A Promise of Roses (12 page)

Used.
Discarded.
Abandoned.

Well, if Lucas McCain didn't want to stay with
her, that
was his problem. She didn't need him, didn't even want him.

Except that she did.

She rubbed her upper arms, suddenly cold. And it had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

Muttering a few choice words under her breath, she stripped off the stockings and tossed them on the bed. How dare he leave her after what they had shared?

What did you expect?
a
voice in her mind taunted.
A marriage proposal?
A declaration of undying love?

"Hardly,” she answered aloud. “But he didn't have to race out of here like he'd just discovered I had the pox."

She went to the dresser and pulled out her old shirt. Its tails reached her knees, so she felt adequately covered. Especially since she was all alone, thanks to one inconsiderate, ill-bred bounty hunter.

She was hurt and offended by his quick disappearance, but she was most definitely not sorry that they had made love. Perhaps she could have chosen a better partner—someone who wouldn't have run off with his tail between his legs—but she wasn't sorry. And in all honesty, she didn't think she could have let another man touch her the way she'd allowed Lucas to.

From the moment he'd lowered his bandanna at the outlaw hideout and she'd gotten a good look at his face, she had been attracted to him. Why, she didn't know. Maybe because he had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen.
Or maybe because he had a way of looking at her that made her skin tingle.

She plopped down in the brocade armchair, unfolding the paper Lucas had been reading earlier. Her eyes skimmed over the headlines and local happenings. Anyone interested in bringing a dessert to the annual Harvest Festival should see Mrs. Walter Evergreen at the general store. A sorrel gelding had wandered into town; the owner could pick it up at Sam's Livery.

She turned the page, bored with the town's activities. Wichita man travels to Capitol. Miss Tulsa May Carter to wed local feed-store owner.
Kansas
stage robbed; driver taken hostage.

Just as she was about to move on, the bold words in the middle of the third page registered.
Kansas
stage robbed; driver taken hostage. It couldn't be. Why would the Wichita paper have an article about a Leavenworth stage being robbed? Surely it wasn't the biggest news of the week. Leavenworth was more than a hundred miles away. She held the paper up to the light, shocked to see her own face staring back at her. Turning up the lamp's wick, she read carefully.

Last Thursday, at precisely 10:29 A.M., a Concord stagecoach carrying three passengers was robbed by a band of five outlaws. One witness said that the bandits must have been “dumber than a box of rocks” because as they conversed with one another, they revealed their Christian names—Douglas, Tommy, Evan, Frank, and Luke. A strongbox carrying the Kansas-Union Pacific Railroad payroll was taken. The passengers were not robbed—another mistake by the
outlaws,
claims the same source.

The stage, owned by one M. Adams of the Adams Express Stagecoach Line, had been accosted three times before on its run from Leavenworth to Atchison. It is suspected that all four robberies were committed by the same group of men. Descriptions from the passengers were given to the local marshal. The Union Pacific Railroad is offering a reward of $1,000 for any information leading to the capture of the gang.

Perhaps even more disturbing than the robbery, however, is the fact that the stage driver, along with the strongbox, was taken by the outlaws. The driver was a woman, though no one is quite certain why a female was allowed to drive the Concord. (This reporter has been assured that the matter will be fully investigated.)

Megan Adams, the
abductee
, pictured above, is approximately five feet, six inches tall with brown eyes and long black hair. She is most likely wearing men's clothing. If anyone has seen this woman, please contact the nearest law official, Marshal Thompson of Leavenworth, or Mr. Caleb Adams, also of Leavenworth.

Mr. Adams, the victim's brother, is offering a $10,000 reward for her safe return. He has also been quoted as saying, “If [the outlaws] touch one hair on my sister's head, I will personally [harm] each one of them."

