After Sundown (12 page)

Katja held her gaze steadily. “And regardless of the mistakes
you’ve
made in the past,” she pointed out softly, “you’re gentle and good-hearted and someone I’m proud to call my friend.” She ate the orange slice and put the rind aside.

Annie looked down. It wasn’t the same at all. Katja hadn’t been a man’s mistress, paid to share his bed—and nobody had lost his life at her hands.

Her throat tightening, Annie lifted her gaze. “I just wish... I wish...”

“That you could go back and change everything. Undo what happened.” Katja’s eyes filled with understanding. “That’s the one thing we can never do, Annie.” She shook her head. “All we can do is go on with our lives, and try to put the pieces together somehow. I know how hard prison is, and I don’t want you to suffer like that. Law and order are important... but so are mercy and forgiveness.”

Annie lowered her lashes.
Forgiveness
. How could she ask anyone’s forgiveness?

She couldn’t forgive herself for what she had done.

~ ~ ~

Lucas entered the general store through the back, as silent as the dust particles that drifted down from the rafters in the chilly morning air. He closed the door behind him and stood still, wary, letting his eyes adjust to the abrupt change from bright sunlight to the darkness of the storeroom. He slipped off his leather gloves and stuffed them in the pockets of his drover’s coat, listening. He didn’t hear a sound. No voices, no whispers.

No gaggle of females plotting Antoinette’s escape.

Damn. He supposed it had been too much to hope that he might overhear a few choice details of their scheme. Either Rebecca Greer really
was
indisposed this morning and Mrs. Owens really
was
busy—or the women were just smart enough to do their plotting somewhere else.

In any case, he was free to proceed with plan B.

Quietly, he slipped off his boots and left them next to a barrel of sugar. If Mrs. Greer had been telling the truth, she might still be around. He had seen a hand-lettered CLOSED sign in the window, and the front door was locked.

The back had been locked as well.

He wove his way through barrels and baskets and crates in the darkness, hunted for the stairs, and made his way stealthily to the living quarters above.

In the first room at the top of the steps, he discovered Mrs. Greer resting in bed, with the curtains drawn and what looked like a damp cloth over her eyes. She appeared to be asleep.

Maybe she was suffering a headache, or a fit of the vapors or some such. Women were said to be prone to all kinds of mysterious ailments. Or so he’d been told.

Without disturbing her, or announcing his presence in any way, he left her door and moved silently down the hallway, somewhat surprised that she had been telling the truth. It didn’t change his plans, however. This wouldn’t take long.

In minutes, he had checked the other rooms—kitchen, small parlor, office—and found the one that interested him.

The spare bedroom. The one Antoinette had occupied for two months before he arrived in town.

Lucas stepped inside and pushed the door partly closed behind him, leaving it open just enough so he would hear if his unwitting hostess stirred. He assessed the room with a quick glance.

It was the kind of place a woman would no doubt call “cozy” and “charming,” with sunlight pouring through gingham curtains at the window, a brass bed piled with lacy pillows, a patched velvet chair. The dresser and washstand overflowed with doilies and a clutter of knickknacks and whatnots.

He started with the dresser, rifling quickly through the drawers, then moved on to search the bed, the pillows, the chair, even under the braided rug on the floor.

All he found were a few garments in the dresser and a worn cloth satchel under the bed, the kind with a flat leather bottom, one of its handles mended with string. He sat on the bed and opened the bag, sifting through the few belongings inside—some coins, a bottle of stomach bitters, a handkerchief, writing paper, a torn stagecoach ticket.

In other words, nothing.

He snapped the bag shut, muttering a curse under his breath. It was possible, even likely, that Antoinette had ditched the gun she used to murder James. Unless she had wanted to keep it for protection, she had probably tossed it out the window of one of the stagecoaches that carried her west.

But she would
not
have parted with the fifteen thousand in cash she had stolen. That particular piece of evidence had to be here. Somewhere. Hazelgreen had told him Antoinette hadn’t made any deposits in the bank.

So where could she have hidden it?

Lucas set the bag aside, taking off his hat and raking a hand through his hair. It might be easier to think if he had been able to sleep last night, instead of lying awake for hours. Again.

