Steal Me, Sweet Thief Page 18

  The door to the hotel room was not locked. Carrying the basket from the restaurant in one hand, Macalester pushed the door open and took two bold steps inside before he realized Geneva was not there. He felt his face drain of color. He quickly closed the door and stepped back, holding up his arm to fend off the blow he expected from behind, a blow like the one he'd taken in Little Rock.

  But there was none forthcoming. Where the hell was she?

  He dropped the basket and ran from the room, fairly flying down the stairs in a thundering gait that caused the clerk, an elderly man with thinning gray hair and thick round spectacles, to scowl. Macalester could not even pretend to be abashed at his reproof.

  "The—my wife," he panted, willing himself to think, and to make sense. "When did she go out? Did she say where she was going?"

  The small, wiry man behind the counter looked over the rim of his glasses, pursing his small, dry mouth to a pucker. "Your wife ain't been down 'tall," he answered in a high, thin tone that suggested that Macalester had, perhaps, lost his mind. The outlaw grabbed hold of the oak trim on the counter, because he knew the man would protest if he reached across and seized his stiff shirt collar.

  "Is there a back way out?"

  The man shook his head firmly, pointing to the staircase lately descended by Macalester. "One way up; one way down."

  The window?

  Macalester doubted it, even as he ran outside and scanned the building. There was not so much as a rain gutter beneath the lone window of their room, or anywhere else around the building. Macalester found himself running: to the stage depot, to the livery, to the restaurant and back to the hotel. No one had seen her.

  No one.

  Macalester was out of breath, and his heart raced as he stumbled back into the room. He threw himself face down upon the rumpled bed upon which she had slept. Geneva, he thought, aware of a faint trace of her jasmine scent upon the sheets, where the hell are you?

  If she had not left the hotel, he reasoned, rolling over to his back, she must still be there. But where? He got up again and looked out through the sheer lacy curtains at the window onto the now-busy main street of the small town. He needed a plausible excuse to go from door to door of the hotel looking for her. The idea seemed ludicrous to him even as he thought it, and the plan would probably get him arrested for disturbing the other patrons…

  Below his window on the street in front of the hotel, two men lifted an awkward and amorphous bundle into the back of a buckboard. In spite of his anxiety, he was amused by the spectacle of the men struggling with the bulky thing wrapped loosely in burlap.

  The men suddenly looked familiar to him, especially the blond with the dark red mustache. He forgot about Geneva for a moment, staring hard at the man, trying to remember where he'd seen him before.

  Rumble's foreman! That's who he was!

  Why, he wondered, scratching his chin, was Humble's foreman in Irving, so far from home? He considered the men thoughtfully. They were fussing with their bundle like it was a load of peacock's eggs. The bundle, he mused, allowing his imagination free rein, could have been a person.

  The realization was like a shower of ice water: that lousy, no-good, double-dealing son of a bitch! Macalester bolted from the room. Just outside his door, he met a third man, but only for an instant. A thunderous blow caught him full on the right side of his face, and a shower of orange sparks in his brain quickly faded to blackness.

  The pain moved in small waves, like the ripples on a slow-moving river. He was lying down. There was something cool on the side of his face, and slowly Macalester gathered his consciousness from its far places like calling small children in to supper. The images came together and he recalled, finally, a face outside of his door and then the orange sparks. Abruptly he opened his eyes.

  Billy Deal sat on the lumpy old easy chair he'd pulled over to the foot of the bed. His big, dirty boots were propped negligently on top of the ecru coverlet, soiling it with Texas dust. His hands were folded upon his chest in the manner of one accustomed to waiting comfortably, and his azure eyes twinkled merrily under his crop of corn-colored curls. His baby mouth, under a brand-new full golden mustache, grinned.

  "Howdy, Senator!" he chirped, laughter in his voice. "What the hell hit you? Humble's wife?"

  Macalester, trying to focus his eyes and his comprehension, did not immediately respond. With great effort, he propped himself up on one elbow, removing the damp washcloth from his face with the other hand.

