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Muttering a low curse, Branch headed Satan through drizzling rain to the trail which would take him up the mountainside to the Silver Bullion mine. Inside his chest, his heart felt like an anvil. Somehow, he had to bring Jenna around. He couldn't let go of her now. For all he knew, she could be carrying his child. The thought lightened his heart for a moment until it occurred to him that, stubborn as Jenna was, a child might not be enough to erase her fear of love and convince her to marry him.
Damn that James Leigh-Worthington. If Branch had the bastard in his grip that very moment, he'd tear him apart, limb by limb, for what he'd done to his daughter.
Light shone from the window of the cabin he and Rembrandt used as an office, and where the older man slept most of the time. Fifty yards away, the bunkhouse where the few miners who worked for them stayed looked dark. Wood smoke flavored the air. A mule brayed in the corral. Except for the storm that had left him soaked and shivering, everything seemed peaceful and normal. Branch eased his tired body out of the saddle and looped the reins over the hitch rail.
At the door to the cabin, Branch scraped the mud from his boots on the edge of the rough wooden step. When he moved inside, he saw Rembrandt in a wooden chair in front of the fire, a large sketchbook on his knees. So absorbed he hadn't heard Branch enter, his grizzled head bowed over his work as his hand flew over the page.
"Hello, Pops." Branch hung his wet coat and hat on a nail in the wall.
Rembrandt straightened and looked up. The grooves bracketing his mouth appeared deeper, making him look older than usual. Tiny red lines tracked the whites of his eyes, and his clothes were badly rumpled. At first, Branch thought the man had been hitting the whiskey again. Then he noticed the new creases marking Rembrandt's brow and the strain evident in his expression.
"Is Eugenia all right?" Rembrandt came to his feet, letting the sketchbook drop to the floor. His gnarled fingers were black from the charcoal he used for drawing.
Surprised by the man's obvious worry over Jenna, Branch nodded. "Yeah, despite her stubbornness and her foolish notions, she's fine. What did you—?"
Branch's gaze caught on an image of Jenna staring down at him from the rough log walls. Rembrandt had always been hanging drawings here and there. But now sketches covered everything. And every one of them bore Jenna's likeness. Sweeping lines of grace and beauty—nothing like the shaky work Rembrandt usually produced. Inspiration seemed to have steadied the old man's hand and renewed the talent to which he'd once laid claim.
"Mother of Heaven," Branch muttered, moving from one to the other. "Did you do these?"
The older man remained silent, watching his young partner study the portraits.
"I've never seen anything so beautiful," Branch said in a reverent whisper. "Except Jenna herself."
He turned to Rembrandt. The man stood across the table from him, arms hanging at his sides. Despite his obvious fatigue, he looked proud. Branch saw something different about him that he couldn't define.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Branch went back to gazing at the pictures. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off them.
Over his shoulder, he said, "Paddy told me there was a problem."
"There is. Somebody broke into Drift No. 2 night before last."
Branch whirled to face him. "Do you know who?"
"No, but he took a good-sized chunk of ore with him."
"Damn!"
Rembrandt sat back down in the chair. "We have it secured again, but the thief is bound to come back."
"Yeah, and next time he might not come alone." Branch stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Are you sure it wasn't one of our own men?"
"If it were, it would be Jake Longan. He's the only one I haven't been able to question. I sent him to Salt Lake to pick up that dynamite we ordered. I didn't discover the break-in until after he left."
"Jake, huh? Jenna asked me about him today."
Rembrandt frowned. "Why? Has he been bothering her?"
The fierceness of the old man's tone sounded an alarm in Branch's head. "She thinks he might be her father because he's about the right age. Why? What do you know about Jake that has you worried, Pops?"
"Let's just say I don't trust the man."
"You did when we hired him. Come on, Pops, what's going on here?"
Rising from the chair, Rembrandt faced him. Something about his stance and the sternness of his gaze made Branch feel like a boy about to get a scolding. "First, you tell me something."
Branch nodded and waited for the man to continue, but he wasn't prepared for what he heard.
"Are you in love with Eugenia?" Rembrandt asked.
For a moment Branch stared at him, his mind reeling with questions. Lying didn’t occur to him. "Yes."
