Rhys hoped Teddy would forgive him for the lie. He had intended to honor his word and ride out of the territory, even slipped out to the barn while she was sleeping and saddled his horse to spare himself the pain of saying good-bye. He’d come across the letter as he checked the supplies in the saddle pack. Alain’s letter.
He still had a lump in his throat over the words Alain had written. Jenny Perrault’s son had never believed for a moment that Rhys had murdered his mother. What’s more, he had immediately begun to search out the truth. He had known his mother had a letter and news for Rhys. He had found the letter hidden in his house, an astonishing letter from a solicitor representing the estate of one Andrew Knox, Earl of Sumner. His father.
Not trusting it to the mail, Alain had copied the text of the letter. Rhys read it in disbelief. If it were true, then he was the son—the legitimate son—of an earl. He stood to inherit a title, an estate and a sum which, even now, after hours to think on it, astonished him. On a darker note Alain had learned of a cousin, Avery Knox of London, who stood in line for the whole of Lord Sumner’s estate should Rhys be found to be deceased or convicted a felon.
Avery Knox, Alain had learned, had let it be known to his many creditors that he fully expected to inherit his uncle’s wealth. It was with the avaricious Avery Knox that Alain’s suspicions had come to rest. He had learned of a minion Knox had employed to those ends—a despicable fellow known to be cunningly successful at his craft. Red-haired, red-bearded.
“Seward,” Rhys said aloud.
***
The moon lay upon distant mountain peaks when he rode into Wishbone, darkness as his cover, foolhardiness his companion. He sought out Carmen Bell, counting on her love of Lucien Bourget to make her sympathetic to his cause. He shadowed his face beneath his hat as he bribed a half-drunk drifter to take her a message.
Hoping she would not betray him, he waited in the heavy darkness of an alley behind the Brass Bell. Shortly he saw a woman’s figure emerge from a doorway and heard the hushed tone of a feminine voice. “I knew it must be you,” she whispered. “When he said ‘Luce’ I knew it must be you.” She laid a hand on his arm and drew him back the way she had come, inside the saloon, to a small private room. “You’re crazy to be here. Len Blalock’s had a posse out looking for you since you got away.”
“Do they know who—”
“Who busted you out? No. And don’t tell me,” she said. Carmen poured him a whiskey and he swallowed it down slowly. “Why have you come back?”
“For Seward,” he said. “Lucien’s killer.”
Carmen sat silent a moment then her head bent low and she sobbed. “I—I’ll help you if I can,” she said staunchly. “I haven’t seen the man for a couple of days, but you’ll find him at the Diamond if he’s about anywhere.”
With Carmen acting as lookout, Rhys managed to break in through a window on the back side of the Diamond. His guess was that he had gained entry into Parrish Adams’s private quarters. The room he was in had heavy velvet curtains trimmed with thick golden fringe, and walls hung with Japanese silk. Most of the space was taken up by an enormous tester bed of much too fine a quality for the rough patrons of saloon girls.
A softly glowing lamp with a hand-painted shade helped him pick his way across the room. He was celebrating his good luck at getting so far undetected when the big paneled door swung open.
“Norine? You in here?” Adams, getting ready to retire for the night, strode in.
Rhys, pressed against the wall behind a long velvet drape, watched as Adams removed his coat and vest, then unbuckled his gun belt and laid it on a chest near the bed. A moment later the man was sitting on a round-tufted footstool removing his boots.
Rhys, gun in hand, swung the shielding drape away and stepped before Adams. “Where’s Seward?” he demanded.
Hatred and surprise twisted Adams’ lean visage in a hideous way. He lunged up but halted almost immediately, knowing that too rash a move could cost his life. “I pegged you a smarter man than this, Delmar,” he said. “You should have taken my offer. You wouldn’t have to worry about Seward.”
“And you wouldn’t have to worry about me putting a bullet between your eyes,” Rhys said tonelessly. “Which is precisely what I am going to do unless you sign a statement admitting you are responsible for the attacks on the Gamble Line.” Gun cocked and aimed at the inch of white skin between Adams’s dark brows, Rhys took a step toward his target. “As you well know, I have nothing to lose. I am twice damned already.”
His calm smile gave Adams a chill and the sneer he had worn with confidence disappeared from his face. Nothing to lose. The truth sunk in with dreadful slowness. Rhys Delmar had nothing to lose by shooting him and everything to gain by forcing an admission from him. This was the man who had fought Taviz, a madman if ever one lived, and been the one to ride away. He didn’t doubt for an instant that unless he was forthcoming with the statement Delmar demanded it would be the Frenchman who rode away again.
Adams growled out a curse that was cut short by the sound of a footstep outside in the hallway. Rhys warned Adams not to make another sound, lest it be his last, and hurried to conceal himself behind the door. Once again it swung open.
Norine Adams started in. Rhys caught her slender arm and jerked her past him, sending her petticoats flying as she stumbled and spun across the room toward her husband. “Ooof,” she cried as Rhys hurriedly bolted the door behind her. Adams caught Norine, snatched her to him and, with an arm about her waist, held his trembling spouse close against him.
Norine gasped. Her shocked eyes were taking in but disbelieving what was happening in her bedroom. “Don’t you worry, love.” Adams smiled a savage smile and hugged his wife closer, his hand, concealed by the fullness of her skirt, sliding down her hip and into the pocket where he knew she kept a knuckle-duster, a one-shot derringer. A woman’s weapon, but it would do.
