Rachel Donnelly (29 page)

“Oh, don’t give me that!” Leigh gave a snort. “Money always matters. Even a whore like Flossie knows that.”

“If you think she’s after your money, why don’t you just tell her the truth — you don’t have any.”

“I might have, had she not gone and run off.” His shoulders sagged and his voice turned sullen. “She hopped the stage the morning after you went missing. I don’t know what got into her. What could be in that girl’s head? I’m the best thing that ever happened to her.”

Christie put a comforting hand on Leigh’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Leigh. Truly I am.”

“I suppose it’s for the best. She was never one for putting down roots. But she’ll be sorry, mark my words. I have a good feeling about this trip. I do believe it’s going to be the answer to all my prayers.”

Christie wished she could agree, but with Leigh that wasn’t usually the case. Trouble had a way of finding him wherever he went.

• • •

The
Belle
slid through the water like a slow puffing dragon.

Christie leaned against the rail of the paddle wheeler and gazed up at the clear night sky. The deck of the riverboat seemed peaceful compared to the gaiety below. The lap of water and the musty smell of mud soothed her, bringing her restless spirit back to earth.

She needed to go home — to put as much distance as she could between her and Nat. She never should have given in to Leigh. She’d only agreed to cruise down the Sacramento River in hopes of boosting his spirits.

Clearly her sympathies were misplaced. From the moment they boarded the paddle-wheeler two days ago, his lovesick mood took wings and fled. He’d done nothing but gamble and drink since they got here.

Still, keeping him out of trouble gave her something to do, and an opportunity to see more of the countryside. Her train didn’t leave for another week. Perhaps the journey to San Francisco and back would make the time pass quicker.

Christie wondered what Ellie was doing right now; probably tucking the children into bed. Dear, sweet Ellie. She missed her already. Hopefully Ellie would receive the letter Christie had posted after visiting the bank to draw out the money her father had sent. Some she gave to Leigh for his traveling expenses. The rest lay hidden in a compartment in the bottom of her trunk, excepting a few coins in her black velvet handbag and a few more sewn into the thick waistband of her drawers.

Though the
Belle
gave the impression of a five-tiered floating palace, with its gleaming wood and polished brass rails, all manner of humanity strolled along its decks. The saloon attracted professional gamblers, and where they went, fast women followed.

The soft ripple of female laughter drew Christie’s attention to the opposite side of the bow. A young couple stood conversing in hushed whispers. A tall, distinguished gentleman lounged a few feet away against the rail, dressed in a plain brown frock coat.

She’d spied him earlier in the dining room, when she glanced up from her poached salmon to give Leigh the impression she was listening to his latest scheme to turn the mercantile into a saloon. The man’s eyes were on her now as they were then.

A feeling of unease settled over her, spreading gooseflesh across her arms. She pushed away from the brass railing and started for the doorway of the companionway.

But before she could descend the stairs, he was there, tipping the edge of his brown derby hat. “Good evening, Miss Wallace.”

She stopped, venturing a startled glance. “How do you know my name?”

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Conway Burke. I’m with the Pinkerton Agency.”

Christie’s heart gave a dip.

Leigh!

What had he gotten into this time? Ignoring the hand Burke offered, she answered smoothly, “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Burke. But I’m not from California, so I’m afraid whatever it is you wish to know, I can’t help you.”

She didn’t give him the chance to answer, but brushed past him down the stairs. Luckily, a large party on their way up prevented him from following.

Christie hastened down the corridor, fishing into her pocket for the key to her cabin as she went. But just as she pulled it out, it slipped from her shaking fingers. Before she could bend down to retrieve it, it was scooped up right under her nose.

“If you lose this, I fear I shall have to guard your door myself.”

“Captain Jackson!” she expelled breathlessly, plucking the key from his hand. “Thank you.” She smiled with relief, allowing a quick glance toward his deep dimples and warm brown eyes. Christopher Jackson had been kindness itself. She didn’t wish to offend him, but at the moment she had no time for pleasantries. She attempted to shove the key in the lock. But it wouldn’t turn.

