Steal Me, Sweet Thief Read online

  Macalester knelt beside him and touched the prone bounty hunter's neck with four fingers. His eyes met hers, confirming her belief "He's dead, Gen." His voice was quiet with awe.

  Geneva felt as though she might be sick. She forced herself to look at the bounty hunter whose life she had taken, the man who had rescued her from certain rape, or worse.

  "I didn't mean to kill him, Mac," she said, remembering, oddly, flashes of her childhood when she had committed some infraction and had faced her father, or mother, or both, and told them "But I didn't mean it!" as if the words themselves were a mystical incantation, and that she could undo the damage merely by giving them utterance.

  But Lennox was dead. He would not rise and walk, pat her on the shoulder and tell her it was all right, that they could go on from there as if nothing whatever had happened. Lennox would never walk again.

  And she had killed him.

  Her legs evaporated beneath her and she sank to her knees. "Oh, God, Kieran." She choked back a sob. "I've killed him! I killed a man!"

  He was beside her, his hands gripping her shoulders. She did not look at him. Her gaze was compelled by the lifeless form before her, the body she had, in one desperate, impetuous gesture, robbed of life.

  Kieran Macalester looked on, filled with conflicting emotions. Geneva's actions had saved his freedom, if not his life. No doubt she had not intended for Lennox to forfeit his life, but there it was. It would do no good to allow her to brood on the awful truth with the dead man before her eyes. He got her on her feet and grasped her shoulders, turning her toward him.

  "Stop it, Geneva." He kept his tone firm and even. "It's over. He's dead. He killed a few men himself, in his time. More than a few."

  "But that doesn't mean he—"

  "No, it doesn't mean that he deserved to die," he interrupted her patiently, anticipating her remark. "What it means is that all things come 'round full circle, in life. It was Lennox's time, that's all. Hell, I hope—" He found her, from somewhere, a ghost of a grin. "I hope that when it's my turn, I get to die by the hand of a beautiful woman. It sure beats the hell out of being shot in the back by a half-crazy old bounty hunter!"

  She did not even smile at his morbid humor. Instead she gazed at him, hard. As if he were a half-finished painting she was trying to understand.

  "How many people have you killed in your life, Kieran?"

  The woman asked the damnedest questions. He shifted his weight and released her shoulders, meeting, just barely, her gaze.

  "I never killed anyone." He glanced at Lennox again. "Never had to. I expect I may, one day, though."

  Why in the world would he think of Garland Humble?

  Chapter Eighteen

  The forests of easternmost Texas were replaced, quite suddenly, by grassy prairie. The sun rose and set three times, finding them at last in Irving, a bustling little cowtown not more than forty miles from Garland Humble's place. Geneva, numbed by her failure to free herself from her abductor, had long ago ceased to trouble herself with her surroundings, or even with speech. It was over. She had no will remaining to resist Macalester's efforts any longer. She decided, after leaving Lennox behind in a shallow and unmarked grave, that it would be best to concentrate what little energy there was left in her on surviving Garland Humble and planning escape from him. Again.

  She sighed brokenly, drawing Macalester's corduroy jacket about her shoulders. It was a chilly October twilight, and she elected to remain on the mare while Macalester went into the only hotel in town to see about rooms. Irving reminded her, unpleasantly, of Fort Worth, and she shuddered inwardly at the thought of the following day, of facing Garland Humble after a long period of self-imposed exile. "Come on, Gen." Macalester was beside the mare, his arms outstretched. "I got us a room."

  She allowed him to help her down from the saddle, sliding easily into his arms. He held on to her for a moment or two longer than necessary, but she willed herself, successfully, to remain impassive in his tentative embrace. She had learned long ago, thanks to Humble, the skill of disassociating oneself from one's feelings—an invaluable asset where Garland Humble was concerned. Far more valuable than her unfortunate tendency to cry. Crying had never found any favor with Garland Humble. That was why her gremlin had been such a handy companion.

  "Gen, for God's sake, it's been three days. Say something! Anything!"

