Deadly - Deadly Desire Part 14

Francesca slid her arm around her, more to comfort herself than Maggie. "Oh, G.o.d. Was it a barroom brawl?" Maggie nodded. "Mr. Cahill said so himself. Claims he was drunk. I don't know. Does your brother drink like that? He seems like such a gentleman!" "My brother is a gentleman," Francesca said, "and he has never been in a fight like this before. I have never seen him drunk, either." Suspicion a.s.sailed her. Could Evan be lying? And if so, why? She desperately needed to speak to him. "But he will be all right?" "In a week he should be up and about," Maggie said, wringing her hands. "But he will be stiff and sore for a month or more." Tears filled her bright blue eyes and she covered her chest with her palm. "This is too terrible for words." Francesca inhaled deeply. "Yes, it is." She glanced at her sleeping brother. And prayed this was not because of the inordinate sum of money he owed. Francesca left her brother's room and quickly freshened up and changed her clothes. As she did so, she was startled to find her blue eyes filled with the same anxiety she had seen the night before on the Albany train. She sobered as she pinned a hat on. Images of Bragg and Calder Hart clashed in her mind, followed by a recollection of Leigh Anne, waiting for them outside of Grand Central Depot. She sighed, as her personal life seemed impossible now, deliberately turning her thoughts to Chrissy and Craddock. At least the little girl was unhurt-Craddock had nothing to gain and everything to lose by harming her. As she went downstairs, she prayed that by the time she arrived back at Calder's, Craddock would have been found. It was only two and a half hours since they had split up to search for the hoodlum, not three. In all likelihood, all the Braggs would not be back by the time she got to Hart's mansion. Francesca had almost reached the ground floor when she heard her mother's voice drifting from the smallest of the entry's three salons. She could not make out her words, but clearly they had a guest. And instantly she was filled with dread. She froze upon the stairs. She simply knew who the caller was-but not why she had come. Julia stepped out of the salon, clearly having recovered her composure, although there was a somber set to her face. Leigh Anne Bragg was with her. Francesca looked past her mother, her heart stopping, and her gaze locked with that of Bragg's wife. Leigh Anne did not smile. Nor did her gaze waver. "Francesca? You have a caller. Mrs. Bragg," Julia said simply. She did not seem surprised. "I will have refreshments sent in, perhaps a cup of hot tea and some m.u.f.fins." Julia walked down the entry hall and disappeared in the corridor, obviously preoccupied. Francesca realized she remained posed upon the stairs, as if a statue. It was hard to breathe. If only the other woman did not seem so lovely, and not just in appearance. If only she looked like a seductress, a harlot, a villainess. "Miss Cahill? I do hope this is not an inconvenient time," Leigh Anne said. She had a soft, pretty voice. It suited her completely. Francesca came to life, thinking she would pretend to be her sister, who was the perfect lady, always, and for whom, in elegance and poise, there was simply no rival. And plastering a smile on her face, she glided down the stairs, her head held high, somewhat amazed by her own grace. In fact, a stranger might mistake her for her sister now, she thought with satisfaction. The trick was to pretend one had one's hair in a braid, and then to attempt to have that braid tickle one's waist. Then, on the bottom step, as she was not watching where she was going, as she could not, with her chin so elevated, she tripped. Leigh Anne rushed forward, "Are you all right, Miss Cahill ?" Francesca straightened, flushing. "I am fine." "I must say, those stairs are undoubtedly tricky," Leigh Anne said. Francesca looked into eyes the color of expensive emeralds. She had never seen such green eyes, such thick lashes- or such an expression of pure innocence. What if Bragg was wrong?

She shook her head to clear it. Even Hart claimed that this woman was a virtueless viper.

"Shall we?" She led the way back into the salon without responding to Leigh Anne's comment about the stairs or waiting for a reply.

Francesca then shut both doors closed behind Leigh Anne. "What can I do for you, Mrs.

Bragg?"

Leigh Anne smiled, and it was rueful. "I hope my note did not shock you."

Of course it had shocked her. "Of course not." She brightened her smile. "I have been so looking forward to meeting you."

Leigh Anne smiled. "Likewise."

Oh, this was good indeed. Her sour mood grew. "Bragg speaks so highly of you-and so frequently."

