"You'll be killed," Amanda Baldridge said quietly, urgently. She reached out and put her hand on Henry Canfield's, then pouted just enough for him to cool down a mite. He wasn't a man to be crossed, much less told he was wrong by a woman. He wore his gun slung low on his hip, as if he were a gunslinger.
Amanda knew he wasn't any kind of shootist by the way he handled the gun once it came free of the hard leather holster. An instant's hesitation, a tiny fumble, his eyes flickering off the target to his hand and back—no, the scrawny man who hardly came up to Amanda's five-foot-seven height boasted about skill he lacked. She had to keep him alive long enough to get what she wanted.
Her pout turned into a tiny smile just for him. She batted her china blue eyes and patted her hair back into place with a self-conscious gesture that she had practiced for so many years she had forgotten the first time she noticed how men got distracted when she did it. Shifting on the hard chair, she looked around the restaurant. For a town as large as El Paso, few people came into this establishment to eat their midday meal. It might be too hot for anyone to venture forth, but folks had to eat somehow.
"Dammit, Amanda, you're getting me all confused. If I don't go in with my gun blazing, those guards will cut me down."
"You scare them and they'll be sure to fire on you. I've told you how to do it." She looked out into the dusty street running along one side of the plaza. Commerce in the border town on a Friday afternoon had turned into a trickle. It had to be the heat, that and the Mexican notion of taking a nap about now. Siesta, they called it.
For her part, she wouldn't sleep until Canfield successfully robbed the bank north of the plaza up on Oregon Street. She disliked the town, but it was better than Fort Worth and its Hell's Half Acre, with lawmen and pimps jostling each other's elbow for supremacy. A girl couldn't make a decent living there. When she tried, a Texas Ranger decided he wanted to make her an example. Keeping a mile and a day ahead of the weather-beaten old man with the silver star pinned crookedly on his vest had kept her on the move for close to a month. She thought she had lost him in Fort Griffith, but he had shown how wily he could be. Only a clever feint with a train and a stagecoach had let her cross the burning West Texas desert to reach the border.
Taking refuge across the Rio Grande had been a possibility, but she disliked the notion of living on beans and tortillas, even for a few months while the Ranger found someone else to occupy his waking moments. Her smile grew a little larger as she thought the Ranger's dreams might be of her. She filled both his day and his nighttime.
"What're you grinning like that for?" Canfield turned his ugly face to hers and leaned forward so he was only inches away.
His heavy stubble, the scar on his right cheek and the way his lip was partly cut away, from some knife fight he had lost, she guessed, all disgusted her. She smiled even more and lightly touched that rough cheek. He was burning up, or maybe it was only because her fingers were so cool. She stroked and he growled, more like a big dog than a man.
"You're so sweet, Hank. I want this to work. For you. For us."
"I know what I'm doing. A pretty little thing like you can't know what it's like to rob a bank."
"You're right. I don't, but I see things. I listen and hear things that can make this so much safer."
"You know for a fact them guards go out back around three?"
"They have a bottle of whiskey hidden there. The bank president doesn't let them drink in front of the customers. I'm not sure he even knows they toss back a few. He thinks they are just napping. Siesta," she said, letting the word roll off her tongue. It summed up everything wrong with this town. Who napped when there was money to be had?
"So you'll put a Mickey Finn in their booze?"
"When they pass out, you go in. There'll be no one to stop you from robbing the bank. You won't get shot." She moved her hand from his filthy cheek. "You won't have to shoot anyone, either."
"I'm raring to go. Let's do it now."
"In an hour, my darling. In an hour. At three."
"We can spend the time over at the hotel. You got a real fine room with a feather bed."
"I just want you be sure you have our horses ready for the escape. Clean your six-gun. I need to get the chloral hydrate." She saw him frown and felt even more contempt for his ignorance. "The knockout drops. I have to sneak into the alley and put it into their bottle."
"I'm going in at three on the dot," he said.
"Not a second before. And you will meet me at the livery stable? The one over on Montana Street?"
"I'm looking forward to spending the money on you. We're gonna live it up, girl. You wait and see. I'll show you a real good time."
"I know you will, Hank. I know you will."
She stood and hastily left, giving her bustle just enough wiggle to hold his attention as she left him to pay. The food had been plain, but good, but why waste her money when Hank was so willing to show what a real man he was? Amanda cut down one street, waited to see if she was followed, then dashed to her hotel where a man sat in the lobby, anxiously waiting for her. She beckoned to him, and they went upstairs to her room. The bartender left in five to return to his saloon, and it took her less than twenty minutes to shuck off her clothing, get into riding clothes and then stuff her sparse belongings into a carpetbag.
Hurrying to keep to her schedule, she found the alley behind the bank, drugged the guards' whiskey hidden under a pile of rags, then went to the stables to wait for Henry Canfield and the money from the robbery.
