Her Bodyguard Page 7

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away for just a moment. Then, staring her straight in the eye, he said, “His real name is Callahan. Rory Callahan is my half brother.”

  Unsurprised, Mari nodded once. “Find them.”

  “I will.”

  At Willow Hill, Mari, Emma, and their three younger brothers gathered on the front porch in the gathering darkness, their mood quiet and subdued. Billy sat off by himself, his back turned toward the driveway. Mari tried to keep the other boys entertained with a game of cards, but in a rare occurrence, no one cared about competition.

  A little after ten, the youngest McBride, seven-year- old Bobby, fell off to sleep and Emma carried him upstairs to bed. Nine-year-old Tommy made it until just after midnight. Billy was still awake at half past three when the McBride family carriage rattled slowly up the hill.

  Light from a three-quarter moon cast a ghostly silver light across the scene, and though her parents’ faces remained in shadow, the very stillness of their bodies foretold the news they bore.

  Simultaneously, Emma and Mari reached for each other’s hand. Without uttering a sound, Billy McBride leaped up and ran inside, the front screen door shutting with a bang behind him.

  Their expressions ravaged, their cheeks tear-streaked, Trace and Jenny McBride lifted leaden feet to climb the steps of their home and face their two eldest children.

  Beside Mari, Emma swayed. “Mama?”

  Jenny looked at them, and tears spilled from reddened eyes. She slowly shook her head.

  “No-o-o-o.” Emma melted into her mother’s arms and the two women collapsed into quiet weeping.

  Mari stared up at her father, the strongest man she’d ever known. Her hero. Her champion. Her daddy. “Your Katie-cat?”

  Broken, Trace McBride pulled her into his arms and wept against her hair. “I’m afraid she’s gone, Mari. God help us, but I’m afraid that damned explosion took our Katie-cat away.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Three months later

  BACK IN THE DAY, Luke’s grandfather referred to Texas’s August heat as sick-dog weather, meaning the way a sick dog’s nose was hot and dry instead of cold and wet like usual. Luke recalled afternoons when his father would stroll onto the front porch of the ranch house, sipping on a steaming cup of coffee. He’d stare out over his land, where the only movement to be seen was the ripple of heat rising from brittle brown grass, and drawl, “It’s hot enough to loosen the bristles on a wild hog.” Then he’d sip his coffee, throw his wife a wink, and walk out into the blazing heat to tend a horse or fix a fence.

  Buck Garrett had thrived on summertime in Texas. He’d died one bleak and bitter February morn when a blizzard blew in off the West Texas plains and collapsed the roof of the line shack where he slept. From that day forward, Luke detested cold weather.

  Of course, that didn’t mean he liked sweltering in his bed trying to get some shut-eye following a surveillance operation that had lasted all night.

  He rolled onto his back and scowled up at the ceiling fan that did little more than stir hot stagnant air. He was a Texan born and bred and proud of it, but on a day like this, livin’ in Alaska sounded like a damned fine idea. Grandpa would have me hanged as a traitor for such a thought.

  Luke’s mouth twisted in a rueful grin. Someday, somebody would invent a machine that blew winter-cold air into a summer-hot room. When that arrived, living in Texas would be like living in paradise. But in the meantime, he didn’t figure there could be a more appropriate name for the place where he currently lived than Hell’s Half Acre.

  Giving up on getting any sleep, he rolled from the bed and stepped naked across the room toward the second-story window, hoping to catch a little breeze. Bracing his hands on the windowsill, he leaned out, looked up the street, then down.

  “Well…well…well,” he murmured. Now there was an unusual sight. The lovely Miss Mari McBride was paying a visit to the Acre.

  She wore a demure dress in a goldenrod print and carried a matching parasol and small handbag made of straw. She walked along the sidewalk with a purposeful sashay that drew a man’s eye, giving her parasol a twirl every third or fourth step. Luke wondered what business brought her down to the Acre.

  From what he’d heard, it had been a bad summer for the McBride family. Kat McBride’s death had hit them all hard. Luke hadn’t seen Mari or her sister Emma since the fire, but he’d caught sight of the boys a time or two. The towheaded pullets seemed to have lost their spirit.

