Calico Read online

  “They’re my claims, Dutch. Stop forgetting that.”

  He eyed his boss. Ah, McCready was sure getting touchy about Pete’s claims. Dutch decided to abandon talk about them. “You got to admit, boss, that Maggie sure looked pretty dressed in a gown. Didn’t she?”

  The drink that McCready was nursing burned his throat. The glass hit the planked top of the bar. Liquor sloshed over his hand. “Don’t,” he grated from between clenched teeth, “dare mention that creature’s name in my saloon if you value your hide.”

  “Didn’t say a thing about Satin, boss. I was talking about Maggie looking so damn good she—”

  “By the bones of the bonny prince, shut up!” McCready’s eyes closed tight. Once again he saw Maggie’s luscious figure so firmly implanted in his mind that he knew he would never forget it. One of the sins on his most unforgivable list was being duped. Maggie’s offenses through the last year had multiplied until he gave her a priority listing of her own. One that demanded for the sake of male pride that he take some revenge.

  Dutch sensed he had stumbled onto something more than all the past heated confrontations between McCready and Maggie. Like a man probing a throbbing tooth, he couldn’t resist another gingerly made thrust.

  “That woman’s got a right fine figure. Surprised me, I’ll freely admit.”

  “Dutch.”

  Ah, he was right. McCready’s voice was soft. He sipped his drink, cupping the glass to warm the liquor, and kept his gaze pinned to the bottles lined up neatly against the wall.

  “I did some thinking while I rode out to the cabin. Figure with the right educating in manners, she’d be a woman any man would be proud to have on his arm.”

  “I’m fair warning you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dutch continued, ignoring him, “Mary Margaret has finally grown up.” Smacking his lips, Dutch turned and watched as McCready opened his eyes and faced him. It was a shame that the good Lord had seen fit to give a man as good looking as McCready a jaw soft as butter. Not in its shape, Dutch noted, it was manly enough, but the lightest tap knocked him cold.

  “I did warn you not to mention her name.”

  “But I didn’t.” Hands raised in protest, Dutch grinned. “Did the dog affect your hearing, man? Not one sound came from these lips of mine that sounded like the name we’ve all been calling her. I said Mary Margaret.”

  McCready dropped his head forward, defeated. He couldn’t hit Dutch. He needed him for an ally. And if the Lord had stopped laughing long enough to see the serious matter at stake, Dutch would never know the licentious thoughts he was having about her. Maggie. A groan escaped him.

  “If I didn’t know better,” Dutch stated, his brow deeply furrowed as he rubbed his chin, “I’d say you’ve got the same guilty look about you that usually marks your scheming.”

  “You’ve been too long in the wilds, man. You’re seeing what isn’t there.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so. What are you going to do about the female whose name I can’t be mentioning?”

  A furious pounding at the front door of the saloon interrupted them. McCready motioned for Dutch to see who it was while he stepped behind the bar and broke the seal on a fresh bottle of his special whiskey.

  “We’re not open for business, Dutch,” he called out just as the man lifted the wooden bar across the door.

  Dutch nodded to show he heard him, but now he was really worried. McCready never turned down a chance to make money. Never. Dutch always blamed it on his Scot forebears.

  Opening the door part way, his body blocking entry, Dutch looked at the two men, heard what they wanted, and closed the door. “Boss, it’s Abe and Jimmy Keystone, wanting to know why the door is barred.”

  Without looking, McCready reached behind him, lifted a bottle of Dutch’s homebrew, and tossed it to the barkeep. “Give it to them with my compliments.”

  Dutch nearly dropped the bottle he had just caught. Oh my, McCready was in a bad way for him to give away free liquor. Dutch did as ordered and once again barred the door before he took up his place standing opposite McCready.

  “That’s the second bottle you’ve opened today,” Dutch said, tipping a bit into his own glass. “You want to tell me what’s wrong? I mean really wrong. I know this has to do with Maggie.” He met McCready’s glower with a steadfast gaze. “I know that I agreed to help you, but I still can’t figure out why you couldn’t tell her the truth about Quincy. She wouldn’t marry a man just for money.”

