Beauty and the Bounty Hunter (9 page)

However, no one came to call. No men, no women, no children. No Alexi. Considering the way everyone had acted earlier, Cat shouldn’t be surprised. But she was.

For the dozenth time over the long, hot afternoon, Cat opened the door. Mikhail’s increasingly long countenance turned her way, and he shook his head.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered from beneath the black veil. “You need to search for him.”

“Can’t, Miss Cath—”

Cat shushed him sharply, and Mikhail flinched. She would have felt badly if she wasn’t already so on edge that she was dizzy with it.

“Signora.” He bowed. “I won’t leave you.”

She crooked her finger, and he bent until his ear was next to her mouth. “You know who I really am, right?” He nodded. “No one’s gonna sneak up on me. I’ll be safe.”

“That’s right.” He straightened. “’Cause I ain’t leavin’.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll just go mys—”

The dull, steady thud of a hammer against boards started up outside. Both Cat and Mikhail listened for a moment; then they crossed the room and peered out the window. At the end of the street, where the townsfolk’s attention had been drawn earlier and where most of them appeared to have gathered now, several men were building something. The structure had not yet taken shape, but Cat knew.

“Gallows,” she said.

And this time, when Cat attempted to leave the room, Mikhail didn’t try to stop her.

What were the odds that Alexi would meet someone he knew in Brooks, Missouri? And that he would be recognizable to that someone when he did?

Alexi was very good with odds, and he thought they
were quite high in his favor. Why else had he succeeded in avoiding a jail cell for this long?

The chances that someone Alexi had conned would appear in a town Alexi had never worked before while Alexi was wearing the same disguise he’d worn when they’d met the first time were so low even he couldn’t count them. Besides, he’d heard Pardy Langston had been hung in California around ’67.

Alexi’s gaze flicked to the overly thin man on the other side of the bars. Apparently he’d heard wrong.

Of course, the longer Alexi practiced his trade, the more towns he rode into, the more people he met, the more money he was given—

Alexi’s head began to ache. Gently, he probed his nose. He thought it might be broken. And wouldn’t that be just his luck? He’d survived a brutal childhood, then years on the road and hundreds of dodges, only to receive his first broken nose from a riverboat gambler—and a very bad one at that.

“He stole the life savings of a war widder in Tupelo,” Pardy was saying. “Convinced her to bet everything on one single turn of the cards. Poor woman had no choice but to sell ’erself after that. She jumped into the river instead.”

The town marshal cast a revolted glance in Alexi’s direction. However, his disgust wasn’t strong enough to keep him from asking: “What else?”

Pardy was happy to fill the lawman’s ears with a litany of Alexi’s crimes, most involving gambling of some sort. Because Alexi did not much care for games of chance, and Pardy did, Alexi began to suspect each offense the man recited, in truth, belonged on Pardy’s dance card. Like the war widow.

“What’d he have planned here?” The marshal gazed at Alexi consideringly.

“Don’t rightly know.” Pardy’s long, thin nose wrinkled. “When I found him, he was just talkin’ to folks.”

Pardy no longer dressed like a dandy; instead his clothes appeared quite frayed. Apparently, since Pardy had last come into contact with Alexi, things had not gone all that well.

“Now that I recollect, talkin’ to folks is how he figgers out who’s got enough money to steal,” Pardy continued. “Natters their ear off until they can’t help but tell him secrets he’s got no bizness knowin’. Always did have the gift of gab, did Josiah Farmington from Chicago.”

“That true?” The marshal lifted a brow in Alexi’s direction.

“N’sir,” Alexi insisted. “Name’s Jed Nelson, from down San Antone way. Me and the wife were thinkin’ about movin’ to yer town. Business is pitiful in Texas ’bout now.”

“Ya seen that wife?” Pardy murmured.

“Have not.”

Pardy’s bulbous lips curved, and his dark rat eyes bored into Alexi’s. “Didn’t think so.”

Ironic that Alexi would be hung for gambling when gambling was what he did the least. Gambling depended on luck, and in his opinion the lady was fickle. Unless she was dealing with him—then she was downright vicious. Luck had rarely been kind to Alexi Romanov.

From outside came the
thud-thud-thud
of hammers on wood.

Right now she was being an incredible bitch.

