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  Mr. St. Claire ran his gaze over the page, then glared up at her. “He makes no mention of the boy.”

  Boy? What boy?

  “No, but according to his sister, those two have always been thick as thieves. Where the one is, the other will be as well.”

  Ah, they must mean George Pettigrew. Nate knew Bart liked Frank Thompson, but George…if George had been a girl, Nate would have said they were courting.

  He had no excuse to linger any longer, so he left the room and wandered through the house until he found the kitchen.

  * * * *

  Nate knew how to skulk so no one even realized he was there, and it wasn’t long before he learned why Mr. St. Claire was looking for Bart. His employer blamed George Pettigrew for the damage done to his jaw and the loss of his right hand, as well as his father’s condition. The senior St. Claire had been confined to his bed for the past months, little better than a baby, unable to speak or even care for his own needs. Lewis St. Claire appeared to be waiting for the day his father passed on and he inherited everything.

  Well, that was okay by Nate. He received a good salary, and he didn’t have to live in that godforsaken tenement any longer.

  As to what his employer intended for Bart and George…Nate didn’t care. He was finally coming up in the world.

  Chapter 42

  Lewis toyed with the glass of brandy on his desk. As reluctant as he was to admit it, his father may have had a point regarding how frequently he’d imbibed his brandy.

  Not that Father could anymore. Now he spent his days lolling in a wicker wheelchair, drooling down his front, and his nights confined to bed.

  Lewis had just returned from a duty call to his father in Gramercy. He cared enough about what the neighbors might think to visit at least once a week.

  The house on Park Avenue was quiet. That mealy-mouthed bitch Lewis had married had taken the children to visit her sister up in Boston. Lewis knew that was just an excuse, though. Since he’d lost his right hand, she’d used every pretext she could come up with to avoid being in the same room with him, let alone the same house.

  Well, that was just fine with him. With Eloise gone, he was free to do as he pleased with no reason to be discreet.

  He stared broodingly at the spot where the end of his right sleeve hung empty. He’d been forced to have his hand amputated thanks to the boy he’d planned to fuck.

  To add insult to injury, George Pettigrew had done a disappearing act, taking Barron Beauchamp’s daughter with him. Lewis didn’t believe for one second she was Thomas Pettigrew’s, and with her gone, he had no leverage with the Beauchamps. He had no doubt that Mrs. Beauchamp would have been grateful to have the only child of her only son returned to her, and if she wasn’t, Barron’s sister Henrietta would be. And their gratitude was what he wanted. He didn’t need their money, but their social standing—even higher than that of his wife’s family—would have been a nice feather to flaunt in his father-in-law’s face.

  A tap on the door roused him from his musings.

  “What is it?”

  Young Hall poked his head around the door. “Mr. Goodrich to see you, sir.”

  Lewis sat up. Finally. He’d been waiting for this telegram from Missouri. “Send him in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was a shame the boy didn’t arouse him the way Pettigrew had. Lately, for some reason, no one did. Lewis had stopped trying, which was another reason why he wanted the boy back. He was certain he’d be able to function when he had Pettigrew under his roof once again.

  He realized Goodrich had been standing there for some time. He’d hired the man when his father had no more need for him. Goodrich was easily cowed, something Lewis enjoyed.

  “Well?” Lewis drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair.

  Goodrich hurried to place the telegram on Lewis’s desk, keeping his gaze averted from the stump, even if it was bandaged.

  Lewis picked up the paper. Goodrich could continue standing there, shifting from one foot to the other and wringing his hands.

  Lewis glanced over the telegram and felt his stomach begin to churn with rising fury. Pettigrew had married? Probably because he needed a woman to help raise those brats.

  Well, that marriage was one more mark against him.

  Lewis read the telegram again. Do orders stand?

  No, they didn’t fucking stand.

  Goodrich cleared his throat. “Will there be a reply, sir?”

  “Yes.” He reached for a pencil with his right hand, and swore when its uselessness struck him again. “Take this down.”

