Beautiful Bandit (Lone Star Legends) (14 page)

And, just like that, she was gone, leaving Kate alone again, this time to admire the ornate chairs and plush rug in the parlor. Amazing, she thought, that the Nevilles had managed to carve civilization from the untamed territory around them.

Outside, the sound of a dog barking drew her gaze to the window. It was hard to believe that, somewhere beyond the serene hills, where rows of corn waved and cattle grazed contentedly, Frank Michaels was doing his best to confound the Texas Rangers.

When he hadn’t been torturing her, he’d occupied himself by sipping brandy and playing cards, and she’d used those hours to study him. During her weeks of captivity, she’d come to understand the way his demented mind worked. Frank considered himself better-looking, better-dressed, and better-educated than anyone he knew. The only opinion that mattered was his own, and, somehow, he found a way to blame every one of his missteps and mistakes on someone else. The definition of stealing was “taking what does not belong to you”—unless your name happened to be Frank Michaels. He’d stop at nothing to protect the only living being he truly loved: himself.

Was he aware that the Rangers had been temporarily sidetracked by their assignment from the governor? Of course, he did. Nothing escaped Frank’s notice.

Just then, a haunting thought caused the breath to stick in her throat. If Frank knew the Rangers were busy elsewhere, what would prevent him from hunting her down and making good on his threat to keep her from testifying against him?

Kate hands trembled so violently that it took her five tries to thread the needle. She plucked a brown wool sock from the basket and slipped it over her left hand. It could have belonged to any man on the Lazy N Ranch, but on the chance it might be Josh’s, she pressed it to her cheek and closed her teary eyes.

After a moment, she poked the needle through the thick wool, picking up a thread on one side of the hole and connecting it to a strand on the other side. And then she pricked her finger. There was just a small droplet of blood, but she didn’t want to risk staining Sarah’s dress, so she popped her fingertip into her mouth.

Risk. The word echoed deafeningly in her head.

As long as she stayed here, the Nevilles were at risk. She’d seen firsthand how little value Frank put on any life but his own. He’d kill them all if that’s what it took to get to her.

It was more important than ever that she take Lucinda’s advice and rest that ankle, for the sooner it healed, the better. She needed to leave as soon as possible, to lure Frank as far as possible from these wonderful people.

Kate Wellington and Dinah Theodore had a lot in common, including experience that proved doing the right thing could be excruciating.

17

Beneath a cloudy haze of cigar smoke swirling in a Kansas City saloon, Frank Michaels sat in a chair tilted back on its rear legs, the sole of his boot pressed against the edge of the table to keep his balance. “So…?”

The scruffy man standing across from him shrugged. “So, what?”

Frank Michaels had never been a patient man. Learning how to pace himself, to wait, and to bide his time had been the toughest lessons of his life. The only lesson tougher? Learning not to let his impatience show.

The other men seated at Frank’s table stiffened as their boss’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. He inspected the glowing tip of his cigar, then met the bearded man’s eyes. “So, Ben,” he repeated. “Where is she?” He drew out every word.

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed once before he croaked, “In Eagle Pass.”

“Alive?”

“Alive.”

“Ben, Ben, Ben,” Frank said, dragging on the cigar. “You disappoint me.”

Ben cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Couldn’t get a clear shot,” he said, his voice wavering slightly.

Frank blew a stream of smoke directly at his face. “And what, pray tell, prevented you from doing what I paid you to do?”

“Hmpf. Ain’t seen no money yet.”

Frank’s lips drew back in a thin, sinister smirk. “You haven’t been with me long, Ben, so it’s no surprise, really, that you don’t know me very well.” He took great pride in his precise diction, his practiced tone, both self-taught skills. He flicked an ash at Ben’s feet, and then, using the cigar tip as a pointer, counted his men. “You might want to consider buying a drink for Tom and Amos, here. I’m sure they’d be glad to enlighten you on the subject of how I don’t tolerate shirkers.” His smirk became a sneer when he added, “I don’t pay them, either.”

