Authors: Alice Duncan
# # #
When
he visited Pyrite Springs after supper, Tom was dismayed when he unearthed
neither hide nor hair of the portly, mustachioed gentleman he’d seen
striding away from Claire earlier in the day. He asked at the Pyrite
Springs Hotel and the Gold Nugget Inn, to no avail. It wasn’t until
after he’d tried the telegraph office, the stage depot, the post office,
been frustrated at all three, and decided to stop in at the Fool’s
Gold Saloon for a beer that he found his quarry.
By
that time the evening was well advanced and the man was embroiled in
what seemed to be a endless poker game. Tom couldn’t imagine Claire
becoming involved with a fellow who gambled. Observing from his post
at the bar, he grinned at the barkeep and said artlessly, “New face
in town, I see.”
Bruce
Bing, the sociable barkeeper whose own mustaches were waxed almost as
prettily as Tom’s prey, swiped at the counter with his damp rag. “Yup.
Come to town yesterday on the stage. Friendly feller.”
“Looks
like the game’s been going on for a while.”
“Yup.
They been playin’ durned near all afternoon. That new feller keeps
chinning’ and grinning’ and keepin’ ‘em all in stitches. Regular
comedian, he is.”
“Know
his name?”
“Well,
now, I ain’t so sure. He’s stayin’ upstairs.” Bing winked hugely.
“A guest of Miss Mildred, you understand.”
Tom
gave a suitably sly grin. “Fast worker, is he?”
“I
reckon. Never seen him till yestiddy, and he’s already Miss Millie’s
guest.” Another wink let Tom know just how much Bing appreciated such
a slick operator as the poker-playing, lively old comedian.
“Well,
maybe I’ll mosey on over and see what’s going on at the table.”
Tom flipped a coin to the barkeep, who smiled at his generosity.
The
conversation around the poker table was animated. Tom sipped his beer
and watched the man closely. The fellow was as smooth as a polished
marble. His brown eyes twinkled, his teeth flashed, and he kept up a
steady stream of amusing anecdotes, making sure his fellow poker players
were constantly off guard, but so diverted that they didn’t object.
If Tom didn’t suspect the man of having hurt Claire, he might have
been entertained. He wished he could talk to the damned fellow, but
the game seemed destined to go on for hours.
Patience
was a virtue he’d developed on the plains, however, and he used it
now. Pulling up a chair, he straddled it, settled his arms over the
back, and watched the game for what seemed like forever.
It
wasn’t quite forever. In fact, Tom’s patience was stretched only
another hour and a half or so. At last, the game broke up and the man
stood and stretched.
Grinning,
Tom asked, “You won quite a pot there, sir.”
The
fellow grinned back, and Tom could have sworn he was being assessed
acutely. He felt like a side of beef for a minute. It was an uncomfortable
feeling, and he counteracted it by standing and holding out a hand.
“Tom Partington here. I enjoyed watching you play. You’re a skillful
hand at poker, sir.” Tom was sure it wasn’t his imagination that
made him think the man brightened when he divulged his name.
“Indeed
I am, Mr. Partington.” He shook Tom’s hand. “Claude Monta—Montenegro
here.”
Montenegro,
huh? Strange name. “In town for long, Mr. Montenegro?”
“Alas,
no. Just passing through.”
“I
thought I saw you earlier this morning outside the mercantile, chatting
with somebody. Now, let me see. . . . Who was it? Ah, yes. Miss Claire
Montague, it was. You a friend of hers, Mr. Montenegro?”
“Montague.
Montague.” Claude put on a show of thinking hard. “No, can’t say
the name’s familiar.”
“No?
My mistake. But come to the bar, Mr. Montenegro. Let me buy a stranger
a drink. I don’t play much poker myself anymore, but I enjoy watching
a skilled card player, and you’re one of the best I’ve seen in a
long time.”
Claude’s
grin was as toothy and benevolent as any Tom had ever seen. He didn’t
trust the man already. What could this slick customer have to do with
Claire? The awful thought struck him that he might be a former lover.
Had he come back to plague her to return to him? Could it be this man
whom Claire had been fleeing when she came to work for his uncle? Had
she been fleeing anything? She was such a starchy, straight-laced woman,
it didn’t seem possible somehow.
And
yet, such a scenario might explain some puzzling things about her. Tom
settled against the bar, called for drinks, and prepared himself for
a long, interesting evening.
When
he awoke the next morning with an aching head and a sick stomach, he
still had to admit the evening had been interesting. Entertaining even.
He’d seldom met anybody as amusing and engaging as the man who called
himself Claude Montenegro.
He’d
learned absolutely nothing, however, about his relationship with Claire
Montague.
Chapter
14
The
slippery scoundrel twirled his waxed mustache and smiled at Miss Abigail
Faithgood. His expression might have been taken as benevolent by anybody
unfamiliar with his black heart. Miss Abigail, however, knew the dastardly
man well. It was he who had hired the band of villains from whom she
and Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee had just escaped.
It was he who threatened to kill her sheep so that he could take over
her ranch.
“Good
afternoon, Miss Faithgood. What brings you to town today?”
Miss
Abigail squared her shoulders. “I imagine you are surprised to see
me, aren’t you, Mr. Maguire? But your scheme bore no fruit, as you
now know. I still live.”
His
greasy smile still in place, Oliver Maguire murmured,
“Now whatever can you mean, my dear girl?”
“I
mean you’re a vile, despicable, evil human being who doesn’t deserve
to exist on the same earth as the rest of us,” Claire muttered savagely.
