Rhys had one stop to make before he cooled down with a drink. He’d used his time of forced rest to pen an overdue letter to Alain Perrault. He wanted to get it in the day’s post. Mae Sprayberry had told him that the place to take care of that was at Penrod’s Mercantile. Milt Penrod, besides running the town’s general store, also served as Wishbone’s postmaster. Mae had offered to take care of the chore for him, but Rhys had endured enough of the woman’s probing questions.
For a man trying to keep his past a secret, Mae Sprayberry was a trial. He did appreciate her kindness, though. Without her care he’d have suffered much more than he did, and doubted he would be up even yet. Teddy could take lessons from Mae. By all of hell, Teddy could take lessons on politeness from anybody.
He’d reached Penrod’s, and walked past the barrels and benches in front of the store, when a tall, thin man in pinstripe trousers and crisp white shirt stepped from the doorway. The man pulled a broom straw from the corner of his mouth. “Mornin’,” he said.
“Bonjour.” Rhys tipped his hat. “I was told I could post a letter here.”
“Delmar, isn’t it?” The man stuck the straw between his lips and looked Rhys over from head to foot. “ ’Course you are. Couldn’t be anybody else. I’d know. Reckon the postmaster gets to know ’bout everybody in town.”
“I am Rhys Delmar.” Rhys extended a hand.
“Milt Penrod.” The thin man shook Rhys’s hand. “Postmaster, storekeeper.” The straw in the corner of his mouth wiggled up and down as he talked. “Come on in. I’ll take care of that letter for you.” He gave Rhys a friendly pat on the back as they walked inside the store. “Saw you talkin’ to Teddy. Reckon she’s right grateful to you for catchin’ that holdup man.” Penrod wove through the intricately stacked goods with practiced ease. Rhys followed. “Too bad about him gettin’ shot before the trial.”
Penrod had walked behind a small counter with a wall of pigeonholes behind it.
“A shame, yes,” Rhys replied. “Sheriff Blalock was greatly distressed that his prisoner escaped and endangered the life of Mr. Adams.”
“That saddle bum was short on smarts to stay around once he was free,” Penrod said. “Reckon he wanted to fill his pockets and his gullet before he headed for the border.” The storekeeper shrugged and looked around as if he didn’t already know there was no other customer in the store. He motioned Rhys in closer to the counter. “Tell you somethin’ though, I see things around here nobody else sees.” He made a wide sweeping gesture with his arm, one that encompassed the whole of the storefront. “All day I’m lookin’ out that big window glass at who rides in and who rides out. Sometimes I’m here late, workin’ my books. Between you and me I’ve seen that Luther fellow goin’ in the Diamond at all hours, sometimes after it’s closed.” A knowing smile slid onto Penrod’s face. “So I’d say that Luther was expectin’ to get somethin’ besides food and drink over there.”
Rhys smiled too. “Ah, you mean a woman.” He pulled the letter from his coat pocket and laid it on the counter.
“That or somethin’ else.” Penrod suggested as he rather absently took the letter and glanced at the address. “Anyhow Luther sure picked the wrong place this time. ’Course it didn’t do Parrish Adams any harm bein’ the one to gun him down. Made folks take notice—those that hadn’t already. Wouldn’t be surprised if Adams ran for mayor next election.” Rhys’s letter waved in Penrod’s hands punctuating each word he uttered. “Heck,” he went on, “way he’s been buyin’ up land around here he’ll soon own everything anyway.” Pausing, he took a closer look at the letter then glanced up at Rhys. “London,” he said. “Friend or family?”
“Friend,” Rhys replied, fearing Milt Penrod was about to prove as nosy as Mae Sprayberry. “How much is the postage?”
Sensing Rhys was in a hurry, Penrod quickly calculated the postage, took the money Rhys produced and handed back the change. “You expectin’ a reply?”
