The Fall of Rome (2 page)

It had cost her dearly.

She’d ruined what she had with Rome and despised what she had with Brady. Escaping the controlling man’s clutches hadn’t been easy, but when she did, she ran fast and far. Needing to lie low, she relied more on her wits and less on her beauty. When life had dealt her a wild card, she’d held it close to her heart, even though she’d had to give it away. She did what she had to do to carve out a life as an independent woman, a young sharper turned saloon proprietress. She focused on doing the right thing, no matter how hard.

“If you’re gonna beat the devil around the stump, I’ll do it,” said Johnson. “I’d like to hit the mattress before sunrise.”

She snapped back to reality. Jane Murdock’s reality. Midnight. Closing time. All had vacated the saloon but one. She’d lost the coin toss and, as such, was obligated to send their last patron on his way. Skeet Appleby. One of the Star’s few regulars. Presently, a table served as the booze-blind geezer’s pillow. He’d been deaf to their verbal ousting, so one of them needed to physically rouse the man. She and Johnson had once bet on when the old miner had last bathed. They’d both been off by more than three months. “I’ll do it.” Tucking renegade curls into her loose bun, she rounded the bar and braced herself for the stench. “You won the toss fair and square.”

The barkeep grinned “That I did. Maybe I’ll horn in on a card game tomorrow. Got me a pocket full of... Ah, blazes.”

“What?”

“I plumb forgot to give you this.” He repocketed a wad of cash and passed her a folded letter. “Came with the mail when the stage passed through. We got busy and . . . dang. Sorry, Jane.”

She waved off his apology, heart skipping when she noted the originating town. She broke the wax seal and read. Her knees gave way. Fortunately, there was a chair in the vicinity of her backside.

“Bad medicine?” Johnson asked.

“Unexpected,” she croaked.
Change
.

“I’ll tend to Skeet,” he said, and hurried off.

Stunned, she reread the letter. A meticulously written missive from Sister Maria of San Fernando, a Mexican convent devoted to educating and caring for young girls. The sister’s English was impeccable.

I regret to inform you that we are no longer able to care for your sister’s daughter. Frankie is disruptive and unhappy. We do not have the energy or time to track her down when she continually runs away. She’s determined to live with family, Miss Murdock, and due to the unfortunate circumstances, that would be you. We’ll expect you by month’s end.

Except Frankie wouldn’t be safe with her.

Not as long as Bulls-Eye Brady breathed free air.

Her heart bucked harder than a wild horse. Thoughts--past, present, and future--collided. Unfulfilled dreams. Missed opportunities. Bad judgment. Every action had brought her to this moment. Lucky in cards, unlucky in life.

“You were wrong, Daddy,” she whispered. “You can’t cheat fate.”

She snapped back to reality. Kat Simmons’s reality. Her shoulders sagged with the weight of her snap decision, but she quickly straightened, conviction singing through her blood. Even though she didn’t know spit about rearing a kid, even though she’d hoped the girl would benefit from a better influence, it was time to embrace the hand dealt. Time to stop hiding. Time to take the bull, or rather Bulls- Eye, by the horns. She’d do anything to keep the notorious and deadly outlaw away from her only surviving blood.

That included hunting down the killer.

Body vibrating with anxiety and purpose, Kat pushed to her feet and stalked past Johnson, the missive clenched in her hand.

Arms full of drunken Skeet, he yelled after her as she breached the swinging doors and moved into the night. “Where ya headin’?”

“To set things right.”

It was her.

He didn’t ask outright. Didn’t want to scare her off. He’d spent a good hour nursing a beer at a corner table, slouch hat tugged low to conceal the upper portion of his face. He’d been stone silent, minding his own business, a nameless, faceless drifter. After an initial once-over, the barkeep didn’t pay him much mind. She paid him even less. He’d watched her plenty, though.

At an opportune moment, he slipped away and mounted up. Too dark to navigate the terrain safely, he camped on the fringes of town.

It was her.

She’d worked hard to conceal her true identity. Changed her name. Altered her appearance, her demeanor. She’d bamboozled him at first--fresh faced and dressed down--but he knew that voice, that smile. Only now she was stingy with her good humor, reserving that playful grin for a well-heeled protector--six-shooter at his side, shotgun nearby. A big cuss with arms the size of a barrel cactus. Testing the barkeep’s patience by fishing for confirmation seemed foolhardy. Besides, there was no need. It was her. He’d bet his life on it.

