Beauty and the Bounty Hunter (4 page)

She’d learned on that long-ago night—or perhaps from Alexi; it didn’t matter—that she couldn’t think of her body as anything other than flesh and bone if she wanted to keep moving forward. Every day, every bounty, every man brought her one step closer to
the
man. To find him, she’d do anything.

“Where did you put my belongings?” she asked.

Face flushed, Ben lifted his chin, indicating the chest at the bottom of his bed. She wondered where the trunk had come from; it certainly wasn’t hers. However, when she lifted the lid she saw that everything inside was.

On the trail for the past year, in constant pursuit of evil men, Cat couldn’t drag along her ever-increasing array of costumes. She could have bought a new set for each new guise, since she still possessed most of the money she’d earned as a bounty hunter. She had little to spend it on, living the way she did. But why buy new ones when the best worked again and again? Which meant…

Cat dug through several outfits she’d worn in saloons and whorehouses over the past year, tossed aside a serape, chaps, and a gambler’s vest until she found more cloth to bind her breasts and another homespun shirt.
Once she resembled the person she’d been when she arrived, less the blood, she rooted around until she unearthed a costume she hadn’t worn in a very long time, then stuffed it into her saddlebags.

After a few more minutes spent returning everything she’d tossed onto the floor to its former place, Cat closed the lid and stood. Ben stared again through the window as if he might find the answers to everything out there on the prairie.

Hell, maybe he could.

C
at boarded the train to St. Louis dressed as a lady. She’d found it safer to journey by train or stage as a woman. She was accorded a respect she wouldn’t get in pants.

Though traveling this way was safer, it certainly wasn’t easier. The crinoline she’d purchased that morning—she couldn’t very well carry such a contraption on her horse from Rock River to Kansas City even if she’d had one in Ben’s trunk—added a fashionable bell shape to the rear of her teal silk skirt. But it was difficult to manage. She bumped into things and people whenever she turned and sometimes when she didn’t. In addition, she wanted to tear the corset off her person and stomp on it with her pointed ankle boots.

The only portion of the ensemble that she didn’t itch to destroy was her brand-new spoon bonnet. And not because it perched comfortably on her demurely coiffed head, but rather the colorful flowers upon the brim drew curious eyes away from her face.

It had taken her all of two minutes after leaving the Rock River sheriff’s office to decide that her next stop was St. Louis. If Alexi hadn’t sold knowledge of her whereabouts to the highest bidder—and she still wasn’t certain of that—she thought he might know who had. If
she was lucky, he might even know why. Alexi, as he often told her, did his best to know everything.

When the conductor called, “Next stop, St. Lou-eee!” Cat slipped into the washroom. There, after much tugging and cursing and one accidental knock of her elbow against the basin—followed by more cursing—she stuffed the damnable crinoline through the window. She watched it fly backward and out of her life with immense satisfaction.

She exited the train dressed as a boy. In the city, on the streets alone, a woman drew too much attention.

St. Louis was a river town. Old by American standards. Settled in the late 1600s by the French. More urbane than Wichita or Abilene, St. Louis smelled of water instead of dust, fish instead of cattle. Not that one was much better than the other.

She found what she was looking for on a vacant slice of land near the river. A kaleidoscope of people—male and female, short and tall, fat and skinny, young and old, blondes, brunettes, redheads—crowded around the covered wagon, awaiting the show.

And a show it would be. Sleight of hand. Glib of tongue. Promise the world. Deliver much less. Then disappear.

Everyone’s attention remained on the curtain draped across the back of the wagon. A heavy board jutted out to provide a stage. Not an ordinary Conestoga, this one had been fashioned, as the sign attached to the canvas proclaimed, for
Count Sukhorukov! Famed Healer of Balshika!

Cat snorted. Another of Alexi’s tricks. The more confusing the name, the less likely folks were to remember it. They wouldn’t even be able to pronounce this one. She wondered if anyone besides Alexi could. Not
that it mattered. The name Sukhorukov wasn’t any more real than he was.

Her snort had drawn a curious glance from the man in front of her. She coughed, then sneezed and wiped the back of her hand across her nose, producing the kind of wet noises made by the soon-to-be dying. Not only did the fellow face front, but he moved away, as did several others nearby. Cat hid her smirk beneath the shadow of her hat.