The distant gunfire warned her that the trigger-happy man had shot up the bank before the guards had a chance to pass out from the drug. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Law in the border town was corrupt but harsh when roused. If Canfield had killed anyone, there might not be far enough to run. If her description was sent out, she had a Ranger itching to arrest her. The sound of pounding boots against the dry street caused her to open her eyes.
Canfield ran as if the devils of hell nipped at his heels.
"Let's ride." He panted so hard she barely understood him. "We got to clear out fast."
"Did you shoot anyone?"
"A guard. He was all woozy from that Mickey Finn you gave him, but he was built like an ox. He must have took a sip when a long pull would have put him out entirely."
She cursed her bad luck as she passed over the reins to the lying Canfield. There hadn't been time for the guard to sample even a sip of the whiskey. With a quick hop, she mounted and looked around. The Rio Grande meandered along its lazy course to the south. Getting across before the town marshal came after them provided an appealing plan. She pointed east.
"We can get to the Hueco Tanks stage depot before sundown," she said.
"Mexico. We got to get to Mexico."
He carried a gunnysack she had given him for the money. The way it bulged told her more than one rancher's payroll had been in the bank, waiting for the drovers to come in for their monthly hoot and holler. If she didn't go with Canfield, she would lose it all.
She bent over so her lips lightly brushed his cheek.
He followed her when she rode east. The desert became more brutal with the late afternoon heat. Dunes towering twenty feet on either side of the road provided sand for the wind to sluggishly drift and cover their tracks. She got her bearing when they had ridden for fifteen minutes, then cut away from the road and went south. Canfield laughed in delight.
"I was right, wasn't I? We got to get over the border. We're crossing at Isleta and getting into Mexico after all. Wait till you taste some pulque. You're going to love getting soused on it."
She saw an ocotillo with a white rag fastened onto one spindly stalk. Canfield didn't. She rode between two dunes and away from the road. She stepped down and used her bandanna to wipe away the river of sweat pouring down her forehead. After such discomfort, she deserved a long, cool bath and being pampered at some high-class hotel.
"Why're you off your horse? They'll be after us before we know it."
"That means you don't know it already?" The voice came from the direction of the road.
Amanda reached into the folds of her skirt and touched a derringer but didn't pull it out. Standing in the sandy valley between the dunes, blocking their escape back to the road and eventually to the south and Mexico, stood a man with a star on his chest—and a double-barreled shotgun aimed squarely at Canfield.
"Who the hell are you?" Canfield demanded.
"You move toward that smoke wagon on your hip and I'll leave your body scattered out across the sand for the buzzards. If the ants and vinegaroons don't eat your dead flesh first, that is."
"That's a federal marshal," Amanda said, moving away from Canfield. "How'd you catch us so quick?"
"Now, ma'am, let's say it was a matter of luck." The lawman gave her a broad wink. This distraction was all it took for Canfield to go for his gun.
She had misjudged Canfield's speed and accuracy. He drew and fired in the time it took the man he faced to swing the shotgun back on target and squeeze both triggers. The roar of the Peacemaker in Canfield's hand was drowned out by the thunder from the shotgun. Canfield staggered and crashed to the ground, flat on his back and arms outstretched.
Amanda grabbed the man's horse and pulled the gunnysack free. The weight of the greenbacks and coins inside told her he might have stolen several hundred dollars. She slung it over her horse's rump and tugged on the reins so it followed her to where the other man sat doubled over.
He looked up as she approached.
"Amanda, darlin', he got me. I feel all liquid inside."
"Oh, Arthur, it wasn't supposed to be this way."
"I know," the fake lawman said, reaching up to her. He died before he got his arms around her.
Amanda backed away. She didn't want blood on her clothing. Nothing was going right. Canfield shouldn't have shot a guard in the bank, and now her double cross had fallen apart. She and Arthur would have split the money and gone their separate ways, as they had agreed. It had been good finding a man driven by greed as much as she was. There hadn't been any need to use her feminine wiles on him, and now he was dead. The only bright spot was that she no longer had to split the money with him.
She settled down in the saddle and started to ride back to the road. Mexico wasn't appealing, but it was safe. She might even learn some Spanish and find herself a rich ranchero.
The bullet ripped through her sleeve but didn't cut skin. She swung about and saw Henry Canfield sitting up and trying to take aim on her. The six-shooter wobbled and forced him to use both hands.
"Damn you, you murderin' bitch."
The front of his shirt was torn and bloody from the shot he'd taken. Amanda couldn't believe Arthur hadn't loaded his shotgun with 00 buck, but he might have mistakenly used birdshot. Calculations sizzled in her head. She could soothe Canfield, but he was too badly hurt to pursue her. She bent low and put her heels to the horse's flanks and shot away.
A single bullet came after her but missed by a mile.