Megan chuckled, easily deciphering
exactly
what Caleb had said. At least someone still cared about her well-being. It had taken the
Gazette
two long paragraphs before even
mentioning
her kidnapping. No doubt her brother had something to do with the story reaching such faraway newspapers. She wouldn't be surprised if the residents of
Missouri
were also out looking for her—terribly concerned, she was sure. It took a strong person to brush off $10,000.
Which was about as much as Caleb had in the bank without wiring back to
New York
for Mother's help.

She continued reading.
The Adams Express has slowed business, making only six of its usual twenty runs per week. Caleb Adams has taken over the company, since M. Adams cannot be located at this time. The railroad is thus far refusing to risk another of its payrolls with the company, and many passengers are afraid to travel by way of the Express. It is not likely that the line will be able to stay in business beyond the end of the month.

Megan threw down the paper, rushing to the dresser to dig out the rest of her clothes. She would not let a pack of stupid, mangy outlaws run her stage line into the ground. She had to get back—
now.
Just let Lucas
try
to stop her.

She put on her boots, pinned her hair up under her Stetson, and headed for the bed. It was time for some quick thinking.
And a stealthy escape.

With her teeth and nails, Megan gnawed and tugged at the edge of the white sheet until it began to rip easily. She repeated the process over and over, gathering strips of material and tying them together to make a ramshackle rope that would get her out the window and close enough to the ground that she could jump the rest of the way without serious injury.

Satisfied with the length, she tied one end around the foot of the massive bed,
then
quickly shoved pillows under the covers to look like someone sleeping. If it fooled Lucas for only a few minutes it would put her that much farther ahead of him on the trail. She turned down the gas lamp, casting the room into darkness before going to the window.

The heavy glass stuck at first, and she had to jiggle the frame to get it open. She leaned out, gauging the distance to the ground. It didn't look to be all that far, but she said a quick prayer just in case. Throwing down her makeshift knotted ladder, she climbed onto the window ledge.

She began begging God to see her safely down the side of the hotel, but when that became too wordy, she simply resorted to a litany of, “Please, please, please."

The whole ordeal lasted no more than a minute. Hanging on to the rope for dear life, she used the outer wall of the building to walk her way down. She landed on both feet, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

She felt a sharp stab of regret as she looked back up at the window of the room she'd just vacated. But she had no choice. Even if she wanted to stay with Lucas—
which
she didn't, of course—she couldn't let her business go under without a fight. If she lost the Express, she would lose everything.
Her independence, her security, her way of life.

It took her a moment to decide to risk going to the livery. She went around the back to avoid being seen, then sneaked in a side door. She found her mount, saddled her, and walked the mare out into the night.

No one seemed to be about. The only noise came from a tinny piano inside the saloon down the street. At the edge of town, she climbed into the saddle and kicked her horse into a gallop. She wanted to get as far from Wichita and Lucas McCain as possible. Fast.

Needing time to cool off, Lucas made his way down the boardwalk at a leisurely pace.
Or as leisurely as one could get with the fire of passion still burning in his gut.
Damn, but he wanted to return to the room and make love with Megan again. She had a way of making a man forget everything, even his own name.

Lucas surely had. He'd forgotten that Megan was his prisoner, that he was responsible for her until he could turn her in to the proper authorities. He'd forgotten about Annie. About how much he cared for her and about how he'd promised to always be true. Hell, he'd even forgotten about Silas Scott. It had taken him a good five minutes to recall just why it was so damned important that he find and kill the man.

But now his head was on straight again, and he did remember. He remembered everything. And he had to be sure that what had happened in the hotel room this evening never happened again. No matter how damn pretty Megan was. No matter how good she smelled or felt in his arms.

A strangled groan filled the otherwise silent night. If he didn't get his mind on something else, he would end up making love to Megan again.

He crossed the deserted street, heading for the jail. He didn't exactly like the idea of letting the marshal know he was in town, but if the man could give him information on Scott, it would be well worth the risk.

A man with a badge pinned to the front of his black leather vest sat with his feet propped on the desk, reading a newspaper.