“Allow me,” the captain said, stepping forward. “The dampness causes them to stick sometimes.”

No sooner had he pushed the door opened then she snatched the key from his hand. “I’m very much obliged.”

He tilted his head and smiled. “Obliged enough to finally accept my invitation to dinner?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she hastily conceded, though she’d refused him twice in the last two days. “That would be lovely. Thank you again.” She gave a small wave. “Goodnight.”

By the time she threw the brass bolt across her cabin door, her breath was coming fast. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her gaze fell on the chilled bottle of champagne cradled in the silver server on the table.

For once she was grateful that the suite Leigh insisted on boasted such amenities — room service, bouquets of fresh flowers in the parlor and on the bedside tables. She glided across the blue and gold carpet to pour herself a glass.

She had scarcely put the glass to her lips when a loud knock shook the cabin door. Champagne bubbled up her nose, spurting onto the white striped overskirt of her rose silk gown. No sooner had she caught her breath did the knock come again — more insistent this time.

“Christie, are you in there? Open up!”

Leigh!

Anger heated her blood, though she did her best to control it as she strode for the door.

“Why don’t you just use your key?”

He barged past her into the cabin. “How do you expect the maid to leave those little pastries if you keep bolting the door?”

Christie rammed the bolt back in place. “Because there’s a Pinkerton Agent out there.” She spun round with her hands on her hips. “What do you have to say about that?”

Leigh looked baffled. “Well, he’s not after me, if that’s what you think.”

“Of course, that’s what I think. You salt mines, you sell watered down whiskey to the Indians, and for all I know you cheat at cards. Eventually your crooked dealings are bound to catch up with you. So what is it this time? You might as well tell me. It’ll all come out at the trial.”

“Trial?” Leigh voice squeaked higher. “What are you talking about? I haven’t done anything. Besides, the men I have dealings with couldn’t afford a Pinkerton man.”

“Not after you’re done with them, I’m sure. But what’s to say one of your victims didn’t come from a well-placed family — wealthy enough to champion his cause. Exactly how many of those salted mines did you sell?”

“I don’t know, two, maybe three.”

Christie shook her head in disgust. “And that is the reason why some people should never reproduce.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions!” Leigh sauntered to the table to pour a glass of champagne. “How do you know he’s looking for me?”

“He knew my name.” Christie waited for a reaction, but it was difficult to tell with Leigh’s face buried in his glass. “How would he know that, unless through some connection to you?”

He scratched the side of his nose, while his gaze shifted around the room. “Well, what did you tell him?”

“I told him,” she said in dangerously quiet tones, “that I was not from California and therefore could not help him.”

“Did he ask for me by name?”

“No, but … ”

Leigh threw his hands in the air and rolled eyes. “Then what are you getting so worked up for?”

A knock sounded against the door.

Leigh bolted like a fox from a henhouse for her bedchamber door. “If anyone asks, I’m not here!”

“Coward!” she muttered as she turned to answer it. Well, there was no time like the present. She might just as well get this over with. She fixed a serene smile on her face, throwing back the bolt.

Mr. Burke, the Pinkerton agent, stood in the doorway. “Miss Wallace,” he began cordially. “I realize you are not from these climes, but I believe you know the gentleman I’m looking for.”

Christie dreaded to ask, but knew there was no longer any sense in resisting. She couldn’t hide in her cabin forever. If he was looking for Leigh perhaps she could steer him in the opposite direction — smuggle Leigh off in a trunk when they reached San Francisco, or better still, send him over the deck of the boat in a trunk and watch him float down river.

She drew herself up, assuming an air of haughty disinterest. “What is the gentleman’s name?”

“Nathan Randall.”

“Nat?” Her mind stumbled, caught completely unaware. “Why are you looking for him?”

“I’m not at liberty to say — client confidentiality.” He smiled thinly. No humor reached his eyes. “I understand he recently rescued you from a terrible ordeal.”

She stiffened. Now how on earth would he know that? “Yes, an incident in my life I would prefer to forget. But as I said before, I can’t help you. I haven’t seen Mr. Randall since then.”

