tender eye and the fierce pounding in her head. Light sliced through a partially opened door. She located her reticule, rooted inside, and breathed a sigh of relief when her fingers curled around the Derringer.

Gun in hand, she eased into the hall. She heard voices, male voices. Several men. She had only one bullet. She contemplated climbing out of the window at the end of the hall. Then she recognized two of the voices. London and Rome.

She breathed in masculine scents--tobacco, cologne. No rotting food or the stench of her attacker. She gazed at the carved gold ceiling, the fancy tapestry wallpaper. This must be the Gilded Garrett!

She bolted down the hall, froze on the threshold of a room full of men. She focused on one.

“Poet!” Heart racing, she flew across the room and into his arms.

“Whoa.” Rome plucked the gun from her hands as she wrapped her arms around Pinkerton’s neck and planted kisses on his cheek.

“You came,” she whispered in his ear.

“I’m sorry I was late, Em.” He hugged her close, smoothed a strong hand down her back.

“It was awful,” she croaked.

“I know, honey. But you did good.”

She nestled her face in his neck, reveled in the smell of him, the strength of him. Her prayers had been answered.

Someone cleared his throat.

“Poet?” said London.

She smiled, ignoring the sting of her split lip. “I never could get used to calling him Phineas.”

“Why would you call him Phineas?”

Arms still locked around the poet’s neck, she looked over his shoulder at London. “Because that’s his name. Phineas Pinkerton.”

Boston drew a hand over his moustache.

Rome scratched his forehead.

London looked perplexed.

She didn’t understand their confusion.

Pinkerton eased her to her feet and took her hand.

“We need to talk.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs as he led her back to the room she’d just left. He lit a lamp and urged her to sit next to him on the bed.

“I want you to know that it wasn’t my intention to mislead you. You assumed I was Pinkerton and the situation warranted that I play along.”

She swallowed hard. “I don’t understand.”

“My number one concern was to protect you from whoever was terrorizing you. I needed to stay close, live under your roof. Pinkerton posed less of a threat to your reputation.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re not Phineas Pinkerton?”

“No.”

“You’re not a poet?”

“No.”

“You’re not--”

“Hell, no.”

She thought about the way he’d kissed her, the arousal. No wonder. He liked girls.

She felt a twinge of betrayal. He’d slept under her roof. She’d told him her most intimate secrets. She’d practiced kissing on him. Yet the thrill that rushed through her made her grip the mattress edge. “Who are you?”

“Seth Wright.”

She scrunched her brow. “Josh’s friend?”

“Paris mentioned me in her letters?”

“A few times.” She described him as a lawman with a strong sense of duty. He had a wry sense of humor and a way with the ladies. Charming, Paris had written, and he was indeed. Emily felt sick. She’d been such a fool. Yet, she reminded herself, she’d done the very same thing as I. M. Wilde.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.

“But Paris didn’t write to say I was coming,” Seth said.

“She said Pinkerton was coming.”

“He was, but he got sidetracked.”

“This is complicated.” Her head spun. Mostly with the thought that she’d slept in the same house as the handsome, charming lawman. She’d practically
seduced
him. “I don’t think I can take more.”

“Sure you can, honey. Just think of one of your adventures. Twists and turns. The plot thickens.”

Her thoughts shifted to her own deception. She blushed. “You went thought my chest?”

“I did.”

“Were you shocked?”

“At first, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it. Especially your latest version of Constance and Antonio’s adventure.”

Her heart burst with pride, tears stung her eyes. “I was inspired.”

“I’m flattered.”

He smiled, but his eyes shone with concern. He kept skimming his gaze over her injuries. She wondered if he blamed himself.

“I’m also curious as to why someone capable of writing novels like Verne or Dumas, would adopt an alias to write sensationalized short stories?”

She blinked. Had he really just compared her to two of her favorite authors? “I did it for the money,” she blurted. “To finance a grand adventure. For my mother. She was so unhappy and she never really . . . I think she thought of me as more a burden than a blessing.”

He reached over and clasped her hand, stroked his thumb over her knuckles. Quiet support. She was glad for it. It helped her tell all.

“I thought that if we shared a grand adventure, maybe we’d bond. I thought maybe a trip to New York or Paris. But I needed money, lots of money. I saw an advertisement in the paper, a dime novel publisher looking for stories. I devoured a dozen issues, read every story, and thought,
I can do this.
But I knew Father wouldn’t approve, so I wrote to Mr. Beeslow and asked if he’d act as my liaison. We came up with the name I. M. Wilde. We knew everyone would assume it was a man and we figured that was good considering the writing was pretty . . . frank. I wrote what came naturally, wrote what I knew.”

“The Garrett brothers.”

Her cheeks flamed. “I didn’t mean any harm. I admired them, their work. The publisher loved my stories, kept asking for more. The money poured in and I kept thinking how close I was to making my Grand Design a reality. But then Mother left.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“One morning we woke up and she was gone. She left a note for Father and one for me. She didn’t want to do this anymore, she said. This wasn’t the life of her choosing. She wished us well and asked that we not look for her.”

She burst into tears. “She went on her adventure . . . without me.”

“Ah, honey.” He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her.

“She made it as far as San Francisco.” This town, Emily thought. With all of the excitement it hadn’t occurred to her until now. “She must’ve had her nose in a book or her head in the clouds, because she stepped in front of a cable car. Father blamed her books. He burned her entire collection. I hated him for that. Told him I’d never forgive him. That’s the night he drank himself to death.”

Seth made soothing sounds as he stroked her hair. Seth, not Pinkerton, although he seemed very much the same man. He made her heart flutter.

“You’ve got to let that go, Em. Let them both go.”

She sniffed back tears. “I know.”

He tipped up her face, stroked her hair out of her face and brushed his lips across her bruised cheek. “I hate that bastard hurt you, Em. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”

“I heard a gunshot.”

“Rome.”

“Did he kill the man?”

“Yeah.”

“There was another letter.” She pushed out of his arms, dug in her reticule and passed him the letter with the broken seal. “It got mixed with Sheriff McDonald’s mail. He only saw it today. Look at the date and time of the meeting. I thought Mr. Beeslow was in danger. I had to come.”

“I know, hon.”

“But it wasn’t him. The man Rome shot wasn’t my
Savior.
It couldn’t be. He didn’t even know who Mr. Beeslow was.”

“The man Rome shot was a hired thug.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Baby, did Mr. Bellamont say where he was staying?”

“No. But he wrote down the name of the hotel.” She passed him that information, too. “He seemed concerned about my wellbeing. He wanted me to know that his proposal of marriage still stood, but that, no matter what, I could rely on him for anything. Money. Protection.” She faltered, her mind grasping the clues that had been there all along. The expression on Seth’s face said he’d already formed the same conclusion. “Oh, my God. Why? Why would he do this to me?”

Seth tucked the address in his jacket pocket. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

He rose and she snagged his hand. “Wait. I need to ask him myself. To do what I came here to do. I need to confront my
Savior.”
She needed to wrap up the mess of her old life so she could attack her future with a clear conscience and heart.

His gaze flicked over her injuries, a muscle twitched in his cheek. He was furious with Bellamont, worried for her. He was going to refuse her, lock her in the room. Maybe she could argue a gopher into a tree, but a warrior of God was another matter.

He squeezed her hand, infusing her with strength and hope. “On one condition.”

Emily clenched her fists and breathed deep.
I can do this.

Even though he had no hard evidence, Seth had reasoned through the blackmail scheme, convincing her that Bellamont was indeed her Savior. She’d been fascinated by the way he pinpointed clues and presented different scenarios and motives. She went through a like process when she plotted a story.