McCrory's Lady (46 page)

      
Anything was better than returning to face his wife. What was he going to do about Maggie? If she was the one who told Barker about his past, he would have to learn the truth sooner or later. But not last night. The shock of Barker's blackmail was still too raw.

      
He rose on unsteady legs and staggered over to the window. Christ, it was dusk already! He turned to eye the pitcher and washbasin on the scarred little bedside table. They were cracked and chipped, but the water seemed reasonably clean. He poured a generous amount in the basin and dunked his head, then came up sputtering. A wrinkled graying towel hung on the side of the table. He picked it up, then smelled the whore's awful perfume permeating it and threw it down with an oath.

      
Had Maggie ever lived in circumstances like this? He found the idea impossible to reconcile with his elegant wife's breeding and refinement. Maggie had furnished her quarters in that Sonora bordello as handsomely as any Boston society matron. But she had not always been financially secure. Perhaps, somewhere in her earlier past as a working prostitute, she had been forced to endure cheap cribs like this. That might explain why she would be ruthless enough to work with scum like Win Barker.

      
“Don't forget, my friend, she lived with Bart Fletcher all those years, too,” he muttered to himself. A British remittance man was scarcely more upstanding than a Yankee thief. For all he knew, Fletcher was involved in the whole ugly plan with Maggie and Win. He combed his fingers through his damp hair, then rubbed his bewhiskered face. There was a bathhouse down the street. He would feel better if he got cleaned up and ate something, even though he had no appetite.

      
Where the hell was Blake with that buyer? He should have been able to run the man to ground and drag him here long before now. Of course, Maggie knew all about that, too. Ed had confided the whole story to her and she had been present when he and Wolf had made their plans. Surely, she would not have betrayed Blake to Barker. It made no sense. She had pleaded with him to give his blessings to Eden and the gunman. If there was one thing Colin was certain of, it was that Maggie loved his daughter and wanted her happiness.

      
He rubbed his aching head, too confused to think straight. Tossing a silver piece on the rumpled sheets, he left the noisome crib and walked out into the cool night air. A few deep breaths did clear his brain a bit.

      
Colin decided to return to the Palace for a change of clothes. He stopped by the telegraph office on his way. No word from Blake. Perhaps, Wolf had arrived and left a message at the registration desk of the hotel.

      
Hiram Jenkins had clerked at the Palace for nearly a decade. Thin and officious, he wore a perpetually quizzical expression and glasses that were too large for his small owlish face. When Mr. McCrory came walking in, reeking of whiskey and wearing filthy rumpled clothes, Jenkins smelled a juicy bit of gossip on the wind. The rich rancher had sent a note to his beautiful bride, but not returned to their suite last night. Small wonder she had packed up and headed to the stage depot this evening. Hiram Jenkins would have given a great deal to know where the lady was bound—back home to Prescott or somewhere else?

      
“May I help you, Mr. McCrory?” the clerk asked in his nasal voice. His tone was cool and proper, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity behind the thick lenses.

      
“Any messages left for me? Or has Wolf Blake come by looking for me?”

      
“That half-breed gunman? No.” Jenkins gave a faint grimace of distaste as he turned to check the room boxes for messages. “Nothing here either, sir.”

      
Colin gave the little weasel a steely look as he handed over a silver piece. “I want a change of clothes sent to Hurley's Bath House down the street. Send one of your porters with whatever you select in about a half hour.”

      
Hiram wanted to tell McCrory his wife was no longer a guest at the Palace, but something in that deadly facial expression made him hold his tongue.

      
The clerk watched as the tall Scot stalked out the front door, then rang for Carlos.

      
A long hot soak, a shave and a change of clothes helped Colin feel almost human again. As he sat in the Cosmopolitan Dining Room chewing a tough hunk of spicy mutton, he considered what his next move should be. Since arriving in Tucson, he had not spoken to Ed Phibbs. She had, true to her predictions, gotten a job on the
Daily Star
writing the society column. He was certain she was snooping around on the side. Possibly, the eccentric female had learned something useful.

