Anna Finch and the Hired Gun (26 page)

The butler entered and whispered in her father’s ear. When the servant left, Papa looked directly at Anna.

“You’re dismissed,” he said to her. “Remember we’ve struck an agreement here that’s not to be breached.”

“We have?” She shook her head. “I fail to recall what we’ve agreed to.”

“We agreed you’re to be married. In the interim, Mr. Sanders will see that your reputation suffers no further tarnishing.”

Not if I’m tempted to kiss him again
. If only she could say the words rather than think them, Papa would understand how very unsuitable Jeb Sanders was for the job of protecting her.

Anna held her head high and her back straight. “I do hope you’re paying my hired gun enough to buy new mules. And a wagon.” She paused at the library door to look back at her father over her shoulder. “He’s going to need them.”

Her words chased her as far as the stairs, where she realized the folly of taunting her father on this topic. She’d only guaranteed that Jeb Sanders would follow her everywhere she went. Including the
post office in Garrison or the train to Altwood Springs. With him on the job, she could not do hers. And then what would happen to the people whose stories needed to be told?

Perhaps there was another way.

She hurried back to the library and knocked before slipping inside again. This time she walked directly to her father. When he rose, she slid into his embrace. Tears beckoned, and this time she let them slide down her face. “Papa,” she said when she could manage it, “will you forgive me? I do want to keep you happy.”

And she did. With Papa happy, she could continue her journalistic endeavors without interruption. Or matrimony.

He patted her back for a moment, then held her at arm’s length. “You’re a good girl, Anna. A bit high strung and misguided, but a good girl. Still, I would be remiss in my duties as a father if I knew you needed protection and did not provide it.”

Anna looked up into eyes that matched her own. “What can I do to keep from being shadowed by a stranger?”

His smile dawned. “That’s simple. Find a husband and you’ll have no need for a hired gun.”

Anna sat by the window, watching the prairie turn to mountains and Denver become smaller and smaller. Midway between Denver and Altwood Springs, she threw away caution and a lovely traveling frock of emerald green. It and the bag that had contained the male garb she now wore went out the window of the narrow-gauge train over the Platte River. Likely some poor fisherman would be the recipient of a soggy surprise come morning.

She’d miss the green dress, but Anna had little time to prepare. Perhaps next time, if there was a next time, she might have a better plan. In either case, she certainly couldn’t take the chance of being followed, and she hoped the change in clothing would help her go unnoticed.

Sighing, Anna clutched her satchel to her chest. If recent reports of the outlaw’s health were true, there might be no more hastily planned meetings. No more stories shared. No more letters to mail.

And unless she convinced him otherwise, no ending to the story she hoped to tell.

Perhaps this dire prognosis was the product of an active imagination. After all, Anna wasn’t completely sure the man she was meeting was actually the real Doc Holliday.

But then that was part of her reason for accepting the ticket he’d sent. To get at the truth.

As the train ground to a halt and the population of the rail car spilled out onto the platform, Anna glanced behind her. None but the average collection of citizenry surrounded her. It was too late in the season for the crowds who thronged the hot springs, and too early for the next. This was a blessing, she decided, as she skirted the sheriff’s office and headed for the place she’d been told she could find Doc Holliday.

The fewer people she passed, the less chance someone would recall the oddly dressed youth with the oversized hat and undersized shoulders. Anna let out a long breath and adjusted the cap she had pulled over her braid lest the breeze coming off the mountain give her away as the woman she was rather than the male she pretended to be. The bandages binding her chest chafed and had begun to itch despite the cool temperature, and yet she forgot all her discomfort as she gave the man behind the front desk of the hotel a disinterested shrug and made for the stairs.

Finding the room proved simple. Anna knocked, and a slow, southern voice called for her to enter. Inside, the air hung thick behind shutters that did a poor job of keeping out the dust and sulfuric smell of Altwood Springs. Thin slats of sunlight slanted across rough floor boards, though the man in the corner appeared not to notice.

“Ah, Miss Bird.” John Henry Holliday’s eyes took in her garb and he smiled. “Or perhaps I should say A. Bird? You came.” He rose halfway from his chair before sinking back into it. “Forgive me. This isn’t one of my better days.”

“Of course I came. You’ll not regret this, Mr. Holliday,” she said, moving into the room.

“That remains to be seen.” He paused. “Despite my lack of enthusiasm for your writing project, I seem to have no trouble with my own.” He gestured to the writing table, which held a stack of letters. “There are others, though I’d be much obliged if you could see to addressing them for me.”

“Of course,” Anna said softly as she moved toward the table. “I hope to change your mind about my project. Our project,” she corrected.

“Indeed,” he responded drily. His chuckle held no humor. “Won’t you be disappointed if I brought you all this way to play secretary for me?”

Anna gave him an even stare. “But you haven’t,” she challenged.

Silence filled the space between them. “No,” he finally said, “I haven’t. Now, for that address.”

By the second letter, Anna already knew the name and address by heart. She recognized it as the same Georgia address that had been on the first set of letters she’d mailed for him. Though she did not read the letters she folded and slipped inside the envelopes, two things were hard to miss: the thickness of the missives—never less than three pages by her estimation, but often a half dozen or more—and the greeting with which each began.

My dearest
.

As she heard Holliday cough and watched him dab at the corner of his mouth, those two words strung together created an image of unrequited passion. Of lost opportunities. Of a man and woman whose circumstances conspired to keep their love from finding its way.

