Steal Me, Sweet Thief Read online

  Macalester! Why could she not stop thinking about him?

  "Why aren't we going to Fort Worth?" she said then conversationally, as much to evict Macalester from her thoughts as to catch her audience unawares. She did not know for certain that they were not headed for Fort Worth, but she thought it a good ruse to discover the truth.

  Tyrell was undeniably startled by her question. Geneva pretended not to notice, even after he had lagged several yards behind while the wagon pressed on.

  "Who says we ain't goin' to Fort Worth?" he called after her, then spurred his pony to catch up.

  She kept her triumphant smile to herself You just did, you fool, she thought, shifting her position uncomfortably.

  "Can't we please stop?" she pleaded in nonanswer, sensing that time, somehow, was her ally. "We've been traveling for days, and I'm starving."

  "We ain't been on the road but a coupla hours," the driver argued without turning around, revealing to her that they had only left Irving that morning. Briefly she thanked the Lord for the stupid men Humble had, in his typical arrogance, sent for her.

  "Shoot, Wes, she ain't no sack a beans; she's a lady!" the passenger chided him, slapping his partner's arm with the back of his gloved hand. "Hey, Tyrell, let's us stop for a few minutes. Won't do no harm. 'Sides, I got some business to take care of, m'self."

  Geneva turned an expectant gaze upon the leader with, she hoped, just the right amount of wistful supplication in her face. Tyrell seemed to avoid looking at her, but he reined his pony with a look of disgust.

  "I swear, Lope, you're worser than a old woman," he declared, dismounting.

  The driver, Wes, applied the brake and pulled the pair to a halt.

  Geneva climbed out of the wagon with difficulty. She was stiff and sore, but she had no desire to be touched by any of Humble's men, even if it was only to be helped down. She walked about a bit, acquainting herself with the aches and bruises in her legs, back and neck. The man Tyrell had addressed as Lope did, indeed, lope off into the woods with all possible speed, for purposes about which she did not care to conjecture. She herself headed off toward the trees in another direction, but was halted by the strident command of Tyrell.

  "Don't get any notions, now, Mrs. Humble," he ordered her. "I'll give you a canteen and some jerky for the trip so you can eat in the wagon. I don't aim to stop again before nightfall, so take care of your business. And don't think you can wander off" He wagged a dirty, gloved finger at her.

  She scowled at him, but did not answer. Ignoring his offer of a canteen, she made her way a short distance into the woods, debating the wisdom of trying the same trick she had used, with too much success, upon Lennox. While arguing the merits of such a rash course with herself, she was startled by the sound of gunfire coming from the area of the wagon.

  She held her breath and counted half a dozen shots. Her first thought was Macalester. Had he caught up to them after all? The notion pleased her, yet at the same time alarmed her: Humble's trio of bumpkins would be far easier to outwit than the outlaw, who seemed to know her as well as, or better than, herself Scarcely daring to breathe, she plastered her back to a broad oak tree and waited, straining to make out voices or any other noise that might yield a clue as to what was happening back at the wagon.

  She did hear voices presently, strange voices speaking in an exotic and unfamiliar language. She listened hard for a reply from one of Humble's men, but heard nothing but more of the foreign tongue spoken in a harsh baritone. Indians? she wondered doubtfully, yet at the same time chilled by the prospect. Not likely, she told herself She remained very still, burning to look, but not daring to move.

  She heard the deliberate tramp of heavy boots making their way through the trees. By the sound of them, they were coming closer to her position. She shrank against the tree, feeling the rough bark dig into her back, wishing she could disappear. It occurred to her that whoever it was, he was looking for her. It was a most unsettling thought, especially in view of the fact that the hunter had doubtless already killed or wounded at least two men.

