The Gunslinger and the Heiress

He had to know but hated to ask the question, hated to let her know that he’d wondered about her at all. “So when did you get your voice back?”

“It’s been a while.”

“When?”

“Four years ago.”

So—she’d had plenty of time to send him a letter and hadn’t. Well, what did he expect? She’d made it clear enough they weren’t friends any longer.

“I’d like you here tomorrow at nine to accompany me.”

He raised his brows. He didn’t care to be ordered about. “Now, hold on, Hannah—Miss Lansing.” The formal name didn’t roll off his tongue any easier this time, but he’d remember to use it if it killed him. No way would he forget the way she’d treated him. Calling her by her proper name would just cement the fact. “I haven’t said I’d do anything.”

“But you’re here. I thought that meant...”

“Go on. Spit it out. What’s this all about?”

The desk man approached. “Is everything all right, miss?”

She nodded. “I’m fine, Mr. Bennett.” She waited for the man to leave and then pressed her hand against her temple. On closer examination, purple smudges tinted the skin beneath her eyes. He hadn’t noticed those right off.

“Can you stay for supper?” Her eyes—surrounded with those long lashes—looked up at him all expectant and hopeful. Five years ago that look had gotten him into hot water and changed the course of his life. He didn’t relish a repeat performance.

“Caleb?” she asked again.

“I’ve got a job to get back to. I’ve been gone too long as it is.”

“I hoped at the least we could have a cup of tea. And...and talk.”

“Tea? That’s what this is about?”

“No. Of course not.”

She said it too quickly, worryin’ that handkerchief again. At this point, he was surprised it hadn’t been torn to shreds. “I’m not believing any of this. One minute you say you didn’t plan to see me at all, and then the next you want to have tea. You’re not making any sense. Level with me, woman. What exactly is going on?”

Her eyes widened at his sharp tone, and her chin raised a notch. “All right, then. I’ll be blunt, as that is what you prefer. The Hotel Del Coronado opening ceremony is tomorrow. I am in need of an escort.”

She had to have a fever. “Me? If you remember at all, I’m not much for crowds. It sounds like a pretty fancy shindig for the likes of me. Shouldn’t you be attending with the mayor or one of his lackeys? Someone closer to...”

Her brow furrowed delicately. “To what, Mr. Houston?”

“Look—” He turned to block their conversation further from the interested desk man. “Pardon me for being confused, but the last time I saw you, you and Dorian made things very clear. I don’t owe you a thing.”

Frustration flashed through her eyes. “You are not being fair. I had no—” She took a deep breath. “You don’t understand anything.”

“Then, explain it to me.”

The way her brow wrinkled up, she looked as if she was in pain. It surprised him. Lansings were tough as old cowhide, in his estimation. But then, she could be quite the actress. He had believed what he’d felt in that kiss so many years ago. He wasn’t plannin’ on playing the fool a second time.

“I’ll pay.”

“Now, that sounds like something your grandfather would do. Why me? Why don’t you save some money and have your valet go with you? He’s already in your service.” He shoved on his Stetson. He’d heard enough. Too bad the only remembrance he’d have of her voice was this conversation. It left the taste of sour pickle juice in his mouth.

“Double.”

He paused.

“I’ll pay you double what you make at the saloon.”

A hint of desperation had crept into her voice. The money would come in handy, but it was something else that tugged at him, a feeling that there was more going on that she wasn’t saying.

“Mr. Houston...I really want you to be the one escorting me.”

Maybe he could make himself stand being near her in short doses—for the money—and because it would salve his conscience concerning his sister. “How long?”

“Two days. All I need is two days of your time.”

His gut told him to stampede for the door. He should listen to it.

“Please? I really need your help.”

There it was—she’d finally come around to asking him. Now was his chance to squash her the way she’d squashed him. So why wasn’t he throwing it back at her like he’d planned? “What time did you say this ribbon-cutting happens?”

Something glimmered, lighting her eyes. Hope? “The ceremony starts at eleven.”

“Guess I could see my way to doing it for the money. Long as we are clear on that.” At least that was what he was telling himself. “I’ll be by at ten.”

“That will make us late.”

“Half past nine, then.”

She stretched out her hand. “Agreed.”

He hesitated. It was how business deals were made, although usually it was man-to-man. Touching her seemed a might more personal than he wanted at the moment. He kept his hand stuffed in his pocket. “Agreed. Two days.”

Slowly she pulled her hand back. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Houston.” She turned toward the stairs.

He could handle this. Two days would pass quick enough. Long as he kept the upper hand, it would be easy money. He could tell her off later. Feelin’ a bit ornery, he decided to let her know who was in charge. “Miss Lansing?” Her proper name rolled off his tongue easy enough.

She stopped. “Yes?”

“I’m not much for waiting.”

A slight hesitation was the only indication he’d unnerved her before she replied, “Neither am I, Mr. Houston. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She spun her trim backside on him and walked to the stairs. He watched the swaying movement of her burgundy skirt as she mounted each stair until she stepped out of sight on the landing. A queer feeling rolled in his gut that had nothing to do with the absence of food there.

Turning toward the door, his gaze collided with the desk man’s. The man watched until Caleb stepped through the ornate entryway to the street and let out a long—long—breath.