Love in Disguise (2 page)

Magdalena cleared her throat. “Ellie, there’s something I—” A knock at the door cut her off. She leaned back against the dressing table and struck a pose, then nodded at Ellie. “It must be Arturo. Let him in.”

Ellie opened the door to find a small contingent of theater workers gathered there. Harold Stiller stood in front of the group.

“We’ve come to say good-bye.” He pushed past Ellie and walked over to Magdalena, who abandoned her dramatic stance the moment she recognized her visitors. “On behalf of all of us at the Orpheum, I want to wish you a safe journey to England and a dazzling career in the theaters of Europe. We will always treasure the memory that we, in some small measure, played a part in your success.”

Magdalena’s lips tightened, then curved into an expression that would look like gracious acknowledgment to anyone who didn’t know her as well as Ellie did. It was obvious to her that the actress had no intention of giving credit for her success to anyone but herself while she stood on the threshold of her greatest triumph.

Their
triumph, Ellie corrected herself. How many times had she heard Magdalena say she didn’t know what she would do without Ellie’s help?

“Thank you for coming to say farewell.” Magdalena’s tone held a note of dismissal, but Stiller didn’t take the hint. He leaned against the chair as if settling in for a long conversation, ignoring the glitter in the actress’s eyes that would have warned a more observant person of a pending eruption likely to rival that of Mount Vesuvius.

Ellie moved between them, ready to intervene, but was interrupted by a commotion at the door.

“Magdalena, my darling.” A stout man in a cashmere overcoat swept through the doorway, followed by three workmen. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting,
cara mia
. I had to brave the snow and ice to find the draymen and bring them inside.” Arturo Benelli, the famed impresario who would be orchestrating the next step in Magdalena’s career, took her hand and kissed it reverently. Then he straightened and clasped her fingers in his. “Your performance tonight was glorious,
magnifico
! Are you ready to take Europe by storm?”

A girlish laugh—the one she’d used when she played Hero in
Much Ado About Nothing
—gurgled from Magdalena’s lips. “More ready than you can imagine, Arturo.”

“Ah,
perfetto.
Our train awaits.” Benelli lifted Magdalena’s cloak from its hook and draped it around her shoulders, then wheeled around and snapped his fingers.

The workmen stepped forward, and their leader asked, “Which of these things do we take?”

Ellie cleared her throat. “Those two large trunks and that wicker hamper belong to Miss Cole.” She pointed to each item in turn. “The smaller trunk over there is mine.” She indicated the battered case that held her own belongings.

Benelli arched one eyebrow and turned to Magdalena. “You haven’t told her?”

Magdalena swung around to face Ellie, all trace of Hero gone. She cleared her throat, and Ellie felt her stomach constrict.

“We’ve had some wonderful years together, haven’t we?” Magdalena murmured with a sweet smile.

Ellie nodded dumbly, knowing in her heart that something dreadful was about to happen but unable to fathom what it might be.

“You’ve served me well as I’ve risen in my profession, but now my career is taking a new turn. Arturo has come into my life, ready to lead me to even greater heights. And new opportunities often require us to make some changes.” The actress’s eyes welled with tears, as they did whenever she wanted to show heartfelt emotion.

“Enough.” Benelli’s eyes, so adoring when he gazed at Magdalena, held no warmth when he turned to look at Ellie. “What Magdalena is trying to say is that I have promised her the very best of everything on her tour of the great theaters—including the finest wardrobe designers and makeup artists Europe can offer. In short, everything provided for her will be of the highest quality, par excellence—meaning she won’t need you.”

Ellie’s mouth dropped open.

Benelli snapped his fingers again, this time at the man lifting Ellie’s small trunk. “Put that down. It won’t be going.”

“But . . .” Ellie shifted her gaze back to Magdalena, looking for some sign that his words had all been a cruel joke. But the actress’s face held no hint of teasing, only impatience, and perhaps a trace of guilt.

“But I’m the one who takes care of you. Who else knows the way you like things done? Your favorite hairstyles, the way you want your pillow fluffed. And what about—” Ellie’s voice quavered, and she choked back a sob. She couldn’t break down and disgrace herself—not here, in front of an audience of sneering co-workers.

