Nan Ryan (10 page)

“It’s Chando,
jefe
. There’s word on the Kid.”

“Be right there,” Lew said and quickly pulled out, his desire instantly gone.

Hers, however, was not. Blinking in confusion and frustration, she said, “You can’t get me this hot and then leave me like this.”

“Sorry, this is important,” Lew said, reached for his discarded pants and anxiously hunched into them.

“And I’m not?” she fretted, leaping off the desk.

“Good night, Mrs. Maxwell,” Lew said, and left her.

The slender, middle-aged Mexican who had replaced Dan Nighthorse as
segundo
of Plano Pacifica was waiting for Lew in the drawing room.

“The Texas Kid is dead,
jefe,”
he came right to the point. “His body was found in a burned building in southern Arizona.”

“No!” said Lew. “Damn it, no. I wanted him. I wanted the son of a bitch. Are you sure, Chando? Could it be a mistake?”

“No mistake. His body was found just hours after he and Rogers hit the Douglas bank. The Kid’s horse was still outside, his sombrero on the saddle horn. White male fitting the Kid’s description. Same height and weight. Missing left earlobe.”

“There are surely other men who—”

“They took this from around his neck,” Chando said, handing Lew a chain from which swung a half-blackened gold cross.

Lew felt his mouth go dry. The cross lay in his palm; he lifted it, turned it over, and read the words he knew were there.

Mi tesoro
.

“What about the others? The old man and the girl?”

Chando shook his head. “Still in Mexico, I guess.”

“Keep on it, Chando.”

“I will,
jefe
. Good night.”

When the
segundo
had gone, Lew, clutching the cross to his bare chest, went back to the study.

“Darling,” came Mrs. Maxwell’s breathless voice, “let’s make love on this leather sofa before we go up to bed.”

“What?” Lew’s head snapped around. He had forgotten about her. Still naked, she lolled on the sofa. He said, “Get dressed and I’ll have my man drive you home.”

She sat up. “Drive me home? You promised me more!”

“I can’t be trusted. You deserve better. Get dressed.”

The angry Elizabeth Maxwell was still muttering protests when she was ushered out the hacienda’s front door.

Lew closed the door behind her as a terrible squeezing sensation started in his chest. He again lifted the gold cross and stared at it for a long moment. Lowering it, he headed for the stairs.

He was relieved that Elizabeth Maxwell was gone. He was in no mood to make love to her. He wasn’t interested.

There was only one female who interested him, and it was not the milky skinned, sweet-smelling, dark-haired beauty, Elizabeth Maxwell.

It was a sunburned, foul-mouthed, ugly-as-the-devil blond female gunslinger.

Mollie Rogers.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade
,

Nor lose possession of that fair
…

Professor Napier Dixon, mildly annoyed that someone would come calling at this late hour, took off his spectacles, laid his poetry book aside, and went to see who the visitor was.

He opened the heavy door and blinked in disbelief. On the porch stood a tall, slender gunslinger—and a female one at that. A gun belt rode low around her hips, and bulging red saddlebags were slung over her left shoulder. Her clothes, men’s breeches and shirt, were filthy, and her dirty blond hair was short and spiky. Her skin was as sun-darkened as an old cowboy’s, and her face was streaked with sweat and grime.

But a pair of beautiful, vivid violet eyes flashed in the dirty face, and Napier Dixon’s breath caught in his throat.

“Sarah?” he murmured, stunned and overwhelmed. “Sarah?”

“No,” Mollie said. “I’m her daughter. I’m Mollie Rogers.”

“Oh,” he managed. Then, “Yes, yes, of course, Cord and Sarah’s child. Come in, come in,” he said, unable to take his eyes off her.

In the foyer he reached for the saddlebags, sensed her reluctance to give them up, and said, “Why don’t you put your things here by the door for now.”

Nodding, Mollie dropped the heavy saddlebags by the umbrella stand as he closed the door and turned to face her. She saw a silver-haired gentleman who was exactly as her parents had described him—tall, slim, dignified, and immaculate.

