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Midnight came before Rembrandt discovered Branch sprawled unconscious in a chair at a corner table in Pape's Saloon. His arms lay folded on the scarred wood in a dried puddle of whiskey, his head resting on his arms. An empty glass, a fallen whiskey bottle, and an ashtray full of cigarette butts littered the table.
"He's been there half the day." Pape stood behind the bar wiping glasses. Tomorrow being a workday, most of the customers had already gone home. Three remained playing faro at a far table. Two more stood at the bar enjoying a nightcap.
"I've never seen him tie one on like that," Pape said. "Something awful big must be eating at him."
Rembrandt shook Branch. "Wake up, son."
Eyelids as dry as grit blinked open as Branch raised his head. Pain throbbed in his temples, and he grimaced. Closing his eyes, he groaned and lay back down.
Rembrandt shook him harder. "You go back to sleep, and I'll douse you with a bucketful of water."
"Take it easy, Pops." Branch brushed him off and sat up. His vision blurred as he stared up at his partner of three years. "Well, did you hear? How does it feel to have a Pinkerton for a daughter?"
"Right now, it feels damn lousy. What did you do to her? She
won't come out of her room."
Branch sobered all too fast, remembering how he had taken Jenna and the crude words he'd thrown at her before he'd left. Guilt washed into his throat like bile. He forced it back down. He was the one who had been deceived. He'd offered her his heart, and she'd tromped on it. Unable to look Jenna's father in the eye and too stubborn to admit he was wrong, he muttered, "I only did what she'd been trying to do to me."
The fist came out of nowhere. The chair tipped over, and he crashed to the floor. Lying on his back, his legs tangled with the chair legs, he rubbed his jaw and stared up at the older man, surprised at the wallop the punch had contained.
"You've been like a son to me, Branch." Rembrandt massaged his bruised knuckle. "You pulled me out of a gutter of my own making, and I'm grateful for that. When you told me of your feelings for Jenna, I was happy to think she was getting as fine a man as I could hope for. I know you're hurting, but that's no excuse for the way you're acting."
Rembrandt walked to the door, then turned back. "That Pinkerton insisted Mendoza be locked up. Jenna put him in the livery, but she won't be able to keep him there if that detective decides to take him. If you can't pull yourself together for her sake, do it for Sloan. It's his murderer going Scot-free while you wallow in booze and self-pity. Dammit, Branch, you're a man. Act like one."
For a long time after Rembrandt left, Branch sat at the table, chewing his lip and mulling everything over. Pops had it right, and Branch knew it. He'd been a bastard to Jenna. But she'd made her feelings toward him plain, hadn't she? Her desire for him was obvious, but not the same as love. And he refused to settle for less. Except, after what he had done to her today, love was the last thing he could expect from her now.
Catching Sloan’s murderer mattered more. Rembrandt had been right about that.
When Branch entered the kitchen the next morning, Dove was helping Maura drain the grease from a panful of crisply fried bacon, while Kathleen put a pan of biscuits in the oven. At the table, peeling potatoes onto an old issue of the Deseret News, stood Jenna.
The instantaneous desire that hardened his body merely at the sight of her, leaving him aching and empty-feeling, renewed his anger. He bent close as if to kiss her and whispered, "Morning, Pinky. Miss me?"
She grabbed a handful of beard and held the knife in front of his nose. "Maybe I deserved what happened yesterday, McCauley, and maybe not. But if you ever touch me again, I'll ream your insides out. And I won't do it with herbs. You got that?"
Without waiting for a reply, she threw down the knife. It somersaulted once and embedded itself in the thick pine tabletop. Without another word, she shoved him aside and stalked from the room.
"Now, what have ye gone and done, me fine brother?" Maura demanded.
He gazed at the knife. The bone handle vibrated with a sharp hum, echoing the throbbing pain in his head. He closed his eyes and dropped into a chair.
"Sure, and now you're feeling sorry for yourself," Maura ranted. "Well, don't be expecting me to, 'cause I won't. 'Tis ashamed of ye I am, Branch McCauley; and I never thought I'd ever feel such for any kin o' mine."
"Lay off, Maura, and get me some coffee. My head feels like someone's setting off blasting charges inside."
"Good. How about some nice greasy bacon and eggs to go with the coffee?"
His stomach roiled at the thought of congealed fat and ninny eggs. His hand went to his abdomen, and he grimaced.
Chuckling, Maura fetched his coffee, then sat down beside him while he sipped the hot brew. "You've done Jenna a grievous wrong, and ye know it. In her position, you'd have done the same as she did. What matters now is what the two o' ye feel for each other and what ye aim to do about it."
