Crooked Hearts (3 page)

“Merciful heavens!”

“The ship landed safely, thank God. Eventually I recovered from the blow, but my sight was gone. Every doctor I’ve been to since the accident says my condition is permanent.” His hollow voice prompted her to throw caution away and take his hand, which was lying open on the tablecloth. He stroked his thumb across her knuckles and managed a wan smile. “Isabella was so brave, so plucky—she insisted we go ahead with the wedding. But of course I couldn’t allow that. Couldn’t let her tie herself to a hopeless cripple for the rest of her life.”

“Oh, but if you loved her—”

“All the more reason. And it was the right thing to do. A few weeks ago, I received word that—that she’d married another.”

She blinked rapidly. “Oh, Mr. Cordoba—”

“Edward.”

“Edward. I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” They shared a soft, deeply sympathetic moment. Then, “But enough about me,” he said gruffly, releasing her hand. “Tell me about yourself, Sister. When did you first think you might have a religious vocation? Or—I beg your pardon, is that too personal a question?”

“No, of course not. I was twelve.”

“Ah, so young. Your family must have been very devout.”

“Not really. As a matter of fact, they were opposed to my taking the veil. But once I’d seen the miracle, there was nothing anyone could do to stop me.”

“The miracle?”

She regarded him speculatively. “Are you a Catholic, Mr. Cordoba?”

“Edward.”

“Edward.”

“I used to be,” he said, with suppressed bitterness. She started to say something sad and shocked, but he cut her off with Spanish imperiousness. “Tell me about the miracle, Sister.”

“All right.” She took a bracing sip of wine. “I grew up near Santa Barbara. Like you, we lived on a big ranchero, and there were few neighbors nearby. None, in fact. And so my best friend was Maria Elena, the little daughter of one of our ranch hands. We were closer than sisters, completely inseparable. That is, until she developed the stigmata.”

“The what?”

Her eyebrows went up. “I thought you were Catholic.”

“Oh, the
stigmata
—I didn’t hear you.”

“It happened the first time during Mass in our little private chapel on the ranch. Right after communion, Maria’s spotless white dress was suddenly covered with blood.”

“Good Lord. What was wrong with her?”

She frowned at him. “I’m telling you, she had the
stigmata.
There were holes in her hands and feet, and one in her side, and little marks on her forehead from the thorns.”

He set his glass down carefully. “And this was a
miracle’?”

“But of course! All the marks went away and the bleeding disappeared by the end of Mass. It
was
a miracle, a sign from our Lord of His eternal presence, and a reminder of how much He suffered for our sins.”

He nodded slowly. “And that’s why you became a nun?”

“Indirectly.”

“I suppose Maria Elena became one, too.”

She heaved a tragic sigh. “No. Not long after that she fell gravely ill—an ague of the lungs, the doctor said. Her suffering was terrible, but she never complained. Already she was a saint.”

“Ah.”

“The night she died, she asked me with her last gasping breath to take the veil in her stead. Of course, I said yes. She’d been in great pain and emotional turmoil before that, and my promise set her free; she died at peace. I’ve never regretted my decision.”

Visibly moved, Mr. Cordoba reached for the wine bottle. His knuckles struck the neck; she had to grab it before it toppled over. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m still so clumsy.”

“You’re not,” she chided, refilling his glass. “I think you’re remarkably graceful.”

“It’s very charitable of you to say so.” He cocked his head, listening. “Aren’t you pouring any for yourself?”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“You’re not allowed to have wine?” He sounded shocked.

“We are, but only in moderation.”

“Well, then. What could be more moderate than two glasses?”

She allowed a thoughtful pause before giving in. “Well, all right. But just a little.” Tilting her glass to inhibit the glug-glug sound, she filled it to the top.

She told him more about her lonely childhood on the ranchero, and discovered that his had been remarkably similar. Time flew.

“It’s been wonderful for me, speaking about these things,” he said when dinner was over. “You’re an exceptionally easy person to talk to, Sister Augustine.”

“Thank you. I could say the same of you—Edward.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I tell you this.” He paused uncertainly. “You have a very soothing voice.”

She rested her chin on her hand. “I do?”

“I’ve become a bit of an expert on voices. And yours is most intriguing.”

“It is?”

