Читать книгу Welcome To Wyoming - Kate Bridges, Kate Bridges - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Simon pleasured in the way the candlelight from the restaurant tabletop shifted across Natasha’s face. The glow brought out her lively eyes, outlined the fine arch of her brown eyebrows and warmed the contour of her lips. It was late evening. Darkness engulfed the window next to them, dampening the view of the river below, but he was enjoying the view in front of him.

He’d hooked his hat on the wall behind him, but she was still wearing her bonnet with the fake grapes and cherries. They bobbed on her head as she ate her meal.

Remain in control, and never leave anything to chance. That was the simple rule he’d lived by ever since he’d turned eight. Those words had put food in his belly, kept him safe, protected his heart.

And it was why this situation made him bristle.

Don’t hurt her, he thought. If she’s innocent and not a criminal, she doesn’t deserve to be hurt. In order to find out, he had to ask more questions.

He planted one large elbow on the white tabletop and leaned in toward her bosomed silhouette. What exactly could he say that hadn’t been said by Ledbetter in his called letters? How could Simon now pretend to know what had been written between them, so that he wouldn’t alert her that he was an imposter?

He’d start with something tame. “Where are you from originally?”

She inhaled, and when she did, her chest moved up and down, accentuating the slimness of her waist. He noted how nicely she moved and the sensitive sweep of her dark lashes over her face as she answered.

“Chicago. And you?”

She brought the glass of ice-chip water to her lips and sipped, making him wish she’d do all sorts of devilish things to him with those lips. He swallowed hard, cursed himself silently for noticing her womanly charms and glanced away to the other customers in the crowded room to distract himself.

Waiters in black suits hustled to deliver wine and liquor, soups and main courses of roast venison and wild duck.

“I’m from the Midwest. Raised on a farm. Before I moved to Boston, of course.” He and Ledbetter had both been raised in the Midwest. Simon in southern Dakota Territory, Ledbetter in Nebraska very briefly till his parents had died and he was whisked away to Boston by his wealthy grandparents. The grandfather, apparently, had made his fortune from pirating ships in the Caribbean. The nasty streak was either in the bloodline or was taught to his grandson. Simon’s parents weren’t around long, either, but he’d had no one to whisk him away to safety.

“Natasha. That’s an awfully pretty name. Where’d that come from?”

She flushed at his attentiveness. “My father was Irish, but my mother was Russian. She named me.”

“Ah,” he said with humor. “Irish and Russian. That makes you a person with quite a hot temper.”

Her brown eyes lit with amusement.

“And,” he continued, pleasuring in her reaction, “your Russian blood would explain the high cheekbones. Very lovely.”

“How about you? What’s your family heritage?”

“We can trace our lineage all the way back,” he said, proudly speaking the truth, “to George Washington’s house.”

“Truly?” she said. “You’re related to George Washington?”

“Well...one of his servants.”

She smiled. “What made you want to go to Harvard?” She looked so nicely at him, he found it hard not to scoff at her curiosity. However, the question made him realize why he was here. Not to flirt with her, but to fool her. The closest he’d ever gotten to stepping foot inside any college was riding past one in a locomotive. He hoped his speech and mannerisms didn’t give him away. He tended to cuss more than he should, and he could never sit calmly in a suit.

“I always had the urge to study,” he lied smoothly. He shifted his too-wide-to-get-comfortable shoulders against his chair and tried to straighten his cramped leg under the table. There never seemed to be enough room for him in these fussy places.

She played with the stem of her water glass but gazed intently at him.

“Studying came naturally,” he lied some more. Ha. He had counted down the days in school when he wouldn’t have to pick up another pencil. Although he was excellent with numbers and calculations, and figuring out what sort of gun he’d need to shoot what distances, and how much gold bullion a two-foot-by-two-foot safe could hold.

She scooped the white napkin from her lap and dabbed her lips. “That’s incredible. Your parents must’ve been so proud.”

“I reckon.” He realized she was referring to Ledbetter’s departed parents, but Simon was thinking of his own. His mother would surely be proud, if it were true and if she were still alive. But his father—the no-good son of a bitch—wouldn’t give a cow’s scrapings. After all, the bastard had walked out on Simon and his mother when he was just a kid.

“And pray tell,” she said, returning the napkin to her lovely thighs, “what subjects did you study?”

He blinked at her. How the hell should he know?

She must’ve taken his hesitation to mean that the question needed clarification. “I know you studied economics, but do tell what precisely you covered.”

“Ah, I see.” His hair brushed against his shoulders. “Economics of the United States. Of our natural supplies, and the upticks and downticks of the market, and our trade with the richer countries of the world. For example, England and France.”