Rhys was silent for a long moment, wondering just how Alain would respond to his tardy letter. Surely Jenny’s son would not believe he was responsible for her death. Surely not. And yet the inner turmoil, which had never settled since that event, roiled more strongly within him as he considered the great risk he took in writing to Alain. Jenny’s son could alert London authorities and soon, though he was thousands of miles away, he could expect that he would be hunted down. But he had to do it. He had to tell Alain what he knew of Jenny’s death and he had to trust that Alain would be his ally in spite of the charges made against him.
“Perhaps,” he said quietly, then nodded a curt goodbye to Milt Penrod and wended his way out of the store in what was akin to a sleepwalker’s daze. He never consciously noticed the curious assortment of goods lining his path, those tall stacks of denim trousers, rows of sturdy leather boots and hatboxes labeled Stetson. Only one thing actually caught his eye, a long, framed-glass counter housing a selection of pistols, but even so, he did not stop to look.
Outside, he stood a moment on the sidewalk’s parched boards, breathed heavily of the fresh air then set a course for the Diamond. He needed a drink more than ever now, even though it was midmorning.
He found the Diamond quiet. The girls had not begun their workday, for which he was glad. He wanted a few moments of solitude to clear his mind before he looked for a game and an opportunity to replenish his empty purse. He thought, too, once he had done so, he might return to Penrod’s and purchase a pistol. The men who had assaulted him had taken the derringer he carried. And if he were going to be in Wishbone for a time, as it appeared he would, he wished to be armed.
He ordered whiskey and took the bottle to a table.
Mae did not allow drinking in her house. Despite his insistence that a good whiskey had medicinal qualities, she had refused him even a drop during his convalescence.
He slowly took the first swallow. The taste was sharp, the quality below grade, but it was the effect he was after. With the glass at his lips, he leaned his head back and allowed the raw heat of the whiskey to trickle down his throat. He felt his unsettled nerves calm as the heat penetrated.
“I can offer you better,” Parrish Adams announced matter-of-factly. He had come out into the saloon at once after Harley stepped from behind the bar and advised him that the Frenchman he’d been watching for had come in. “I keep a private stock of fine blended whiskey in my office and do enjoy sharing it with the few people in Wishbone who can appreciate the difference,” Adams added. As he talked he hooked his thumbs into the small vest pockets that held a hand-scrolled gold watch in addition to a heavy gold chain which stood out smartly against black silk. “If I am not off the mark, you are a man who appreciates fine things.”
“I’ve no aversion to them,” Rhys replied. “So if the offer is genuine, I accept.” He corked the bottle he had brought to the table and pushed it aside. “Adams, isn’t it?”
“Parrish Adams,” the other man said. “The Diamond is mine,” he explained as they walked off, “although saloon keeping isn’t my mainstay.” He stopped at the threshold of his office and ushered Rhys inside. “Ranching’s the primary thing for now,” he explained. “I’m building one of the biggest spreads in these parts and building the finest cattle herd in the territory. Out here that takes a lot of land.”
Rhys nodded. He would have settled for the good whiskey without the conversation. He still had Teddy on his mind. No woman had ever made him feel more useless. He considered the irony of it. She disdained all the qualities he’d spent a lifetime trying to acquire and admired those he’d left behind. Courtly demeanor and clever conversation were lost on her. She expected a man to prove his worth with hard work and sweat. If it didn’t have him in such a pinch it would all be laughable. Here he was in the wrong world with a longing for the wrong woman and a desperate need to figure out what he was going to do about it.
Inside Adams’s retreat, Rhys sat in a chair of scarlet velvet that had a soft and comfortable biscuit-tufted back. Adams felt relaxed inside his private quarters. He stood at a cabinet and poured whiskey into short crystal glasses, served his guest, then stood back as Rhys drank his portion.
“Superb,” Rhys said, deciding one swallow of the excellent, mellow whiskey was reward enough for listening to Adams. “Is your ranch near Wishbone?” he asked strictly out of politeness, sure Adams had invited him in so that he might have someone new to impress with talk of his grand plans and holdings.
