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Jenna slowed the sorrel to a walk as she reached the lower bench of the Wasatch Mountains. One of the way-station keepers had told her the benchland marked the shore of an ancient lake which had once filled the entire valley. Gradually, the city came into sight, nestled at the base of an arm of the Wasatch Range. She reined in to admire the view.
The tinned dome of the courthouse and the larger, oval roof of the tabernacle were easily recognizable amidst the brick and wooden stores and office buildings. Beyond the town, the waters of the Great Salt Lake glistened in the sunlight.
Did Branch McCauley have a home somewhere among the houses she could see clustered about the town? A wife? Perhaps even children? Made no difference to her, of course. She was only curious.
Here and there among outlying farmhouses and newly planted fields, she spotted vestiges of a stone and clay wall as she rode toward town. Built for protection from Indians in the early days of the settlement, no doubt. Now it had been left to crumble in the wind and rain. On the hillside to the north stood a cluster of buildings around a parade ground. A sign said Camp Douglas.
Planting time. In the fields, women walked along behind the plows operated by their men, dropping seeds into the perfectly straight furrows. Children followed, kicking soil over the seeds with dirty bare feet and laughing as they tossed clods at one another.
Mormons. But only one woman per man, from what she could see. And none had horns. After all the tales she had heard back in Illinois, she felt both relief and disappointment.
Close to the heart of the town, the sorrel carried her past a magnificent archway that rose above an open gate in a high adobe wall. From atop the archway, a carved eagle warily eyed the travelers passing beneath and the man collecting their tolls. Behind the fence and back some distance from the street, a bell tower rose from the pitched roof of a schoolhouse. As Jenna passed, the bell clanged, signaling the end of the school day for children not needed in the fields. Doves burst from the belfry to scatter in all directions, spooking Gent. Jenna laughed and ducked as one of the feathered furies swooped low overhead while she brought the horse under control.
Cottonwood, locust, acacia, and poplar trees lined the unpaved streets. Ditches running down each side of every road watered the greenery. The houses were mostly adobe or wood, the nicer ones of brick or red sandstone with trellised verandahs and low, flat roofs supported by pillars.
Turning down East Temple, the main business street running north to south, Jenna watched for a hotel. She rode past rooming houses, restaurants, law and real estate offices, shoe stores, emporiums, banks, livery stables, and a shocking number of saloons for what she had expected in a Mormon city.
In front of a large, pent-roofed building fronted by a veranda, she guided the sorrel to a hitching post and dismounted. Overhead, a sign reading Salt Lake House squeaked as it swung from a flagstaff. Inside, Jenna signed the hotel register and paid in advance for a night's lodging. The balding desk clerk repeatedly blinked as if he had sand in his eyes. He studied the name she had written, poked out his head like a turkey about to gobble, and looked her over as though he found it difficult to believe she could be female.
"Meals are served in the dining room through that door. . . ma'am," he said between blinks. "If you'd like a bath, let me know, and I'll send a boy up directly with hot water."
"A bath would be wonderful." Jenna headed for the stairs to the rooms, then came to a dead stop. Turning back, she asked, "How many bathhouses are there in town?"
"Four or five, I'd say." His eyes grew round with sudden alarm. "But they aren't for ladies."
"Of course not." She tried not to laugh. In his shock, he’d stopped blinking for several seconds. Jenna winked at him. "But they might be good places to keep an eye on, should a lady be in search of a certain gentleman."
THE SUN LOOKED READY to set when Branch McCauley rode into town. He went directly to the office of the U.S. Marshal.
At a beat-up desk, a stocky man rested his head on the back of his chair, overripe apple slices on his eyelids. Shaking his head at the silliness of the sight, McCauley said, "Hello, Sleed. What are you trying to cure with the apples? Headache?"
Marshal Sleed Hendricks neatly caught the apple slices as he lifted his head. He had enough hair on his body to make toupees for a hundred men, yet his pate shone as bare as the tinned dome of the courthouse. "Eyestrain, from reading all these frigging wanted posters. Mustard and warm water's for the headache." He gestured to a basin where his feet were soaking. "What brings you to town, McCauley? You bring in one of your victims for the undertaker?"
"Never shot a man who didn't draw on me first, and you know it, Sleed. Just stopped by to ask about that train robbery near Ogden a couple of months ago." He tapped tobacco onto a thin slip of paper, drew the drawstring pouch shut with his teeth, and tucked it away, then rolled up the paper and twisted the ends.