  "What the hell are you doing here, Billy?" he grumbled, not wanting to think about Humble's wife for the moment. "And what's that thing on your lip?" Billy blew off a breath, like a surfacing whale. "Humble kept a pretty close rein on me," he reported tersely, ignoring the second question. "They got careless last night. I heard Tyrell, the foreman, talking with Humble about Irving. I guessed you'd sent him a telegraph from here, sol slipped out, grabbed my horse and found you in this shithole with your ugly face stove in."

  Macalester lay back against the flat pillow, frowning. It didn't make sense. Any of it. Unless—

  He slammed the heel of his hand into his forehead. Telegraph. How could he have been so stupid? Well, the damage was done, for now. Best not to act too hastily from here on out.

  "Billy." He rubbed the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Is there any chance that Garland let you get away?" It was Deal's turn to frown. "What are you getting at?"

  Macalester didn't answer right away. He was reviewing the mission in his mind, trying to come up with another reason why Geneva Lionwood would disappear without a trace and Billy Deal would materialize within twenty-four hours of one another, even if he left Humble's foreman and his gargantuan headache out of the equation. It all added up to the fact that Garland Humble was lower than Armadillo shit, and about as fragrant.

  "Did Humble ever say anything to you about his wife? About why he wanted her back?" he asked, staring at Deal's boots.

  Billy's hands arced and came to rest behind his head. "Humble didn't say more'n a handful of words to me about anything," the younger man declared, but his tone was thoughtful. "What the hell's goin' on, Senator? You smell a rat?"

  Macalester grimaced. "A great big fat one," he affirmed, meeting his partner's inquisitive gaze. "Named Garland Humble. Listen, Billy. I want you to stay here and wait for me. I have to get out to Humble's place to collect the ten thousand, and—"

  "But where's his wife?" Billy interrupted. "You know he won't pay if you're not delivering the goods!"

  Macalester had started to rise, and in fact had actually gotten one foot off of the bed, but the core of Billy's observation stopped him cold. He met Billy's frank, blue-eyed gaze with a sort of wonder. "What did you say?"

  Billy held out his hands, not at all annoyed, it seemed, to be repeating himself "Humble isn't going to pay you if you're not bringing his wife." He pronounced each syllable carefully. "So where is she, Senator?"

  Macalester said nothing. The beauty and treachery of Humble's master plan was slowly revealing itself to him: The old spider intended to do him out of his bounty by taking Geneva from him, then holding Macalester to the letter of their agreement. And speaking of letters, he felt inside of his shirt for the parchment envelope and withdrew it. He quickly checked the contents, feeling only a little foolish. He was discovering, to his dismay, that nothing was beneath Garland Humble.

  The thought of Geneva in the hands of the spider made him shudder.

  "He'll pay," Macalester said finally, more to himself than to Billy. "Every cent he owes, and maybe a little bit more than he figures."

  He met Billy's steady gaze, filled with a new and grim determination.

  "You stay here in Irving, Billy." He shrugged off the dizziness as he got to his feet. "Take this letter over to the post office and mark it 'special delivery.' I don't aim to give old Gar a chance to change his mind. Anyway, it might be best if you keep out of Humble's way for a while. I can wire you if I need your help."

&
nbsp; Now Billy was mystified. "Need my help with what?"

  Macalester did not feel like explaining, and not just because he couldn't spare the time. He waved an impatient hand and moved to the washstand to escape the younger man's scrutiny.

  "I promised Geneva I'd help her to get away from Humble again." He concentrated on the water he was pouring into the basin. He closed his mouth, finding that the very mention of her name caused him discomfort and made him feel exposed.

  Behind him, Billy was silent for a moment. "Geneva?"

  Macalester closed his eyes. Why was it always so easy to forget how perceptive Billy was? He rallied, forcing an indifferent tone to his voice.

  "Geneva," he repeated, feeling the knife of her name twist in his gut so hard that he almost recoiled with the pain of it. "She claims Humble treated her badly in the past, and she's afraid of—"

  "Whoa, Senator!" Billy's voice was low with amazement. "Maybe you'd better start from the beginning. I got a feeling this is a damned interesting story!"