A slow smile formed on the older man's lips, but his voice held sadness. "There's only one thing that could make me happier than hearing you say that."
"What's that?"
The older man looked away, his voice so low Branch barely heard him say, "That she forgives me."
Branch's spine tingled with premonition. "What does Jenna have to forgive you for, Pops?"
Rembrandt slumped back into the chair and stared into the fire. "For trusting Benedict Treadwell. For accepting the bastard's word as gospel. For not searching harder for her and her mother fifteen years ago."
His face livid with anger, Branch grabbed hold of his partner's coat lapels and snatched him to his feet. Over the old man's head, Jenna smiled down at him from the wall. "Are you telling me you're Jenna's father?"
"Yes, son, that's what I'm telling you."
SLEED HENDRICKS HOOTED with laughter that made heads turn all along the carved walnut bar of the Promised Valley Saloon in Salt Lake City. "All this time I've been searching for that Leigh-Whittington bastard, and he's been right here under my nose."
Jake Longan frowned with confusion. "You've been looking for that girl's father?"
"That's right." Hendricks slammed his empty glass on the table and signaled for the barkeep to bring another bottle. "Fifteen years ago, he put a bullet in me, nearly killed me. Cheated me out of a gold mine, too. I swore I'd get him." Again, the marshal erupted in laughter. "And now, finally, I can."
Longan smiled. "You mean he was the one ruined your gun hand?"
Hendricks' smile faded. "No, that was McCauley. But I'll get even with him, too, before this is over."
"Well, just don't forget who put you onto him."
Clasping a hand on Longan's shoulder, Hendricks said, "Don't you worry, Jake; I won't forget."
The barkeep brought the whiskey and set it on the table. Hendricks paid the man and watched him walk away, shaking his head as he thought how he'd been duped by James Leigh-Whittington all these years.
"I can hardly believe it. Old Rembrandt, they call him, 'cause of them lousy drawings he used to swap for drinks 'fore McCauley sobered him up. Never could figure what made his hair so white. He ain't no older than you."
"If he knew you were after him, that'd be enough to turn any man's hair white overnight."
Hendricks chuckled as he poured fresh drinks. "Yeah, maybe that was it. Let's drink to that fine-looking daughter he's got. If she hadn't come 'round searching for him, I might never have located the sonuvabitch."
Jake tossed his drink down and held out the empty glass. "Drink to me, too, Sleed. If I hadn't gotten him tipsy that night, you still wouldn't know."
"Sure, Jake, sure. We'll drink to you, too." They swallowed the fiery liquid and gasped appreciatively as it hit their stomachs. "Now, let's get down to business. We've got plans to make. Before the week is over, Leigh-Whittington and his partner will be dead, and I'll be the new owner of the Silver Bullion Mine."
"What about the girl, Sleed? What are you going to do about her?"
"Why? Do you want her?"
Jake grinned. "I sure wouldn't mind having a little fun with a pretty little gal like her. No, sir, I wouldn't mind at all."
"Then she's all yours." Hendricks leaned across the sticky table and poked a fat finger in Longan's face. "But when you get done with her, it'll be up to you to make sure she can't do no talking, hear? We can't afford to leave any witnesses around to ruin things for us, now can we?"
"No, Sleed, we sure can't."
THE MOMENT JENNA CAME downstairs the next morning, she sensed the tension. Unusually quiet and restrained, Maura hustled toward her from the dry goods counter at the back of the store.
"Where's Branch?" Maura asked in a low voice, her eyes darting nervously about as she drew the girl toward the kitchen.
Relieved that he wasn't around, Jenna said, "I don't know. Haven't you seen him this morning?"
"No, and it's just as well. Come and eat; I kept your breakfast warm."
"Excuse me?" The man's voice came from behind Jenna.
"Hurry before your food gets cold." Maura tugged on Jenna's arm, trying to hurry her from the room.
"Are you Jenna Leigh-Whittington?" the voice said. Jenna turned to see a tall man in his mid-twenties, with light hair and honey-gold eyes.
"Yes, I'm Jenna."
With a sardonic smile, he tipped his hat. "Jason Tuttle, ma'am, from the Denver office of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency."
