CHAPTER 18

Reluctantly, Molly moved into Hugh and Elizabeth’s home that evening. She feared her presence endangered them and the children, but Cat and Teddy assured her there was no way anyone could trace her movements. What had really eased Molly’s mind was Cat’s argument that she would be a great help to Elizabeth, who was expecting. Teddy had pointed out that Molly would be needed to care for the children.

Molly’s eyes had lit at that. She loved children.

And eventually, Cat said, perhaps Molly could help at the home that the Devereuxs planned to support. Until they found a more permanent way of protecting her.

Teddy had suggested hiring a private detective of their own to investigate Molly’s father. If he had been responsible for some of the acts Molly thought he was—the disappearance of a maid for instance—there might be a trail.

Molly had demurred. A detective was expensive, and Catalina and Teddy had already done too much, had even put themselves in danger for her.

Teddy had taken her hand. It had been so small in his big one, and Cat had smiled at the expression of absolute trust Molly had given him. There was something else, too, a flickering of light in her usually shy eyes.

She might lose Teddy soon, Cat thought. Not entirely, of course, but a part of him. Meredith and Quinn Devereux came to mind and the way they had smiled at each other—after two decades or more of marriage. She’d never thought love lasted that long. She’d never really believed in love at all.

An inexplicable longing swept through her, leaving a residue of bitter loneliness. It was bitter because of the last few days. She had discovered a moment of joy, of what joy could be, only to have it snatched away in the most brutal manner. Never to know was one thing. To know and not to have was almost beyond bearing.

If only …

She sighed. “Hugh won’t tell his employer?” she asked Teddy.

He shook his head. “No one but the four of us knows: you, me, Hugh, and Elizabeth. Elizabeth will tell the children Molly’s a cousin from the East.”

The move was made during the busiest time at the Silver Slipper, when crowds of men were leaving the last performance of the cancan. Molly was dressed as a boy and spirited to a carriage; no one had been spotted taking a special interest in the comings and goings at the Silver Slipper, but it was wise, Cat and Teddy decided, to be very cautious … and secretive.

Cat would hire a private detective tomorrow, possibly ask Quinn Devereux for a recommendation; he seemed as if he might be knowledgeable about such matters. So did Canton, but it would be a freezing day in hell before she asked him anything.

After the last customer left and the girls who lived in the Silver Slipper retired, Cat locked up and went upstairs. She undressed and put on a gown and wrapper and, watching her image in the mirror, brushed her hair. It was just as lustrous and dark as ever, but she saw the tiny lines around her eyes. Nearly forty … she thought. Whatever her precise age, she was much too old for the kind of giddy feelings that had so disrupted her life of late.

Cat went over to the open window, her eyes inevitably drawn to the Glory Hole. A lone light still flickered in the main room. She heard the piano again, and the melody that had lingered in her mind despite her attempts to oust it. She leaned against the wall next to the window, listening as an eavesdropper might, knowing she was intruding on something private and intimate. She had missed the music lately. The combination of power and sadness struck her in peculiar ways, stretching the loneliness in a poignantly sweet way. She hurt, but she knew with sudden insight, that was better than not feeling at all. She ached now for life, not for the living death she’d known so many years. If for no other reason, she should be grateful to Canton for that, at least.

The music grew in power and strength. And anger. She could hear the anger in it. The passion. The passion she’d felt with him.

Why? She wondered why he had changed so suddenly yesterday afternoon. Why his eyes had gone from warm to frozen. She had thought she had been used, but now she wondered. The music made her wonder. There wasn’t coldness in it. Or indifference. Or cruelty. But there was anger.

She stood by the open window for a very long time. He finished what he’d been playing and started something else: a wistful, haunting melody that seemed full of loss. She wanted to cry with the sound, but she didn’t. Her tears had been locked away for years, released only briefly the other afternoon, and she thought never again. Not after what had happened.

