Payton's Woman (26 page)

Julia’s hand went to her
mouth to muffle her heavy gasp. Betsy intended to murder Payton. Carefully, she
retraced her steps so none of the floor boards squeaked. When she reached the foot
of the stairs, she dashed up the steps to her room. She locked her door and sat
on the edge of the bed. With her arms clasped around her body, she rocked back
and forth in an effort to calm herself, but Betsy’s threat to Payton’s life
echoed through her brain. He had to be warned. But how? She had no knowledge of
his whereabouts. But Betsy knew where he was. And she intended to use Julia as
a distraction. As bait.

If Julia didn’t accompany
her, Betsy would undoubtedly devise another way to distract him so she could kill
him. She pressed her hands against the sides of her head in an effort to help
her think. Payton’s life depended on her. She needed to inform him of Betsy’s
plan, but she didn’t know how to contact him. There seemed to be only one
solution. She had to go to San Francisco and find Payton before Betsy killed
him.

But her life could be in
equal danger. If Betsy realized her intention, the result could be disastrous,
and not just for Payton. She could be the one with a bullet in her brain.

She lay down on the bed
and curled up into a ball. The thought of losing Payton cut through her like of
knife. These last two weeks with him gone had been torture. She couldn’t
conceive of her life without him. Her eyes closed as she pictured him in her
mind. She could see the brilliance of his blue eyes and the dimple in his cheek
when he smiled. Her imagination also conjured up the warmth of his embrace. Without
him, her soul felt empty. She wanted him close to her. She needed to wrap her
arms around him and hold him tight.

Now that he’d come into
her life, she couldn’t bear to live without him. She would have to go with
Betsy and find a way to help him no matter how great the risk.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I’m glad you’re here,” Stover
said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show up until after we closed.”

“I just came from the
lawyer’s office. The paper work is complete, and the deed should record
tomorrow. Then the Double Eagle Shipping Company will officially be ours.”

“That’s good news. I
only hope we live long enough to actually take over the company.”

“Is there a problem?” Payton
took a seat beside the desk. From the look of concern on his partner’s face, he
knew there had to be trouble.

“A man came in earlier
today looking for Mr. Hennigan. He seemed shocked when I told him the old man
was dead. My guess is he just arrived in San Francisco. Otherwise, he would’ve
already heard the news of his death.”

“What did he look like?”

“About my height,
barrel-chested. Dark hair and eyes. His beard had some gray.”

“Sounds like Dunbar.”

“One other thing. He
walked with a limp. His leg seemed to give him considerable pain.”

“That’s my bullet that
tore up his leg. He’ll be in a lot more pain when I find him—particularly when
I help put a noose around his neck.”

“He didn’t ask about any
money. I wonder if the old man was the only one who knew how to get to it. If Dunbar’s
aware of that, then he knows it’s lost to him.”

“That could be, which
means he won’t get any help from around here. He’s been gone five years. I
doubt he has any friends left that would give him the amount of money he needs.”

“What do you think will
be his next move?”

“My first guess is he’ll
contact his mother.” Payton shoved his fingers through his hair while he
thought. “It would be too risky for him to go to Sacramento. He’ll probably
hide out here in San Francisco and wait for her, but he’ll have to get a
message to her. The quickest way to do that is send a telegram.”

“There’s a telegraph
office on Kearney and Washington. Dunbar only left here a short time ago. If that’s
where he went, he might still be there waiting for a reply. It could take
several hours for a telegram to be delivered to his mother and an answer sent
back.”

A grin spread over
Payton’s face. “You’re a good man, Nicholas. We’re going to work well together.”

Payton climbed from the
chair. “I’m going over there and see if I can spot him. I’ll get him even if I
have to wait all night.”

“Don’t you have to meet
that other fellow later?”

“Ritter is waiting for a
woman to bring him money. It’s probably Betsy.” He scratched at his beard
stubble. “If Dunbar was just here and found out Hennigan’s dead, chances are he
doesn’t know his mother is on her way to meet with the little weasel.”

“Do you think Ritter
will tell her that Dunbar is in town?”

