CHAPTER 22

Marsh knew he’d lost her again.

He knew it the minute the wonderment left her eyes, replaced by the curtain he was becoming all too accustomed to seeing there. The curtain she used to hide behind.

He eased her down, holding her tight. “Let me help, Cat. Whatever it is, let me help.”

“You can’t,” she said. “It’s something I have to do myself.”

“You don’t have to do everything yourself,” he said with some frustration.

“I can’t depend on anyone.”

“Not even Teddy.”

“No,” she said defensively.

“Who is that man?” They both knew who he meant.

“He thinks I owe him something.”

“Do you?”

“God, no,” she said.

“He’ll be back?”

She nodded. “I think so.”

“Stay here tonight.”

“I have to look after the Silver Slipper.”

He grinned. “No, you don’t. I’m your boss now.”

“But I’m going to get it back.”

His hand tangled in her hair. He still felt tremors from their lovemaking, from her proximity, but more than that, he felt as if she belonged here with him. He’d never believed in destiny until this moment.

“You belong with me, Cat, you know that.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind,” she said. “This is … lust.”

“Lust is a wonderful beginning,” he replied lazily.

He knew he was being a fool. He couldn’t promise much himself, not with those damned pulp novels and his reputation following him like shadows. Not with the death of an innocent man on his hands. There would always be a darkness in his soul because of that.

But he was willing to try. Would she even want him if she knew about his former occupation? If she knew how many dead men littered his trail? He couldn’t even remember the number anymore.

He turned slightly, moving her to his side. He raised his head, propping it on a hand so he could study her. She was so incredibly beautiful, and despite, or perhaps because, of it she looked valiant in her vulnerability with that stubborn jaw denying she needed anyone.

He felt vulnerable himself. Perhaps because it had been so long since he had reached out to anyone—it was a painfully difficult thing. He was opening himself to rejection, to denial, to loss.

But she had a right to know, first, exactly who and what he was.

“Cat, have you ever heard of Marsh Canton?”

Cat tried to hide her surprise. She nodded cautiously.

“My name is Marsh Taylor Canton.” He waited for the reaction, any kind of reaction.

She had stilled completely in his arms, and he watched her face. Only her eyes showed any change, and he couldn’t decipher the meaning. A warming, perhaps. He hadn’t expected that. But then he didn’t know what to expect. He’d never known.

“A gunfighter, Cat. A hired killer. That’s what I do best.” His voice was objective, although he heard the old drawl in it, the drawl that sometimes surfaced when he was … disturbed. It seemed to be more and more frequent since he’d met Cat.

He felt her fingers close around his hand. Acceptance. Simple acceptance, and that moment meant more to him than any they’d shared.

“I know,” she finally said. “I sensed it the first time you entered the Silver Slipper, though I didn’t connect the name. And then when you shot that kidnapper, I was sure. I’ve seen my share of gunfighters. There’s something—”

“The smell of death?” He heard the bitterness in his own voice and wondered why it was there. He’d done everything by choice.

“No,” she said. “Not that. It’s the cautious way you view a room and always sit with your back to a wall so you can see everything. It’s the way you wear that gun as if it’s a part of you.”

“It is, Miss Cat,” he said. “A part I can’t seem to let go of.”

“Molly is safe because of that part.”

“Aren’t you repulsed?” Marsh hated the rough sound of his voice. It was, he knew, uncertainty that made it so, and he hated that too.

Cat didn’t answer immediately. It was too important. Everything being said now was too important. There was a hurting honesty being given, and it deserved honesty in return.

“While you were gone, I saw the book on the bed. For a moment, perhaps, I—but then I knew it didn’t make any difference.”

“That damn book,” he said. “It’s going to follow me all my life.”

“Are you retiring from that … business or is the Glory Hole just a diversion?” It was a question she knew had been bothering her for weeks. He had never seemed just a saloon owner, and she’d sensed it.

“I’m trying to retire,” he replied with a wry smile. “It’s a hell of a lot better than dying in a dusty street somewhere.”

“And you picked the Glory Hole?”

“The Glory Hole picked me. I won it in a poker game. When I first saw it, I wished I’d lost.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You. I was told you’d chased out everyone else, and I had these visions of a real dragon. And then I saw you and knew I had to stay. I didn’t realize you’d try to shanghai me, but that just made me more determined. I don’t usually lose.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t expect you do. But you know I didn’t mean to have you shanghaied.” She hesitated, wondering whether he would believe her. “In fact, I saved you from it. I’d just told … a friend of mine in the police department that a little help would be nice. I thought he would find a way to close you down. When I discovered you were headed for a long journey, I stopped it.”

“So that’s how I ended up in jail instead of on my way to China?”

He looked so rueful, she had to smile. “Marsh. I like that. ‘Taylor’ never did fit, so I always just called you Canton.”

“Mmmmm, I like the way you say it.”