The music died away and didn’t start again. Instead there was the lonely sound of a single carriage in the street. Someone going home. She saw Canton walk into the street. He was alone except for that dog she had seen on several occasions.

But then there was always a sense of aloneness about the man.

He was wearing a leather coat, and she noticed the familiar bulge under it. The gun. The gun he’d used so effectively. She thought again of the music and wondered how beauty and death could be so compatible in the man.

He turned suddenly, casting his gaze up at her window, and she thought about ducking back, then decided against it. She wasn’t going to hide from him, or herself. She wasn’t going to run.

The gaslight showed his lean form well, but the night hooded his face. He obviously saw her and he watched for several moments, his body stiff. She felt that he called to her. But then she remembered his taunt. Deliberately she shook her head, turned away, and went to the lamp to turn down the wick. She took off her wrapper and sat down on the bed. She wouldn’t sleep tonight.

Marsh looked away from the window. Emotions were tumbling through him now, fired by the music … and Cat. He had thought he’d subdued that anger of his, the soul-deep fury that had spurred him to do the unforgivable, the fury that had forever scarred him and turned him into a killer. But it was still there, boiling inside, released by the other emotions now screaming for an outlet. No woman had ever affected him as she had. He wondered whether it was the beauty or the challenge or the strength he saw in her. The other afternoon she had awakened so many things in him, emotions that made him feel like a young man again … still idealistic and loving, as if there really was a world beyond the cold, distrustful one he had inhabited half his life. Until she’d suggested …

Suggested what?

Christ, he couldn’t bear to think of the way her face had changed that afternoon. He clenched his fists. He hadn’t been wrong. He couldn’t have been wrong. Just look at the way she’d turned away from him today. And tonight.

He turned a corner, walking toward the ocean, Winchester trotting behind him. The dog often accompanied him now, although still not venturing too close.

Christ, before long the world he was building might fall down. He was keeping in his employ a man he thought disloyal to him; he couldn’t get Cat out of his mind; and even that little Molly haunted him. What had Cat intended to say when he’d cut her off?

Marsh smelled the water now, that tangy combination of sea and wind that was unlike any other smell. The sharp wind cut across the bay. Wrapping his jacket tight against his body, he felt the gun that was so much a part of him. To his left, across the bay, was the island of Alcatraz, which looked intolerably barren and lonely across the foam-flecked waves.

Fog crept in, slowly obliterating the island from view. If only other scenes could be obliterated. Erased.

Michael Callahan. Marsh knew he would always see Michael Callahan in his mind. A Georgia farmer, whose small plot of land had bordered a section of Rosewood, Callahan had been bitter that his family had never prospered as did the Cantons. He had lost piece after piece of land through ineptitude and laziness. There had been no reason, no reason at all, for Marsh to question the accusation that Callahan had participated in the murder of Marsh’s mother and sister. In selling them out to save his own small farm. In leading a small band of Union deserters from Sherman’s army to the Canton plantation in exchange for part of the gold rumored to be there.

The accuser had been Canton’s overseer, who, Marsh discovered later, had coveted Marsh’s sister and hated her when rebuffed.

Marsh had jumped to judgment then. After learning that his mother and sister had been raped and left to burn to death in their own home, he went into a blind rage. Already hardened by years of death and nearly senseless with grief and exhaustion, he had sought out Michael Callahan and killed him in cold blood. But Michael Callahan had been innocent. Marsh had tracked down the deserters, one by one, learning along the way that the overseer had lied, that he had been the one to suggest the attack, that he himself had raped Marsh’s sister.

When he’d discovered his mistake, killing had already become a way of life. The only life he knew anymore. The knowledge that he had killed an innocent human being might have deterred another man from further killing, but not him. He’d felt he’d surrendered his soul when he’d killed Callahan; the need for revenge had grown ever stronger, darker, deeper.

Marsh had returned then and found the overseer. He had not been merciful, but had coldly shot him in the groin and listened to him scream before finishing him.

The overseer didn’t haunt him. Michael Callahan did.