She drew a deep breath, cleared her throat, and tried again. “You can’t be serious. You
need
me.” This time the words came out with more assurance. Ellie lifted her chin and stared straight at Magdalena, willing her to refute Benelli’s outrageous statement and vindicate Ellie before them all.

Instead, the actress turned to her left and placed her hand in the crook of Benelli’s arm. “Let’s be on our way.” She smiled up at him, excitement shimmering in her eyes. “Europe awaits!”

Together, they exited the dressing room and turned left, toward the stage door. The draymen followed, bearing Magdalena’s heavy trunks and the costume hamper.

Ellie shouldered her way through the knot of people lingering near the doorway and stood in the hall, watching Magdalena go.
This must be a nightmare.
It had to be.

“Wait. I’ve changed my mind.” Magdalena stopped halfway down the hall and turned back.

Ellie’s heart soared, and joyful tears pricked at her eyes. She should have known Magdalena couldn’t go through with it. She took a step forward, ready to forgive.

Magdalena pointed to the man carrying the enormous costume hamper. “Take that back. I’ve no need for those things anymore.” She raised her voice a notch and called back to Ellie. “Why don’t you keep them? They can serve as a lovely memento of our time together.”

The drayman returned and set the hamper in front of Ellie, then trailed along at the end of the retinue.

In the distance, Ellie heard the stage door close, signaling Magdalena’s final exit from the Orpheum . . . and her life.

A half-suppressed snigger pulled her attention back to the grinning stagehands. Even Stiller wore a lopsided smile.

Ellie drew herself up and glared at them all. “Don’t you have work to do?”

Burt Ragland leaned against the doorjamb. “We do. But you don’t.” The smug look on his face made Ellie want to rip his hair out.

“Of course I do.”

“And what would that be?” Burt asked. “Pourin’ yourself a cup of tea so’s you can pretend you’re living it up in London? Looks to me like the reason for all your snootiness just walked out the door.”

Ellie bent to grip the handle at one end of the hamper and tugged it back into the dressing room, bumping Burt out of the way as she passed. “Nonsense. I have years of experience as the personal assistant to one of the leading actresses of our day. I’ll have no trouble securing another job. And now, I’ll thank you all to go about your business and leave me to tend to mine.” She moved to close the door, but Stiller blocked her way.

“Not so fast. This dressing room is no longer your domain, not that it was ever
yours
to begin with. Now that Miss Cole is gone . . .” Even though he didn’t finish the sentence, his grim demeanor left no doubt as to his meaning.

2

P
ICKFORD,
A
RIZONA
T
ERRITORY
D
ECEMBER 1881

M
oonlight cast distorted shadows across the silent landscape near the Constitution Mine. Steven Pierce edged along the south wall of the board-and-batten office building, stepping gingerly so as not to advertise his presence.

Ducking into a pool of shadow, Steven paused to listen for any sign that his approach was being watched. Satisfied that he’d made the trip from his own digs unobserved, he ghosted his way to the door and slipped inside.

Four fellow mine owners looked up at his entrance, their grim expressions barely visible in the feeble glow of a single lantern. A blanket hung over the lone window, cutting out the light from the moon.

Steven made his way, more by feel than by sight, to one of the wooden ladder-back chairs set in a rough circle in the center of the plank floor. “Any word yet?” he asked the others.

Tom Sullivan, owner of the Constitution, shook his head. “Not yet. We’re still waiting for Ezra.”

Steven closed his eyes for a few moments and let them adjust to the darkness. A quick glance around the room told him the others weren’t in the mood for conversation, so he folded his arms, settled back in his chair, and waited.

The silence dragged on, stretching his nerves to the breaking point. He tried to make the time pass more quickly by studying his companions. Tom Sullivan, Brady Andrews, Alfred Clay, and Gilbert Owens—all of them older than Steven by a decade or more. Did their years of experience give them greater perspective, and more patience as a result?

A sudden scraping outside brought everyone to the edge of their seats. Steven smothered a quick grin at this evidence that the others were every bit as jumpy as he. The door swung open, and the group let out a collective sigh of relief when Ezra Winslow, owner of the Jubilee, entered the room. A blast of night air swirled in with him and set the lantern flame dancing.

