The Rocky Mountain Heiress Collection (70 page)

Anna saw Jeb’s shoulders slump. The admission seemed to momentarily take the bluster out of the hired gun.

“And as for my association or lack thereof with Mr. Ringo and his band of thieves and liars—rest their souls—well, perhaps you don’t read the papers,” he said. “Four months after my acquittal on those unfortunate charges you’ve mentioned, my esteemed colleague Mr. Earp unburdened himself to a reporter of some renown regarding the truth behind many of the lies being told on their behalf. And ours.”

“Lies.” Jeb seemed to roll the word around before unleashing it. “I’m a man of proof. An article in the paper, no matter who wrote it,
will not change the truth. And the truth is you’re a cold-blooded murderer.”

“As you said, it is the truth of the matter that tells the tale. So, if you’re to call me a murderer, you would need proof of this.” Holliday’s eyes sparkled and color flooded his gaunt face. Anna wondered if interest in the topic or a fever caused it. “So tell me,” he continued. “Can you offer such proof? For we are in agreement that much of what is written in today’s newspapers is conjecture and outright fabrication.”

Anna watched the scene unfold between the men with a mixture of interest and shock. The Jeb Sanders she knew might be a lot of things, but a man so bent on revenge—or whatever drove him to hate Doc Holliday—was not one of them.

“Leadville. Fourth of July.” Jeb moved to put himself between Anna and Holliday. “Back in ’77.”

Anna peered around the Pinkerton’s broad back to watch the outlaw square his shoulders. “Seventy-seven?” he asked, slow and ponderous. “That was a long time ago. You must’ve been just a kid.”

“I was old enough,” Jeb snapped.

“Years run together nowadays.” Holliday raked his surprisingly steady hand through pale hair, then caught Anna staring and winked. “Unless there’s a pretty lady involved.”

“Oh, she was pretty, all right. Her name,” Jeb said slowly as he lifted the pistol and took aim, “was Ella.”

Sunlight slanted over the angles of the hired gun’s face as Anna watched a muscle in his jaw twitch. Anna knew she must intervene somehow or the outlaw would meet his Maker.

She set her writing case down and placed herself between the Pinkerton and the subject of what she hoped would be a headline-worthy piece of journalism. “Mr. Sanders, I insist you put that gun away.”

“Move,” he said, deadly calm.

“Do you have a warrant for this man’s capture?” Anna asked in what she hoped was a strong voice. “I thought not. Nor do you have any legal recourse should I have to testify that you shot him.”

Silence. Thankfully, Mr. Holliday said nothing.

Anna affected a pose she hoped would indicate to the Pinkerton that she was considering her options. “So tell me, does a man sworn to protect me discharge his duties when he discharges his weapon into an innocent man?”

“This is no innocent man,” Jeb said.

“Never claimed to be,” Mr. Holliday replied.

“Then let the Lord judge him.” She paused. “Notice he’s not drawn his weapon. Do you intend to shoot a man who’s not drawn his weapon and call it justice?”

Silence once again fell between them, and Anna allowed it. Perhaps something she said had caught Jeb’s attention. Or perhaps he was merely deciding how to put a bullet into Doc Holliday without injuring her.

“I assure you, Miss Bird, I am unworthy of your efforts,” Mr. Holliday finally said, “though I applaud the enthusiasm of your husband in this endeavor.”

Anna did not dare look away from Jeb. “And I assure you, sir,” she said to the outlaw, “were I foolish enough to take this man on as a husband, I would deserve to be shot.”

A poor attempt at humor, and yet it did cause one of the men in the room to laugh. Unfortunately, it was not the Pinkerton.

The look on Jeb Sanders’ face when she placed her hand over his reminded her of the expression he wore when he first emerged from behind the log a couple of weeks ago.

“Move,” he repeated through clenched jaw. “Now.”

She stared up into eyes narrowed by the same anger that held his mouth in a tight line. To argue with a man in this state would do no good, so she did what Mae Winslow would do and placed her fingertips against the lips she’d so recently kissed. This caught his attention quicker than any exchange of retorts.