  “That’s how much you know Maggie O’Roarke. Kessnick has money that Maggie wants to work all the claims. How could I be living with myself if I failed to protect her from such a lying schemer?”

  Dutch choked, then swallowed the liquor in his mouth. He set his glass down and gripped the edge of the bar. “And what would you be calling yourself if not the same?”

  McCready ignored the twinge of guilt that made itself felt. “It isn’t the same at all. I’m keeping my sworn word to Pete. He wouldn’t want Maggie tied to a man that agreed to marry just to get his hands on those claims. Once I had Quincy drunk enough and heard that he had no plans to stay married to her, I had to rescue Maggie. He bragged long and hard about the eastern mining syndicate that he was fronting for. When he realized that Maggie wasn’t about to sell the claims to him, not that she can, mind you, but that’s when he decided to marry her.”

  “So, you’re still saying that you acted with the noble thoughts of sacrificing yourself to save her? And you’d be having the purest of intentions toward the girl?”

  McCready tossed back his drink and moved to refill his glass.

  Dutch stopped him. “I’ve rarely questioned you, but this time you owe me an answer.”

  Having long ago made a satisfactory deal with his conscience, McCready wasn’t easily cowed by the threat in Dutch’s voice. A guilty conscience needed no accuser.

  “Be satisfied with this, Dutch. My intentions don’t matter. I settled the question of Maggie marrying anyone.”

  Slapping his boss’s back, Dutch poured his drink for him and even handed McCready the glass. “I knew you’d do the right thing and tell her the truth. Maggie’s smart enough to understand.” Tipping his own glass in salute, Dutch neatly downed his drink. Lowering the glass to the bar, he glanced at McCready’s untouched glass. “You did tell her the truth?”

  “Did you know that telling the truth shames the devil?”

  “What are you saying?” Dutch’s meaty hands curled into fists.

  “Well, my friend, there are those who will say that the truth may be blamed but cannot ever be shamed.”

  “The last time you got to recalling that fancy learning of yours was the night we got run out of Virginia City.”

  “A ways back. But a most pleasant memory.”

  “Hamilton Baker didn’t think so. You took him for almost thirty thousand on the turn of one card. Couldn’t blame the man for raising the question of where that ace came from, either. You were mighty clumsy in those days.”

  Thinking of the hurt in Maggie’s eyes, McCready knew he was still clumsy.

  “Seems to me,” Dutch went on, unaware, “that every time one of your schemes starts skidding the wrong way, you get to pulling out those confounded sayings.”

  Grinning, McCready faced him. “It was a most memorable night, Dutch.” But under the man’s steady regard, his grin faltered, then died. “Almost as good as the night we met in New York and—”

  “Never mind trying to lead me down that false trail. Pete was my friend, too. I made him the same promise that you did to take care of Maggie and watch out for her. So, I’m asking you once more, Mr. McCready. If you’ve done something to hurt that gal, best be telling me now.”

  He couldn’t continue to meet Dutch’s gaze. Looking heavenward, and knowing there was no answer forthcoming, McCready sighed. “Dutch, I told Maggie that as her legal guardian, Pete married her off by proxy before he died.”

  “That must hav
e jury-rigged her sails just fine.” But gazing at his boss revealed one unhappy-looking man. “It can’t be bothering you that Maggie hates you a bit more?”

  With a serious tone McCready admitted, “Actually, it does. And you’re right. She did look pretty all dressed up like a woman.”

  Dutch found himself stepping away from the bar. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the lust, as pure as the gold from Mohawk Pete’s first claim, that was wrapped around the last words McCready spoke. He took the measure of a man whom he topped by a few inches and outweighed by a good seventy pounds. Something told him he was going to regret pushing McCready into telling him the truth. But he wasn’t a man who would run from knowing.