She rode south until the horse pulled up lame, forcing her to walk with both her carpetbag of clothing and the gunnysack stuffed with money. How she could cross the river so burdened she had no idea, until another solution presented itself. Southern Pacific railroad tracks stretched toward the southeast in one direction and followed the river and back toward El Paso to the west.
Amanda sat on a splintery crate left by the railroad crew and decided she would get on the next train, no matter what direction it was headed. A train going down toward San Antonio would be better since she wouldn't have to go back through El Paso on her way farther west. She doubted anyone at the bank could identify her, but then she had made too many mistakes. The guards ought to have keeled over from the chloral hydrate and hadn't. She had figured Canfield would get an itchy trigger finger, and he had, but Arthur shouldn't have died.
A deep vibration shook the rails and the ground. She bent over to touch the tracks, quivering in anticipation of an approaching train. As she straightened a bullet tore past her head. Startled, she looked up in panic. Clinging to his horse, barely able to ride without falling off, Henry Canfield took another shot at her from a distance close enough for her to see the pain and determination etched onto his face. Blood caked his chest and his hands shook. And he wasn't giving up. That was another mistake on her part. She had pegged him as a quitter.
She reached for her hidden derringer, but at this range her aim with the short-barreled gun was no better than Canfield's.
A whistle sounded, startling her anew. Steaming hard from the southeast came a train. She hunkered down, judged distances and knew it would be close. Canfield's horse reared. He fought to stay in the saddle when the train whistle screeched again and the sound of wheels screeching against steel rails filled the air.
She gathered her belongings and waited for the train to come rushing past. Her arm passed through the handle on the carpetbag, forcing her to hang onto the gunnysack with her left. The train flashed past. She started running and grabbed with her right. Her fingers missed a handhold. Car after car whizzed past. Amanda ran harder and still couldn't build enough speed to get a good grip.
All of sudden her feet left the ground and she smacked hard against the side of a car, stunning her. Then she felt herself being drawn up into a freight car. Gasping for breath, she flopped face down in the car, keeping the gunnysack filled with the bank's money under her. She wiggled away when hands grabbed for her, then kicked out and thrust the gunnysack behind her so she could reach for her derringer. Amanda faced a filthy, skeletal man whose bony fingers matched those of the Grim Reaper.
"I ain't gonna hurt you, missy. You don't know squat about jumpin' a train. I was jist helpin' out."
"Thanks," she said, sitting up. She leaned against the money, noticing the lumps caused by the coins. Finger on her derringer's trigger, she said, "Is there anyone after you?"
"Me? Naw, maybe some railroad bull out to beat anyone they find sneakin' aboard. From the way you was hurryin' right along, you got plenty of folks on your tail." He canted his head to one side, examining her posterior pressed into the splintery wood floor.
Amanda could shoot him and be safe. Instead, she said, "You're the most precious thing ever, saving me like that. You risked your life to pull me aboard."
He scratched his head, then smiled. Many teeth were missing. The ones that remained had turned black.
"Reckon so. I never thought of myself as all that heroic."
"Where's this train headed?"
"Best I can tell, it'll go north once it reaches El Paso. That means Denver, maybe, or Colorado Springs. Or it could only go to Pueblo, take on steel and head back down to El Paso."
"North," she said, nodding. That suited her fine. The element of randomness made it impossible for Canfield to follow her. How he had survived Arthur's shotgun blast was a thing of pure luck, but if he continued pursuing her he would certainly find a fraction of an ounce of lead in his head. Her grip tightened on the derringer.
"I ain't headin' in no particular direction. Me and you, we can share this car. I'll show you how to avoid the bulls. They're sure to check the freight cars once we get to a siding in El Paso."
"That's so kind of you," she said. Amanda moved the gunnysack under her so she could sit on it.
She pushed the old man from the freight car a mile from El Paso.
By the time the train screeched to a halt, she had changed into a decent dress. It took only a few minutes to sweet talk the man working the siding switch, find the depot, get a ticket and be on her way to Colorado Springs. Riding for only a few miles in the freight car convinced her she preferred to travel in style.
Amanda shifted uncomfortably on the couch, trying to get a better look at the mirror across the hotel lobby. She had been in Colorado Springs for three days, taken a room in a fine hotel and had dined well enough to put the rigors of the trip from El Paso behind her. Not finding a likely subject for her attentions bothered her a little, but now the sense that someone watched her wore on her every waking moment. The night before she had slept sitting up in the chair at the foot of her quite comfortable bed, thinking to snare whoever spied on her.
All she had gotten was a stiff neck and a strained muscle in her back. The lobby was tastefully decorated, if a bit sparsely, and any ruffian off the street would stand out. The young clean-shaven room clerk wore an impeccable uniform, even if he had trouble fixing the bow tie properly. The few men and women who passed through the lobby never gave her a second glance.
The sense of being watched grew until she about cried out in frustration. Living by her wits as she did developed a strong sense of survival. Everything now cried out for her to act rather than ponder her situation.