"What about it? I covered nearly every frigging square mile of Utah and some beyond looking for the son of a bitch who pulled that job. If you know anything about it, best tell me."
McCauley drew on his cigarette, blew out the smoke, and tossed a playing card onto the desk. "All I know is that you likely found one of these in the express car."
Hendricks dried off his short, blunt feet and set aside the basin before picking up the crinkled card. He squinted at both sides, holding it at arm's length.
"When are you going to get you some spectacles, Sleed? It's a of spades."
"I can see that!" Sleed tossed down the card. "Three train robberies in the past two months and the bastard left one of these frigging calling cards every time. Black Jack Mendoza. Know him?"
McCauley's eyes grew cold and hard as he pocketed the card. "I've heard of him, and if he's the one who left this behind, you can be damn sure I'll find him." Before a certain young lady does.
The marshal leaned back in his chair and puffed out his chest.
"Well, just be blamed sure whatever you do is legal, hear?"
"It will be."
"Union Pacific's offering a reward. Got word this morning. Five hundred dollars." Hendricks' eyes narrowed. "Poster don't say 'dead or alive', but 'tween you and me, I'd as soon it be dead. Heard Mendoza's a real bad one. He don't deserve no slack."
Hendricks dragged on threadbare socks and muddy boots. A mongrel with one brown-patched eye, and an ear that looked to have been run over by a steam engine came out from under the desk and stuck his muzzle on Hendricks' knee. The marshal patted the dog's scruffy head and heaved a sigh. "Ain't so easy no more, riding in cold weather. Arthritis. Every joint. Shit, but it's hell to grow old."
McCauley chuckled. He'd first met Hendricks in Colorado back in '76, and the man had continually complained of some malady or other even then. "If it infected your knuckles, I could understand, the way you're always popping them."
Hendricks snorted. "Man can't get no respect out of you snot-nosed young bucks nowadays."
"You're not even fifty yet, Sleed."
The door opened, and a matchstick of a man entered, balancing a tray with one hand while he shut the door with the other. His eyes narrowed to mere slits in a scrunched-up face McCauley suspected had been stomped on shortly after the man’s birth. He smelled of a strange combination of sarsaparilla, chewing tobacco, and bay rum.
"Virgil," McCauley acknowledged the man.
Deputy Marshal Virgil Godbe sidled him a glance as he slid the tray onto the marshal's desk, then sat down and proceeded to clean his revolver as if he expected to have an immediate need for it. Hendricks shoved aside the wanted posters and removed the cover from the tray. Steam spiraled toward the ceiling from a mug of coffee and a beef steak floating in a puddle of beans. The dog whined.
"Hold on, Rags. Papa ain't gonna forget you." Hendricks cut off a chunk of the steak and dropped it, dripping, from his fork to the floor. Rags inhaled it in one slurp.
"Well?" The marshal cut himself a bite. "Gonna tell me how the hell you're involved in these goddamn train robberies?"
Virgil's head popped up. He fired a loaded glance at his boss before going back to cleaning his gun with quick jerky movements.
McCauley perched a hip on the marshal's desk and peered out the window to avoid watching the food slosh around in Hendricks' mouth. "Nope."
He ground the glowing tip of his cigarette between his fingers and tossed the dead butt out the door. Pain clouded his eyes. "Three weeks ago, someone gunned my brother down in Park City. One rifle shot in broad daylight from an alley. This card—" He tapped the jack of spades with his finger. "—lay near the spent cartridge."
Virgil fired another glance and looked away. He snaked a finger up one nostril, dug around a bit, pulled out the finger and gave it a flick. McCauley found him as pleasant as green cow pies and as smart as a rock, but he had a hunch the man knew something about Mendoza he didn’t intend to share.
Hendricks swilled his coffee and angled an eyeball at the gunslinger. "So, you think Mendoza killed your brother?"
"You tell me."
"Wish I could. I'll get the bastard, though; you can bank on that."
McCauley doubted it, but said nothing. "Have any idea where he might be hiding out?"
"Do you think I'd be sitting here if I did?"
McCauley wasn't sure. He stood up and went to the door. "If you hear anything, I'd appreciate you getting word to me, Sleed."
Hendricks put down his fork and followed the man out onto the wooden walkway. "Same goes for you." The marshal tucked his thumbs behind his suspenders. "Just don't stick around too long. Undertaker don't need your business, and neither do I."
"I'll stay as long as I need to. And no less."
The marshal nodded, turned to go back into his office, then stopped. "About Mendoza, I can tell you one thing, he's sweet on one of the girls over to—"
McCauley didn't hear. He was staring across the street as like he’d seen a ghost.
