The Bride Wore Blue (27 page)

Pickett lumbered over to a crate and removed a soiled towel from its top.

“I hope you know what you’re doin’,” Elton said. “You know how he gets when he’s mad, and he’s already pretty sore about Miss Pearl being dead.”

Pickett pulled an amber bottle out of the crate. “She just needs enough to bring out the flavor.” He popped the cork out of the flask and handed it to Vivian, then looked over his shoulder at Elton. “You have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a steak?” He rubbed the scars on his face. “Too easy to recognize now. I deserve some good rabbit stew.”

Nodding, Vivian set the whiskey bottle on her cooking table and held up an onion. “Do you want to cut up the vegetables, or you want me to do it while you relax? ”

Pickett studied her, then retrieved the knife from the barrel. “Remember, we’ve got guns and we’re both watching you.”

She was counting on it. While the rabbit stewed in a kettle on the potbelly stove, she chopped up five potatoes and the onion. She added the vegetables to the pot, along with a few pinches of salt and ground pepper. Now it just needed a few drops of whiskey and time to simmer.

She poured some liquor into the kettle, then tipped the bottle to her lips, feigning a swig. How could Miss Betts at the Homestead House stand this stuff in her tea? Licking her lips as if the whiskey tasted better than it did, Vivian set the bottle on the table, close to Elton and Pickett, leaving the cork on the cutting board.

She couldn’t guarantee how tasty the stew would be, but if her plan worked, they wouldn’t care what it tasted like.

Two hours later, their plates and the whiskey bottle empty, Elton and Pickett sagged in their chairs, looking plenty relaxed.

“I’m glad you fellows enjoyed my stew,” Vivian said. “I like having a few more spices on hand, like rosemary or thyme, but—”

Elton muttered a faint, “Uh-huh.”

“You liked it too, Mr. Pickett?”

His only answer was a slight grunt as he folded himself over the table and rested his head on his arms. Elton laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

Vivian silently counted to fifteen, then lifted the knife from the wash sink and tiptoed out the door.

As soon as her shoes hit the muddy soil, she took off running, careful to hold the knife out away from her. She needed to put some distance between her and the shanty in what little was left of daylight. If Leon returned early and all three of the men came after her on horseback, the knife wouldn’t do her any good.

Scrambling down the side of the mountain, Vivian wove through trees, trying to remain hidden. Difficult to do in a red gown. Even dirty, the dress was bright enough to make her stand out like a cardinal in flight.

She’d just stopped to catch her breath when she heard hooves against the rocks behind her. Why hadn’t she taken one of the horses?

A gunshot shattered a rock just ahead of her, and she darted down the path.

C
arter gripped a slab of beef jerky in his teeth so he could tie the saddlebag shut. Liberty pulled against the reins and ripped a clump of summer grass from the ground. They’d been riding for several hours, and they were all ready for a break. Unfortunately, they had precious few hours left to get up that mountain before daylight gave way to darkness.

Stanley tightened the belt on his loose trousers and looked up at Ute Mountain. “They could be anywhere up there.”

Carter bit off a chunk of jerky and pulled his canteen from the saddle. “Boney Hughes told me about several abandoned mines and shacks.” He gulped water, his last drink for a few hours. “A perfect place to hide out.”

“If you’re not in a hurry and don’t mind crawling over rocks all day.” Walt sat on a rock, eating a meatloaf sandwich his wife had made.

Carter swallowed what was fast becoming a familiar longing. Not that he needed a woman to fix him a sandwich, although he’d probably eat better if she did. Of late, he craved the companionship his folks had enjoyed. The comfort of having someone to share the joys and sorrows of life.

While Carter and the two officers stored their canteens in their saddles and untied their mounts, he briefed them on the details of the robberies—banks, train, and Mac, and what he’d learned last night.

He’d just clucked his tongue at Liberty when a distant shot echoed off the rocks ahead of them.

Carter urged Liberty up the trail behind the other two lawmen, the three of them riding in silence. The gunfire had come from this direction, and Carter had a hunch they were getting close to the gang’s hideout. That was probably one of them shooting meat for the night’s meal.

Carter pushed his hat tighter on his head and nudged his horse. They’d fallen behind the other two. If they didn’t come across Leon and the girl soon, he and Liberty would find themselves stumbling around in the dark. The blue skies were giving way to a blanket of clouds rolling in from the northwest.

While the three horses wound their way north, Carter sorted through a barrage of questions. Where did this Violet person fit in? What did Leon and the girl have to gain from Pearl DeVere’s death? Maybe there was some sort of a love triangle; the girl got jealous and killed her rival. But what if they didn’t have anything to gain from her death? It made sense that Leon would run; he was a wanted outlaw. But if the girl wasn’t involved with the outlaw or her boss’s death, why would she run?

Several yards ahead, Walt came to an abrupt halt and raised his right hand. Stanley and Carter stopped. Walt held up two fingers and mouthed the word
men
.

Two men. Not a man and woman?

For a second, it was quiet enough that Carter could have heard an Indian scout’s steps, then hooves suddenly pounded the ground and headed up the trail.

Liberty lunged ahead of the officers’ sorrels. The chase was on, and Carter prayed their pursuit would end the reign of the gang that had terrorized Cripple Creek and the surrounding areas for the past several months.