  Goodrich took the pencil and paper.

  Lewis opened his mouth to spit out the new orders, then closed it. He’d have to couch this carefully.

  “Deal with P. as you see fit. Stop.” He knew they’d interpret that to mean kill the little bastard. “Bring the children to me.”

  “And the woman George Pettigrew married?”

  Lewis narrowed his gaze and frowned. What reason did Goodrich have to sound disgruntled? Lewis needed to find another man of business. “They can keep her for themselves.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  Lewis added two more lines. They were in code, and only Ezra Wilson would understand. Before he killed Pettigrew, he was to inform him the brats would belong to Lewis, and the two younger ones would be sent to that whore house as he’d threatened to do. Knowing that and being unable to do anything—his anguish would be unbearable.

  “Excuse me, sir, would you say that again?”

  Lewis scowled at him.

  “What I mean to say is…that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to you, because you’re a fool,” he snarled, and Goodrich backed away a step.

  “Uh…yes, sir. You’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right.” He repeated what he’d said. “Do you have that?”

  Goodrich made note of it and gave him a sickly smile. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, see that gets off immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.” Goodrich set the pencil down on his desk and scurried from the room.

  Lewis picked up his glass of brandy—at least he could do that easily with his left hand—and finished it in one swallow.

  Chapter 43

  Ezra Wilson sat at the card table in the Silver Gulch saloon in Stoney Ridge, a flyspeck of a town between St. Joe and Council Bluffs in Iowa. The pot was a sizeable one, and he planned to make it his, even though his hand could have been a lot better. He was good at bluffing, and he grinned at the other men at the table and pushed all his coins to the center of the table. “I call.”

  One by one they looked from the pot to their cards and finally to him, then folded.

  Suckers. Ezra tossed down his cards and drew the coins and bills toward him. There was grumbling, but that the fuck did he care? He ignored them.

  He growled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t like being touched.

  “It’s me.” The low voice belonged to Eli, the youngest of the brothers. Originally there’d been four of them, but Enoch had got himself killed a few years back. Ezra would have gone after the son of a bitch who’d shot him, but the varmint had cleared out before Ezra could find him.

  The breath that fanned his cheek was rank. Not that Ezra cared. His was just as bad. Ezra handed Eli his drink to cut the odor.

  “I reckon that’s it for me, boys.”

  “You ain’t gonna give us a chance to break even?”

  “Another time.” Although Ezra didn’t plan on coming this way again. He’d heard things were interesting out in California, and he thought he’d mosey on out that way.

  After he finished this job.

  He pocketed his winnings, pushed back his chair, and got to his feet.

  “So long, boys.” He walked out with Eli on his heels and sauntered across the road. “What’s the news?” he asked once he was sure there was no possibility their conversation would be overheard.<
br />
  “Ephraim got a telegram from Mr. St. Claire. He wasn’t happy when he learned the kid he wants got married.”

  “Yeah, I figured he wouldn’t be.”

  “Huh?”

  Ezra shook his head. God knew he loved his brother, but Eli didn’t have the sense the good Lord gave a flea. “He wanted the boy for himself so he could bed him.”

  “Oh! You mean like we want boys when we can’t get us a woman.”

  “Right.” Ezra preferred boys, the younger the better, but Eli didn’t need to know that. “So what’s he want us to do?”

  “Ephraim said the telegram said to get rid of him and bring the kids back East.”

  “What does he want the kids for?”

  Eli shrugged. “Beats me.”

  Ezra shook his head. Rich people were downright odd. “Well, what are we supposed to do with the woman?”

  Eli gave a broad grin. “We can keep her for ourselves. That made Ephraim real happy.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” If there was one thing Ephraim loved, it was tail, and he went after it every chance he got.

  “Oh, and he said there was something in the telegram you needed to see.”

  “Okay.” That meant the boss had special orders for them. “Where is he anyway?”

  “He’s getting the horses ready.”

