Walking on Air Page 6

  The clock read half past noon, the lunch hour, so she had no customers at present. Most ladies were in their kitchens right then, feeding their children, who raced home from the schoolhouse to eat, and their husbands, if their spouses were fortunate enough to have jobs that gave them a noon break. Laney, unlike most of her classmates, preferred to carry her midday meal in a pail to school so she could eat at her desk and then do homework. She was an intelligent girl, determined to do well at her studies, particularly arithmetic, so she could one day become Nan’s bookkeeper and help with sales. Nan encouraged Laney in her aspirations, even though she secretly hoped her sister, who had so many talents, including a knack for playing the violin like a maestro, would set her sights far higher. Nowadays, some young ladies went to college. A few had even become doctors. In Nan’s estimation, Laney was bright enough to accomplish almost anything she decided to do. Something far more exciting and challenging, Nan thought with a smile, than dusting and polishing display cases and shelves during the mealtime lull.

  Not that Nan felt working in the shop was boring. Indeed, just the opposite. She seldom went anywhere unless it was to shop for food or go to church, so she enjoyed the social aspects of dealing with her customers. In fact, every time someone walked in, her spirits lifted. It gave her a chance to chat, catch up on the latest news, and sometimes even hear a bit of titillating gossip.

  So her sudden dread when the bell above the shop door jangled was inexplicable. A chill washed over her. She stood too far away for a waft of icy air from outside to reach her. She knew only that the temperature in the room seemed to drop instantly by several degrees, and she sensed another change in the air as well, one of danger. The hairs on her nape prickled.

  She froze in midmotion, her hand clenched on the dust cloth. Foolishness. It had been eight years since her flight from Manhattan, and two years ago, on Laney’s tenth birthday, Nan had finally set aside the nagging fear that one day, when she least expected it, she would be found, arrested, and returned to New York to face charges for a crime that she’d never meant to commit. It had been a long time since she’d felt this horrible sense of doom.

  The door snapped closed, followed by the sharp click of a man’s boots as he walked across the waxed plank flooring. Mouth cottony, shoulders rigid with tension, Nan reminded herself that men often stopped by to purchase items for their wives. Nan’s displays abounded with pretty trinkets, some inexpensive, some costly, so gentlemen of all means could afford to buy something special.

  Slowly, she turned and forced a smile to her lips. “Good day,” she said brightly. “How can I help you?”

  The man stood with one hip braced against her jewelry case. At a glance, Nan decided Satan himself couldn’t have looked more intimidating. Dressed all in black with a pair of guns riding his hips, this fellow had a dark, threatening air. Broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, he wore clothes that enhanced the well-toned musculature of his body, the gleaming jet of his collar-length hair, the dark-chocolate shimmer of his watchful eyes, and the burnished hue of his skin.

  When he didn’t answer her question, Nan nervously smoothed a hand over her pleated bodice and said, “I offer a fine line of hats, coiffure adornments, jewelry, and—” She broke off and flapped the rag. “Whatever you’re looking for, I’m sure I can show you something of interest.” Preferably the door.

  His face, a striking combination of sharp angles and rugged planes, remained expressionless as he moved his gaze slowly from the tips of her shoes upward, as if he were taking measure of everything about her.

  “I didn’t come in looking for a bauble, Miss Sullivan.”

  Nan’s heart caught. This was her worst fear come true. He knew. No one had addressed her by that surname in nearly a decade. She battled a wave of faintness that caused her to catch hold of the shelf just behind her. Oh, dear God, he knew. She stared stupidly at him, unable to think how she should respond. Did he want the contents of her cashbox, and if she gave it to him, would he return again and again to milk her for more funds? Forcing the starch back into her spine, she darted her gaze back to his guns, and an even worse possibility occurred to her.

  “Are y-you a bounty hunter?” she asked shakily.

  His firm yet full mouth tipped into a slight grin that conveyed no warmth. “In a sense, I suppose you might say that. I’m definitely here to collect a bounty, but it isn’t money.”