A void grew where his heart had once been, a heart deadened when his family died so brutally, buried when revenge became a nightmare he couldn’t stop.

It had taken two years to track down every man involved. And when he’d finished, there was no satisfaction. No finish. The emptiness made him court death with the one skill he’d honed to perfection. And because he didn’t care about his own life, he became invincible. He had no fear, and that was conveyed in his eyes, and that always gave him the edge with other men who did care about living. His hand didn’t shake.

In all those years of earning his way with a gun, he had been hit twice, both times in ambush. Both times he’d survived and hunted down the ambushers.

God’s own joke, he’d told himself often enough. He didn’t die because he didn’t care. Those who did care died. They made mistakes.

Now, all of the sudden, he wanted to live too. He wanted to feel the wind and taste the sea and love a woman. He wanted everything he’d once dreamed about as a privileged young man before the war. He had opened a door, only a crack, but now there was irresistible pressure to push it all the way open.

Which probably meant his life expectancy was plummeting.

Winchester growled as if he understood.

“We’re fools, both of us,” he told the dog. “It’s too late to change.”

The dog whined. Marsh had never heard that particular noise from him before. He stooped and reached out for the dog. This time it didn’t inch away. Its dark-brown eyes looked at Marsh steadily.

“You don’t think so?” Marsh asked. The dog whined again. “And Miss Cat? What do you think about her?”

The dog regarded him solemnly. “I don’t know either, Winchester,” Marsh answered his own question. “Christ, I don’t know anything anymore.”

He stood. “Let’s go home, Win,” he said, realizing as he said the words that it was the first time in two decades he’d had any kind of home.

Quinn Devereux was surprised when a clerk announced the arrival of a Miss Hilliard.

“She said she didn’t have an appointment,” the young man said, “and not to bother you if you were too busy.”

Quinn was not too busy. He’d liked Catalina Hilliard, and so had Meredith. There was a strength about the woman, as well as a peculiar vulnerability that didn’t quite fit his perception of a saloon owner. She had obviously felt out of place in their penthouse, and he sensed it had taken no small amount of courage on her part to accept the invitation. He’d also been touchingly amused at the charged anger between his two guests, and yes, they had reminded him of himself and Meredith when they’d first met.

His mouth twisted as he thought about those days. Sometimes he even longed for them. He had once longed for peace, but now he missed some of the old challenges. Or thought he did. A sign of growing old, he supposed, to think kindly of unkindly days.

“Show her in,” he told the clerk as he stood up, awaiting her entrance.

Cat swept in with the grace he’d observed earlier. She was a beauty, made more so by maturity. She had to be close to Meredith’s age, as Catalina had been in San Francisco since the early 1860s. She, like Merry, was one of those rare women who grew more attractive with years.

“Miss Hilliard,” he said, showing her to a seat. “How can I help you?”

“Catalina,” she said. “Please call me Catalina.”

He nodded.

“I … I need a private detective,” she said. “I hoped you might recommend one. An honest one.”

“Now that’s more of a problem,” he said. “Can you tell me why?”

She hesitated. It was Molly’s secret to keep. But she trusted this man. And she needed his help. “The girl you heard about,” she said slowly. “It wasn’t just a kidnapping.”

The interest in his sharp blue eyes grew.

“It has something to do with her father. She’s terrified of him. She believes he’s capable of killing anyone who helps her.”

“You can’t tell me who he is?”

She shook her head. That required too much faith.

“Is she safe now?”

“For the time being.”

He leaned forward and wrote down a name. “This man is with the Pinkertons. Completely trustworthy. And discreet.” He handed the paper to Cat. “Does Taylor Canton know about this?”

Cat stiffened, as she always did at the name. “I told him,” she said curtly.

“He won’t help?”

“There’s no need for him to be involved.”

“I think he already is involved … if there is danger.”

She shrugged. “He can take care of himself.”

A lazy smile crossed his lips. “Most likely. But still …”

“Mr. Devereux, I appreciate your help, but I don’t like Mr. Canton, and he doesn’t like me.”