The curtain shivered once, then stilled. The audience, who had caught their breath in anticipation, let that breath out on a collective sigh of disappointment.

Cat knew better than to get excited over the first hint of his arrival. He would make them wait. Anticipation increased his allure. The continued presence of a crowd would only cause the crowd to swell. The chatter of a few would become the cacophony of many. Those who had not planned to stop would be unable to help themselves, and when they least expected him, he would—

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” intoned a pleasing though slightly foreign voice. “May I introduce…” A muffled bang, smoke trailed upward. “Me.”

He glided free of the cloud, and people gasped. One blink and you missed him. The platform was empty, and then it was not.

Taller than most, elegant and slim, Alexi’s hair shone like ebony tossed in the sunlight; his sapphire eyes glittered as brightly as the jewels that dotted his long, slim fingers. He was an exotic jungle predator set loose amid the barn cats.

“Today,” he continued, his accent so light he could be easily understood. Yet the unusual cadence of his voice, the peculiar twist he put on some words—not too many, only a few—contributed to his air of mystery.
This man had been places; he knew things. And soon those who watched would know too.

“Today, my
droo-ziya.
” He paused, high, perfect brow wrinkling as he pursed full, supple lips. Then, seemingly to himself, he muttered what sounded like curses but could just as easily have been gibberish—no one here would know—before curving those lips upward.

“My
friends,
” he announced, voice deepening with triumph, the lower register causing everyone who heard it to feel as if they were, indeed, his friends. “I will share with you an elixir created by my ancestors—the Sukhorukovs of Balshika—a village south of the Crimea within view of the great Black Sea.”

The crowd murmured. Cat doubted any of them knew the location of Balshika. Hell, she had her doubts it even existed. But enough had heard of the Crimea—the British had fought a war there against the Russians not fifteen years past—to give his tale an air of truth.

“This tonic contains water taken from that legendary sea.” Seemingly from nowhere, he produced a bottle, the inky liquid within swirling, drawing every eye in the crowd and holding it captive.

“This sea is enchanted, my friends, and I will tell you why. Once upon a time a man name Bogatyr possessed a magic arm. I know.” He lifted his own and smiled a rueful smile. “Such a thing is not possible, but listen.”

He waited and, when no one raised a single word in protest, continued. “They say his arm was an arrow of great power and precision.” His silky dark hair caressed the collar of his equally black shirt as he studied them. “And to have such a legend told in his name, Bogatyr must have been an incredible warrior. My belief is that he was so accurate with this weapon that his enemies
began to see it as an extension of him. Thus Bogatyr’s arm
became
an arrow.”

“Ah” rose from the crowd and many nodded in agreement, their faces rapt with interest for the story and respect for the insight of the man telling it.

“People began to view the arrow as magic, and maybe it was.” Alexi spread his hands; the jewels caught the light and flashed. “I know for certain that what happened later”—he shook the bottle again, and the liquid whirled—“was a miracle.”

Cat’s lips curved as Alexi moved in for the kill.

“Though Bogatyr was a good and just man, using his gift only to keep his village safe, he was but a man, and eventually his time upon the earth drew to a close. Rather than allow his charmed
arrow
…” Alexi tilted a brow, and the crowd chuckled at their shared joke. Was it an arrow or was it an arm?

“Rather than allow that arrow, which always flew straight and true, to fall into the hands of one who might not be as righteous as himself, Bogatyr threw it into the sea.”

Now a murmur rolled from the audience. If his arrow were an arm, how did he throw it? Did he cut off his arm, or did he hurl himself into the depths?

Alexi remained silent while the questions simmered. Only when the crowd was on the edge of shouting aloud their curiosity did he continue. “The arrow plunged through the water, sinking firmly into the bottom. The sea began to boil, and then…”

Again he waited, his compelling gaze touching that of several others in the crowd. Cat tilted her head so that her hat shaded her face. Not that she’d fool Alexi. He already knew she was here.

“Then?” blurted a voice from the crowd, and Alexi allowed the small smile he’d been nurturing to bloom.