Hendricks' hand went to his gun. "You spot Mendoza?"
"No." McCauley nodded toward a young woman walking up the other side of the street. She wore a black dress with a fitted bodice and a white collar that suited her olive complexion and dark hair. The skirt hugged her slim hips, then swooped up and back over a slight bustle. "You know that woman?"
"Tasty looking piece in black? Come in not long before you, asking if she could put up that poster." He jerked his head toward the bulletin board mounted on the outside wall of the office.
McCauley stepped closer. "Fifty-dollar reward for information leading to the discovery of a miner known as James Leigh-Whittington. To collect, write Post Office Box 555, Salt Lake City." Well, now, that was interesting.
"She showed me the man's picture," Hendricks said. "No one I knew. I told her to check with the city police and put an ad in the paper. Said I'd ask around for her."
"Who is he? Husband? Father?"
Hendricks shrugged. "Weren't none o' my business."
"Did she ask about Mendoza?"
"Why would she have asked 'bout that scum?"
McCauley didn’t answer. He wondered what Hendricks hoped to gain by his unusually generous offer to help the girl. "Let me know if you hear anything about Mendoza. I may be in town a day or two."
The marshal smiled as he watched McCauley cross the street and follow the young woman, knowing the man's slight limp meant pure exhaustion. Unconsciously Hendricks massaged his right wrist. A bullet had fractured the bone three years before, and it had never healed right. He'd worked hard to learn to shoot left-handed and swore he'd get the man who'd shot him. Turning his head, he yelled, "Hey, Virg, get out here."
When the deputy appeared, Hendricks gestured at the woman.
"You been keeping an eye on her like I told you?"
"Yeah, but all she done is wander in and out o' stores. She put up more posters, showed folks that photograph." He scratched under his armpit. "Only thing she done kinda strange was visit the bathhouses."
"Bathhouses!"
"Yep, the back doors. Talked to the towel boys and left."
"Huh! Reckon she might be curious 'bout what a man keeps in his trousers? Maybe paying to take a peek?"
Virgil giggled. "Showin' her might be damned good fun, Sleed. I like dark-haired women."
"Yeah, it would be amusing." Hendricks picked up his plate, licked clean by Rags, and shoved it at Virgil. "Just you make sure, if she finds that father of hers, you're around to know about it. That Leigh-Whittington bastard has a bullet coming, and I aim to make sure he gets it."
BRANCH MCCAULEY PEERED through the window of Perkins' Emporium, past the display of men's smoking jackets with quilted satin lining. Inside, Eugenia wandered aisles crowded with merchandise. He wondered if she knew she was in a Mormon establishment no self-respecting Gentile would frequent. Not that he ever let that stop him.
To imagine her as the same little hellcat he'd paddled back in Echo Canyon seemed impossible. The same one who'd doctored his coffee and left him to die. His temper rose to high simmer as he watched her examine an assortment of laces. She tried on a bonnet piled with feathers and fake birds and thumbed through a novel he recognized as Anna Katharine Green's latest mystery, The Leavenworth Case.
Finally, she turned. A last beam of sunlight shone through a high window, casting her face in rosy sunset hues. McCauley's breath caught in his throat. With her dark curls dangling down the back of her carefully coiffed head and a few wisps left to fluff about her face, she appeared as delicate as Irish lace and more delectable than a fresh batch of current scones swimming in honey-butter.
Eugenia Leigh-Worthington—as seductive a lady as he'd ever seen. Heat rushed to McCauley's loins as he remembered the feel and taste of her. He tried to hang on to his anger, his need for revenge. He still had a sore bottom, thanks to her. Another spanking, bare skin to delicious bare skin, seemed in order. But everything appeared different now. No longer a hoyden in denims, she had become a lady. How could he paddle a lady?
She looked up. Her eyes shone with the same fire, the same testy bravado, he'd enjoyed in Echo Canyon. The same wild and independent spirit that made her so irritating, unique, and beguiling.
The hellcat remained inside the lady. His hellcat.
McCauley lost sight of her as she moved deeper into the store. He went inside and, keeping his distance, dogged her every step. When she circled a table of bed linens and started toward him, he bent his head and pretended to read a leather-bound Book of Mormon.
"May I help you, sir?"
The voice startled Branch. He glanced up to find the store's owner, Martin Perkins, standing beside him.
"Brother McCauley! I didn't recognize you."
"Hello, Martin."