He frowned as if he didn’t believe her. Then he shrugged. “If you need any more help, please call on me.”

Cat rose, feeling the dismissal. “Thank you,” she said, “and thank you for tea.”

“Even if you didn’t approve of the company?” There was an impish amusement in his eyes, and she had to smile back.

“It was … interesting.”

“But uncomfortable?”

“A little,” she said.

He chuckled as he rose when she did. “I think that’s an understatement. I haven’t seen sparks like that since my wife and I met.”

She stared at him. She’d never seen so much harmony between a man and a woman as between the Devereuxs.

“In the beginning,” he added, “and for months after. Someday you might enjoy hearing the story.”

She would. Unquestionably she would. Any story with a happy ending. And she liked Quinn Devereux and his wife. It would be nice to have them as friends, but that, she knew, was quite impossible. She was not in the same class, by any means. She wouldn’t build herself up for disappointment as she had with Canton. Quinn Devereux was merely being polite.

T. J. Simmons stared at the letter as he sat in the nearly bare rented room in Denver.

Another rejection. However, the editor had said he would be interested in another story about Marsh Canton, a sequel to Simmons’s one big success, Duel at Sunset.

But Marsh Canton had disappeared. T. J. Simmons had his sources: lawmen who liked to see their names in his novels; newspaper people he cultivated in his search for western stories. All he needed was a kernel of an idea, and then he could spin a tale. He didn’t really care whether it was true or not. The only requirement was that it concerned a real western figure.

He’d had some success, but none like Duel at Sunset. And its success had practically ruined him. Everyone wanted a story of similar magnitude. But how often do you find two such famous gunfighters as Canton and Lobo going against each other?

He disregarded the fact that they had not really gone against each other. They could have. One had lived. One had died. That was enough upon which to build a story. And it had been a great story. He’d even found someone who’d known Canton to help provide an artist with enough information for a sketch.

Simmons had later been hunted down by a man with a grudge against Canton, a Tom Bailey, who fancied himself a gunman and whose brother had been killed by Marsh in some long-ago dispute. Bailey had sworn to kill his brother’s murderer, and Simmons had agreed, for a price, to contact the gunman if he discovered Canton’s location.

Simmons had additional plans. He would go with Bailey to confront Canton and have a front-row seat at his first real gunfight. He relished the thought. So did Tom Bailey, who was seeking a reputation as well as vengeance.

The letter in his hand made the mission even more urgent. He needed another success—a big one—and Canton would assure him a very big one indeed.

He would check at the Denver Post again. Sometimes they received papers from other states. Perhaps one of them would have word of Canton. The man couldn’t have just disappeared. He was bigger than life, and his reputation followed him everywhere.

Perhaps some investigation into his past might also help. Simmons had been a newspaperman prior to coming west and taking up writing pulp novels. He knew how to dig into a person’s past.

He would start with the War Department. Canton was at an age where he might have served in the Civil War. And then he would go on from there.

Perhaps he could write an even bigger book: The Life and Times of a Gunman.

Excitement stirred in him.

With an eagerness he hadn’t known in years, he dressed in his best western garb and started out for the telegraph office.

Three days after the tea at the Devereuxs, business at the Glory Hole dropped abruptly.

Marsh had to do no more than look out his window to find out why. Signs declared that drinks were half-price for the 17th anniversary of the Silver Slipper. They did not say how long the anniversary offer would last.

Hugh reported that now that the French troupe was leaving the Silver Slipper, Cat also planned to employ women dealers. The cancan, a big draw for the Silver Slipper, would continue to be performed on weekends by local dancers. Marsh didn’t ask where Hugh had obtained his information. He didn’t want to know; his manager’s loyalty was still very much in question.

Marsh shook his head in reluctant admiration for Cat’s continued assaults on the Glory Hole. He suspected he’d caused this war. The growing notion that he might have wronged Catalina Hilliard had nagged him for the past few days. No one could fake the simple—or not so simple—wonder they’d shared that afternoon.