  Their father didn’t look any better. Trace McBride appeared to have aged a lifetime since his daughter’s death, and they said his wife spent a good share of each day tending to the young woman’s grave.

  Not that there was a body buried beneath the marker. Against his will, Luke’s thoughts returned to that awful night. Digging through the smoldering rubble. Finding that damned doll. At first glance, he’d thought it was a child. The sights, sounds and smells would haunt his nightmares for years to come. As would memories of that last encounter with his brother.

  Rory. Charming, crafty, cunning, Rory. The son of a bitch. Luke would miss him the rest of his life.

  He watched as Mari McBride stopped a whore on the street and struck up a conversation. Most respectable women in town wouldn’t dream of speaking with a light-skirt, but the McBride women were different. Mari’s mother had been sewing costumes for the ladies of the Acre for years. The soiled doves in town had come out in force for Kat McBride’s funeral.

  The street girl lifted her arm and pointed toward the window where Luke stood. Mari turned her head and their eyes met and held. Then her face broke out in a brilliant, though puzzling, smile.

  Me? Why in the world would she be shooting a smile like that toward me?

  Her focus slipped, skimmed over his bare chest, and she visibly hesitated. Then, after giving those delicate shoulders a little shrug, she spoke again with the sporting girl, stepped down from the sidewalk and started across the street. Toward his saloon. She’s coming to see me.

  Luke moved away from the window and tried to deduce what the candy maker might want with him. However, since he had been working for a thirty-six-hour stretch without sleep, his mind processed sluggishly. Basically. I’m naked. She’s beautiful. Wonder if she’d…

  He startled as his door opened and Mattie Porter, the manager of the Blue Goose Saloon, poked her head inside. Her eyes shifted from the empty bed to where he stood beside the burled oak wardrobe and amusement sparked in her face. “Oh, I see you’re already up.”

  Ignoring the glare he shot her before turning to face the wardrobe, she continued, “There’s a lady downstairs wanting to speak with you. A real one. Trace McBride’s girl. Must be something important. She hasn’t shown her face in the Acre in quite some time.”

  Luke grabbed a pair of pants. ‘Tell her I’ll be right down.”

  “All right.”

  Hearing no sounds to indicate her departure, Luke glanced over his shoulder and arched a brow.

  “Just admiring the sights,” Mattie explained. “Now that I’m retired, I don’t get to see such pretty things very often. Come to think of it, I seldom saw an ass as fine as yours when I was working. Might not have retired early if fellas like you came lookin’ for my services.”

  “Please, Mattie, you’re embarrassing me.”

  The madam snorted a laugh, then left, chuckling gaily as she made her way downstairs. Luke quickly dressed and followed her.

  The Blue Goose was typical of most saloons in the Acre. An oil painting of a well-endowed miss dressed only in gossamer scarves hung over a polished, ornately carved bar. A piano sat against the opposite wall. Spittoons graced every corner and sawdust blanketed the floor. Mari McBride sat at a round card table near the bar sipping a lemonade. Luke signaled the barkeep for a whiskey and joined her. “Good morning, Mari McBride.”

  “Yes, it’s a glorious morning, isn’t it?”

  Her smile could have lit up a crypt, and her eyes sparkled lik
e sunlight on the Caribbean Sea. She beamed, she bubbled, she blushed. He halfway expected her to break into song.

  Luke grew suspicious. He could think of only one thing that would both have this effect on her and bring her here to him, and by God, that was impossible. Abandoning social niceties, he demanded, “What is it?”

  “They’re alive.”

  Anger flared like a matchstick. If some joker thought to prey upon this poor family’s grief, he would by God make him pay. They’d been through enough. “Mari, is someone trying to get money out of you?”

  “No, no. That’s not it.” She flipped open her handbag and withdrew an envelope. “This arrived in the mail at Willow Hill. It’s from an old friend of mine whose family moved to San Antonio. Read it.”