“Does it stand for Marshall?”

He shook his head. “My mother’s family was named Marsh.”

He had cracked open a door, and Cat wanted to fling it wide. “And where are you from?”

“I was born in Georgia.”

“And your family now?”

“All dead. Killed in the war.”

A muscle moved in his cheek, and she knew she had hit a vital spot, but she couldn’t stop herself now. “Your mother?”

“My mother and sister were killed by some Union renegades. They were raped and left to die in a burning house.” There was a hollow sound in his voice. “I didn’t know about it until eight months later when I got home … after Lee surrendered.”

“Mother” was not a word that meant much to Cat, but she heard the anguish in a voice he tried to keep hard and neutral. That he failed showed how much it had once meant to him.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It was lifetimes ago, darlin’,” he said.

“You had a plantation?”

He nodded.

“Slaves?”

“My family did. My older brother would have inherited, and I was going to be a lawyer.”

“I don’t think I would like owning someone else.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said. “You’re too fiercely independent, but when you’re raised with slavery, are taught that it’s right, even in church, you accept it as a way of life. My family was never cruel, never separated families, but I realize now how wrong it was. I probably knew it was then, which was why I never regretted the fact Rosewood wouldn’t come to me. I didn’t have to wrestle with the moral problem; my brother did.”

“Did you wrestle with moral problems?” This was a fascinating part of him.

“Once I did. When I was a young man, when I was in law school. But then the war came, and any kind of civility or morality was lost in just trying to stay alive. There’s precious little honor in war, darlin’, no matter what the books say. It’s killing, pure and simple. It’s you or the young Yank across the stream, close enough you can see each other’s eyes. You can see the fear in them. After a while your actions become reflexive. You stop thinking about it, because if you don’t, you’ll go insane.”

Cat felt a shiver run the length of his body, and she hurt for him, hurt for that young man whose illusions died. She’d never had any illusions, and she thought perhaps that had been for the best. It didn’t hurt to lose what you never had.

Is that why you became a gunfighter? Because it had become automatic? Somehow she didn’t think so. She wanted to ask that question, but she couldn’t. She had already pried into too many painful places.

He obviously thought so, too, because he leaned over and kissed her lazily, as if they had never had that conversation. It should have been an effective way of changing the topic. But it wasn’t. Not really. Because the kiss turned desperate, as if he were trying to find something lost long ago.

And she couldn’t give it to him. She couldn’t give him back his past, his illusions, especially his illusions. She found herself stiffening, and his kiss stopped.

“Cat?”

She felt like crying, and she didn’t want him to see her crying. So she found her mask and put it on; it hid a world of misery. Misery for him. For her. She didn’t want to be another of his lost illusions. Or hopes. “I have to go,” she said in an unsteady voice.

“I want you to stay here.”

The autocratic tone instinctively stopped her. She didn’t want to go, but she was too emotional now. She forced her need for him, her love for him, into anger. “You want?” she asked with a dangerous edge to her voice.

“Cat … Catalina …”

My name isn’t really Cat! She wanted to yell the words at him and end it all right now, but she couldn’t. She merely went stiff as she’d learned to years ago, turning off everything and everyone.

She watched his eyes harden, and he shrugged, releasing her hand and rising lazily. “Of course. Of my many faults, forcing a woman is not one of them.”

Cat felt sick inside. She knew him well enough now to know she had hurt him. But she would hurt him worse if she let this go further and he discovered all there was about Catalina Hilliard and Lizzie Jones.

They dressed, a still, awkward silence between them. Cat knew he had probably thought, or hoped, she would talk about herself once he had, and that he must feel a little rebuffed. He most likely wouldn’t say much more, and that likelihood hurt. She fought back that pressure behind her eyes. This was best. She knew it was best.

When she had finished the last button, she darted a glance at him. He was leaning against a wall, watching her every moment with the intensity of a cat watching a mouse.

As she started to turn for the door, he picked up something from the bureau. The envelope. “Yours, I believe.”

Cat looked at it. “Can … can I leave it here until tomorrow? The banks are closed.”

“Another favor, Miss Cat?” His tone was surly, and she knew he was frustrated and trying to hide it.

She flushed. “No,” she said, and reached for it.

He caught her hand. “Wait,” he said steadily, and his eyes had softened a little. “Leave it here. You can pick it up in the morning.” There was no apology, but then, she knew he rarely apologized. And she also knew he had no reason to do so now.

Her gaze caught his. “Can’t we be friends?”

“Just friends,” he mocked. “No, I don’t think we can.”

She knew he was right. There was something between them so strong that they could never be simply friends. Fire and dynamite. Exploding stars. Thunder and lightning and raindrops. Tears.

If only …

But there were no if only’s in this world. She was who she was: repugnant to someone of his background. A fine family. A fine education. No matter what had turned him to gunfighting, he still had the background and manners of a well-born swell. Never could their two worlds meet. She would run into someone who knew from the old days, just as James had found her. And Marsh would become a laughingstock for being with her.

