Teresa Medeiros (22 page)

A tense pause was followed by a gravelly chuckle. “Why, I almost believe you would.”

In reply, Esmerelda drew back the hammer of the pistol.

Billy’s mother waited a long time, long enough for Esmerelda’s finger to tense on the trigger. But she finally lowered the shotgun, propping it up against one of the posts. When the woman stepped out of the shadows, Esmerelda stumbled backward.

Esmerelda had assumed the Darling boys had gotten their height from their father. She had been wrong. Billy’s mother was a giantess, standing at least six feet tall in her bare feet. The massive arms she folded over her chest were roped with muscle, giving Esmerelda the impression that she was no less sturdy or immovable than the trunk of the dead oak in the yard. She half expected to see roots twining from the woman’s scalp instead of an uncombed tangle of hair. Both her hair and the shapeless burlap dress she wore were faded to the same butternut hue as her sunbaked skin. Her face was nearly as broad as the rest of her, its blunt features carved by some clumsy whittler with a dull blade. It was impossible to imagine them having ever been wreathed in a smile or crumpled by grief.

“You can bring him in,” she said. “But you’ll have to tend to him yourself.” The pipe flared orange, illuminating a stern jaw and a rueful mouth that was a shade too familiar for Esmerelda’s comfort. “I ain’t patchin’ him up just so he can run off and get his fool self shot all to hell again.”

A sudden rustling in the grass distracted them both.

Billy had vanished. A gurgling sound floated to their ears.

Esmerelda shot his mother a look of pure outrage. “Now see what you’ve done, you spiteful old hag! You waited too long and now he’s dying!”

Gathering her skirts, she raced to where Billy had collapsed and flung herself to her knees in the grass. She couldn’t bear to have come so far only to lose him now.

He lay on his back, one hand pressed to his bandage, the other clutching his side. His handsome features were contorted in agony.

Esmerelda cupped his face in her hands. “Breathe, Billy! Oh, please! You’ve got to try!”

He opened his eyes and sucked in a wheezing breath. That was when Esmerelda realized he wasn’t dying. He was laughing. Laughing so hard that tears were coursing from the corners of his eyes and rolling into his ears. Laughing although every hitch and shudder of his battered body must have been pure torment.

Esmerelda snatched her hands away from his face, embarrassed by her zeal and furious at him for frightening her so badly.

As he gazed up at her, his eyes glowing silver in the moonlight, his laughter faded to a soft chuckle. “I was just thinking”—he lifted a hand to her cheek, his touch strangely tender—“that you’re just the kind of girl I always wanted to bring home to meet my ma.”

Jaws dropped and eyes bulged as the private coach rolled into Calamity on a hazy Saturday afternoon.

Donley Ezell emerged from the cool shadows of his stable to gaze longingly at the six matched grays drawing the coach while old Granny Shively eyed the coachman in his scarlet livery and white powdered wig. Her wistful smile shaved ten years off her age, making her look a girlish ninety-seven.

“Why, he looks just like a beau who courted me when I was fifteen!” she exclaimed to her friend Maude.

“Look, Ma,” shouted a little girl, tugging her mother’s arm so hard she nearly dropped the bolt of calico she was carrying. The child pointed at the Wyndham coat of arms discreetly emblazoned in gold on the black lacquered door. “It must be the king of New Mexico!”

Inside the carriage, Anne let the curtain fall and slumped
back in her seat, unable to decide which was more oppressive—the dust, the gloom, or the heat. “I do hope you’re satisfied, Reginald. We couldn’t have attracted any more attention had we arrived in a giant pumpkin drawn by six white mice.”

Her brother had long ago collapsed against the plush velvet squabs opposite her, his ivory linen shirt and fawn waistcoat wilted by the heat. Anne might have pitied him had he not been growing increasingly more petulant with every mile that separated him from the mist and meadows of his beloved England.

He mopped at his florid face and shiny pate with a monogrammed handkerchief, gasping for air like a beached cod. “It’s intolerable enough that no one in this uncivilized wilderness serves afternoon tea. You can’t expect me to sacrifice all of my creature comforts.”

