Anna Finch and the Hired Gun (3 page)

Anna blushed at her own brazen thought.

Bypassing the secluded spot where she usually slipped out of her trousers and into her more feminine riding attire, Anna took a deep
breath and let it out slowly as she lowered her head, allowing Maisie to find her way home. While she never completely lost the fear of being recognized, Anna had learned that a slight youth astride a mare attracted little attention on any street in Denver. Even hers. Today she had neither the strength nor the steadiness of hand to negotiate the ordeal of buttons and ribbons involved in her other set of clothing. Better she slip home unnoticed and race to her chambers.

Anna kept her hat low and her head down as she rode the last quarter mile past familiar gates and beautiful lawns. As was her custom, she jumped off the horse behind the Finch stables and allowed the groom to take the reins. Only then did the reality of what happened—of what could have happened—hit her with full force.

She could have killed a man.

Or, given that he was obviously sleeping in a log because he didn’t want to be found, he could have killed her.

A welling up of emotion stalled her and rendered her legs useless. The familiar world blurred, leaving only smudges of color. Green, blue, and gold swirled around her.

Her legs began to shake, and her feet inched forward. The stable boy asked a question and she managed a nod, though she had no idea what he’d said. Another inch forward, another victory for knees that knocked and hands that shook as they felt for the rough boards of the stable.

She could have killed a man.

This was not fiction. Not some Mae Winslow adventure with guns blazing and outlaws fleeing to Boot Hill in a bloodless battle that killed them nonetheless. This was real.

He was real. A real, live, breathing man, with eyes the color of a gray winter day and hair that matched the cherry wood of Mama’s grand piano. A man who would forever be scarred by the bullet that, had it hit him a hair’s breadth to the left, could have ripped through his gut and caused a slow and painful death.

While Maisie was led away, Anna slipped into the thick shrubs that lined the border between her home and the Beck property and fell to her knees. A wave of nausea hit, and she lost the remains of her hurried, predawn breakfast.

How long she remained kneeling, Anna couldn’t say. At some point she turned to prayer, though her pleadings felt as dry and dusty as the banks of the spring where she’d spent her morning.

When she could manage it, Anna rose and dusted off her trousers, then swiped at her mouth with the back of her sleeve. Another wave of nausea chased her as she darted across the gap between the stables and the kitchen. By the time she reached the door, however, the feeling had subsided.

Hurriedly stabbing hairpins into her hopelessly ruined coiffure, she slipped into the kitchen and bolted for the back staircase.

“Anna Finch.”

Papa
. She froze, unable even to respond. Her father called her name again, and Anna slowly turned to see him standing in the kitchen entrance. His glower made her feel half her age.

“Come with me,” he said shortly, turning and marching down the corridor. Anna followed helplessly.

Her father entered the library, leaving the door open. Anna stalled in the doorway, knowing that as soon as this conversation began, her freedom ended. She squared her shoulders and breathed a
quick reminder to herself that she was a modern woman with no desire to have her father treat her like a child. Then she stepped into the room.

And instantly the woman gave way to the girl, and Anna Finch lost all interest in her personal declaration of independence. Tucking what she could of her hair back into place, she ran sweaty palms over the garments she now wished she’d never donned.

As if her thoughts paraded before her, irritation tightened her father’s usually kind face. “Shut the door,” he commanded.

She managed it on the second try. The bindings holding her chest flat began to slip, and Anna pressed her arm to her side to avert disaster. At least this disaster.

“Sit down.”

Anna considered taking the seat nearest the door should the need to escape overwhelm her. She made a poor attempt at removing any sign of unease from her expression.
I am a grown woman. A woman who shot a man
.

“Sit,” her father repeated as his gaze slid the length of her with obvious disdain.

“Yes, Papa.” Anna sank to the edge of the chair nearest Papa’s desk and tried to still her shaking knees as she noticed her borrowed boots had tracked a mixture of mud and leaves across the carpet. At least she hadn’t brought any of the man’s blood with her.

Another wave of nausea bubbled up inside her, but Anna bit back on it until it passed. In its place came the urge to unburden herself to Papa. To tell him the horrible events of the morning and ask—no,
beg
—him to make them go away. To right the wrong of shooting a man, whether innocent or not.

But she couldn’t do it. He already thought so poorly of her. Given his demeanor, he likely expected she’d done much worse.

When finally his stare met hers, Papa seemed ready to speak, but then he looked away and studied something on the opposite wall. Anna swiveled to follow his gaze and saw the portrait on which his attention rested.

Five young ladies in their best Sunday dresses smiled back at her. Finding herself in the portrait was easy. She was the smallest of the group and the only one who refused to smile. Not that the casual onlooker would notice, for the artist, who’d earned a hefty commission for commemorating the gathering of the Finch girls, had taken the liberty of painting a smile on her anyway.

Slowly Anna became aware of her father’s silence, a silence that stretched far and deep into the chasm between them. Though she longed to find the easy banter that had rarely failed her where Papa was concerned, no words would come.

Anna watched the light glint off the heavy gold chain that attached her father’s pocket watch to his vest button and wondered if the ticking was as quick as her heartbeat. Her bindings slipped another notch, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

Her father walked around the desk to stand before her. “If you were a child, I’d know how to remedy this. Unfortunately, tanning your backside for this ridiculous indiscretion of yours would solve nothing. Am I wrong?”

There was no good answer to his question, so Anna said nothing. She did, however, realize that her father was the second man to make that threat today, and it was not yet noon.