  Skeptical, Luke took the envelope and removed the folded pages inside.

  “You needn’t read it all, actually. It’s on the second page. The third paragraph.” She pointed out the passage.

  I thought of the McBride Menaces last week when a gentleman brought a necklace into my father’s store for an appraisal. It looked exactly like the ones the three of you wore—a large emerald set in an ornate gold filigree pendant. The man said it was a family heirloom, and that he and his wife feared they might need to sell it if their situation failed to improve.

  “See?” she said. “That’s Kat’s necklace, and the man is Rory Callahan. They didn’t die in the fire. They ran off and got married.”

  No. They absolutely had not. Luke lowered the letter. “Mari, I’m sorry to say you’re reading a lot into very little. All this says is that someone has a necklace similar to yours.”

  “To Kat’s. Hers is the emerald. Look.” She reached past her neckline and pulled out a necklace.

  Luke leaned forward, caught a whiff of rose water as he reached for the pendant. The metal was warm from having nestled between her breasts. For a moment, Luke lost his train of thought.

  “Our necklaces are a trio, and they’re unique. If my friend saw a necklace like one of ours, it was one of ours. It was Kat’s. She’s alive. I’ve always felt it in my heart. I never believed she was gone.”

  “Your father found her body.”

  Mari shook her head. “No, he didn’t. He found a body part, a woman’s leg wearing a dancing slipper like Kat’s. Seven women are on the list of those missing following the Spring Palace fire. It’s more believable that one of those women had the same shoes as Kat than that another woman is running around Texas with a necklace like hers.”

  Luke shook his head. “I was there that night. I saw. Neither your father nor your mother wanted to believe they’d found proof of your sister’s death, but the facts convinced them.”

  “I know, I know.” Mari waved a dismissive hand. “He found someone who saw her and Rory after they left the theater, and he concluded she was near the boiler when it blew. But my father is wrong, thank God. This letter proves that what I’ve known in my heart all along is true. My sister didn’t die that night. She ran off with a scoundrel instead.”

  Luke wondered if her argument could possibly have any validity. He could accept the notion that Rory ran off with the girl. He could even believe that Mari had her facts straight regarding the uniqueness of the necklace. Yet, knowing the close-knit reputation the McBride family enjoyed in Fort Worth, he could not believe that the young woman who rescued him from Wilhemina Peters would allow her family to mourn her death in error.

  Luke leaned back in his chair. “If that’s so, then why hasn’t she contacted you?”

  “I don’t know,” Mari said with a frown. “That concerns me. It’s part of why I’ve come to you today. Tell me about your brother, Luke. Do you know of a reason he wouldn’t want my sister contacting her family to assure us that she’s safe?”

  Off the top of his head, Luke could think of ten thousand reasons. Make that ten thousand four hundred fifty-two reasons. “The night of the fire was the first time I’d seen Rory in over three years. I didn’t know him well.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Now there was a question that could take weeks to answer. “We were…different.”

  After waiting in vain a few moments for him to elaborate, she said, “But you know he’s a scoundrel.”

  “He was.”

  “He is. He’s alive and he was in San Antonio four weeks ago attempting to sell my sister’s necklace.”

  The glint of determination shining in the ocean of her eyes told Luke not to waste his breath trying to convince her she’d wrongly interpreted the situation. Besides, what if she was right? What if the necklace referred to in the letter was, in fact, Kat McBride’s? What if the couple had left the building before the explosion? What if her sister and his villainous brother were still alive?

  I guess I need to find out the truth.

  “You’re certain of this.”

  “I am.”

  “If you’re wrong, you could be setting yourself up for a terrible disappointment.”

  “I realize that. It’s why I must confirm my suspicions before I say anything to my family. Well, except for Emma. I already showed her the letter.”

  “Oh? And what was your sister’s reaction?”

  A shadow drifted across Mari’s eyes. “What you must understand about Emma is that widowhood has changed her view of the world.”

  “She thinks you’re wrong.”

  “She can’t see past her grief.”

