The Outlaw's Return

His gaze dropped to her fingers, no doubt noticing the roughness. Her hands embarrassed her, but she refused to hide them. He arched one brow. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into singing in that saloon in California? It’s a long way from Abilene.”

“I’m positive.”

“Would you think about it?”

“There’s no need.” He’d push until he got what he wanted, and he wanted her. She had to give him another reason to move on. “My mother died a few months ago. I’m raising my sister and brother.”

He didn’t like children, so she figured he’d leave her alone. Instead he seemed interested. “How old are they?”

“Gertie just turned seventeen. Augustus is twelve.”

He wrinkled his brow. “They’re not that young. Gertie’s practically grown. And Augustus—” He shook his head. “That’s a dreadful name for a boy.”

Mary didn’t know what to make of his interest. “We’ve always called him Augustus.”

“So give him a nickname.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes twinkled. “I bet we can think of something.”

We? Mary had to set him straight. “Even if I wanted to go with you—which I do not—I have obligations. I own this restaurant. I have a mortgage to pay and women who work for me. They need the money. Frankly, so do I. I’m saving to send Gertie to New York.”

He scowled, a reminder that he’d been left on those crowded streets to fend for himself. “What’s in New York?”

“Theaters. Gertie loves singing as much as I did.”

“You still love it.”

“Yes, but not the same way.” She stood and lifted their plates. In Kansas she’d used his given name for only the most serious conversations. She used it now to make a point. “You’re two years too late, Jonah. I wish you the best, but I don’t want to see you again.”

Dust motes hung in the light, swirling like ash from a burning bridge in a ray of sun coming through the window. The glare lit one side of his face and put the other in shadow until he pushed back the chair and stood. “I see.”

When he looked at his dog, Mary remembered her promise to Fancy Girl. “I’ll be right back.”

She carried the plates to the kitchen, selected the meatiest soup bone she had, wrapped it in paper and carried it to the dining room. “Here.” She handed it to J.T. “This is for Fancy.”

He took it but hesitated before calling the dog. If the mutt refused to go with him, Mary didn’t know what she’d do. With his brow tight, he spoke in a gentle tone Mary knew well. “Let’s go, Fancy Girl.”

When the dog ambled to his side, Mary breathed a sigh of relief. He took his hat off the peg and opened the door. With sunlight fanning into the room, he pulled the brim low and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Mary blinked, and he was gone.

J.T. turned the corner, stopped and looked at his dog. “What now, girl?”

Fancy nudged the bone with her nose. J.T. wished his desires were as simple. He wanted a drink. The escape wouldn’t last, but it would stop the ache in his chest. He’d wake up feeling even worse than he did now, but who cared? Without Mary, he had no reason to stay sober. As soon as he bought supplies, he’d leave town. Tonight Fancy could chew the bone in front of a lonely campfire.

“Come on,” he said to her. “We’re getting out of here.”

He went to the livery for his horses, paid the owner and put the bone in a saddlebag. He secured the line to the pack horse, climbed on his buckskin and headed to the boardinghouse to fetch his gear. As the horses plodded down the street, he looked for a place to buy whiskey. He saw one closed door after another, then the gray wall of a large stone building. The granite gleamed white in the sun, and gargoyles jutted from the eaves. As he rounded the corner, he saw a sign that read Newcastle Theater.

“Hey, Quinn!”

He slipped his hand into his duster until it rested on the ivory grip of his Colt Navy, then he scanned the street for the person who’d called him. When he saw Roy Desmond, he wanted to spit. He knew Roy from the faro tables in Dodge City. The man cheated. Even worse, there was talk he’d killed a saloon girl. J.T. had no desire to speak with Roy, but he couldn’t ignore him with Mary in Denver. The man had bragged about his life as an actor, and J.T. worried he’d seek out Mary. She’d sent J.T. away, but he wouldn’t leave until he knew what Desmond wanted.

“Hello, Roy.”

“This is a surprise.” The man flashed a grin. “It’s been what? Three years since Dodge?”

“More or less.” J.T. had known Roy before Abilene, before he’d been with Mary. “What are you up to?”

Roy indicated the stone building behind him. “You’re talking to the manager of the Newcastle Theater. I’m a legitimate businessman now.”

Only a snake like Roy would need to announce he’d become legitimate. J.T. took in the man’s sack suit and pleated shirt. A gold watch dangled from his pocket, and his shoes were newly blacked. His hair was still dark but thinner than J.T. recalled, and deep lines framed his mouth. Nothing about Roy could be trusted, not his appearance and not the words dancing off his tongue. If Roy had any dealings with Mary, J.T. would have to think again about leaving Denver. He needed information, so he feigned interest in the man’s venture.

“Legitimate, huh?” He grinned. “Does that mean no faro?”

Roy chuckled. “I’ve got other cards to play. In fact, you’re just the man to help me play them.”

It was just like Roy to speak in riddles. “What do you have in mind?”

“It involves a mutual friend of ours.”

“Who?”

“Mary Larue.”

Live or die, J.T. would do anything to keep Roy away from Mary. “What about her?”

The man indicated the door. “Come inside and we’ll talk.”

J.T. swung off his horse and tied off the reins. With Fancy Girl at his side, he followed Roy into the opera house. Trying to look bored, he entered the cavernous foyer as if he walked around such places every day. He didn’t, and the opulence stunned him. Thick carpet covered the floor, and the walls were crimson with gold stripes. Brass wall sconces caught the light from the open door and shimmered like flames. Even the air felt like velvet.

J.T. let out a low whistle. “Pretty nice.”

“Nothing but the best.” Roy led the way to a double door and opened it wide. “This is the stage.”

With Fancy next to him, J.T. walked into the heart of the theater. At least fifty rows of upholstered seats fanned out from the stage, and a curtain the size of a barn hung from the ceiling. Five chandeliers formed the points of a star, and two balconies jutted from the wall. The last time J.T. had seen Roy, he’d been a two-bit gambler. How had he ended up among the Denver upper crust? And what did he want from Mary? He signaled Fancy Girl to sit, then surveyed the theater again. “This place is huge.”

“It’s the biggest opera house in town.” Roy put his hands in his pockets. “Things are going well, but I’ve got a bit of a problem.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I manage this place for a group of investors.” Roy’s jaw twitched. J.T. had played cards with him and knew his mannerisms. The tic signaled a bluff. “Those men are expecting a solid return on what we’ve put into this place.”

“Like sold-out shows?”

“Yes.” His jaw twitched again. “There are two ways to make money in this business. Bawdy shows draw big crowds, but like I said, I’ve gone legitimate. Denver has money now. Big money, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know.” Denver was full of millionaires who’d made their fortunes from mining and the railroad. These folks wanted classy entertainment, not cheap burlesque.