Leigh Anne continued to smile. "Do you love him very much?"

Francesca stiffened as if shot. "I beg your pardon?"

"Should we really play games?" She gave Francesca a sidelong look and wandered now to a cabinet, as if admiring the blue-and-white china collection there.

"Games?" Francesca repeated, as if a dummy who did not understand the meaning of the word.

Leigh Anne turned, continuing to smile in a pleasant manner. "He loves you. He told me so-and I can see it in his eyes when he speaks of you. I suppose I understand. The two of you have a great deal in common. I have heard you are a very active woman politically. I have also heard that you are an accomplished sleuth. I understand why Rick so admires you." Her expression was serious and grave.

How had this woman learned so much about her? Who had been giving her information?

"Bragg and I have worked together on several ghastly crimes," she said stiffly. "We are friends."

Leigh Anne's smile was tearful. "Well, he certainly does not consider you a friend, Miss Cahill. I suppose that in a way, this is entirely my fault, for not being with him, at his side, the way a wife should be. I am so sorry that this has happened, Miss Cahill. I really am," she ended softly.

Francesca folded her arms across her chest. The speech was such a perfect one-had she rehea.r.s.ed it? Surely she did not mean a single word! "Let's dispense with games," she said abruptly, and was pleased to see Leigh Anne start. "You have lived apart from Bragg for four years. Why have you so suddenly returned?"

"Cecelia Thornton," Leigh Anne said simply, no longer smiling, her gaze uncomfortably direct.

"Cecelia Thornton?" Francesca fought to recover a memory on the edge of her recollection.

"She saw you and my husband at the theater and presumed you were both intimate. She lives in Boston and came to me instantly, to warn me of what was happening."

Francesca became even more uncomfortable. Oh, she did remember that moment now, when she and Bragg had been having drinks before the show. They had turned around to find Mrs. Thornton of the Boston Thorntons-a friend of her mother-watching them ever so closely.

"Are you his mistress?" Leigh Anne asked.

Francesca managed to withhold her reflexive urge to gasp. She hesitated, as stiff as any oak board now. Should she lie? If she said yes, would it somehow be to her advantage and to this woman's disadvantage? Should she be honest? Would honesty make Leigh Anne Bragg disappear from their lives?

Francesca did not think that anything she did or said would make the other woman vanish.

"I see," Leigh Anne said coolly. "I do see."

Francesca realized she had taken her silence for acquiescence but did not correct her mistaken a.s.sumption. She could always do so at another time. "Why have you returned,

Leigh Anne?" She could not utter the words Mrs. Bragg, even though a familiar form ofaddress was incorrect now. Her gaze narrowed. "He is my husband. My husband has fallen in love with another woman.Surely you did not think I would sit by and allow the two of you to carry on here, for all theworld to see?" "You have nothing to gain by remaining in New York," Francesca said firmly. "Bragg doesnot love you and a marital separation will hurt him politically." For a moment Leigh Anne did not speak. She finally smiled. "Bragg claims he loves you. Ithink he does. But, my dear, he still loves me, as well-he simply refuses to admit it toanyone, much less himself." Francesca flinched. Her heart beat so hard now. Because she suspected as much and shehad for some time. "You see, we have a bond that can never be severed, Miss Cahill, not by you or anyone. It ishard to explain. Even living apart from him for four years, in a way he was always with me,each and every day. I have never been able to escape that bond, and seeing him today, Iknow he feels it, too." Francesca felt her cheeks heat. She believed Leigh Anne's every word. In fact, had she notseen, time and again, Bragg's extreme reaction to her mere name? "What are you going todo?" she managed roughly. She had to know. "I must ask you the same thing," Leigh Anne returned evenly. Francesca realized she was still hugging herself. She managed to drop her arms, but herfists clenched automatically. "I don't know." Leigh Anne absorbed that. "What I will not do is allow Rick to attain a divorce and thusdestroy himself, his career, and me." Francesca jerked and met her gaze. Leigh Anne stared back for a long moment, her gaze uncompromising now. "But then, hewould not be the one destroying himself, now would he?" She felt herself pale. This was a clever little woman indeed. "You are the problem here, Miss Cahill, you, not I. In fact, should anyone ever see what Mrs.Thornton has seen, should the newsmen of this city ever learn that you and my husband arelovers, he will be finished politically. And I do believe you are intelligent enough to knowthat." Touche. She lifted her chin. She said nothing, because Leigh Anne was right. Connie's words echoed now, loudly, hurtfully. You are his Achilles' heel, Francesca. ... Youare the one who can destroy him. If you love him, you must let him go! "If you really love him you would never think to put him in such a dangerous position," LeighAnne said softly. And Francesca thought, with utter despair, I have lost. She did not speak. Leigh Anne came forward and laid her hand on France-sea's back, the gesture one ofcompa.s.sion. "I am sorry," she said softly. "I understand what it's like to love my husband.You see, I have never stopped loving him, not even after all of these years." Francesca fought not to allow a single tear to moisten her eyes. She shifted so Leigh Anne'shand dropped away from her body. "You want him back." "I hadn't really understood that, not until I saw him this morning. I only came here to preventyou from destroying him, and us. But when I came face-to-face with him, my real feelingsbecame inescapable," she said. "I married a boy with dreams; today, I have seen a greatman. How could I not love him?" "So you are staying," Francesca whispered. And she heard how thick with tears her owntone was. "I am staying." Leigh Anne's smile was grim. "And I am going to help Rick achieve all of hisdreams, Miss Cahill." Their gazes locked. "Every single one."

