An Unlikely Lady Page 6

  Honesty looked into the pleading gray eyes and felt her resistence crumble. She knew what Rose was doing, giving her a chance to seize her dreams.

  But at what cost?

  She thought about the packed valise waiting on her bed, the measly twelve dollars trapped in an old mason jar, and a worn map that hid a mysterious truth somewhere in its crooked lines. More, she thought about how Rose had opened her doors to a frightened orphan on the run, with no questions asked.

  And Honesty knew the battle was lost before it had begun. “All right,” she sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

  After rewarding her with a blinding smile, Rose turned to Jesse. “Now, what about you, Jesse?”

  Honesty waited for his answer with bated breath. His eyes glittered like chips of ice, and his jaw was set so hard she wondered that he didn’t break his teeth. He reminded Honesty of a trapped animal, waiting for the doors of a cage to open so he could spring free. Oh, how she knew the feeling.

  “If I’m busy banging out tunes, who will keep an eye on your customers if they get too rowdy?”

  “Oh, me and Honesty’ll handle the customers. You just provide the music.”

  He turned to Honesty then, and stared at her in silence for several long, tense moments. She had no idea what he was thinking when he looked at her like that, but the grim set of his mouth told her louder than words that he didn’t much care for what he saw.

  “Yes,” he finally said in a flat tone, “I’m sure the customers will be well satisfied.”

  Chapter 5

  Jesse strode outside to the porch, feeling as if he’d barely survived a twister with his hide intact. In the space of twenty-four hours, two women had taken control of his well-laid plans and turned them upside down. And all because he’d set out to repay a debt he owed to a man who’d saved his life.

  What the hell kind of trouble had this cursed assignment landed him in now? More important, how was he going to get out of it? He didn’t have time to dally away the next week in this two-bit town.

  Unfortunately, damsels in distress had always been his weakness.

  Propping the bottom of his foot against the wall, he leaned back and scanned the darkened town with cynical distaste. Mountains loomed before him, capped peaks shimmering in a haze of setting sun. Shadows crept along the ground from the trunks of aspens and bounced off the sides of rocks in every shade from sand to rust. Far in the distance, a train whistle blew.

  Rebirth? Hell, Scarlet wanted a miracle. Oh, Last Hope had been a grand place once, that was evident. In its heyday, it had probably never known a moment’s peace. He imagined raucous laughter pouring from the eight saloons, and dance hall trulls calling out their wares; merchants conducting business on every corner, and bankers discussing the latest hike in ore prices. There may even have been a few ladies strolling down the boardwalk, parasols shading their delicate skin as they passed by shops with hats, dresses, children’s toys, and hand-made furniture, while miners, the backbone of the community, led their pack-laden mules down the center of the road and traded nuggets for new handles, pans, and picks.

  Yeah, Last Hope had probably been a grand place once. Now it was just tired and dreary, a broken-down poverty-stricken skeleton of what it once had been.

  Much like he felt.

  When had it happened? he wondered. During the Appleton Stagecoach heists? While chasing the James Younger gang? He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but it had been creeping up on him for some time now. And that last job . . .

  If anyone had told him he’d tire of being a Pinkerton Agent, he’d have laughed himself loony. Twelve years ago, fed by noble intentions and an outrage at injustice, Jesse had packed his boots, his hat, and his horse and walked out of his father’s upper-crust Chicago house. He’d been young and rash and reckless—hell on hooves, McParland used to say. No assignment was too dangerous, no subject too elusive. He’d spent every waking moment racing from one end of the country to the other, rooting out the bad seeds of society, and he’d loved every blazing moment.

  Until the day obsession for the job gave way to passion for a woman, and landed him six months in the deepest bowels of hell.

