Wildfire in His Arms (4 page)

And John needed to catch this killer? John, who was married with kids of his own? What sort of favor would Degan be doing for John if he only captured the less dangerous outlaws on the list? He decided to grab the two who were nearby and throw in Bixford as a bonus before going on to California.

*  *  *

Degan was putting the wanted posters back in John's satchel when there was a knock at the door. He opened it, and a young man in a white apron nervously handed him a platter of fancy sandwiches and hurried away. It was more food than he needed and he only ate half of it. Then he made use of the bathing room at the end of the hall after the male attendant stationed there assured him it was cleaned after every use and handed him a fresh towel. A smaller tub was behind a screen in Degan's room, but it wasn't connected to plumbing and he didn't want to wait for water to be delivered.

An hour later he was saddling his horse in the nearby stable, which was where Helena's sheriff caught up with him. A tall man, the sheriff appeared confident with a rifle cradled in his arms. And brave, to have come without any of his deputies to back him up.

“We don't want any trouble here, mister, so I hope saddling your horse means you're leaving our fair town.”

Degan didn't feel like standing there explaining himself, so he merely said, “I'm a friend of Marshal Hayes. I believe you know him?”

“I do.”

“The marshal asked me to help him with his agenda, so if I bring you an outlaw or two to lock up, I assume you'll have room for them?”

“Certainly. That sort of help is always appreciated.”

Degan mounted up, tipped his hat, and rode out of the stable before the sheriff thought to ask him for his name. Possibly his reputation hadn't reached as far as Helena, but he couldn't count on that when people in Nashart and Butte knew that he was in the area. And the sheriff would know as well as Degan did that his name would bring other glory-seeking gunfighters to town. Whether he stayed there or not, they would still come looking for him.

He rode directly to the brothel that Dawson favored. The scantily clad women lounging in the large parlor perked up as he entered. He heard syrupy greetings and salacious promises. Two of them even pushed each other to get to him first. A third was seductively walking toward him when she noticed his demeanor—and his gun—and turned around. Her expression must have alerted the others. The women stopped trying to attract his attention. A few of them hurriedly left the room. He was used to that reaction. Women were more afraid of him than men, and they were less inclined to try to hide it, even women like the ones here whose company could be bought by anyone. And they didn't
know
him, knew nothing about him. Yet one close look at him and their instincts had them averting their eyes.

The madam, who was also in the parlor, was the only exception. Her job was to make sure every man who entered her domain left happy. Yet even she approached Degan nervously, though she didn't sound it when she said, “It's not often I meet a man who makes me regret that I'm a married woman now. They call me Chicago Joe. What are you in the mood for, ­mister?”

Three blondes were in the room, but none of them were as pretty as the one named Luella whom he'd seen standing at the window that morning bidding Dawson good-bye, and she was the one he was there to see. “I'm looking for Luella.”

“One of our favorites!” Chicago Joe smiled. “She's upstairs, but she isn't available right now. Can I offer you a drink while you wait, or perhaps another of our lovely . . . ?”

Degan didn't wait for her to finish. He headed up the stairs. No one tried to stop him. Luella's had been the corner room facing the street. The door wasn't locked, but she was with a customer. At least only Luella was in the rumpled bed. Her customer was still undressing to join her there. Both glanced immediately at Degan as he stepped into the room.

“I only need to have a few words with the lady,” he told the man. “You can either wait in the hall for her, or find another if you can't wait. But vacate—”

The man had already grabbed his shirt and boots and rushed past Degan with his head ducked down. Luella got out of bed and put on a thin robe before she turned to say, “A few words, huh? And aren't you the handsome one. Remove that gun and we'll get along just fine, mister.”

Degan could tell she was trying to be brave. Women usually did get bold with him once he removed his gun. But Luella was also inching her way toward her bureau, where she probably kept a weapon. Degan moved farther into the room to block her from doing something stupid.

“I'm not here for your charms. You're going to tell me where Max Dawson holes up when he's not paying you visits.”

She blinked before her brows snapped together. “No, I won't.”

“Are you sure about that?”

She rushed to the other side of the bed to put an obstacle between them. Degan realized he'd terrified her with his tone. Unintentionally. He would have liked to put her at ease, but that would defeat his purpose.

So Degan stated clearly, “If I have to wait around here for another week for Dawson to crawl through your window again, someone is bound to get shot during the arrest, particularly Dawson if he tries to run. His wanted poster doesn't say dead or alive, but it doesn't say he has to be alive, either.”

“How'd you even know to—? Oh, that was you across the street this morning. If you want Max, why didn't you just follow him then?”

“I didn't want him then. I do now.”

That was met with a few long moments of silence before she asked in a painfully hopeful voice, “You won't shoot Max if you don't have to?”

“No, I won't—if I don't have to.”

Degan had guessed that young Dawson had feelings for this girl, but he was surprised that she apparently returned those feelings—or at least, there was more between them than her just wanting to protect a paying customer.

So he added, “If you can point me in his direction and he can be taken by surprise, I can pretty much guarantee there won't be bloodshed. But if I have to capture him when he visits you again, he could end up lying dead at your feet. Either way, I am going to find him. So do you try to save his life or not?”

She sat on the edge of the bed, then looked over her shoulder at him so Degan could see that she was crying. Out of politeness, he managed not to snort, but he sure as hell wasn't gullible enough to fall for tears that could easily be faked. He wouldn't be moved by them even if he thought they were real. You had to feel something for someone to be affected by the person's tears, and he hadn't felt anything like that for a long time.

