The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (29 page)

"But why?"

"Because," she said softly, "he did not find me."

"But he looked for you," Grace argued. "For fifteen years."

"Sí.
I was wrong. But I could not know that, or what was in his heart. Perhaps it is so with Donovan. Perhaps he fears for you, or he thinks what he is doing is best. You cannot know his heart."

"He doesn't have a heart. That's his problem." She shook her head. "He's probably in some cantina getting drunk, or worse." A new wave of misery overcame her. "No, he's gone and he's not coming back."

"Of this you are sure?"

She nodded and wiped her nose. "He left hours ago. He told me. He warned me. But did I listen? Oh, no! Of course not. And now what will I do? How will I get to Luke without him?"

"Luke is your brother, no? The reason you have come?"

She nodded again. "I have to help him, don't you see? If I don't, Maximilian's men will kill him!"

Elena regarded her solemnly for a long moment.
"Es peligroso.
Is dangerous for anyone, but for one so young and female—"

"I'm not so young. And after what we've been through? What could be worse?" She dropped her hands into her lap. "I don't even care about that. I swore I would help Luke. I have to."

"Then you must."

Wide-eyed, Grace looked up at her. "But how? With Brew ill and Reese gone—"

"There are ways,
chiquita.
I know many people.
Liberates, caciques,
who fight against the troops of Napoleon the Third, and his Austrian fool, the emperor Maximilian. It is said his time here is short. In Querétaro, the
juaristas
have circled him like a pack of hungry dogs. Perhaps it will not be too late for your brother."

"Oh, Elena, if you could help me—"

"
No te preocupes, querida.
Do not worry. We will think of something."

* * *

Like a ghost, Jake Scully had vanished from Tampico.

Oh, there were plenty of people who'd seen him. Three days ago. Two weeks ago. Yesterday. In this very open-air, all-night cantina that overlooked the Panuco River, at the very table where Reese now sat, contemplating a topped-off shot of mescal.

But Scully wasn't here, or even in Tampico now. He was sure of that. No, he'd gone, just as he always did. Where, was anyone's guess. If Reese didn't know better, he'd start believing the man really was a ghost.

Seven years. Seven bloody years he'd been looking for him. Ever since Scully had nearly gotten Reese hanged over an outright lie, then had run off with his wife. In a way, that act had saved Reese's neck. Even those bent on convicting him could hardly refute Scully's self-serving motivation. No, they hadn't hanged him. But there were many times, like now, when he'd wished they had just gotten it over with.

The covered portico of the cantina was nearly empty now. Dawn crept over the horizon. Under the shelter of a banana tree, a few die-hard players continued their game of five-card draw. Except for the slap of cards and the caw of a parrot in the distance, the only sound that broke the morning quiet was the sputtering
ka-thunk-thunk
of the steam engine of the converted sloop docked nearby and the colorful expletives of the
gringo
trying to start it. The blond-haired man threw down the rag he had used on his hands and bent over the ornery engine again.

With his back against a thick adobe wall, Reese pulled his gaze toward the lightening sky. No one dared bother him, although the angel of mercy with the sinful eyes and raven-colored hair who'd brought him his bottle still watched him hopefully from the bar, waiting for him to give her the least bit of encouragement.

God knows he'd wanted to, but he couldn't look at her without seeing another woman. One with hair the color of ripening wheat and eyes like Texas bluebonnets.

How long he'd been sitting here, staring at the full glass, he didn't know. Minutes? Hours? Reese lifted it to the rosy light and rolled the shot glass between his fingers. Moisture teased his skin. Inhaling deeply, he took in the sharp, beckoning scent of it. He craved the burn of it in his throat and the promise of oblivion. He craved it like a starving man craved a stale crust of bread.

So what was keeping him from slugging it down?

What, indeed?

Grace loomed in his mind. Smiling. She had a thousand ways to smile, he thought, and every one infused him with emotions he'd long ago given up for dead. She made him think of things he had no business thinking about, like settling down with a home and family. Things a man like him could never give her.

I think you want everyone to believe you need no one,
he heard her say.
But deep down, you're as human as the rest of us. You bleed, you feel, and as much as you deny it, I even think you care.

He'd fought that notion with every fiber of his being. He didn't—
couldn't
—care about her, or her problems. So why couldn't he get her out of his mind? Her, and her knight-in-shining-armor expectations.

He could. And he would, he vowed, lifting the glass to his mouth.

Fer once in yer life, think of someone besides yerself
Brew's voice echoed.
Ya never know. It might do you some good.

The mescal burned his lips with something close to vindication.

Has it been so long since someone believed in you that you've forgotten how to believe in yourself?

Yes, damn it.

One drink. Just one. You can do that, can't you?

Who d'ya think you're kidding? One and then two and then twenty.

I believe in you, Reese.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Now of all the bloody stupid things the little half-wit might have said that night, he told himself, that was altogether the dumbest. After all, he'd been a major disappointment to virtually everyone in his life, beginning with his father and ending with Adriana. Why should he have to prove himself a failure all over again?

He never asked her for blind faith. In fact, he never asked her for anything. She'd just blundered ahead, from unlocking that cell door and setting him free, to whacking Tom Oakes upside the head with a frying pan. She'd done it for him. To save his neck. The same way she'd nursed him when he was sick, held him when he thought he might shake apart, and made him laugh the way he hadn't laughed in years. Grace was a breath of fresh air in a life that had grown stale.

And true to form, he was running from that as fast as he could, headlong into oblivion.

That was what stayed his hand. Because Grace the Graceful, in her own inimitable, bumbling way, had somehow stripped away the mindlessness of that cowardly act and made him think, and feel, and want again.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Reese set the glass down in its circle of moisture on the weather -worn pine table. What was he afraid of?