Her
pen dropped to her blotter, she put her elbows on her desk, and cradled
her head in her hands. Beneath the manuscript page she was writing lay
the telegram she’d received this morning from Mr. Oliphant, warning
her about what had transpired on the train and apologizing abjectly.
As if an apology would make a difference now.
“What
am I going to do?”
She’d
been doing her best to borrow a helpful tip from Sylvester and use her
conniving father as a novelistic device. At least that way he’d be
good for something. It hurt to write about him, though, even this little
bit. What Claire wanted to do with her father was forget he even existed.
But
how could she do that if he kept turning up? Granted, he’d only turned
up once so far, but Claire knew that now he’d found her, unless she
was prepared to flee Pyrite Springs, change her name, and take up residence
elsewhere—preferably a foreign country—she’d never be rid of him
again.
“Whatever
will I do?” she moaned again.
At
a tap on her door Claire snapped her head up, whisked her novel from
her blotter and crammed it into her drawer, wishing she’d never brought
it downstairs in the first place. She glanced up in time to see Tom
Partington, looking not quite in perfect health, watching her curiously
as he closed the door.
His
grin was as beautiful as ever. “Hiding evidence of your embezzlement
activities, Claire?”
She
looked down at the corner of a manuscript page sticking out of her closed
drawer and wondered why the Fates seemed to hate her so much these days.
Quickly opening the drawer, stuffing the paper all the way in, and closing
it again, she looked up and donned a bright smile. At least she hoped
it was bright.
“You
caught me,” she said lightly. “And here I was hoping to keep my
nefarious scheme a secret for a little while longer.”
Tom
chuckled and then winced. Claire’s heart lurched. “Are you feeling
well this morning, Mr. Partington? You didn’t join us at breakfast.”
“No.
No, I wasn’t quite up to breakfast, I’m afraid. I went to town last
night and I fear I overindulged a trifle.”
“Oh.”
Claire knew exactly what sort of overindulgence Tom referred to. Her
father had euphemistically called his occasional bouts of drunkenness
overindulgence. She’d never have suspected Tom of such regrettable
habits. She felt her mouth tighten and made an effort to relax. It was
not her place to judge her hero. That is to say, her employer.
“You
look grieved, Claire. Please believe me when I say that such excesses
are not at all commonplace, and I certainly don’t want to disappoint
you.” He looked longingly at the chair across from her desk. “May
I sit? Or have I sunk myself so far beneath reproach that you wish to
be rid of me.”
Good
heavens, did she appear that disapproving? Striving for an easy-going
smile, Claire said, “Of course you may sit, Mr. Partington. And I
assuredly do not disapprove of you, nor would I ever wish to be rid
of you. I was just going over the, er, household accounts.”
Sinking
into the chair with evident relief, Tom sighed and asked, “I don’t
suppose Uncle Gordon hid his book profits in the household accounts,
did he?”
Not
quite daring to meet his inquiring smile, Claire murmured, “No, he
did not.”
“Pity.”
Tom
rubbed his forehead with thumb and fingers, and Claire felt a moment
of compassion. It was only a moment though; she didn’t approve of
the type of indulgence that resulted in headaches and mean tempers.
She’d been victimized by gentlemen in such a condition too many times
in her youth.
“Whew.
I’m really not used to drinking, Claire. I like a glass of brandy
or something every now and again, but I can’t even remember the last
time I had a head like this.”
Claire
deemed it prudent not to respond. She began to fiddle with her pen.
“But
you see, I met this very intriguing fellow last evening when I stopped
in at the Fool’s Gold Saloon. The same one I thought I saw you with
earlier in the day. Turns out he goes by the name Claude Montenegro.”
Claire’s
pen fell to the desk and she snatched it back up again. An odd feeling
of numbness invaded her body and she began to perceive Tom as if she
were looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Suddenly he seemed
very far away. She dropped her pen again and clutched the edge of her
desk so as to remain seated and not faint and slide into a heap on the
floor.
“M-m-montenegro?”
she whispered, and frowned because that had sounded wrong—entirely
too soft and shaky. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What
an odd name.”
Tom
winced once more and Claire realized she’d spoken too loudly.
“I
don’t think it was his real one.” He shaded his eyes and looked
as if it hurt to speak.
He’d
been consorting with her father! Claire wasn’t sure she could stand
hearing about it. On the other hand, she knew she couldn’t stand not
hearing about it.
“Er,
why should he be using a false name, Mr. Partington?” She schooled
her face to betray none of the panic rampaging in her heart.
“I
think he’s a confidence man, Claire, a bunco artist.”
“You
do?” She stared at him, awed. She’d never known anybody to come
to such a quick, shrewd, and accurate assessment of her miserable father.
Then again, she’d never spoken to anybody about him before, either.
“Yes.
I wonder why he’s in town.”
Was
it Claire’s imagination, or did Tom look at her with an entirely too-perceptive
gleam in his eyes. She dropped her gaze. “I’m sure I wouldn’t
know, Mr. Partington.”
“No?
Are you absolutely sure you don’t know him, Claire? Was he the one
responsible for your unfortunate investment?”
Unfortunate
investment? Ah, yes; she remembered that lie. Claire tried to laugh,
a difficult thing to do with her mouth dry as cotton. “Good heavens,
no, Mr. Partington. I have no idea who the gentleman is. Was. Is.”
Tom
shrugged, a gesture that seemed to hurt. “Are you sure? I was certain
I saw you with him yesterday morning.”
Claire
tried to swallow the lump of cotton wadding in her throat. “Saw him
with me? I mean me with him? Goodness gracious no, Mr. Partington. Whatever
would I be doing with a confidence man?” She tried to appear innocent.
She felt guilty as sin.