Chapter Nineteen.

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1902 - 4:00 P.M.

Francesca walked Leigh Anne to the door, feeling very much removed from herself, as if she were not even in her own body. Avoiding thought-and feelings-now seemed like a priority. Yet it was so terribly difficult to do. Because beneath the surface veneer there was turmoil and heartbreak and oh so much sickness. As Leigh Anne was helped on with her chinchilla-and-fox coat, Francesca smiled. How brittle it felt. Leigh Anne slipped on her gloves. "Have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Cahill ," she said sweetly as Francis opened the front door for her. And unfortunately, there was nothing saccharine about her. In fact, compa.s.sion seemed to lurk in her green eyes. How Francesca hated her. Francesca nodded, the smile plastered in place, as Joel Kennedy burst into the foyer, stomping snow off his boots. "Miz Cahill, do I got news!" he cried excitedly. Leigh Anne looked at the small boy in the ragged coat, patched pants, and leather gloves with surprise. "Have a good day," Francesca said quickly, sick at heart that she felt physically ill. She closed the door in Leigh Anne's face, having taken the task over from Francis. She turned, inhaling hard, shaking. "Joel?" He grabbed her hand and dragged her away from the doorman. "I found me a bloke who wanted that reward we been askin' for," he said in a stage whisper. "Craddock's been in a heavy card game for two hours now. Saloon's on Thirty-second; we gotta go!" "What?" she gasped, instantly diverted from the horrid drama that was her own life. Francesca stared, her mind doing cartwheels. "We have found Craddock?" "Yep, but how long will he stay put? Where's the fly you like so much?" Joel demanded, glancing around as if expecting Bragg to materialize from the thin air in the foyer. Where was Bragg? She, of course, had no idea. "It will take twenty minutes, at least, to get downtown," she said quickly. "If we go to Hart's, it will take another ten." "Or more!" Joe cried impatiently. "We cannot lose Craddock," she decided. She raced over to a side table and quickly wrote Bragg a note. "Jonathan! Have this sent over to Calder Hart's at Nine-seventy-three Fifth Avenue this instant! It is a matter of life and death!" she cried, opening a closet herself and dragging out her coat. "Joel, run upstairs and get my purse; you know which one!" She gave him a significant look. Excitement filled her now. They had found Craddock! "The one with ... ?" "Yes, that one," she said, knowing he referred to her gun. Joel took off. "Bring Jenson about," Francesca said. There was no time for cabs now. They would have to use the Cahill coach. Jonathan was galvanized into action, while Francesca started to calculate the difference between her time of arrival at the saloon and Bragg's, beginning to perspire. She paced. If she was very lucky, he would only be twenty minutes behind her. But in all likelihood, it would be more than that, as he might not even be back at Hart's yet. It did not matter. They would stick to Craddock like fleas to a dog, until he led them to Chrissy Savage. Francesca was praying that she was unhurt, that she was alive. Joel skidded down the stairs and across the entry hall's marble floor. "Got it!" he cried triumphantly. Francesca took the purse. "Let's go." As Joel had said, Craddock was immersed in a serious game of cards. The saloon had a closed sign on the front door. It was not locked, however, and after peeking in first to make sure no one was about-and not even the proprietor was in sight-they slipped inside. Joel led her to a closed door on the barroom's other side. It was ajar; and peering around it, Francesca quickly saw a single table filled with six men, each and every one smoking a cigar, drinking whiskey, and silently engrossed in stud poker. One of the six men wore the blue serge uniform of a policeman, which sickened her. Of course a police officer was ent.i.tled to a game of cards, but not while on duty, and not with ruffians and crooks. And Craddock sat at an angle to the door-to see her and Joel, he would merely have to turn his head an inch or so to his right.

