The Devil She Knows
Read The Devil She Knows Online
Authors: Diane Whiteside
D
EVIL
S
HE
K
NOWS
Arizona Territory, north of Tucson, September 1878
T
he two stagecoaches raced onward into the setting sun, hurling dust into the sky like profligate gamblers. A covey of rifle-toting braves could have hidden in their wake's sandstorm, or their future hosts' few fences.
Gareth Lowell scanned their back trail using the best spyglass available within a day's ride from Job's Wells. Lady Luck had favored him enough at the card tables to give him this expensive piece of optics; he never bothered to look for the fickle wench anywhere else and simply went prepared for the worst.
Apaches were somewhere in this barren valley, but farther than his rifle and pair of Colt Peacemakers could reach. At least the fine bowie knife Portia Townsend had given him couldn't sink into any enemies at the moment.
He'd ridden all night from Prescott to meet this stagecoach at the dying station. He'd have fought Cochise's entire band for the chance to slog through hell, if William Donovan had asked him to.
He simply needed a few more minutes until he could escape Job's Wells.
Built atop an old Indian ruin, the stagecoach station's lone building was sunk halfway into the ground and no wall stood more than four feet high. Its pale stones melted and blurred at the corners like their builders' ghosts. Only a few, dark brown splatters survived to hint at why those inhabitants had departed, with deep gouges beside once crimson stains.
A single circle of stones rising in the center courtyard stood stalwart below its wooden arch, silent witness to this outpost's long purpose. A well was priceless in this wilderness of sand and thorns, carved by mountain ranges like coiled rattlesnakes. Reaching the next drink of sweet water meant riding hard for at least one day, while a man's skin twitched every time a breeze blew lest it be an Apache death blow.
Five horses fretted in the rickety excuse for a paddock, swishing their tails and warily assessing their surroundings. Four of them were saddled, while the fifth was a fully loaded pack horse. The two best saddle horses came from the Donovan & Sons stable, of course, something which reassured Gareth at a level so deep he merely had to glance at them and his heartbeat would ease.
Now the trailing stagecoach was close enough to count the rifles bristling from every window and the roof. Either the journey through Red Rock Pass had been nastier than usual or this crew was more determined than most of their kind to show how they'd protect the leader at all costs.
Gareth was hoping for the second reason. A smart man would put his money on the first.
“Any sign of Apaches?” asked Baylor. Like Gareth, his rifle rested against the wall beside him but a row of cartridge boxes, like substitutes for absent reinforcements, were lined up before him. His unkempt terrier Tornado paced beside his feet, a ragged ear alertly cocked.
“Nothing on the stages' back trail, in the east and north,” Gareth answered.
Kenly grunted, the single sound indicating full understanding of everything either the younger man or Tornado hadn't said. The dog would have sounded the loudest alarm, if he'd found enemies coming in.
As rail-thin as Baylor was barrel-chested, the two had never been seen far apart during the years Gareth had known them. But each other's company was all they clung toâcertainly not steady jobs or a single place.
“Nor where they're going.” Baylor slung his rifle over his shoulder and rapidly stuffed the ammunition back into his pockets, with the dexterous movements of a poker shark readying himself for a new game.
The first stagecoach turned for the station, still moving so quickly that the ground shook slightly and the air trembled under the horses' tack's metallic ringing and the wheels' heavy rumble.
Baylor and Kenly promptly raced to fetch the previously prepared water for the horses, Tornado uttering small yips at their heels. Here and now, nothing was more important to them than waving the two stages goodbye.
Gareth waited on the yard's edge, rifle in hand, alert for any signs of attack. Five minutes from now and the visitors would be gone, having left behind the crucial package and its courier.
Then they would hit the trail together. Two armed men riding for Tucson these days had perhaps an even chance of making it there alive.
A door opened and a passenger burst out of the dusty coach.
“Gareth, my friend!” A well-dressed apparition hurtled toward him with no hint of his messenger. “Why are you here and not Uncle William?”
Portia Townsend held out her hands to him, her face shining with delight underneath a ribbon-bedecked hat. Her dancing feet sent her new and supposedly grownup skirts' hems twirling fast enough to kick up small dust devils.
Who the hell had dropped her skirts and put her in that adult dress? Didn't they know she was a child?
How old was she, anyway?
She'd been twelve when they met. No decent man lusted after a little girl, whether or not she was the boss's niece. Given how she missed her younger brothers, it was easier to think of her as a younger sister who needed a playmate.
But now?
When the devil had she grown enough curves to fill out a corset?
No, he would not consider her
that
way. This attire was another bit of her chicanery, designed to twist him around her finger and start another escapade.
He would never become obsessed with a child.
But her youth made it made worse for her to be here.
His stomach plummeted into an icy hell somewhere below his boots. He should have known the peace was too good to last. He'd have far rather heard hundreds of war cries erupting out of Victorio's army, than that single feminine whoop of joy.