“But I rode hard, Frank,” Ben protested feebly. “Rode more’n two weeks, sometimes in mighty foul weather.” He slapped his sweaty hat against his thigh. “Nearly got snakebitten once, and come within spittin’ distance of a cougar a time or two, but I kep’ on a-goin’. An’ when I finally did catch up with your girl, there were half a dozen Rangers with her.”

“Texas Rangers?”

Ben lifted his bristly chin. “That’s what I said.”

“And they didn’t haul her off to jail?”

“No, sir. The lot of ’em lit out in a terrible rainstorm, leavin’ her with that fella she was with.”

That the Rangers were on the trail didn’t worry him. To Frank’s knowledge, no wanted posters with his name or face existed, and there was a very good reason for that. He’d made a practice of settling into a town before relieving its good folks of their money. Courting a local girl, experience had taught him, provided the perfect cover; if any witnesses survived the robbery—and, mostly, they didn’t—they’d identify her, not him or his men, since hers was the face and name they recognized and remembered most.

Hearing that the Rangers had closed in on Kate didn’t surprise him, but the news that she wasn’t traveling alone—now, that was troublesome. She was a chatty, fickle little thing; no doubt, she’d bared her soul to her companion. And the type of man she’d attract? Well, she was a beauty, not even he would deny that. The image of her flashed in his memory—big, green eyes with thick lashes and long, luscious curls that a man could drown in….

Frank took another puff of his cigar and nodded pensively. She had the look of a savvy, sophisticated woman, but he’d never met anyone more naïve. He’d bet every dollar of his next heist that this “fella” she’d hooked up with had played the hero role, thinking it might just get him a cut of the loot. Frank nearly laughed out loud at the thought, because, by now, the poor, dumb fool had figured out that the only way to get any affection from Kate was to take it by force. By the time he figured out she didn’t have access to the loot, well, that would only add insult to injury. Did Frank dare hope the idiot would do his dirty work for him?

“Mind if I order up a beer, Frank?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Tell me more about this ‘fella.’”

Ben’s stupefied expression made it clear that he had no idea what information Frank wanted. “What’s he look like, for starters—tall? Fat? Old?”

“I don’t hardly see what that’s got to do with anyth—”

“Did he look familiar?” Frank didn’t move, save for narrowing his eyes.

“Like somebody on a wanted poster, y’mean? No, can’t say I ever saw the man before. He weren’t nothin’ special. If he hadn’t been with your girl, I probably wouldn’t have paid him no mind.”

“Let’s get something straight right here and now, Ben—she most assuredly is not my girl.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw Tom and Amos exchange a disbelieving glance with Ben, but he chose to ignore it. Let them think anything they please. “If I had a mind to link up with a woman, it wouldn’t be someone like Kate.” But the words sounded false and hollow, even to his own ears. Unlike the women he’d used in other towns, he’d genuinely enjoyed spending time with her. Yes, she was delightful to look at, but she was so much more. Once, he’d sneaked in to a practice session and heard her playing Beethoven. She crooned popular tunes, but she could sing classic ballads as beautifully as any prima donna, as far as he was concerned. She could discuss politics or history, music or art, and make it sound equally fascinating. In truth, if he had a mind to link up with a woman, it wouldn’t be with someone like Kate. It would be Kate.

On the night of the robbery, the boys had warned him to get rid of her, but he’d convinced them she could prove useful—she could cook their meals and scrub the trail dust out of their clothes. She’d performed those duties handily, but not without making it patently clear that she found him contemptible and disgusting. He didn’t tolerate disrespect, and he didn’t put up with betrayal. By running off like she did, Kate had violated both rules, and he hadn’t slept the night through since, worrying that, to keep her own pretty neck out of the noose, she’d draw the Rangers a map to his favorite hiding places.

His only hope of saving his own neck was to find her before they did.

He took a long draw on the cigar. “So, tell me, Ben, why didn’t you take care of ‘the fella she was with’?” He blew a ring of smoke and poked the glowing cigar tip through it. “Especially after the Rangers rode off into the raging storm, and your odds improved?”