All conjecture, of course, for the last thing Holliday seemed to want to talk about was the woman who would open the letters. Anna glanced at the silver-haired man of thirty-five and wondered how many more times she might have the opportunity to speak with him.

She swallowed hard and put on her best smile as she snatched the ridiculous cap from her head and set it on the nearest flat surface, a worn but serviceable sideboard that held a pitcher of water, two cracked mugs, and a dime novel her friend Gennie would have loved.

“Are you reading this?” Anna set her satchel down and turned the cover toward her. “Well, how about that?” she said. “This one’s about you.”

His response was not in keeping with the man she’d expected from the newspapers. “Hardly,” he said. “Though I fear many will think so.”

She drew nearer, leaving the volume where it lay. “What does it matter? It’s just a storybook.”

His stare met hers, blue eyes barely blinking. “Stories have power, Miss Bird. Don’t you know that?”

She fetched her satchel, which held her writing materials. As an afterthought, she gestured to the pitcher. “Some water before we start?”

When he shrugged, Anna filled a mug and held it toward him
until she realized he wasn’t going to take it. After setting it within reach on the braided rug, Anna backed away. Fear, pure and simple, kept her from standing too close or offering to bring the mug to his parched lips.

I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink
.

The consumption was contagious, and an awful, slow death. Any fool knew this.

Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me
.

She rose. “Have some before we begin,” she insisted as she fetched the mug and straightened to bring it within reach.

Again he ignored it.

“All right, then,” she said. “I suppose you’d prefer to wear it.” She lifted the mug and pretended to consider dumping its contents in his lap.

Ever so slowly, a grin worked its way onto his face until the gunman’s scowl was replaced by what might have been quite a handsome smile in a less ravaged face. “I think you’re going to be more trouble than you’re worth,” he said with something resembling fondness. He allowed her to place the cup against his lips.

“She is, at that,” came a familiar and unwanted voice from the door. The statement was punctuated by the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked.

Wonderful
.

“Leave us be, Jeb Sanders,” Anna said with more bravado than she felt. She straightened without turning toward the door. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Neither are you, Anna. Though I doubt
my
pa’s wondering where I am.” He paused. “Get yourself out of that indecent get-up and into something more ladylike, and I’ll see if I can’t talk your father out of locking you up and throwing away the key.”

“Don’t bother,” she said. “Then he’d have no further need for you to torment me with your constant attention.”

A low chuckle was his only response.

A glance told her the outlaw also took some measure of amusement at the exchange. Anna, however, could only try to keep her irritation from blossoming into something more akin to full-fledged anger.

Slowly she turned, mindful of the fact that Jeb had not only called her indecently dressed but also ordered her home like some errant pup gone missing. Somewhere along the way she must have made the unfortunate mistake of praying for patience. That could be the only explanation for how the Lord had allowed the exasperating Pinkerton to remain in her life despite all her heavenly petitions to the contrary.

“Surely you’ve misspoken,” she offered in her sweetest voice as she closed her eyes. “A gentleman, especially one in the employ of my father, wouldn’t dare request that I step out of my clothing right here in front of him.”

“Well, of course not,” he blustered. “I meant for you to give those clothes back to whatever miner you stole them from and put on a dress.”

“I don’t have a dress handy, so I suppose I’ll have to stay right here while you trot on back to Denver without me.” Anna opened her eyes.

When their gazes met, something shifted inside her, and she had to work to maintain her outrage. Of all the hired guns in Colorado, why had Papa chosen this one?

Jeb lowered the gun but kept his finger on the trigger. His jaw clenched. Were she a betting woman, she’d offer even odds that the Pinkerton would hoist her over his shoulder and haul her out of Altwood Springs kicking and screaming.

“Then,” he said slowly, “you can purchase a new frock at the local mercantile on your way back to the train.” Jeb offered Mr. Holliday a look that would have quailed a lesser man. “Mighty kind of you to meet the reporter in a town where there’s a decent dress supply.”

Holliday responded with a tip of his head.

“How did you find me?” Anna asked. “I had no idea you had followed.”

His gaze was direct. “That was the point, Anna. I’m good at what I do.”

Indeed
. Anna swallowed hard and looked away. With no good response handy, she decided to deflect the statement by addressing the obvious. “Put that gun away. There’s no danger here.” She cast a quick glance behind her, noting that Mr. Holliday’s amusement had turned to something else. Defiance, perhaps?

“Doc Holliday.” Jeb managed to turn the name into a threat. “I ought to take you back to Arizona and let them be done with you.”

Pale blue eyes narrowed even as the outlaw chuckled. “Been a warrant out for me and Wyatt for years. Nobody cares about that anymore. Any questions in that regard were answered in Leadville.” He turned his attention to Anna. “An unfortunate acquaintance of mine chose to cause some trouble in a public place and—”

“That was Hyman’s Saloon,” Jeb said, “and if you’d been given the choice, you would have killed Billy Allen right there on the floor where he lay.”

Holliday refused to spare Jeb a glance. “An unfortunate rumor that persists even now.”

“The truth, and we both know it.”

Mr. Holliday turned to Jeb. “Who are you that you think you’ll be the one to deliver me?”

It was as if the air went out of the room. Slowly, Jeb shook his head. “Don’t guess you remember me.”

“Should I?” No trace of the disease ravaging the thin man’s lungs showed in the question. He rose.

The door slammed shut, and Anna jumped. Jeb had entered the room. “I’ve been your shadow for years, Doc Holliday, though I made a point of not letting you know.” He shrugged. “I’m decent at hiding in plain sight.”