The Last Renegade (33 page)

He shrugged.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Uriah had no quarrel with the girl and none with her parents. He says he’ll shoot you himself if you do something like that again.”

“I bet he’d try.”

“He means it,” said Clay. “Take it elsewhere if that’s your pleasure.”

“Elsewhere?”

“Rawlins. Cheyenne. Denver, if you like. Keep it out of Bitter Springs. Uriah says if you step sideways again, he’s finished with you. More to the point, you’ll be finished.”

“You said she was a whore.”

“A sweet one. Helpful, too. All sass and ass, that’s what I
thought. Uriah, though, says differently, and he’s the one putting money in your account.” Clay took a swallow of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What did you do with the whiskey drummer that went missing when she did?”

“I find it interesting that you’re asking me.”

“Who should I be asking?”

The man shrugged. “Is Uriah worried about him?”

“About him being found.”

“I don’t think that’s likely, Clay, do you?”

“Christ, you make me want to shoot you myself.”

“You can try.”

Clay didn’t accept the challenge. “Who’s next?”

“I haven’t decided. There’s opportunity and circumstance to be considered. You see how they all congregate like flies on pie. Dr. Kent was here earlier. That doesn’t happen too often.”

Clay looked around. He quickly spotted Richard Allen, Harry Sample, and David Rogers at a table with the Davis boys. Clifton and Wheeler were together at the bar. McCormick, Dick Faber, and Paul Reston were scattered.

“Matt Sharp isn’t here. He’s out by himself on his farm. That’s an opportunity.”

“There’s a reason that your father hired me.” He stopped, left the rest unsaid.

“You think I’m wrong?” asked Clay, pressing.

“Sharp isn’t alone. His family is with him. His farm is isolated, difficult to approach without being seen, and an unlikely site for an accident.”

“So? Shoot him.”

The man sighed, sipped his beer. “I’ll think about it. I’m not as intemperate as you.”

Clay’s dark eyebrows lifted. “Then how do you explain Emily?”

“I don’t have to. You do.” He pushed his untouched beer at Clay and left the table without a backward glance.

Raine dropped the key to the apartment door in the empty vase. Closing her eyes, she pressed her fists to her temples and
massaged them. She could hear Kellen moving around the bedroom,
her
bedroom, and the headache that had been nagging at her all day, chipping away at her calm, finally rolled through her skull like thunder.

Her headache powder was in a cabinet in the bathing room, which meant that she could not avoid Kellen. It was her hope, then, to avoid a confrontation, and failing that, to avoid a loud one.

His trunks were in her bedroom, and the wardrobe that had been in the other room was now on the opposite wall from hers. He had almost finished unpacking his clothes. He stopped when she entered, looked her over, and then resumed what he was doing.

Raine hurried into the bathing room. She turned on the tap, found the packet of powder that the druggist recommended, and mixed it with water using her index finger as a spoon. She drank it down and chased away the bitter aftertaste with a second glass of water. Bracing her arms on the edge of the sink, she waited for the wave of light-headedness to pass before she removed all the pins and combs from her hair. The combs fell in the sink, but the pins scattered on the floor. She left them there. A second wave of dizziness caught her unprepared as she turned away from the mirror. She would have stumbled, probably fallen, if Kellen hadn’t suddenly appeared at her elbow to steady her.

“When did you last eat?” he asked.

She frowned, trying to recall.

“If you can’t remember, then it was too long ago.” He had one hand firmly under her elbow, the other at the small of her back, and was prepared to guide her to bed, but when her feet didn’t move when he nudged her, he picked her up and carried her. The fact that the only sound she made was all surprise and no protest told him that she was in a bad way.

Kellen set her down gently. “Is it a headache?”

She nodded, winced.

“Don’t move. Was that medicine I saw you drinking?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Just lie still. Close your eyes. Let me help you.” He made short work of her shoes, stockings, skirt, and the
tailored cuirass bodice. He removed her bustle for the second time that day and then freed her from the corset. He could see the imprint of the steel stays in the cotton camisole and did not have to see the soft flesh of her abdomen to know there would be similar markings.

