Derby Seward kept a supper date with Ada Penrod the next evening. She had invited him to her brother’s modest house. Just as Seward had expected, his acquaintance with the homely woman was paying immediate dividends. Milt Penrod, a talkative sort, was easily directed to recount the names of recent arrivals in Wishbone. He soon mentioned a Frenchman called Delmar.
Seward was surprised that Delmar had not taken the precaution of assuming a new name, but then, if Delmar had been that clever he might not have needed to flee London.
“Wishbone’s a jumping-off place for prospectors,” Milt Penrod explained. “We get all kinds here, mostly farmers and ranchers who are looking for an easier way to get money out of the ground, but we also get our share of tradesmen and clerks. There’s even one genuine doctor up in the hills. He’d rather set a pick in rock than set bones.”
“Plenty of odd fellows here,” Seward said. “I should have no trouble writing my articles.”
“Almost everyone who comes to Wishbone passes through Milt’s store now and then,” Ada explained. “Either buying supplies or sending mail.” She had worn her best gown for this evening. It was made of rose-colored silk that played havoc with her florid complexion. But she had been unable to resist it when she had seen it in the window of her favorite dressmaker. “I’m sure Milt wouldn’t mind if you dropped in now and again to talk with some of them.”
“No trouble if you do,” Milt confirmed. “Always a prospector or two trading a little dust for supplies.”
“My gratitude,” Seward said in the gushing, effusive tone he had adopted for his stay in Wishbone. “I will, you may be sure, avail myself of your hospitality.” Pausing a moment, he pulled a snowy linen napkin to his face and gently blotted his mouth and spattered beard. “I wonder though,” he queried when he was done, “what becomes of those sojourners who do not become prospectors?”
“Ain’t many of them,” Milt said, missing his sister’s grimace at his lapse in grammar. “Can’t think of any this year but Rhys Delmar—I mentioned him to you—and that fellow who was his valet.” Milt wagged a finger while he munched a bit of biscuit. “Now there’s an odd pairing for you. Delmar’s as dapper a fellow as you’ll ever see, and he winds up riding shotgun on the stage. The valet fellow’s left him and is running a faro game over at the Brass Bell.”
“Interesting,” Seward said and smiled at Ada, sending her heart fluttering. “I may confine my articles here entirely to the aberrant, the eccentric prospector or pilgrim in Wishbone. And may I say I am grateful for the information you’ve provided.” He gave Ada a warm look. “Your sister said you would be helpful.” Boldly, he reached across the table and patted her spindly hand.
Later that evening he got an even greater dividend when Ada suggested that since the hotel accommodations in Wishbone were deplorable, he should be their guest during his stay. With a suitable display of gratitude and surprise, he agreed. “This way Milt and I can personally introduce you to many of the people you are interested in,” Ada insisted.
Seward again thanked brother and sister for their hospitality. “Of course I shall have to mention your altruism in one of my articles, dear lady,” he said.
Ada Penrod preened like a mating bird, completely beside herself with joy at having successfully maneuvered the Englishman into such promising confines.
***
Seward made a point of visiting the Brass Bell late that evening. He wanted to meet Lucien Bourget, who had been Delmar’s valet. If the fellow had been dismissed after loyally following Delmar from London to Arizona, he might not feel too charitable toward his former master. Seward’s experience was that disgruntled servants were free with information about those they once served. He wanted to know more about Delmar’s plans, and his frame of mind. Then Seward would make a decision on whether to kill the man or sell out Knox to him. He particularly hoped to get an indication as to whether or not Delmar had any suspicion he was being cheated out of an inheritance back in England.
He had to join in the busy faro game to talk to the lame Frenchman. He didn’t mind that too much when his luck ran good and he won a small sum. He was glad though, that half an hour before the saloon was to close, the gamblers deserted the game for another round at the bar, leaving Seward and Lucien alone.
Seward seized the moment to tell Lucien who he was and why he was in Wishbone. “Doing articles for my paper,” he said. “Thought I might make you the subject of one.”
Lucien shook his head negatively. He was pleased with his fresh start at life and anxious to forget most of the former one. “Monsieur,” he said. “You could find a better topic.”
“Don’t know that I could,” Seward persisted. “Heard you came out here as a valet then lost your position. Don’t suppose you feel too kindly disposed toward the fellow who let you go.”
“Au contraire,” Lucien said, wondering why the Englishman seemed vaguely familiar. He decided at length, there was something about all Englishmen that made them seem one and the same and preferably to be avoided. Politely, but reluctantly, in response to the man’s probing he said “He did me the grandest favor. I am forever indebted to Monsieur Delmar.”
“Delmar is it?” Seward spoke the name as if he were hearing it for the first time. “Hear the man is working as an armed guard for a stage company. He’s come quite a way down the ladder, hasn’t he?”
Pride overcame prudence for Lucien. He felt compelled to set Seward straight about Rhys’s status with the stage line. “Monsieur Delmar is one of the owners of the stage company,” he said.