“When a female of marrying age is no longer amenable to
remaining under the guidance of her father, it is my opinion she should be handed off to a husband who can perhaps do a better job of it.” His eyes, the color of her own, narrowed. “And you, Anna Finch, have proven by your audacious behavior today and, I daresay, on many as-yet undiscovered occasions in the past, that you are well beyond any control I might have over your person and behavior.”

Anna took a deep breath and let it out slowly, fighting to hold her tongue. After all, this was Papa, and she was his favored child, his baby girl. Surely calmer heads would prevail once he had a chance to think on things.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I never meant to bring any—”

“Tarnish to your reputation or the reputation of your family?” He paused. “I fear it’s far too late for such concerns.”

This statement wounded her far deeper than she expected. “But, Papa, I’ve not done anything that would cause such tarnish. I swear it.”
Other than shot a man
.

His gaze slid over her once more as he walked back to his chair, and she cringed. “Did you purchase that outlandish garb or steal it off the servants’ clothesline?” Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me. I truly don’t care which you’ve done. What I do care about is how this whole debacle can be quietly made to go away.”

She stiffened with panic. “Papa,” she said, the words pouring out of her, “I promise you I had no idea that outlaw was there. Who sleeps inside a log meant for target practice?”

Her father’s expression turned from serious to shocked, and Anna realized her mistake. Of course Papa had no idea she’d discharged her Smith & Wesson into a man. How could he?

His face reddened, and a vein on the side of his neck began to throb. She’d seen him this mad only once, and the horse that had thrown him was sold before sundown. Likely she would suffer the same fate.

She probably deserved it.

“You shot a man? Today?” he demanded.

“By the river, but I promise I hadn’t any idea he was behind the log. I only thought to practice with the Smith & Wes—”

“Quiet.”

She ducked her head. “Yes, Papa.”

He made a note on the page spread before him. From her vantage point, Anna could see the words
Pinkerton
and
Thompson
, and a sum in excess of one thousand dollars. When he spied her looking, Papa turned the paper over. “Did anyone see this transgression?”

“He’s fine. He said so himself. And quite strong. Despite his blood loss, he managed to haul me up against him and …” Anna bit her lip to stop babbling.

“Who was he?”

She shook her head. “I truly don’t know.”

“No one whom you’ve seen before? Not a son of friends or well-placed clients? Not anyone we might come across on the streets of Denver? Or at church?”

“No.” She’d never seen him before, but should she ever meet the stranger again, Anna would know him. She doubted a girl ever forgot the first man she shot.

“We’re done speaking of this. You will never repeat this foolishness. Now, to the more important matter.” He paused, rose from his
seat, and seemed to think a moment. “Indeed it is a conundrum as to which gentleman I shall honor with the duty of taming you.”

Anna felt her brows rise as she absorbed the statement. “Apparently you’ve not read that awful Mr. Mitchell’s gossip column. I’m a hopeless candidate for a bride.”

The first sign of amusement showed on her father’s otherwise stoic face as he closed the space between them. “Anna, darling, when you’ve the resources of the Finch family, one can never be considered hopeless, and there are
always
choices.”

She rose carefully and inched toward the door. “Then perhaps I choose to go up to my chambers and—”

Papa caught her wrist and held her in place. All signs of good humor disappeared from his face. “You’ve tested me since you first learned to say the word ‘no,’ Anna.” His grip tightened just enough to get her attention. “Know with no uncertainty that you’ve tested me for the last time with today’s escapade. Now—go and change before someone other than the help sees you.”

“Yes, Papa.” She managed to remain upright despite her once again churning stomach.

“And rest assured you will marry, Anna Finch. And soon.” Her father released his grip but held his position. “If I choose a man who will keep you in the parlor rather than the paddock, so much the better. In fact, I think I’ll make that a requirement to gain your hand. What do you think?”

Anna squared her shoulders and turned toward the door, feeling the eyes of her married sisters staring back from the awful portrait. As she reached the hall, Papa called after her.

“Anna, you’ve ignored my question.”

She froze. “I assumed it was rhetorical.” She eased around to face him. “But if you’re truly asking my opinion, I don’t think much of your requirement. As you’ve said, a Finch always has choices.” Her temper flared and her voice betrayed her. “And I choose not to marry a man for whom I have no feelings. So there’s your answer, Papa. No.”

Papa’s chuckle held little humor. “In this you do
not
have a choice, even if you
are
a Finch.”

The noon hour on the following day found Anna languishing at a table at the Windsor Hotel while Gennie, her lunch date, was nowhere to be found. Used to Gennie’s penchant for adventure and late arrivals, Anna had brought ample reading material to keep her occupied.

While a perfectly nice table near the window sat unoccupied, the awful waiter—barely old enough to shave—had seated her in the middle of the dining room filled with people who might listen to her conversations and report back to her father. To make things worse, the heating system and overcrowded nature of the room had raised the temperature far above comfortable levels. Anna dabbed at her brow with her handkerchief.

As she picked up that day’s copy of the
Rocky Mountain News
, she noticed a tall man enter the dining room with a lovely dark-haired woman in a fashionable hat. Something in the older man’s face seemed familiar. But from where? Perhaps he reminded her of a character in one of her novels. That happened sometimes. Anna would
swear she knew a person only to realize afterward she’d instead written about someone similar.

The couple’s progress across the packed room brought them past Anna’s table, where she heard the woman say, “Really, dear, perhaps this isn’t such a good idea. Look at the crowd.”