Romancing the West (27 page)

Watching her hop up the porch stairs, her blond braids swaying, cheeks flushed from the long ride, or perhaps from sexy thoughts about Constance and Antonio, he couldn’t imagine ever tiring of this woman. Ever wanting another woman.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t thought about another woman since he’d gotten to know Emily.

Yup.
Screwed.

He held the door open, stepped in behind her, and followed her down the hall. “That must be them,” he heard Mrs. Dunlap say.

Emily entered the sitting room first. “Oh. I . . . This is a . . . surprise.”

That was an understatement.

From the looks on their faces, Rome and Boston Garrett shared a like thought.

A surreal pause stretched on as they took stock of one another.

Boston sat on the sofa next to Mrs. Dunlap, held his hands wide as she wrapped pink yarn around them. Rome hulked by the bookshelves. He snapped shut the novel in his hands, breaking the awkward silence.

“Good heavens, Emily,” Mrs. Dunlap said. “Sit down before you fall down.”

She did look unsteady and Seth bristled, thinking she’d gone weak in the knees at the sight of Rome.

“I’m fine,” she said, though she was flushed and breathless. “It’s just that . . . we’ve been . . . riding hard, that is . . . for a long time. Mr. Pinkerton and I.”

Christ.

“Mr. Pinkerton,” Boston said, his voiced laced with sarcasm.

“Phineas Pinkerton,” offered Mrs. Dunlap, the only smiling person in the room. “He’s the man I told you about. The poet.”

“Poet.” This again from Boston, who looked less menacing than Rome. Probably due to Mrs. Dunlap using him as a human spool.

“How are you, Emily?” Rome asked. “Never better,” she said, though she looked like she was going to keel over.

Seth battled the green-eyed monster. “And you?” she squeaked.

“Been better. You probably heard about the suspension.” He glanced at Seth.

“Where are my manners?” she said, her voice unnaturally bright. She gestured to the Wells Fargo agents. “Boston Garrett. Rome Garrett. This is . . . my friend. Phineas Pinkerton.”

Rome crossed the room and they shook hands. “Pleasure to meet you,” Seth said, intimating it was the first time.

Rome tightened his grip, his eyes saying,
“What are you up to?”

Seth telegraphed,
“Play along!”

“You look familiar,
Mr. Pinkerton.”

“You might know me from your sister and brother-in-law’s opera house.” In truth, they’d worked side by side, saving The Desert Moon from a fiery demise.

“He’s a friend of Paris. Athens, too,” Emily said, trying to ease the tension.

Rome crossed his arms over his chest. “Been awhile since I’ve seen my sister. How is Paris?”

“Feisty. Adjusting to impending motherhood.”

“My brother? Zach and Zoe?”

“Adjusting to life in Phoenix.”

“Where are my manners?” Emily said for the second time in as many minutes. “Would any one like lemonade?”

“I would,” the three men said.

Mrs. Dunlap eased the yarn from Boston’s hands, set the bundle in a basket. “I’ll help you, dear.”

The younger brother joined Rome. One dark, one fair. Both tall and fit. Both smart and tough. Both dedicated to wrangling outlaws, like Seth. Unlike Seth, a former sheriff of Pinal County, they played loose with the law. As a Peacemaker he’d be swimming those same risky waters.
A license to bend the law.
The notion had been more appealing when he’d been fired up and fed up. Now it chafed.

Boston withdrew a cheroot from his coat pocket. “Care to join us outside for a smoke, Mr. Pinkerton?”

“He doesn’t smoke,” Emily said.

Actually, he did although he’d refrained since taking on the poet’s persona.

“Keep us company, then,” Rome said. “I’d like to hear more about my sister.”

Clearly, Emily didn’t want him to be alone with the brothers. He appreciated her protection, though he didn’t need it. “We won’t be long,” he said, trying to console her with a smile.

Seconds later, he was standing on the vast green lawn facing off two seething Garretts. Most men would take flight. They didn’t intimidate Seth. They pissed him off.

Keeping up pretences, the brothers struck casual poses and lit their cheroots.

Seth, being Pinkerton, waved off the smoke.

“What the hell are you doing here, Wright?” Rome said with a fake smile.

“Athens sent me.”

“Why?”

“To propose marriage to Emily on his behalf.”

Boston’s mouth fell open. The smoldering cheroot dangled from his lower lip.

“She’s in a financial bind. Zach and Zoe need a mother. He figured they’d both benefit from the union.”

Rome shifted his weight. “Athens wants to marry Emily?”

“He thinks they’d make a good match.” He nearly choked on the words

“I’ll be damned,” Boston said.

The fair-haired Garrett didn’t comment on the nuptials. He blew out a stream of smoke. “Why the charade?”

“Long story involving your sister.”

“Figures,” they said.

“Emily was expecting Paris’s friend. She wasn’t expecting me. She assumed I was Pinkerton and introduced me as such to a passel of folk. The ruse became convenient. I needed to be close to her, and her reputation would suffer less if folks thought I was . . . otherwise inclined.”

Boston shook his head, grinned.   “You’ve got balls, Wright.”

“Did what I had to do to protect Emily.”

“We know about Cole.” Rome flexed his fingers. “He won’t be bothering her anymore.”

“Cole’s not her only problem,” Seth said, hoping he loosened a few teeth when he sent the bastard flying.