“France? Don’t tell me you speak French?” Her lashes fluttered. How engrossed she was with her imaginary, dearly departed Ledbetter.

To be frank, Simon was a little put off at how much she seemed to worship him. Who the hell cared about someone who’d studied at Harvard? The man had fleeced old women of their wedding rings and slashed the throats of railroad passengers who wouldn’t cooperate. Education was no substitute for character.

“Nah, no French.” He shifted his long arms as the waiter brought glasses of red wine that Simon had requested. He’d selected French wine from the Burgundy region. She’d been impressed by that, too.

“Cheers,” he toasted, “to us.”

“Oh, Mr. Ledbetter, yes, to us.”

“Please, it’s Jarrod.”

“Sorry, it slipped out. It’s just so strange to be thinking we’re to be married shortly when we’ve never met before. Jarrod,” she corrected herself, clicking her glass against his. “May we always be this happy.” She lifted the glass to her mouth.

“Hmm,” he said softly, thinking of her comment, then took a swig. Not bad stuff. He preferred wine from the new vineyards of California, but he’d had a sense he needed to show off by asking for an imported bottle. It was what Ledbetter would have done.

He schemed as he twisted in his prickly wool suit and stared at the enticing person seated mere inches away. How exactly was he going to get through to this woman without arousing her suspicions to get what he wanted?

* * *

Something was off between them.

Natasha had felt it ever since his two friends had left them alone, and she and Jarrod had headed here to the hotel. She was trying awfully hard to be congenial and friendly, but something was holding her back.

What was it?

She lifted a piece of grilled fish to her mouth and tried to enjoy the meal, the restaurant, the company.

Perhaps it was a reaction to his behavior.

She had a sense that Jarrod was sizing her up rather harshly. That now that he’d met her face-to-face she wasn’t perhaps what he’d been expecting?

She wasn’t as formally educated as he was, granted, but she was well aware of the world, very well-read and inquisitive about business and jewelry. Her grandfather had taught her much about the business world, about delivering fine goods, about keeping his word on delivery times and being honest in a business deal. She hadn’t gone to Harvard, but she would love to read some of his texts to learn the finer details of economics, to be privy to what men were educated on and perhaps the economic secrets of the world.

No...she didn’t sense that he was lording over her that he had a college education and she didn’t. It was something else.

In his letters, he’d been keen to list what he wanted from her, declaring his desire of starting a family together, of bonding as husband and wife, but now in person...she sensed none of that. Every time she caught his eye, he was the one who looked away first. He had seemed open and friendly at first glance, but only to a point, for any intimate talk she was hoping for—about weddings and ministers and how many children they’d like to have—was not materializing.

It chipped at her confidence.

Was she emitting involuntary signals that she herself was hesitant of this marriage? That now that she’d arrived and met him, perhaps they were doing this too quickly?

Nothing easy is ever worth having. That was what Granddad had always said.

Perhaps she should take in the evening more slowly, not let her nerves run away with her senses. She would strive to be observant, to ensure that now that they’d met, she still did truly wish to marry him for him, and not because a stranger had simply responded to her letter.

What were her alternatives if she chose not to marry Jarrod Ledbetter?

She knew a trade. Jewelry repair. She’d read in the newspapers that many women here in the West ran their own businesses. That they even had the right to vote.

She had little money in her pocket, which was frightening on its own, but outside the train depot, she’d spotted two signs in storefront windows saying Help Wanted. She could apply for one of those positions to make sandwiches, or for a jeweler’s shop assistant, or any number of small jobs until she decided how to open her own jewelry store.

But...she was being ridiculous. Things were going as planned. She was here and her fiancé across the table was prepared to marry her. How on earth had she allowed her mind to wander off in this manner?

Because she was seeing it through the eyes of her protective grandfather, who’d always warned her not to give her heart away too freely. Any man who came into the shop and gave her a second glance got a cold stare from him in return.

Not until you’re sure of his intentions, Natasha, he’d say, should you ever allow a man to court you.

But Jarrod had given her no reason to doubt that he still intended to marry her.

“Tell me something more about yourself.” He seemed to be enjoying his roast venison and took another bite.

“Such as?”

“Anything and everything. Start from the beginning.”

“But you already know so much from my letters. I have to apologize how much I poured onto those pages.”

“Nonsense. I liked that. And now that you’re here in person, I want to hear about you all over again.” His green eyes flashed with flecks of deeper colors. His gaze lowered to linger on her lips.

Her pulse rippled. “You sure I won’t be boring you?”

He shook his head. His dark blond hair shifted about his broad shoulders, and she very much enjoyed the absurd length of it. All the cultured men in Chicago trimmed theirs short. But this was the Wild West.

“I’m mesmerized,” he murmured.

