An Outlaw in Wonderland (12 page)

Y
our husband was a spy,” Eversleigh said flatly.

“I know,” Annabeth returned. “I’m the spy who caught him.”

Ethan sighed. “Beth.”

He wasn’t sure if the glare she shot his way was because he’d spoken, or because he’d
again shortened her name. He couldn’t help himself. To him she was Beth, and she always
would be. If she didn’t like it, she could leave.

Ethan scratched his wrist. He really needed them both to leave.

“Is that the South I hear in your voice, Mrs. Walsh?”

“Virginia,” she agreed. “Richmond.”

“As Ethan Walsh is listed as a surgeon at Chimborazo Hospital, I’ll assume that’s
where you met.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Annabeth frowned. “I was a matron.”

“You just said you were a spy.”

“I was both.”

“Like him?”

“Yes,” she said again, then quickly, “No! We weren’t on the same side.”

“You worked against each other, yet you’re married,” the marshal clarified.

Her gaze met Ethan’s; he lifted his brows. Hers crashed down, and she faced the marshal.
“That’s in the past—over and done with.” She cleared her throat. “You’ve obviously
investigated Ethan. I want to know why.”

Ethan did, too.

“Someone wrote the marshal service in Wichita. Said the sheriff died here ’bout a
month or so back under suspicious circumstances.”

“Sheriffs die every day,” Ethan said.

“Not too many fall out of windows.”

“Accidents happen.”

“Whoever sent the letter seemed to think he was pushed.”

“Who sent it?”

“No signature.”

“Obviously the letter writer is the person who tossed the sheriff from the window,”
Annabeth said. “Why get the law involved at all unless it’s to turn suspicion away
from oneself?”

“According to your husband, no one was here to toss the man. He fell.”

“Someone’s lying,” Annabeth said.

“Always,” the marshal agreed. “But who?”

“I’d tend to believe the fellow standing in front of me as if he has nothing to hide
over a person who writes anonymous letters. But I’m funny that way.”

“Somethin’s funny,” Eversleigh muttered, turning to Ethan. “I heard that not long
before the ‘accident’ you had visitors.”

“Not visitors. A patient,” Ethan clarified.

“And the giant who joined them?”

Annabeth cast Ethan a glance. She knew exactly who that was.

“I don’t remember any giant.”

“Dark hair. Light eyes. Nasty scar right about here.” Eversleigh pointed to his forehead.

“Ah.” Ethan rubbed his eye. “The brother of my patient’s husband.”

Annabeth shifted her weight to one hip, then fidgeted it back to the other. She wanted
to ask questions, discover the truth about his visitors. But she knew that if Ethan
was skirting the inquiries, there had to be a reason. He doubted she would care if
he were arrested, but she’d make sure Mikey wasn’t.

“Thank you for your interest, Marshal.” Annabeth crossed to the door. “Have a safe
trip back to Wichita.”

Eversleigh didn’t move. “Something smells here.”

“That’s the medicines we make in the back room.” Annabeth opened the door.

The man peered at Ethan, then at Annabeth. He knew they were lying, but he wasn’t
sure about what.

“If he lied then . . .” the marshal began.

“He did,” Annabeth agreed. “I did. That was
what
we did.”

“Then why should I believe him now?”

“As I told you before, Ethan isn’t a killer.”

“He’s never killed anyone? Not even during the war? Not before or after?”

Ethan waited for her to deny him, to say that he had killed the most precious thing
in their world.

“Never,” she said. She always had been a far better liar than he.

The marshal loosed a short, sharp, annoyed yet defeated sigh, and turned to Ethan.
“Where did your visitors go?”

“They told me they were from Texas.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Didn’t say.” Probably because they weren’t actually from Texas.

“You didn’t ask?”

“Didn’t care. I was more concerned with my patient.”

“What was the matter with her?”

“Fever.” Which often occurred in poorly treated gunshot wounds.

“Which you doctored and then—”

“They said they were returning to Texas.”

“Yet they were seen headed north.”

The marshal
had
been busy.

“I’m not responsible for their poor sense of direction.”

Eversleigh’s lips tightened. “I’d like to speak with them.”

“Look in Texas.” That should keep the man occupied for the next several years.

At last the marshal stepped onto the porch. His suspicious gaze met Ethan’s. “I’ll
find out what happened.”