He still had to wait while she wrestled with her indecision, bit her lower lip a few times, and pleaded with her pretty blue eyes. Pointlessly.

She finally figured that out and even made a small, frustrated sound before she said, “Max found an abandoned shack up in the hills. Some fool miner built it years ago, thinking he could find gold on his own, away from the gulch where everyone else was finding it.”

“And how do you know that it was abandoned?”

She glared at him. “Max didn't shoot the miner, if that's what you're implying. There were mining tools left in it, holes dug all around it, even a dirt cave dug out of the hill next to the shack. Max was the one who made the guess, not me.”

“So you haven't been there?”

“No, I never get out of town. Max merely mentioned that he found it after we met last month and said he would be using it for a while. Said it's got a nice view of Helena, so I figured it must be higher up, probably in the forested hills on the way to the Big Belt Mountains.”

“But you're just guessing?”

“Well, there has to be game nearby 'cause Max brought us a deer last week and a passel of dead rabbits the week before.”

“That's how he pays for your services?”

“No, he does it just 'cause he's nice.”

“A nice murderer and bank robber?”

Luella thrust out her chin. “Max is innocent of those charges.”

“That's for a jury to decide, not you or me,” Degan said before he walked out of the room.

Z
ACHARY AND MARY CALLAHAN
were having coffee on the front porch of their ranch house when they noticed the cloud of dust heading their way.

“Were you expecting company this morning?” Zachary asked his wife.

“No.”

“Well, I don't have friends who would come calling in a buckboard. Can you make out who that is in it?”

“They aren't close enough,” Mary said, squinting. “But it looks like two bonnets, so I'm guessing it's Rose Warren and her maid.”

“Not with guards that aren't Warren men. I'd recognize their horses. And I thought you said Rose visited yesterday while I was on the range?”

“She did, but Tiffany and Hunter will be leaving for New York soon. And Rose did a lot of worrying about their marriage. You can't blame her for wanting to see for herself how well it's working out.”

“It's only been a week since the wedding. And those two don't come out of the bedroom long enough for anyone to figure out anything.”

Mary chuckled. “Actually, I'd worry myself—if they did. Or has it been so long you don't remember how we were when we first got hitched?”

He leaned over and kissed his wife tenderly. “If I didn't have a ranch to run . . .”

Mary giggled. “I'll remind you tonight that you said that.”

Glancing back at the dust cloud, he conceded, “I think you were right. That's a mighty big feather on one of those bonnets. No one in town other than our new daughter-in-law would own a hat like that, except for her mother.”

“I've changed my mind. I don't think Rose has even unpacked her bonnets yet. And she never wore them when she lived here before. She prefers wide brims same as I do, to keep the sun off her cheeks.”

“Then I give up.”

“Good, because if you'll just rein in your curiosity for a few more minutes you'll know exactly who is coming to visit.” But when the buckboard stopped in front of the porch, Mary added as she stood up to greet their visitors, “Or not.”

The young woman was definitely not from Nashart or any town close by. If the young woman weren't so richly garbed in navy silk, her black hair, blue eyes, and her age, which Mary guessed was midtwenties, would have made Mary think she was the real Jennifer Fleming, whom Frank Warren had hired from Chicago to be his housekeeper, the gal Tiffany had been pretending to be when she was
their
housekeeper. Mary couldn't take her eyes off the young woman's stylish clothing. Three rows of short ruffles ran down each side of the front of her jacket, from shoulders to waist in exquisite detail, with pearl buttons down the center. Another row of ruffles crossed the front of her skirt where it was draped back to form part of the bustle. It was just a traveling ensemble, and yet it would outshine the fanciest apparel at any of the shindigs in Nashart.

This was a lady, a rich city lady, and now Mary's curiosity was more rampant than her husband's. Ladies like this didn't come to Montana without a good reason.

The second woman was older and not as elegantly dressed. The two-man escort who had ridden on either side of the buckboard weren't local boys, either. Wearing city suits, bowler hats—and gun belts—they were definitely guards of some sort. One of them dismounted to help the women down from the buckboard. Zachary rose and walked to the top of the porch steps, Mary following him. Only the young lady and her chaperone walked toward the porch.

“Mr. and Mrs. Callahan, I hope?” the young lady asked.

“There are a lot of Callahans here and more'n one missus,” Zachary replied.

The lady seemed delighted despite the indirect answer. “Then I've come to the right place. I'm Allison Montgomery. This is my maid, Denise. We've traveled all the way from Chicago to find my fiancé, Degan Grant. The detectives I hired to locate him traced him to your ranch.”

“You're a bit late,” Zachary said. “Degan was working for me, but his job here is finished. He lit out last week after the wedding.”

Allison looked distraught. “He—he married?”

“He didn't, our son Hunter did,” Mary quickly put in. “But Degan never mentioned he had a fiancée.”

Zachary actually chuckled. “Nor would he. The man never talked about himself.”

Allison sighed. “I can't say I'm not disappointed that he's no longer here. Do you know where he was going when he left?”

“West, but that could be anywhere,” Zachary replied.

“Hunter might know more.” Mary then added to her husband, “Why don't you fetch him while I get some more coffee. You're welcome to come into the parlor to wait, Miss Montgomery. It's cooler in there.”

“Thank you, you are most kind.” Allison walked up the porch steps with her chaperone.