He'd told Tom that one or both of them would die in Querétaro. But it wasn't his own mortality that made him shrink from the task. Surely no man so hell-bent on self-destruction could claim such a thing.

No, it was the all-too-real possibility of her death that ran him through with a blade of fear. Which brought him to another reluctant realization—he had come to care about her. Too much. And that was a dangerous thing.

He'd convinced himself that if he left her here, she'd have to quit. But would she?

Reese sat up straighter.
Would she
? It was more than possible that that conclusion was more convenient than true. The truth was, he couldn't imagine her giving up on her brother any more than she'd given up on him.

He curled his hand into a fist. And if she was fool enough to try it on her own, there was only one foreseeable outcome. Reese dug ten fingers through his hair.

Ka-putt-ka-putt-ka-thunk-thunk,
went the engine of the sorry little vessel below. A blue curse rose on the morning air. Then, silence.

The young man appeared at the top of the river-bank just then, beside himself with frustration. He stalked back and forth for a few steps as if he couldn't decide where to go. Finally, he threw his waistcoat down beneath the nearby tree and sank down beside it, holding his head in his hands.

He was well-dressed for a
gringo.
Green as a stripling, Reese supposed. One of many young would-be adventurers to descend on Mexico during the
revolution
looking for the blood-pumping combination of fast money and high risk.

The red-faced fellow glanced up at Reese, who was still watching him. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to share that bottle, would you? I could use a drink." Turning his pocket out, he withdrew a few coins. "And I believe I still have a few pesos left."

Silently, Reese regarded him. The man's accent pegged him as a Brit, and despite Reese's inbred Irish hatred of all things English, there seemed little place for that here, where they were both foreigners in a foreign land.

"You're welcome to the bottle," Reese said at last. "Keep your pesos."

The man got to his feet and took the chair across from Reese. An aristocrat to the bone, he had grease incongruously smudging his nose and cheek. His finely made suit was a bit frayed at the edges and looked beyond the help of a good flouring. Pouring the drink down his throat, the fellow closed his eyes as it burned its way down. He gave a shudder and smiled up at Reese.

"Ahh, that hit the spot. I am sorry. Ian Kiddwell-Winthrop the Third at your service." He held out a greasy hand.

"Donovan. Reese Donovan."

"Irish, right?"

"English, right?" Reese returned.

"Oh, I say, good show." Winthrop colored and grinned. "Good to meet a fellow traveler from the Empire."

"Is it engine trouble you're havin'?" Reese asked.

"Mmm, yes, that. Bloody awful contraption." Winthrop poured himself another. "It'll drive me to the poorhouse."

"What kind of a boat is that, anyway? Nothing like I've ever seen before."

"Steam," he replied. "Converted sloop. Interesting, huh? Bought it from a fellow who claimed it was the thing of the future, actually, for river travel. Much more efficient than sail, you see. If the bloody thing worked. Which"—he slugged down the drink and gasped—"it doesn't."

"What's it run on?"

"Coal is the fuel of choice." He smiled wanly. "But it seems bloody scarce down here. Wood seems to do in a pinch."

Reese's eyes narrowed speculatively. "What's wrong with it?"

"Darned if I know. Bugger keeps quitting on me." The bottle clinked against the glass once more. "Oh, I say, I do apologize for monopolizing the bottle. Will you?" he asked, holding up the glass.

Reese shook his head, his gaze fastened on the boat. A foolish, perverse, idiotic plan began to take shape in his mind. Three hundred and fifty miles lay between Tampico and Querétaro. Ninety percent of that countryside was traversed by the Panuco River, which flowed into the Moctezuma. What might take nearly two weeks of hard riding by horse would take only days by river. He wasn't unfamiliar with steam engines, albeit on a grander scale. And this one sounded sick, but—to his ear—far from dead.

"It's just my luck," Winthrop continued, staring into the glass. He laughed. "By that I mean
bad.
Only planned on being here a month, two at the outside. But already it's been five, and if I can't make back my investment, well, I'm afraid I'm—"

"Interested in selling it?" Reese hadn't known until the words were out of his mouth that he'd decided what he had to do.

The Englishman stared dumbfounded at Reese. "I say, you're not bloody well serious?"

Oh, how he wished he weren't. "It happens I'm in need of transportation."

"But"—he glanced at the sloop—"it's broken."

"Aye, a sorry piece of junk. Not worth much to you, I suppose," Reese allowed dryly.

"Well." He blinked twice, considering it. "I daresay, it's worth something."

"Seventy-five dollars, American?"

Winthrop squinted and rubbed his mouth with two fingers. "A hundred and twenty-five?"

"Eighty."

"One-ten?" he suggested. "I say, there is a full cord of wood and a good bit of food stores aboard."

"One hundred. Final offer."

A positively giddy expression stole over Winthrop's face. "Sold!" he shouted, pumping his arm enthusiastically.

Reese's smile of victory faded as the reality of what he'd just done descended upon him. He was actually going to take her into that lions' den in Querétaro.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Donovan, you're an idiot.

But the truth was, he missed her and he could hardly wait to see her expression when he picked her up in this cockeyed contraption.

He glanced at the sun. A niggling sense of unease crawled up the back of his neck. With a shrug, he shook off the feeling. It had been, after all, less than a day since he'd left her. How much trouble could she get into in twenty-four hours?

* * *

"She's
what?"

Reese stared incredulously at Tom, who stood with one foot casually propped on a river piling, leaning toward the sputtering engine a shirtless Reese was sweating over.