“It’s north of here and growing,” Adams said. He’d drawn up to his desk and, glass in hand, leaned a hip against the corner of it. “Two thousand acres and I’ve another five hundred closer in. One day it will all be one big spread.” Adams said, pausing to allow the size and scope of what he owned and planned to own sink in. Then he reached an arm back and flipped open the humidor on his desk and offered Rhys one of the cigars inside. “The finest,” he said.
“I thank you.” Having felt a recent lack of luxuries, Rhys gladly accepted, gave the cigar an appreciative sniff and searched his pocket for a match.
“Try this.” Adams had a silver object in his hand, a palm-sized case which he stroked across the top with his thumb. A small flame leaped out and Adams leaned down to light Rhys’s cigar. “Better than a match,” he said of the pocket lighter. “Just had it sent from back East.”
Adams snapped the lighter shut and handed it to Rhys. He experimented with it a few moments. After satisfying his curiosity about the gadget, he handed it back. Already Rhys had observed that the office decor, with its fine cherry paneling and furnishings and softly hued Oriental rug, was a cut above the Diamond’s main room and a testament that Adams did indeed like fine things.
“I might wonder,” Rhys said between draws on the cigar, “why a man of your tastes isn’t back East.”
“Opportunity,” Adams said with no hesitancy. “It’s as abundant as the desert out here. A smart man in this territory could—” He’d been about to say “build an empire the like of which has never been seen” but he heeled in his enthusiasm. “Well there’s no limit to what a man can do,” he said instead. Eyes gleaming, he took a drink, waited a moment and added, “I’m a man who likes living where there are no limits.”
“A gambler’s philosophy as well,” Rhys said. “No limits at the table, no limits at life.” He ended the comparison there. He wasn’t in the mood to get into a philosophical discussion, he had too much emotional sorting-out to do privately.
Rhys finished the whiskey shortly, probably too quickly but Adams’s braggadocio bothered him and he was anxious to find a game. He thanked Adams for the drink and stood, noticing then, for the first time, a small glass case near a wall of bookcases. The figurine inside, the sole object on display in the case, was exquisite, quite exceeding anything he expected to see in Wishbone. He walked over to the case confirming that the work was similar to others he’d seen in Paris museums. “Remarkable,” he said. “Chinese, isn’t it?”
Adams nodded affirmatively. “Jade,” he said with enough aplomb to express his pride in the piece. “Extraordinarily fine.” Smiling proudly, he, too, walked over to the case. “I bought it in San Francisco,” he said. “The owner was reluctant to sell but eventually I convinced him to part with it.” At that he gave an indifferent shrug, remembering the payment had been a bullet in the ancient Chinaman’s back. “But you would not know how the Chinese like to hold on to these old pieces and anyway—” Turning, he walked off, picked up Rhys’s glass, took it to the liquor cabinet and refilled it. “Sit down,” Adams said firmly. “Finish your cigar. Have another drink and allow me to tell you about something else I am anxious to acquire.”
Not about to turn down what was possibly the only good whiskey in Wishbone, Rhys did precisely what Adams was urging, even though it meant listening to another round of the man’s boasting of his possessions. “You are kind,” Rhys said smoothly, “to a stranger. I must think of a way to reciprocate.”
“Hear me out then,” Adams said. “Maybe we can be of service to each other.”
“Perhaps,” Rhys said. Recalling that Adams had complimented his card playing the last time he had been at the Diamond, Rhys assumed the man was about to offer him a deal running a game in the saloon. Or maybe he wanted to bankroll him in a high-stakes game. He was willing to consider either. He had learned early on that a man without money was also a man without power. He did not like the feeling. So, resolved to put aside what was troubling him a few minutes longer, Rhys settled in the soft velvet chair and listened intently as Adams explained what was on his mind.