He stared into the dark liquid, resisting the truth of her words. "I can't do anything about it now. We've got to find some way to force Hendricks into showing his hand, so we can clear Miguel and avenge Sloan's murder."
"And after that?"
He shrugged. "Leave it alone, Maura. Some things just have to take care of themselves."
"Aye, and most left alone never do."
He went out. Maura watched him go, her hands planted firmly on her hips. A smile spread slowly across her face.
Dove chuckled. "If there is one thing I know after living at Aunt Fanny's, it's scheming women. If I'm not wrong, I'm looking at one now."
Maura laughed. "Aye, you are at that, me girl. You are at that."
BRANCH SPENT THE MORNING at Watt's and Brizzie's Livery with Miguel and Rembrandt, discussing ways to trap Sleed Hendricks.
"You could always beat a confession out of the man," Rembrandt suggested. "That would seem to suit the style you've adopted lately."
Branch glowered at him. "You know, Pops, I'm not sure you were cut out for fatherhood."
A gentle but bitter smile formed on the older man's lips. "Perhaps that's why life stole my one chance away from me. Jenna was probably better off without me."
Miguel's gaze went from man to man, coming to rest finally on Rembrandt. "You, señor, you are her padre?"
"That's right, he is," Branch answered. "But she doesn't know it yet, so keep your mouth shut."
"I would never give away a secret, yet I must confess I am very much curious as to how this came about."
Branch snorted. "It came about in the usual manner, Mendoza."
Placing a hand on Branch's shoulder, Rembrandt spoke to the Spaniard, "You know he didn't mean that." Then to Branch. "I don't mind answering his question, son."
When the old man finished his tale, Miguel frowned. "You say this happened in Colorado fifteen years ago?"
"About ten miles outside Central City."
"Ah, señor, Life is strange, is it not?"
"What do you mean by that?" Branch asked.
"I was but a boy fifteen years ago," Miguel began. "I was what you call hardheaded, and my goddess Fortuna, she was not smiling on me. I am ashamed to say I became involved with a gang of bandidos. When they began to brutalize a man's wife to force him to give up his gold claim, I objected. The woman looked close to giving birth, and it angered me to see her hurt. I received a black eye for my effort."
Rembrandt's eyes widened. "The Mexican boy who tried to stop them. Yes, I sensed something familiar about you. The leader of the gang made you go with him when he took me to find my claim. He thought once you had participated in robbing me, you would have to keep silent about their nefarious activities."
"Si. Hendricks. When you jumped him, I saw my chance to escape. But I grieve to hear your life did not go so well after that, Señor Rembrandt. I should have stayed to help."
"That might have made a difference, I suppose." Rembrandt gazed at the straw-littered floor filled with sadness and guilt as he remembered that long-ago day. Then his head came up, and he stared at the Spaniard.
"Why did you say Hendricks? What has the marshal to do with it?"
Miguel's brows rose. "You did not know? Sleed Hendricks was the man who led that gang of claim jumpers, the same man who ordered your wife killed if he did not return that day."
"Good Lord!" Rembrandt stood and paced the aisle outside the stall where Miguel sat chained up. "Why didn't I know? Of course,
the last time I saw the man he had hair. And a beard."
"He was younger, too, don't forget," Branch pointed out. "Thirteen years younger than when you met him again here in Utah."
"Yes." Rembrandt shook his head. "The man vowed to get even with me that day after I shot him. I hid under this—" He ran a hand over his cloud of white beard. "—and drowned my sorrows in Irish whiskey. When men started calling me Rembrandt, I encouraged it. It suited me to keep my real name to myself."
"Pops, I think you've hit on the answer to our problem."
Rembrandt looked up at Branch. "What do you mean?"
"I mean Hendricks must not know who you are, either."
"By heavens, that's true. If he'd recognized me, he'd have found a way to kill me by now. But how does this answer our problem?"
"Simple. We'll send Sleed a message from Miguel, offering him your hide if he'll let Miguel go free. We'll tell him that if he wants you, he's to come here. Or anywhere; it doesn't matter. You get him to confess to jumping your claim, and we've got him. You must be as eager for revenge against the scum as I am, for Jenna's sake."
"I used to think about it all the time, but I’ve never been any good with a firearm. I wounded him that day by accident. For a while, I hoped he was dead. I even went back later and searched for his body. But most of the time, I was too immersed in self-pity to retaliate against my fate. Without Ada and my little girl, nothing seemed worth fighting over. Besides, he had vanished from the area, and no one knew where."