"You the marshal?”
Lucas asked.

"Yup.”
He held out a hand in introduction. “Oliver Ingalls. What can I do for you?"

"Name's Luke Campbell.
I'm a bounty hunter."

The marshal arched a brow in curiosity. “There some trouble I ought to know about?"

"No, sir.
Leastways, not yet.”
Lucas pulled an available chair in front of the desk and straddled it, crossing his arms over the back. “I'm not even sure the man I'm looking for is in town. That's why I stopped in.
Thought maybe we could exchange a bit of information."

"I'll be honest with you, mister. I don't care much for bounty hunters. Most real lawmen don't, if you know what I mean. You may bring in a criminal now and again, but you do it for money, not because you care about upholding the law."

"I have to agree with you there.
Marshal.
And since you've put your cards on the table, I guess it's only fair that I do the same. I'm looking for someone all right—a murderer—but not ‘cause I want to collect any reward. This one's personal."

The marshal leaned back in his chair, twining his fingers together over his stomach. “Care to share a name with me?"

"Silas Scott."

"Can't say I've ever heard of him."

"You probably have his poster up.” Lucas stood, moving to the
tackboard
covered with pictures and notices. He found the one for Scott beneath several others. He took it down, handing it to Ingalls.

Ingalls cringed at the scruffy, bearlike image on the page. “Good-
lookin
’
fella
,” he said sardonically.

"Yeah,” Luke agreed.

"Well, I haven't seen him, but I'll be sure to keep an eye out from now on. My deputies will, too."

"I'd appreciate it.” Lucas went to the door. “I'm staying over at the hotel in case you need to find me."

"Mind if I ask why you want this guy so bad?"

Lucas's hand tightened on the doorknob. “Like I said, Marshal, it's personal.” He tipped his hat and walked out.

That's why he hated working with lawmen. Not that they weren't good men, it was just that they always wanted to know the whole story. Ingalls had probably already figured out that Lucas didn't plan to turn Scott in. For that reason, the marshal might choose not to tell him even if he did see Scott. But he might, and that was better than nothing.

He continued down the street, deciding a drink would hit the spot. The Whiskey Barrel looked to be a fairly clean establishment. Three men sat at a corner table playing a game of poker. A rather well-endowed blonde stood nearby, waiting to refill glasses or take the winner upstairs to celebrate. He didn't recognize any of them or the few other customers milling about.

The bartender gave Lucas a smile, wiping the counter with a dirty gray rag. “What'll it be?"

"
Yuengling
, if you've got it."

"Sure do.” He filled a glass from the tap.

Lucas pushed a coin forward, taking a sip of the lukewarm beer. In the mirror behind the barkeep, he saw a slim, curvy brunette coming down the stairwell. With every step, her off-the-shoulder, hip-hugging, royal-blue gown fell open to reveal a long, shapely leg. She walked over to the card game, giving the poker players a small smile and a few words of encouragement. Then she made her way to the bar and stood beside Lucas.

"I've never seen you in here before,” she commented. “Care to buy me a drink?"

Her voice sounded like melted butter, warm and smooth and inviting. But he took a close look and couldn't help comparing her with the woman waiting for him back at the hotel.
Where Megan's eyes revealed her every emotion, this woman's showed nothing.
Neither happiness nor sorrow.
She was pretty enough, though, without the usual heavy makeup or thick, cloying perfume most prostitutes wore. He imagined she would clean up real nice if she ever got out of this kind of environment.

After a moment he shrugged, seeing no harm in granting her request.

She rested one satin-
slippered
foot on the small ledge that ran along the bottom of the bar. Her dress fell open, exposing that stocking-clad leg Lucas had admired when she first came down the stairs.

"Brandy, please, Pete,” she said softly.

The bartender poured a glass, giving her a sharp look. “Don't be teasing the customers, Willow. They get real testy when you do that."