“I don’t think he knows.
If he did, he won’t stick around, even for money. He’s afraid of getting his
throat slit.”

Stover went to a cabinet
and reached into a drawer. He pulled out the Colt Dragoon. “If you expect to
run into Dunbar, you’d better take this.”

“That’s too big. I need
something that won’t be so obvious. It has to fit into my pocket or waistband.
And I don’t want a weapon so cumbersome that it tangles up in my clothes if I
need to take it out in a hurry.”

He put the long barreled
revolver back and pulled out a smaller weapon. “How about this? It’s only .36
caliber, but if you’re close enough, it’ll get the job done.”

Payton balanced the Colt
Navy revolver in his hand. Satisfied with the feel, he shoved it into the
waistband of his trousers. “Like I said, you’re a good man.”

He went to his room and changed
into different clothing. A white shirt and black tie were fine for the lawyer’s
office, but he needed something inconspicuous to wear while waiting around the
telegraph office. A black shirt and knit cap would help him fade into the
night. His black wool jacket hung on a peg by the door. He grabbed it on his
way out.

With the collar turned up
on his jacket to shield his face and the black knit cap pulled low on his forehead,
he would be difficult to recognize. Dunbar knew him. He’d been staring straight
at him when he’d shot him in the leg. The face of the man who wounded him wouldn’t
be easy to forget.

If Dunbar spotted him,
he might go back into hiding. Payton doubted that even Betsy could find him if
he did.

****

Julia’s voyage on the sternwheeler
to San Francisco had been horrendous. Traveling on the Sacramento River had made
her extremely ill. As soon as the ship had left the dock, her stomach had rebelled.
Most of the day had been spent leaning over the guardrail. She’d thrown up
every bit of her breakfast over the side. With the amount of time she’d spent at
the rail, she speculated that last night’s dinner also churned around in the
river.

The ship docked several
times for brief intervals. They seemed to stop at every tiny port along both
sides of the river bank. People came aboard or disembarked, and goods or
animals passed up and down the gangplank.

Occasionally, she’d received
a brief reprieve. If time allowed, she’d gone ashore and set her feet on solid
ground. But after a few minutes back aboard the moving ship, she’d be at the
rail, bent over, and retching up nothing—for nothing remained inside her
stomach.

Betsy had insisted she
dress in the latest style for their voyage. She wondered if the ruffled, bottle
green outfit she wore had achieved the correct fashionable look as she heaved
over the guardrail. Only luck and an extra hat pin had prevented her matching
green hat from falling into the river.

When the ship finally
docked in San Francisco, she could barely function. Her head throbbed. Her body
ached. Her throat felt raw. Even her fingertips hurt from gripping the wooden
rail. Her legs wobbled with each step she took, and her feet stumbled over the
flat wooden deck. She’d been so unsteady that one of the crew members assisted her
down the gangplank so she wouldn’t trip and fall.

She sat curled up in the
corner of a rented carriage. The ship had docked about an hour ago, but Betsy took
her time getting the baggage loaded into the coach.

The sun sank low on the
horizon and would soon be swallowed up by the Pacific Ocean. A foggy mist gathered
out to sea, causing the sun to look like a huge orange ball as it dipped into
the ocean. Darkness would follow. She wondered where Payton spent his nights.
She wanted to be in his arms. She needed him to hold her and comfort her.

But Betsy wanted him
dead.

She couldn’t be with him
now. He wouldn’t be safe.

The coach rocked to and
fro when Betsy crawled inside. Julia dropped her head into her hands and
groaned.

“Are you going to be
sick again?” Her voice conveyed her irritation.

“No, but my head hurts
from the slightest movement. I need to lie down. But first I need something in
my stomach.”

“I’m not wasting money
on food for you. All you’ll do is puke it back up.”

“I’ll pay for it myself.
Have the driver take me to Union Square. There’s a hotel on Powell Street with
a restaurant nearby.”

“I thought you’ve never
been to San Francisco.”

A tight knot clenched at
her insides, but not from seasickness. She’d spoken without thinking. If she
said too much, Betsy would become suspicious. Regardless of how ill she became,
she had to guard her words carefully. Payton’s life may very well depend upon
it.

