The Fall of Rome (15 page)

“You just did.”

“Repeat it and I’ll deny it,” he teased.

She smiled. “Go on.”

“You offered passion and frivolous past times. That’s what I latched on to. Your sensual nature. Your irreverence for convention. Your strength. You made me feel good, Kat. About life. About me. But I realize now, as much as I was obsessed with you, I was more obsessed with work, the self-satisfaction, the adulation. I confess I took you for granted. I confess, I was so damned arrogant, I didn’t think you’d actually prefer Brady to me.”

Her smile had long faded. Her stomach churned. “Preference had nothing to do with it. He filled my head with doubts. About you. About us. He preyed on my insecurities, played to my needs. Brady turned my head . . . but not my heart, Rome. That’s why I wouldn’t sleep with him. Only ... I did.” She’d never admitted that aloud, and it made her ill to do so. Still, she’d been dodging thoughts of that night for so long, now that it was out, the how and why pressed mightily on her already-throbbing brain.

Unable to hold Rome’s gaze, she slipped his grasp and moved to the window. “I was so disoriented when you busted into the room. The fact that I can’t remember . . . I’ve always blamed myself, the liquor, but a thought crossed my mind a time or two. It didn’t occur to me until later, after Brady whisked me away, after I’d recovered from your rage . . .” She stared out the window, but all she saw was the sketchy past. “I’m not trying to make excuses, but. . . Do you think ... Is it possible . . .”

“That he drugged you?” The words seemed to scrape his throat, just as the legs of his chair scraped the floor. She heard him move in behind her. Felt his charismatic and sensual presence. “My mind’s been traveling that same road, Kat. Like I said, sobriety has sharpened a few warped memories. Like Brady’s fondness for opium dens. The glazed look in your eyes, a look I connected with pleasures of the flesh, could’ve been due to a heavy dose of laudanum.”

“How--”

“Mixed liberally in your drinks. That’s one possibility. One drug.”

“If that’s true, it means I wasn’t coherent. It means Brady . . .” She hugged herself against the sordid possibility. “It means he took liberties without my consent.”

Rome gripped her shoulders. “Kat.”

“Whatever happened,” she said, cheeks flaming, “I’m still to blame. If I hadn’t encouraged his attention--”

“Don’t.” Rome swung her around, stole her breath with his intensity. “Don’t give that bastard leave.”

“But we don’t know--”

“Yes, we do. You said it that night.”

Throat raw, she whispered, “I know in my heart I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That’s the truth of it,” he said, framing her face. “That’s what you cling to, understood?”

Transfixed by his touch, his gaze--strong, yet tender--her knees fairly buckled.
My champion
, her mind screamed. A dangerous notion. A young girl’s fancy. She shoved it away. For his sake. For her sake.

For Frankie’s sake.

He smoothed bed-mussed curls from her face. “If I had it to do over, I’d take better care to know the real you.”

“Likewise,” she whispered, half-worried, half-hopeful that he’d end this conversation by ravishing her mouth.

He eased back and offered his hand in greeting. “Name’s Rome Garrett. Former Wells Fargo detective. Present Peacemaker. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Katrina Simmons,” she said, nerve endings sparking as she gripped his warm palm. “Former cardsharp. Current saloon owner.” Her pulse raced. Her neck flushed. “Pleasure’s mine,” she choked out, marveling that a new beginning packed as much sizzle as a passionate kiss.

San Fernando

Brady spent the night watching for a hip-high version of Kat to make one of her infamous escapes. Would she climb out a window and shimmy down a bedsheet? Would she slip out a door and climb over the whitewashed walls? Sneak out the arched gateway?

She didn’t come at all.

Disappointing. But not as infuriating as making his entrance at dawn only to learn Frankie Hart had left the convent.

With Boston Garrett.

All hell broke loose in his head, but he didn’t lose his temper. Instead he switched tactics, playing the distraught role of the wronged daddy.
“My sister-in-law wrote me off as dead, but I assure you it was foul play that kept me from my daughter.”

He spun a web of deceit, and Sister Maria fell neatly if not easily into his trap. She didn’t provide him with all of the information he’d hoped for, but enough to guide him in the right direction.

An hour later he met back up with the gang. He found them lazing around a campfire, lingering over smokes and coffee.

“Where’s the kid?” Elroy asked as Brady pitched him his coat and hat.