I had really just come to warn you. He remembered his amusement at her words, and the surprise that someone gave a damn. He remembered how good it felt. If only for a few moments.

Before his mistrust spoiled everything.

He hadn’t seen Molly in a few days, but then he hadn’t had reason to. He’d more or less holed up in his saloon, nursing his anger until it had dissipated with time and reason. He directed all his energies into the Glory Hole, trying to convince himself that his business was all that was important. He went over the books, hired several new dealers and waiters, even interviewed a new cook, wondering all the time what his new employees would think if they knew they would be working for a notorious gunslinger.

But now that all that was done, he knew the Glory Hole wasn’t enough. He found himself increasingly restless, dissatisfied, and he lay much of the blame at the feet of Catalina Hilliard.

He’d purposely stayed away from the piano. It brought back too many memories. He also consciously stayed away from the windows, particularly in the early-morning hours. He didn’t want to see that light, know that she was up there, remember the way she’d felt that afternoon.

He thought about going over to the Silver Slipper to try to make amends of some kind, but then he remembered the calculated cruelty of his comments and knew it was futile.

Molly. Perhaps he could offer to help Molly—without the nastiness with which he’d first presented the offer.

Cat would probably shove the offer back in his face. She might think it was because of her latest move, the so-called anniversary. She might even think she’d won this battle, and he wasn’t sure he wanted that.

Dammit. He had checkmated himself. So he searched for other diversions. He sent a sizable sum to Quinn Devereux for his project, probably more than he could afford, partly because the man had helped him get out of jail, partly because he didn’t want Cat to outdo him, partly because of his own sister. Both noble and ignoble reasons, he admitted to himself.

But nothing helped. Nothing erased Cat’s face from his mind, nor all those emotions he remembered from that afternoon in his room.

And finally, defeated by his own obsession, he found himself walking out the door, across the street, and into the crowded Silver Slipper.

Cat was losing money. She knew she was losing money. But it would be worth it if she could rid herself of Canton.

He had taken her mind and heart and twisted them into things she no longer recognized. She’d learned to control them, but now there was no control. She wanted him, nearly every moment of every day.

Why did he have such a hold on her?

She shook her head, as if to shake away thoughts of the man. She tied on her bonnet, a very pretty, elegant bonnet, which depended on the quality of the fine green velvet and the simplicity of the lines rather than on the flowery decorations so many women used. She was off to see the Pinkerton detective, and she wished to make a good impression. Molly’s father probably had a great deal of influence, too much for some people to tackle.

Cat looked at her reflection. The lines around her eyes seemed to have deepened in the past weeks. From lack of sleep? Or was she simply more critical these days? But her hair looked as lustrous as ever, and she gave herself a quick, practiced smile.

She went down the stairs. The Silver Slipper was full for an afternoon, men lined up at the bar. She glanced around, looking again for someone out of place who might be after Molly.

Her gaze moved around the tables, the men at the bar, and then hesitated at a table where five men were playing poker. Something familiar stopped her. She looked again and her very life breath caught in her throat.

It couldn’t be!

He was dead! She knew he was dead. She saw that embedded knife nearly every night of her life.

He was looking at his cards. Don’t let it be him, she prayed fervently.

She found herself hugging the wall. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, willing him to be a mirage or specter.

But he sat there, his thinning blond hair almost white in the glare of the chandelier. The face she once thought handsome was lined now from dissipation.

How, for God’s sake?

A look-alike?

But she would never forget that face, nor that particular habit he had in dealing cards, licking his second finger after dispensing a card. She would never forget that gesture. It meant he was nervous. Losing. It had usually meant that he would send someone to their room that night.

She moved quietly back upstairs, into the safety of the hall. Her room. Safety. But for how long?

How had he found her? Or did he even know she owned the Silver Slipper?

She didn’t believe in coincidences.

She took several gulps of air.

What did he want?

