An Outlaw in Wonderland (28 page)

So Ethan hadn’t shared her secrets, hadn’t talked about her or betrayed her to Cora
Lewis. Why that made Annabeth so happy, she couldn’t say.

“You’re a traitor, Anna.”

She’d been called that before, but it had never held quite the same ring. In Lassiter’s
words, she heard a death knell.

He lowered his voice so only she could hear his whisper. “If I let a traitor live,
you know what’ll happen.”

“Chaos,” she muttered.

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”

He was right. If he let her live now that it was known who she was, what she’d done,
it would be only a matter of time until one of his own men killed him in his sleep
and took over. Outlaws were like that.

She was glad she’d seen Ethan again, helped him, held him. She hoped her promising
to stay and then sneaking out in the night, combined with the divorce papers her lawyer
would deliver, would make him angry enough to move on.

Annabeth stood in the bright sun and waited for the bullet that would kill her. She’d
forgotten whom she was dealing with.

“Tie her,” Lassiter Morant ordered.

Annabeth released an annoyed huff as his thugs grabbed her. “Can’t you just shoot
me?”

Lass smiled. “What do you think?”

A
man-shaped shadow emerged from the rear of the house and crept toward the stairs.
As Ethan hadn’t heard the door open, a floorboard creak, the scuff of a boot, or a
single breath, he didn’t think the intruder was a patient. He cocked the gun in his
hand, and the shadow froze.

“Turn around,” Ethan ordered. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

The figure complied. Silver moon shadows flickered over his face, but Ethan didn’t
recognize the fellow. Of course he wouldn’t know Lassiter or Moses from Adam.

“Farquhar?” Ethan asked, then uncocked the weapon without waiting for an answer. He
doubted Lassiter Morant would have turned without going for his gun. “I planned to
wire the Pinkerton Detective Agency in the morning and have them contact you.”

“They wouldn’t even admit that they know me.”

“Do they know you?”

Had the man invented his affiliation? Hoodwinked Annabeth? Gotten her involved in
something dangerous for . . . what reason?

“Would your superior have admitted that he’d ever heard of you?” Ethan thought about
John Law and laughed. “That’s what I thought. Now, where’s Annabeth?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you.”

“Why do you need me?”

Ethan hesitated. “Why are you here?”

It was too much of a coincidence that Ethan had been prepared to search out a man
who suddenly appeared.

“There was a murder. The two of you went missing.” The dark figure shrugged. “I’ve
been stopping by every few days to see if . . .”

“They’d hung us?”

“Glad they didn’t.”

“Me too,” Ethan muttered.

Ethan hadn’t wanted Annabeth to be with Farquhar. The way she said the man’s name,
the way he’d said “Annie Beth Lou,” their long history, and all she had done for him,
made Ethan think they were much more than they let on, but the alternative to her
disappearing with Farquhar was much worse.

“Where can I find Lassiter Morant?”

It was Farquhar’s turn to laugh. “I’ll assume that Annabeth told you her mission or
you wouldn’t even know his name.”

Ethan didn’t comment.

“So you understand that if I had any idea where he was, I’d be there arresting him
and not here talking to you.”

Ethan stared out the front window at the silent, deserted streets. “If she isn’t with
me and she isn’t with you—”

“Doesn’t mean she’s with him.”

“She left without her Colt. Hell, she left without a horse.”

Farquhar shifted. “You’d better tell me what happened. From the beginning.”

“Which beginning?” There’d been almost as many of those as there’d been endings.

“She came back,” Farquhar murmured. “And she swore she never would. She stayed, even
though staying was too damn dangerous. Why?”

Ethan sighed and began to speak. He told Farquhar a lot, but he didn’t tell him everything.
Some things were Ethan’s and Annabeth’s alone. However, when he got to the part about
the knife, the man cursed.

“Carved handle?” Ethan nodded. “Flowers? Roses, daisies, larkspurs, and such?”

Ethan had no idea what a larkspur looked like, but he had seen the others. “How did
you know that?”

“Morant owns one book,
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
.”

As Ethan had never heard of it, he shrugged.

“Written by an Englishman. Some fellow who calls himself Lewis Caroll. A girl falls
down a rabbit hole into another land. Cakes that grow her large, drinks that make
her small. Talking rabbits and cats. Flowers, too, apparently.”

“Sounds like a lot of nonsense.”

“It’s a story for children. But Morant loves it. Calls his hideout Wonderland. According
to Annabeth, he carved the flowers from the novel into his knife handle.”

“She knew the knife was his.” Hence her cough.

“Which explains why she’s gone.”

Ethan rubbed his scar. Beneath it, his head had begun to throb. “Explain it to me.”