It was that simple.

But she could tell him none of it.

Her eyes met his. “Then we can’t be anything.”

“Try to stop it, darlin’,” he taunted.

“I will. I can.”

“We’ll see.”

She spun away on those last words, leaving the money behind. She couldn’t bear for him to see on her face the effect of those words. She knew he was right, that the only way they would, could, ever remain apart for long was if she left San Francisco.

“Cat!” She heard his voice behind her, but she didn’t stop, and she knew he wouldn’t come after her. She knew so much about him, and so little still.

Except she loved him.

And couldn’t have him.

Cat expected to see James Cahoon appear in the Silver Slipper, especially after he was tossed from the Glory Hole, but hour after nervous hour passed, and he didn’t show. Her skittishness increased, and she knew that was probably what he planned.

But she wasn’t sure when or where he would strike. The newspapers? The courts? Thievery in the night. It was all possible.

Her mind worked all the possibilities as she moved around the crowded saloon, using James as a shield against thinking about Canton. About Marsh.

Teddy approached her as the crowd started dwindling away. “Do you mind if I leave with Hugh tonight?” His face colored, and Cat had to smile. He wanted to see Molly; that was clear. She had become extraordinarily sensitive to that particular need lately.

Cat nodded. The girls would be upstairs; she had her derringer. And unless James had changed more than she believed, he would be dead drunk by now, just as he’d almost been last night. He’d never held his liquor well; it was one of the reasons he’d been such a poor gambler. And the dissipation she’d seen on his face told her that, if anything, his drinking had accelerated.

The Silver Slipper and Glory Hole closed at the same time, and she locked up immediately after Teddy left. She took the cash box upstairs and counted the proceeds. It had been a good night for business. But then, they were all good nights.

Cat poured herself a glass of sherry and put out the light before walking over to her window. It was closed, and she raised it. The sound of the piano again. In her mind’s eye she could see him sitting there with the long elegant fingers running so easily over the keys, that disgruntled, ugly dog next to him. She wished she had asked him about that, about the music, but she’d really had no right to ask him about anything. She slid down to the floor so her ear reached the point just about the windowsill, and she leaned against the wall, listening. The gunfighter who played beautiful music and collected ugly dogs. She smiled at the thought.

She listened until the notes stopped, and then she slowly undressed, running her hands along the body he had touched and loved so well, as if she could keep a part of him by doing so.

Finally she slipped on a nightdress and crawled into a bed now unbearably lonely. Sleep, she knew, would be a long time in coming.

James Cahoon was thirsty. Very, very thirsty. His whole body craved a drink.

But he craved something even more. A measure of vengeance. No little bitch was going to get the best of him. Especially one that had stabbed him and left him for dead.

He’d spent the morning looking for an attorney. But they all wanted money in advance before they would talk to him. Only one seemed interested, and that interest died when he discovered James didn’t have proof of marriage. Other individuals, the lawyer said, had tried to ruin Catalina Hilliard, and they had all been destroyed, all except the new owner of the Glory Hole.

So James had decided to return to the Glory Hole, discover what he could, maybe find an ally, a partner. Instead, he was thrown out when he’d lost what few coins he had and accused the house of cheating. When he’d asked to see the owner, the black-haired man with the deadly eyes had appeared. Before James could open his mouth, the owner had told him to get out and not come back or he’d kill him. James, who’d known men like him, had no doubt he would do exactly that. The bitch had probably gotten to the bastard.

James had gone off and licked his wounds. With no money for liquor, he sobered up, and when he was sober, he got mean. He would get something for his trouble, one way or another.

He was feeling damn mean, in fact. She had looked down on him. Him! After everything he had done for her, taking her from that whorehouse and all: Look at where she was now. Nice dresses. Fancy place. Everyone cozying up to her. And she wouldn’t share any of it. She owed him, by God, she owed him for that wound, for those months of recuperating.

James bided his time in his room, entertaining himself with thoughts of what he would do with her. He’d couldn’t believe she had changed so much; he remembered her as skinny and scared. She’d been pretty enough, he supposed. Certainly, men had been willing to pay for her. But to him the prime attraction had been her fear. It made him feel strong, powerful. He’d liked that feeling. The control. He’d liked seeing the terror.

There had been no terror last night. That was what angered him most of all. There was hate, contempt, but no fear. The little whore had looked down on him. He picked up the knife he often carried in a special sheath strapped around his ankle. It was razor sharp, and he had cut his share of men with it. The knife was far better than a gun. Silent. And it hurt worse. He knew how bad it hurt.

And now he would make her hurt. And take whatever proceeds she had from the evening’s business. It had to be a lot, if the activity last night and today were any indication. Enough to get him someplace else, enough to give him a new stake.