“Enough of this. You may stay, Mr. Sanders,” she said as calmly as she could manage, “but if you do, I would thank you to remain
silent so Mr. Holliday and I can conduct our business. As you know from the agenda my maid delivered to you this morning, I must return to Denver in time to attend a function this evening. A shooting would only put us off schedule.”

For a moment, Anna feared she’d gone too far. Then, slowly, her hired gun lowered his revolver.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Behind her, the Georgia dentist begin to clap.

“Well done,” Holliday said when Anna turned to face him. “Had I any questions as to your qualifications in this endeavor, they were just answered. Now, what do you require to begin?”

Anna ignored the Pinkerton’s response, but she did not allow her attention to stray from his gun until he finally put it away. “Only your story,” she said to Holliday. “I thought to compare your recollections to what has been written in order to find a trail of false claims.”

Mr. Holliday remained still, his gaze studying her. “Yours is not the first interview I’ve given, Miss Bird. Did you not consult your
Rocky Mountain News
for my statement? May of ’82, it would have been.” He crossed his arms over his chest to affect a casual pose, emphasizing the leanness of his frame. “Or was it June? Then there were the various papers in Tombstone and beyond. Had a decent write-up in one of the San Francisco periodicals. Apparently I am well liked in that part of the country.” He toyed with his mustache. “So, which was it? June of ’82 serves my recollection.”

Piercing blue eyes stared into her as he awaited her response. Or perhaps to see if she would pass this test.

“It was May, Mr. Holliday, and the paper was the
Denver Republican
, though given my premise that not all words in print are the truth, I’m sure you will understand if I prefer to conduct my own interview. I will need more light in order to work.” Anna gestured to the window. “May I?”

When he nodded, she picked up her writing case and set it on the table, then went to the window. When her second attempt at raising the sash failed, Jeb Sanders nudged her out of the way and opened it for her, allowing a sulfuric-tinged breeze to blow through. Beyond the Pinkerton’s broad shoulders, the view was a poor one, the brick wall of a building and a meager back alley one floor below, but sunlight glinted off Jeb Sanders’ badge and spilled across the simple wooden table.

Anna gave Mr. Sanders one last firm look, then seated herself and opened the case to remove pencil and paper. Only then did she turn her attention to the legendary gunman. “How would you like to begin, Mr. Holliday? Or should I call you Dr. Holliday?”

“That you’ve called on me at all is sufficient, dear lady.” He rose, an effort that caused a coughing fit. Recovering, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Mr. Bird,” he said, taking two shuffling steps toward Jeb.

“Sanders,” the Pinkerton corrected as his hand went back to his gun.

“Rest easy, Mr. Sanders.” Holliday paused as if to study Jeb. “I mean you no ill will. Tell me, who is Ella?”

Anna set down her pencil. She didn’t intend to miss this answer. The contrast between the Pinkerton and the gunfighter was striking.
Where Jeb stood tall and broad shouldered, John Henry Holliday looked old beyond his years and pale, his hair already graying. Anna could only guess at Jeb’s age, though she assumed the pair weren’t as far apart in years as their appearances showed.

“She was your woman.” Holliday dipped his head. “My condolences for your loss.”

For a moment, Anna thought Mr. Sanders might actually respond. Instead, he adjusted his new Stetson and turned his attention to Anna.

“I’ll be outside this door,” he said, “and I won’t take kindly to foolishness. Get your story and get out of here.” He consulted his watch. “You’ve got an hour.” Then he focused on the outlaw. “You even
think
of touching her and I’ll kill you, warrant or not. Understand?”

A slow smile spread across Holliday’s face. “I do indeed.”

“Mr. Sanders,” Anna said, “how dare you berate the subject of my interview. Do apologize.”

“Apologize?” His expression turned dangerous. “I should have put an end to this foolishness back in Denver instead of letting you get on that train.”