Listening to her breathing, her restlessness.

He had thought having a cell door between them would help, but instead last night had been even worse than the first: He had actually started to imagine what it might be like to take off the demure flannel nightgown she wore... starting at the high collar and slowly working lower... unfastening one tiny pearl button at a time.

Lucas stood and stalked over to the window, lifting the sash, hoping the cool breeze would chill the sudden heat from his blood.
What the hell was wrong with him?

Maybe the air in this place was so thin it was affecting his brain. Maybe he was suffering from some strange Rocky Mountain madness. That had to be it. What other explanation could there be?

He had expected Antoinette to
try
and seduce him, tease him with her wiles until he couldn’t think straight. Like she’d done to Holt. And his brother. And God knew how many other men who had fallen for her charms in the past.

He kept waiting for her to use her tricks. Any number of tricks. All she had to do was... maybe leave her blouse open a bit, allowing him a glimpse of her breasts... or run her tongue over her lips now and then, slowly... or look at him in a certain way, with coy invitation.

Or when she changed her clothes at night, she could do a slow, teasing strip in the moonlight, on the other side of the barred door, just out of his reach.

Lucas felt his heart thudding against his ribs. Yes, that would work. That would be very effective. Turn him into a dazed, crazed animal in about thirty seconds flat.

Shaken, he closed the window and turned away, rubbing his eyes to try and banish the image. So far, Antoinette hadn’t made a single effort in that direction. Not a one. He almost wished she would, damn it.

Purely to confirm his low opinion of her.

But the fact was, every time he looked at her for more than a few seconds, she turned her back, covered up, glanced away. And blushed like an innocent.

Innocent
? Lucas shook his head.
Bullfeathers
. Innocent was the one thing Miss Antoinette Sutton definitely was not. Her shy reactions were just part of her disguise, meant to keep him and everyone else in this town from suspecting her true nature.

With a frustrated grimace, he grabbed the satchel from the bed and tossed it back underneath. It landed on the rug with a heavy, rattling sound.

He froze, glancing toward the door, but there was no sign that he had awakened Mrs. Greer down the hall.

After a tense moment, he reached for the bag, frowning. The coins and the bottle of stomach bitters couldn’t have made that noise. It sounded like there was something large and loose inside. How could he have missed something that big?

When he opened the satchel again, he found nothing but what he’d seen before.

Then he shook it carefully—and heard the odd, heavy rattle again.

Eyes narrowed, he pulled his hunting knife from his belt and sliced the lining open.
Of course
. He should’ve thought of this in the first place. A woman as smart and devious as Antoinette Sutton wouldn’t walk around carrying her stolen riches in an ordinary traveling case.

The bag had a false bottom. He pried it up.

Underneath, he found a wooden box. A simple box of carved walnut, about six by ten inches, with a tiny brass lock. The sort of box ladies used to carry vanity items like a fancy brush and a mirror and powder puffs and perfumes.

But if this one contained such innocent possessions, why take care to hide it?

Lucas felt a rush of vindication surge through him. The box was the perfect size to hold about fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of banknotes. And maybe even the pistol she had used to murder his brother.

How like Antoinette to cloak her treachery in innocence.

A sound came from Mrs. Greer’s room—a creak of bedsprings, a yawn. Lucas slid the box into his coat pocket, deciding he’d better go before he had any explaining to do. He put the satchel away and headed swiftly for the door, his mouth curved in a grim smile.

Finally he had what he’d been looking for. Proof of Antoinette’s crime. Proof that she had been lying.

Proof that would put her behind bars for the rest of her life.

~ ~ ~

Annie knew he was back even before she heard his voice.

She looked up as she heard the hotel’s front door open, heard his footsteps—unmistakably his. Already she was familiar with the sound of his boots, the purposeful way he walked. Her stomach tensed. She and Katja fell silent. He said something to Travis.

Then he entered the sitting room and stopped in front of the barred cell door, still wearing his black coat and his low-slung western hat.

And an expression she had never seen on his rugged face before. He almost looked... pleased.