"I'm not teasing anyone, Pete.” She turned violet eyes on Lucas. “Am I teasing you, sir?"

Pete straightened his well over six-foot frame. “She
ain't
no
whore, mister, so don't be thinking you can take her upstairs."

"If she's not"—Lucas searched his mind for the right word; the last thing he wanted to do was insult the lady or incur Pete's wrath—"available,” he said, “then what's she doing here?” He almost added “looking like that” but thought better of it.

"She works here—singing."

"Singing, huh?” Lucas turned to Willow.
“You any good?"

A spark of life lit her eyes. “I've been known to draw a crowd."

He scoped the room. “Not tonight."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She took one last sip of brandy before sauntering over to the piano. Lucas didn't even try to stop himself from watching the sway of her hips. Some things a man just couldn't be expected to ignore.

She leaned over to whisper something in the piano man's ear,
then
climbed a set of narrow side steps to the stage. Her heels echoed on the rough planks.

The notes started, slow and precise.
The piano sounded raw and tinny by itself, but the minute Willow opened her mouth and began to sing, everything else melted away. Her clear, satiny voice filled the saloon. The men at the corner table turned over their cards, giving her their undivided attention.

"Fair as the morning, bright as the day,

Vision of beauty, fade not away;

Over the mountain, over the sea,

Come in sweet dreams to me."

The swinging doors opened to admit a group of men. All eyes were on Willow, her voice drawing them. They shuffled in along the wall, careful to make no sound that might intrude upon her singing.

Above, leaning over the balcony rail, appeared half a dozen women in various states of dishabille. Two or three men joined them, shirttails hanging out over loose trousers.

Lucas couldn't believe it. Not only did the girls without customers emerge from their rooms to listen to Willow's performance, but men who had already paid for a good time also flocked toward the sound of her voice.

When the song ended and the tinny plucks of the piano strings faded away, a roar of applause filled the room. Lucas clapped until his hands were numb. He had never heard anything in his life as beautiful as Willow's singing.

Her efforts were wasted in this
cowtown
, he thought. She ought to travel out to
California
or east to New York City. There she might find an audience worthy of her talents.

Willow gave a curtsy and blew a kiss to the crowd. The piano man helped her down from the stage, and she made her way back toward Lucas.

"What do you
think,
cowboy?"

"I think that deserves another drink."

Her laughter tinkled like a thousand silver bells. Pete even let down his guard long enough to chuckle. He refilled both their glasses before serving the customers who had poured in during Willow's performance.

Lucas studied her out of the corner of his eye. She didn't belong here, that was obvious—even more so now that he'd heard her sing.

"Why are you here?” he asked.

"What do you mean?” She put the glass of brandy to her lips.

"You're not a prostitute; Pete made that perfectly clear. You're a damn good singer, but I think we both know you're wasting your time here."

"Wasting my time? Sir, I'm offended.” She put a hand over her heart. “I like to think I've brought at least a smidgen of culture to this town."

"It would take more than one pretty songbird to do that."

She chuckled.

"So tell me the truth. What are you doing here?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Let's just say I have a healthy dose of curiosity."

"You and every other lonesome wanderer with empty pockets and a
headful
of dreams.
What is it
you
want, mister? A house filled with the pitter-patter of children's feet, or never-ending adventure?” Willow shot back the last of her brandy. “Sorry, but I'm not interested in either. I don't need some man to ride in on his white steed and sweep me off my feet."

"I didn't offer,” Lucas said. He took another sip from his mug of frothy beer. “But that's quite a speech you've got there."

Her cheeks brightened to a handsome shade of pink. “It's a necessity around here."

"So why do you stay?"

"You don't give up, do you?"

"Nope."

She smiled. “I'm waiting for someone."

"Here?” He didn't bother hiding his surprise.

"My brother left home a few years back, when he turned eighteen. At first we got letters from him at least once a week, and then they just stopped. I promised my parents that I would find him. This is the last place he was seen."