“I haven’t been here,”
she said slowly and carefully so she could think, “but I recall the deacon’s
wife telling of a respectable hotel near Union Square.”

Betsy made a disgusted
sound. “I’ve got a good place for us to stay, but I doubt you and your church
friends will think it’s respectable.”

“Driver,” she yelled
though the open window. “Take us to the Crystal Palace.”

The carriage pulled slowly
up the street. A strap attached near the door frame dangled within her reach. Julia
grabbed it to steady her body from any excessive swaying. She didn’t want to go
to the Crystal Palace, but her present illness didn’t put her in a position to
protest.

The promise she’d made
to Payton played across her mind. She’d sworn an oath that she’d stay out of
trouble. She could only imagine his reaction if he found she’d gone to a
brothel.

The Crystal Palace set in
a more high-toned area of the city. The building stood one block from where the
hellhole of the Barbary Coast began, but Julia noticed the distinction. The
people strolling down Montgomery Street looked more fashionable. The women
dressed in finer style, and the men wore business suits. They gave the
appearance that their livings were made with their minds and not their backs.

When the driver halted
the carriage in front of the Crystal Palace, Julia realized how dangerous her
present situation had become. Betsy’s treachery had no bounds. She could only
imagine the fate that awaited her inside a brothel in which an evil woman had
control.

“I can’t go in there.”
She directed her order to the driver. “Take me to Powell Street.”

“You’ll do as you’re
told.” She grabbed Julia’s wrist and twisted hard.

She cried out as pain
radiated up her arm. Betsy dragged her from the carriage. Julia’s legs were too
weak to hold her, and she almost collapsed in the gutter. Unable to stand on
her own, she grabbed the carriage wheel for support. Her recent seasickness had
left her too exhausted to fight Betsy physically, or mentally. She needed to
eat and rest. When she recovered her strength, she would plan her escape.

Betsy jerked on her arm
and forced her to follow. She led her through the front door and into the
entryway.

A man leaned against the
interior double doors as if guarding whatever lay on the other side. He was a
short man with a large build. His face looked like he’d once made his living
with his fists.

“Good evening, Mrs.
Dunbar.” The guard’s gravelly voice suited his appearance. Even though he
dressed in black evening attire, he had a rough look. His starched, white
collar pressed into his jowls and gave him a harder appearance. His sharp,
beady eyes took in the situation at a single glance when he noticed Betsy
tugging on Julia’s arm. “Is there a problem?”

She yanked on Julia’s
arm and flung her toward him. “You can take her off my hands. I’ve had enough
of her whining.”

Julia needed to get some
sort of control over the situation. Rest and nourishment were her immediate
concerns. She had to find a way to get both. Her one hand pressed against her
belly. Her other hand covered her mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”

Betsy swore profusely. “Take
her upstairs to a private room before she pukes all over the carpet.”

Instead of going through
the double doors, he took her to another door at the end of the entryway. A
steep staircase appeared just beyond the door. Beside the stairs was a narrow
corridor that disappeared into the back. She speculated the stairway and
corridor were used by the servants.

When they reached the second
floor, the guard opened a door off the hallway. He crossed his arms over his
chest and leaned against the door jamb.

“If you need to heave,
there’s a washbasin behind the screen.” His tone sounded gruff, but he didn’t
manhandle her in the same manner Betsy had when she’d dragged her from the
carriage. She felt certain, however, that if provoked, he could be equally unmerciful.

She walked into the room.
“Would it be possible for me to have something to eat? Perhaps some toasted
bread and a pot of tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’ll see.” He left without
uttering another word.

Her sigh of relief echoed
through the room at his departure—she didn’t hear a key turn in the lock when he
left.

She glanced around at her
surroundings. The decor wasn’t what she expected. It looked like any other
bedroom. A regular sized bed set in the middle of the room. A blue cotton quilt
spread over the top. Against the wall stood a small chest of drawers. A cloth
screen with a painted oriental landscape shielded the washstand area.