“We’ll enjoy hearing about it.” Annabeth shut the door in his face.

“We will?” Ethan asked.

She waited until the clomps of the marshal’s boots faded before she faced him. “I’d
like to know what in hell happened. But I doubt he’ll be the one telling me.”

“No?”

“Giant? Had to be Mikey. And since he’s always with Fedya . . .” She spread her hands.
“Who was the woman?”

“According to Fedya, ‘no one.’”

Annabeth snorted. Ethan agreed. Fedya wouldn’t have ridden his horse until it almost
dropped dead on Main Street, with the woman both he and Mikey had called “Cathy” in
his arms, all the way from Indian Territory if she’d been
no one
. Fedya had loved that woman.

Whoever she was.

“Who threw the sheriff out the window?” Annabeth asked.

Ethan shrugged. “I wasn’t here.”

“So it had nothing to do with you,” she murmured.

“Me? No. Why would it?”

Fedya had insisted he had done it; the woman insisted she had. Ethan had lost a few
nights’ sleep over the lawman’s demise, but the fact remained . . . The sheriff
was
dead, and Ethan would probably never know the why of it.

Fedya Kondrashchenko could call himself Alexi Romanov and pretend pretty much anything,
but he would always be the slickest confidence man both east and west of the Mississippi,
and if he didn’t want anyone to know the truth of what had happened in Ethan’s room,
no one ever would. Besides, Ethan had enough sins of his own to agonize over. He didn’t
need to add someone else’s.

Annabeth peered at the street, brow furrowed, thinking hard, though about what, he
couldn’t determine.

“Do you need money?” he asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“Is that why you came? I have some. I’ll give it to you; then you can go.”

The flush of fury began at the neck of her dress—frayed, faded, the garment hung on
her as if it had been made for someone else. “You think I came back for your money?”
Her mouth twisted on the last word, as if he’d offered her his latest crop of armpit
hair.

“You certainly didn’t come back for me.”

“No?”

“Don’t.” He held up one hand, saw it was trembling, and put it back down.

“Don’t what?”

“Lie.”

She sighed, staring out at the town called Freedom, which was anything but. “Is your
brother—?”

Ethan’s chest went tight. He couldn’t breathe. He spun, palming a blue bottle from
the counter, then tucking the glass into his pocket before heading upstairs where
there were locks on the doors.

Mikey was still Mikhail, which meant that, for Ethan, his brother was dead.

•   •   •

A door slammed, and several thuds followed. Annabeth continued to gaze out the window.
Ethan could say what he liked; he could do what he wanted. But she wasn’t leaving.

Not yet.

She smoothed her hand over her skirt and grimaced. The garment was tired and pale—ruined—like
her. She had no idea where Lass had gotten it; she hadn’t asked. Questions like that
yielded troubling answers.

She’d always hated this dress, but she didn’t have another, nor occasion to wear one
if she did. But suddenly, she wanted a different garment—one she’d purchased herself,
one that hadn’t been tossed at her like payment.

Annabeth stepped outside, closing the door behind her. If Ethan decided to lock it
before her return, he’d discover she’d learned quite a bit in the past five years.
She could pick any lock ever made.

Folks milled about on the streets, more than she remembered milling about when she’d
left. When she’d lived here before, the town was just big enough to afford a doctor,
though it
had
boasted three saloons. Now she counted six, plus two mercantiles, three restaurants,
a dressmaker, cobbler, milliner, and whorehouse. The sheriff’s office stood right
next to Ethan’s place. Though it appeared deserted, the rest of Freedom was booming.

Since Lewis’s Sewing and Sundry stood closer than either of the mercantiles, she went
there first. Inside, a familiar scent washed over her, and she sniffed, wondering
what it was.

“Good morning.” A woman emerged from the rear of the building, her low, husky voice
completely at odds with her small stature and doll-like beauty. The voice was that
of someone who’d spent a lifetime in smoky saloons, singing—or worse—for her supper.
But her face was unlined, youthful, her blue eyes honest and sweet, her hair the shade
of daffodils, worn loose and caught at the nape with a pink ribbon. “I’m Mrs. Lewis.”

“I . . . uh, yes.” The woman lifted a brow at Annabeth’s discomfiture. “Good morning.”
She felt huge and awkward. A redheaded troll in the presence of a princess.