The practice of stringing up gamblers had been more popular several decades back. Most towns wanted to discourage the repeated fleecing of their citizens, and nothing did that like a good lynching. However, the old favorites had a way of
hanging
about.

Alexi stifled a spurt of laughter. If he wasn’t careful,
he might laugh himself to death on the way to the gallows.

Pardy’s small eyes went smaller. “What’s so funny?”

Alexi met his gaze. “Not one damn thing.”

Despite the iron bars between them, Pardy took a step back.

“Got any proof that what you say is true?” the marshal asked.

Alexi switched his attention to the lawman. “Got any proof that what
he
says is?”

The marshal stared at the ceiling. “It’s yer word against his, I know. Problem is…” He lowered his eyes, and Alexi knew, even before the man spoke, that nothing he could say would stop this. “Crafty cardsharp come through last month. Folks lost a lot of money. Someone’s gotta pay for that.” His gaze shifted to the growing gallows. “’Sides, people are all het up for a hanging. We don’t get much entertainment ’round here.”

Alexi had never understood the frontier fondness for a necktie party. Those west of the Mississippi, and a few east as well, made a celebration of them—brought the family, packed a picnic. It was downright ghoulish.

He spared a moment to be grateful that Pardy hadn’t mentioned Mikhail. Which must mean he and Cat hadn’t yet appeared. Once Mikhail entered a town, he was fairly difficult to miss.

“Let’s get this over with,” Alexi murmured.

“What’s your hurry, Farmington?” Pardy asked.

“I’m not Farmington,” Alexi said without even looking at him.

“We’ll get to it.” The marshal peered with infuriating serenity through the open doorway. “Soon as the gallows are done.”

Hell.

Alexi needed to speed this up, make sure his show
was over before Cat and Mikhail arrived to begin theirs. There wasn’t a thing they could do to help him now and—

“Sweetheart!” A woman stood in the doorway. The sun at her back threw her into silhouette, but Alexi would know her anywhere.

C
at stepped inside and flew across the cramped space toward the cell. The thin, ugly man moved in front of her, and she bounced off his chest. He tried to grab her arm before she fell, and Cat cradled the swaddle of clothing she’d stuffed beneath her dress to imitate a baby.

Alexi growled.

Cat ignored him, dodging the man’s groping hands. She couldn’t afford for him to pull her
too
close. If the front of her brushed the front of him, he’d know the truth, and then they’d be in trouble.

Cat reached through the bars and cupped Alexi’s poor face. The sight of his swollen nose and two black eyes infuriated her. She wanted to punch someone and, for a change, it wasn’t him.

His gaze wandered from the top of her sunbonneted head, past her worn calico dress, to her same old dusty boots—they worked with almost any costume—before he lifted one brow.

She stuck out her tongue, then patted her chest and waved at her face as if she might faint. “I was so worried.”

“Who the hell are you?” the man who had grabbed her demanded.

Cat leaned close and brushed her lips over Alexi’s.
“Shh,” she whispered against his mouth; his tongue snaked out and touched hers. She jerked back. Would he ever be serious?

The marshal cleared his throat. “Uh, ma’am?”

She turned. “I’m his wife.”

“She’s some whore,” the other man snapped.

Alexi growled again. She gave him an elbow, and the growl puffed away on a soft “urgh.”

“Hey, now.” The marshal stepped up. Had he seen murder in her eyes? Sometimes it was hard to tamp down.

“If she’s his wife, then ask her name; ask his. Where ya from? Why ya in Brooks?” the shorter fellow asked.

This fool was dumber than he looked, and that was saying something.

Cat lifted her chin, meeting the man’s eyes. He smirked. He thought he had her. Because if she was just
some whore
she wouldn’t know her
husband’s
name, where they were from, or why they were here. Although why
some whore
would bother to save him at all was beyond even Cat’s powers of invention.

Lucky for her and Alexi, everyone in town was milling about the building, eavesdropping on what was being said in here, then repeating it out there. The situation was the most excitement they’d had in years.

“I’m Meg Nelson. From San Antonio.” She lifted her chin. “And you are?”

Manners made him answer “Pardy Langston” before he scowled and continued. “Your name’s no more Nelson than his is.”

“I don’t understand.” She turned wide, innocent eyes toward the marshal. “Why’s he saying that?” She rubbed at her stomach. “I think I know my own name and the name of my husband.”