It was nearly two in the morning when he strapped on the knife, pocketed a small pistol as an extra precaution, and pulled on his worn coat. Soon he would have another one. A new one. The thought brought a lift to his shoulders.

But he was still thirsty. God-awful thirsty.

Marsh felt infinitely weary. Bidding the last lingerers a good night, he closed the Glory Hole a little after Hugh left with Teddy.

He released Winchester from his room and fed him some leftover steak, watching the dog gulp it down with barely a taste. It was, he thought wryly, a little like watching a drunk gulp fine port.

He walked over to the piano, letting the fingers of his right hand move over the keys, and then as if seduced by his own tentative action, he sat down and started a Beethoven sonata.

His fingers moved into Chopin’s “Heroic” polonaise. Funny, how it all came back. All the music, all the notes, all the emotion.

All the man?

His hands moved on, at first almost automatically, then with increased concentration. The polonaise was a consuming piece of music, full of emotion and pride and defiance, and he felt himself giving more and more to it, drowning his thoughts in the demands of the composition. He was drained when he finished, feeling as if he’d not only completed the polonaise but in some way had started cleansing his soul, bringing back elements that had so long been missing.

Cat had been responsible. And he had no intentions of letting her go. It might take a while, but then, he’d always been stubborn.

He looked down at Win, who sat next to the wall watching him with those baleful brown eyes. Christ, but the damn dog reminded him of himself. It was damn scary looking into those empty, watchful eyes and seeing himself.

“Come on, Win,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk. And then we’ll keep watch over Miss Cat.”

The dog ambled to its feet, still keeping a certain distance but willing enough.

“We’re not going far,” he warned as he opened the front door of the saloon and held it open for Win. He locked it again, and then his hand went automatically down to his pistol.

This time he didn’t take Win down to the bay. He stayed within view of both the Glory Hole and the Silver Slipper, seldom taking his eyes from the latter. No matter what Cat said about taking care of herself, Marsh had seen men like Cahoon before. Cowards in many ways, they were the back-shooters, the ambushers.

And he’d had that odd premonition he sometimes got before trouble.

Noting that Win had finished his necessities, he turned back, not altogether sure the dog would follow, but he did. Perhaps they had established some kind of communication, after all.

The cool air had cleaned out the cobwebs in his head, and once back in the Glory Hole, he propped a chair in front of the window as he had before, poured himself a glass of whiskey that would last through the night. He knew a moment’s satisfaction as Win stretched out next to him, settling his head between two paws, as if he too were on watch.

Marsh didn’t know how long he sat there before he saw a figure starting up the stairs that led to the second floor of the Silver Slipper. Because of the shadows, he couldn’t tell whether it was someone who belonged there or not. One of the ladies, perhaps? Any weariness faded, and he was instantly alert. Win was on his feet now, growling slightly as if sensing Marsh’s apprehension.

Marsh rose from the chair and moved closer to the wall next to the window, watching the figure as it hesitated at the door and then leaned over, apparently opened it, and entered. A key? Someone who belonged? It seemed that way.

Damn those shadows. But he didn’t wait any longer. He would check that door himself, wake the whole damn place if necessary. He left Win inside the Glory Hole and quickly moved through the door to the street and across it, going up the steps two at a time. He checked the door by feel, and it opened easily. Someone had broken the lock.

The corridor was dark. He didn’t see anyone. Whoever had come in had known where he was going. He knew Cat’s room, and he moved quietly to it, then leaned his ear against it. He didn’t want to break it if …

He heard a kind of shuffling inside, a muffled noise, and then a man’s voice. “You little bitch.”

Marsh tried the door. It was unlocked. He took the gun from its holster and opened the door quietly, only then coming to an abrupt stop.

Cat woke, sensing immediately something was wrong. She heard the doorknob turning and knew the noise that had awakened her was probably a creak on the floor outside the door. Her first thought was the derringer. It was under her pillow, and her hand went to it, but in her haste it went skittering off the bed and clattering to the floor.

She started to reach for it, her hand frantically searching the floor, as the door opened, but the intruder reached her first and put a knife against her throat.

Even in the dark she knew who he was. A sickeningly sweet cheap cologne filled the room.

“Not so fast, Lizzie,” came the hated, remembered voice. “Now, don’t move or make a sound, or this knife might slip.”

Cat felt rage, total rage at his latest violation. All fear vanished. She could handle him now; she just needed time.

“What do you want?”

“Want? Merely what’s due me, dear wife.”

“Nothing’s due you,” she said, and the knife tightened against her throat. She felt a trickle of blood run down her skin before she felt the burning pain.

“Didn’t anyone tell you about unlocked doors, sweet Lizzie?”

Not her own bedroom in her own place. She had locked the door for years and then decided not to let fear rule her. This was her home. She clenched her teeth, wanting to pound at him, kick at him, but the knife was too close to her throat. One slip …

“You little bitch,” he said as he felt her resistance.