  “Now, what would a man like you be wanting with Maggie when you have Cora Ann and that new songbird, Rose, to be fighting over who spends the night with you? You don’t need Maggie. You don’t want Maggie.” Dutch stopped. In his mind he once again heard McCready’s earlier confession. He told Maggie that Pete married her off by proxy. Dutch reverted to a string of blue curses learned on the New York docks. When he was done, he took a deep cleansing breath, released it, then asked, “Who did you say Maggie was married to?”

  “You don’t want to know.” McCready turned and rested both elbows on the bar. He knew that Dutch wouldn’t let it be. He was deliberately allowing himself to be vulnerable. Perhaps he should renegotiate the deal with his conscience. Sure enough, the big man lumbered out from behind the bar to plant himself in front of McCready. But he had to give it one last try.

  “Dutch, we’ve been friends for almost ten years. We’ve been in some rough spots and had a few narrow escapes. But there’s been times when we’ve had—”

  “I know all that. Answer me.”

  “You only knew Pete for three years. Yes, I know he’s the one that tipped us off that Cooney Camp would be the next big strike with money to be made freighting. But where the hell does your loyalty—”

  “Never mind my loyalty. Leave it out of this. Who did you say little Maggie is married to?”

  “Dutch, back off.”

  Dutch noted the soft, soft voice. He thought about it for just a second and decided against its warning. “You’re gonna tell me, McCready, and without any of your lies.”

  “Do you know that you’re the second one to call me a liar today? I must be slipping. But frankly, I’m getting damned tired of hearing it.”

  “Then stop doing it.” With a quick shift of his body Dutch assumed a fighter’s stance. “It’s thanks to you that I’ve boxed my way through more than a few barroom brawls. You know that I’m always one of them that walks away. Unlike you. Friendship is the only thing that’s stopping me from taking a piece of you now. I won’t be asking this again. Who is married to Maggie?”

  McCready saw the red flush creep up from Dutch’s stiff white linen collar at an alarming rate. He eyed Dutch’s fists. The scars and protruding knuckles forced him to swallow. He knew he was already suffering the condemning guilt of the damned. With a mental shrug he answered.

  “Me.” And braced himself for the blow that was coming.

  Chapter 3

  High on the rim of Silver Creek Canyon, Maggie knew that a further search was hopeless. The other men had already turned back when she caught up with them, but she had insisted on continuing even if the trail they had followed had been carefully wiped out.

  The sturdy mustang mare stood quietly as Maggie studied the open land dotted with scraggly brush. She was being stubborn and perhaps a bit foolish to sit here, wasting the last of the daylight when she should be heading back to the mining camp.

  But Satin was the only one waiting for her to return.

  A wave of loneliness overcame her. Since Pete had died, she had no one to trust, no one to count on but herself.

  It sickened her now to remember that before she had Pete buried, people were claiming friendships that she knew had never been. Debts, more likely owed to Pete than the demands that he was the one owing them, surfaced faster than a good panner collected his poke of gold from his placer claim. And she thought herself so smart, finding Quincy, convincing him that she couldn’t sell what Pete had left her, but that if he married her, he would be well paid.

  Smart maybe. But McCready had proved smarter. If he wasn’t lying.

  Just the thought of being married to McCready set off those funny flutters rising in her belly again. Damn the man and his smooth ways.

  “Aye,” she whispered, “smooth is the devil’s own word for the man.”

  His voice was smooth, never a rough edge to it, just like the whiskey he favored. His hands were smooth enough to deal off the bottom of the deck while you watched to catch him. And that fancy talk of his could make a person as crazy as Cockeyed Charlie. McCready was a handful of trouble she could do without. Him and his fancy ladies lording about with those cat-got-the-mouse smiles.

  She knew it was only feeling a bit raw herself that had allowed curiosity to surface about McCready. What did he do to cause those women to fuss for his attention? Pamela, she recalled, was a sensible-to-a-fault female most of the time, but she melted and ran like honey if McCready so much as breathed the same air as she did.