“Then,” he continued, “the roiling waves turned black, bestowing upon the sea its name and hiding forever the location of Bogatyr’s arrow. However…” He lifted a finger upon which a jewel the shade of that sea shone. “From that moment forward, anyone who drank of those waters beneath a moonless sky was healed.”

Silence settled over the crowd. Alexi remained motionless, gaze upon the bottle, which caught the afternoon light and turned the liquid that swirled within to smoke.

“How much?” someone shouted.

A giant appeared next to the wagon. Though Alexi stood upon a platform several feet off the ground, the newcomer’s dark head nearly reached his shoulder. The man had to weigh three hundred pounds. His arms and legs were as thick as oak stumps, his hands and feet the size of cannonballs. A collective gasp of surprise and shock rippled through the crowd.

“My associate will assist you.” Alexi set his hand on the newcomer’s back. “Mikhail’s English is not so good as mine, but he counts much better.”

Alexi ducked behind the curtain, and Mikhail motioned for anyone who was interested, and there were many, to join him at a nearby table full of bottles where a placard announced:
Black Sea Solution! The ancient Russian cure. Drink only on a moonless night. One dollar a bottle.

Trust Alexi to build into the legend a block, confidence jargon for a ruse that would keep the buyer from discovering the truth too soon. In this case, the requirement of drinking the potion on a moonless night would ascertain that Alexi would be long gone before anyone opened a bottle.

The horde crowded to the table. When they began to jostle for position, one glare from Mikhail ended it.
Mikhail was the heavy, the muscle. He prevented any marks from causing trouble. Usually just by being there.

The colossus calmly and competently took their money as he handed out the cure. Ignoring all questions, he never uttered a word.

Alexi’s excuse that Mikhail’s English was poor was just that. Mikhail’s English was fine; it was his Russian that needed work. The big man was as incapable of subterfuge as his boss was of telling the truth.

No one paid Cat any mind as she inched toward the wagon and pushed aside the curtain. As expected, Alexi Romanov was gone.

She found him easily enough. Cat had traveled with the man for months; she knew the kind of place that he liked. One that provided liquor and women, his two favorite things.

After money.

Cat had success in the third saloon she stepped into. “You got a furener stayin’ here?” she asked.

“Frenchie,” the barkeep agreed, and jerked his chin toward the ceiling.

Frenchie.
That figured. Cat headed for the stairs.

Though no one had ever discovered one of his ruses—at least while he was still in town—Alexi made certain to leave not a trace of Count Sukhorukov after he disappeared into the wagon. By the time he exited the other side, he’d already become someone else.

“Where ya think yer goin’?” the barkeep asked.

“He told me to come and get paid after I tended his horse.”

As Cat appeared to be a thin, harmless boy, the man shrugged. He returned to his customers, who, considering the ailments they were discussing and the bottles of black water they clutched like the Holy Grail, had recently been the count’s customers. That they hadn’t
recognized the Frenchie was yet another testament to the masquerade of Alexi Romanov.

“I’s got the bloody flux,” declared an old-timer, who also appeared to have something that caused pustules upon his bald head. “Been crappin’ red fer a month.”

“The missus has the King’s Evil,” shared another, much younger, much hairier gent. “Her neck’s done swole up the size of a tree stump.”

Cat cut around the newel post and headed upstairs, grimacing at the continued litany of disease.

“Young’uns done sprouted trench mouth.” A short, dumpy fellow dashed back his whiskey, his hiss of pain making Cat think he had a bit of the trench mouth too.

“I’ve got a strangery,” the barkeep muttered. “Right-chere.” He rubbed his crotch, and everyone laughed.

Cat bit her lip and averted her eyes. Men were such…men.

As she reached the landing, Cat contemplated a line of doors, then waited for a break in the chatter below. When it came, she caught a low, throaty woman’s chuckle followed by the murmur of a man’s voice.
His
voice.

Cat tossed her pack against the wall, then strode forward and pushed open door number two. A gorgeous redhead sat before the mirror, brushing her hair.

Naked.

Alexi sprawled on the tousled mattress, watching Cat through half-lidded eyes. He did not appear surprised; he appeared a little bored.