He forced her to her feet and moved toward the door, apparently to lock it himself as it swung open. Even in the dark she knew from the shape that Canton stood there, and she felt the knife cut her again as James’s body tensed.

“Let her go.” Cat had heard many tones in his voice: mocking, cold, warm, lazy. But never before had it dripped death.

She felt a tremor run the length of James’s body, but he only clutched her tighter.

“The saloon keeper,” James sneered. “And the whore. How fitting, or does the saloon keeper know all about our Lizzie?”

“Let her go!”

“Oh, no. Fire that gun, and my knife might well slip.”

Cat felt the bravado in his tone. And desperation. The desperation frightened her more than anything. She wasn’t sure what he would do.

Canton didn’t move.

“Come in and close the door,” James said. “Or I’ll cut her throat.”

Marsh hesitated, obviously unwilling to do the other’s bidding, then stepped inside and closed the door. Light from an outside street lantern filtered inside the room, enabling him to see well enough, particularly after his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkened hall.

“Now put the gun on the floor very carefully.”

Again Marsh hesitated, and Cat felt the edge of the knife cut into the side of her throat again.

Marsh slowly put the gun down in a slow, graceful movement.

“Too bad you interfered with my reunion with my wife,” James said. “Or didn’t you know she had a husband?”

From the twisted angle of her head, Cat saw the familiar tension in Canton. She wondered whether James had any idea how dangerous Canton could be. But now, apparently, James wasn’t thinking at all.

“Didn’t you?”

Canton shrugged as if the announcement were of supreme indifference.

“Did she tell you I found her in a whorehouse, she and her mother? Fifteen, Lizzie was, and as good as any of ’em. Bet she didn’t tell you that.” James was taking pleasure in this, she knew, and he also probably thought that Canton would leave in disgust.

She knew he wouldn’t. But she didn’t know what he would do later. She only knew she died a little inside as she heard James’s words.

“Yep, Natchez Under the Hill, that’s where I found her. Dumb little thing. Couldn’t read or write. I took her and married her, and the ungrateful bitch tried to kill me.”

“Too bad she didn’t succeed.” Canton’s voice was low and hard.

James’s grip on her tightened. It wasn’t the answer he expected. Cat wondered what Canton was really thinking, but now, as so often, it was almost impossible to decipher his reactions, particularly in the dim light.

Neither did she know what to expect of James at this moment. During their “marriage” he’d often slapped and beat her. He might well have killed her that last day so many years ago; in past years, though, when she’d thought of him, she had come to understand he was a coward.

Now he was like a rat in a trap, and rats didn’t behave in rational ways. Her neck was stinging in a dozen places, and her nightdress was wet with blood. The blade of the knife was very, very sharp, and she remembered that about him, the way he had always kept that knife sharpened.

She wondered about the girls down the hall. So far the tense voices in Cat’s room had been low. If only …

James changed his position slightly, but his knife never left her throat. Canton hadn’t moved. James turned his attention back to him. “Kick that gun over toward the bed,” he ordered as he took several steps backward and forced Cat to sit down on the bed with him.

Canton lazily kicked the gun a few steps, but not far enough for James to reach it. Cat heard her captor’s angry growl. She was beginning to feel dizzy. She felt James move his left arm from where it had encircled her, but the relief was momentary. His fingers caught her hair and pulled her head farther back, making her neck, and the knife, more visible to Canton.

And then she knew James was going to reach for the gun. She felt his body tensing for it. In the second that he did, he would have to let go of her hair. She also knew that as long as James had the knife at her throat, Canton wouldn’t endanger her. It would be up to her to make a move.

But James surprised her again. “You pick it up, Lizzie,” he said. “And be very careful when you do.” Keeping the knife poised at her throat, his other hand jerked her head forward by her hair until she was able to reach the Colt.

“By the barrel, Lizzie,” James then ordered. “We don’t want an accident, do we?”

Cat picked it up carefully. He was surprising her with his shrewdness, but then he’d always had a talent for self-preservation. Otherwise he would be dead now.

“Now I think our visitor should hear more about the life of Lizzie Jones. The way she used to help me cheat and sometimes entertain my opponents. She was very good at diverting attention, you see, and their minds were often on something more … interesting … than a game of chance.”

Cat had never hated as she did now. He was destroying the one really good thing in her life, resurrecting every minute of those terrible years, every feeling of hopelessness and degradation.

He jerked on her hair. “You tell him, Lizzie,” James said in the low, menacing voice she remembered so well. He apparently remembered the way she used to be paralyzed with fear, too, since his attention was wandering from Canton. He was enjoying tormenting her now. “Tell him how you used to whore. Or do you whore for him now?”

“Go to hell,” she said. “Kill me, and he’ll kill you.”

“It might be worth it, Lizzie girl. Do you have any idea what you put me through, all the pain, the indignity?” The knife pressed against her neck again, and she felt a new stinging.