“I understand you were living at his ranch.”

Anger built in her breast. Burke’s cold questioning was too much. Losing her reputation was one thing, but having a perfect stranger speak of her recent trails in such bland terms — with no regard for her feelings, set her teeth on edge. “If you know so much, why is it that you were able to find me and not him?”

“An accident, I assure you,” Burke said with stiff reserve. “When I saw your name on the passenger list, I hoped you might be able to shed some light on his whereabouts. I understand Mr. Randall is on his way to San Francisco and since you are traveling there as well, I thought perhaps you were meeting him.”

“Well, you thought wrong.” Her cheeks grew hotter with every word. “Though I’m much obliged to Mr. Randall for saving my life, our relationship doesn’t extend beyond that. Now,” she inclined her head, “if you’ll excuse me, it’s very late. I wish to retire.”

Christie closed the door with a firm click.

Her body trembled in anger.

Odious man!

How dare he imply she, a respectable young lady, would chase after any man, let alone a ruffian like Nat Randall! The mere thought of it brought to mind memories she’d tried hard to forget. Her reputation had been sullied, but that didn’t make her a floozy.

Outrage burned in her breast long after Leigh bounced out the door, sporting a smug smile. She emptied her glass of champagne and poured another. She tried to force Nat’s memory away, but it would not leave.

How could he make love to her and then just disappear, even if she had shrugged it off and released him from all responsibility. He should have protested. He should done more.

But he hadn’t.

And for that, she despised him.

But she despised herself more, for allowing herself to care. She should have known better. She should have never gotten mixed up with a man like him — a brute and a savage.

Yet she could not give him up to the Pinkerton man; at least, not without first knowing the agent’s intent.

“That’s the difference between you and I, Nat!” she said aloud, allowing her inner tirade to spill out as she stalked to her bedchamber to prepare for bed. “I protect the people I love.” Though she knew it not to be true. Nat spent most of his time protecting other people.

If only she’d been able to protect herself from him.

Had she said love?

No.

That wasn’t right.

Love was too strong a word.

She might be attracted to Nat, but she most certainly did not love him. He was an unhealthy obsession at best — one she hoped to relinquish. In fact, she was well on her way to doing so, until that Pinkerton man showed up. Now the neat little box where she’d placed those memories had burst open. She’d have to begin again.

If only it were that easy — if only what she felt for Nat could be tied up with strings and dropped over the rail of the boat into the river.

• • •

Billy flopped on the bed with a groan.

Laughter and music from the dance hall below drifted through his opium-soaked brain like a loose bag of feathers. He rubbed his hands over Flossie’s white silk stockings, his favorite pair. The smell of stale cigar smoke and sex made his lips curl with anticipation. A quick poke and a long rest — he’d be as fine as a hair on a frog. “I told you I’d come, Floss, didn’t I?”

“But you didn’t come, did you!” Flossie jerked his boot off his foot, then tossed it on the plank floor beside its mate. “I waited at that boarding house until the money ran out. I’ve been fending for myself, near a month now. What makes you think I want you here? I was doing just fine without you.”

Billy waved his hand in the air at the cozy room. “Looks like you’re doing just fine.” He slid his hooded gaze down the length of her with slow deliberation, taking in the fine satin gown as blue as an ocean and the white feather boa trailing around her neck. “You sure look fine.”

“That’s right, I am doing fine! No thanks to you. Working in the dance hall pays my room and board and Mr. Perry allows us girls to do the pickin’ of the customers we invite upstairs.”

“You always were a smart one. That’s what I like about you. No matter what happens, you always land on your feet.”

“Save it, Billy.” The sweet scent of rose water stirred through the air with the rustle of her crinolines as she marched to the high chest of drawers between the opened windows. She poured out a shot of whiskey. “You finding me was an accident. You know it, and I know it. So you might as well tell me what you want.”

He pushed himself upright. The carved acorn bedposts swam against the green leafy paper on the wall. “Of course it wasn’t no accident. I’m here, ain’t I? Where’s that drink? I’m as dry as a fart in a wind storm.”