  The sound grew closer, perhaps less than ten feet away. The steps were slower, though, as if the unseen menace might be about to give up his search, or about to seize her. She tried to moisten her lips, but her mouth was as dry as sand. Please, God, she thought, paralyzed by fear, please let it be Macalester. Her breath sounded loud in her ears, like the wind. The hunter had to know she was there…

  Suddenly a dark figure passed by to her left, not a tall one, but terrifying nonetheless in shades of black, a costume that looked like Osmin's from Mozart's "Abduction from the Seraglio." She gasped in surprise and wonder. The figure in black spun around, staring right at her with coal black eyes set in a tawny face partially covered by more black veiling. Geneva nearly fainted from terror but forced herself to maintain the man's stare.

  He shouted at her in words she could not understand, which was going some, because she was fluent in Italian, German and French. Fear vanished, replaced by fascination. "Who are you?" she asked, unable to muster more than a whisper.

  The man did not reply, probably, she thought, because he did not understand her language any more than she did his. Suddenly, he reached out and seized her arm with a strong, savage grip, shouting in the same incomprehensible gibberish he had used before.

  "How dare—" She pulled away from him, but he held her fast, yanking her after him with alarming strength and purpose. She pulled harder against him, crying out, striking his arm with her free hand. She broke away at last and fell to the ground from the momentum, but the man quickly seized her by the waist and flung her over his shoulder, ignoring her cries and the flailing of her fists upon his back.

  "Put me down!" She kicked and struggled as hard as she could, to no avail. "Damn you, put me down?"

  In moments, they emerged from the woods and the man dumped her, like a sack of flour, onto the ground. The impact made her dizzy. She opened her eyes to a spinning sky and four dark faces with black eyes like the first, except that two of them wore white. She tried to speak, but she could not. Instead, she rolled onto her side.

  Within arm's length was Tyrell, sprawled on his face, hatless. His blond hair was dyed crimson with blood, the wound like a blossoming flower at the back of his skull. It was then that she fainted.

  Chapter Twenty

  Macalester drove the roan hard, hoping to catch up with the wagon, the men and Geneva before sunset. But darkness came quickly in October on the prairie, and he was forced to stop after only a few hours of riding. Lying on the hard ground as he stared up at the canopy of stars, he wished that Billy had come along. Billy would have provided distraction from his gloom. Instead he was alone, with no relief from his thoughts of Geneva Lionwood in Garland Humble's hands.

  He was worried about her. He cared about her, more deeply than he could ever have imagined caring about another human being. Bone-weary and aching, he could not make himself comfortable for thinking about her.

  He supposed he loved her, although prior to this adventure, he had had precious little experience with the emotion. All that he really knew about it now was that it hurt like hell, and that it had robbed him of his ability to reason. What man in his right mind would ride into Garland Humble's stronghold alone and challenge him for his own wife?

  He was off again as soon as the sun rose, having caught snatches of sleep fraught with unpleasant dreams only half-remembered, certain that he would overtake Humble's foreman and his precious cargo by midmorning.

  But he did not.

  It was only a little past noon when Macalester saw Humble's place in the distance, and there was no sign that the road in between had even been traveled upon recently. His nerves were frayed, and now doubt preyed upon him like a relentless parasite. He was not a tracker. Was it possible that Tyrell had not brought Geneva back to Humble after all? Had he second-guessed Garland Humble wrong? There was no way to be sure. All he could do at this point, he realized, was to ride calmly into Humble's an
d play along as pleasantly as he could in the hope that Humble himself might reveal his plans. That, in itself, would take some doing: He felt like choking the truth out of the wily old millionaire with his bare hands. Thinking it might still come to that, he willed himself, in the half-hour remaining before he reached the house, to be calm, level-headed and alert.

  The place was quiet, for midday. There was no sign of another living thing. The working aspect of Humble's huge spread was centered in a remote location, making the huge mansion seem even more isolated from both humanity and reality. Of course, Macalester reflected, dismounting, all of this desertion could be Humble's doing, as well. He felt, hitching the tireless roan, that all of the windows were actually eyes, and they were all watching him. He commanded himself Humble had him spooked, which was no doubt exactly what the old man intended. Macalester took several deep breaths while he strode in an easy swagger up the half-dozen steps to the veranda, then to the front door. He did not knock, electing instead to seize the highly polished brass levers of the dark green doors and open them both, admitting himself, without scraping his dirt-caked boots, to the magnificent marble foyer.