  Macalester's whispered plea bounced off of her like a deflected arrow. She looked up at him briefly. His dark eyes betrayed his worry. She fancied she knew his motivation: It would never do to return to Humble with defective goods.

  She found herself in a small room with an even smaller bed. It featured faded floral wallpaper that was no doubt intended to lend charm and homeyness, but only served to enhance the shabbiness of the accommodation. There was, however, a bathtub, and Geneva allowed herself the luxury of a soak, accepting Macalester's diffident offer of soap and an hour of privacy.

  Macalester quitted the room with a measure of relief and anxiety. Geneva had been more than acquiescent since the ghastly episode with Lennox. She had, in fact, been wraithlike in her daily activities. With a heavy heart, he made a stop at the telegraph office, where he wired Humble, alerting him to their imminent arrival in Fort Worth. Then he ambled across the street in darkness to the saloon. He entered the brightly lit and noisy establishment, careful not to look any of its denizens in the eye as he made his way to the bar. He found a spot and squeezed in between two young cowboys whose backs were to one another. He ordered a beer from the big, bald barkeep, then thought better of it and added a double whiskey to his original request. The bartender provided both wordlessly, and Macalester put up his six bits.

  He was tired. Exhausted. In less than a month, he had traveled from Fort Worth to New York and back, in a variety of conditions. He had masqueraded among the very highest of New York society, had been taken prisoner and had escaped. He had buried a man. He had found his heart, and had lost it. Quite a full calendar, he reflected, closing his eyes. At least he would have a lot of stories to tell Billy.

  But he wouldn't tell Billy everything.

  Cradling his beer in his left hand, he downed the whiskey, welcoming the slow burn flowing like molten lava down his parched throat and into the pit of his empty stomach. It was a good feeling, that burn. It helped him to ignore, for a time, the ache in his heart that had tormented him since that night in Memphis, when he had allowed Geneva Lionwood to seduce him. The ache, in fact, that bore her very name, as though it was a wound upon his soul. He thought it likely, taking a long draught of his warm, foamy beer, that the wound would be a long time in healing.

  He was aware, presently, of a pair of eyes monitoring him. He realized, to his wry amusement, that the eyes were his own, staring at him from the cloudy mirror behind the bar. He smiled briefly, then the smile faded. Looking at the lines in his face, he felt aged. He felt as old as he ever had, and he wanted another whiskey.

  Badly. He missed her already, and she had not even gone from his life yet.

  He closed his eyes, not wanting to look any longer upon the man who had wrought such devastation upon himself Upon the man who had ruined the life of the captivating and profoundly unhappy young singer who was at this moment soaking in the bath at the hotel. For he had ruined her life, perhaps in ways he did not even realize. Garland Humble is a monster, she had said, without passion. She had merely stated it as unequivocal fact, as one might quote the price of a piece of goods, or remark upon the weather.

  A monster. What could she have meant? She was theatrical, of course. Dramatic. Many men beat their wives. He imagined Garland Humble would be capable of such abuse, and that Geneva Lionwood would be capable of embellishing the fact. He was dismayed to find that the idea of Garland Humble beating his young and distressingly lovely wife was like a steel spike through his chest.

  He took another draught of beer. It had turned bitter. He pushed himself away from the bar, leaving half of his beer, and departed the saloon, unable
to endure the bright and bawdy ruckus any longer. In his dark humor, he much preferred the comparative gloom of the night, covering the town like a canopy.

  There was a restaurant across the street from the hotel. It was a warm, homey-looking place with blue-and-white checkered curtains in the windows. He went inside, famished, and ordered chicken and dumplings and a big dish of fruit slump. He washed all of it down with coffee, then ordered a second platter to take to Geneva, his "wife who's at the hotel. She's sickly," he explained to the proprietor, a tall man of ample proportions with a gray mustache and a jolly smile. Having given Geneva her hour, and more, he made his way back to the hotel with a small basket containing her dinner.