Taken aback, she stared at him in silence. Now she knew the cause of Maura's agitation. Knowing how Branch hated Pinkertons, Jenna had no doubt he and Tuttle would have come to blows by now had Branch been with her.
Maura's green eyes flashed angrily. "Sure, and he's been waiting for ye to come down since I unlocked the door this morning, getting in me way and making a nuisance of himself."
Tuttle ignored Maura and addressed Jenna. "William Pinkerton asked me personally to track you down, miss. He's been worried and furious both since he got your wire saying you were going after that killer, Black Jack Mendoza, alone."
"Well, now you can go back and tell him that I found Mendoza, and I'll be in touch shortly."
"You found him? May I ask where you're holding him?"
"Did I hear someone mention my name?" Miguel asked as he escorted Dove down the stairs.
"No!" Jenna motioned for the Spaniard to keep silent. "We were talking about someone else. Maura has your breakfast waiting. Go on in. I'll be there in a minute."
Tuttle stared Miguel up and down. "Who're you?"
"Miguel Mendoza, at your service. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, señor?"
"Black Jack Mendoza?"
Miguel gave the man a bow.
The agent whirled on Jenna. "Why haven't you got him locked up?"
"Because he's innocent." Jenna motioned to Dove. "This woman can testify that Miguel was visiting a Ute Indian village when that last robbery was pulled and when Sloan McCauley and Leonard Snipe were shot."
Tuttle turned his doubtful gaze on Dove. "You were with him?"
The Indian woman faced him with quiet dignity. "No, but he
came to see me before he left town to tell me he was going."
"And he'd barely returned when I arrested him the first time," Jenna put in.
Tuttle's eyebrows rose. "The first time?"
"Never mind that. The point is, Miguel is innocent."
The agent's gaze traveled up and down Dove. He seemed to sneer as he took in her satin dress. "Are you Indian?"
Dove's head rose as she faced him. "I am what you call Ute."
Tuttle looked back at Jenna. "No court's going to take a squaw's word about anything."
Miguel made a move toward the man. Understanding the Spaniard's need to defend Dove, and knowing Tuttle would use any violence against him as a reason to take Miguel into custody, Jenna thrust out her arm to stop him. "What about mine? Would my word be good enough for you?"
"Maybe. Can you prove he didn't kill Snipe and McCauley?"
She paled but firmed her chin. He had her dead to rights, and she knew it. All she could do now was bluff. She wasn't ready to expose her hand yet. "I can prove he didn't commit the train robberies and when the time comes, I'll prove he didn't murder anybody, either."
Tuttle smiled. "Well, till the time comes, I'll just take him into Salt Lake City and—"
"You can't!" Jenna barred the agent's way.
Behind her, Miguel spoke with forced composure. "I have surrendered myself to this woman, señor. No one else."
"Don't make no never mind to me. She has no authority here. I'm taking you in, and I'm doing it now."
The Starr appeared in Jenna's hand before Tuttle could make a move. "You're not taking him anywhere. He's my prisoner, and I'll see to it he doesn't go anywhere before this mess is straightened out."
Anger burned in the agent's gaze. "He's got to be locked up. You can't just let him run free on the hope that you can prove him innocent."
"I'll lock him up, but I'll do it here where I can keep an eye on him." Flashing Miguel an apologetic glance, Jenna took his arm and nudged him toward the door. "Sorry, Miguel. Looks like you're going back to the livery stable."
Tuttle followed and watched her secure the manacles around Mendoza's wrists and ankles. Glaring up at the agent, Jenna said, "Satisfied?"
"For now."
"Good. Go back to Denver. When you get there, tell that mule's rear end who's in charge of the police that he's wrong about women being unable to do anything but cook, clean, and raise kids. And tell him Jenna Leigh-Whittington is the proof."
Tuttle gave her a jeering smile. "You'll have to tell him yourself, I'm afraid."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, little lady, that until this case is resolved, I'm staying right here where I can keep my eye on you. And on your friend, Mendoza."
HALF THE DAY WAS GONE when Branch rode back into Park City. Thoughts of facing Jenna brought equal shares of eagerness and dread.
Why hadn't he guessed Rembrandt was her father? Going through the mining claims in Salt Lake City, he had come across his own claim for the Silver Bullion in partnership with James Lee. To Branch's knowledge, that was the only time the old man had used his shortened legal name. No one ever called him anything but Rembrandt. Yet the truth seemed so apparent now, Branch couldn't believe he hadn't seen it sooner.