He raised the tiny gun and took aim at Rhys.
Rhys laughed. “At this distance you’ll give me a sting.”
Adams swung his arm around, a bold, exaggerated swing that brought the barrel of the derringer to rest against Norine’s temple. “At this distance she’ll die.”
Norine gasped then shrieked. “Parrish! No! What are you doing?”
Rhys was more stunned than the woman. Adams had drawn Norine directly in front of him, the tip of her head reaching just above the line of his chin. He held her in a punishingly tight grip and she looked genuinely afraid. “She’s your wife,” Rhys said.
With a snarl Adams bored the barrel of the derringer deeper into Norine’s temple, cutting an ugly red circle into her smooth skin. “She’s my wife,” he jeered. “But I can get another woman. And I’ve got a feeling that even with nothing to lose you aren’t the kind of man who will have someone else’s blood on his hands. Now put the gun down or watch her die before you shoot me.”
Rhys wasn’t convinced and he wasn’t ready to concede. He rested his thumb on the hammer spur of his gun, pulled it back and steadied his aim at Adams’s forehead.
Norine knew her husband better. In a split second she ducked and wrenched her body around, not escaping Adam’s grip but getting away from the threatening barrel of the derringer long enough to grab his arm. The two of them tangled like a pair of fighting cats, Norine spitting and hissing, Adams cursing and shouting, her fury a fair match for his greater strength.
Rhys could not get a clear shot at Adams, not without hitting the woman. By now he was convinced that Adams would have sacrificed her to save his skin. His only hope of stopping the fray before Norine was killed or the noise of it brought someone running was to knock Adams unconscious.
He leaped across the room, gun raised, wondering at the mania of a man like Adams, no longer doubting in any degree that the vile man was responsible for all the ill that had befallen Teddy and the Gamble Line.
A shot sounded before he reached the pair. Norine, arms flailing, slid to the floor, her red dress flowing around her like a gigantic pool of blood. Adams staggered back, teeth bared, a look of abject fury on his dark face. He hovered on his feet a moment before his legs gave way beneath him and he, too, fell to the floor.
“Murdering bastard!” Norine cursed the fallen man and on hands and knees scurried away, escaping the fierce spray of blood that spurted from his throat and the artery the derringer’s shot had severed. The gurgle of Adams’s last breath made a terrible sound. Almost as dreadful were the insistent blows on the bedroom door.
“Mr. Adams!” Pete Smith stood outside pounding his shoulder against the paneled door.
Rhys had a moment of believing it had all been for nothing. He cast a worried glance at Norine who had scrambled to her feet and was quickly regaining her wits.
“It’s all right, Pete!” she cried.
“I heard a shot.”
Norine motioned to Rhys to step out of sight. Smoothing down her skirts and tidying her hair, she crossed to the door and opened it a mere crack. “Is Len Blalock back in town?” she asked.
“He’s back.” Pete tried to push the door open but Norine stood fast.
“Get him and bring him here,” she demanded. Pete hesitated a few seconds then strode off to do as he’d been told. Norine shut the door behind her, fell against it, and looked gratefully at Rhys. “I’m no prize to this world, I know,” she said. “But maybe I’ve got a chance to make some things right. I’m going to begin by telling Len Blalock you didn’t kill that man over at the Brass Bell.”
“Do you know who did?”
Her hand was flecked with her husband’s blood. She looked at it a moment, then wiped the stains off on her satin skirt. “Parrish had a way of weaseling things out of people. That Englishman that called himself a newspaperman came here and offered Parrish a deal. He said it was in both their interest that you get hung and that he was in a position to lay the blame on you for killing that man over at the Brass Bell. He all but admitted to Parrish he did the killing himself.” She was still covered with gooseflesh and trembling from the ordeal. Mechanically she opened the doors of a tall armoire and pulled out a silken shawl which she slung around her bare, shaking shoulders. “Parrish took the deal and paid off that crooked lawyer of yours, too. Old Douglas was going to see that those shares you’ve got could be bought for a song.”
“But you never actually heard Seward admit he killed Lucien.”
“No,” she said.
Rhys remembered Alain’s letter. Seward was cunning and he would have been too cautious for an outright admission of his crime. But it stood to reason Seward had killed two of those most dear to Rhys. Seward was the man who could clear him of those murders, the man who had to pay for committing them. “Where is he?” he asked Norine.
“Gone,” she said. “He was scared silly when you broke out of jail. I think he knew you’d come looking for him. He sneaked out on the stage the same day you vamoosed. The skunk left word with one of the girls that he was going back to London and that Parrish could send for him if you were ever found.”
***
Len Blalock was too relieved over Parrish Adams’s death to make any kind of case against Norine or Rhys. “The best I can do is turn my back,” he said.
“I got a sworn statement that’s nigh as good in court as a live witness. The territorial judge’ll be here next week and he’s the only one with the power to drop the charges. With Norine’s testimony he might see clear to do it, but—well, her word is only hearsay and—”
Norine supplied what the sheriff was having trouble admitting. “And the judge was in Parrish’s pocket, too. There’s no predicting what he’ll do when you show up in his court.”
Len Blalock narrowed his eyes. He’d been in purgatory a long, long time because of bad judgment and Parrish Adams. He thought he could see the way out and he wanted to do what he could to hasten that end, to make his daughter proud of him again. He nodded at Rhys. “Get ridin’, son.”