  Macalester did not trust himself to look at the younger man. "Oh, it's interesting, all right," he growled, splashing water into his face. "But a sight too long to go into, just now. I got to—"

  "Shoot," Billy interrupted in a cajoling way. "Humble ain't goin' nowhere. And I been holed up in that fancy dungeon of his for near a month now. I could use a good tale. Tell me all about you and… Geneva."

  He said the name in a leering way, as if peeling fancy lace stockings off a shy young whore. Macalester curbed his sudden impulse to collar his partner and shake him until his neck snapped.

  "Dammit, Billy," he retorted irritably, patting his face dry with a towel. "There's nothing to tell! Except for tangling with a lah-dee-dah English lord, running into Lennox—remember him?—taking a couple of knocks to the head, getting caught by a wildcat posse and spending two or three days tied up like a piece of beef."

  Macalester threw the towel onto the washstand hard enough to rattle the basin. He found his comb and worked on his unruly sienna locks, thinking, as he blocked out Billy's grinning reflection in the mirror, that he'd rather be in a dentist's chair than conversing with an astute Billy Deal just now.

  "For such a good liar, you're doin' a mighty pitiful job of it at the moment," his partner allowed broadly, and Macalester, feeling his face grow warm, could hear the laughter in Billy's voice.

  "Go to hell," he muttered, still combing hair that was already in place so he did not have to face the mocking younger man on the other side of the room. "I'm not lying."

  "Boy, she musta got to you, but good," Billy declared, sounding more amazed than amused. "Maybe you ain't lyin', Senator, but you sure as hell ain't tellin' the whole truth, either!"

  Macalester sighed. "I'll tell you all about it sometime," he said after a long moment, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. "It's just—I can't talk about it. Not right now. Not yet."

  His candor seemed to embarrass his friend into courtesy.

  "Sure, Mac." Billy Deal sounded mollified. "I didn't mean to rib you on it. I guess you're entitled to your feelings, like everybody else."

  This unexpected consideration for his feelings was almost worse than the teasing. Macalester felt his throat tighten, and he swallowed several times before he dared to speak again.

  "I have to go, Billy," he said finally. "Wait for me here. Give me two days."

  He faced his partner at last, his features carefully bland. Billy was regarding him with a thoughtful, probing expression, and he hoped he was equal to it. "You sure you don't want me to come along?" Billy tested.

  Macalester felt his jaw tighten. He shook his head. "I can handle Humble. You just concentrate on keeping out of trouble. And mail that damned letter, before something happens to that, too. I swear, I just don't seem to have any luck when it comes to holding onto things."

  Billy's grin was like the quick slash of a sharp blade.

  "Maybe you just ain't been holdin' onto 'em tight enough."

  "Or maybe," Macalester mused, "I just haven't been holding onto the right things."

  Without waiting for an answer, he pushed off.

  Geneva was convinced that she had died and was on her way to Hell. There was a rough, stifling blanket wrapped tightly about her like a shroud, and it was suffocatingly hot. All around her was the relentless racket of wooden wheels creaking and groaning like satanic instruments of torture. All that was missing were the agonized screams of the victims. And inside of her was the numbing grief of betrayal. Sweet Jesus, she thought, tearing at the image of Kieran Macalester, the great liar, in her mind. Sweet Jesus.

  A sudden jolt rolled her onto her back, hard. She groaned, then started at the sound. Did the dead have voices? Perhaps she was not dead, after all. Through the pinholes of the woven cocoon about her she could see light beyond her confinement. She felt weak and light-headed, though, and unable to marshall her wits to free herself.

  If she had the strength, or the breath, she realized tiredly, she would have screamed. Still, she did manage to wriggle her arms loose and to struggle briefly against her bonds. After a few tries, the wrapping had loosened measurably. Encouraged by her success, she fought on until at last she had uncovered her face. She gulped in several breaths of cool, sweet air as she shielded her eyes from the sudden light with her arm.

