Читать книгу Quicksilver's Catch - Mary McBride - Страница 11

It was dark when they pulled up in front of the torchlit stage office in Sidney.

“End of the line,” the driver yelled. “Everybody out. Don’t forget your hats, gents. Ladies, mind your gloves and parasols.”

Linus Dobson didn’t even say goodbye. After almost exploding from the coach, the salesman snatched up his valise and sample cases the second the driver removed them from the boot, and disappeared into the night. Marcus Quicksilver had let go of Amanda’s hand only long enough to grasp her waist and help her out of the stage. Then he led her around to the rear of the vehicle, where he began to untie his horse.

“Don’t do anything foolish, Miss Grenville, like trying to run away,” he warned her while he drew a leather rein through a round metal hoop.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Amanda crossed her arms and chewed on her lower lip. For the past hour in the coach, once the shock of her capture— the insult of it!—had worn off, she’d come to a few conclusions about her predicament. Reluctantly, she’d conceded that she’d been outwitted by the notorious bounty hunter. But he was, after all, a bounty hunter, which meant that money was important to him. And money, right now, was her only weapon.

Amanda glanced at the gun nestled against his hip, the gun that only hours before had thrilled her with its implied danger. But now the sight of it made her shiver imperceptibly, until she decided that he’d never use it on her. The dratted posters hadn’t said Dead or Alive, for heaven’s sake, and any reasonable human being would have to know that Honoria Grenville wanted her granddaughter returned in one piece. One unscathed piece. No. Marcus Quicksilver would never use that lethal-looking weapon on her. Amanda was convinced of that. She, on the other hand, had no qualms whatsoever about using her own weapon on him.

“My grandmother is offering five thousand dollars for my return, Quicksilver,” she said, taking a step or two in his direction, pinning him with her gaze, unafraid of him now, thinking that perhaps he should be afraid of her. “It’s a very generous reward. You already know that, of course. But I’ll be even more generous and give you even more if you don’t take me back to her.”

He didn’t answer, but continued to unfasten the leather straps that bound the horse to the stagecoach. The mare nodded her head agreeably, as if Amanda’s offer had a certain appeal, but the bounty hunter didn’t respond, didn’t shrug or even send so much as a questioning glance in Amanda’s direction.

“Did you hear me, Quicksilver?” she demanded. “I offered—”

Now he snapped his head toward her and growled, “I heard you. Hell, all of Sidney and half of Nebraska probably heard you. Do you want to get to Denver or not, brat?”

Brat again! Amanda fought down the urge to launch her foot into his kneecap or leave the imprint of her hand on his handsome face. “Yes, of course I want to get to Denver, but—”

“Then shut the hell up.” He backed the horse away from the coach, snagged Amanda’s arm just above the elbow and started down the street. “Come on.”

It wasn’t as if she had any choice, she thought, while she trotted along beside him, doing her best to keep her feet from catching in her hem. The town—another combination of clapboard and canvas—was dark, for the most part, except for a saloon here and there where music and yellow lamplight spilled through open windows and doors. The bounty hunter stopped at a hitching rail, where he released his grip on Amanda in order to tether the mare, who whinnied in protest.

Amanda felt like whinnying, too, as she stood nearby, massaging her sore, probably bruised arm. She looked around her for a possible avenue of escape, and her gaze lit on the sign over the building directly behind her.

“The railroad depot,” she exclaimed. Thank God. Now she could claim her bag, change her clothes, brush her hair and put some of the gold coins stashed in a satin side pocket to good use. “I’ll retrieve my valise and pay you a hundred dollars in advance for your services, Quicksilver. Let’s go.”

She snatched up her skirts, whisked through the depot door and assumed it was she who was leading the bounty hunter until her feet suddenly went out from under her and her backside made abrupt contact with the hard wooden seat of a bench.

“Wait here,” he told her. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut. You got that?”