She patted down the crinkly folds of her dress. The first day in Colorado Springs she had sewn her ill-gotten money into the skirts. Wandering about clutching a gunnysack only drew attention. Her carpetbag and spare clothing remained upstairs in her room, which had been let until the end of the week.
Standing, she walked sedately across the lobby and again cast a quick glance at the mirror. For the briefest instant she saw a well-dressed man standing in the door behind her. He would have been beneath notice save for the way he ducked back as she went to the desk and spoke to the clerk.
"I will go to my room now," she said.
"Right away, Miss." The dutiful clerk handed over the key.
"Please check. I believe I'm paid up through the end of the week?"
"Yes, Miss, another four days."
She graced him with a smile, then went to the stairs, paused and kept walking, going down the corridor past the stairs that led to the hotel's side door. Once outside, she shivered. She had left her shawl in the room. The warm sunlight did nothing to drive away the chill from wind whipping down from higher elevations. She hugged herself and walked to the end of the street, stepped into a doorway and waited to see if the man watching her knew of her deception. When he didn't appear, Amanda walked briskly to the railroad depot. She fumbled to rip open a small seam and withdraw a few dollars.
"I want a ticket on the next train out," she said.
"That'll be one going up to Manitou Springs." The ticket clerk eyed her. "You might put on a coat, ma'am. The town's at the foot of Pike's Peak and gets cold, no matter the time of the year."
"Thank you for your concern. How long until the train?"
"That's it out on the platform now. Can I fetch your bags, ma'am?"
"That won't be necessary. My . . . servant will be along with them soon enough." Amanda hesitated, then damned herself for not carefully planning her lie. "Here is money for her ticket." She slid across the fare. "She will pick up the ticket and join me on the train."
"I'll hold it for her. What's her name? So I can be sure to give it to the right person."
"Mathilda."
"This is a sudden trip, is it now?"
Amanda began to feel panic rising. The clerk showed far too much interest. He would remember and if questioned—when questioned—he would reveal everything to the man hunting her.
That phrase caused a new shiver. Hunter. Bounty hunter. She had been careful and thought she had left no clue to her identity, much less her whereabouts, but if a bounty hunter sought her, it might be for more than the El Paso robbery.
"Might I recommend the Navajo Springs Hotel? That's the best hotel in Manitou, right across from the sulfur baths."
"Why, yes, thank you. It will be so healthful to take the waters."
"Better hurry now, ma'am. The train's fixing to pull out. I don't see your servant anywhere."
The clerk left his box to come out, but Amanda raced for the train and swung on. Boarding this way was far superior to running alongside and having a derelict of a man pull her into an empty freight car.
She settled down on a hard bench seat, thinking hard. Getting out of town had become too complicated and she had left a trail. Where was her servant? How long would the ticket agent wait before he alerted the marshal that a woman was missing? A telegram to Manitou might alert the authorities there. She settled down, considering how to proceed. By the time she reached the small town huddled at the base of the snow-capped Pike's Peak, she had mapped out what to do.
Her first obstacle was overcome when no lawman waited for her. Catching a carriage to the Palace Hotel was easy enough. A smile crept to her lips when she saw the imposing structure high on a hill looking down on the valley. She knew nothing of the Navajo Spring Hotel, but this had to be much finer. When she walked up the broad travertine steps a liveried doorman bowed slightly and pulled the heavy carved oak door open for her.
Amanda swept into the posh lobby. She wanted to study the sculptures, the fine art, the Persian rugs on the floor, but she kept her nose slightly elevated and ignored the room clerk, singling out the manager for her mock wrath.
"My luggage is all gone. Lost! Those railroad cretins lost all my luggage. I have my maid looking, but she is as likely to run off with one of them as retrieve my belongings. I need a wardrobe."
"Ma'am?" The dapper manager looked up from his ledger.
"A room. I don't care what. Rachel always handles such things. Here. Take this. Have someone buy me suitable raiment." She thrust out a thick wad of money, most of what she had left.
"I'll have Mrs. Underwood tend to it immediately, Miss . . . ?"
"Evelyn. Miss Evelyn Hanover." She looked down her nose at him. "Yes, of those Hanovers. The Queen is my—never mind that. Is there any way I can keep my identity secret? There are always so many malcontents poking about after me. Guy Fawkes and all that, you know."
The manager placed the stack of greenbacks on his desk and never bothered to count them. He snapped his fingers and a bellman rushed over.
"Escort Miss Smith to the Aurora Suite."
"It is so good to find a man who knows how to treat roy— a lady," Amanda said, choosing her words carefully. She followed the bellman to an elevator that creaked and moaned and took her to the fourth floor.
Amanda resisted the urge to drop to hands and knees and crawl along the impossibly soft carpet. The nap caressed her tired feet and gave her a spring to her step that had been lacking since she fled Colorado Springs.