  “We’d better get a move on if we don’t want to lose track of those wagons.” Ezra wasn’t worried. The wagons were slow-moving, and the horses they’d…found…at the last stage stop were better than the ones they’d left in exchange. Damn nags never did last long.

  * * * *

  Ezra read the telegram again. The code was something St. Claire had come up with when Ezra and his brothers had started working for him, and he reckoned it made sense. If it came to light what St. Claire planned to do to his own kin, he wouldn’t be looked on with any kind of favor.

  If it came to that, Ezra and his brothers would be in pretty hot water themselves. St. Claire would always have something on them.

  He’d just make sure he kept that telegram safe. And it might be a good idea to clear out as soon as he turned the brats over to St. Claire.

  “What’s it mean, Ez?” Ephraim asked.

  “Before we shoot the kid, Mr. St. Claire wants us to tell him he’s keeping the older girl, but the kid’s younger brother and sister are gonna be sent to a whore house.” He grinned and licked his lips. They might have to treat the older girl with kid gloves, but the other two brats…

  He was gonna have a good time with them.

  * * * *

  They’d been traveling for almost four weeks, and while the kid—he looked older than Ezra’d been told, but Ezra shrugged it off—they were going after was a real tenderfoot, who’d have thought the wagon master and the other two men who rode with him were so savvy? Ezra and his brothers had to pick the time to make their move carefully.

  He’d sent Ephraim up ahead to do some scouting, and now Ephraim came back at a hard gallop, grinning from ear to ear.

  “What?”

  “They’re heading for Willow Crick.”

  “Well now, ain’t that right lucky for us?” Ezra could have danced a fandango. He knew the man who ran the town. This was gonna be a lead pipe cinch.

  * * * *

  Ezra left Eli and Ephraim watching the camp while he slipped into town and met Weatherford in the building that used to belong to Miss Sadie, the local madam. She’d left town when the cut Weatherford demanded became too much, according to her. Damned uppity woman.

  Ezra and Weatherford shook hands, and then Weatherford nodded toward the bottle and glass on the table.

  “What are you doing in these parts, Wilson?”

  “Got a job.” He went on to explain it—kill the man and take the woman and kids.

  “Hmm. The men in town won’t be pleased to have you grab the woman right from under their noses.”

  “There’s another woman they can have. This one’s ours.”

  Weatherford twirled the end of his mustache, then snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. I’ll tell them she ran off with a wastrel—”

  “A what?”

  “A—never mind. She ran away from home, and her father wants her back.”

  “Will they buy it?”

  “Yeah, because I’m the one who tells them.”

  Ezra stared at him. Well, he knows his own town best.

  They shook hands on it, had a drink, and then Ezra left.

  * * * *

  How in Sam Hill had their plans fallen apart? Ezra drove his spurs into the sides of the gray stallion he rode and lashed at the stallion’s shoulders and flanks with his quirt while he held onto the kid he’d managed to grab. The other two kids…who knew where they were? They hadn’t been with the party who’d ridden into town and he sure as hell wasn’t going back to look for them.

  Eli had the woman, at least, and his pinto was right behind Ezra. Ephraim, though…he was laid out dead in the street, alongside the tenderfoot St. Claire wanted dead.

  Well, at least Weatherford would keep the wagon master and the other two men busy while Ezra and Eli made tracks out of these parts. Jesus. They weren’t supposed to get shot at.

  They kept up the pace for about three miles before Eli’s horse pulled up lame.

  “Goddammit! Ez…Ezra!” Eli yelled. “Wait for me!” He sounded frantic. Damned fool always did tend to lose his nerve. “This…this damned woman is like to tear off a piece of my hide!”

  “Get her under control.” Women weren’t supposed to do that. Come to that, this damned kid wasn’t supposed to be carrying on like he was either. Ezra smacked him, and he quieted down. “Keep that horse moving,” he hollered at Eli, “or I swear to God I’ll leave you behind!”