Amanda got it, all right. How could she not, especially when she saw that his eyes had turned that stormy color again and his right hand had come to rest on the butt of his gun? He wouldn’t use it, she reminded herself. He wouldn’t dare. The gesture was merely meant to frighten her, to reinforce the notion that it was he who was in control. For the time being, anyway.

“If you’ll just get my bag for me, perhaps we can discuss this over a nice supper,” she said, as sweetly and as calmly as she could. “My treat.”

“Right.” Marcus gritted his teeth as he strode toward the stationmaster’s window. Maybe he should have wired ahead to have the luggage taken off the train. Even with the telltale initials on the bag, at least there was cash inside. It might have been worth the risk, he thought, but it was too late now.

He glanced back to make sure the runaway heiress was still firmly planted on the bench where he’d left her, then jabbed his finger down on the brass bell on the counter. The stationmaster appeared, looking as if Marcus had just rousted him from a good night’s sleep, then took forever to wipe his spectacles and to fit them on the bridge of his nose before he managed to squint through his little wired window. “Can I help you, mister?”

“How soon’s the next train west?”

The man yawned and blinked and scratched his jaw. “Lemme go see,” he said, just before disappearing from the little cage.

Marcus turned around, angled his elbows back on the counter and surveyed the waiting room of the depot. Her Ladyship was still right where he’d left her, sitting like an aggrieved princess on her wooden throne, glaring an occasional green dagger in his direction. He found himself wishing she wasn’t quite so pretty when he noticed how she drew the gazes of the several male passengers scattered through the room. Two young cowhands bent their heads together and exchanged what appeared to be appreciative whispers. Not far from them, on another bench, a weasel-faced fella in a checkered suit seemed particularly intrigued with Amanda, and kept peeking, all beady-eyed, around the edge of his newspaper to get a better look at her.

In response, Marcus could feel the muscles in his shoulders bunch and all his nerves snap to attention, and he wasn’t sure whether his reaction was male and territorial or whether it was purely business. Business, he told himself. Professional caution. That was all it could be, after all. Amanda Grenville was his bounty. She wasn’t his woman. Thank God.

A sleepy voice came from the wire cage. “Next train’s due within an hour. It’s an immigrant train, though. Next regular one’s tomorrow morning.”

An immigrant train! Marcus could just imagine Her Ladyship’s expression when forced to travel with the teeming masses. He glanced back at her now, then swore when he saw that the weasel in the checkered suit had changed seats and was now attempting to strike up a conversation with Amanda, who didn’t appear at all resistant to his overtures. First Dobson and now this. God dammit, did she intend to talk to everything in pants between Omaha and Denver?

“Be right back,” he told the sleepy stationmaster.

His spurs bit into the soft wood floor as he stalked across the room toward the happy couple. On closer inspection, though, Amanda didn’t appear all that enthused. Her face was a few shades paler than when Marcus had last seen it, and her hands were twisting in her lap. Her eyelashes fluttered up to him, and her eyes looked wildly bright when she spoke.

“There you are, dearest. Did you manage to locate my bag?”

Dearest? For a second, Marcus wasn’t sure just who she was talking to, much less which bag she was talking about. Was she as crazy as she was rich? Then he noticed that the glad little smile on her face was composed less of teeth than of nervous twitching lips.

He glanced at the newspaper that the weasel clutched in his hand and caught a glimpse of a headline—the word Runaway—which gave him a good idea just what the man was up to. No wonder Amanda looked panicky as a deer in the bright beam of a headlamp. But she hadn’t panicked, had she? Much as Marcus hated to do it, he gave her credit for her presence of mind and quick thinking in addressing him the way she had. Now it was his turn to do some fancy brainwork.

Marcus leaned down to brush a kiss across her soft cheek and to whisper, “Don’t worry,” close to her ear. “Sorry, darlin’,” he drawled, straightening up. “That bag’s nowhere around here.” He shrugged helplessly, then grinned at the weasel. “Fine thing for a husband to lose his wife’s suitcase the first night of their honeymoon, huh?”