Bedded down and staring up at the stars, he contemplated the truth of it. His life was at risk. If he was wrong, Bulls-Eye would do worse than shooting off the tip of his finger like he’d done last time he’d messed up. If he was right... he’d win back his place in the Ace-in-the-Hole gang. Bulls-Eye was slick and ruthless, but he had one weakness--and Elroy had found her.

His cousin had ventured into Arizona Territory twice before, and Elroy remembered well the chosen hideout. A cautious and superstitious cuss, chances were he’d taken refuge in that same spot. At the crack of dawn Elroy would ride hard for the Rincons.

Yes, sir. After a year of misfortune, the future looked bright. “Hot damn,” he muttered to the moon. “I’m turnin’ back time.”

Gila Gulch

Boston’s parting words gave Rome food for thought. He feasted through the night and the better part of the morning, chewing on the rise and fall of the man he’d fought hard to become.

Tracking outlaws and bringing them to justice, one way or another, was his calling. The passion bone deep and ages old. The skills that set him apart from his older brothers. Skills that made him feel worthy in their eyes and good about himself. As role models, they were damned intimidating.

London, the eldest, had adopted the role of caretaker when their parents had died less than a year apart. He’d forfeited his own dreams, for family. Ran the inherited Gilded Garrett Opera House and ran it well, for family. He provided, he lectured, he guided. Never mind these days the siblings were grown and self-reliant. The man was a patriarch to be reckoned with.

Athens was the mediator. The calm and wise one. The one who’d reasoned with an irate father, saving a then eighteen-year-old Rome from a shotgun wedding. The one who’d kept the brothers sane when their little sister, Paris, had run away to pursue a music career. The diplomat, the lawyer, the state legislator who, after losing his wife, retired from the political whirlwind to devote more time to his children. Athens--the saint.

When the Lord passed out selfless qualities, Rome had been loitering near the end of the line flirting with an angel. London had a tight rein on his emotions, his temper, and his sexual urges. Rome did not. When it came to dispensing justice, Athens preferred brains to brawn, words to guns. Rome did not.

He was hotheaded and fearless, a tad reckless and a lot fond of women, whiskey, and cards. He craved attention, adulation, and fame. He was more his theatrical parents’ offspring than any of his siblings, except for Paris. Paris, however, had conquered her aversion to matrimony. Rome had not.

He worshiped women. But he didn’t aim on hitching himself to one . . . ever. Hard to promise his heart to a lady when a she-devil had blown it to hell. Just thinking on Kat and their last few days--the lies; the betrayals; the angry, hurtful words--churned his innards.

He sat up on the cot and stuffed down the ugly emotions.

When tender ones welled, he stuffed those, too. “Dammit.” Now his chest pained him as bad as his head. Too much whiskey. Too much recollecting. Soul searching was downright painful.

The front door slammed open and closed. People stirred. He heard multiple voices, though he couldn’t make out the words. Must be Gaffey and a couple of his boys come to avenge Wild-Man Dan. Would Marshal Burke allow them to drag him off and hang him vigilante style? Or would he insist on a trial? Seeing most officials these days were crooked enough to sleep on a corkscrew, innocent or not, Gaffey could still get his way via a public necktie party. One thing was certain, Rome wouldn’t leave this world without a fight.

The afternoon sun blazed through the lone, barred window, shedding light on his surroundings and lending clarity to his predicament. Arrested for killing a desperado. Locked up for aiding a defenseless woman. Alienated from Boston, the only brother who actually looked up to him. Damn. He hadn’t thought he could sink lower than having his sexual indiscretions publicized.

He’d thought wrong.

“Mucker”

The voices in the other room rivaled the one in his head.

He massaged his throbbing temples and made a pact with Him. If he got out of this alive, he’d purge himself of his bad habits.

Philandering.

Whiskey.

Thinking of Kat.

The connecting door slammed open.

His head snapped up. “Hell.”

London Garrett’s grey mood blackened when he saw the subject of Boston’s tirade locked up, just as he’d said, looking ragged as a gambler on a losing streak. A far cry from the dapper, cock-assured Rome the family accepted and loved. His fair hair was long and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot and his jaw shadowed with a week’s growth of stubble. His handsome features had been considerably compromised, by lack of sleep and overindulgence.