Anne snapped open her fan, selfishly hoarding the breeze it generated. “We’ve lost precious hours loading this infernal coach onto the steamer, then the train. Hours that could have been better spent searching for Esmerelda.”

Reginald roused from his lethargy long enough to bang the brass tip of his cane on the floor of the coach. “I have no intention of transporting my only granddaughter back to England in some mule skinner’s wagon.”

Their gazes clashed, then they both looked away, neither of them willing to face the terrible fear that hung unspoken between them. What if they were too late? What if Esmerelda had already confronted the man she had described in her letter? The man who may very well have murdered her brother. Anne shuddered to imagine what such a cold-blooded villain might do to an innocent like her niece.

Unable to sit idle a moment longer, she wrestled Reginald’s
cane out of his grip and tapped on the ceiling of the coach. Before the vehicle could creak to a halt, she had gathered her reticule and parasol and flung open the door.

“Where the devil are you going?” Reginald demanded, clutching at her sleeve with all the querulous urgency of a frightened child.

Moved by the pity that had eluded her earlier, she gently patted his hand. “While you secure our accommodations, I shall make inquiries of the local constable. Perhaps he has news of our Esmerelda.”

“Anne?” he called after her as the coachman appeared to help her down from the coach.

She turned, affecting an air of aristocratic hauteur to shield her from the impolite stares directed her way. “You’ll find her, won’t you?”

Anne simply touched two fingers to her lips, unwilling to make a promise she might not be able to keep.

Anne had been banging on the locked door of the sheriff’s office for nearly five minutes when a grizzled old man sidled up next to her.

“Won’t do you no good,” he said. “The sheriff ain’t there.”

Anne wasn’t sure whether she should be more appalled by the man’s familiarity, his grammar, or the rank cloud of body odor surrounding him. She drew a scented handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her nose, hoping he wouldn’t take offense at her own rudeness.

“Then where might I find him?”

He pointed across the dusty street. “Over yonder at the saloon.”

The man was looking her up and down in a most curious manner. A manner that made her want to glance down
and make sure the tiny row of mother-of-pearl buttons holding her camel-hair bodice closed over her breasts was still intact.

She started to brush past him, but he lurched directly into her path. “That there fancy stagecoach you climbed out of belong to you?”

Anne rolled her eyes, wondering just how long she was going to have to endure his abysmal manners. “It belongs to the duke of Wyndham.”

“That Mr. Wyndham must be a mighty rich feller.”

Anne’s sigh was a breath of frost. “Wyndham is his title, not his name. The proper form of address for my brother would be ‘Lord Wyndham’ or ‘His Grace’.”

“You mean to say His Graciousness ain’t yer husband?”

“I should say not. I’m unmarried.”

A radiant smile brightened the man’s dour face. Before Anne could question his odd behavior, he went scampering down the sidewalk, a definite hop in his step. “Elmer! Hey, Elmer! Ye’re not gonna believe this, but we got us another one!”

Although she was somewhat dismayed to find herself the lone woman in a seedy tavern, Anne marched boldly up to the only occupied table. “Pardon me, sirs. I am seeking the town constable.”

The two men dressed nearly identically in broad-brimmed hats, plaid shirts, and denim trousers, shot each other a nervous look over the dusty bandannas knotted around their necks.

“We ain’t got no constable, ma’am,” said one.

“But that there is Sheriff McGuire,” said the other, pointing to the man opposite them.

The sheriff’s gaze flicked briefly to her, then returned to his cards. “I’ll be right with you, madam. After this hand.”

Anne gaped at him, hardly able to believe that he’d dismissed her so coolly Was Reginald right? Was everyone in this country an utter boor? She narrowed her eyes, studying the man more closely. If not for his sun- and wind-weathered face and fall of silver hair, she might have thought his broad-shouldered, lean-waisted form was in the full vigor of its youth. At least he didn’t dress like a savage. His shirt was bleached a blinding white and his paisley waistcoat was crisp enough to meet even Reginald’s exalted standards. A drooping mustache framed his full lips.