  That had been the beginning, Jesse thought. What he felt lately seemed to go beyond tired, though. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t define it, yet he felt it sucking at him like quicksand around his ankles, draining the life out of him. He’d spent so long immersed in a world of deception and intrigue, pretending to be someone he wasn’t just to expose the criminals, that he didn’t even know who he was anymore. As soon as he found McGuire and took him back to Denver, he wanted to . . . to . . .

  Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted. But it sure wasn’t to stick around this pathetic excuse for a town, or use a rusty talent he’d rejected years ago just to entertain a bunch of traveling drunks.

  Jesse sighed and stared up into the overcast sky. Damn Scarlet for manipulating him with her sad story and bartered solutions.

  And damn Honesty, too, for touching something inside him with her voice that hadn’t been touched in years. Not since the day he’d discovered his father’s duplicity had he allowed music to bond him with another soul. But for a moment there, he’d felt closer to Honesty than he’d felt toward anyone in a long, long time. Hadn’t he learned his lesson?

  Obviously not, or he wouldn’t have gotten himself involved in another woman’s problems.

  Well, he’d play for Scarlet; he’d given his word. At least he’d have a soft bed to sleep in each night and a hot meal in his stomach each day. And considering his pockets were emptier than a dead man’s eyes, he needed the extra cash to restock on supplies.

  But then he was out of here.

  And in the meantime, he’d keep as far away from Honesty as the situation would allow.

  As if to mock his decision, the door opened and she stepped out onto the porch. She gave no sign of noticing that he stood a few short feet to the left, in the shadow of the overhang. Jesse opened his mouth to make her aware of his presence, then held his tongue. He really had nothing to say to her; she was part of the reason he was in this mess.

  Then she stepped off the porch and made a right turn down the boardwalk, her head bent, her step swift, and the chance was lost anyway.

  Jesse started to go after her, but stopped himself and leaned back against the post with his thumbs plugged into his waistband. Where Honesty went and what she did with her time were her business. Still, she was obviously upset about something, and he had a good idea what it was. He couldn’t forget her expression the instant Scarlet brought up performing for the passengers; her creamy complexion had gone a ghastly gray shade, the luster in her eyes vanished, and her shoulders lost a measure of their proud carriage.

  One of the things that drew him to Honesty was the almost regal aura she had about her, her way of taking command of a situation without saying a word. But at that moment she had seemed to shrink before his very eyes. Why she’d be so reluctant to share that beautiful voice with others, Jesse couldn’t figure. Talent like that shouldn’t be kept in a bottle.

  Yet the emotion in her eyes was beyond simple reluctance. It had bordered on panic.

  What was she so afraid of?

  They’d find her for certain.

  The thought pounded through Honesty’s brain in tempo with her footsteps, drowning out the hollow clack of her heels on the boardwalk. She couldn’t remember what excuse she made when she walked out of the Scarlet Rose, but it must have sounded reasonable, because neither Rose nor Jesse made any move to stop her. Nor did they come after her, much to her relief. Rose had wasted no time diving into plans for the inspired event, and Jesse . . . she didn’t know where he’d taken himself off to, nor did she give a tinker’s care. If not for him playing that cussed piano, she’d not be in this predicament. Word would get out, and once it did, the shadows she’d acquired soon after her father’s death would reattach themselves to her backside. And this time, Honesty feared she wouldn’t be able to shake the
m.

  Oh, why had she agreed to sing for the passengers? Had she lost the last ounce of common sense she’d been born with? She empathized with Rose, but she hadn’t sung in public in months—not since that horrible night of her father’s murder.

  Even now, the memory had the power to make her throat tighten and her stomach pitch. They’d only been in Durango a few days when Deuce made himself a regular customer at the Miner’s Delight, a fancy dance hall and gambling parlor all in one stick. As was their ritual, he ingratiated himself with the management and soon convinced them that their profits would increase tenfold if they allowed Honesty to sing. Little did they know that Deuce had been using the same ploy for as long as Honesty could remember: while she acted as a decoy and distracted the audience, he worked the crowds—picking pockets, playing with stacked decks, selling deeds to mines that didn’t exist . . . mostly penny-ante stunts that did little harm, but that often led to quick escapes deep in the night.