He’d known Rome’s pride had taken a powerful hit, his reputation and career shredded, but he’d assumed he’d bounce back after letting off steam. Apparently he didn’t know his brother as well as he thought he did. London tucked away his concern, handling the situation as he and Athens had agreed. “You look like shit.”

The tarnished dime-novel hero rubbed his hands over his face, transforming his haggard expression into one of shining amusement. “That’s a helluva salutation.”

“Apologies.” London removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh, stirring up a cloud of trail dust. “Morning . . . you selfish son of a bitch.”

“You could kill a man with that sarcasm of yours,” Rome said with a wry grin. “Deadly as ever.” He neared the iron bars, his normally fashionable attire wrinkled, his breath reeking of liquor. The smile slipped. “Guess Boston rode over to Phoenix.”

“Good guess.”

“Tell you what I’m in for?”

“He did.”

“Tell you I chased him off?”

“Told me you’re a horse’s ass.”

“Guess you didn’t correct him.”

London hitched back his duster, braced his hand on his hip. “Here’s the deal.”

“You mean the lecture.”

“Marshal Burke wants you gone. He knows who you are. Knows you’ve got brothers in Phoenix--one with political connections. Knows you’ve got ties with Josh and Seth.”

Rome grunted and London knew it was due to his volatile relationship with the latter two. Joshua Grant was their brother-in-law. Josh’s friend, Seth Wright, married their sister’s best friend, Emily--a woman the brothers considered family--which made Seth as good as kin. Both formidable and respected lawmen. Both Territory locals. Both at odds with Rome’s quick temper and questionable peacekeeping tactics. Regardless, they’d stand up for him... or catch hell from their wives. A body, especially a bootlicker like Burke, wouldn’t want to be on the bad side of two Arizona Rangers turned frontier peace officers. He’d told Boston to fetch the county sheriff--Seth--to escort Rome away from Gila Gulch and a bad sort named Newt Gaffey.

“Burke knows you shot that dove-beater in self-defense,” London continued. “He doesn’t want trouble should anyone try to prove different.”

“So why am I still standing on the wrong side of these bars?”

“‘Cause I’ve got a stipulation.”

“Christ almighty, London.” He pushed away and smacked the wall. “I’m not a damned kid anymore.”

“Then stop acting like one.” London tamped down his temper, something that proved unusually difficult these days. Athens was the diplomat. This was his plan. But instead of negotiating the deal, he’d sent his older brother to play the bad egg while he rode off with Boston to play hero. One way or another London was always looking after a sibling instead of seeing to his own life. Not that he generally minded. Just lately.

“You got a raw deal in the Smith case,” he went on. “But it could’ve been worse.”

“The cuckolded blowhard could’ve shot off the family jewels.” Rome grunted. “You’ve mentioned a time or four.”

“Life’s what you make it, and you’re making a mess. Wouldn’t care if you weren’t family. Wouldn’t care if our sister--”

“Is Paris alright?”

“Depends on your definition of the word. She’s worried sick over your descent into idle carousing. Given her delicate condition, that’s unsettling, wouldn’t you say?”

To his credit, Rome averted his gaze. “Didn’t mean to upset her.”

“Guess you didn’t mean to upset your niece and nephew either.”

He came as close as the bars would allow. “What’s wrong with Zoe and Zach?”

Rome had a soft spot for those kids, kids and women in general. London didn’t shy from using the knowledge to his advantage. “The other children in town are teasing them about your publicized drunken brawls. Zach earned another black eye defending your honor. Zoe’s refusing to attend church. Can’t imagine how they’re going to react when they get wind of this mess.”

“I didn’t want to venture too far from the region. Wanted to be near when Paris gave birth.” He massaged the back of his neck. “I’m in a bad place, dammit. And I’m not talking about this cell.”

“Stow it.” London hardened himself to the shame in Rome’s eyes. His brother was a good soul, but a troubled one. Too arrogant. Too stubborn and impulsive. He needed direction because he was sure as hell lost. “Gossip travels. Like I have to tell you.”

“Would you just give me the damned stipulation so I can get out of this stink hole?”