  Nan felt as if someone had stirred her brains with a wire whisk. Her next words came out somewhere between a whisper and a squeak. “If you don’t want money, then what is it you’re after?”

  “A wife,” he said softly. “And you, Miss Sullivan, are my lady of choice.”

  Chapter Four

  After a harried morning spent selecting a wedding band and wiring funds to Chicago to retain the services of a Pinkerton agent, Gabe had made a beeline to the saloon, where he’d purchased another jug of rotgut whiskey and slowly sipped two jiggers while he considered how best to handle Nan Hoffman. Creating a winning round with the cards he’d been dealt was a challenge, and in the end, he’d concluded that he couldn’t corner his quarry if he approached her with his hat in hand. Gabe was a man who frightened women off the boardwalk into muddy streets to avoid getting too close to him. To herd Nan Hoffman to a preacher or justice of the peace this afternoon, he had to be ruthless and without conscience. He’d scare her into the middle of next week and marry her before she had a chance to think it through. He didn’t have time for the social niceties. Not that he knew much about them anyhow.

  He’d stridden into her shop with his jaw set, prepared to convince her that he was the meanest, most coldhearted bastard she’d ever met. And judging by the way she was now grinding her backbone into the shelves behind her, had turned white as flour, and dropped her dusting rag, he guessed he’d accomplished his goal. The poor woman’s face was a mask of terror.

  And he felt like a rotten, low-down skunk. This wasn’t fair play, dammit. He knew so many of her secrets—including that her nipples were such a pretty rose pink that they showed through her chemise—that he felt horrible about using the knowledge against her. On the other hand, going to hell wasn’t real high on his list of aspirations, either. This was like facing a gunman in the street, a win-or-lose contest, and Gabe stood to lose far more than Nan if he failed to convince her that her pretty little neck would soon make the acquaintance of a hangman’s noose if she didn’t do precisely what he said.

  Lips trembling, she stared at him as if he were a coiled rattler about to strike. “Are you mad? We’ve never even met! What do you mean, you’ve chosen me to be”—she gulped and passed a shaky hand over her mercilessly tidy chignon—“your wife?”

  Since explaining how he’d come to be here wasn’t an option, Gabe kept his mouth shut. Nan looked different today, a mere shadow of the woman he’d seen at the window right after he’d been shot. Then, her hair had been loose and agleam with candlelight, and she’d appeared soft and feminine. He detested the severe hairstyle she sported now, which allowed not even a tiny wisp of gold to frame her lovely oval face. He also hated her blue dress, a prim garment that skimmed her corseted waist and flared with so many gathers in the skirt that her curvaceous hips and legs were invisible. The collar was so high and tight it was a wonder she could breathe.

  “You’re right; we haven’t met,” he conceded. “But I’ve observed you about town, and I’m a man who knows what he wants when he sees it. In short, Miss Sullivan, I want you, and it’ll be extremely foolish on your part if you refuse to marry me.”

  Her chin came up. Gabe nearly smiled. It was a small, delicate chin with a cute little cleft. Her cheekbones, fragile and purely feminine, slanted back toward her ears, which were small and pink at the lobes, reminding him of the tiny seashells he’d once seen on an ocean beach during a stay in California.

  In a tone that managed to quiver and drip ice at the same time, she said, “We
ll, foolish though it may be, I do, absolutely and unequivocally, refuse!” She straightened her narrow shoulders and stepped away from the shelves. It didn’t escape Gabe’s notice that she wobbled slightly on her feet. “Your suggestion is preposterous, sir. Please remove yourself from my shop. Now.”