Directing her toward his firelit study, Napier Dixon said, “Your mother, Mollie? Sarah? Is Sarah …?”

“Mama’s dead,” Mollie said flatly.

“Dear God, no!” exclaimed Napier Dixon, stricken. “Not Sarah. Not the beautiful Sarah.”

“Yes, and Papa, too.” Tears sprang to Mollie’s eyes. “They’re both dead and I’m alone.”

Quickly regaining his composure, Professor Dixon said, “My poor child.”

Sniffing, Mollie raised an arm to wipe her nose on her shirtsleeve. Professor Dixon quickly drew a clean white handkerchief from his sweater pocket and presented it to her. Crying quietly now, Mollie took the handkerchief.

“There, there, child. I’m so sorry,” Professor Dixon comforted her. “Bless your heart, it’s going to be all right.”

Knowing she could trust him, Mollie told the professor everything. She left out nothing. She revealed that the heavy saddlebags in the foyer were loaded with a fortune in gold taken on raids. She told him about the robberies and the years in Mexico. She told him about the determined bounty hunter who was bent on capturing all of the Rogers Renegades, including her.

Finally, she told him about the Kid. “I had to do it, Professor,” she said honestly. “He was going to … to …” She shuddered, remembering, and ran her hands up and down her crossed arms. “I stabbed him and maybe killed him, I don’t know. If he’s alive, he’ll come after me. He’ll get me and—”

“No, Mollie. You’re safe here in Maya.” He smiled, and added, “You have a home here with me for as long as you wish.”

“But people will see me and they’ll know who I am.”

“Then you’ll have to be someone else,” said Professor Dixon calmly. “My two married sisters have a dozen daughters between them. I will announce that one of my nieces is coming in a couple of months to live with me.”

“A couple of months? Where will I stay until then?”

“Right here in the house,” he said. “But there are rules in this house. I abide by them, and you will too.” His words were softly spoken, but Mollie knew he meant what he said.

“I’ll get awfully bored cooped up here,” she protested.

“No, you won’t. You’ll be too busy learning how to become a proper young lady.” Again he smiled, then said, “Now you must be very tired. There’s a big guest room upstairs where you’ll be comfortable.” He rose.

“Professor,” Mollie asked, shooting to her feet, “What about the gold?”

“You went through a lot to get it,” he said. “The gold belongs to you.”

Upstairs Mollie shed her dirty clothes, climbed into the big soft bed, and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. But a bad dream soon awakened her. The Kid had caught up with her and was pressing her down on the bed. His hairy chest and bearded face was all she could see.

Bolting upright, her heart pounding, Mollie looked around, frightened and disoriented. Why was there no loud music playing? No shouting and laughing? Then she remembered. She was not in some Mexican hotel room. She was in the big Manzanita Avenue mansion of Professor Napier Dixon. And the Kid was dead.

Or was he?

Professor Dixon took Louise, his housekeeper, into his confidence. Louise didn’t like the idea of having an outlaw under their roof, but the professor assured her that Mollie was a harmless child who was in trouble and needed them.

He explained that Mollie hadn’t had the advantages and she badly needed the influence and advice of a lady, especially, he added diplomatically, a genteel lady who knew a great deal about breeding and good manners.

Flattered, Louise said, “Well, I’m not sure I can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but I shall join you in the effort to do so.”

Mollie’s metamorphosis began immediately.

On her first morning in the professor’s house, she came down to breakfast wearing a girlish pink-and-white checked gingham dress that Louise had supplied. Professor Dixon complimented her on her appearance, carefully hiding his dismay that such a naturally pretty girl would choose to butcher her golden hair and burn her fair skin dark as an Indian’s.

Her first lesson began as soon as she was seated. She reached hungrily for a buttermilk biscuit. Professor Dixon cleared his throat. Mollie looked up. He shook his silver head. She dropped the biscuit.