  "Humble!" he called, pleased by the clear, even tone in his voice. "Where the hell are you, you double crossing old skinflint bastard?"

  From a doorway at the far end of the foyer, Hallis appeared. He was wearing a starched white apron tied across his chest and a disapproving frown on his ascetic, hawklike features.

  "Mr. Humble is not at home," he said coldly, holding a silver tray, which he had apparently been polishing, across his aproned chest like some prissy shield. The sight was comical. Had Macalester not been so angry, or so wary, he might have laughed. He moved toward the scowling butler in a slow and deliberate gait.

  "You and I both know better, Alice." Macalester used Billy's nickname for the butler, hoping the inference was not lost on Humble's faithful minion. His tone, he knew, was dangerously congenial. "Where is he? Or do I take this place apart looking for him?"

  "Hallis might scare at that kind of talk, Macalester, but I know you too well."

  It was Humble, somewhere behind him.

  "Bring us brandy, Hallis. Come in, Mac, and stop behaving like a bully in my house."

  Macalester took a swallow of air and faced Geneva Lionwood's elderly husband. Garland Humble, in a gray tweed suit that must have cost a pretty penny, surveyed him with a sharp scrutiny that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He admired, in a detached sort of way, Humble's ability to entice his prey into his web with disparaging words spoken in an affectionate tone. He had to force himself to remain where he was, so powerful was the lure. "I'm happy right where I am, Gar," he insisted quietly, not smiling, not even blinking. "I want to know why you sent Tyrell and his boys to Irving."

  Humble's gaze flickered once, indicating to Macalester that the older man had not intended for him to discover that. So far, so good. Macalester continued to monitor Humble steadily. Humble hesitated, then spoke in a lower, more formal voice. "Tyrell was my insurance," he said finally, meeting Macalester's stare coolly. "I had to be sure she wasn't going to sweet-talk you into anything at the last minute."

  "Especially since you let Billy get away," Macalester added, still watching him.

  To his surprise, Garland chuckled, his bulk quivering like blancmange. "Not much gets by you, does it?" he declared, beckoning the outlaw with a beefy, outstretched hand.

  Macalester still resisted the venomous Humble charm. "It occurred to me," he said, not responding to Humble's question, "that you might be trying to do me out of the ten thousand dollars you owe me."

  This seemed to make Humble irritable. "Get the hell in here, Mac," he growled, frowning. "I'm tired of standing out here arguing with you."

  The older man turned as if presupposing that the outlaw would follow. Macalester still did not move. "I've taken a sight too many knocks in the head this last month on account of your wife, Gar, and I don't intend to line up for any more. Just let me have my money."

  And let me see Geneva, he almost added, but stopped himself just in time.

  Humble paused, then faced him again, his blue-gray pig eyes narrowing and his small mouth, almost lost in the steel-gray beard around it, pursed and tight.

  "As I recall, the deal was that you were to bring her here to me," the old man intoned slowly.

  Macalester smiled acidly. "Don't even think it." He folded his arms across his chest. "Your wife may be good company, and pretty to boot, but I earned every penny of that ten thousand in the last month, and I'm not leaving here without it."

  As Macalester had intended, Garland Humble seemed satisfied by his words. He'd had to allow his attraction to Geneva. To deny it, by word or omission, would have been a sure signal to Humble that he was not telling the truth.

  "She's more than pretty," Humble amended, nodding slowly. "She's beautiful. She's gifted. She's bright. And she's almost as good a liar as you are." Macalester, eyeing his adversary steadily, felt his face drain of color. What did Humble know?

  "She's a better liar than I am," he corrected Humble, finding a grin in spite of his mounting apprehension. "And a damn sight better actor. She tell you how she got me off the train at Roanoke?"

  Humble stared blankly for half a second. Then his porcine features became animated. "Yes," he chuckled. "Yes, she did. Come on, Mac, let's have that brandy. You must be parched."