  Gabe finally allowed himself to grin—a slow, humorless curve of his lips born of long practice that had made more than one man in a rage decide to think twice before he pushed his luck. “Fine, Miss Sullivan. Never let it be said that I don’t know when my welcome has worn thin.” He moved away from the jewelry case and touched a fingertip to the brim of his Stetson. “I’ll just mosey on down to the marshal’s office. I’m sure he’ll be real interested to learn that the widowed milliner who’s passed herself off as Nan Hoffman for eight years is actually Nancy Sullivan, a woman wanted for murdering her fiancé, Horace Barclay. The telegraph lines will be tapping quicker than a lamb shakes its tail, I’m guessing, and by dusk, you’ll be on the wrong side of a jail cell’s bars.”

  Gabe allowed his grin to broaden just slightly into a smile. “You ever been in the hoosegow, darlin’? Those cells reek of stale urine. The mattress ticking crawls with bedbugs. If nature calls, you’ve got to relieve yourself in a bucket that’s still crusty with the leavings of the last man who used it.” He held up a finger. “A word of warning about those buckets. Don’t make the mistake of sitting on one. You’ll sure as hell catch the crabs.” At her bewildered expression, he gave a low laugh. “Crabs are a form of lice, only you get them at the wrong end. Itch like a son of a gun, and it’s harder than hell to get rid of them.” He sighed. “Oh, well, scratching your nether regions raw will keep you busy while you wait for the wheels of justice to turn. And they turn slowly, Nan. I don’t reckon the law in New York will get all the way out here to Colorado any too fast. Might take as long as a week or two for the authorities to come fetch you—or arrange for a lawman here to transport you back to—” He broke off, pretending forgetfulness. “What’s the name of that island? Ah, yes, Manhattan. Never got an urge to ride that way. I hear the eastern shores are crawling with people. I’m a man who likes some elbow room.”

  Gabe turned as if to leave, hating himself even as he felt victorious. Nan Sullivan wasn’t a stupid woman. The success she’d made of her shop proved that. Right now, he could almost hear her mind racing as she weighed her options. And Gabe had given her none. If she let him walk out that door, he’d eat his hat and have his boots for dessert.

  • • •

  Nan’s knees were rattling so badly that she could barely keep them locked to remain standing. She watched the stranger in black take quick strides toward the door, knowing as he covered the distance that she could not allow that overhead bell to jangle. In a very real way, it would be her death knell. And, dear God, what would become of Laney, her bright, talented, gregarious little sister? Nan knew precisely what would happen. The moment their father got word of Laney’s whereabouts, he would come to fetch her, take her back to Manhattan, and marry her off at age sixteen or younger to some fat old lecher to form a shipping or industrial alliance that would make him even wealthier than he already was.

  As terrified as Nan was for herself, fear for Laney loomed foremost in her mind. Nan had tried so hard to give her sister a better childhood than she’d had, encouraging Laney to have friends, bolstering her confidence by showering her with praise, and always urging her on, even when the child set herself nearly impossible goals. As a result, Laney was everything that Nan wished she were herself, if only she’d been given a chance. She would not allow Martin Sullivan to undo all of that.

  “Wait!” Nan cried just as the man touched the doorknob. “I don’t even know your name!”

  He stopped, turned to face her again, and then swept his black hat from his head in a mockery of gentlemanly politeness. “I beg your pardon, Miss Sullivan. I should have properly introduced myself before asking for your hand. Gabriel Valance, at your service.” He bent slightly at the waist in an offhand bow. “Gabe is my preference.”

  Nan didn’t think her heart could jitter any more violently, but it did when she heard his name, which was almost legendary in Random and undoubtedly in other towns as well. “The Gabriel Valance, the gunslinger?”

  He settled his Stetson back on his dark head, cocking the brim just so. “One and the same, ma’am. I don’t think I’m quite as bad a fellow as folks make me out to be, but that’s neither here nor there. Fourteen men have tried to kill me, I didn’t feel obliged to let them, and so I got them before they could get me.” A crease appeared between his black brows. “Well, to be honest, there was one recent exception, but though the other fellow shot me first, my Colt also found its mark, and he fell face-first in the street beside me, dead as a doornail, just like all the others who went before him.”

  “Fourteen?”

  “A good thing for me, I guess. Thirteen is a really unlucky number.”