She smiled. He was definitely more charming in person than he’d been in his letters. His letters had been intense and serious. She had detected no sense of humor in them, but then, what man showed his humorous side on a page? It wasn’t as if she was marrying Mark Twain, for heaven’s sake.

“Well, as I said, I was born in Chicago. My parents died early, sadly, both from tuberculosis.” When she was fourteen and had never even heard the word before. She’d become their caregiver for a solid month, getting instructions from the doctor and learning how to make chicken soup on her own, change bedsheets with a person still in them, and sit in the darkness night after night listening to their rattling breathing and praying they’d make it. God had never answered her prayers, and it had taken her years to forgive him.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

She frowned gently. She’d already told him that in her letters. Didn’t he remember?

He seemed to, for he corrected himself. “I mean to say—sorry to hear it in person.” His mouth twitched in genuine sympathy.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “But I had a lovely upbringing with my grandfather. We didn’t have much, just each other. We lived above his jewelry shop.”

“His jewelry shop. Tell me more about that.”

“I thought you’d be interested in his business, seeing how much it is that you and I have in common.”

A line in his cheek flickered. “My thoughts exactly.”

“His shop wasn’t big, but he had a lot of customers. At first, I’d help him by working the counter. You know, taking in the cash, putting it in the drawer, making change. A couple of years later, I helped him with the watches.”

“The watches?”

“Pocket-watch repair. Cuckoo clocks. Grandfather clocks. He wouldn’t let me do much but hold the pieces for him. But I studied what he did. Sometimes if we were behind, he’d let me do an order. Then we expanded to repair gold rings. To reset loose stones in other pieces of fine jewelry. The business got bigger and bigger.”

He frowned. “And then you must’ve...you lost it in the Great Fire?”

She nodded.

“And your grandfather passed away....” He prodded for more.

She promised herself she wouldn’t get weepy. His death was more painful to her than her parents’. “That he did, unfortunately. A few days after the fire, when things had cooled down and it was safe, we were sweeping the streets of charred debris. One minute he was teasing me that I looked like a chimney sweep, and the next he was clutching his heart and falling to the ground. Apoplexy. His speech was so slurred I couldn’t understand him. We never got a chance for another conversation.”

“That is a shame.” He reached over the tablecloth and touched her hand. His large, warm fingers pressed against her slender ones. Such a difference in size. Such pleasure in his touch.

“Then I placed the ad,” she said on a brighter note. “And here we are.”

“Yes, indeed.” He pulled his hand away. “Tell me again why you chose my letter,” he said, “above everyone else’s.”

“But I’ve already told you.”

“Tell me again. A man likes to hear in person what his bride thinks of him.”

“There were dozens of respondents, as I mentioned, but yours stood out. It was so well worded. Your education truly does you justice with the written word. When I discovered you were putting your business education to good use in your jewelry enterprise, I thought I could be very supportive to you.”

“Supportive. Hmm.”

“And that’s why I posed the question. The one you’re still thinking on.”

“Ask me again,” he said softly. “Tell me more directly so I get a true sense of what’s on your mind.”

She inhaled. “Well, it’s just that I believe that you and I could build quite a business establishment as a couple. We could do this together, Jarrod. We’d be twice as good, twice as big, twice as profitable. I know the jewelry business.”

“And so...?”

“I’m asking you if you’d please consider letting me join you in your travels. You know, do whatever needs to be done?”

She sipped another smooth mouthful of red wine as he leaned back in his chair and stared at her so intensely that she thought he would shatter his wine goblet.

* * *

She was in on it, thought Simon with rising anger. Sure as thunder came before lightning, Natasha O’Sullivan was devoted to helping Ledbetter’s criminal jewelry business. How much more obvious could she be?

He tried not to moan. He tried not to flinch as he sat watching her. He tried not to move a muscle in his face to indicate in any manner that he was affected by her request to join him. She knew about jewelry repair and was quite willing to indulge her would-be husband by jumping in with 100 percent enthusiasm.

How could a man from Harvard accomplish so much and yet now be so dead?

Why did Simon feel such disappointment in her?

She had many positive attributes. Why did she wish to become a criminal herself?

Greed?

All right, he’d play along. After all, she might know the whereabouts of the missing three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cash and jewels and lead him directly to it. In fact, if she was guilty, that would let him off the hook for how he should treat her. He’d met criminal women before, and they were just as vicious and deadly as men. Didn’t he owe it to Eli and Clay to put her behind bars? Some of her cohorts had shot them in cold blood! They’d made Simon go mad at the scene, trying to stifle the flow of blood from Clay’s neck where a gunshot had severed the artery. And poor Eli with a bullet straight through the heart.

If this woman was involved in any manner, she deserved what was coming.