If anything happened to herâ¦Dear God in heaven, he couldn't let Portia end up like other victims of the murderous Apaches and similar bandits, bullet-ridden and burned like barbecued hogs because their murderers wouldn't let anyone leave a long-planned death trap.
The old, never-forgotten stench washed back over him again and his belly knotted like a rattlesnake ready to strike. He snapped his greeting at Portia like a lasso, cloaking his worry in a rough edge.
“What in the Sam Hill are you doing here?” he demanded. “Weren't you supposed to have started the fall term at the new fancy school by now?”
Portia's arms drooped back to her side, a fitting end for a journey which had begun badly before taking an appalling jog in the middle.
Dear heavens, a scorpion dumped out of a boot would have received a friendlier smile from him. She hadn't expected to be welcomed into Arizona. She'd barely hoped to see him so soon, since even rolling stones gathered more moss than Gareth did. But surely their past escapades had earned her more consideration from her oldest friend.
“Ah, yes.” Her smile evaporated faster than drops of water on a sun-baked rock. She should have realized she'd have to confess immediately to the worst part.
She squared her shoulders. Gareth was the best man in the world and he'd never condone even the slightest falsehood. “I already did.”
His eyes narrowed, in the typical start to a blistering inquisition.
At least with Gareth, once she'd told the truthâno matter how badâhe never stayed angry with her. So the sooner she told him why she was here, the faster she'd learn where Uncle William was now and the latest news about Aunt Viola. They'd taken Gareth under their wing since Uncle William hired him at age sixteen.
“Gentlemen, you may have five minutes to stretch your legs while the little lady visits her friend,” one of the drivers shouted. “If you're late, we'll leave for California without you.”
Gareth shot the stage company's senior official a glare promising retribution. He didn't need time to talk to her; he probably wanted help getting her back into that rolling lockbox.
The driver simply glanced significantly toward the western horizon, with its mountain pass leading to the next cavalry post, then checked his pocket watch. Any extra time for conversation was a gift, given how fast the lengthening shadows in that narrow route could conceal an ambush for the two coaches.
Genuine shock thudded through Portia but she didn't turn to see if the man had done anything additional to deserve Gareth's condemnation. Gareth always insisted ladies should be treated with the utmost consideration. So why was he objecting to the added courtesy of allowing her time for a visit with her old friend?
She managed a noncommittal smile, one of the few things she'd learned other than music from all those ridiculous schools.
Men stepped down from the stages, talking about the unexpected rest and comparing their guns. Gareth's two companions ran forward to start watering the horses.
Gareth nodded curt comprehension to the driver and headed over to the paddock where he and Portia could have a somewhat private conversation.
Portia cast her eyes down from underneath her new hat, the only one which matched her new, long dress. Her cheeks flushed appallingly hot.
Far too long experience with her gave him painfully fast understanding of the situation.
“Did you run away from there?” Gareth demanded and fixed his steel-gray eyes on her. “Or did you and that friend get into another scrape? Isn't Cynthia her name?”
“It wasn't Cynthia's fault; it was mine.” She spread her hands, wishing she didn't want to hug him. Or kiss him. Or run off to join a circus with him. Life would be far easier if she could bamboozle him just a little, the way she could flummox her father. Of course, the amount of attention Father gave her was so limited that he might believe almost any nonsensical yarn, simply to get her out of his life. He'd never dealt well with his daughter, only his sons.
“Why did you leave this one, Portia?” Gareth sharpened his tone.
None of which meant telling the truth would be pleasant.
She huffed and brushed off her skirts before looking at him again. “My headmistress announcedâto the entire school!âthat all Irish and Papists are doomed to eternal damnation.”
Gareth's fingers curled over his gun's butt. His face hardened until a bowie knife would have appeared friendlier. She'd seen that look before, when he'd faced down a drunken Barbary Coast mob to bring them home safe from seeing the bearded lady at the circus.
For the first time in almost a week, her stomach lost its roiling boil. Somebody else would have fought, too. Even staying close to her three brothers hadn't compared to avenging that insult.
“I knew you'd understand,” she sighed, expressing a certainty she hadn't known needed to be put into words until she heard it echo to the world.
He rubbed his mouth. “What happened after that?”
“Well, I couldn't let her escape unharmed, could I? Not when Uncle William is both Irish and a believer in Catholicism, and, and⦔ Her tongue stumbled below the tears glinting in her eyes.
“The best man either of us have ever met?” Gareth suggested gently.
“Exactly!” agreed Portia ferociously. “Not to mention how he and Aunt Viola adore each other.”
He nodded agreement, probably remembering all the times Uncle William and Aunt Viola had shared the warmth of their loving home with him. She'd never asked him where his own family was and he didn't offer such news. The Code of the West insisted every man be accepted for what he was, not who he'd been, even if that meant leaving family behind.
His jaw tightened, until his lips stretched into their usual severe lines, as if holding back memories too painful to express.
Poor darling.
Ever since she'd first met him, she'd longed to stroke his cheek and bring him comfort. Her news should help him.