The room was as sumptuous as she had ever seen. Again she resisted the urge to spin about and cry with joy at such splendor.
"That will be all," she said, not looking at the bellman.
"Mrs. Underwood will be up shortly to help you with your wardrobe. Is there anything else, Miss?"
"Champagne. Grand Monopole will do to wash the dust of travel from my lips. Be sure it is properly chilled." She made brushing motions to shoo the bellman away. Only when he was gone did she let out a yelp of delight and went to explore her new room and identity.
After a lengthy fitting, she had a wardrobe willed with finery and a staff who all called her "Miss Smith" and then winked knowingly. Amanda tried to guess how long it would be until she wore out her welcome. She had only a few dollars left, having used the bulk of it when she accosted the manager.
She shrugged this off as she stood at the rear of the elevator and pointedly ignored how the elevator starter wanted to stare at her and yet didn't. She swept into the lobby, looking for the restaurant. She had seen the menu. Oysters were on the bill this evening, along with a buffalo steak and new potatoes fixed with mountain greens. It had been so long since she'd eaten, a plate of beans would have suited her. But oysters! Champagne! She hoped she could continue this charade for at least a week.
As she went to the restaurant, the manager came up beside her.
"Good evening, Miss Smith," he said.
She tensed at his tone. Something was wrong. That week of luxury might be cut short by a stay in the town jail.
"There is a gentleman who has requested your company at dinner."
Amanda laughed delightedly.
"Of course. Who is he?"
"He is, uh, Mr. Smith."
"You're joshing me." The words slipped out before Amanda could stifle them. "I mean, who is he really?"
"You know him. He's the British consul general."
Before she could protest, a tall, distinguished man with sideburns flecked with gray and a neatly trimmed goatee came over, peered at her through a monocle, then bowed deeply. The tails of his coat whispered to either side of his hips. Amanda saw a belt fastened high around his waist, a small pistol tucked where he could reach it by brushing away his coat. She wished she hadn't left her own pistol in the room. There hadn't been any call to bring it to dinner.
She castigated herself for this lapse. Danger approached from all directions when living by her wits. Even when she had money, it wasn't honest money and drew lawmen like flies.
"Sir," she said, holding out her hand. Amanda began to worry when he took it in his, kissed it in the proper European fashion by bowing to the hand, not lifting the hand to his lips.
"Mr. Smith, please, Miss Smith. We both must conduct our business sub rosa." He cast a hard look at the hotel manager, who bowed his head and backed away, as if he was in the presence of royalty.
"Of course we must," she said. A quick survey of the room showed well-dressed dinners in parties of twos and fours. More than these innocuous people, she sought the way out. Double doors led to the kitchen. Windows overlooked the valley below. If it had not been so dark, she imagined the towering peaks of the Rockies would frame the sight.
"Please, allow me," the man said.
He kept his hand lightly on her elbow as he guided her to a table at the rear of the room. He waited for the waiter to seat her, then settled in the chair next to hers, blocking any escape she might make through the kitchen. If she left through the doors into the lobby, she had a long way to run. In her elegant evening gown, running was out of the question.
"Do I know you, Mr. Smith?"
"You will," he said confidently. They were interrupted by the waiter. Mr. Smith ordered for them both and only when the waiter had disappeared and the others on the staff were out of earshot did he say, "I knew the instant you walked in you weren't any relative of Queen Victoria. Most clever of you to hint that you were, though. These people are such snobs. The only ones they kowtow to are European royalty, though an emperor from the Middle Kingdom might impress them."
Amanda listened to him, then laughed.
"Would you attempt being such a Celestial?"
"No, of course not. A yellow man, even an emperor, could never equal—what was it you claimed to be?"
"I never said."
He nodded knowingly.
"That's the best way. Let their imaginations run wild. It saves you having to invent an elaborate story, as well. The more details you mention, the more likely you are to be tripped up on some detail."
"Who are you?"
"Oh, you are quite blunt, aren't you? It doesn't matter. You and I, we are cut from the same cloth."
"You are a swindler?"
"Of course I am. So are you. How did you expect to get that pile of money back? Or did you consider it a necessary expense to prime the pump? Are you angling for something more than a week of luxury at the Palace's expense?"
"You flatter me."
He looked as if he had bitten into something sour. He took a sip of the champagne, then a deeper draft. Amanda saw he used this time to think. He was inventing his own story as he went. That was important for her to know. She patiently waited for him to continue as she slid a knife from the table and held it in her lap. Against his pistol it was a pitiful weapon, but not if she used it before he could draw.
"I had hoped for more from you."
"Indeed, sir. That is most impudent."
"I meant that I hoped you worked some swindle and weren't simply trusting that the manager wouldn't inquire after your nonexistent maid and baggage. They are very efficient and solicitous of their guests, especially if they've been duped into thinking they are royalty."