She closed her eyes, thinking of the implications. She wasn’t a murderess.

On the other hand, Cat knew she was a match for him now. She wasn’t a girl. She wasn’t afraid of him. He couldn’t scare her. It had taken years for her to understand he was a coward. Only a coward used women as he did. Only a coward hit women. Only scum lived off them.

And she was married to just that! The knowledge sank in slowly, with terrible certainty.

The sketch in the newspaper! She expelled a long breath. That had to be it. Canton and their feud. If it hadn’t been for Canton … Even she knew that wasn’t fair. If it weren’t for Canton, Molly would be gone to God knew what. And she, Cat, was in a far better position to take care of herself than Molly. But the irony didn’t escape her.

Husband. She’d read enough to know about husbands’ rights. A husband’s right to property owned by his wife. Could he take the Silver Slipper?

Dear Lucifer. Everything she had built. Everything she had earned. Years of working day and night. Her safety. Her security. Her pride.

She felt herself trembling. And she knew that at least part of it was hate. Pure, undiluted hate that he could do this to her again.

Why hadn’t he died? How had he survived?

But that didn’t matter now. What did matter was protecting what she had. She wouldn’t let him take it.

He couldn’t take what she didn’t have. Cat hadn’t survived this long in a very difficult business without using—sometimes misusing—the laws to her own advantage, just as she had in ridding herself of competition. A bribe here. A bribe there. But she needed time.

And she didn’t have time. She knew James Cahoon. She knew his sickness for gambling. And she knew he was very bad at it. He would lose the Silver Slipper within weeks, if not sooner.

Unless she deeded it to someone.

Her head was spinning. She tried to think exactly what the newspaper had said. Had it said she owned the Silver Slipper?

She had to deed over the Silver Slipper before James Cahoon could take any action.

Cat took off the bonnet and reached for a shawl, wrapping it around her head, hiding her dark hair. Her mind was working feverishly, going over possibilities and rejecting them.

Every possibility led to Canton. He probably would be delighted to buy the Silver Slipper. If it was done fast enough, she could take the money, give Teddy a share, and then run again before James knew what had happened. She would lose the Silver Slipper, but she would have something. And God knew Canton could take care of himself—and James.

But how could she ask Canton for a favor? It wasn’t a favor, she argued with herself. A business transaction. Only that. But even with that justification, the very idea was excruciatingly painful.

Yet the idea of James taking everything she had worked for hurt even more. At least this way she would have something.

Maybe … she thought of Quinn Devereux, but then she would have to explain everything. She couldn’t bear to do it.

Cat felt sick, so sick that she doubled over. The Pinkerton detective. He was probably waiting for her now. But he couldn’t do anything about this problem.

Only Canton could. But she couldn’t trust him. Not any more than she could trust her husband. But then she didn’t need to trust him. She just needed his money. An exchange. Something he wanted for something she wanted. She prepared herself for a hard bargain. He would know there was trouble because of her urgency. And she more than suspected he would take full advantage of it. She had to look normal. She had to look as if it were a sudden impulse and make him believe that he must take advantage of it.

Dear Lucifer, but her thoughts were in fragments. Don’t panic. Don’t let him know you’re desperate. So little time.

She wanted to look down again into the main room. Her creation. Her accomplishment. Her life. Fury overwhelmed her. She forced it away. She couldn’t indulge in anger or self-pity. She was a survivor. She would salvage what she could. She would never allow Canton to know she was desperate, at least not too desperate. She needed a story. A sick relative, perhaps. He could never know about her husband, about James Cahoon.

The mere thought of her husband made her sick again.

She went back to the mirror, pinched some color into her white cheeks. She used a little lip color. She didn’t want Canton to think …

How was she going to do it? Especially after her insults?

But he was her only hope. Her enemy was the only man who could help her. She went to the small safe in her room, opened it, and took out the deed to the Silver Slipper. She then gathered the shawl about her head, slipped out the door and down the hall to the side door. She went quickly down the stairs, kept to the side of the building, then hurriedly crossed the street, only too aware that her path was in full view from the windows of the Silver Slipper.