  On a particularly dismal evening after one of her performances, Honesty found him slumped over a table, sotted out of his senses. They’d taken rooms only a few doors down, but Deuce was a brawny man, and there was no way she’d have gotten him home if not for the assistance of Robert Treat.

  In retrospect, Honesty should have guessed Robert’s true character right off, but at the time she’d been too smitten to notice. Any girl would have been, she supposed, for he cut a slick and dashing figure in his fine frock coat and silk bowler, and his courtly manners could make a pauper feel like a princess.

  It took Honesty only a week to realize that the man she thought her Prince Charming was nothing more than a blackguard in disguise.

  She fought off the memory as she wandered through the deserted streets and alleyways, but it did little to ease the constriction in her chest or the knot of anxiety in her middle. As she stepped off the boardwalk and onto the packed dirt road by the crumbling foundation of the former bank, a gust of moist air hit her full in the face. Honesty wrapped her arms around herself. The weather had been the last thing on her mind when she’d left the saloon; now she wished she’d thought to bring a wrap. There was a sharp bite to the wind, even for June, and the scent of coming rain lay heavy in the air.

  But the weather didn’t have as much to do with the chill settling in her bones as the memories haunting her. The evening of Deuce’s murder had begun like any other evening. She wore a low-cut, high-hemmed gown designed to keep the audience’s attention on her. Thick smoke hovered above the heads of two dozen rowdy spectators; the crowd, made up mostly of miners and merchants, with a few cowboys from the outlying ranches thrown in, voiced their approval of her performance with shouts and whistles that Honesty accepted with practiced grace. The attention always made her uncomfortable, but she’d learned to deal with it.

  During the second stanza of “Johnny Sands,” Honesty spotted Robert approaching her father’s table. The two spoke for a moment, and though the conversation appeared amiable, her father’s stiff-jawed expression told a different story.

  “What did he want?” she asked, going to Deuce’s side after the song was over.

  He brightened immediately at the sight of her. “Ach, nothing to worry your bonny head aboot. Now, get back onstage, me sweet Honesty, and sing for our supper.”

  Honesty barely remembered getting through the rest of her show. The room seemed to have shrunk tighter than wool in hot water, and each step on the stage felt like a path to the gallows. Something was terribly, terribly wrong; her father’s brogue was hardly noticeable unless he was bothered by something. But Robert and Deuce had become quite the pals, and a dispute—especially in so public a place—just didn’t make she charged the uneasiness to the unusually wild crowd.

  She wished now that she’d listened to her instincts.

  During the last number, all hell broke loose. The front window exploded into tiny shards, then the chandeliers within. People screamed, ducked, and dived beneath tables, while others returned the gunfire. Dodging the barrage of bullets, Deuce pushed his way through the frenzied crowd, flying glass, and choking smoke to reach her. He all but shoved her off the stage and out a back door she hadn’t known existed.

  They ran until Honesty thought her lungs would burst, and Deuce finally dragged them into an alley.

  “No matter what happens, lass, remember that I love ye with all me heart.”

  “Oh, Papa, what have you done?”

  “I canna tell ye now, but ye’ll know all there is to know soon enough. Should we be parted, run as far away as ye can and I’ll find ye. Go back the way we came and do no’ trust a soul, ye ken? Trust no one.”

  She wanted to demand he tell her what was going on, but the urgency in his tone compelled her only to nod.

  Then Robert appeared at the mouth of the alley, blocking their escape. “Thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you, McGuire? Thought you could sneak off, welch on our deal, and I’d just forget about it?”

  Honesty remembered staring at her father in surprise. Few knew his real name; it was safer that way. Why would he have told Robert?

  “I’m not sneakin’ off. I told ye inside, I don’t have it with me. I have to go get it.”