      
Within an hour, Colin had located Miss Phibbs' new residence at a respectable boardinghouse on Church Avenue. When he rode up, the redoubtable reporter was on her way out the front gate with her heavy canvas sack slung over one bony shoulder.

      
“Colin! Good to see you, but do you think it's wise to come to my place of residence so openly?”

      
He tipped his hat, looking around the deserted street. “It's dark so no one should notice. Anyway, we're just passing a few casual pleasantries. I need to talk to you, Ed. I was going to leave a note at the boardinghouse asking you to meet me at the newspaper office at ten tonight.”

      
She appeared to debate with herself for a moment as her pop eyes studied him. “You look like something Rufus dragged in. Very well, I suppose I ought to apprise you of my plans—and learn what you've been up to. Circle around the block to be certain you're not followed. Then, meet me in the stable behind the boardinghouse.”

      
What the devil was the fool woman up to now? “What plans do you have, Ed?”

      
She shushed him with her best schoolmarm glance, then strode off in that oddly mannish gait without a backward glance. Or a reply. Muttering about women and how much misery their entire gender caused men, he rode around the block to the dilapidated adobe stable, which was shaded by several ponderosa pines. No one was in sight.

      
If Win Barker had anyone following him, Colin was certain the fellow had given up long before now. Why would Barker bother to trail him or kill him anyway? Barker no doubt believed that he had completely neutralized his foe by blackmail. But Win Barker did not understand how tenacious a man Colin McCrory was. To atone for his past, Colin could never give up his fight against Barker and his ring.

      
He dismounted and slipped into the stable where Ed waited. She studied him in the dim yellow light of a lantern hung from a rusty nail on the wall. “What's happened to you, Colin? I expected to hear from you sooner.”

      
“Sit down, Ed. It's a long story.” He gestured to a splintery bench against the far wall. The reporter walked over and plunked down her knapsack, took a seat and waited expectantly. The smell of leather and horses filled the air with comforting familiarity as Colin paced in front of her, gathering his thoughts. “Barker knows about my past. Everything.” He looked down at her, gauging her reaction.

      
“You don't think I told him.” It was not a question. Her eyes met his, waiting for him to continue. She said nothing to defend herself.

      
“You are a straightforward female, Ed Phibbs,” he replied with a grudging half smile. “No. I can't see any reason you'd do it. You want Barker's downfall for the story—his and the whole ring reaching up to the capital. But somehow he found out.”

      
“And now he's blackmailing you to stop your interference with his graft. Do you know who told him?” she prompted shrewdly.

      
Colin's shoulders slumped as he took off his hat, crushing the brim in one hand while he raked his fingers through his hair. “When I was shot a couple of months ago, I had a fever. Raved out of my head. I don't remember what I said. Eileen, Maggie and Aaron were the people who took care of me. I've known my housekeeper and the doc for years...”

      
“You can't believe Maggie would give that kind of information to a man like Win Barker?” Her voice broke off in a high squeak. “That's just plain crazy, Colin. She loves you. Eileen told me Maggie took a bullet meant for you in Prescott.”

      
His expression was haggard and confused. “Hell, Ed, I just don't know anymore. Maggie's an enigma. There are things about her past, too, that are better left alone. Let me just say our marriage hasn't exactly been a conventional arrangement.” He would never explain about the way she had blackmailed him into making her his wife. Or how he could not keep her out of his mind, every waking and sleeping moment. She was in his blood and bones. His emotions were too private and painful to reveal to anyone. He was loath to confront them himself.

      
Ed observed the tortured expression on Colin's face. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked as if the only sleep he had gotten in days was courtesy of the oblivion offered in a whiskey bottle. “I won't pry, Colin. Whatever is between you and Maggie is your business. But I will tell you this. She has nothing to do with Win Barker's learning about your past. No matter how dark her past is, Maggie isn't your betrayer.”