  Geneva used long, firm strokes with a damp cloth, brushing her clothes to remove as much of the dirt as she could. She would face Humble the following day, and she was damned if she would do so looking like a tumbleweed. Her legs, to her surprise, seemed to be healing nicely, to the point that it would no longer be necessary to bind them. With any luck, she might not even have scars to remind her of her ordeal. Visible ones, anyway. Her clean, damp hair was tied at the base of her neck, having been rolled in coils from her temples, and she had washed out all of her underthings, which now decorated every piece of furniture in the place like banners of surrender. She wrapped herself in a pleasantly clean, crisp bedsheet and wondered, fleetingly, what had happened to all of the clothing she had left behind in Little Rock. She wondered what had become of Camilla Brooks, bound for New Orleans, and the three hundred dollars.

  She wondered what had become of the promising young singer who had taken a bow as Zerlina on the stage of New York's Academy of Music in September.

  How long ago it seemed! Yet it had been less than a month. She could not quite forgive herself for what she saw as her foolish naiveté in trusting the charismatic and ruggedly handsome charlatan attorney who had turned out to be the outlaw Kieran Macalester. And she could not comprehend how her attraction to him, which she had thought to be superficial, could have left her feeling so desolate upon discovering the truth.

  It had been a lie. All of it. From the enticing offer of the San Francisco Opera and Light Theater Company (she had thought it too good to be true!) to McAllister's—that is, Macalester's—faintly whispered declaration of love after their liaison in Memphis. And the pain of that. He had, at last, been enough to cause her to murder a man, and to pitch her into a survival mode resurrected from her brief tenure as Garland Humble's resident wife.

  Her mind, blessedly, was as active as ever, but she kept her own counsel, no longer trusting her interests to anyone but herself Men had used and betrayed her before, from her first music master to Lord Atherton, and she had always made do, somehow.

  But none of the others had ever tugged upon her heart in quite the same way as the engaging outlaw.

  A sob caught in her throat until, by force of will alone, she pressed it down again. She envisioned her gremlin opening his box, and herself tucking the unwanted emotions inside. These last few days, the gremlin had become her boon companion. But as payment for his services, he exacted the toll of her silence. She rendered it willingly.

  If she had no further discourse with Macalester, she could not be seduced by his lies again. "I brought you some supper." The outlaw's soft baritone was just above a whisper.

  Geneva started. She had not heard him enter. She abandoned her suit, clutching the ends of the sheet tightly about her as she turned to face him. His angular features were devoid of emotion, but his dark eyes monitored her steadily, as though he might be waiting for something.

  What?

  Geneva looked at the basket, unable to maintain the gaze that made her painfully aware of her nakedness beneath the sheet. If he were of a mind to, he could take her, here and now.

  And the worst of it was, she did not really think, remembering his love in Memphis, that she would object. He waited, watching her as if he had not seen her for a very long time. At last he set the basket on a chair and proceeded to take from it a tin plate, utensils and a red checkered napkin, as well as several small tin pots. He set the vessels upon the small table beside it.

  "Chicken and dumplings." Macalester's voice had a definite buoyancy to it, no doubt due to his good humor at being so near his goal. The notion made her angry, until the gremlin came forth again and trapped the bubble of emotion in his box. Without a remark, Geneva sat down at the table on the solitary wooden chair, knotting the sheet over her left shoulder, and began to serve herself.

  It was the best meal she had ever eaten, no doubt improved considerably by the steady diet of cold beans, hash and Macalester's coffee that had sustained her through the last three days. Chicken had never tasted so succulent, nor dumplings as savory. The fruit slump rivaled the finest desserts she had ever enjoyed at Sherry's. And the coffee was a vast improvement over Macalester's.

  But then, trough water would have been.

  She giggled at the thought before she could prevent it, and Macalester was beside her in an instant.

  "What's so funny, Gen?" He crouched beside her until his eyes were level with hers. He rested his left arm along the back of her chair. She felt it press against her shoulder blades. It was like iron. His right arm rested on the table beside her plate, the long fingers of his hand splayed out flat as though he meant to restrain the furniture. A faint smile she could only call hopeful played at the corners of his overly wide and sensuous mouth, and she felt his warm breath upon her bare shoulder. His gaze held her captive. There were words on her tongue that yearned to be loosened, and his grin seemed to pry them forth.