“Letting me get on that train? Of all the nerve.” Anna’s eyes narrowed. “You were completely flummoxed that I managed to sneak away.”

Jeb moved between Anna and the outlaw. His gaze scorched her as it swept down the length of her, then collided with her stare. “Do I look like a man who would ever be flummoxed?” He leaned closer. “Ever?”

Had Anna been in the mood to be honest, she might have admitted he did not. Instead she rocked back on her heels and nearly
collided with the wall. Only the Pinkerton’s hands on her waist kept her from tumbling. His grasp was unnecessarily firm.

“Just outside the door,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the otherwise silent room.

“I am not a child in need of a nursemaid,” Anna said to his retreating back.

The Pinkerton stopped, one hand on the polished brass doorknob. “Were you a child,” he said slowly, “I’d have a remedy for your behavior that would make you think twice before attempting to cross me again. Don’t suppose there’s any hope of finding a woodshed in this town, is there, Doc?”

Sanders looked past her, and Anna followed his gaze. Doc Holliday appeared more than a little amused.

“Get out.” Pressing both palms to Jeb’s back, she gave him a gentle but firm shove. “I’m terribly sorry,” Anna said to Holliday when the door slammed behind the Pinkerton. “I had no idea he would follow me, nor do I appreciate it.”

“Miss Bird,” Holliday said with a grin, “you cannot accept responsibility for a man determined to follow.” He paused to allow his gaze to travel the length of her. “Despite his primitive behavior, he is obviously a man of refined tastes.”

“What?” She shook her head as understanding dawned. “Oh, no, you’ve misunderstood. Mr. Sanders and I do not have that sort of relationship.”

He chuckled. “Of course you don’t. Yet.”

She considered protesting, then decided to leave the insinuation unaddressed. “So,” Anna said as she retrieved her pencil, “have you an expectation for this interview?”

He studied her a moment. “Should I?”

“Well,” Anna said, “I had hoped to make your innocence the focus of this article.”

His laughter echoed in the tiny room as he settled back onto his chair. “Then, my dear, I fear this shall be a short interview. I am far from an innocent man.” Her surprise must have shown, for the gunman’s grin faded. “Miss Bird, your letter indicated an interesting theory. Might we begin by discussing just why you think there are two of me?”

“There are at least two of you,” she corrected, “possibly more. You could not have been in all the places where you’re charged with crimes. It’s impossible.” She reached into her case and pulled out a stack of newspapers, then began spreading them across the table. “Come and look at this. You’re accused of shooting a man during a card game in Tombstone on the same day you were with me and the Earps in Denver.”

While he read the article, Anna found another paper. “And see,” she said as she pointed to the front page of the
Aspen Daily Times
, “this man doesn’t even look like you.”

He set down the papers and joined her at the table. “My friend Wyatt has vouched for you, and that is why I’ve allowed this,” he said as he settled himself. “That there are men using my name is an old theory long discarded.” Holliday gestured to the stack of newspapers. “Forgive my impertinence, but what assurance can you offer that this is not yet another colossal waste of time?”

“None,” Anna responded hastily. “Perhaps it will be just that.” She paused to point her pencil at him. “But what if it is not? What if there is but one man carrying on this ruse? And what if my
story …
your
story,” she corrected, “is exactly what gets that man caught?”

“Is that why you’ve brought a Pinkerton with you?”

The question hung in the sulfur-tinged air for a moment before Anna set down her pencil. “How did you know he’s a Pinkerton?”

The legendary gunman shook his head. “A man with a badge carries himself differently than other men. I know,” he said slowly. “I wore one a time or two.”

“Well, though it may appear otherwise, Mr. Sanders is assigned to me, not you,” Anna said. “Courtesy of my father.”

He laughed and toyed with the diamond stickpin on his lapel. “Because you accept invitations for clandestine meetings with outlaws?”

“Because I refuse invitations from potential grooms.” She reached for her pencil. “Now, about that story.”