He put his horse away in the stable, washed up at the pump, and went inside, hanging his hat on a hook on the wall. Maura and Jenna sat at the big table, coffee cups in front of them. He breathed in the rich aroma, along with the smell of mutton and fried potatoes left over from lunch. There was also a hint of honeysuckle that went straight to his groin.
As soon as she saw him, Maura leaped from her chair. She cast a worried glance toward the door to the mercantile and rushed over to him. "Branch, 'tis about time ye got back. Jenna needs to talk to ye. Why don't ye take her for a walk and—"
"Where's Miguel? We have plans to make." He couldn't look at Jenna, let alone talk to her, afraid he'd see the same fear and rejection in her eyes as he had last night when she'd kicked him out of his room. Afraid she'd see the truth he'd learned from Rembrandt in his face.
"Jenna can tell ye that outside." Maura nudged him toward the back door, took down his hat, and motioned for Jenna to come along. "Go on, off with ye."
He ignored the hat she held out to him. "What's going on? Why are you so all-fired anxious to get me out of here?"
Jenna rose and came to him, her face pale and harried. "Please, Branch—"
"I believe they're trying to keep you from speaking with me. Though I'm not sure why."
Branch spun around to see a man standing in the doorway to the mercantile. Young and good-looking, he had the wary look of a man who lived by the Colt strapped to his thigh. A gunman seeking a fight? A bounty hunter from Pennsylvania? Or someone from Jenna's past? His guts clenched. "Who're you?"
"Jason Tuttle." The man smiled. "I've been waiting to speak with you, much to the consternation of these two ladies."
Branch glanced at Jenna and saw frustration and anger in her eyes.
"Branch, please, come outside and let me explain." She took his arm and tried to steer him toward the back door again. He gently pulled away.
"What's going on here?" A bad feeling slithered to the pit of Branch's stomach. The man didn't look as though he could be a blood relative to Jenna. Yet Branch sensed that whatever the man wanted had to do directly with her. "Who are you, and what's your connection with Jenna?"
"I told you who I am. As for a connection between the young lady and me, it's not much, really. We work for the same outfit is all."
"What outfit is that?"
Jenna groaned. She flung herself around and aimed for the door. Branch grasped her arm and jerked her back. "Go on, Tuttle. Who does she work for?"
The man cast Jenna a smug smile. "Why, the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. She never told you?"
The color drained from Branch's face. He heard Jenna sigh and knew the man spoke the truth. Without another word, he headed for the mercantile, dragging her with him.
From behind, he heard Maura call out, "Branch, ye hot-headed fool, don't be closing your mind to what she has to say. Listen with your heart, and keep that foul temper o' yours in check, ye hear?"
He heard. Pain pierced his chest while rage thundered in his ears so loud it would be a miracle if he heard anything. His hand tightened on her arm. He hauled her through the store and took the stairs two at a time, not caring if his fingers left bruises on her flesh or if the customers below stared at them. She stumbled and fell, but he kept going.
"Branch, please. . .
Jenna's entreaties went unheeded. Her skirt tore as she struggled to regain her feet and stepped on the hem. The edges of the wooden steps scraped painfully against her ankles. One of her soft kid shoes came loose. She had to leave it behind. "Blast you, McCauley. You're hurting me!"
"Hey, what's going on? You can't treat her that way," someone yelled from downstairs.
Branch stopped to glare at the men gathering below, his icy gaze daring them to interfere. When they backed away, he threw her over his shoulder and went on his way.
Jenna closed her eyes and wished with all her heart she had never come to Utah.
Branch kicked open the door to his room. He stalked inside, tossed her onto the bed, then slammed the door shut and locked it behind him.
Jenna crawled to the farthest comer of the bed. He wouldn't listen to anything she had to say until he'd calmed down. She waited silently while he paced the floor, his big hands on his hips, his face white with unleashed fury.
"A Pinkerton," he muttered. "A goddamned Pinkerton!"
He came to the bed, glowered down at her, then stomped back across the room. Jenna waited.
Finally, he came to a halt facing the door. He braced both palms against the wooden panel and stood there, his head bowed as he fought to contain his temper.