  Macalester was parched, and his feet very nearly earned him forward into Humble's study. But he detected a false note in his host's buoyancy and remained fixed for another moment.

  "What I still can't figure," he went on, still grinning, "was why I believed that story about her old, sick mother. Of course, it could've been those big green eyes of hers, filling with tears."

  Humble waved a hand impatiently. "I told you she was good," the old man fairly snapped. "Now let's—"

  Macalester did not hear the rest of his sentence. He was chilled with triumph. His arms unfolded and went to his sides, his right hand grazing his gun. "You haven't even seen her, have you, Gar?" he prompted quietly, not blinking.

  Garland Humble's eyebrows met like gray storm clouds over his angry eyes. "What the hell are you talking about, Macalester?" he demanded in a low, reedy tone. "Tyrell and Lope—"

  "Tyrell and Lope and whoever the hell else was with them wrapped Geneva up like a Christmas package and rode out of Irving yesterday. If they were headed back here, I would have caught up to them."

  Humble's stare became hostile. Macalester did not move.

  "What are you after?" Humble wondered, barely above a whisper.

  Macalester shrugged. "My ten thousand," he answered lightly. "And just to satisfy my natural curiosity as to why you lied to me about wanting your wife back here. And why it's so damned important to you that I drink brandy in your study."

  "You know something, Macalester?" Humble mused, nodding faintly. "You're a sight too smart for your own good."

  "Save it," Macalester snapped. "I only want two things out of you right now, Humble, and one of them is the ten thousand."

  "And the other?" Humble inquired as though the first was of little consequence.

  Macalester drew in a hard breath. "I want to know where you sent her."

  The words left his lips before he could prevent them. But it was not his words that betrayed him, he knew.

  "Halfway to Hell, I hope," Humble muttered, looking away at last, and Macalester knew that the man had not even intended to say that much.

  Macalester felt the gun in his hand, chilled by the dark sentiment. He is a monster. Geneva's words, simply uttered, echoed like a curse. Garland Humble was smiling again, but it was a bitter smile.

  "So she got to you," he remarked, sounding sad and a trifle envious. "I'm not surprised, although I'd hoped you were too smart for her. You're a fool, Mac, if you think you could ever have had her for very long. Geneva is a selfish and spoiled trollop, with staggeringly expensive tastes. She's capricious and fickle. I
can tell by that look on your face that you know exactly what I'm saying, don't you?"

  Macalester was mortified. Humble had somehow turned the tables on him. Again.

  "I've tried myself for three years to forget her." He slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "But she's a disease damned near impossible to shake. So I figured if I worked it out so she was really gone, to a place where I'd never have to hear about her again, never even know whether she was alive or dead, it would really be over. I made it so she won't be able to dance on my grave and come around to claim all of my money when I'm gone, after running out on me."

  Humble's pronouncement left Macalester cold as ice. The old man was serious. He moves people around like pieces in a chess game, Geneva had warned him.

  Where, the outlaw wondered, had he moved Geneva?

  Macalester rallied, pulling a reckless grin out of the ruins of his hopes. "Now that sounds more like you, Gar," he declared, congratulating himself that he even managed a laugh. "You're a man who likes to hold on to what he has, including people. You don't care about Geneva. You never did. It just galls you that she got away from you. You just can't stand to part with anything, can you? And I expect, in some way, you think of me as one of those possessions, too."

  Garland Humble did not answer him right away. He merely stared at Macalester, his eyes as glassy and as empty as death itself Presently Macalester realized the old man had withdrawn his right hand from his pocket, and in it was a small derringer.

  "Well, Hell, Gar," Macalester said softly, feeling his own heavy. Colt poised in his hand. "I can't just let you stand there and shoot me, now can I?"

  "And I can't let you go after Geneva," the other man said faintly. "So you'll have to shoot me. Of course, if you shoot me, you'll never find out what happened to her, will you? Looks like we've reached an impasse, Mac."