When she was down to her camisole and drawers, Kellen helped Raine get under the blankets. She murmured something he couldn’t make out when he tucked her in. “I’m going to the kitchen and find you some food. You don’t have to eat anything now, but you might want it later. Do you understand? I’m going to leave you alone.”

“S’fine.”

Kellen stoked the fire in the stove before he left. His foray to the hotel’s kitchen was brief. He found a couple of rolls in the bread box and took an apple from the bulky sack leaning against a table leg. He found an open jar of blackberry preserves and tucked it under his arm. Carefully balancing the foodstuffs, a knife, and his lamp, he returned to the third floor.

As quick as he had been, Raine was already sleeping when he returned. Kellen cleared space on the nightstand on Raine’s side of the bed and laid out the rather meager feast. He turned back the lamp, undressed in the semidarkness, and then extinguished the lamp altogether. He felt his way back to the other side of the bed and crawled in.

Raine stirred but didn’t wake. Kellen put the back of his hand to her forehead. She wasn’t fevered, merely exhausted. He edged closer but kept a clear space between them. He thought she’d probably have something to say about the sleeping arrangement when she woke. Kellen was less sure that he’d be around to hear it. There hadn’t been any time to tell her that he was riding out to the Burdick ranch in the morning.

It was still dark when Raine woke. The time did not matter to her. She felt surprisingly rested and alert. The headache had vanished, and when she tentatively tested the waters by turning her head first one way, then the other, there was no pain, no rolling thunder, and most important, no dizziness.

She was aware of Kellen sleeping beside her. She’d have something to say about that when he awoke, but she was too hungry to dwell on the particulars of that conversation. It was tempting to delay getting something to eat, especially when the bed was comfortably warm and any movement outside of it was bound to be cold and unpleasant, but the emptiness in her stomach was a real ache and required her attention.

She eased out of bed, attended to the fire, and then found her robe and slippers and put them on. It wasn’t until she was in the kitchen, elbow deep in the bread box, that the vague memory of Kellen offering to get her something to eat tugged at her consciousness. She wondered how much she could rely on such a foggy memory and decided that she couldn’t. True, she voted with her stomach. Its rumbling really could not be ignored.

Raine cut a thick slice of oat bread and drizzled it with honey. She bit into it while she pushed the stool closer to the table and sat down. The oil lamp bobbled when she bumped the table with her knee, and the pool of light around it quivered. Raine watched it until it stilled, and then she stilled as she heard the back door open. Footsteps marched in place as the person shook off the cold and the dirt from his shoes. It lasted only a few moments, and then there was silence in the stairwell.

She held her breath, waiting to see if the intruder would enter through the kitchen or climb the stairs to the guest rooms. Would the lamplight draw him to the kitchen to investigate or turn him away? Her hand slid across the table toward the knife block. Raine knew better than to suppose it was Walt on the other side of the kitchen door, and it certainly wasn’t Mrs. Sterling come to get an early start on her bread. Neither one of them would have hesitated as this person was doing.

She decided she would rather know than always wonder, and if the intruder fled when she called out, then that was all right, too.

Raine set her oat bread on the table and turned a little toward the door. Her fingers hovered over the handle of the carving knife. “Who’s there?”

The kitchen door opened, and Mr. Jones stepped in.

As casually as she could, Raine let her hand fall back to the table. Her fingertips grazed the knife block. “Mr. Jones. What on earth—”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Sciatica.” He limped toward her. “Aggravated by the sprain, I suspect. I spoke to the druggist about it, and he gave me something that smells like licorice but tastes like tar.”

“Mr. Burnside is a great believer in the worse it tastes, the better it is for you.” Raine noted his pinched features, particularly the tightness around his mouth. “It doesn’t seem to be working in your case.”

Jones shrugged. “I’ll try it for a few more days. Walking helps. Standing is tolerable. It’s lying down that is so painful.” He leaned against the table. “Is it true that you and Mr. Coltrane are married?”

Raine blinked. “Who told you that?”

“I had it a little while ago from Mr. Eli Burdick himself.”