Amanda bit her lip. She hadn't considered that the manager would send out inquiries about the lost baggage. That reduced her stay in this fine hotel to a single night. She did a quick mental inventory of the clothing she had hanging in the room's wardrobe. One or two of the elaborate outfits was all she could hope to take. This very night or perhaps before dawn since she wanted to sleep in that fine bed, at least for a few hours.
"I did so want to take the waters here. I have heard of their rejuvenating powers."
"You need me to get you out of here without the law breathing down your lovely neck."
"You think it is lovely?" She brushed back her dark hair and looked at him with as much overt lust in her blue eyes as she could muster.
"There is something even lovelier," he said. Before she could question it, he added, "Money. Lots of money. I can pull off my confidence game without you, but time is getting short. I want to wrap everything up as quickly as I can."
"How can I help you? You seem to think I am an amateur."
"You are. You don't plan carefully enough."
"So you're the expert?"
"Quite so," he said.
They fell silent as dinner was served by a small army of waiters, all dressed in white linen. Somehow, oysters appealed less to her now than before she had met Mr. Smith. She ate like a French clockwork automaton, barely tasting the food. All the while she turned over different ways of extricating herself from the man without drawing unwanted attention. He irritated her, calling her an amateur after all she had done. Amanda almost scolded him with a recitation of everything she had done just in the past month, but then she perked up when he gave the broadest outline of his own current project.
"I have convinced a railroad magnate from San Francisco that I own the Twin Springs." He saw her frown. "That's a soda spring reputed to be the finest in town."
"But you don't actually own this restorative spring?"
"Of course not. General Palmer owns much of the land he bought from General Chivington's son after the war. There was a court battle in 1867 that confused the title. That's all I needed to convince my mark I had clear title and would sell one of the most valuable properties in Colorado to him."
"How much?"
Smith shook his head and said, "That's of no concern. I'm offering you the way out of your mess. If you do your part well, I'll add in a few hundred dollars."
"Five hundred," Amanda said.
"Done."
She cursed herself. He had agreed too quickly. That meant the deal was for a great deal more.
"What do you want from me?"
"Bat those eyelashes, keep him occupied with possibilities while we finish the transaction."
"How are you going to get away if he pays with a bank draft?"
"Cash. He's paying cash to get a huge discount. I've told him there are gamblers after me that I need to pay off quickly or they will do unspeakable things to me. He knows all about gambling debts. He is a poor gambler himself. Once in a game at the Union Club in San Francisco he—"
"You have found out everything about him, haven't you?"
"That's what makes me a professional and you a rank amateur. But you're right. There's no need for you to know any of this. All you have to do is waltz into the room on my arm, then occupy him if he gets to asking questions I don't want to answer."
"How far should I take this . . . distraction?"
"That's up to you. Hell, for the money he's paying, I'd take him to bed." Smith grinned like a wolf spying dinner. "With you there, that won't be necessary."
"I should hope not. But you will give me the five hundred dollars? Partner?"
"Yes, I will, and no, we aren't partners. You are a subcontractor, nothing more."
Amanda remained silent. If he wanted it that way, fine. She felt an obligation to her partners, unless they sought to double-cross her or treated her poorly. Canfield had badmouthed her and thought she was nothing more than a pretty face. Worse, for him, he had never come out and called her his partner. If anything, she had been nothing more than a servant doing his bidding, in spite of how she had planned the bank robbery. The only thing she regretted was not warning Arthur of how dangerously mean Canfield could be.
Even then, Arthur had been an employee. She didn't consider him a partner. And Smith had refused to take the step to declare her his equal in this swindle.
In a way she didn't blame him. He had set it up and only required her for a few hours at the most. It had been clever how he maneuvered her into helping, and he had offered some money for her. But they weren't partners.
"Finish your meal, and we'll go meet Crockett."
"That's the railroad man?" She frowned, wondering if the similarity in name to Crocker meant Smith was on the receiving end of a flimflam, though how gaining the deed to a soda spring could be turned against him was a poser.
"I checked him out. He's for real. And no, he's not thinking to get the deed and turn around and sell it to someone else."
"If he wanted to do that, he could do as you have done and get forged documents."
"Exactly. He could eliminate me as a middleman in a swindle. I am thorough in preparation." He sneered at her. "That's why you need my help. Shooting from the hip the way you do will only land you in jail." He leaned back, sipped his champagne and got a distant look in his eye. "Preparation, attention to detail, those are the elements that make an imaginative swindle work."
Amanda listened with half an ear. Her own life had been determined by luck as much as skill. Her pa had been a mean drunk and her ma had left her when she was twelve, not realizing Amanda had framed her pa for murder. If she had known her ma was going to abandon her, she would have added evidence to incriminate her, too. Seeing her pa kicking feebly with a noose around his neck had killed something in her, even as it had sparked determination to never be under anyone's thumb again. She had the bruises—scars!—and not all of them were on her small body.