He was studying his hand. The scar on his cheek was livid in the garish pool of light.

And he had a gun tucked into his belt.

They backed away and looked breathlessly at each other with wide eyes. Francesca wished she had not seen Craddock's gun.

"Now what?" Joel whispered.

"We sit and wait outside for Bragg and his family and perhaps the police," Francesca said, the mere idea of waiting anathema to her. "Or we can try to find and rescue Chrissy," she added on impulse.

Joel grinned at her.

Francesca smiled grimly back, then glanced at the narrow stairs that led upstairs. "We have work to do. Come."

"Women," Joel said. "Harlots up them stairs," he added unnecessarily.

"Let's go," Francesca decided.

He followed her as they hurried up the stairs, which creaked and groaned with every step.

They glanced down into the barroom several times, but none of the poker players came running out, demanding to know what they were doing. Upstairs they halted, listening for sounds of activity. There were a few breathy moans and masculine groans coming from behind a door at the end of the hall, but other than that, they heard nothing.

Then they heard a child's laughter.

Francesca and Joel gazed at each other; the sound had come from the first door on their right. Thank G.o.d!

Francesca moved. She laid her ear against the rough wood door and heard more laughter and a woman's soft singing. Then, "What a pretty baby you are," the woman said with a smile.

Francesca removed her gun from her purse. She now wished it were an average-sized weapon, which looked far more threatening and not like a toy. Holding it in her left hand was simply not to be borne. Suddenly she tucked the gun in her coat pocket and tore the bandage off her right hand. Her palm was pink and a bit raw, her fingers in a similar condition, but it did not matter now. Clearly she was healing and well on the way to recovery.

She retrieved the gun, glad to have it securely in her right hand. She nodded at Joel and made a knocking gesture. Then she flattened herself against the wall. Joel nodded and grinned. He was enjoying himself.

He knocked twice, softly, on the door.

The woman stopped speaking. Chrissy stopped laughing.

Joel knocked again once.

Chrissy said, "Door."

Francesca heard a spring on the bed creak. She heard a floor plank groan. She felt sweat pooling in her cleavage, acutely aware of the woman crossing the room and hesitating before the door.

"Joe?"

Joel glanced at Francesca; she grimaced. He said, "Got a dollar?"

Suddenly the door opened. A woman in a short wrapper and curly blond hair with a tired, worn face appeared. "Go away, boy," she began.

Francesca jammed her gun against the woman's head. "Don't move," she said. "Or I shall blow your head off of your body."

The woman was as frozen as a block of ice. "Don't hurt me! I didn't do nothing! I only followed orders! It's Craddock you want!"

"Joel, grab Chrissy," Francesca ordered, suddenly aware that this was far too easy-and equally aware that Craddock was downstairs and far too close for comfort.

Joel rushed inside and grabbed the beaming little girl. At least she was happy and unhurt.

"Let's get out of here," Francesca said. She dashed down the hall, Joel on her heels, saw Craddock, and stopped.

He was coming up the stairs.

He also froze, his expression one of comical disbelief.

"Joel, the other way!" Francesca shouted as her gaze locked with Craddock's.

His eyes had been wide; now he leaped forward looking ready to tear her head off as Francesca turned to flee without even knowing if there was another way out of the saloon.

She prayed that there was. She took two steps when he grabbed her coat by the back of the collar. She was yanked backward, and then she was in his viselike grip.

"Joel, run!" she screamed as Craddock's breath feathered her ear, her cheek.