“What can I do for you?”

“I need . . .” Annabeth indicated her faded gown.

“Of course.” Mrs. Lewis hurried forward, pulling a measurement cord from around her
neck. “I can get started right away.”

“Do you . . . uh . . . have anything ready-made?”

“In your size?” Mrs. Lewis managed not to laugh in Annabeth’s face. Most likely because
she was far too small to see into Annabeth’s face. “I don’t—” She paused, frowning;
then just as suddenly, she smiled. “I do!” She clapped her tiny hands and hurried
off on tiny feet.

She returned almost immediately, holding a light green day dress. Annabeth stifled
a grimace. Pale green was not her color. Mrs. Lewis did not seem to notice. She attempted
to place the bodice where Annabeth’s bodice resided, but she couldn’t quite manage
it.

Annabeth took the gown and positioned the neck where the neck would go. The hem ended
two inches higher than it should. The cuffs stopped an inch above her wrists.

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Lewis tugged on the skirt, and Annabeth let go. “I can let down
the hem and add longer cuffs. Won’t take me but an hour.”

“I assume you made this for someone.” She doubted Mrs. Lewis sewed clothes the size
of an Amazon for her own amusement.

“I did. However, the lady left town without paying for it.”

“Won’t she be back?”

“Doubtful. But I can always stitch another. Would you like me to make those changes?”

As Annabeth had nothing but the dress on her back and the trousers in her saddlebags,
she nodded. “Please.” The color would make Annabeth resemble a holly berry, but she
didn’t have much choice. “Could I order more of the same? In my size but different
material?”

“How many?”

“Three more.” She planned to burn the one she was wearing. “And the colors . . .”
She lifted her hand to her hair, which also hung loose, but as it had been shoved
beneath a sweaty hat for days did not look half as lovely as her companion’s.

“Of course.” The woman began to pull out bolts of cloth in browns, golds, and deeper
greens. Annabeth pointed to one of each shade.

“I’ll need undergarments, stockings. Pretty much everything.”

“What happened to your clothes?”

Revealing that her husband had burned them was probably not a good idea. “Flood.”
Annabeth cleared her throat.

“Oh!” Mrs. Lewis set her slim white hands on her rosy cheeks. “How horrible.”

“Yes. You’ll have the dress modified in an hour?”

“I will.”

The door opened. Annabeth recognized Sadie Cantrell as soon as she walked in. They
had been friendly before Annabeth left. The former frontier schoolteacher had done
everything she could to make the young doctor’s wife feel welcome.

Sadie and her husband, Jeb, were old enough to have been the first settlers of the
great state of Kansas. They were certainly among the first settlers of Freedom, or
at least there was no one left alive to contradict the claim.

At the sight of Annabeth, Sadie’s one remaining good eye widened. “Hello, Sadie,”
Annabeth began. “I’m—”

“Dead,” Sadie interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re dead.”

Annabeth opened her mouth, shut it again, then glanced at Mrs. Lewis, who spread her
hands. Although the past twenty-four hours had been slightly hellish, Annabeth was
fairly certain Freedom wasn’t purgatory.

“I assure you I’m not.”

“Ye better tell yer husband that, ’cause he’s been mournin’ ye somethin’ fierce.”

“Mourning?” she repeated.

Sadie eyed Mrs. Lewis. “Ye didn’t come to have a catfight with yonder sewin’ woman,
did ye?”

Yonder sewing woman drew in a sharp breath. “What’s your name?”

“Annabeth.”

“Beth?”

Annabeth got a chill. “How did you—”

“Surname?” Mrs. Lewis snapped, and Annabeth, who’d been known for the past five years,
and for many before that, as Annabeth Phelan nevertheless answered, “Walsh.”

The woman, who’d already paled as if Annabeth were the ghost Sadie claimed, gave a
wordless cry. Her eyes fluttered, and she slid out of sight behind the countertop.

Annabeth hurried around the edge to discover Mrs. Lewis in a heap on the floor. She
knelt next to her and caught again that familiar scent.

Mrs. Lewis smelled just like Ethan’s spare pillow.

•   •   •

The indentation of his wife’s head still marred the bolster. Though Ethan knew it
was a mistake, he sipped at the bottle, staring at the curve in the white fabric,
and the next thing he knew, he’d placed his own cheek right where hers had been.