Martin's eyes registered surprise, which turned to pleasure at the sight of the book in Branch's hand. "How long have you been in town? Luella will be upset if you don't stop by for supper before you go off to that mine of yours again."
Perkins was a short man with thin legs that appeared too fragile to support his thick, barrel-shaped torso. Branch had rescued the Perkins family when their wagon broke a wheel, and they'd become fast friends. Branch’s Catholic background, compared to the Perkins family’s Mormon faith, had never interfered. But Branch's interest in visiting the family had declined when fifteen-year-old Ila Perkins began looking at him as though he were an unmarried elder of the church—a priceless commodity in a Latter-Day Saint society.
Branch kept his voice low and one eye on Eugenia. "This isn't a pleasure trip, Martin." He explained about his brother's death and how his search for the killer had brought him to Salt Lake City. "Sloan was just a kid when I left Pennsylvania. I barely knew him, but he was my brother, and no one should have to die so young."
"I'm sorry. I know what your family means to you." Martin put a consoling hand on Branch's arm. "If there's anything I can. . . "
The storekeeper's voice trailed off as an altercation at the back of the store caught his attention. Both men turned to see an overweight matron loudly scolding an adolescent boy.
"Look what you've done, young man, spilled my purchases all over the floor. They'll be filthy now." The irate woman turned to a younger woman next to her. "I simply do not understand Brother Perkins allowing a moron to work here, even if it is his own son. The child's a blithering idiot. Just look at him; it's disgusting."
The Perkins boy straddled the counter, snatching at the nightshirts and woolen underwear he had begun to wrap up when the pile had gotten away from him. Two garments lay on the floor; another covered the boy's shoulder and head, partly blinding him as he struggled to hang onto those he had managed to grab.
Muttering a mild oath, Martin Perkins scurried off to save his son.
"It's about time you showed up, Brother Perkins," the indignant customer exclaimed. "That boy of yours is completely worthless, do you realize that? I swear if you don't get rid of him, I shall take my business elsewhere."
"Here, Robert." Martin helped his son wriggle off the counter, and took the jumbled clothing from him. "I'll take care of Sister Smythe, son. It'll be all right. You take a break for a few minutes in the back."
Spittle formed at the comer of Robert's crooked, open mouth as he backed away from the high-pitched whine of the woman's voice. His bulging eyes glistened with moisture, and he clapped his hands over his ears. Branch stifled an urge to order the ignorant woman to shut up. He started toward Robert, intent on comforting the boy when Eugenia stepped up to the counter.
"Excuse me, Robert. . . Is that your name?" She smiled when the boy looked at her. Robert blinked and took his hands from his ears.
"I wonder if you might help me," Eugenia said softly. "I noticed when you were speaking to Mrs. Smythe how knowledgeable you are about men's nightshirts. Do you think you could help me choose one for my father?"
Robert's mouth spread into a grin, and he nodded. Eugenia smoothly maneuvered the boy away from the woman still ranting at Martin. With only a few words and a smile, she set Robert's world aright and restored what confidence the boy had in himself. As soon as Mrs. Smythe left the store, Eugenia concluded her purchases and headed for the door. Branch waited for her outside.
"Hello," he said, falling in beside her.
"Oh, it's you." She covered the fear that flashed through her eyes with a careless shrug. "I suppose you think I need another spanking."
"That or a dunking in hot oil. I was debating between that and a public flogging when Sister Smythe started exercising her tonsils. I haven't made up my mind, but. . . after what you did for Robert in there, I might reconsider. If you're nice enough to me. Perkins and his family are friends of mine."
She came to a halt and glared up at him. "You were in the store? Spying on me?" Color rushed to her cheeks, and her eyes turned storm-cloud gray. Pure hellcat.
"I couldn’t even be sure it was you at first." He grinned as his gaze roamed approvingly over her. "Quite a change. No Starr, even. Or have you hidden it in your skirt somewhere?"
"I'm so glad you approve. As for the Starr, I think I'll just let you go on worrying about that." She resumed her brisk walk until she became aware of his limp. Then she paused to peer in a store window and continued more slowly.
McCauley recognized her ploy and chose to see it as consideration rather than pity. "Tell me what you put in the coffee."
"Red elderberry bark. Old Indian cure for bowel obstruction. 'Branch put his hand on his abdomen and grimaced at the memory of the time he had spent groaning in the bushes. "Damned effective. Too bad I hadn’t been suffering any real obstructions. Except for you that is."
She didn't bother to hide her smile. "I have a lot more cures where that came from. You might keep that in mind as you plot your revenge."
He chuckled. "Don't mince words, do you?"