"Now what do I got here? It ain't a Bragg; now look at that. Anyone ever tell you you are one pain in the a.s.s, lady?" he asked roughly.

By craning her neck she was able to just meet his angry blue eyes. His scar stood out in a white arc now on his crimson cheek. He jerked on her harder, enough so, she thought, to crack her ribs. "Drop that f.u.c.king gun," he said.

She dropped it.

And saw that Joel had disappeared down a back stairwell. Relief filled her, but when she felt cold steel against her temple it vanished. "You have ruined everything," Craddock said.

"Hmm. Wonder what I should do now?"

She twisted and looked him in the eye again.

Cruel pleasure was there. He laughed.

He had never been so angry, but he put his anger far away, beneath resolve and determination. Why did she always have to go off half-c.o.c.ked on her own? But that was what made her unique and different from every other woman he had ever met, he thought, and it was one of the reasons he loved her.

The coach careened around the corner of Forty-second Street and onto Second Avenue.

"At least we have located Craddock," his father said. Rathe laid his hand on his knee. "And I am certain Francesca and this boy will be all right. She seems like a strong, resourceful, and clever young woman, Rick."

Bragg intended to smile; he felt himself grimace instead. It was clear to him that his entire family knew the depth of his feelings for Francesca.

There was simply no excuse for her to go after Craddock alone. When the case was resolved, with Chrissy safely back in her mother's arms and Craddock behind bars, he would throttle her-and then make love to her.

Which was what he should have done last night.

An image of Leigh Anne crept into his mind; furious, he tried to shove it away to some dusty, forgotten place. Her smiling face simply would not go.

"There is simply no excuse for allowing her to a.s.sist in any criminal investigation," Hart said coolly. "She has you twisted around her little finger." His black gaze was simmering with fury.

It was clear to Bragg that his half brother had not recovered from the fact that Francesca had spent the night with him alone on a train.

Bragg looked at Hart as coldly, wishing he might find another city to go live in. "I think you are the one she has wrapped around her little finger, Calder."

A gun was c.o.c.ked, the snapping metallic sound harsh and jarring. It was Rourke, and he jammed the revolver in his belt. "This might be a good time for the two of you to lay your differences aside," he said flatly.

A silence greeted his words. The coach was full. Hart, Shoz, and Nicholas D'Archand sat on the rear-facing seat, Shoz with one of Hart's hunting rifles wrapped in an oilskin raincoat.

Bragg, Rathe, and Rourke faced them, facing forward. Nicholas, who was eighteen and in his first year at Columbia University, finally spoke. "She is an amazing woman. I have never met a woman so brave and fearless," he said, his silver eyes filled with distinctly male admiration. Bragg sighed. "She is too old for you." "Says who?" Nicholas gave him a lazy look. Bragg decided to ignore his cousin. They were a block from their destination. He rapped on the window and Raoul, Hart's disreputable-looking driver who served more as a bodyguard than anything else, twisted to glance at him. He was joined there by Peter, his own man. Both men were armed. "Sir?" "Drive slowly past the saloon," Bragg ordered. Raoul braked and the carriage slowed. Nicholas and Rourke were seated on the side of the carriage closest to the saloon, which was on the west side of Second Avenue. Everyone strained to peer out the window as they pa.s.sed. There was a closed sign on the door, and the saloon appeared empty. Bragg glanced out of his own window, at the east side of the avenue. A few other saloons, a grocery store, a milliner, and a tenement were all crammed there. "Raoul, go around the block, quickly now. We will go out on the corner of Thirty-second, between Second and Third," he said. "What's the plan?" Rourke asked calmly. "We will split into teams of two. You take Nicholas; Shoz and Hart can go together. Father and I will be the ones to approach the saloon, perhaps enter it, and discern the situation. The rest of you stay back, outside and out of sight. You can duck into the doorway of the milliner's and the apartment building. I will wave you on if we should decide to storm the establishment," Bragg said. "You are not storming anything," Shoz said coolly. "And I am going in-alone." Bragg met his cold silver eyes and could not help flinching. Still, he understood, and he reached out and laid his hand rea.s.suringly on the other man's leg. "Shoz, you are emotionally involved. It is best that you do not make decisions now." "I am an Apache, Rick," Shoz said harshly. "I am the one who can get into the saloon and most successfully find and rescue my daughter. I am the one who is going to cut Craddock's throat." He smiled, and it did not reach his eyes. Bragg thought about Cooper, hanging by his neck, his body carefully sliced up. "Shoz, my niece is in there. Right now, I would prefer that we a.s.sess the situation, carefully, before deciding on any plan of action." Shoz hesitated. "Five minutes," he said. "That is what I am giving you, Rick, and then I am going in." Their gazes locked. Bragg felt real dismay, accompanied by the many icy fingers of dread. G.o.d d.a.m.n it. His brother-in-law was a hard man and not a man to be ordered about, much less to be crossed. He understood him now-his precious daughter was in the hands of a killer. But it was not in Chrissy's best interest that Shoz hunt Craddock down. They were not on the West Texas plains, where a man might commit murder and walk away freely. They were in the middle of New York City. Brendan Fair was out there, hunting them. Shoz was also not a man to change his mind, once it was set. Still, Bragg tried to negotiate. "Ten minutes," he said. "Give me ten minutes, Shoz. Please." Shoz's jaw flexed. Bragg hesitated, then said, "Francesca is in there, too." It was his way of saying that he loved her and was as concerned as Shoz about getting Craddock. Shoz said, "Eight." Hart rolled his eyes. "Both of you are emotionally involved; neither one of you should be in charge." "And you are not emotionally involved?" Rourke asked quietly, tearing the words right out from Bragg's heart.