“Bar the door,” Tom ordered.

Ezra complied, then rubbed his hands together. “It’s as cold as the North Pole out there.”

Steven bit back another smile at the general murmur of agreement. The night air might seem cold to men who had spent years in the arid Southwest, but compared to the near-arctic chill he’d grown used to at Princeton University, southern Arizona’s winter temperatures felt more balmy than frigid.

Ezra took the chair next to Steven’s and sat in silence.

Brady Andrews and Alfred Clay exchanged glances, and then Alfred leaned forward. “Well? Don’t keep us in suspense. Did they make it through this time?”

Ezra shook his head. “Nope.” The single word dropped from his lips like a chunk of ore tossed into a mining car.

“What!” Gilbert Owens of the Blue Jacket Mine sprang to his feet and loomed over Ezra. “Don’t sit there like a clam, man. Open your mouth and tell us what happened.”

Ezra wiped his hand across his mouth, then waved Gilbert back to his seat. “I ain’t tryin’ to hold anything back. I’m just so bumfuzzled myself, I can barely make heads or tails of it.”

Brady pulled a silver flask from his pocket and held it out to Ezra, who accepted it with a grateful nod and took a swig before handing it back.

“Okay, here’s what happened. Like we agreed, I was riding half a mile behind Huddleston, off to the side of the road, where I wasn’t likely to be spotted. When Huddleston started out in his wagon, he looked for all the world like he was just makin’ one of his regular trips to Tucson for supplies. There was nothing to let anyone know we’d loaded the silver onto his wagon and covered it up with a pile of feedbags.”

He cast a longing look at the flask, but Brady shook his head. “You’ve had enough to help you get the story out. Keep talking.”

“We were going through that rolling area a few miles this side of Benson, and I lost sight of Huddleston and his team behind one of the hills. Then I heard shootin’. My first thought was Apaches, so I spurred my horse and headed for the fray. When I topped the hill, I saw Huddleston lying on the ground and a group of riders makin’ tracks in the other direction.”

Tom’s face grew stern. “Did they kill him?”

“No, but it wasn’t for lack of tryin’. He’d lost a fair amount of blood, so I loaded him onto the wagon and took him on into Benson. The doc there says he ought to pull through, if infection doesn’t set in. I waited around long enough to hear that, then hightailed it back here.”

“And the silver?” Gilbert asked.

“Gone. Every last bit. As fast as they moved off, they must have split it between them so they could travel light.”

Alfred slammed his fist against the arm of his chair.

Gilbert moaned and buried his face in his hands.

Brady uncapped his flask.

Steven felt as though he’d just stepped off a cliff into thin air. He clenched his fists and struggled to keep his face impassive. He’d sunk every bit of his capital into his mining venture, against his father’s strongly worded advice. And now it appeared his father’s dire predictions of failure were about to be fulfilled. After a series of robberies, sending the silver out of Pickford camouflaged in a rancher’s wagon had been the group’s last resort. If they didn’t figure out how to stop the rash of thefts—and soon—he would be done for.

“Now what?” Gilbert’s question pulled Steven’s attention back to the moment at hand.

Alfred shot to his feet so quickly his chair toppled over. He paced the narrow room, pounding his fist into his palm with every step. “What else is there? When we sent the silver out on the stage, they held it up. When we hired extra men and shipped it in our own wagons, they picked off our guards. And now this.”

“It’s a terrible state of affairs.” Tom looked as though he’d aged ten years since Ezra’s pronouncement. “How are they doing it? How could anyone possibly have guessed the silver was in Huddleston’s wagon?”

“They didn’t guess. They
knew
!” Alfred’s voice rose to a roar. “How’s the word getting out? That’s what I want to know. Who’s giving us away?”

“I don’t know, boys, but I think we’ve hit a dead end.” Ezra slumped in his chair, the picture of defeat. “If we could call in the law, this would be a good time to do it.”

Brady took a swig from his flask. “We all know that’s a bad idea. I don’t trust Marshal Bascomb any farther than I could throw him. I guess we could contact Sheriff Behan over in Tombstone, or maybe the Earps.”

Alfred snorted. “That’d be like asking the fox to guard the henhouse.”