"I'll need a suitcase. Or a carpetbag for my clothing."
Smith stopped his lecture on the value of finicky planning and looked at her.
"You won't be able to take it all."
"I need something more than this gown," she said.
"We will need to travel fast. To Colorado Springs when I get the money. From there we can go our separate ways."
"Is that what you want? For us to separate?" She read the answer on his face. He used her and then he would discard her. "I was on my way to Denver. You can go south."
"Of course."
Amanda read him like a book. Smith intended to get a horse and ride due east. Or a stagecoach, but it wasn't going in any direction she knew. She pushed the food about her plate, then put the fork down. Her appetite had been stolen from her by the way Smith commandeered her talents. Her pa had used her. Smith tried.
"Why are you smiling?"
"Nothing, sir. I am preparing myself to meet your Mr. Crockett."
"Good, because there he is." Smith rose and greeted the man.
Amanda gave the mark a quick once over. He was younger than she anticipated but had all the characteristics so easily exploited. He swaggered when he walked, thinking himself above everyone in the room. Play to that and anything was possible. His clothing showed he attended to his own vanity more than business, but he considered himself a genius when it came to money. The sly look he gave Smith added to that feeling. He was the sharper taking the poor rube's valuable property for a song and a dance.
"I would like you to meet my companion, Miss Hanover."
"Of the English Hanovers," Amanda said. She saw Crockett's small raised eyebrow, the tightness around his lips turn slack and the way he turned from Smith to take her hand and tug it toward his lips.
"I am delighted to make your acquaintance." He reluctantly released her hand. Amanda held it out for just the right time to show her pleasure at his touch.
"And I, yours, though I know so little about you. He doesn't talk business," she said, glancing toward Smith. His temper threatened to come rushing out. "But then, I don't have a head for such things."
"I am sure you are being modest, my dear Miss Hanover."
"Please, sir, call me Evelyn."
"James."
"Shall we have a brandy?" Smith called over the waiter and ordered.
Amanda watched the efficient staff remove the remnants from dinner and bring three snifters. She raised hers and took a sip.
"Oh, my, that is so strong." She made a face and pouted.
"It's a fine Napoleon brandy," Smith said. "Perhaps you would like some water with it, my dear?"
"Oh, I'll be fine. Do continue with your business. When it is over, I am sure there will be time for Mr. Crockett—James—and I to get to know each other better."
Smith nodded slightly, encouraging her to continue. She reached over and laid her hand on Crockett's arm as she smiled.
"That will be all right, won't it, James?"
"Of course, of course, my dear." He cleared his throat, then said, "I have the papers prepared." He pulled a sheaf from an inner coat pocket.
"And I have the deed ready to sign over," Smith said, adding a few sheets to the pile on the table.
Amanda watched them dance around, each protesting how the other was getting the best of the deal. One of them would, she knew, only both men were wrong. Her mind raced as both men affixed their signatures to official looking documents not worth the paper they were forged on.
"We need a witness," Crockett said, looking at the bill of sale. "Here, Evelyn. You can sign there."
"You are so knowledgeable about all this business," she said, fanning herself. "I'm not committed to anything, am I?"
"Of course not," Crockett said.
"What a shame." She took the fountain pen and started to write her real name. Amanda caught herself in time to affix Evelyn Hanover.
"A fine hand, my dear," Crockett said.
Smith blew on the ink to dry it, then gave one copy to Crockett and tucked the other into his pocket. He quickly signed the deed over but held onto it as Crockett reached for it.
"You are forgetting one thing, sir."
"The money. I left it at the desk with the concierge."
"I'll get it for you. Have another brandy," Amanda said.
"No—"
"Order another for me, too, will you, James?"
Amanda challenged Smith here. And she won.
"Let the girl do it," Crockett said. "She won't be out of our sight for an instant." He leaned back and stared through the door to the lobby.
"Do you promise, James? You'll watch me every second?"
"Every second," he said.
"This amount of money shouldn't be unguarded." Smith pulled his coat back slightly to show Amanda his pistol. Again she wished she had her own, but the weight would only slow her down now.
Smith's expression changed slightly, and she knew he had come up with a new plan that didn't include her. She stood, rested her hand on Crockett's shoulder for a fleeting moment, then said, "I won't be an instant."
She made sure both men watched as she sashayed into the lobby and went to the hotel manager. She leaned across the desk and spoke quickly, looked back at Crockett and Smith and waved, then turned back to the manager. As he worked behind the desk she tugged a little at her neckline, then recoiled slightly as the manager hiked a briefcase up to the desktop.
Amanda sagged slightly as she took the briefcase and took her time getting back to the table.
"I want to see it," Smith said.
"It's all there. I am not a crook, sir."
"Oh, James, he can be such a stickler. Let me give him a . . . flash." She showed a bit more of her bosom as she leaned over, opened the case and pulled out a bundle of greenbacks. She swatted Smith's hand as he reached for the case. "Be polite."