“The knife was a threat. Come back or else.”

Ethan dropped his hand. “Or else what?”

“Nothing good,” Moses said.

“We have to find her.”

“If she’s with Lassiter Morant, she’s in Wonderland.”

“His hideout,” Ethan said.

“No one can find it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

•   •   •

They tied Annabeth to the nearest tree. Hell, the only tree. This was still Kansas,
after all. Just because Lass called the hideout Wonderland didn’t mean it had suddenly
sprouted greenery and talking flowers.

Once they had her secured, the men gathered around Lass and began to whisper. The
leering glances thrown Annabeth’s way gave her no doubt about what her fate would
be. Until now, no one had looked at her with anything other than respect. She was
Lass’s woman, and no one touched her but him.

Those days were done.

Her gaze flicked from outlaw to outlaw, cataloging their weapons. All she needed was
for one of them to get close and get careless; then she’d put an end to their fun.

“Me first,” Lass announced. “When I’ve had enough, y’all can draw straws.”

“Aw, Lass, there won’t be nothin’ left to draw straws fer once you’ve had enough.”

Lass’s eyes met Annabeth’s, and he smiled. Annabeth hoped he was the one who got careless.
Unfortunately, he’d never been anything but careful so far.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, boys. I’ll make sure you each get a chance. But first . . .”
He reached for his belt. “I’m gonna show you how it’s done.”

As he released his buckle, the sound of a horse being ridden hard down the narrow
trail had every man drawing his pistol. Annabeth’s gaze fixed on the entrance, hoping
the rider was rescue; then again—considering the guns—hoping it wasn’t. She should
have known better. If anyone but Lass and his men knew the location of Wonderland,
she wouldn’t be here at all.

Delbert Haney reined in his lathered horse. “Railroad payroll comin’ on tomorrow’s
stage. We gotta ride.”

Lass scowled at Annabeth, as if she’d purposely ruined his plans. Everyone else’s
eyes shifted to Lass. What would he do? Killing Annabeth the way that he wanted took
time they didn’t have and might lose them the chance to rob the stage.

Business? Or pleasure?

Annabeth, who’d spent months gauging Lassiter’s moods, reading his face, peering into
his eyes and seeing nothing but death, saw it there again. For just an instant, he
considered shooting her now, not saving her for later.

Do it,
she thought.
Please.

The smile that had faded with the arrival of Delbert blossomed. He uncocked his gun.
“You’d better still be breathing when I come back.” Several full canteens landed in
her lap.

Annabeth didn’t answer. He couldn’t make her drink water when he wasn’t here, and
in this heat, she wouldn’t last two days without it. In this heat, she might not last
one.

“You refuse to drink,” Lassiter continued, “or somehow hang yourself with that rope . . .”

Annabeth frowned at the bindings on her hands and feet, as well as the one that securely
lashed her middle to the tree. What did he think she was, a magician?

Lass snapped his fingers, and she met his gaze. “You die before I kill you, and he
dies. I’ll walk right into that no-account town and gut him like a downed buffalo.”

The man’s lips curved, and Annabeth understood he was going to do that anyway. No
one touched Lassiter Morant’s woman. At least while she was still his woman. Apparently,
once she’d been labeled traitor and spy, other labels no longer applied. Confusing,
but then Lassiter was crazy.

“Lass!” The men milled about near the entrance, mounted, ready, impatient. She’d hate
to be her if they missed the stage. Hell, she’d hate to be her if they didn’t.

Morant wheeled his horse far too close to Annabeth’s bound feet. Grass, dirt, and
rocks sprayed over her boots and a hoof ticked against her toe. She yanked her legs
to her chest as he raced to join them. The thunder of retreating horses filled the
small, secluded area. Dust rose up beyond the scrub that shaded the trail and then
moved east.

She was going to have to live, to endure whatever came next. Either find a way to
escape, or—

“No,” Annabeth murmured. If she escaped, Lass would only follow. How long before she
found a newly carved knife buried in Ethan’s chest?

She couldn’t let that happen. The only way to keep Ethan safe was to kill Lassiter
Morant.

•   •   •

“How are you gonna find Wonderland when half a dozen Pinkerton detectives couldn’t?”
Farquhar asked.

“I didn’t say I’d find it.” Ethan struck a match, lit the lamp. “My—” He turned and
the word
brother
stuck in his throat as the lamplight illuminated his companion. “What the hell is
that?” Ethan pointed to Farquhar’s neck.

“What does it look like?” Farquhar pulled at the collar. Which belonged on a priest.

“You’re not a priest,” Ethan said, though he wished the man were. Then Ethan wouldn’t
continue to imagine just how close Farquhar and Annabeth had once been, might still
be.