The Glory Hole was nearly empty and she swallowed hard, wondering whether the fact that she had stolen most of his customers would hurt or help her cause.

Dear heaven, how she hated running again. But she had no choice. She looked around, trying to keep her anxiety hidden. She felt her fist ball around the deed she had tucked in a pocket.

She approached Hugh, who was standing behind the bar, saw his eyes widen.

“Mr. Canton?” she asked.

Hugh stared at her, and Cat wondered whether her nervousness showed, despite all her attempts to hide it.

“Is something wrong? Is someone looking for Molly?”

She shook her head. “I just … have a business proposition to discuss with him.”

Hugh studied her for a moment. “I saw him go over to the Silver Slipper.”

Cat’s heart plummeted. There was no way she could go back. And what if he heard something? What if James loudly proclaimed their relationship? She wouldn’t put it past him. He was a noisy drunk as well as a poor poker player.

“Would you send someone for him?” she finally said, feeling another chink of broken pride fall away. She couldn’t even go into her own place of business.

Run. It was all she could do to stand and pretend that nothing was wrong when everything in her urged her to run away.

Hugh stood there for a moment, studying her curiously, then waved for one of the waiters. “Ask Mr. Canton to come back,” he said. “I think he’s at the Silver Slipper.”

Cat felt her legs tremble. “Thank you. Is there someplace private I could wait?”

Hugh considered the request, then thought of everything she had done for Molly, whom he liked very much. And for Teddy. Yet it might mean the loss of his much-needed job. He simply didn’t know how Mr. Canton felt about Catalina Hilliard. He only knew his employer had been short-tempered since that afternoon the two of them had retreated to his room. He had been even more short-tempered when he saw the new signs outside the Silver Slipper.

Still, there was a kind of desperation in Catalina’s eyes that made Hugh feel protective. He nodded. “Why don’t you wait in Mr. Canton’s room?”

Cat nodded.

“The dog’s back there,” Hugh warned.

Cat gave him a smile. The dog was nothing much to worry about … compared to her other problems.

She walked to the back, through the hall, and to Marsh’s all-too-familiar room, opening the door gingerly. The dog growled and she hesitated, but then opened it all the way. She remembered Canton calling the dog Win.

“It’s all right, Win,” she said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The dog rose from where he apparently had been sleeping, stretched, and growled, but he made no other move. She went inside.

The room was still plain, ridiculously so. Everything was neat, too neat. There was no individuality here, except for the dog, and even that was hostile. Her gaze was drawn to the bed. It was the only thing that wasn’t neat. The covers were thrown back, and it looked as if a battle had gone on there. She couldn’t help but think of the other afternoon, when they had … But she also couldn’t forget his bitter, parting words. She wanted to flee again.

She avoided the bed and stood against the wall where she could glance out the back window. There was no view here, only an alley, and her gaze kept going to the bed, her mind’s eye seeing something that had happened days ago as her body kept feeling things better forgotten.

To try to rid her mind of both, she turned her attention to the dog. It was the ugliest dog she had ever seen. Its paws were too big, its body too long, its tail too short. Nothing went together. And it was glaring at her with the welcome a sinner gave Satan.

She leaned a hand over to see what would happen, and the dog shied away as if expecting a blow. It reminded Cat of herself years ago. It reminded her of now. All of a sudden her strength drained away, and she buried her head in her hands.

Cat suddenly felt the dog’s head against her knee, and she looked down. The dog’s eyes were still wary, yet it seemed to be offering some kind of understanding.

She reached out her hand again, and this time the dog didn’t move but tolerated her touch, as if he felt and understood her misery. He comforted her.

But just at that moment she heard the sound of boots against the floor, and the door flew open.

Canton looked at her, down at the dog, back to her.

“What an unexpected pleasure,” he drawled. “Welcome to my parlor.”