"We are all emotionally involved," Rathe said firmly. "We're here." The coach rocked to a stop. The doors opened and the six men came pouring out, their weapons concealed beneath their coats. Shoz carried the hunting rifle wrapped in the oilskin raincoat. A knife appeared in his hand; he slipped it up his sleeve. He was still clad in his western-style suit and silver-tipped cowboy boots, and he and Hart were the only ones not wearing overcoats. Hart suddenly gripped Bragg's shoulder. "I should go in." He smiled. "I've heard there is a good game to be played." His eyes glinted and he lifted the leather valise he held. In it was cash. Bragg had not asked how much, but he a.s.sumed $10,000. His impulse was to refuse. But what better way to get the lay of the land? In his black suit and tie, his white dress shirt, and his gold Mueller pocket watch and Asprey sapphire-and-diamond ring, Hart could easily be mistaken for a gambler. Of course, he was too elegant and wealthy for this kind of place, but then, gamblers often panicked when a game could not be found. "He's right," Rathe said quietly. "Calder's just come to town and he is looking for a game. Flash the cash. I am sure they will let you in." "And I can go with him to back him up. I can go as his nephew or cousin," Nicholas said with excitement. "How many times have I been told I look just like Calder?" It was the perfect plan. All eyes were on Bragg now. He hated handing the job over to his brother. But Chrissy was in there-and so was Francesca. "Do it," Bragg said. There was the slightest trickle of sweat on his temples. Hart brushed them off of his cousin's face. "Calm down," he said outside the saloon. "We merely want some action, Nick. A cheap whiskey, a good cigar, and some fast cash." He smiled, baring even white teeth. "How can you be so cool?" Nicholas asked, loosening his tie. How? The calm was born of urgency and even fear. He adored the tiny child who was somewhere in that saloon, just as he adored her mother. And then there was Francesca. He would move the entire city in order to rescue her now. And he had not a doubt that he could do so, if that was what had to be done. Besides, money could buy just about anything-if not everything. "Calder?" Hart smiled at the younger man. "Experience," he murmured. "Forget the stakes; think of this as a game." But it was hardly a game. He remained acutely aware of the high stakes-Chrissy's life, Francesca's life. However, this was not the time to dwell on the worst possibilities. This was the time to execute. And he was a man of action. Had he not proved that, time and again? He met Nicholas's eyes. He saw that his younger cousin had recovered his composure. Especially when Nicholas winked. Hart nodded and opened the saloon door, walking inside, Nicholas on his heels. The barroom was eerily empty. It was dirty and cheap, but then, he had expected that. It brought back terrible memories, memories he had thought were so distant as to be gone forever. But now was not the time to recall running away from Rathe's home at the age of sixteen. Now was not the time to recall the five following years, including failing out of Princeton and slowly but surely wheeling and dealing his way to the top of the first company he had ever owned. He heard the soft murmur of voices coming from behind a closed door at its far end. "Let's go," he said with a hard smile. He could not wait to get his hands on Craddock. However, he doubted he would have the chance; Shoz would get there first. Nicholas smiled in return. To his credit, he looked eager now for battle. As anxious as he might be, it did not show. His smile was cool, amused, and even sensual; the boy reminded Hart a bit of himself. Hart clapped Nicholas's back and knocked on the door once, before opening it. Men turned in their chairs. Eyes widened and then narrowed. A half a dozen men stared. "I am sorry for the intrusion," Hart said calmly. He smiled, setting his valise down at his feet.