“That so?” Seward replied.
“That is so.” Lucien had the final word as he closed up his game and hobbled across the saloon, leaving Seward at the faro table. He looked forward to the end of the long day and welcomed the pleasurable nights spent with Carmen. The sight of her cheerfully shooing out the last of the straggling customers so that she could close, brought a swell of love to his heart. He remembered as he watched her what he had said to the overly inquisitive Englishman. He was indebted to Rhys Delmar, more than he could ever repay. The man had once saved his life, but Lucien was grateful for more than that. Had it not been for Rhys Delmar he’d never have come to Arizona, never entered the Brass Bell, never known Carmen.
Lucien slowly climbed the stairs to the big room he shared with his ladylove. He didn’t see enough of his friend anymore. He ought to remedy that.
***
Rhys had a day off and planned to drop in on Lucien then spend the rest of his free time in a leisurely game of poker if he could find one. He didn’t expect to join a game in the Diamond, but Honor had sent him a note asking him to drop by next chance he got. Today was it.
He stepped through the Diamond’s doors and into a haze of smoke, and air strongly scented with whiskey and beer. Someone in back was experimentally plunking out chords on the piano. Honor hadn’t come down yet. Rather than go up and take a razzing from the girls, Rhys asked the barkeeper to send for her.
He ordered a drink while he waited. He was nearly done with it when someone tapped softly on his shoulder. He turned to look into the face of a stunningly beautiful woman.
“Honor’s busy today,” she said. “I’m not.”
“You’re Adams’s wife,” he said, remembering that Honor had pointed Norine Adams out to him once when she had walked through the saloon.
“I’m Adams’s wife when I want to be.” Her silky voice was matched by the smooth strokes of her fingers massaging his shoulders. Her potent perfume evoked images of dim lights and satin sheets. “Today I want to be whatever you like, Mr. Delmar.”
“I see nothing about you to change,” Rhys said cautiously, aware that various patrons had grown interested in Norine’s attention to him. “Would you join me for a drink?” He rose and offered her a chair, certain she would be less conspicuous merely sitting at his table.
“Glad to.” She purred like a cat as she sensuously slid her voluptuous form against him and moved around him. She was dressed to kill—or to get someone killed—in a dress of ebony silk overshot with sheer red lace. The plunging neckline revealed fully half her large, lush breasts. As she lowered herself into the chair Rhys held for her, she made sure he got the full view.
Rhys didn’t like it. Intentionally or not she could be setting him up for a scrape he didn’t want. Some husbands, he knew, gave their wives free rein to roam, provided they were discreet. Evidently Norine Adams didn’t know the meaning of discreet. He had no inkling how long a line Parrish Adams gave his spouse. Nor was he especially interested in finding out.
Norine motioned to Harley at the bar and momentarily the big bartender brought over her favorite refreshment. His big, round face showed no reaction to seeing his boss’s wife sitting intimately close to another man. That made Rhys marginally calmer at sharing a drink with her. He noted too, that, as he had hoped, the curious patrons who had been staring at Norine had found other interests. Which was exactly what he wanted to do as soon as he could finish his drink and politely excuse himself to Norine.
“To your beauty, madame,” he said, raising his half-empty glass to the cloying woman, “with apologies that I cannot stay and enjoy it longer.”
He started to rise but Norine quickly caught him by the wrist and held on. Her sharp nails were digging into his flesh. “I’m not accustomed to men walking out on me,” she said. Her lash-shaded eyes slowly, suggestively, descended from his face to his groin. “Stay a while. Parrish isn’t here. We could have another drink—in my private room if you like. I think you’ll find I make a much better deal than he does.”
Deal? He was puzzled but too anxious to get away from Norine Adams to search out what she meant. “I am sorry to have to decline,” he said and slowly unlatched her fingers from his wrist, briefly held her warm hand and bowed over it, lightly grazing the back of it with his lips. “I only stopped by to visit a friend,” he explained, letting go of her. “Honor. One of the girls who works here. Perhaps you’ll tell her I couldn’t wait.”
Norine raised the hand he had kissed to her lips and slowly pressed her lips to the exact spot his had touched. “Nobody ever kissed my hand like that,” she said. “It feels good.”
He nodded to her. “You will remember my message.”
“Oh, forget about that girl,” Norine retorted, her full red lips drawing up in a pout. “I’m the one that asked you over here tonight. All the good it’s done me.
“Madame,” Rhys said, making a slight bow and moving away. “It has been a pleasure.”
“It could have been,” she said. Not quite ready to be dismissed Norine jumped up and insisted on taking his arm. Hanging on so tightly that their thighs bumped she accompanied him all the way to the street. When he tried to extract his arm from hers, she clandestinely slid her arms around his neck and in a last attempt to change his mind about staying, pulled his head down, ground her hips against him and hotly, hungrily kissed him. “Anytime you want more,” she said, “you come back.”
Teddy, winding up a long day of bookkeeping and schedule shuffling saw the whole torrid exchange. And imagined the rest.