some cowboy’s whoop of excitement,
followed by a woman’s laughing shriek. Then nothing. From
downstairs wafted the aroma of beef stew—Annabel’s stomach grumbled
from hunger, but she hesitated over leaving her room because she
might run into Roy Steele again.
And if she did? And he questioned her? What
could she possibly say to him, what excuse could she offer for
following him to the blacksmith’s?
Think, for goodness’ sake, think.
She closed her eyes, and took a deep steadying breath and then it
came to her.
Of course. When in doubt, invent a story.
She was certain her mother must have had to think quickly many
times when she was in a tight spot during the war. So ...
Steele was a gunslinger, wasn’t he? That
meant his gun was for hire. She could simply tell him that she
needed protection and wanted to hire him. That she’d heard from the
hotel clerk about his profession and she’d planned to approach him
about taking on the job—but she’d lost her nerve when he’d attacked
her in the alley—yes,
attacked
, Annabel decided. That was
a good word; it would put him on the defensive.
Now. From whom am I running?
Annabel mused swiftly—and then her fertile imagination hatched the
answer. A former beau was after her, that was it—a ruthless man who
wanted revenge because she had turned him in to the law after
discovering that he had swindled her out of her inheritance....
But even as she spun her tale and committed
it to memory, she heard a sudden thud of hoofbeats. Annabel lifted
the curtain once more and peered down into the darkened street.
In the pale pearly glow of moonlight, she
could just make out the face and physique of the man who was riding
out of town.
It was Roy Steele.
No need to spin him a tale, no need to face
down those cold black eyes. Steele was gone.
To her surprise, a sharp pang of
disappointment lanced through her.
Ridiculous. She shook her head, immediately
realizing how foolish that was. She was going to see Roy Steele
again. In Eagle Gulch. If there wasn’t a stagecoach going there
tomorrow, she’d have to hire herself a horse or a buggy and ride
there herself. He already had a good head start, but that couldn’t
be helped. She couldn’t exactly start out now in the dark for an
unknown town—she had no idea how far away it was or in which
direction. Steele had an advantage over her there.
But come daylight ...
I’m coming Brett
, she promised
fervently, staring out into the Arizona darkness as if she could
somehow conjure up his charmingly handsome and beloved face in the
shadows of the moon. An ironclad determination swept over her.
I won’t let Roy Steele find you first.
I’ll help you out of whatever trouble you’re in and bring you
safely home. And soon
.
Soon.
The urgency grew in her, a quiet insistent
clamor that would not be denied. For in addition to the threat to
Brett from Steele and Red Cobb, there was the part of Mr.
Stevenson’s report she hadn’t wanted to think about, but which
haunted the further recesses of her mind. It flitted into the
center of her thoughts as she turned back to her room and fiddled
with the lamp, sending a pale amber glow into the four dusty
corners.
The plain truth was that Ross McCallum was
ill. And in trouble. It was difficult to imagine the powerful
broad-shouldered Mr. McCallum with his fierce aristocratic
countenance and roaring voice suffering any kind of weakness or
setback, but Mr. Stevenson had written down a conclusion at the end
of his report, and Annabel had read it in shock. No details had
been given, but Mr. Stevenson noted that he had reason to believe
that Ross McCallum’s heart was weak and that he was under a
doctor’s care. Moreover, the McCallum business empire was in
trouble. Stevenson had heard rumors from movers and shakers in the
city for months, and though Ross McCallum had merely hinted at some
problems and setbacks, Everett Stevenson suspected the situation
was far more serious than Ross would
followed by a woman’s laughing shriek. Then nothing. From
downstairs wafted the aroma of beef stew—Annabel’s stomach grumbled
from hunger, but she hesitated over leaving her room because she
might run into Roy Steele again.
And if she did? And he questioned her? What
could she possibly say to him, what excuse could she offer for
following him to the blacksmith’s?
Think, for goodness’ sake, think.
She closed her eyes, and took a deep steadying breath and then it
came to her.
Of course. When in doubt, invent a story.
She was certain her mother must have had to think quickly many
times when she was in a tight spot during the war. So ...
Steele was a gunslinger, wasn’t he? That
meant his gun was for hire. She could simply tell him that she
needed protection and wanted to hire him. That she’d heard from the
hotel clerk about his profession and she’d planned to approach him
about taking on the job—but she’d lost her nerve when he’d attacked
her in the alley—yes,
attacked
, Annabel decided. That was
a good word; it would put him on the defensive.
Now. From whom am I running?
Annabel mused swiftly—and then her fertile imagination hatched the
answer. A former beau was after her, that was it—a ruthless man who
wanted revenge because she had turned him in to the law after
discovering that he had swindled her out of her inheritance....
But even as she spun her tale and committed
it to memory, she heard a sudden thud of hoofbeats. Annabel lifted
the curtain once more and peered down into the darkened street.
In the pale pearly glow of moonlight, she
could just make out the face and physique of the man who was riding
out of town.
It was Roy Steele.
No need to spin him a tale, no need to face
down those cold black eyes. Steele was gone.
To her surprise, a sharp pang of
disappointment lanced through her.
Ridiculous. She shook her head, immediately
realizing how foolish that was. She was going to see Roy Steele
again. In Eagle Gulch. If there wasn’t a stagecoach going there
tomorrow, she’d have to hire herself a horse or a buggy and ride
there herself. He already had a good head start, but that couldn’t
be helped. She couldn’t exactly start out now in the dark for an
unknown town—she had no idea how far away it was or in which
direction. Steele had an advantage over her there.
But come daylight ...
I’m coming Brett
, she promised
fervently, staring out into the Arizona darkness as if she could
somehow conjure up his charmingly handsome and beloved face in the
shadows of the moon. An ironclad determination swept over her.
I won’t let Roy Steele find you first.
I’ll help you out of whatever trouble you’re in and bring you
safely home. And soon
.
Soon.
The urgency grew in her, a quiet insistent
clamor that would not be denied. For in addition to the threat to
Brett from Steele and Red Cobb, there was the part of Mr.
Stevenson’s report she hadn’t wanted to think about, but which
haunted the further recesses of her mind. It flitted into the
center of her thoughts as she turned back to her room and fiddled
with the lamp, sending a pale amber glow into the four dusty
corners.
The plain truth was that Ross McCallum was
ill. And in trouble. It was difficult to imagine the powerful
broad-shouldered Mr. McCallum with his fierce aristocratic
countenance and roaring voice suffering any kind of weakness or
setback, but Mr. Stevenson had written down a conclusion at the end
of his report, and Annabel had read it in shock. No details had
been given, but Mr. Stevenson noted that he had reason to believe
that Ross McCallum’s heart was weak and that he was under a
doctor’s care. Moreover, the McCallum business empire was in
trouble. Stevenson had heard rumors from movers and shakers in the
city for months, and though Ross McCallum had merely hinted at some
problems and setbacks, Everett Stevenson suspected the situation
was far more serious than Ross would
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