An attractive flush colored her cheeks. "I am what I am, Mr. McCauley."
He bit back the retort that came to mind. "Yes, well, what you were back at the emporium I would call 'nice.'"
Her eyes narrowed in a look of challenge. "Nice enough to let bygones be bygones?"
Branch shrugged. "Maybe. Robert's always been sort of special to me. A bit slow, but not the moron people like Mrs. Smythe call him. Martin told me he had been a perfectly normal toddler until a fever nearly killed him. Since then. . ."
Jenna said nothing. She was well accustomed to dealing with people who weren't quite normal. But she wasn't prepared to talk about her mother to a man who was still a stranger; perhaps even an enemy.
"Anyway," Branch continued, "I'm grateful for what you did, and I'm sure Martin is, too."
She sidled a speculative glance his way. "Grateful enough to take these nightshirts and undergarments off my hands? I don’t have the slightest idea what to do with them."
"Why did you choose that store, anyway? Perkins Emporium is a Mormon establishment." His eyes twinkled as he leaned closer. "One that Gentiles don't frequent."
“Gentiles?”
“Non-Mormons.”
"Oh. Well, you evidently go there. Does that mean you're Mormon?"
His heart quickened at the disappointment that flashed through her eyes. "No, I just don't hold grudges against folks who are." He lifted an eyebrow at the large size of her package. "Robert's talents as a salesman must be improving."
"He's a sweet boy, actually."
To his surprise, Branch found he was enjoying himself. Suddenly, he knew if he had a chance to lay hands on her, it wouldn't be to paddle her.
The hour being too early for making the rounds of the gaming houses in search of Black Jack Mendoza, Branch decided he had time for supper at least and a bath.
Besides, he still wanted to find out why she wanted the gambler. "Tell you what, go to supper with me and maybe a buggy ride afterward, and I'll return these to Martin and get your money back for you. How's that?"
Jenna pursed her lips and studied him. What was it about him that made him seem attractive today? Something more than broad shoulders and powerful arms, more even than the rough-hewn features of his face. Perhaps it was the predatory look of the man that made him appear exciting and sensuous—despite his beard. And the limp that somehow made her want to take care of him. "I don't want to get Robert in trouble."
"I'll make sure he doesn't."
"All right. What time?"
"Say. . .an hour? That should give me enough time to return your purchases and get a bath." He gave her a wink. "Care to come along and scrub my famous backside?"
"Infamous is more accurate, McCauley, and no, I wouldn't." She shoved the packages into his arms. "I'll meet you outside the Salt Lake House at six o'clock. Until then—" With an impudent grin, she saluted him, spun gracefully on her heel and hurried down East Temple.
Watching the gentle, seductive sway of her skirt as she walked away from him, Branch smiled and shook his head. Hellcat or lady, Miss Eugenia Leigh-Whittington might not be the most exasperating woman he had ever met, but the most fascinating.
Fifteen minutes later, he once again left Perkins' Emporium, humming an old Irish ditty. He headed up East Temple and turned on First South. In the middle of the next block, he limped into the
Wasatch Bathhouse, eager to soak his aching leg in a hot tub.
AT HER HOTEL, JENNA stripped off her dress and soaked a washcloth in the water she'd poured into the basin.
What kind of fool was she, agreeing to have dinner with Branch McCauley? Insane. He was the last man in the world she wanted to become involved with. A gunslinger, for heaven's sake. Of course, he couldn't be all bad, befriending people like the Perkins. But any woman who let herself get swept off her feet by a man, saint or sinner, proved herself an idiot.
And didn’t include Jenna.
She frowned at the knock on her door. Not more than twenty minutes had passed since she'd left McCauley. He couldn't have bathed and gotten here already. Besides, she had told him to meet her downstairs. Snatching a towel off the rack of the oak washstand, she stepped to the door. "Who is it?"
"Billy, ma'am. You said you'd give me a dollar if I saw a man in the bathhouse with a scar on his. . . you know."
Jenna cracked open the door and peeked out at a towheaded twelve-year-old, wearing patched overalls and smelling of shaving soap. "Can you describe him, Billy?"
"He's old, ma'am, around thirty, I'd bet, and dark like a Mexican. But he has the scar you asked about."
Not much to go on, but she'd have to check it out. At least this settled the issue of her date with McCauley. Just as well. "All right, Billy. I'll meet you at the back door of the bathhouse in ten minutes."
She had almost shut the door when she yanked it open again.
"Wait, Billy. Which bathhouse?"
"The Wasatch, ma'am, on First South."