“Very. It’s rather low-pitched for a woman, and the tone has a certain … how shall I say … “ He touched his beautiful fingertips together thoughtfully. “A certain confidential quality. Soft, and yet cool and clear. At the same time, there’s something innocent, almost childlike about the s’s. And, rather incongruously, an unexpected gruffness that creeps into every seventh or eighth vowel.”

She stared at him, utterly spellbound, wondering again what color his poor blind eyes were. His thick, dark hair gleamed bronze in the candlelight, curling ever so slightly on the ends. He’d shaved before dinner, she could tell, not only by the smoothness of his lean cheeks but also by the subtle odor of … bay rum? She leaned a little closer to identify the scent. Something about the set of his lips told her he knew how near she was. And what nice lips they were, wide and hard-looking and on the thin side, a shade paler than his tanned skin. Did he open them when he kissed? Some men did, she knew for a fact. Or did he start out closed and then open them, nudging yours apart at the same time … ?

“Here you are!” Mr. Sweeney loomed over them suddenly like a hunter’s moon. “What luck! I stretched out for a little nap, and woke up in the pitch-dark two hours later. Thought I’d have to eat supper all by myself. You don’t mind if I join you, do you?”

Oh, not at all, they assured him—and if she wasn’t imagining it, Mr. Cordoba’s heartiness sounded just as false as hers. But she should be glad of the interruption, she realized after a sober moment’s reflection, because it was Mr. Sweeney she was supposed to be cozying up to, not Mr. Cordoba. Mr. Sweeney was the one touring with a fortune in priceless art objects.

Sometimes she amazed herself. With what casualness, what brilliant, seamless tact did she bring the conversation around to security precautions for his traveling art exhibit. Did he entrust it at night—she was finally able to ask outright, having laid the groundwork so skillfully—to whatever Wells Fargo relay station he’d reached at day’s end? Or did he feel it was more secure under each individual hotel’s safekeeping?

“Neither,” he scoffed, beaming smugly. “My own theft-prevention measures are far superior to any of theirs.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. For one thing, the collection is hardly ever out of my sight, and I’m a firm believer in the superiority of one’s own surveillance over the less self-interested vigilance of others.”

“But aren’t you afraid of being burgled in the middle of the night?”

He laughed indulgently, showing a mouthful of gold-filled molars. “I’d like to see somebody try.”

“You’re armed,” she guessed. Well, then, that was that.

“Better—I travel with a suitcase full of special door and window locks, all custom-made. They’re stronger and much more foolproof than anything Wells Fargo’s got, not to mention a hotel safe. My room’s virtually impregnable, Sister.”

“Custom-made?” she probed, looking suitably amazed.

“That’s right, by a master locksmith. They cost the museum a fortune, but it’s worth it for the peace of mind.”

That’s all he would say, and for the life of her she couldn’t think of a way to ask him what kind of locks they were; unless it came from a locksmith, no amount of tact could make that question sound natural.

Too bad. Henry called her an amateur because she wouldn’t practice, but she
might
have had a go at Mr. Sweeney’s special door locks if she’d known what kind they were. She could pick a rim cylinder in her sleep, but the newer pin tumblers still gave her trouble.

Oh, well. In truth, she felt more relieved than disappointed. As much as she needed the money, outright theft wasn’t really in her line. Too crude. Did Henry even know a fence? He’d never mentioned it. And as far as she knew, he’d never actually burgled anything. The circumstances might be dire, but she expected he’d advise her now, if he were here, to find the money they needed in the old-fashioned way: by swindling it.

After dinner, Mr. Sweeney said he wanted to go outside and stretch his legs for a bit, so they said good night to him in the lobby, and Mr. Cordoba—Edward—walked her to her room. Outside the door, they both hesitated, and she wondered if he might be feeling as reluctant as she was to end the evening so early. Inviting him in was out of the question, of course. But … what if she weren’t wearing a nun’s habit? Hmm? What if they were just two anonymous travelers, alone and free, marooned for the night in a Saratoga hotel? The possibilities made her heart race; she felt her cheeks flush, and made a face at herself—which, fortunately, he couldn’t see. Rule number one, Henry had decreed years ago, was never to let personal feelings muck things up when you were on a job. Until now, it had been an easy rule to follow. The fact that she was even
tempted
to break it must mean she’d drunk one glass too many of Chateau whatchamacallit.