Up around a curve, Carter caught a glimpse of the two men. One tall, the other of average build. Most likely Pickett and Elton Kelso. The shorter man twisted and fired two shots at Carter. No more than three bullets left in that revolver before the shooter had to reload. Unless he carried a second gun.

Carter folded himself over the saddle horn and whipped the reins, guiding Liberty toward a steep upward path to the right and signaling Walt and Stanley to follow him. According to the map he’d studied with Boney, they’d intersect with the other two men without having to ride directly behind them. Carter couldn’t say for sure whether God had called him to this work, but it felt good to be chasing outlaws, to feel like he was getting closer to making Colorado a safer place to live.

He was about fifty feet from where the paths reconnected, ready to make the turn to intercept the two suspects, when he spotted a flash of red cloth clambering down the embankment. The cook at the Homestead had told him Violet wore a red gown last night.

He eased up and pointed that direction. When the police officers indicated they’d seen her, he stopped. “I’ll bring her in. You two apprehend the men and take them back to town.”

Pulling the reins to the right, Carter clucked his tongue. Liberty turned off the trail and step-slid down the shale bank.

The petite, red blur scrambled down the mountainside, flailing her bare arms. She had to be the prostitute he was looking for, and Leon probably wasn’t far away. Carter urged Liberty through the brush to head her off.

He’d just come out on the other side of a stand of juniper when she began tumbling, toes over tangles, and disappeared over a ridge too steep to follow on a horse.

Carter dismounted and retrieved his Sharps rifle from its scabbard. Pearl DeVere hadn’t been shot, but he couldn’t say who was armed and who wasn’t. For his mother’s sake, he couldn’t take any chances.

He paused at the top of the ridge. The prostitute had landed at the bottom of a wash about twenty feet down. He picked his way toward her. With her dress in rags, the girl lying face down in the mud didn’t look like much of a threat. She didn’t even look alive.

After setting his rifle on a rock, Carter knelt and rolled her over onto his arm. Her face was a smear of mud and white paint, with a bad scrape on her cheek. He pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped the layers of crud away from her eyes and off the unscathed side of her face.

Narrow nose. High cheekbones. And a mussed braid of hair the color of maple syrup.

His chest clenched.

“Vivian?”

Vivian’s eyelids resisted her attempts to open them. Mud, fatigue, fear—any of those could account for their heaviness.

Suddenly, she floated on a cloud, or was she on a man’s arm? Puffs of warm breath bathed her. A covering lighted on her chest, and a strong hand swaddled her. Something or someone brushed her face, including her eyes. An angel’s wings?

“Vivian?”

Her real name. A man’s voice. No growl, and no heavy accent, but shock punctuated each syllable.

Carter. Her head rested in the crook of Carter Alwyn’s elbow, and she longed to find comfort in his warm, brown-eyed gaze. But he wasn’t an actor. He didn’t turn his feelings off and on to play a role … to entertain.

Teetering between relief and dread, Vivian forced her eyes open and stared into a look of hurt and shame. Carter’s jacket lay over her bare skin. Tears stung her weary eyes. “I’m sorry I ran. I thought you were one of them.”

“Where’s Leon?”

“He went back to town. Left me with his son and cousin, Elton and Pickett.”

“You’re Violet?” Shame dripped off every letter, stinging her insides.

She wanted to believe she was someone else, that the Vivian she’d perceived herself to be wasn’t capable of doing what she’d done with Gregory or of choosing to work where she did. But it was time she faced the truth—she had indeed been capable of living a lie, at least long enough to ruin any chance she had at love or even a normal life. She was a flawed Vivian, not a flirty Violet.

She met Carter’s stormy gaze. “I’m Vivian Sinclair—the girl you know.”

He shook his head, and she looked away. She deserved his distrust, even his wrath. She’d expected it. But there had been no way to prepare for the betrayal she saw in his dark eyes.

Pressing the coat to her chest, Vivian sat up. Everything from her stubbed toes to her scraped face hurt, but not nearly as deeply as the self-inflicted wounds to her heart. Carter was right—she wasn’t the girl he thought he knew, and she could never be that girl.

Without looking at her, Carter shifted the jacket so she could slip her arm into it. The weight of it fell on her shoulders, and she knew the indecency of her dress had prompted his action, not chivalry.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.” The truth in her apology seared her soul.

Lord, I’m so sorry
.

“Did you kill Pearl DeVere?” he asked.

Vivian felt the blood drain from her face. He suspected her of murder? Of working with Leon and his family?

His lower eyelid twitched. “You told Mary in the kitchen that Pearl was dead, and then you disappeared.”

“Those men out there are after me.” She glanced toward the ravine’s edge. And now they’d kill Carter too. “Pearl was dead when I found her. Leon came in and accused me of killing her. As soon as I could, I ran from him.” Vivian looked him in the eye. “I was running to your office when he grabbed me and brought me up here. I know I don’t deserve your trust, but you have to believe me. I’m no angel, but neither am I a killer. I was Leon’s prisoner, not his partner in crime.”

“Can you stand?” His voice held the same intensity she saw in his eyes.

She pressed her lips together to help combat the tears and nodded.

“I need to get you back to town.” Carter offered his hands to help her up. When she wobbled, he bent down and lifted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “This’ll be easier for both of us.”

Vivian stared at the muddy ground. Undignified, and definitely not the feeling of floating on a cloud, but Carter was right—being carried in this position would be much easier than seeing her transgressions reflected in his eyes.