  Presently her eyes adjusted to the raw, unforgiving light. She perceived that she was lying on the floor of a wagon, a buckboard. A buckboard that was moving at a good clip, for a buckboard. Above her were trees. A forest, like Arkansas and eastern Texas. She frowned. There were no forests such as this anywhere near Humble's place that she recalled. She remembered suddenly, like a door opening, the three men who had come for her at the ramshackle hotel in Irving. With some effort, she rolled over and pushed herself up on the heels of her hands, feeling as wobbly as a baby lamb, or a drunk. If only she could still the spinning in her head!

  Before her eyes, on the seat of the buckboard, were the backs of two men hunched over, their hats hiding their necks and hair from view. They appeared to have no notion of, or concern about, her presence.

  Such was the magnanimous hospitality of Garland Humble, she thought.

  "You, there!" She summoned her most imperious tone and was annoyed when it came out little better than a whimper. "I'm hungry, and thirsty. Stop this wagon at once!"

  Simultaneously, the two hats moved, and their owners stared at her for a moment. Their faces told nothing of their ages or intellect. She was equal to their scrutiny, but somewhat abashed when they merely turned their faces forward again without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. By God, someone would answer for this abominable treatment!

  "Stop, I say!" She tried again, and this time her words were supported by a stronger tone.

  "They take their orders from me, ma'am." A high, nasal tenor with an unmistakable Texas twang addressed her from behind. She turned to see the blond man rein a mottled gray-brown horse up beside the wagon and keep pace with it. He wore a dark kerchief over his nose and mouth, hiding from view the dark red mustache she remembered. His ridiculously large and nauseatingly filthy ten-gallon hat must at one time have been gray, or even white, but was now as mottled as the spirited animal he rode.

  There was something ruthless and frightening about the man's frank, expressionless stare, all the more unnerving because she could not see the rest of his face. The kerchief, while in itself hardly ominous, gave the man the aspect of an outlaw.

  An outlaw like Kieran Macalester.

  "Who—who are you?"

  "Tyrell," he replied briefly. "I work for Mr. Humble."

  His words were muffled by the kerchief, but she was able to make them out. She coughed then as a sudden cloud of dust came her way on the light breeze. Tyrell said nothing.

  "Did my husband order you to suffocate me in that?" she demanded, glaring hard as she gestured to the bundle of burlap on the floor of the buckboard. "Your husband ordered me to do whatever was necessary," he answered, holding his h
orse back with a firm hand on the rein. Geneva stared at him, taking a mental step backward. Whatever was necessary… Why did that phrase frighten her? "Macalester won't let you get away with this," she heard herself say. "If you, or Garland Humble, or any-one else thinks they can prevent that mercenary from collecting his payment—"

  "Macalester won't be coming after us." Tyrell cut her off laconic ally, adjusting the brim of his hat with a gloved thumb and forefinger as he surveyed the trail ahead.

  She was filled, inexplicably, with dread. "What did you do to him?"

  "That's not important," the man assured her. "Only thing you need to know is I got me a full bottle of chloroform here, if you're plannin' to give me any trouble."

  I plan to give you as much trouble as you can manage, she thought with a disdainful sniff.

  "You're not as smart as Macalester, then," she interpolated, as though apologizing to Tyrell for assuming that he might have been.

  Tyrell laughed. "Maybe I'm smarter," he retorted.

  The driver snorted. "Yeah, and maybe I'm Billy Deal," he said to his companion in a low tone.

  "Shut up, Wes!" the mounted man snapped in annoyance. Returning his attention to Geneva, he added, "If Macalester's so smart, why's he out cold in Irving, and why're you on the road with us?"

  So Tyrell had lied to her in Irving! Macalester had never sent him! She kept herself in check: It would not do to let this bucolic trio guess how much, or how little, she knew. The driver and his companion were chuckling as well, apparently amused by their leader's humor. She sat back against the side of the wagon feeling helpless, a feeling she hated. The untended wood dug mercilessly into her shoulder blades as the buckboard bounced along, and she seized the burlap from the floor, wadding it up like a pillow behind her. Tyrell, to her bitter amusement, remained on his pony pacing the wagon, as though she might require strict guarding. Where would she go? she wondered, considering the man, who looked about Macalester's age.