Cat considered asking if they often hung people
without benefit of a trial in these parts. But she knew better. Judges traveled a circuit, and by the time they arrived at one town or another, the local sense of justice—or boredom—sometimes prevailed ahead of any arguments by the lawyers.

The marshal’s gaze lowered, then jerked back to hers, his cheeks flushing. “Of course, ma’am.”

“Ma’am,” Langston muttered. “Sheesh.”

The marshal cast him a glare, and he shut up. For now. Langston didn’t seem the type to shut up for long. Which was no doubt why they were here.

Cat planned to shut him up. But first she needed Alexi out of that cell.

“What happened to his face?” she asked.

“He did,” Alexi murmured, finger flicking through the bars to indicate Langston. “He seems to think I’m someone else.” Alexi lifted that hand to his nose and probed gingerly. “Someone he doesn’t much care for.”

“
He
hit you; then the town marshal locked
you
up?” Cat turned to the lawman. “Is that common in Brooks? Folks are assaulted and you put
them
in jail?”

The marshal colored, and Cat pressed her lips together to keep her smile from blooming. She’d have Alexi free in no time.

“Well, there’s some confusion,” he began.

“I know.” Cat motioned to the cell. “Why is my husband with the broken nose and two black eyes in there? While the man who gave them to him is…” She narrowed her gaze on Langston.

“Because he’s—” Langston began, and the marshal interrupted.

“I’ll take care of this.” The lawman glanced at the gallows, then at Cat, his gaze catching on her stomach again before returning to her face. “What brings you to Missouri, ma’am?”

Cat blinked, opened her mouth, closed it again, glanced at Alexi, who shrugged. Then she turned to the marshal with an expression that very clearly said:
Why are you questioning
me?
A solid, upright, married woman
?

When the fellow didn’t apologize or withdraw the question, she released an exasperated sigh, then answered in an equally exasperated tone. “We heard Brooks was a town we might like to settle in.” She eyed her husband behind the bars. “I don’t think we will.”

Cat was convincing. Not only because she was very, very good at this, but because
this
was who she was. Or at least who she’d been.

The calico dress was hers, as was the bonnet. Even the accent—pure Georgia—belonged to her. If you considered Cat was still Cathleen Chase somewhere deep inside.

Cat hadn’t been certain how much of Cathleen remained. She thought now it might be just enough to save Alexi. It had to be.

“Is anyone going to explain to me why he’s in there?” She considered stomping her foot, but discovered she couldn’t manage it. Stomping, unless it was upon Pardy’s head, was not something Cat, Cathleen, or even Meg would ever do.

“’Cause he’s a two-bit thief,” Langston snapped.

“He is not!” she exclaimed, and again the truth shone through, making her words sound as believable as the sworn testimony of a nun with her hand upon the Good Book. Because Alexi wasn’t a
two-bit
anything. Perhaps a silver dollar or a gold eagle, but two bits…?

How common.

“Jed,” she began. “What—?”

“His name’s not Jed,” Langston interrupted. “It’s Josiah. Josiah
Farmington
.”

“You have him confused with someone else.”

“Nah, it’s him all right. ’Cept…” Langston scowled at her middle. “Last time I saw him he was travelin’ with a huge hulk of a brute.”

Cat caught her breath. She hoped the marshal hadn’t seen Mikhail and the signora ride into town. He wouldn’t recognize her, but Mikhail was another story. How many huge, hulking brutes were there?

She took a moment to be glad she’d sent Mikhail on his way before she’d come. If they went looking, they would not find him.

Langston had gone silent, thinking. The process was obviously painful, involving much squinting and scowling, even a little squeezing, if the sounds he made were any indication. “I bet he’s here somewhere. Farmington was awful attached to the idjut. If ya jest ask around—”

Cat gasped, laying both hands on her protruding belly. All the men froze. She swayed and everyone—except Alexi, who snorted—leaped into action. Luckily the others were too worried the baby might drop onto the floor to notice her
husband’s
reaction.

A chair was produced. She was helped into it. A dipper of water was pressed to her lips. When she asked for a cool cloth, Pardy Langston provided it—after the marshal swatted him across the back of the head. Cat had a hard time containing her smirk. The tide had begun to turn.