  Eli slugged the woman, and she went limp in his arms, but they had to keep going. Ezra yanked the stallion’s head around, got him behind the pinto, and then slashed at the pinto’s flanks, so he ran on in spite of his foot.

  Finally, a glance over his shoulder showed no dust trail—they weren’t being followed. He let the horses slow to a walk.

  Weatherford must have worked his verbal magic.

  He knew he could depend on Weatherford.

  * * * *

  “Ez…what we gonna do?”

  They’d been riding for most of the day, the horses were tired, and to make matters worse, Ephraim’s horse, who’d bolted after Ephraim had been shot out of his saddle, carried the bulk of their supplies. They were in a bad way, even more so because those damned city slickers had somehow managed to shoot their rifles out of their hands, leaving them with just their revolvers.

  Who’d have thought goddamned city slickers could get the drop on them. Ezra managed to get a bandanna from his pocket and wrapped it around the graze that had forced him to drop his rifle.

  Eli had had to slug the woman a time or two, but fortunately, she’d stopped struggling. Ezra was kind of sorry the kid had too. The way he’d wriggled on Ezra’s lap had made his prick hard.

  Well, there would be time for that after they made camp for the night.

  “Ezra!”

  “What?”

  “Look yonder.”

  In the distance, they could see a rider approaching. Ezra exchanged a grin with his brother.

  “Well, now. I’d say things was looking up.”

  Chapter 44

  George was groggy from the last blow Eli, the bastard, had delivered. He and Noelle were in a bad way.

  “Why’d you wanna jump the gun like that?” Eli whined. “We didn’t get the girl.”

  “Blame Ephraim. He was the one started shooting.”

  “But suppose Mr. St. Claire don’t want the boy?”

  “I’ll keep him.”

  “Do I get the woman?”

  “Sure. And look at it this way. With Ephraim gone, we’ll have more money to split between us when we turn the brat over to his uncle back East.”

  George wasn’t sure which made Eli happier.

&
nbsp; George, on the other hand…he’d kill them both before he let that happen. Thank God they had no idea they actually had the girl they were looking for.

  Noelle! Was she…He looked across at the slate gray stallion and sagged in relief when he saw his little sister. She was sitting up straight enough to keep some distance between her and that other bastard.

  George would have to wait to make a move to get him and his sister out of this mess.

  Suddenly, Eli yelled, “Look yonder.”

  In the distance, George could see a lone rider, and he felt a touch of hope.

  “Goddammit, what’s he sitting there for?” Ezra snarled.

  “Dunno, Ez.”

  Ezra glared at him, then turned his narrowed gaze on the man who remained where he was, looking relaxed. “He better have some supplies in his saddlebags.” He kicked the stallion with his roweled spurs and the horse began to walk toward the rider. Another sharp kick, and the stallion’s ears went flat, but he increased his gait.

  The horse Eli and George rode broke into a shambling trot. The poor animal was in no condition to carry double, but Eli didn’t care.

  He would soon enough, if they needed to make tracks. George began giving thought as to what action he and the lone rider could take.

  * * * *

  The closer they got to the lone rider, the younger he realized the man was—little more than a kid,—and George sighed. He would most likely have to get all three of them out of this fix himself.

  Ezra and Eli halted their horses when there was a distance of about a dozen yards between them.

  The mare the kid rode suddenly whinnied and took a step toward them, and George felt his heart lurch. She was a buckskin with an unusual star between her eyes—white outlined with black hairs.

  “Georgie, is that—” Noelle saw the surreptitious shake of his head, and she fell quiet.

  “You two keep your yaps shut,” Ezra hissed in a low voice that went no further than where they sat the horses. “Or I’ll kill him, and then Eli and I’ll have our fun with you now right, right next to his body.”

  George believed him, and he made himself slump in the saddle as if in defeat.

  Meanwhile, he kept an eye on the kid, who ran a gentle hand along Salida’s neck and murmured to her, his action vastly different from how the brothers treated their horses.