      
“I want to believe that, Ed, more than anything. But what we have to decide now is how to handle Barker.”

      
“Are you going to agree to his blackmail?”

      
“What do you think?”

      
Her angular face softened. “It's going to be hell—not just for you but for Eden and Maggie, too. You'll lose your social position in the territory, not to mention your credibility in Washington.”

      
“I don't give a damn about Washington. If Potkin's any example of the men in the Bureau of Indian Affairs, they're all a pack of self-serving idiots. As to my family...” He shook his head. “Eden is going to marry Wolf Blake.”

      
That startled Ed Phibbs. Her eyes popped out even further. “Having a half-breed gunman for a husband will keep her beyond the pale of respectability even if the gossip about her and Lazlo dies down. I imagine having a former scalper for a father couldn't make much difference,” Ed added dryly.

      
“Blake has a family back in Texas with money. He's a good man. He'll take care of her.”
Maggie's very words to me just a few days ago
. “As for Maggie...if she...if she isn't involved in this, maybe she'll understand because of some other things in the past. Or maybe she won't.”
You were the first to throw stones at her, and your past is every bit as despicable as hers.

      
Even though she did not know all the circumstances surrounding his troubled marriage, Ed could see Colin's inner struggle. “You're going to take on Barker and the ring. Have you received any word from Blake? He should've been able to find Rigley by now.”

      
“I would've thought so, too. That worries me. Barker seems so damn confident. I wonder if his political connection in Prescott isn't the reason.”

      
“I’ve gathered a few bits and pieces snooping around town in the last few days. Jeb Settler, Marsh Grant—there are at least a half a dozen major merchants in the ring, but Barker is the linchpin. Without getting him, we can't break them.”

      
“What about Lamp's records?”

      
She shrugged. “I went over them with a fine tooth comb. Petty theft compared to what's really going on. We can get him cashiered for malfeasance in office, but that won't do any good if the ring is powerful enough to select his successor.”

      
“Well, I'm sure out of the running once word of my past gets back to Washington.” Colin was weary. Soul weary. If Maggie was involved in this mess, did he honestly care about it anymore? Did he need to exorcise the demons from his nightmares?

      
“We can still break Barker and the ring.” Ed's eyes glowed with calculation as she began to rummage through the battered canvas knapsack. She extracted a large skeleton key, a small crowbar, a squat fat candle and several matches.

      
“What the hell is all that for?” Colin had a suspicion and he did not like it.

      
“Wipe that scowl off your face. Makes you look like a Scottish kirk preacher. These are my break-in tools. I've gotten more than one story employing my skills as a locksmith.” She stressed the last word with a gummy grin. “I'm going after Barker's records.”

      
“Absolutely not. I forbid it. Barker has killed armed men. He wouldn't hesitate a second to shoot a snooping female reporter.”

      
“I have no doubt you're correct in your assessment. That's why I'm also bringing this.” She pulled a heavy Mexican War-vintage Walker Colt from the sack and held the barrel up so the lantern light shone dully on the rusty barrel.

      
“Good God, woman, if you try to fire that antique, it'll probably blow up in your face and save Win Barker the trouble!” Colin grabbed the gun from her and checked the firing mechanism. “This hasn't been cleaned in years,” he said in disgust.

      
“To be precise, I believe it was one year ago last May. I, er, dropped it in a creek outside San Antonio when I was being pursued by a rather irate stage robber.”

      
Colin paled at her calm, matter-of-fact manner, making such an outrageous statement. “I don't want to hear any more of your harebrained schemes!” he shouted.

      
She shushed him. “Mrs. Schwartzkoff is nearly deaf, but she can hear when she wants to. I can't afford to be evicted from her boardinghouse just yet.” She gathered up her tools, including the offending gun, which she grabbed from Colin. Standing up, she straightened her rumpled baggy suit and affixed him with a haughty stare. “I don't care what you say or do, Colin McCrory. I'm going after Barker's records. I've done this sort of thing before,” she added huffily.