“I wish I’d killed you,” she said defiantly.

“Ah, the little nit bites back.” His hand was trembling slightly now. Cat didn’t know whether he was getting tired, whether he was that angry, or whether it was fear. Nothing, she knew, was going the way he expected. That realization gave her courage, but she had to fight hard not to succumb to the growing numbness, the dizziness she was beginning to feel.

And then she felt James shake, and she knew that quiver in his hand was fear. He didn’t know what to do now. That gave her power.

She tilted her head slightly, feeling the sting again of a new cut. Canton hadn’t moved. The light was too dim for James to see Canton’s eyes, so he wouldn’t know what was going on there. But she knew. Canton didn’t like not being in charge. He was waiting to spring, but he would wait patiently until he knew the time was right.

Cat had to make it right. This couldn’t go on, or James’s hand would slip, if he didn’t cut her on purpose. And she couldn’t let him get the gun, or he might kill Canton. She suddenly fell against her captor, away from the knife as if she’d fainted. He instinctively moved his hand away from her throat, and in that moment Canton dived at James. The knife bit into her shoulder, but she twisted away from the brunt of the intended blow as Canton’s body hit James. The two men rolled down onto the floor, and Cat knew they were both desperately groping for the gun.

Canton was much stronger, but James’s hand had almost landed on the weapon, and she saw him trying to aim it at the larger man. Canton was swifter, though, his hand turning the barrel around, and Cat heard the deafening roar of a gun.

There was a cry of pain, and Cat knew it belonged to James. Then there was silence. Canton was still for a moment, then moved wearily away. He stood and went to the oil lamp, lit it, and came over to Cat, his hands investigating the wound on her shoulder as blood spread over her nightdress.

There was a frantic knocking on her door, and she heard Wilhelmina’s voice. “Miss Cat?”

“Tell them to come in,” she said, her voice a whisper. She didn’t want to be alone with him now. She wanted the horror to go away. All the horror. Including all the words that had been said.

“Are you all right?”

No, she wasn’t. She would never be all right again. All the lies were exposed now. The world she’d built was made of sand, and now a wave had washed it away, all the wonderful towers and walls and bulwarks. She felt naked and exposed.

“Yes,” she said in a dull tone, just as the door burst open and her eyes went to the girls, who seemed paralyzed by the sight of Canton and a blood-covered man on the floor, not to mention Cat’s own somewhat battered self.

It was obvious they weren’t quite sure what to do when they saw Marsh lean over her. All of them had weapons of some type, including a shotgun and a club. Wilhelmina lifted the club threateningly.

Cat forced herself to speak. “It’s all right now. He … Mr. Canton … shot an intruder.”

There were squeals of distress as the girls saw the cuts on Catalina, the blood-splattered gown. “Miss Catalina,” one said, “you look …”

“Like she needs a doctor,” Canton finished for her. No, not Canton—Marsh, Cat reminded herself giddily as waves of dizziness assaulted her. But that thought hurt too. She had to keep thinking of him as Canton. Less personal. Less hurtful. If anything could be less hurtful.

“I’ll go,” said one of the girls, and the others crowded around Cat, more or less pushing Canton aside.

Cat glanced up at him, trying to read his face, something that had never been easy and was even more difficult now. His face was again in the shadows, and his stance stiff. She looked down and saw the still body, blood pooling on the carpet. James’s face looked old, but his eyes seemed to stare at her with accusation.

She felt a towel against the cuts, the hesitant gentleness of Wilhelmina’s care, but all she wanted now was Canton’s touch. Canton’s warmth. Canton’s safety. But he had given all that to someone else, to someone he thought she was.

Now he knew nearly everything. She closed her eyes to this world, wishing she were anywhere else.

Wilhelmina moved between her and Canton, as if shielding her, and glared over at the male visitor as if everything was his fault. “Can you get … that out of here?” she asked, looking down at the body just feet away.

Cat struggled to think. Everything had happened so fast, and she felt dizzy and weak. Her shoulder hurt as did the many cuts on her neck. Worst of all, she felt dirty and exposed. James had made her feel that way, and worse, and now for the second time he lay at her feet. This time he was really dead. She didn’t know how she felt about that. Her hand trembled in Wilhelmina’s. “The police …”

Wilhelmina grimaced. “At least give her some privacy,” she said to Marsh, who was still standing. Watching. “She needs to change.…”

If Cat had not felt so terrible, she would have been amused. Wilhelmina didn’t usually assert herself, especially to someone like Canton. It was a measure of concern Cat hadn’t really expected. Perhaps she should have. Or would have if she had allowed herself to get closer to the girl. But she hadn’t allowed herself to get close to anyone, not until Molly … and Canton.

Again her gaze went to the silent man across the room. His jaw worked slightly as he reluctantly accepted Wilhelmina’s words. He nodded.