“Know about Bellamont, too.” Boston whistled. “Three men courting the shy bookworm. Who would’ve thought?”

Rome snuffed his smoke. “She’s changed. I’m not just referring to her shucking her prim gowns for rugged wear. There’s fire in her spirit.” He narrowed suspicious eyes on Seth. “That because she’s excited about moving to Phoenix?”

“Haven’t delivered Athens’s proposal yet.” He held up a hand, warding off whatever they planned to let loose. He spit out a condensed explanation, trying not to revel in knowing he’d ignited that fire. “Emily’s biggest problem is that she’s being blackmailed. Can’t tell you the reason, only that he’s bleeding her dry, and the letters originate in San Francisco. She doesn’t know the identity of the man. Neither do I, not for lack of trying. I can’t address her future, can’t involve your brother, until I nail the scheming bastard.”

Though their expressions betrayed nothing, he knew he’d poleaxed them. What could someone have on a preacher’s daughter? Two days ago, Seth wondered the same thing.

The front door creaked open and the two ladies stepped onto the porch with a pitcher and five glasses. “We thought we’d have refreshments outside,” Emily called. “Shame to waste a pretty sunset.”

“Be right there,” Rome called.

Seth watched Emily in domestic mode. Arranging a weather-beaten table and mismatched chairs, serving up lemonade. He imagined her in the kitchen cooking up too many eggs. Curled up on the sofa absorbed in a book. Sitting at her desk scribbling stories about swashbuckling pirates and skinny-dipping knights.

He thought about the feel of her, the taste of her, her insane proposal, and wished like hell that she could write them a happy ending.

“Got a personal stake in this, Wright?” Rome growled as they moved closer.

He flashed on his job with PMA, his promises to Athens, Paris, and Josh. He fantasized about Emily.

He didn’t answer Rome.

“Emily’s family,” Boston said in a low voice. “Do what you have to do, Seth. We’ve got your back.”

In
stead of dreaming sweet dreams about a future with Pinkerton, Emily endured nightmares regarding her past. Why hadn’t she mattered more to her parents? Why had she been a disappointment? An embarrassment? Buried feelings of unworthiness, loneliness, and resentment resurfaced and ravaged her spirit.

Because of them, she’d assumed another identity. For the money. For the creative freedom. And now, she realized, for validation. As her work gained favor, she grew more confident. More bold. To her current shame, more reckless. She’d compromised good people in the name of sensational storytelling. Maybe even broken up a marriage and damaged a man’s chance at being voted governor.

Maybe her
Savior
was Osprey Smith. He’d certainly made Rome pay for his sins. Why not the scribe who made his wife’s affair public?

Rome and Boston’s surprise visit had pushed Emily beyond her physical and emotional limit. She’d wanted to sink with the sun when talk turned to their suspension. They mentioned Wilde and his exaggerated tales. Tales that often included their personal quirks and interests. They’d cited invasion of privacy and how they’d felt violated.

Violated.

Emily had felt sick, but she’d held strong. Or rather she’d lapsed to the old Emily, the socially backward bookworm. When she’d first laid eyes on Rome and Boston in her sitting room, she feared that they’d uncovered her secret and come to give her the devil. She’d braced herself for their disappointment and outrage. But the call had been social. They’d returned home, heard about Pinkerton, and wanted to make sure she was all right. They were worried.

It only made her feel worse.

To her dismay, Mrs. Dunlap invited them to stay for supper. It had been the longest evening of her life.

The first hint of dawn filtered in through the partially drawn curtains.

Exhausted, Emily stared at the ceiling, analyzing her life just as she analyzed plot problems and character faults. Her knees had buckled at the sight of Rome, but it had nothing to do with moony-eyed adoration. She’d looked at him and felt nothing resembling desire.

When had she fallen out of love with Rome Garrett?

Unless Mrs. Dunlap had been right. Unless what she felt for Rome hadn’t been love at all, but a girlish infatuation.

“You’re in love with Mr. Pinkerton”

Certainly, she had all of the symptoms she’d read about in numerous romantic novels. The man didn’t even have to be in the same room. All she had to do was think about him and her breath quickened, her heart skipped. Phrases like
floating on air
may be clichéd, but they had merit. Phineas Pinkerton had blown into her life like a tornado, whipping her emotions and values into a frenzy. Though she’d not mentioned sex in her proposal, it was certainly on her mind. Since he ravished her against the bookshelf, she’d thought of little else. She wasn’t ashamed. She wanted more. With Pinkerton.

The bond strengthened by the day, the hour. She’d thought the connection artistic, yet he never shared his work. They’d never talked craft. His love of literature was apparent. He enjoyed her book collection, was familiar with authors of poetry and fiction. But he didn’t commit time or thought to pad and pencil as she did. If she didn’t bring her characters to life daily, she’d go mad.

Phineas Pinkerton was more obsessed with solving mysteries than creating poetry.
Intuitive detective.
Maybe he’d applied for a job as a lawman, but had been rejected because of his sexual preferences. Or maybe he just assumed he’d be rejected and never tried. As an artist she understood how scary rejection could be. More than ever she was convinced he wasn’t living the life of his choosing.

She could relate.

Her body pulsed with self-directed anger. She pushed out of bed and rushed through her morning ritual. Since her parents’ deaths, she’d been so focused on not giving over control of her life that she’d never really taken control herself. By asking Pinkerton to take her away, wasn’t she really asking him to save her?