Ben narrowed his eyes and thrust out his chest. “You callin’ me a liar, Michaels?”

Chuckling softly, Frank gave a nonchalant shrug. “Calm down, Ben, because I’m really not in the mood to kill anyone tonight.” And then he waited while the meaning of his carefully chosen words sunk in. Did Ben realize, Frank wondered, that he’d taken half a step back? That everyone within earshot could hear him swallow? “You can take this to the bank: If I was at all confident that your story is more tale than truth, our kindly barkeep over there would have already sent for the undertaker.”

Ben ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Well, but, still—if I was lyin’, I wouldn’t’ve come here to let you know where you could find—”

In an eyeblink, Frank went from annoyed to angry. “Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you’re here for any reason other than to collect the money you think you earned,” he said through clenched teeth.

The man might as well have been a five-year-old boy being told by his daddy that there’d be no dessert after supper since he hadn’t done his chores. “B-but—but, Frank—I did earn it! You hired me ’cause I’m a good shot, and ’cause I got no qualms about killin’, but even I can’t take out five Rangers.”

“Which was it, Ben? Five Rangers, or six?”

The gunman stood blinking, shaking his head. This time, he ran trembling fingers through his beard. “Five, six, what difference does it make? They each had two good hands, and a revolver, a rifle, a shotgun….” He whipped out his Colt, quick as a flash. “And all I had was this.”

Tom and Amos scooted their chairs back. The plinking piano fell silent, replaced by the rumble of boot heels as the bar patrons raced for the door.

Frank leaned forward, letting the front legs of his chair hit the floor. Propping one elbow on the table, he stared at his cigar as he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. True, he’d hired the man for his skills with a gun. But he’d seen Ben shoot and knew that he was faster. Slowly, calmly, he took a long pull on the cigar and let the smoke escape slowly, slowly…. “Take care where you point that thing, Ben.”

Ben gave the warning a moment’s thought, then cocked his wrist so that the barrel was aimed at the ceiling instead of at Frank.

“Better,” Frank said. “Much better.” He inhaled another mouthful of smoke and then let it out deliberately. “Now, then. I want to be sure I heard you correctly,” he said, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. When the last blue wisp slithered into the rest of the fog, he began counting, touching his thumb to a different finger in succession. “You trailed her. You found her. You saw the Rangers, then you didn’t even try to get her, because she was with some ‘fella.’” Staring hard through the smoke, he added, “Would you say that’s a fair summary of what you’ve said so far?”

Ben swallowed again, harder this time. “Yeah, I guess you’d say that ’bout sums it up.”

“I guess so.” Then, “When’s your birthday?”

The man tucked in his chin. “My birthday?”

Frank let out a sigh of exasperation. “Yes, Ben. Your birthday.”

“October—”

“Interesting,” Frank said, cutting him off. “Mine is August 12.” He grinned over at Tom and Amos. “Maybe one of my women will bake me a cake.”

He noticed that as his men laughed at his joke, the bartender cowered behind his cash register and every windowpane glowed with the wide eyes of the men who’d scurried outside with their jiggers of whiskey and steins of beer. Evidently, the time he’d spent with that dime novelist a year or so ago had paid off, albeit in a cockeyed sort of way. Despite the lack of wanted posters, they’d all recognized him from the description the writer had woven into his story. Chest puffed and chin high, he leered back at every face because not one had the courage to fetch the sheriff or his deputy, for fear of becoming the latest statistic in Frank Michaels’s murders.

If they’d asked him, Frank would have admitted they had nothing to fear. He hadn’t just been joking when he’d told Ben he wasn’t in the mood to kill anyone tonight. Bullets weren’t cheap these days, and he saw no point in wasting them on the likes of these cowards. Oh, he’d shoot if he had to, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to. He didn’t believe in making the same mistake twice; far better to let his fury build so that, when he got his hands on Kate Wellington and looked into those beautiful, green eyes, he wouldn’t be tempted to spare her life a second time.