He started for the door, turned back, and strode toward her, parting the girls as Moses parted the seas. He very carefully took her chin in his hand, leaned down, and kissed her lightly. “My gallant Cat,” he whispered. “I’ll wait outside.”

Cat was stunned. She swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. There were a lot of things she knew she should say, first of all “thank you.” But any utterance was stuck in her throat, unable to fight itself through the sea of emotions. She could only stare up at him and wonder how he could accept everything James had said. Unless he hadn’t believed it.

He reluctantly let go of her chin and moved away toward the door as the girls stared at him with something close to amazement. Wilhelmina shook her head for a moment and then stood up. “A fresh gown and robe?”

Cat wanted to dress properly, to feel in control again, but she couldn’t, not with the growing agony of her shoulder. The pain was deeper, sharper, no longer dulled by what was happening. “Second drawer,” she said.

She tried to rise but couldn’t, and sat back down. She wished they could move James, wished those damn eyes didn’t seem to follow her. What would this shooting mean to Canton? Especially after the last one.

She wished she could keep her thoughts from spinning from one thing to another, but she couldn’t. Everything was going round and round, and she began to see double. Then the light seemed to fade, and she reached for the edge of the bed. She felt herself begin to fall.

Cat woke to the sharp odor of smelling salts.

Pain was everywhere.

Dr. MacLaren, who had treated Molly days earlier, was leaning over her.

“Miss Hilliard,” he said sharply. “Do you hear me?”

She nodded.

“Good.”

He held up two fingers. “How many fingers?”

“Two,” she said disgustedly as she looked over the room. Marsh Canton was not there. Neither was James Cahoon’s body. A policeman was. So was Wilhelmina, though the other girls were gone.

She started to sit up, but dizziness swamped her again. “You’re going to have to be still awhile, Miss Hilliard,” the doctor said. “You’ve lost a great deal of blood.”

The policeman moved to her side. “Can you tell me what happened.”

“An … intruder. He wanted the receipts. And more,” she said with a small shudder that wasn’t at all faked. “Mr. Canton apparently saw something and came to investigate. He … the intruder … had a knife. He would have cut my throat if it hadn’t been for Mr. Canton.”

The policeman nodded. “That’s pretty much what he said. That Canton’s a pretty busy fellow, though.”

“I owe him my life.”

“Well, I guess we can let him go.” There was a note of reluctance in his voice. “We had to see whether his story checked out. Two dead men in a month.” He shook his head. “Right in the heart, just like the other one.” He hesitated. “You wouldn’t know that dead fellow’s name, would you?”

Cat shook her head. “He was in the Silver Slipper the other night. That’s all I know.”

“Paper in his pocket says he’s a James Cahoon.” Cat went still, She didn’t want to think her name might be there, too, or any kind of connection.

She looked at the man blankly, and he nodded. “That’s all, then. I might have more questions later.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a pitifully grateful look. She hated doing that, but she didn’t want any more questions.

“I’ll leave you and the doctor,” he said uncomfortably, and left.

“I’m going to have to stitch some of those wounds,” the doctor said, ignoring the policeman’s departure, “particularly that shoulder.” It was only then that Cat realized she was nearly naked. Her clean nightdress, obviously put on her by Wilhelmina, was off her shoulder, and she felt padded cloth against her shoulder and her neck. She tried to move, and pain shot through her.

“Mr. Canton?” she asked.

“He’s outside with the police,” said the doctor. “I thought you two were feuding,” he noted with amused interest. “He sure as hell doesn’t act that way. Acts more like a worried husband.” He hesitated a moment, then continued as his hands gently explored the area around the shoulder wound. “I’m going to give you some chloroform,” he said, “before I sew that cut. You’ll sleep for a few hours, and you need that too.”

Cat started to protest. She wanted to see Canton, make sure he was all right, that he was not being held by the police. She wanted to see him more than anything in the world, and yet part of her dreaded it, dreaded what she might see in his eyes once he had time to think over all of James’s comments.

But most of all, she had to know he was safe.

“Not until I see Mar—Mr. Canton …,” she insisted. She stopped herself from saying “Marsh” just in time.

The doctor heard the determination in her voice. He’d confronted it before in other matters, and he shook his head in surrender. “Just a few moments, then. We’ll wait outside.”

Cat closed her eyes as she heard the steps retreat, the door open and then close again.

“Cat …” The voice was unusually hesitant, low.

She opened her eyes. He had stooped next to the bed so that his face was not far from hers. As usual he looked like her fallen angel, but now there was a stubble of dark beard shadowing his face. It was still the handsomest face she’d ever seen. She wanted to touch it, to know it was flesh and blood and not some dream.

She wanted to do so many things, to thank him, to ask if he had any trouble with the police, to touch him. Instead her eyes met his directly, and she blurted out what was festering inside. “Everything he said was true.” She had to know how he felt about what James had said. She had to know now. Her gaze never left his face, even as she heard the tiny quiver in her voice.