The woman he loved worked for Pinkerton. And she'd never told him. Had fear kept her silent? Or plain old cunning? Had she come there to get him? No, if she had known of the bounty put on his head back in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania, she would have tried to arrest him right off. Tuttle also seemed unaware of the bounty.
Branch snorted, disgusted with himself. Only hours ago, she'd let him make love to her. Then she'd rejected his proposal of marriage and informed him she had no intention of ever marrying any man. The pain of it all felt like a thousand skinning knives thrust through his body.
Was she only another Lilibet, out for what she could get? Out to use him?
Damn! How would he ever get her out of his system? He had to end the pain somehow. He wanted to throttle her, but he knew he could never purposely hurt her. He loved her, dammit! But she felt nothing for him.
For lack of a better solution, he slammed his fist into the door. The wood splintered and gave. Blood oozed from his scraped knuckles as he wrenched his hand free. The physical pain he could deal with easier than he could what was in his heart, but it wasn't enough.
He whirled to face her.
She knelt on the bed, her lower lip caught in her teeth.
One hand reached toward him, and pain clouded her eyes. The hand dropped quickly to her side, and she sat back on her heels. Her chin lifted, and her expression changed to defiance.
"Why, Jenna?" His voice was hoarse with emotion. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would you have reacted any differently than you are now?"
"Yes, dammit! I—" He was about to say that he hadn't loved her when they'd met. Pride kept him silent on that score. She would never hear the word love from him again. "You had no reason to lie that first night in Echo Canyon."
"I wasn't supposed to reveal my identity to anyone except the agent I'd been sent to work with. And he was dead. I couldn't afford for word to reach Mendoza that a Pinkerton was after him. Becoming an agent was my means of getting to Utah. Once here, the job might not have mattered any longer, except that I needed the bounty on Miguel to finance my search for my father. Later, when I learned how you felt about Pinkertons, I was afraid to say anything."
He stared at her without uttering a word, the blood dripping off his fingers onto the bearskin rug where they'd lain naked in each other's arms only last night. His nostrils flared as he breathed rapidly through his nose, his mouth so tight it ached. He could almost laugh at himself. Almost. He had fallen in love with a Pinkerton. What a farce life turned out to be. It played a man like a cat with a mouse, laughing all the while. Probably laughing at him now, knowing that, despite everything, he still wanted her. She held her head high, her gaze steady and full of defiance as she sat on his bed. Memories of what they had done in that same bed the night before kindled a blazing heat in his groin. He wanted nothing more than to strip her naked then and there and plunge inside her.
Maybe he should. She'd used him, hadn't she?
Slowly he walked toward the bed.
Jenna's eyes widened as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it onto the floor. She watched him remove his gun belt and hang it on the chair back. Never taking his gaze from her, he sat down and pulled off his boots, then his socks. When he reached for the buttons of his denims, she felt a flood of liquid warmth between her legs. Her heart thudded against her ribs, and her breasts tightened in anticipation.
With his pants loosened so she could see the hair where it grew thick and rusty red, Branch rose and came to the bed. He drew her toward him, turned her about, and nearly ripped the buttons from the fabric, getting the dress off her. He made quick work of the rest of her garments. His touch held no tenderness, no love shone in his gaze as he laid her naked on the bed.
A heartbeat later, he lowered himself onto her, one knee pushing her legs apart. Never once did his eyes leave hers, his gaze rock hard and frozen, like bits of green ice. Jenna had a feeling he meant to tell her something, but nothing she wanted to know.
Then he was inside her, filling her. Hot shafts of pleasure bolted through her. She wound her arms around his neck and closed her eyes. He yanked her hands free and pinned them above her head.
"Look at me, Jenna." His lips stretched taut against his teeth as he drove himself into her, harder, faster. "Dammit, look at me."
She did. And she saw his pain, saw the desire, the fury, the regret.
When it was over, he rolled off her and pulled on his clothes. Color rose to her cheeks, and she covered herself as he glared down at her.
"I always wanted to screw the Pinkertons," he said. "I just never expected to have my own little Pinky in my bed." Then he was gone.
Jenna turned onto her side facing the wall, drew her knees to her chest, and cried.