After Sundown (4 page)

“It might be a help, ma’am, if you were to wear your spectacles.” A lanky sixteen-year-old leaning on the counter looked up from the penny dreadful he was reading, its lurid cover showing a blazing shootout beneath the title TRUE TALES. He held a licorice stick clamped between his teeth at a rakish angle. “I’m gonna be lucky to get home by suppertime—”

“You hush up, Travis Ballard.” Mrs. Greer snatched the periodical from his hands and thwacked him on the shoulder with it. “And stop reading other folks’ mail. And did you pay for this?” She plucked the licorice stick from his mouth. “I’m paying you a dollar a week to help out, you lazy rascal, not to eat up what scanty profits I got—”

The rest of the crowd groaned and complained loudly at yet another delay by their official U.S. postmistress, and Annie stepped around the counter without waiting to be asked. While Mrs. Greer took young Travis by the sleeve and hauled him toward the back room, Annie grabbed an apron from a nearby hook and slid onto her vacated stool.

A few minutes later, a steady stream of townsfolk were on their way out the door, gratefully clutching the latest issues of
Godey’s Lady’s Book
and
Wards’ Illustrated Catalogue
, week-old newspapers from Denver, and messages from family and friends “back in the States,” which was how folks here still referred to the East, even though Colorado itself had been a state for two years now.

As she worked, Annie discovered one letter addressed to her—or rather, to
Mrs. Ann Smith
—from young Corporal Easton up at Fort Collins, the soldier who had carried her off the stage on that harrowing night when she arrived here.

He had written to her twice since then, inquiring after her health and asking if he might visit when he got leave. She hadn’t replied yet. Just seeing his name brought a rush of painful memories. Annie slipped the letter into her pocket and kept handing out mail.

As soon as she was well enough, she had insisted on helping out around the store in return for her bed and board. Mrs. Greer had admonished her for being “prideful and stubborn,” but accepted, admitting that she had been struggling to keep this place open by herself. Her husband had passed away last spring, and they’d had no children. With her eyesight so poor, the mail was the chore she dreaded the most, so it was the chore Annie had claimed first.

“Mrs. Smith?”

Annie looked up from sorting letters to see a prospector known as Big Horace standing in front of her. Dirt obscured his features, he had a length of rope slung over one shoulder, and the sour smell of whiskey and sweat came off his clothes—strong enough to make the other people at the counter give him a wide berth.

“Yes?” she asked politely. The mountain of a man with a scar on his face had given her quite a fright the first time she saw him, but Rebecca had explained that he was harmless. Some of the miners only came in from their diggings now and again, and they got a bit rough around the edges.

“Ma’am, I think you’re...” Big Horace took off his hat. “Why, you’re huckleberry above a persimmon, ma’am, and I’d be right peart were you to join me tonight for some chicken fixin’s over t’ Kearney’s, if you’re not still feelin’ poorly.”

Annie blinked up at him, unable to make sense of what he’d just said.

Mrs. Greer appeared at her elbow. “Horace, what are you doing staring at Mrs. Smith like that? She’s a lady, not a gingerbread pudding on a Christmas platter.” She gave him a playful poke in the belly before she turned to Annie. “I’ll manage the rest, lamb. You’re still looking a might pale, and it’s too warm in here.” Mrs. Greer scooped up one fat stack of letters. “Since Doc Holt ain’t come in to pick up his mail yet, maybe you could take it to him.”

Annie met the older woman’s squinty gaze and thought of arguing. But she had yet to meet the person who could win an argument with Rebecca Greer. “All right.”

“Good. Then you come straight back here and take a rest, like I said before.”

Annie nodded, almost smiling, thinking that Mrs. Greer sounded very much like a mother.

Except that her own mama had never sounded like that.

The thought brought a sharp sting to her eyes. Annie quickly took off her apron, picked up Dr. Holt’s mail, and stepped around the counter.

“Ann, before you go...”

Annie turned back. “Yes?”

Mrs. Greer had an uncertain, hopeful look. “I’ve been meaning to ask... you said you had kin in Montana Territory, and I know Doc Holt said you’ll be well enough to travel in another week or so...”