After a long, interesting pause, Edward turned his face away from her slightly and said with the grave, tentative courtesy she found so endearing, “May I tell you something? It’s of a rather personal nature. I wouldn’t wish to offend you.”

“I’m sure you couldn’t.”

“It’s only that you have a very distinctive … bouquet. For me, it’s as fascinating as the fragrance of a fine wine. Now that I’ve savored it, I’m quite sure I’ll never forget it.”

She was leaning back against the wall, and Edward, half a head taller, had one arm braced across the low door frame above her. She wasn’t surprised that he could smell her
distinctive bouquet;
she could smell his, too. Definitely bay rum. “And what would you say is its essence?” she asked lightly, but secretly beguiled.

He put his thumb and forefinger together in a gesture that was somehow aesthetic, saintly, and sexy at the same time. “Its essence is not the same as its odor. It smells of good clean soap, scented with apricot or orange. Apricot, I think. But the essence of it … ah.”

She waited, hardly breathing.

“The essence of it … is grace.”

She inhaled sharply.

He slanted his chin toward her, listening intently; his black brows drew together. “What is it?”

“Grace,” she breathed, on a long, unavoidable sigh. “That’s—that was my name. Before I took my vows.”

“Was it? How extraordinary.”

His head was so close, she could see the faint pulse beating in his neck, under his left ear. She had an urge to run her fingertip down one of the long, intriguing clefts that bracketed his mouth on either side of his delicious-looking lips. She saw her own parted lips in the reflection of his blue glasses, and the calf-eyed look on her face finally restored her senses.

“Good night,” she croaked. Even she could hear the unexpected gruffness in the vowels.

“Good night.” But he didn’t move, so she didn’t either. “It’s been a memorable evening. I thank you for sharing it with me.”

“My pleasure.” She’d become fixated on the shapes his mouth made when he spoke; she didn’t realize he was holding out his hand. Until he lifted it a little, evidently thinking he’d aimed it off-center, and his fingertips grazed the underside of her left breast. She jumped.

A bewildered look crossed his features, quickly changing to worry. By now she’d have done anything to avoid embarrassing him. Squeezing back against the wall, so he wouldn’t realize how little space he’d left between them, she got her hand up and slipped it into his. His long, strong fingers clasped hers for a second, then let go.

“Good night,” they said again, in unison.

It wasn’t until much later, waiting to fall asleep, that Sister Augustine thought of the pledge card for the dying orphans’ hospital. She’d forgotten to give it to him. Much less help him fill in the amount.

2

Everything is funny, as long as it’s happening to somebody else.

—Will Rogers

I
T WAS ALL THE
baggage piled on top of the Wells Fargo stagecoach that made Reuben decide, in the half-block between Whitey’s Why Not Saloon and the Monterey stage depot, to go blind.

The details of the game were foggy; at that early stage all he saw was an opportunity. Why blindness? Because he’d never tried it before. When he was eight or nine, he’d faked a club foot on the corner of Fourth Street and Second Avenue for a lucrative two weeks, but he hadn’t run a distressing physical affliction since, and he figured he was overdue. Then too, he already had the props on his person, so to speak: the heavy malacca walking stick he’d taken off Bridie McCall in the stud game the night before, and the blue-tinted “readers” he used when he went gambling, for spotting phosphorescent ink on the backs of marked cards.

And he’d been in a mellow, expansive frame of mind, the kind that encouraged innovative thinking, due to the fact that he was leaving Monterey two thousand dollars richer than when he’d arrived three days ago. True, he was still a bit shy of the forty-five hundred he owed the Croakers, but at least now they wouldn’t kill him. At least not immediately. He felt good and he wanted a challenge.

Besides, San Francisco was a long, dusty, two-day stage ride; what else did he have to do to amuse himself? Spontaneous buncos succeeded about as often as planned ones, he’d found. And if there was one thing in the wicked world Reuben Jones trusted, it was his own instincts.

But the lure had turned out to be a bust: the boxes and bags on top of the stage held Chinese art museum pieces, not the personal effects of some rich pigeon he could pluck somehow by faking a handicap. And the art objects might well be “priceless,” as Mr. Sweeney claimed, but one of the things Reuben prided himself on was that he was no thief. He was a confidence artist.