  That’s what being a woman got you, she decided. A man like McCready was all set to call the shots with his wicked smile and sweet talking. Well, it would never happen to her. She had horse sense. She would never let McCready get close enough. And if he tried claiming some rights with his lies of their being married, Dutch could go polish the bar glasses with the rash promise he had forced from her. She’d fix McCready’s silver tongue but good.

  She had to. There was no one else who would do it for her.

  Restless, Maggie shook off her black thoughts. Her nose itched. “A warnin’ for sure,” she muttered, glancing around as a chill laced itself up her spine. She slipped her rifle from its boot beneath her leg, and set the weapon across her lap.

  The mustang’s ears flattened as Maggie whispered to the mare, then perked high to capture sounds that Maggie couldn’t hear.

  Maggie didn’t trust people, but her horse and dog had never failed her. The ripple of tension that passed over the mare’s hide was all she needed. Dropping the knotted neck rein, Maggie kneed her mare to a walk, glancing behind her.

  There was no shelter to hide someone. Yet a feeling persisted that she was being watched. She needed to get off the rim of the canyon, where she presented a perfect target.

  Maggie looked down. The mustang veered from the edge of the canyon just as a shot whizzed damn close to where Maggie’s back had been seconds before. Furious, she brought up her rifle, sighting the deep clefts of the canyon wall across from her. She couldn’t see anyone in the dusky light.

  Gently squeezing the trigger, Maggie decided to pepper the wall, but a second shot echoed and grazed the rump of her horse. Caught unaware, Maggie tumbled to the ground when the mare reared in pain. The rifle fell from her hands a few feet away.

  The rapid fire of the repeating rifle kept her pinned in place. In moments the painful whinny of her horse and the drum of the mare’s hoofbeats were faint sounds.

  Maggie ignored the sting of her cut cheek and the scrape on her chin as she pressed her face to the bare rock. Now she was truly alone.

  Her only safety lay in the last feeble rays of the descending sun that would give her the shroud of darkness. She urged it to hurry, for Maggie found that she was too scared to pray.

  Far to the northwest, in Santa Fe, Thadius Cornwallis watched the same setting sun as he patted the fattened envelope resting securely in the inside pocket of his jacket. He stroked the fine cashmere and wool blend material of the lapel. Thadius prided himself on wearing only the finest of cloth. A smug smile played around the cigar he was never without. He accepted another glass of the Milwaukee beer from one of the Staab brothers, nodding as he listened again to the story of their being chosen the sole agents by the Schlitz’s brewery for the New Mexico Ter
ritory. Thadius did not know which brother was which. They were not important in his scheme of things, so their names did not matter.

  But Thadius made it a policy to smile and listen to everyone. A smart man never knew when he would be offered the perfect tidbit to sell to those men whose rewards kept him in grand style.

  William Berger, head of the mining exchange, and a real estate and insurance firm, motioned for Thadius to join him. For less than a heartbeat Thadius’s small eyes, set like a pig’s, revealed a flame of hate. But he excused himself and began to cross the room to William, knowing he was the last man here this evening who still had to offer more than verbal thanks. Thadius knew to the penny how much Berger stood to make on the completion of the Southern Pacific joining with the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe line to form the second transcontinental railroad.

  It was Thadius’s business to know such information. Know what you wanted from a man, find out what he wants, and give it to him. Thadius’s rule. One of his few. He had learned to live without a conscience, having decided at the age of eleven it was baggage that he could easily do without.

  William watched the portly man’s progression through the crowd. He noted each of the men whose hands Thadius paused to shake. All of them men whose palms Thadius had greased to bring about the final stages of his latest scheme. His satisfied smile irritated William as he finally reached his side.

  “A token,” William said, handing over a thick wad of banknotes.

  “Generous,” Thadius murmured, sliding the money into his inside pocket, then patting the bulge it formed.

  “I can afford to be, can’t I.”

  It wasn’t a question, but a statement that required no answer from Thadius. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I spoke to Walter Jones, that assayer I told you about. He tested the sample. It weighed forty-seven ounces and is worth about seven hundred dollars. I want that gold mine, Thadius.”

  “Yes. I thought you would.”