“In addition to ranching and my other business enterprises I have a stage line in the north country,” he said. “A feeder line. Adams Overland. I am anxious to expand the limited routes so that my line serves the territory from border to border.” His lean fingers traced the curve of one side of his dark waxed mustache. “The hindrance to that is the existence of another line in this region.”
“The Gamble Line,” Rhys supplied. He looked up at Adams with rising curiosity but true to his vocation did not give away his emotion as he took a slow draw on the cigar, emitted a cloud of smoke and said levelly, “Surely this region could support more than one line.”
Adams shook his head vigorously. “No line runs for long without a mail contract,” he said. “And the Gamble Line has a deal with Wells Fargo that amounts to a five-year agreement for this region. My line, though it’s better by far, can’t compete as long as that is the case. And as you must understand, five years is a long time to wait, and the Gamble Line could succeed in renewing when the present contract is done.” Rhys was anxious to appear unemotional. Adams drank down the whiskey in his glass and set it aside. “What I have in mind” he said, “is combining the two companies, a deal I think any sensible person would agree is good for both lines, as both will be bigger and stronger than before.”
Rhys was beginning to see that he had not been invited for a drink because of his cosmopolitan ways or his gambling skills. He could also see that Adams was suggesting that Teddy Gamble was not a sensible person. With that he had to concur. Possibly Adams had put the question of a merger to her and been flatly, vehemently, refused. And, somehow, in all likelihood Adams had learned he was Teddy’s unwilling partner.
Feeling the kind of rush he felt when a game got interesting, when he knew the cards were about to fall his way, Rhys drew down again on the cigar.
“That sounds sensible,” he said, realizing that Adams thought he would immediately reveal his hand and suggest that his shares, in Adams’s possession, could achieve exactly what the other man wanted. But he did not make the suggestion or even confirm that he had the shares which Adams evidently wanted. Never one to flinch, no matter what cards he held, he nonchalantly sipped his drink and proceeded carefully and skillfully to calculate just what Parrish Adams had that he, Rhys Delmar, might want.
“Money,” Adams said. “You would think it would be as simple as that, but no, not for the Gamble family. They have some notion that a family business is not to be tampered with, not even in the face of greater efficiency and higher profits. I made an offer to buy out Theodor Gamble but he refused. When he died I made the same offer to his daughter thinking she would be grateful for a chance to cash in a business a woman’s got no place running. But—well, you’ve met her. Talking to Teddy Gamble is like talking to a post.”
Giving Rhys time to think on what he’d said, Adams moved around his desk and sat in his leather chair where, framed by the rich trappings of his office, he waited for Rhys to comment.
“She has a stubborn nature,” Rhys agreed, “but as for running the stage line she seems quite capable.”
“Capable?” Adams laughed. “She’s holding on by a thread and staying in business by sheer luck. Her line’s had a series of holdups,” he said bluntly. “The one on your run was not the first and will not be the last. A line run by a woman looks like and is easy prey to every highwayman in the territory,” he added. “What does a woman know about protecting lives? Believe me, I’d be doing her a favor by buying into her business or buying her out. She knows it too. She’s just too mule-headed to admit she’s close to losing all.”
Now he had aroused concern. Rhys, uncharacteristically, almost broke his stony, poker face and revealed that Adams’s words alarmed him. And well they did. If the Gamble Line was in danger of going under, then his shares, on which so much of his life hinged, might be valueless. Fortunately he remembered that in gaming a man often overstated his hand. “If the Gamble Line is in distress, why not wait out its demise and buy cheap?” Rhys queried.
“Because,” Adams said grittily, “I for one do not find patience a virtue. I am ready to expand the routes of Adams Overland. Now.” He had his palms flat on the surface of his desk. His face was tight. “Just as I am ready to end this parleying. Both of us know what this talk is about.” He leaned toward Rhys. His face was bland, although his pupils had widened. “You have Zack Gamble’s shares of the Gamble Line. I am prepared to offer you ten thousand dollars for them. Immediately. Before you leave this office. It’s better than Teddy can pay you now or later. So—” He pushed himself up and stood staring down at Rhys. “—take my advice and sell.”