“Gone.” He finger combed his hair, then buckled on his hardware. “I’m riding for Phoenix.”

Itchy scratched and asked, “Why?”

“Because that’s where Boston Garrett is heading.” Amos snuffed a hand-rolled cigarette. “I thought you were after Kat’s niece.”

Brady squinted against the mid-morning sun. “According to Sister Maria, Garrett showed up with a letter from
Miss Murdock
saying she was away on business and enlisted him to watch over Frankie until she could come and collect the girl.”

“Business being that poker tournament up in Tucson,” Boyd ventured. “Wonder how Rome talked his little brother into playing babysitter while he plays cards with the kid’s aunt?”

“All I know,” Brady said, staving off images of Kat and Rome together, “is that the sister told Boston he couldn’t stay at the convent, so he said, fine, he’d take the kid home.”

“Casa Bend,” said Itchy.

Brady squatted and helped himself to a cup of strong smelling coffee. “She overheard him talking to Frankie. Heard him mention Phoenix.”

“Garrett’s home,” said Mule.

“Why would a kid need a bodyguard?” asked Elroy out of the blue.

“More like a watchdog,” Brady said. “Seems Frankie’s got a wild spirit. She’s been a thorn in the good sisters’ sides for months. Runs off every chance she gets.”

Itchy scanned the desolate region. “Kid could get killed wandering around out here on her own.”

“Sister Maria said she’s smart for her age, headstrong and fearless.”

“How old you say she is?” asked Mule.

“Five and a half.” Brady clenched his jaw. He’d found a daguerreotype of Frankie in the midst of the bundle of letters. It burned a hole in his pocket just now. He didn’t need to look at it to see the little girl’s cherubic face and long, dark curls. The spitting image of Kat. Kat, who’d been an only child. He’d done the math. Possible he hadn’t been bullshitting the nun when he’d claimed himself as Frankie’s daddy.

He had to know.

Mule sleeved the sweat trickling from his hooked nose. ”Whole lotta coincidences at play here, boss. Everything from that skinny bitch and her necklace to Garrett and Kat’s niece, all directing you to Phoenix.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” said Itchy.

Boyd cast a look at Elroy. “I’m thinking trap.”

Elroy blanched. “Are you accusing me of being in cahoots with the Garretts?” he squeaked.

“I’m thinking fate,” Brady said. His cousin wouldn’t intentionally cross him. He didn’t have the guts. “And I’m thinking it’s best if I ride alone and meet up with you later in Nogales. Don’t expect you to risk your necks just so I can attend to a passel of personal vendettas.”

Elroy puffed up his scrawny chest. “I ain’t leaving you to face the Garretts alone, Jed. You’re kin. The only kin I got.”

“Maybe not,” Brady muttered. He caught Elroy’s gaze. His cousin had been with him in San Francisco. He knew Brady had been intimate with Kat. Seeing he wasn’t stupid, he put two and two together right quick. He started to speak, but Brady silenced him with a glare. He didn’t know the truth of it yet, but one way or another he aimed on hauling Kat or the kid or both off to Mexico. The gang might balk, and though they didn’t know it, he was counting on their loyalty to get what he wanted.

The men traded looks.

Amos spoke first. “If we ride hard, we might catch up with Boston and the kid
before
they reach Phoenix. She’s sure to slow him down.”

“Probably take him twice as long to make the journey,” Boyd put in.

“I’d be pleased if that was the case,” Brady said. “I want Frankie and Kat a helluva lot more than that damned locket. Plug Boston when we take the kid. Plug Rome when he follows Kat into my trap.” He tossed the remainder of his coffee into the fire. “Yes, sir. Mighty pleased.”

“The law thinks we’re holed up or riding for the border,” said Snapper. “Last thing they’ll expect is us riding north.”

“Personally,” said Itchy, “I wouldn’t mind getting the Garrett brothers off our backs once and for all.”

“I say we stick together,” said Boyd. “Lucky seven.” Brady smothered an arrogant smile, patted his coat pocket and Frankie’s likeness within. “Can’t tell you what it means in this instance, boys, to have you and luck on my side.” He jerked on his Stetson. “Let’s ride.”

Phoenix

Monday. The first day of the business week. The first day in years London hadn’t spent the morning obsessing over one of his siblings’ problems or his dissatisfaction with his own life. He’d been too busy pondering the mystery of Tori Adams.