Except that his eyes glittered like green ice.

Annie’s fingers dug into the soft ball of red yarn in her lap. She didn’t know where he had been, but the way he was looking at her almost made her drop the crochet hook in her other hand—the hand that was cuffed to the bed.

He unlocked the cell, his gaze never leaving her. “Mrs. Gottfried, it’s time for you to go.” His voice was cool, curt.

And quiet. Somehow
too
quiet.

“Of course, Marshal.” Katja, who had been sitting on the bed, gathered up her things. “You keep practicing that stitch, Annie.” She touched Annie’s arm and caught her attention, holding her gaze for a long moment, her blue eyes filled with reassurance. “Remember what I told you.”

She clearly wasn’t talking about needlework, but about all she had said and shared this morning. About
hope
and
mercy
and
forgiveness
.

Annie nodded. She would try.

Katja smiled, looking hopeful herself as she picked up the basket of breakfast dishes. “I’ll see you again later. If that’s acceptable, of course,” she added politely as she walked past Lucas.

“Fine.” He didn’t give her a glance.

Annie felt very much alone as her friend left. Lucas didn’t move, standing there, regarding her with that odd expression. She caught a hint of straight, white teeth. He looked almost... wolfish.

Her stomach did a little flip and she forgot about the ball of wool in her hand. It slipped from her fingers and tumbled off the bed—one end still attached to the hook in her hand—and unraveled as it rolled across the floor.

It hit the toe of Lucas’s boot.

He bent down and picked it up. “And what is this?” he asked, his voice a slow, soft drawl.

“Katja—Mrs. Gottfried was teaching me how to crochet.”

He studied the ball of yarn as if it were something foreign. Then he started winding up the loose end, moving closer to her inch by inch. “How nice.”

Annie’s pulse suddenly seemed very loud in her ears. “I doubt a crochet hook could be used as any kind of weapon.” She held up the short wooden stick with a stubby curve on one end. “It isn’t dangerous.”

“Doesn’t appear to be.”

A strange thought flashed through her mind—that she knew how a fish felt as it was being reeled in.

“I have to pass the time somehow,” she said nervously, not sure why she felt the need to fill the silence with words.

“Yes, I suppose you do.” He kept moving closer as he wound the yarn, his gaze traveling over her—boldly, directly. The way he always looked at her.

Annie felt her breath catch and her ribs throbbed in protest. She thought she had gotten used to men staring at her back in St. Charles. Had always ignored it. But somehow when Lucas did it, it made her feel...

Flushed and warm all over. Her face. Her fingertips.
Everywhere
.

She pretended to study the uneven rows of crochet she had been working. He came closer until he stood right beside her. Close enough that his scent surrounded her—a musky, clean scent of leather and the outdoors and the mountain air.

He dropped the ball of yarn in her lap.

She kept waiting for him to say something. He didn’t. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move away. When she glanced up, she saw him looking at her intently.

Or rather, at her clothes. She didn’t understand why her pin-tucked blouse and plain brown skirt would hold such interest. They were the same garments she had been wearing when he left earlier. The only thing different about her was that Katja had braided her hair, which now hung down her back in a loose plait.

His eyes seemed to be focused on her high collar, on the buttons at her throat.

Then he leaned closer and grabbed the long chain that bound her right wrist to the bed, unlocking the handcuff. “They can dress you up like a proper lady, Antoinette.” His voice was rough, his eyes stormy. “Make you look like a proper lady. Teach you how to do needlework like a proper lady. But that
doesn’t
change what you are.” He dropped the manacles on the floor and straightened. “What you are inside. Where it
counts
.”

Annie rubbed at her wrist, thinking that was almost the same thing Katja had told her—though her friend hadn’t meant it the same way at all.

For once, she resisted the urge to shrink from Lucas’s glare. She didn’t understand what had suddenly made him so angry. “And you think you know what I am.”

She said it as a challenge.

And regretted it a second later.

Because he reached down and touched her. Tilted her chin up with one hand. Her heart seemed to stop. All at once she was aware that she no longer heard the sound of a harmonica in the outer room. Lucas must’ve sent Travis on some errand.