The thought of all Rembrandt and Jenna had suffered because of Hendricks made Branch's blood boil. He wondered if the marshal could be connected somehow with Sloan's death, but couldn't see how. Even if the man had thought he was shooting Branch, what could have been his motive? Hendricks had no reason to want to see Branch McCauley dead. None Branch knew of, anyway.
"The infant, señor," Miguel said to Rembrandt, "your Jenna is too old to be the little one your wife carried in her womb only fifteen years ago. What happened to the bebe?"
Rembrandt gave a sad shake of his head. "I assume the child died. Jenna claims not to have a brother or sister. I found a tiny grave behind the cabin when I recovered from my wounds and made it back home to find Ada and Eugenia gone."
"My sympathy, señor. After hearing your story and knowing my part in it, I am more eager than ever to see Hendricks pay for his crimes." Miguel turned his gaze on Branch. "I wonder if perhaps the Pinkerton could stand as witness when we force the marshal's confession."
"I wouldn't give him the satisfaction," Branch growled. "I'll get Constable Moore to help."
Rembrandt shook his head. "I don't know. We're talking about going up against a U.S. Marshal. Hendricks carries weight around here, and he and Moore have worked together many times. What if Moore chooses to believe him instead of you? He might warn Hendricks."
Branch took off his hat and raked his hand through his ruddy hair. "What in blue blazes do we do, then?"
"Put your animosity for the Pinkertons aside, son, at least until we get this matter cleared up. Pinkertons are only men doing a job. Show them they're wrong, instead of sitting around letting your hate eat you up."
As much as it irked Branch to admit it, the old man's words made sense. What Jenna said about him studying law, so he could do something truly worthwhile for the working man did, too. At least, in this instance, he would be using the Pinkertons as much as they would be using him. "All right. Let's go talk to Tuttle."
Branch and Rembrandt left the livery together and walked up the street, only to find it completely blocked. Horses, mules, wagons, and no less than two hundred men milled about in front of the Silver Bullion Hotel and Mercantile.
"Mother Mary!" Branch muttered. "What in blue blazes is going on now?"
BRANCH ELBOWED HIS way through the crowd in front of the mercantile, ignoring the men’s complaints.
"Hey, stand in line like everyone else," a miner yelled. "Yeah, take your turn."
"Ah, let him go. Rough bloke like him ain't gonna be no competition for us with Miss Jenna."
"Shut up, you idjet. That's McCauley."
"The gunfighter?"
Rembrandt followed in Branch's wake until they wrangled their way through the doors. Inside, the store was every bit as packed as outside. At the head of the line, they found Maura with one pencil tucked behind her ear and another in her hand as she took down the men's names.
"Your appointment is for ten tomorrow morning," she told a sandy-haired boy no older than eighteen. He thanked her and left.
"Next," Maura called.
Branch butted in. "What the devil are you doing, Maura?"
"Watch it, mister, I was next, not you." The man speaking only reached Branch's armpit, but he had the shoulders of an ox and looked strong enough to haul a wagonload of ore on his back. Even so, Branch reared back his fist ready to hit him.
Rembrandt stepped in between. "Hold on, there's no need for violence. My friend and I own this establishment, friend. We only want to speak with Mrs. Trenoweth."
The miner backed off. Branch hauled his sister to a corner where they could speak privately. "All right, what's going on?"
Maura shrugged, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Nothing to do with you, brother mine. 'Tis only that word seems to have leaked out that there's an unmarried lady on the premises. I'm merely trying to bring order to a situation that looked ready to explode. The poor girl was nearly mobbed when she tried to go out."
"You mean all these men are here to see Jenna?"
"Aye, but today they only get to meet her for fifteen minutes. Later I'll be posting a notice outside, listing those she'll allow to court her. And which lucky man gets to escort her to the festivities tomorrow."
"What festivities?"
"Have ye forgotten? 'Twill be Independence Day." Dove appeared beside them, grinning. "All these men lined up to see a woman remind me of Aunt Fanny's, doesn't it you, Branch?"
"Maybe we should send you out to them," he snarled. "As a professional, you should know how to handle them."
Dove let his angry words slide off her back. "Oh, but they're not interested in me."
"Why not?"
"Because I am not available. Miguel asked me to marry him, and I accepted."
The reminder of Branch's failure in the proposal department hit him with the force of a double-drill. "Where is Jenna?"
"In her room, but don't ye go yelling at her now. 'Tisn't her fault the men here be so woman-hungry."
Like a grizzly whose honey stash had just been stolen, Branch barreled up the stairs.