  And Mari McBride didn’t want to accept it. Luke drummed his fingers on the table and considered the beauty seated across from him. Maybe it was the distracting lack of sleep, or more likely, the scarcity of female companionship in his life of late, but damn, she sparked his powder.

  He cleared his throat. “So, you came to me today for what purpose? You want me to search for them?”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I’m doing that myself. I leave for San Antonio this afternoon. As I said, I want you to tell me about your brother, any clues you can provide that might assist me in my search.”

  “Wait a minute.” Luke sat up straight in his chair. Ever since the fire, he’d kept his ear to the ground where the McBride family was concerned. He knew damned well that her parents had taken their boys to visit relatives in Britain with the hope of distracting young Billy from his guilt-fed grief.” You‘re leaving for San Antone? Is your uncle taking you?”

  “Uncle Tye? No. I don’t plan on telling them this news. They’re mourning Kat as much as the rest of the family.”

  “Who’s going with you? Your sister?”

  “No.” She frowned. “Emma cannot leave Fort Worth at this time due to a professional commitment. I’m going alone, sir. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

  “Alone? You can’t travel alone. It’s not safe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a woman!”

  “That’s ridiculous. Women travel by themselves all the time. My grandmother travels all over the world by herself, and she’s never encountered serious trouble.”

  “Your grandmother’s not young and beautiful.”

  “Monique is extraordinary, I’ll have you know,” Mari said, a softening in her eyes showing that she’d noted his backhanded compliment. Then she lifted her chin. “Besides, I can take care of myself.”

  Luke snorted. “It’s a wonder your father hasn’t gone completely gray by now.”

  “My father has changed. He blames himself for Kat’s ‘death’ because he feels he drove her into your brother’s arms. He’s sworn to trust my judgment.”

  My God. Grief could do strange things to a man.

  “We have drifted off topic,” Mari continued. “I called upon you to speak about your brother. Now, I intend to research any acting troupes who may have played San Antonio in recent weeks, but does Rory Callahan have any other talents, interests, or vices I should pursue? Is he a gambler, perhaps? Should I investigate gambling establishments in whatever area of San Antonio is equivalent to Hell’s Half Acre?”

  “Hell’s Half Acr
e.” Luke pushed aside his lemonade and got up to get a whiskey. “Miss McBride, San Antonio’s red-light district is called Hell’s Half Acre, just like ours, only it makes this Acre look like church-house row. You can’t go there. Period. Do you want your father to be mourning two daughters when he returns to town?”

  “What I want,” she quietly stated, “is for my father to come home to the news that his Katie-cat has been restored to him. Now.” She pulled a notepad and pencil out of her handbag. With her pencil poised above the paper, she asked, “Is your brother attracted to cockfights and the like?”

  The question pushed him right over the edge. Luke glared at her, then slammed back his whiskey. Fire scorched a path down his throat as he banged his empty glass on the bar. “Fine. What time do we leave?”

  “We?” Her brows rose. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Oh, no. Luke, I cannot travel with you.”

  “Why not? If your theory has any legs, then your sister is traveling with my brother.”

  “But they eloped!”

  Luke held up his hand, palm out. “Now that’s where I draw the line. Don’t be getting any marriage designs on me, Miss McBride. I’m strictly your bodyguard.”

  “But you’re a gunslinger, an outlaw!”

  “Who better to protect you from other outlaws and gunslingers? What time did you say our train leaves?”

  Luke dragged his hand down his face, his thoughts skipping forward to tasks he’d need to accomplish before leaving town. He badly needed sleep, but that would have to wait.

  “I didn’t. I won’t. I never should have come to you. I should have just gone to San Antonio and worked from my own knowledge of Rory Kelly-Callahan. Why are you doing this?”

  Because if Rory is alive, then I want to be the one to find him, by God. “I owe your family a debt.”

  “Well, that is true.” Mari McBride tapped her lip in a considering manner. “My little brother did save your life. You’d have died in that fire, Luke. My father spoke to the man who helped carry you from the building, and he said you’d have burned to a crispy critter in another five minutes if Billy hadn’t sounded the alarm.”