A vein jumped in his temple, though his expression didn’t change and his hand touched hers. Finally he said in a low voice, “Pretty Cat, I wish I could take the pain away, all of it.”

Cat felt a rush of tears then, the only ones she’d allowed other than the first time they’d made love together. She tried to blink them back, but they wouldn’t be blinked. Loss of blood, she told herself, but it wasn’t. It was his tenderness, his acceptance of the unacceptable.

The tears wandered down her cheek, and she tried, as a child sometimes does, to stop them with the back of a fist. But she couldn’t stem them. So many tears were back there. A lifetime of tears, held back until now by a will that no longer functioned.

“I … I’m … sorry,” she whispered brokenly. She didn’t want him to see her like this, and yet … she yearned for his presence, that quiet strength that didn’t judge, just offered a comforting presence. A loved presence.

But how could he? She had been nothing but trouble for him. First the beating, then Molly. Now this. She didn’t understand, but she couldn’t ask, because the emotion had choked her throat.

He took a handkerchief from somewhere on him and gently, silently, dabbed at the tears, and she noted his eyes weren’t like mirrors anymore at all, but were filled with a deep anguish of his own.

“Marsh …,” she started, hearing the trembling in her own voice, but he put a finger to her mouth.

“Not now, darlin’.” The drawled “darlin’” held a new nuance now. Not mocking, as it had been the first time she’d heard it, or passion filled, or quizzical, but softly possessive. “We’ll talk later. The doctor just gave me a few minutes.”

“Will you …?”

“I’ll be here,” he said quietly, and she knew he would be.

Drained of almost everything but a swelling love, she nodded, closing her eyes as he left but keeping his image in her mind.

She was barely aware of the doctor returning, of the sickly sweet smell she inhaled as she slipped off into a world that seemed truly safe for the first time in her life.

Marsh watched her sleep. The doctor had long gone, and Marsh had told Wilhelmina in a tone that brooked little disagreement that he would keep watch.

He had never seen so much pain in a person’s eyes as in Cat’s when Cahoon had spoken. Found her in a whorehouse, her and her mother. Fifteen, Lizzie was, and as good as any of ’em.

Fifteen. A child. He remembered his sister at fifteen. The sweet voice. The gentle nature. A child who still loved to run in the wet grass and marvel at sunsets. She had been the one who had made him see them in a special way. He ached for both those fifteen-year-olds now, for Cat, who apparently had never been a child, and for his sister, Melissa, who had never been an adult.

He kept hearing James’s words. Her and her mother. Christ, what chance had she? Dumb little thing. Couldn’t even read and write. What strength it must have taken to become what she was today! She had obviously learned to read and write, build a successful business, keep a city enthralled with personality alone.

She had built on her tragedy. Marsh knew he had done the opposite, had vented his grief and fury in destruction. Of the two, Cat had proved herself stronger, better, by far.

And she’d been so obviously afraid he would turn from her. She should be the one to turn from him, if she had any sense.

He remembered his careless words that first time he’d made love to her. I always pay for services rendered. Christ, he might as well have bullwhipped her or worse.

And the man who had called himself her husband? Who had apparently used her in the cruelest way possible? Marsh couldn’t help thinking the man deserved to die. Still, the ugly satisfaction he had felt at killing his mother’s and sister’s murderers was missing. He was so damned tired of death, of living with it on such a familiar basis.

He watched Cat’s now-peaceful face and wondered whether he could ever entirely put an end to that part of his life. Or whether it would haunt him forever. It just seemed to follow him, wherever he went.

Marsh didn’t know how long it was before Cat stirred. A small whimper escaped as she moved, and he knew she must be hurting under that bulky bandage that covered her shoulder and neck.

Her eyes opened slightly, and something frantic darted across them before she saw him and relaxed. That small indication of trust filled him with something close to pleasure. He took her hand. “Don’t move,” he said.

“You’re still here,” she replied with wonder.

He nodded. He wanted to say he would always be there, but he wasn’t sure that was possible.

“You look like a brigand,” she said with an obvious attempt at lightness.

His hand went up, and he felt the bristles on his face. He had forgotten about shaving. He had forgotten about a lot of things in the past few hours. “I’ve been that and worse, darlin’.”

Her hand went tentatively to his in the first spontaneous move on her part, and again he felt ripples of pleasure run through him. His fingers went around hers.

“Tell me.”

“Do you really want to hear?” he said.

“I know you’ve been a gunfighter,” she said simply.

“I’ve been a lot more than that. I was judge, jury, and executioner of an innocent man,” he said in a toneless voice, then went on to tell her the whole tale.

Her eyes clear and wistful, Cat brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it.

“I wish,” she said in words he remembered saying just hours earlier, “I could take away the pain, all the pain.”