-Oblivious to the mayhem downstairs, Jenna sat on her bed brushing her hair when he burst into the room, Maura hot on his heels. Whirling to face him, she said, "Who do you think you are to come bursting in here as if you—?"
"I'm not one of that mob waiting down there to drool all over you as if you were a prime cut of beef or something."
"What are you talking about?"
Behind Branch’s back, Maura waved frantically. Jenna frowned at her. "What are you doing, Maura?"
Branch turned to see his sister with one finger over her lips, her other hand gesticulating wildly. He shoved her from the room and locked the door.
"You know what I'm talking about. I want to know what the hell you're up to now."
To stall for time and clear her confused brain, she tucked a curl more firmly into the mass cascading down her back from a ribbon tied at her crown. "At last measure, I was still five-foot-five. What scheme?"
He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around to face him. "Dammit, Jenna, all those men waiting downstairs to court you. You told me you had no intention of marrying any man."
Jenna went to the window and peered out. She had no idea what was going on, but knew Maura had a hand in it, and schemed to get her and Branch back together.
Jenna saw it as a good chance to needle him. "Seems you haven't heard the latest news, McCauley. Agent Tuttle informed me I've been fired. I may have to marry just to feed myself." She broke from his hold and stormed across the room. "What do you care, anyway? You hate me, remember?"
He growled. "Lord, if I had half a brain in my head, I'd paddle your behind and—"
She drew the Starr from her skirt pocket. "Try it, McCauley. Just try it."
Cursing, he pivoted toward the door and gave it a yank, forgetting he had locked it. He rattled the knob, and it refused to open. Maura had locked it from outside.
With a howl of rage, he kicked at the wooden panel until he had a hole big enough to step through. Glaring back at Jenna, he said, "You'd better keep that pistol handy, Pinky, 'cause you and I aren't finished yet. Just remember what I told you back in Echo Canyon about drawing on a man you aren't prepared to shoot." Then he was gone.
BRANCH SPENT ANOTHER night at the mine with Rembrandt. Maura moved Jenna into his room at the hotel until the door was fixed on hers. Jenna tossed and turned, entirely too aware of the scent of Bull Durham on the sheets and pillow. Branch's scent.
He was all around her. In the buffalo horn comb, the toothbrush, and the Oakley's Bay Rum on the washstand. In the dirty shirt and woolies tossed beside the wardrobe. In the battered work boots in a corner. She could not escape him here, or the memories of the other times she had lain in his bed.
In the wee hours of the morning, she gave up trying to sleep. She slipped into her borrowed wrapper, went to the open window, and looked out on the night. A brief afternoon shower had left everything smelling fresh and clean. The breeze held a hint of pine from the sawmill no doubt, since the hills close to town had already been stripped of timber.
Wandering to the washstand, she picked up the comb. A single hair of pale red clung to the tines. She plucked it out and wrapped it around her finger. Was Branch sleeping? Or lying awake like her? She'd never seen him as angry as when he found the men waiting to meet her. Unless it was when he learned she was a Pinkerton. It might have made her smile if she hadn't been so miserable.
No question now of her not going home once she'd found her father. The sooner she left Utah behind, the sooner she'd be able to get Branch McCauley out of her system. Maybe in Chicago, she could get a job with one of the other security agencies. Chicago was too big, too crowded for her taste, but with her mother to worry about, she had few options. The only vocations open to females in Meadowood were marriage and motherhood. For Jenna, that meant no choice at all.
Thanks to Maura's plot to reunite her and Branch, Jenna would be expected to spend time with almost two hundred lonely miners on the morrow. She had contemplated shooting both the Irish redhead and her Ute cohort. After meeting the first twelve men, contemplation changed to conviction. Four of the men proposed at first sight. Two had tried to kiss her. One spoke only Dutch, another German.
Those who spoke English told her of their homes back East, boasted of the claims they'd found, shared their dreams of the future. More than one came perilously close to tears. To shut them up, she promised to write three different mothers, bake four apple pies, wear a frayed blue ribbon carried for years in a sweat-soaked pocket, and learn to play the lute. The only promise she intended to keep, made to herself, was to invite every unmarried woman in Meadowood, Illinois to move immediately to Utah.
Tomorrow, Maura had sworn to advise the unwed males of Park City that Jenna had decided to return to Illinois and marry her old beau there. The only man Jenna wanted to see before she did get the blazes out of Utah was James Leigh-Whittington.
First, she had to get Miguel cleared, then corner Jake Longan and determine once and for all if he was her father. Returning to bed, Jenna fell asleep thinking up new ways to murder Maura and Dove.