  “And you expect me to believe you’ll return?”

  “I told ye I would, didn’t I?”

  “Your word is worthless, McGuire. Honesty, come to me,” Robert coaxed in a silky tone that sent shudders down her spine.

  Her father’s grip on her arm turned bruising. “Ye’re not gettin’ the lass, Treat.”

  “You think not?” Robert raised his arm, and moonlight glittered off the pearl-handled pistol gripped in his hand. “Send her to me and no one gets hurt.”

  “What’s this about, Robert?”

  “Perhaps you should ask your father.”

  “Papa?”

  “‘Tis nothin’, lass.”

  “Nothing?” Robert barked. “Your father and I had a gentlemen’s agreement and he is trying to break it. You are my insurance. When he holds up to his end of our bargain, I’ll release you.”

  Deuce instantly pushed Honesty behind him and withdrew his pistol. “You’ll take her over me dead body!”

  Robert smiled then. “That can also be arranged.”

  Her memory grew vague after that. The crack of bullets, the acrid stench of gunpowder, and the sight of Robert lying lifeless on the alley floor while Honesty and her father ran for the train station and jumped the first car leaving Durango . . . It wasn’t until they’d sunk against the car’s plank walls, and she caught sight of his blood-soaked shirt front, that she realized how prophetic his words would be.

  “Papa? Oh, God . . .” She scrambled to his side and gathered his bulky form in her arms.

  “My sweet Honesty, there’s somethin’ you must know . . .”

  “Don’t talk, Papa.” Frantically she tried to stem the blood that gushed from his middle. “We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

  He caught her hand in a frighteningly feeble grip and whispered, “Listen to me, lass, there isna much time.”

  Her breath caught on a sob.

  “I done ye wrong, and I pray ye can find it in yer heart to forgive me.”

  “Papa, please . . .”

  “That’s what I must tell ye.” His head lolled to the side, and the light in his blue eyes dimmed. “The truth is . . .”

  “What?” she asked, unable to catch his fading words.

  “. . . Hidden in the flowin’ stones . . .”

  And he was gone.

  Honesty swiped at her damp eyes. God, how she missed him. His gruff voice, that gravelly brogue. His thick arms and long flame-red hair with the balding spot at the crown . . .

  Oh, curse Jesse for playing that song! Curse him for coming to Last Hope in the first place. She’d kept a low profile since that fateful night, making her way north, town to town, mine to mine, saloon to saloon, searching for the secret he’d taken to his grave. She hadn’t sung since.

  Until this mornin
g.

  And because of it, because of Jesse and his resurrection of days best forgotten, she was once again committed to putting herself on public display.

  She should have left town the minute she’d woken up in his bed. No, she should have left town long before that, as she’d originally planned. She’d managed fine without anyone’s help before.

  But somehow she hadn’t been able to bring herself to abandon Rose. And now . . .

  “You shouldn’t be wandering out here alone.”

  Honesty jerked, startled as much by the sound of Jesse’s voice as the sight of him. She glanced around, aware for the first time that she’d circled back to the saloon. Her attention returned to him, where he leaned against the outside doorframe, knee bent, heel propped behind him. Despite his casual pose, she sensed a restless energy inside him.

  Honesty ignored the traitorous leap of her heart and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours.”

  “When I see a young woman putting herself in possible danger, I make it my concern.”

  “Danger from whom?”

  “Any scoundrel who finds his way into town.”

  Honesty gave him a scathing once-over. The remark hit too close to home. “The only scoundrel I see about is you.”

  “Really?” His brow lifted in mock surprise. “Just this morning I was the most incredible lover you’ve ever had.”

  Honesty grimaced. She should have figured he’d throw her own words back in her face. “What else would you call a man who rides in and worms his way into a job for reasons I have yet to fathom?”

  “I’d hardly call being backed into a corner worming my way into anything.”

  “You could have told her no.”