Foolish jealousy, but he couldn’t help himself. Annabeth had betrayed Ethan to Moses
Farquhar at Chimborazo; she worked for him now. If he was truly a priest, Ethan might
be able to squash the ever-present desire to throttle him.

“You’re right; I’m not a priest,” Farquhar agreed. “But let’s hope no one but you
figures that out.”

Ethan narrowed his gaze. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing I’m going to tell you about.”

Ethan couldn’t imagine anyone appearing less priestly than this golden-haired, green-eyed,
far-too-smooth and clever man. If it weren’t for the hook in his nose, Farquhar would
be as pretty as Fedya. Although now that Ethan thought of it, Fedya’d had a crook
in his nose the last time he’d seen him that hadn’t been there before.

“I need to locate my brother,” Ethan said.

“He was the best scout you blue belly’s had. He could find anything.” Farquhar blinked
as he caught up. “Anyone.” The Pinkerton priest started for the door.

“Wait,” Ethan said. “How are you going to find him?”

Farquhar cast Ethan a withering glance. “What kind of spy do you think I am?”

“I . . . What?”

“Your brother is now known as Mikhail, and considering his size, he’s kind of hard
to miss. Fedya, on the other hand, slips off now and again. Or at least he did until
recently, when he decided to keep one name and stay in one place.”

“Where are they?” Ethan asked.

“Colorado.”

•   •   •

Ethan wasn’t certain how Moses Farquhar wrote a telegram that convinced Fedya and
Mikey—he still couldn’t think of his little brother as Mikhail—to board the next train
from Colorado to Kansas. But they arrived within two days.

Two days where Ethan barely slept or ate. But at least he didn’t drink from a blue
bottle—and not because they were empty. He spent half his time filling them. The other
half he spent staring at them, when he wasn’t staring north, waiting for the cloud
of dust that would signal incoming riders.

It appeared early Wednesday morning. Ethan stepped onto his porch, glancing toward
the hotel as Farquhar emerged and started his way. At least he’d left his collar behind.

Fedya and Mikey dismounted; Ethan led them inside. He could feel folks watching through
their windows. If the stage into Ellsworth hadn’t been robbed of the railroad payroll,
requiring the marshal’s presence in the posse, the lawman would not only have been
watching them, but joining them.

Ethan wouldn’t have minded, but he thought Fedya might. He had no idea what the man
had been up to since the war, but considering the dead sheriff that had ended their
last meeting, it probably wasn’t completely—or even remotely—legal.

Despite what had to have been a long, dirty trip, Fedya’s black suit coat, which would
look more at home in a gambler’s hell, appeared pristine. His ruffled white shirt
was slightly limp and his black boots just a bit dusty, but those imperfections served
only to make his immaculate black gloves shine. In contrast, Mikey looked like a farmhand—homespun
shirt, tattered trousers, cracked boots, stained hat.

The four of them stood in the front hall. Mikey inched into the corner nearest the
door, removed the hat, and wrung it in his large hands as he peered outside. His gray
eyes and dark hair were very like Ethan’s own, but there the similarities ended.

Or perhaps not. Right now the two of them rubbed raised ridges on the same sides of
their foreheads. Mikey’s was much larger and deeper, but more of his was covered by
hair than Ethan’s.

“What happened to you?”

Ethan lowered his hand. The former sniper was still handsome enough to cause women
to stare. Ebony hair, sapphire eyes . . . Ethan could go on and on, but he might just
nauseate himself.

“None of your concern.”

Fedya’s gaze narrowed; then he shrugged, removed his gloves and flicked dust from
his cuff. “I’m merely curious.”

“You know what they say about curiosity,” Ethan murmured, and was treated to another
narrow-eyed glare.

“I am not a cat.”

At their last visit, Ethan
had
threatened to kill Fedya the next time they met. And that was before Fedya had tattled
to Annabeth. Nevertheless—

“I won’t,” Ethan said.

Fedya peered at his fingernails and murmured,
“Sicher nicht.”

Farquhar cast a glance at Ethan, who shrugged. “I have no idea what he said.” He wasn’t
even sure what language the man had said it in.

“I said, ‘certainly not,’” Fedya translated.

“Certainly not what?” the detective asked.

Blue eyes met green. “He most certainly will not kill me.”

From the corner, Mikey growled.

Without removing his gaze from Farquhar’s, Fedya said, “Do not worry, Mikhail. Everything
is all right.”

Ethan had to tighten his lips to keep from correcting his brother’s name. Mikey was
now Mikhail, and he probably always would be. Unless Ethan wanted to attempt to cure
him as he had been cured, and he wasn’t sure about that.