After explaining to a flustered Mrs. Chen why it was necessary for an unmarried woman to sleep in his home, he’d set off on a series of errands. Most of them having to do with Tori.

The woman was an enigma. Her appearance. Her demeanor. Her presence. Why was she here and not at the Gilded Garrett? Why would a veteran performer whom his friend had described as a notorious temptress exhibit such demure behavior? He understood that she’d been traumatized. He understood that she was ill. But his gut told him something was amiss.

Regardless, he couldn’t ignore the tender feelings Tori inspired. He couldn’t forget the way his heart pounded through the night as he’d held her hand. It had taken all of his restraint not to ease into that bed and pull her into his arms. He couldn’t shake the desire to love and cherish till death put a kink in the matter.

Damn. He’d been smitten stupid.

“Here you go, Mr. Garrett. Wrapped like you asked.” London swung his thoughts to the present. He’d been staring blindly at the front page of the local newspaper for God knew how long.

The beaming merchant handed over the package. “I’ll have the rest of your order delivered by day’s end.”

“Much obliged, Mr. Peralta.” London slid the card he’d penned beneath the package’s red ribbon and turned to leave. “Always a pleasure doing business with you!” Peralta called.
Especially on days like this
, London thought as he exited the mercantile. He’d just spent a good deal of money. Necessities would be delivered. The gift he’d chosen for his houseguest was in hand. Satisfied with the morning’s endeavors, he headed for the Last Chance and bumped into Parker.

“I’ve been looking all over for you, sir.”

“I’m right here.”

Stone-faced, the bespectacled assistant eyed the shoppers crowding the boards and lowered his voice. “Manning’s dead.”

Frowning, London crossed to the more quiet side of the street. “Walk and talk, Mr. Parker.”

“I received a telegram from a Captain Davis at Camp Grant.”

“Go on.”

Parker pushed his glasses up his nose, dipped his chin. “As you know Peacemakers don’t wear badges.”

“They carry a contact name and location in their boot. So, Captain Davis found the information and wired Mr. Fox in Phoenix. Get on with it, Parker.”

The man cleared his throat. “No specifics. Just that Manning was gunned down at a cantina north of Tubac.”

What the hell?

“The wire said there was an apparent shoot-out between Manning and the owner of the cantina.”

London slid him a disgusted look. “You’re saying some barkeep got the drop on a former Arizona Ranger? A Peacemaker?”

“I’m not saying anything, sir. I’m telling you what the captain said. And the barkeep didn’t get the drop. He’s dead, too.”

London worked his jaw and brain. An insult? A dispute over the bill? Neither made sense. Maybe they’d run across each other before. Maybe the cantina owner was a prior crook. The possibilities, London supposed, were many, and none of them mattered. Bottom line: Manning was dead. “I need you to make arrangements for--”

“Consider it done.”

They walked along Washington Street, sharing a mutual moment of silence for a felled agent. London’s mind worked double-time. “So, Manning never made it to San Fernando,” he mused aloud.

“Meaning Boston is doing whatever he’s doing alone. No backup.”

London wished to hell he knew what that something was. “Send a telegram to Tucson, attention Sherman Shakespeare. Manning novel no longer in stock. L.G. edition ready to ship on your order. Signed, PMA Publishing.”

“Done.” Parker peeled off and away.

London strode toward the Last Chance, telling himself not to borrow trouble. Assuring himself Manning’s death was unrelated to PMA business and that Boston was fine. Wondering what he was going to tell Tori if he had to ride for San Fernando. He’d promised her that she was safe with him. Now he might have to leave.

Edgy, he pushed through his saloon’s swinging doors, surprised to find at least a dozen men bending their elbows and playing cards. Half past noon. Given the competition, normally they fared three patrons this early in the day. He walked over to his on-duty barkeep. “Running a special I

don’t know about?”

“Featuring entertainment
I
didn’t know about.” Teddy slid a mug of beer down the bar, nodded to the cowboy who palmed it, then turned back to London. “Word’s out you hired a pianist. Word’s out she’s young, fetching, and available. A rarity in these parts. These men strolled in for a look and a listen.”

“She’s not available, and she’s not performing. She’s ill.”

“She told Mrs. Chen she’s feeling better and that she’d come down for a matinee,” he glanced at his pocket watch, “right about now.”

“Matinee is canceled.” London indicated the patrons. “Spread the word.”