Anne looked away, oddly discomfited by the unbridled sensuality of that mouth. But after several more cards had been played, she decided she’d had just about enough of his indifference.

She pointedly cleared her throat. “I do so hate to interrupt your game, sheriff, but you must allow me to introduce myself. I am Anne Hastings, sister to the duke of Wyndham, and I’m looking for my niece—a young woman named Esmerelda Fine.”

He glanced up, arching one silvery eyebrow. “You’re not armed, are you?”

Taken aback by the peculiar query, she replied, “I should say not.”

“Good.” He grinned and winked at her. “Then I’ll just finish my hand.”

Growing more impatient by the second, Anne gritted her teeth and began to tap her foot on the plank floor.

Although he would have had her believe otherwise, Drew was keenly aware of the woman awaiting his pleasure. Aware of the
tap-tap-tap
of her dainty kid boot, the aristocratic flare of her delicate nostrils, the subtle floral scent of her perfume. He stole a look at her over his hand of cards. The soft gray hair peeping out from beneath her
stylish bonnet was the exact color of a dove’s breast.
Anne
, he mused. The name suited her. It was both elegant and no-nonsense. She might even be a handsome woman if her lips weren’t puckered in such a haughty manner. They looked as if they were poised to suck a stick of sour candy.

Or be kissed.

Seal swore, jolting Drew out of his reverie. He dropped his gaze to the table to discover he’d just let Dauber best them both with a pair of fours. Ah, well, what did it matter? He had nothing of value in his own hand but a knave of hearts.

Feeling a bit like a knave himself, he tossed down the cards in disgust and retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair. As he came to his feet, Esmerelda Fine’s aunt took a hasty step backward.

Twirling one waxed tip of his mustache to hide his smile, Drew bowed and made a courtly gesture toward the door. “After you, madam.”

Anne lowered herself into the chair opposite the sheriff’s desk, then bounced back up with a startled “Oh!”

“Sorry about that,” he said, coming around the desk to rescue the yellow tabby she’d almost sat on. As he smoothed the cat’s rumpled fur, the beast gave Anne a decidedly malevolent look. “There, there,” he crooned. “My Miss Kitty is a wee bonny puss.”

“You’re Scottish,” Anne remarked, glancing nervously behind her this time before she sat.

“No, I’m American.” He set the cat on the floor; it went sauntering from the room, its tail still twitching with regal annoyance. “I had no choice but to flee the country of my birth as a lad when the king seized my father’s lands and gave them to some fat English sot who’d never set foot off
his London estate. Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” His pleasant smile deepened, warning her that he wasn’t the least bit sorry and had every intention of offending her. “I can tell from your accent that you must be English.”

Her smile was equally pleasant. “That’s quite all right, sir. After all, it’s not as if I personally drove you off your land.” Her white-knuckled grip on the bone handle of her parasol warned him that she just might be capable of doing just that.

Drew settled himself behind his desk and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “What can I do to assist you, Mrs.…?” He stretched out the title to insulting lengths.

“Miss,” Anne corrected briskly, refusing to shy away from the truth, however stark.

“Ah,
Miss
Hastings,” he said, nodding smugly. “We have more in common than I realized. I, too, never chose to shackle myself with the chains from which there is no escape but death.” When she only gazed blankly at him, he leaned forward and confessed, “I never married.”

“Yes, well, I can certainly see why.” Her acid tone wiped the smile from his face. Before he could recover his poise, she reached into her reticule, drew out a silver locket, and snapped it open beneath his nose. “Have you seen this girl?”

Still eyeing her warily, Drew took the locket and studied the yellowing daguerreotype nestled within.

“She wouldn’t be a girl anymore, of course. She would be a young woman,” Anne hastened to explain. “But I thought perhaps you might recognize a hint of something familiar in her features, some nuance of her expression that might jar your memory.” She leaned forward in her chair, her icy veneer cracking to reveal the vulnerability beneath.