The man’s beady eyes enlarged. “Honeymoon? The two of you are married?”

“Just.” Marcus smiled with as much husbandly pride as he could muster, then extended his hand. “Glad to meet you. I’m Al Green and this is my brand-new bride, Alice. And who might you be, mister?”

“Doesn’t matter.” The weasel glared sideways at Amanda. “You’re married to this man? Is that right?”

She nodded with enthusiasm, much to the displeasure of the weasel.

“You don’t look all that married to me,” he said accusingly.

“Well, I haven’t had much practice, actually. At marriage, I mean. It’s only been…” Her gaze flitted up to Marcus. “How long, dearest?”

Marcus fished out his watch, snapped it open and pondered the hands. “Three hours and twenty-seven minutes, give or take a few seconds.” He smiled down at her, using the sappiest expression he could manage and trying to sound like a lovestruck groom. “The best three hours and twenty-seven minutes of my life.”

“Aw, hell,” the weasel snarled. “I mistook you for that runaway Grenville girl. I was just reading about her in the Denver paper, then I saw you sitting here and I thought, seeing your blond hair and fine clothes and all, that I had myself that five thousand for sure.”

Amanda laughed. “Oh, you silly man. My goodness, I wish I were that Grenville girl. Then I’d have a servant or two to look after my luggage properly for me. My new husband doesn’t seem to be doing such a good job.”

She batted her eyes up at Marcus now and smiled with all the sweet indulgence of a woman who’d married an incompetent fool, which seemed to thoroughly convince the weasel that they were indeed husband and wife.

“Damn.” The man stood, then slapped his newspaper down on the bench and walked away without it, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

The second he was out of earshot, Amanda started laughing. “That’s the second time you’ve married me in the past few hours, Quicksilver. I honestly believe you’re fond of me.” She batted her eyelashes up at him again. “Either that or you have an incredible lack of imagination when it comes to charades.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Marcus growled.

“Beautifully,” she conceded. Then she gestured toward the station master’s cage. “Now, do retrieve my valise for me, will you?”

“That was no lie, Duchess.” Marcus lowered himself beside her on the bench and snapped open the newspaper the weasel had left behind. “You won’t be seeing that suitcase again. At least not until Denver. Sorry.”

“Sorry! But I thought you wired ahead to direct them to take my suitcase off the train.” Her voice rose a notch, as well as several degrees. “All my money’s in there. What am I supposed to do now?”

Marcus shrugged. He was only half listening as he read the article on the front page of the Denver paper, the majority of which was an interview with Honoria Grenville, who had returned to that city following her granddaughter’s escape in Omaha. The old woman had apparently taken over the top floor of the Excelsior Hotel, whence she was now commanding a battalion of private detectives and newspapermen. That didn’t surprise Marcus a bit—not the fact that Granny Grenville was willing to spend a small fortune to have her own way or the fact that there were scores of eager and greedy characters more than willing to assist her.

What surprised him, though, was the reason for Amanda’s exit in the first place. She’d eloped from New York to Denver with Angus McCray. Eloped! Marcus wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking, or whether he’d given it any thought at all. Women rarely ran away for the pure pleasure of it, and Amanda Grenville certainly hadn’t run away to join any circus. But elopement? With Angus McCray?

It was hardly a secret in Denver that the dapper, slick-haired Scot made his living off women. He’d been down the aisle at least once already, with the widow of a gold miner, but unfortunately for him, it had turned out that the gold miner was really a silver miner on a relatively meager scale, and— worse—for McCray, anyway—the fella wasn’t even dead.

“Angus McCray,” Marcus muttered behind the newspaper. “Angus damn McCray!”

“Oh, is there something about Angus in there?” Amanda grabbed for the paper, but Marcus held it out of reach.

He was boiling, and he wasn’t sure just why, except he hated to see people making stupid mistakes. And of all the mistakes a rich girl could make, this one was probably the stupidest and the worst. “You’re figuring to marry that no-account, lilylivered, freeloading snake?”