Simon could only pray that she wasn’t too bright and wouldn’t pick up on the fact that he wasn’t really her beloved partner in crime, Ledbetter.

But maybe he was jumping the gun. Maybe he was assuming too much, assuming that she knew what she was getting involved with, that it was a criminal enterprise with Ledbetter.

Slow down, he told himself. Let’s not pull the trigger yet. Give her the benefit of the doubt.

How much, thought Simon as his pensive gaze swept over the caring eyes and the pursed feminine lips, did she know about Ledbetter’s business? The lawmen were still looking, but as far as they could gather so far, they hadn’t been able to uncover any stores that Ledbetter had actually opened in any town. Yet he’d claimed he had several. The man knew a lot about jewelry, but maybe only because he’d been a thief.

But surely the man hadn’t written too much in his letters for fear of incriminating himself. Or maybe he had. Maybe the braggart couldn’t help himself. All he had to do, once he’d trusted her and revealed his hand, was tell her to burn his letters.

“Well?” she prodded. “What do you say? Shall we run this business together, Jarrod?”

In all the years he’d been chasing criminals, he’d arrested only two women. He’d never injured one before, for neither had resisted arrest. Laws were laws and whoever broke them would come to justice.

“Before I answer that,” he said, bringing the French Burgundy to his lips once more, “I need to ask if you’ve kept any of our correspondence.”

She frowned at the question and lowered her voice. The grapes on her bonnet flashed in the candle’s flicker of light. “I did as you asked. However, I don’t see why I needed to burn them all,” she whispered, “even though I do understand your need for privacy and security, seeing how many jewelry shops you intend to open. And how you’ve been robbed yourself just recently.”

He quirked an eyebrow. So he’d been right. Ledbetter had asked her to get rid of all his letters. “Thank you kindly for understanding.”

“I admit, I thought it odd at first. But the more you explained, the clearer it became.”

Clearer? His side was getting murkier. They were speaking in riddles. How much did she know? Was she a criminal or simply in over her head?

Hellfire. He couldn’t send her home on the next train or stagecoach yet. He had to find out how much she knew and whether she could lead him to the jackpot. It was what his superiors at the detective agency would expect him to do. To follow through on every lead, and certainly not to feel sympathetic toward a possible criminal only because she was a head-turning female.

He pushed away his plate and tried to act civil and calm, as Ledbetter would do in this situation. All in a day’s work for that bastard. “Would you care for anything sweet? I saw raspberry pie on the menu.”

She leaned her pretty frame back against the chair rails, smiled down at her empty dinner plate and sighed in contentment. “I don’t think I can fit another morsel. Thank you for the wonderful meal and the wonderful company.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Natasha.”

She kept flushing at the mention of her name. It did feel rather intimate to him, too, sitting here across from a seemingly lovely lady who soon expected to be his bride.

If these were normal circumstances, if he was allowed to be himself as Simon Garr and she was his mail-order bride, he’d be as nervous as a trapped cougar. He’d seen what sort of marriage his parents had had: his father walking out, his mother drinking herself to death. No way on this earth he ever wanted that.

She lifted the white napkin from her lap and folded it across the table. She looked rather nervous, pursing her lips as though straining to find the right words. “What—what did you have in mind for the wedding ceremony? How soon would you like to do this?” The smooth muscles in her throat moved up and down with her delicate question.

Everything about her was a trap. Her smooth voice, the soulful brown eyes, the scattered freckles on her face that made her seem so innocent.

He silently cursed. There’d be no damn wedding.

He was saved from answering by their waiter.

“May I offer you some coffee?” the man asked as he gathered plates. “Perhaps some pastries, miss?”

She shook her head and nervously brushed her sleeves. Pastry was the last thing on her mind, he guessed, for she had a marriage to pursue.

“Please send the bill to the front desk,” said Simon, pushing his long legs back from the table. “I’ll settle up when I pay for Miss O’Sullivan’s room.”

“My room?” Those cinnamon-and-brown-sugar eyes flashed at him again as if to add, Not our room? We won’t be married tonight?

“I thought you might like to settle in. Find your way around town, rest up a few days before we plunge into this.”

She might be beautiful and tempting, but he was not Jarrod Ledbetter. Fortunately, she was not his mail-order bride and it was not truly him who needed to make decisions about an upcoming wedding.

He wanted no part of wives and obligations and possible children who’d grow attached to him and...and detective agents who’d deliver the news, as they had to Clay’s widow and Eli’s mother, that their loved ones had been killed in gunfire in the line of duty. God almighty, Clay even had a young boy, Tucker, who’d been left behind. Simon knew all too well how it felt to be deserted by a father.

He reminded himself again.

Natasha O’Sullivan was poison.