For the first time since Annie had met her, Mrs. Greer seemed at a loss for words, fidgeting with a charm on one of the bracelets she wore.

“By the horn spoons,” she continued at last, “if you want to get there before spring, you’ll have to go soon, before the snow flies. But if...” She hesitated again, and her voice became quiet. “Lord knows this town ain’t got much to offer anymore, but if you could think of staying on, I’d surely appreciate it. Most everyone who needs work has left, and Travis ain’t much help, and I... I just can’t manage this place on my own. I could pay you a few dollars, to go with the room upstairs and meals.”

Annie couldn’t speak for a moment, her voice stolen by surprise. Not because the idea was outlandish.

But because it was tempting. People accepted her here, treated her like an equal. Maybe she
did
belong here, where so many folks were left over or left behind, like bits of gravel in a prospector’s pan after all the gold had been sifted away.

A life in Eminence wouldn’t be anything like the leisurely, indulged life she had known the past three years, filled with rich clothes, rich food, rich trappings. But it would be a life.

“I...” She reached toward Mrs. Greer, only to knock a small glass jar of cinnamon sticks off the counter. It crashed to the floor.

Annie cursed, then realized how unladylike it sounded. “I’m sorry. Mrs. Greer, I’m so sorry.” Annie started picking up shards of glass. “I... it wouldn’t... you don’t want someone like me around,” she finished lamely. “Believe me, you don’t.”

“That’s not true,” the older woman argued. “I like you, Ann Smith. And I don’t like many folks.” She knelt beside Annie with a whisk broom. “You go on now. Go on and think about it. I’ll clean this up.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Greer—”

“Rebecca,” the older woman corrected.

Annie met her gaze, feeling as broken as the glass on the floor. “Rebecca,” she said quietly.

She scooped up Dr. Holt’s mail from the counter and left. Her steps echoed on the wooden planks outside, beneath the fading afternoon sun, and she thought she finally understood why God had brought her here and spared her life.

To punish her. Surround her with everything she’d dreamed of in the most secret places in her heart since she was a little girl. Respect. Friends. A home. A
real
home.

Everything she could never have.

As she crossed the street, her gaze on the dust, something made her glance up. Maybe a shift in the wind. The sound of a door creaking as it swung open. A strand of her unruly hair blowing into her eyes. She wasn’t sure.

But that was when she saw him. Watching her.

A stranger. He stood in front of one of the saloons, directly ahead of her, almost hidden by the darkness and shadows beneath its balcony. Silent and still. In the shifting afternoon light, she got only an impression of a tall, lean figure standing alone. But her heart started beating harder. She didn’t know why, couldn’t even tell what had drawn her attention to him, what made her so certain he was staring at her.

But some instinct lifted the fine hairs on the back of her neck. Even as she looked right at him, she could glimpse no more than an outline of broad shoulders. A western hat tilted low over his eyes. A pistol holstered on his hip.

And all at once, the fear that she had thought burned away by sorrow came rushing back in a flood. She almost stopped in her tracks, almost turned around, but forced herself to keep walking. Steadily, casually.

He didn’t move. Didn’t seem especially threatening. Wasn’t nearly as big and frightening as Big Horace.

She tried to breathe evenly, calm herself. He was probably just another miner who’d come in from his claim after weeks away from civilization. Was probably staring at her because he hadn’t seen a woman in a long time. Or maybe he was a traveler passing through, newly arrived on the stage and drunk from his visit to the saloon.

He stepped down from the saloon’s porch and started across the street. Directly toward her.

And the way he moved wasn’t drunken or casual, but slow and purposeful. And Annie knew right then that there was something different about this man.

Something dangerous.

Her heart thudded a hard stroke. A single panicked thought rioted through her mind.

She’d been found.

All the breath seemed to leave her lungs. She had thought she no longer cared about being captured—but she’d been wrong.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.
She lowered her gaze and remembered the letters in her hand. Started leafing through them as she walked. Told herself she looked like any ordinary homesteader who’d just come from collecting the weekly mail. She tried to hum but couldn’t remember a single tune.

She could hear his footsteps now as he came closer, the sound heavier than she would’ve thought for a man who seemed so lanky.
Muscle
, some part of her brain supplied.
Every lean inch of him must be pure muscle
.