“Yes,” she said with a little toss of her head. “Not that it’s any of your business, Quicksilver.” Then her gaze played over the assorted passengers in the waiting room. “And I shouldn’t have to remind someone in your line of work to be a little more circumspect when discussing certain subjects. Not to mention quieter. If you know what I mean.”

She was right, of course. Marcus looked over at the weasel, to find the man’s beady little eyes trained on them once more, and an expression of renewed curiosity puckering his narrow face. Several other men were regarding them now, including the stationmaster, who stood within easy reach of his telegraph key, the one that could put him in touch with Granny Grenville and her minions in about ten seconds, leaving Marcus to kiss that five thousand dollars goodbye. That, he vowed, was not going to happen. By God, he already felt as if he’d earned at least half of that five thousand just in irritation and aggravation.

“Come on.” He folded the paper, stuck it under his arm, and tugged Amanda to her feet. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace,” he growled.

“A restaurant?” she asked hopefully.

Amanda tried to ignore the rumblings in her stomach as she sat perched on a wooden crate in an alley across from the train depot, watching Marcus Quicksilver pace back and forth and listening to the soft jingling sound his spurs made. Or was that the sound of his teeth grinding? she wondered. The bounty hunter appeared to be mad at the world in general, and at her in particular.

If anyone should be throwing a fit, she thought, it was she. Her hair was filthy. Her clothes were wrinkled, and she still smelled vaguely like cake. Day-old-cake, at that. Her luggage had vanished, and if she had ten dollars left in her handbag she’d consider herself quite lucky. She loosened the braided silk drawstring now and dumped the contents out onto her lap.

For lack of a streetlamp in the alleyway, there was only moonlight with which to inspect the coins that had clattered out. And then even the pale moonlight was blocked by a pair of wide shoulders as Marcus halted in front of her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, looming above her.

“Just what it looks like, Quicksilver. I’m counting my money.” She plucked an errant silver dollar from a fold in her skirt. “Which I wouldn’t have to do at all if someone had sent a proper wire concerning my suitcase.”

“Forget about the suitcase. It’s gone. Anyway, you’re better off not having anything with those initials on it.” He swiped off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “And while I’m giving advice, Miss Grenville, I want to request that you stop taking up with every man who gives you a sidelong glance. Do you think you can do that?”

“Hush. You’re making me lose count. Fourteen. Fifteen.” Amanda added two silver dollars to the stack of coins in her hand, then sighed forlornly. “Well, I’m afraid that’s the sum of it. Oh, no. Wait.” She practically dived headfirst into her handbag then and unbuttoned a small compartment in the silk lining. “I’d completely forgotten about these,” she said, coming up with two bright twenty-dollar gold pieces.

But no sooner had she discovered them than Marcus snatched them out of her hand.

“Give those back!” she cried.

“You can have whatever’s left in Denver. If you want me to help you, then you’re just going to have to do this my way. Understand?”

His words were comparable to a bucket of cold water tossed on a fire, and Amanda’s anger sputtered out immediately. He’d just said he was going to help her, hadn’t he? Despite the fact that his face was dark and menacing as he stood looking down at her, and despite the fact that he looked as if he’d just as soon strangle her as look at her, Marcus Quicksilver had actually offered his aid.

“You’ve agreed, then? To help me get to my fiancé in Denver, I mean, instead of dragging me back to my grandmother?”

“I’ll get you to Denver. That’s all I can promise. But it’s not going to happen if you keep striking up conversations with every male between here and the Rockies. Can you get that through that hard-as-adiamond skull of yours?”

She bit down on a smile, not wanting to let him see how thrilled she was or how relieved she was that she was no longer his captive. “Yes, I believe I can.”

“Good. Now give me all the rest of that silver and we’ll see just where we stand.”

Reluctantly Amanda scooped the fifteen silver dollars from her lap and handed them over.