She put the money back into the briefcase and fastened it shut.
"Is everyone happy now?" Amanda asked.
"Not as happy as I am likely to be soon," Crockett said, his attention on her.
"Would you show me your new hot spring? That would be so delightful. I understand people bathe naked in the water. Is that so?"
"Only some people," Crockett assured her.
"I must see for myself," she said, offering him her arm. "Are you coming, Mr. Smith?"
Crockett scowled. Amanda realized a different name had been used for the swindle. She bent over and whispered just loud enough for Smith to overhear, "Discretion, James, discretion. He doesn't want everyone to know he has sold such a valuable property."
"You go on," Smith said. "I'll join you soon." He picked up the briefcase and, for a moment, Amanda thought he was going to hug it. He pried open the flap covering the inner compartment and touched the money.
"Let's go, James."
She didn't have to urge him. The man rushed her from the dining room. She let him get her into the lobby before she stopped him.
"James, please," she said breathlessly. She pressed her hand into her throat. "There's something I have to tell you."
"When we get to the soda spring," Crockett said.
"Now. I was forced to accompany him tonight."
"That doesn't—"
"Please, listen. He cheated you. He doesn't own the springs."
"Of course he doesn't. I do now."
"He forced me to lie to you. He is a swindler and never owned the springs. General Palmer owns it—and he is not the General!"
"What?"
"Come here, please." She tugged on his arm and got him to the desk. The manager looked up. "Tell him who owns Twin Springs?"
"Why, General Palmer is the owner. He—" The manager got no farther.
Crockett whirled about and ran for the dining room. An anguished cry echoed. Amanda knew Smith had taken the briefcase and ducked out through the kitchen. From the commotion, Crockett went after the crook.
"Sir, wait!" The manager hefted a large package wrapped in newspaper to the desk.
"I'll take that for Mr. Crockett," Amanda said. "You've saved him a great deal of money and exposed a confidence man. You should alert the authorities immediately."
"What about you?"
"Tell Mr. Crockett I have his money up in my suite." She tried to guess how much money had been wrapped up and couldn't. It was heavier than the take from the bank robbery. "And thank you for your dedication." She fished about under the paper, took out a thick bundle of money and passed it to the manager. "Your bravery in this sordid affair is appreciated after I enlisted your aid so precipitously." He hesitated. She bent over the desk and gave him a light peck on the cheek. "Thank you very much."
He looked at the money she offered.
"I . . . yes, the marshal." The manager touched his cheek and then made his way around the desk and sent spoke rapidly to the bellman. Then the manager ran into the restaurant after Smith and Crockett.
Amanda caught the bellman on his way out the door.
"There's no need to get the marshal. I am on my way to alert him to this terrible affair."
The bellman looked confused, but Amanda finally convinced him to go to her room and get a maid to pack her belongings. The instant he stepped into the elevator, she was out the door into the frigid Colorado night. She ran through the darkness, laughing, all the way to the livery stables.
By dawn she was in Colorado Springs.
"That's the train for Denver, Miss." The stationmaster shook her gently.
Amanda stirred and sat up on the hard bench where she had caught a few hours of sleep out of sight of anyone not working for the railroad. The best she could tell, the stationmaster had locked the door to keep everyone else out so he could stare at her as she slept.
"Thank you," she said, stretching. She picked up the saddlebags she had taken from the Manitou Springs livery. The heft told her the money was untouched.
"It's a quick trip to Denver."
"I am sure I will find what I'm hunting there," she said. She spoke only to give the man something to pass along if anyone asked him. She had no intention of lingering in Denver, although the bigger city afforded her the chance to disappear. And it was the center of power now that Colorado had just become a state.
"I wish you well." He held the door for her. She hesitated, then fished out a bundle of money and handed it to him. "What's this for? You already bought a ticket."
"I want you to find a lawyer in town and have him represent a Mr. Smith in a failed land deal in Manitou Springs."
"I can do that. It's a heap of money, though."
"Take what you think is an appropriate commission for your efforts." She gave him a quick kiss, slung the saddlebags over her shoulder and ran for the train as it built steam and speed for its run to Denver.
Smith didn't deserve any help, but she thought of it more as a way of tweaking him for the way he had tried to steal her share of the swindle. The stationmaster might simply pocket the money she'd given him, or the lawyer might do the same. Or Mr. Smith might find himself with representation he couldn't afford otherwise.
She had done her part. Now it was time to look to the future. She made her way down the aisle of the swaying passenger car, spotted a man dressed in the manner of a Russian nobleman and asked, "Pardon me, sir. Is this seat taken?" She pointed to the empty seat next to him.
He gestured for her to be seated.
Amanda Baldridge struck up a fine conversation with Gregor and by the time they reached Denver decided her interest in Borzoi dogs had been piqued enough to remain with the Russian. For a while.