He did so in such a way that everyone glanced at it. "I heard there was a game; we have justcome to town, my nephew Nick and I." But even as he spoke, he casually glanced at each ofthe six men in the room, five of whom were seated at the table, one of whom was standing.He sensed that the tall, bald standing man was the proprietor of the saloon. One chair at thetable was empty. A player was gone, and being that no man already seated there fitCraddock's description, he guessed that their quarry was gone. He quelled anydisappointment. He was there to obtain information. There was surely information to behad. "Game's closed," someone granted. "Yeah, but where's Joe? He been gone for ten minutes," a heavyset man said withexasperation. "Said he had to get upstairs." "Stupid fool." Another one spat tobacco. "Shut up and play cards." Craddock was upstairs. "Might I be directed to another establishment?" Hart asked, pickingup his valise. "Let him play," someone groused. That was the last thing Hart now wanted. But he smiled with interest anyway, as if waiting tobe invited to sit. If he was, he would do so, and he and Nicholas would find the opportunityfor Nick to leave and tell the others what they had learned. Patience was a virtue. It was oneof the few that Hart possessed, and he had it in spades. And that was when the screams began and a gunshot rang out. Hart looked at Nicholas; the screams and the shot had come from above. They ran out of theback room, toward the stairs in the saloon, as all of the card-players jumped up. Joel had disappeared with Chrissy down the back stairs. Francesca was grateful for that. She stood by the woman's bed, not daring to move, as Craddock cursed and paced. Thewoman in the small wrapper looked anxious indeed. "Dumb moll!" Craddock finally shouted, and with the b.u.t.t of his gun he struck the blondeacross the side of her face. She screamed and went down in a heap. "This is all your f.u.c.kin' fault!" Craddock shouted, and he kicked her in the thigh. "Stop!" Francesca dashed to the woman, but Craddock caught her by the shoulder andflung her back hard onto the bed. "You don't move, lady, not one step!" The blonde was whimpering and crying now. "s.h.i.t!" Craddock cried. Francesca sat up, instantly looking at the other woman. The blonde was on her side,clutching her face. Blood seeped through her fingers. "She needs help. She needs adoctor!" "Shut up!" he shouted at her. "d.a.m.n it! Who the h.e.l.l are you? An' give me one good reasonnot to kill you right now!" Francesca froze. Her heart went wild, beating with alarm and fear. She inhaled. "Surely onemurder is enough?" He was hardly stupid. "I ain't ever committed murder." "I beg to differ," she breathed. "Fort Kendall-1890." He began to smile, widely. He was truly a cruel thug. "I didn't kill Cooper, lady. Ole ShozSavage did that deed." He leered. "An' I seen him do it." Francesca slowly stood. At least the blonde had stopped whimpering. She still lay on herside, but she was watching them both now with the kind of fascination reserved for a strikingrattlesnake. Francesca had been testing Craddock, and unfortunately, she felt that he wastelling her the truth. "I told you to stay still!" Francesca said, "I spoke to Warden Timbull. There were no witnesses." "Oh, there were witnesses all right. There were seventy-one witnesses, not countin' the guards."

She felt her eyes widen. "You mean-the entire prison watched that man being tortured and killed?"

"Even ole Timbull was there, enjoyin' the show," he sneered.

She was ill.

"Don't bother to swoon. Now who the h.e.l.l are you?"

Francesca debated her options. Her family had money, so the truth might save her life-he could ransom her now, instead of Chrissy. "Francesca Cahill," she said.

"Cahill? As in Arthur Cahill, that butcher fellow?" His gaze was narrowed.