  "What will happen to me, Kieran?"

  Had she spoken? It did not even sound like her voice. Macalester's grin faded to a rapt expression. He did not reply. She looked away again, hoping to conceal her confusion from him. She felt his warm, gentle fingers upon her chin, and at his touch she wanted to cry. He turned her face toward his own and she found that his dark eyes had imprisoned her once again. She had no will to break away a second time.

  "I swear I won't let anything bad happen to you, Gen," he whispered, and his words, comforting though they might have been, were taken by the unforgiving gremlin almost as soon as they left his lips. "I'm taking you back, but I swear I'll help you get away again. Do you believe me? Say you believe me! Sweet Jesus, this is the hardest thing I've ever had to do…"

  She felt the strength and warmth of his big hand upon hers where it rested in her lap, and she watched as Kieran Macalester closed his eyes. His dark lashes glistened with unshed tears.

  The gremlin swallowed up the words, and her hope, but not, she suspected, his pain.

  Geneva slept late, and Macalester was gone in the morning when she awoke. His absence did not trouble her. It seemed to be a habit of hers, sleeping late, and a habit of his to venture abroad before she even woke up. He had probably gone out to fetch the horses from the livery and to see about breakfast. She washed herself and dressed in her newly cleaned clothing, glad that she had been able to refresh herself for this, the last leg of her journey. She was ready to meet Garland Humble again. She had changed, she knew, since he had last seen her. She doubted very much that he had, except for being three years older.

  The knock surprised her, until she deduced that it was but another of Macalester's attempts to get her to speak. Thinking to outsmart him, she merely opened the door. But her caller was not Macalester.

  Three men stood in the hallway, dressed in trail clothes that still bore the dust of their journey and Stetson hats of varying colors. She looked into each of their faces—none of them was any older than Macalester—but they yielded nothing with their blank expressions.

  "Geneva Lionwood?" the man in front, with blond hair and a bronze mustache, addressed her.

  "Yes. What—"

  "Macalester sent us," the leader explained tersely. "His job is finished. We're here to take you to Mr. Humble."

  "What!"

  Her stomach knotted and her mouth went dry. Her
escorts, as one, shifted their weight to their opposite legs, yielding no further clue.

  "We have forty miles to cover, ma'am, so get your things and let's hit the trail."

  She was so stunned that she could not move. The outlaw had betrayed her—again!

  Sweet Jesus, he had said. Sweet Jesus, indeed. Her backbone went rigid.

  "I have nothing," she told the man coldly. "Mr. Macalester has seen to that."

  She walked from the room in as regal a gait as she could muster, summoning her gremlin at the same time. Willing her trembling hand to be still, she closed the door behind her, damning Macalester's soul to hell for all eternity.

  The men flanked her, with the blond leading the way. He turned, however, in the direction of the hallway opposite the stairs, drawing Geneva up short. "Wait," she exclaimed, a sudden apprehension seizing her. "That's not the way to the—"

  A strong pair of hands seized her arms in a savage grip from behind, and a wet cloth was jammed over her nose and mouth. The scream never left her lips.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Macalester bought sweet rolls and coffee for breakfast. He was in a raw and savage humor, which he attributed to a terrible night's sleep in a lumpy old chair that was about as soft as a skinny whore, and to the fact that he was relinquishing custody of Geneva today in Fort Worth. He hoped breakfast with her would improve his mood, but he doubted it. Reproach and distrust were ever in her green eyes, and were all the more intolerable because he so richly merited them.

  A lie was a funny thing, he had discovered lately. For one thing, lies were so easy to tell. He had left many of them scattered upon the landscape of his past like bad seeds, lies that had stayed behind and had never touched him again. After a lifetime of lying, though, he had finally been brought up short by one, had finally told a He that would remain with him all of his life like a hideous deformity. He remembered Geneva's conversational remarks about her penance for the He she had told in Roanoke, but Kieran Macalester was neither a religious nor a superstitious man. He was, however, beginning to believe that lies brought with them their own punishment, and the bigger the lie, the greater the weight of its penalty. And his lie to Geneva Lionwood had only begun to take its due.