Kellen was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes, when he heard Raine come through the door. He swiveled around so he could see her when she came into the bedroom. As soft as the light was from the oil lamp, it still forced him to squint to make her out. Oddly, the first thing he noticed was the plate of food in her hand.

He pointed to the nightstand. “I brought you something to eat earlier.”

“I was already in the kitchen when I thought I remembered you talking about it.” She placed her plate on the chest and returned the lamp to the nightstand. “Why are you up?”

“I was going to look for you, but since you’re here…” He lay back down and turned on his side, dragging the covers up to his shoulders as he made a nest for himself. He closed his eyes.

Raine kicked off her slippers and shrugged out of her robe. She compared the food that he brought her against what she’d made herself. The blackberry preserves decided her. She left her plate on the chest and climbed into bed beside him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Spreading preserves on a roll. There are two of them. Do you want one?”

He didn’t open his eyes, and his voice was partially muffled by his pillow. “What time is it?”

“I’m not sure. I never looked. Somewhere between three and four, I imagine.” His soft groan spoke eloquently of his distress. “It’s just as well that I went downstairs when I did. I was witness to Mr. Jones returning from a very late night walk. He came in the back door, which I found peculiar because it’s so dark behind the hotel. I told him from now on that he should come in at the front, that’s if his sciatica doesn’t improve and he has to venture out again to take his mind off the pain.”

“Is your headache gone?”

Raine supposed that it was telling Kellen about Mr. Jones’s pain that prompted his question. “Yes.” She put down the knife and bit into her roll. The blackberry preserves were sweet on her tongue. She savored the bite and then spoke around it. “You heard what I said about Mr. Jones, didn’t you?”

“Every word. Swallow.”

She gave him a sour look that he couldn’t appreciate because he remained steadfast in his determination to keep his eyes closed. She swallowed. “Did you tell Eli that we’re married?”

“Yes. I said I would.”

“I saw that you talked to him for a long time, but he never said anything to me before he left. Neither did you. Mr. Jones asked me about it. He said he heard it from Eli.”

“I didn’t see Eli with Jones this evening. Jones and Clay were together for a spell. Maybe he meant Clay.”

“Clay sat with a lot of people tonight, mostly I think he didn’t want to sit with you, but then he never spent time with Eli again either.” She took another bite of her roll. “Anyway, Mr. Jones heard it from Eli on the street, not in the bar, and definitely not from Clay. Eli and Clay must have gone down to Whistler’s Saloon when I started closing up. I thought they were leaving town, but I guess not, because Mr. Jones heard Eli telling Clay all about our marriage as they were leaving
Whistler’s. The explanation involved something about a sewing machine and a thresher.”

“Mail order. That’s what he meant.”

“Oh.” She finished the roll, dusted off her hands, and cut into the apple. Her mouth watered. “How did Eli take it?”

“Well, he didn’t shoot me.”

“Do you want a slice of this apple? It’s crisp.” She took his groan as refusal. “So how did you explain it to him?”

Kellen punched his pillow once and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes, which was a mistake because he saw the apple. He put out his hand, palm up. “Eve.”

She glanced at him sideways. “Did you say ‘Eve’?”

“Please. I said please.”

Raine dropped a slice into his hand. “It sounded like you said ‘Eve.’”

“Huh.” He ate the apple slice, and then related everything he’d told Eli.

Raine took it all in, and skepticism slowly gave way to astonishment. “He believed you? He actually believed I turned down his proposals because I couldn’t bear to see him estranged from his father?”

“He certainly seemed to.” Kellen offered a modest shrug. “But then I was convincing. I almost believed it myself.”

She gave him another slice of apple. “Lies come easy to you, don’t they?”

“Well, I suppose it depends on your perspective. Lying is difficult, but telling a story? That comes naturally.”

Raine chuckled. “Not to Ted Rush it doesn’t. I think he must have told everyone tonight how it could have been his neck that was broken because he has a porch and steps and sometimes even walks on them.”

Kellen finished his apple wedge and shook his head when she offered him another. “Ted’s mistake is that he’s always at the center of the story. He’d do better if he observed more and took himself out of it. Like Walt. He tells a good tale because he watches people, pays attention to the details.”