Rhys gulped the last of his drink then coolly smiled up at Adams, getting a measure of satisfaction that the saloonkeeper had shown his hand first. “Your offer tempts me,” he said, knowing that Adams’s yielding so quickly indicated a level of desperation that could be worth far more than ten thousand dollars. “But as it is unexpected and bears thought, you must allow me time.” Unperturbed by Adams’s sudden sour look, he continued. “I came here today to play cards and, I fear, I’ve not the presence of mind to negotiate on a matter of such importance.”
Adams looked briefly dumbfounded—an expression Rhys did not miss and which he found mildly gratifying. Adams would offer considerably more later. In the meantime he could use the present offer to persuade Teddy to be more malleable. Yes. He smiled broadly. This was turning into a grand day.
He had but one ill thought. It was that his faculties were not up to snuff. In all the time he’d been in Wishbone, it had not occurred to him that someone outside the Gamble Line might be interested in buying his shares. But he bet it had occurred to Teddy. She was the smooth one, bluffing him all the way. Tonight he was going to call her bluff. He didn’t think he would have sold out to Adams had the offer been twice the ten thousand offered, not until he’d gotten some enjoyment from tormenting Teddy as much as she had him.
Rhys excused himself, leaving Adams baffled and angry that he had been turned down, though he carefully concealed his disappointment with a smile and flippant parting words.
“Take your time,” he said. “The Gamble Line is worth less every day. I could get it for nothing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rhys said, feeling as pleased with himself as he’d been since arriving in the frontier town. Adams had made a poor bluff and Rhys didn’t believe a word of it.
As he engaged in a game of poker a few minutes later, Rhys felt that his wits were sharp as a razor. He thanked Adams for that. Rhys was so enthusiastic about his new state of affairs that he was oblivious to Harley leaving the bar and once again going to the boss’s office.
“You wanted me?” the big man wiped his hands on the apron stretched across his middle.
Adams had a cold look in his eye that made the burly bartender flinch. He hoped he was not responsible for putting it there. “Harley.” The voice was ice. The obvious menace in his tone put Harley even more on guard. “Let Delmar play out the game he’s in, then pass the word to the regulars that he’s poison.”
“You want to shut him out?”
“Completely,” Adams snarled, causing the short hairs on the back of Harley’s neck to rise.
“Shouldn’t be no trouble,” Harley returned. “The boys ain’t gonna mind backin’ off somebody that cleans ’em out every time he sits down. I’ll make sure I tell ’em what’s what soon as Delmar leaves,” he said, pleasantly satisfied that it was the Frenchman who had drawn Adams’s ire. Harley knew the depth of his boss’s temper. He had no wish ever to feel it directed at him. Which was not to say he did not enjoy seeing someone else suffer under that dark wrath. He wondered how Delmar had gotten on the wrong side of Adams so fast. “What’s that foreigner done?” he erred in asking. “Tried to cheat you?”
Adams’s sneering smile unnerved Harley and the bartender immediately regretted his inquiry.
“Not that’s it’s any of your business, Harley, but the son of a bitch has something I want and he just turned down my offer for it.” His voice was low. His face was the color of a white-hot coal. Adams swore. “But mark my words and mark them good. Before I’m done with Delmar he’ll want to give it to me.”
Reprieved, Harley was suddenly anxious to please Adams. “You want me to see he doesn’t come back in the Diamond after today?” he asked. Of all Adams’s men Harley had been with him the longest. The bartender was loyal to a fault and felt no compunction about giving a customer the boot should Adams say the word.
“No,” Adams stated. “Let him come in at will. I want to watch him so I’ll know when to make my next offer.”
Understanding, Harley laughed.