  Once again Nan felt as if she might faint. Moving unsteadily to a crate of merchandise, she sank weakly onto the splintery wooden slats. Her future plans had never included marriage, let alone marriage to a man who informed her coolly that he’d killed fourteen men. Did he carve notches on his gun belt? Her gaze slid to his hips. He lifted an eyebrow, and she realized what he must be thinking. Hastily she averted her eyes, but not before she saw his mouth quiver in quickly suppressed amusement. Her gaze darted to a beaded clutch bag on a nearby shelf. She longed to throw it in his face. Instead, she murmured faintly, “Fourteen men? Dear heaven.”

  “Nothing about my life has been heavenly, Miss Sullivan. My mama was a whore who got sick and died on me when I was only a little tyke. My father was a coldhearted bastard who made a success of his first gambling establishment and then destroyed anyone who got in his way to buy another and another, until he became a man of inestimable wealth.” He paused and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his sun-browned neck. “Well, maybe inestimable is a stretch, but he was a very rich man. He never acknowledged me as his son until he died. Never even saw to it that I was cared for. I grew up on the streets, scavenging for food from people’s trash and stealing clothes off drying lines. When I had no shoes, I cut stolen sheets into strips and wrapped my feet in linen.”

  Nan stared at him, too shaken to feel sympathy, yet shocked to her core nevertheless. Her childhood had been dreadful, but the one he described was far worse.

  “I was fourteen when I got tired of being kicked around,” Valance continued. “And, yes, a homeless, hungry boy living hand-to-mouth does get kicked around. There are men in this world who take pleasure in hurting those who can’t fight back.” He rubbed beside his nose. “With a good deal of afterthought, I’ve got reason to believe I wasn’t any too bright at that age, because stealing a sidearm off a sleeping drunk on the boardwalk was a bad mistake. Once I had a weapon, I mucked horseshit out of livery stalls to earn enough money to buy bullets, and then, every second I wasn’t shoveling manure or sleeping wherever I could find shelter, I practiced shooting at targets. Once I could take the head off a matchstick without fail at fifty yards, I worked on my speed until nary a man in Kansas City could clear leather faster.

  “Right about then was when my lack of good sense really began to show, because I walked into a saloon, bold as brass, with a chip on my shoulder so big it would have taken a club to knock it off. I went into the establishment to show the world that I was no longer a snot-nosed brat who couldn’t fight back. I mistakenly thought that just wearing a gun would accomplish that. I never anticipated that it would take an exchange of lead to get the job done. Unfortunately for me, there was a gunslinger of some repute passing through town, and he was bellied up to the bar, washing the trail dust from his throat with a jug of whiskey. When he saw me swagger in, still a kid with peach fuzz for whiskers, acting like I could nail any man who challenged me, he took exception, told me to make fast tracks, and when I didn’t, he made the mistake of going
for his gun. I killed him before his Colt ever cleared the holster.”

  Nan closed her eyes. She had asked for an introduction, but hearing this story was more than she’d bargained for. Mr. Valance didn’t seem to sense her reluctance to hear more, so he continued.

  “Once a man outdraws a famous gunslinger in public—exhibiting that much speed and accuracy—he becomes, hell, I don’t know, a target, I reckon you could say. Word travels fast. Before I knew it, every fellow who fancied himself a quick draw wanted to face me in the street to prove that he was faster. By the time I was eighteen, I’d killed six men, never once because I set out to, but because I had no choice. I had to defend myself or die, and I wasn’t quite ready at that age to meet my maker. After six encounters, I took to the trail, trying my damnedest to stay one step ahead of the fools who were trying to find me, but over the last fifteen years, I’ve failed in that endeavor eight times, so, all in all, fourteen men have made the fatal mistake of challenging me.”

  Nan lifted her lashes. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single word to utter.

  “So,” Valance said with a tip of his hat, “do you consider us to be properly introduced now, Miss Sullivan, or do I have to tell you every other ugly detail of my past to get the job done?”