An uneasy fluttering sensation filled her belly. Dear God, what should she do?
Think, damn it
.

Annie lifted her head and nodded politely and said a cheerful, “Good afternoon.”

Without saying a word, he reached up to touch the brim of his hat. His fingers were long and tanned, his face as lean and spare as the rest of him, his jaw stubbled by a dark beard, his mouth bracketed by deep lines. He had black hair that curled below his collar.

And clear, green-gold eyes that fastened on her with an intensity that made her legs feel weak.

Cowboy, she thought desperately as they passed almost shoulder to shoulder. Maybe he was a cowboy. He was dressed like one, had the rough, hard look of a man who’d spent his life on the range. And cowboys were reputed to be men of long stares and few words.

But what would a cowhand be doing so far from the cattle trails?

It seemed to take her forever to reach Dr. Holt’s house on the corner. Her hand trembled as she knocked on the front door, barely aware of the sound over the rising buzz that filled her head. There was no reply. A tingling feeling began between her shoulder blades.

Like she was about to be shot in the back.

Unable to stop herself, she nervously glanced behind her. The dark stranger stood in front of the general store.

Watching her.

She forced a smile.

He didn’t return it.

Annie knocked on Dr. Holt’s door again, her heart hammering now.
Open the door. Open it. Please, Dr. Holt, open the door!

~ ~ ~

It couldn’t be her.

That wan, demure little creature dressed in faded calico couldn’t possibly be Antoinette Sutton. Lucas stood on the board sidewalk in front of the general store, staring at her, and told himself he’d gone without sleep for too long. He’d been on the hunt so many weeks—talking to stagecoach drivers and passengers, going in circles, losing her trail and picking it up again—that he was ready to pounce on an innocent homesteader.

From what Olivia had told him, he expected his brother’s killer to be a brazen, lusty, bold figure of a female who would just as soon curse him and spit in his eye as look at him.

This elfin lady who’d emerged from the general store with a handful of mail looked so pale and slender, it seemed a good breeze could knock her down. She matched part of the physical description everyone in St. Charles had given him—dark-haired and brown-eyed and pretty enough to make any man look twice. But she seemed too... small.

When he passed her on the street, her manner had been polite, her voice soft, and she barely came up to his chin. He didn’t even know why he was still staring at her.

The door she was knocking on finally opened, and a man greeted her warmly and ushered her inside the whitewashed, two-story house.

Obviously some friend or kin, Lucas thought sourly. Perfect. He had just wasted five minutes glaring at an innocent homesteader. Another pointless end to another useless day.

Even if Antoinette Sutton had been dropped off in this dusty nothing of a town suffering from “female trouble,” as he’d been told, she was probably long gone. He doubted this was the kind of place she would loll about for very long.

And the sooner he put Eminence behind him, Lucas decided, the better. He usually got his best information in saloons, but the barkeeps here had proven annoyingly discreet, responding to his questions with shrugs and long, silent stares.

“Can I be a help to you, mister?”

Lucas turned to find a bright-eyed kid of about sixteen standing on the boardwalk beside him, chewing on a striped peppermint stick.

“Name’s Travis. Travis Ballard.” The boy extended his hand, palm up. “Saw you standing out here a spell and figured you might need directions. Or information. I know all there is to know ’bout this town. You want anything, I’m your man.” He waggled his fingers encouragingly. “I can show you where to get a good shave and a bath. You need a room for the night, I’ll take you to the best place. And we still got a couple of decent whores left in town.”

Lucas arched one eyebrow and started fishing in his pocket for a coin. “I’m only interested in one woman.”

The kid laughed. “Well that’s good, ’cause I think they charge extra if you want ’em both at once—”

“A woman by the name of Smith.” Lucas pressed a half-dollar into Travis’s palm. “Mrs. Ann Smith.”

The boy fell silent for a moment, pocketing the money. “You don’t say.”

A wariness had come into the kid’s eyes and voice, a subtle shift that told Lucas a great deal.

By hell, maybe she was still here
. He ruthlessly subdued the hope that surged through him. “I’m down from Montana Territory,” he continued smoothly, tossing out a potentially useful detail he had gleaned from one Corporal Easton of Fort Collins.