“We say grace in this house, Mollie.” His smile was warm. “Shall we bow our heads?”

Napier Dixon was appalled to learn that Mollie had had no formal schooling after age thirteen. She was very bright, but she was woefully ignorant on a score of subjects. It was almost impossible to believe that she was actually Sarah’s daughter.

The professor told Mollie that once, long ago, he had taught young students literature and speech at Tulane in New Orleans. He would be glad to tutor her. Mollie was less than thrilled with the thought of studying, but the persuasive, learned professor soon piqued her interest and had her eager to learn.

It seemed to Mollie that there was no question to which he didn’t have an answer, no riddle he couldn’t solve. And his expertise was not limited to what could be found in books. Mollie was surprised that a man—a bachelor at that—knew so much about women.

He brought her a big jar of scented cream from the Maya Emporium and told her if she applied it generously—all over—her skin would grow pale and become smooth and soft as a baby’s.

“All over?” she’d questioned. “The jar won’t last long.”

He laughed, enchanted. “Then I’ll bring you another. I
own
the Emporium.” He continued to laugh.

But he abruptly stopped when Mollie, in a new frilly dress, sank down onto the sofa opposite him. Forgetting she now wore dresses, she thoughtlessly sat with her knees wide apart, hands resting on them.

“Mollie,” he said, kindly, “young ladies sit with their ankles together.”

Mollie colored, demurely put her feet together and folded her hands in her lap. But it would not be the last time she had to be reminded. The professor and the housekeeper taught and scolded and coached and demonstrated and praised their young student. Mollie read and studied and listened and practiced her manners.

And she brushed her rapidly growing short blond hair and rubbed the expensive creams into her flesh, watching her skin begin to lighten. She did everything she was supposed to do, and she was grateful to the intelligent, good-hearted professor and Louise for all their help.

But sometimes at night when she was in her bed, tears slipped down her cheeks as she thought about her papa. She missed him terribly, and she was sorry that she had never worn any of the pretty dresses he had given her. She wished she had been a more dutiful daughter, had tried harder to please him.

Then she would smile in the darkness. Her papa had loved her just as she was. She was a lot like him, and hadn’t they had some great times together?

Remembering, Mollie would put herself to sleep reliving those thrilling days of their bold, daring raids. The close calls. The big hits. The endless excitement.

Would life ever be exciting again?

The big day finally arrived.

Mollie Rogers was to venture forth from the big white house on Manzanita Avenue. But Professor Dixon would not be presenting Mollie Rogers to the citizenry of Maya. The townsfolk would meet a young lady called Fontaine Gayerre.

When Miss Fontaine Gayerre came down the stairs that sunny morning, Professor Dixon looked up and swallowed hard. Twenty-five years fell away and he was again a nervous young man, waiting in the June twilight.

“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’” he said softly. “‘Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.’”

“Lord Byron?” Mollie asked, smiling.

“Keats,” corrected the professor. “You are a beautiful young lady.”

Mollie laughed. “Thanks, but I’m scared to death this damned false hair will fall off.” She patted the sleek blond bun at her nape.

“Mollie Rogers might have talked like that,” said the professor. “Fontaine Gayerre would
never
use vulgar language. Now, are you certain you want to work at the Emporium? There’s no need, you—”

“Oh, I do, yes. It’s ever so nice here and you and Louise are kind, but … but …”

“But you’re restless.” She had only smiled in reply. “I understand. But there are other options, since the Emporium isn’t all that I own. The livery stables, the barbershop, the First National Bank, the Nueva Sol Hotel, they’re all mine.”

“Lord, you must be very rich.”

“I
am
a wealthy man, Fontaine. When I left Texas and finally teaching as well, I went to the California gold mines. I made a fortune there quickly. Then word got out that gold had been discovered here and I came, along with thousands of others. Overnight the town sprang up, but soon it was clear there was no gold. It was an illusion. The name of the town was changed from Rainbow to Maya.
Maya
means ‘world of illusion.’ That’s all Maya was, all it is.”