At the jail, Bartlett watched his friend dismount. As usual, Checker’s face was unreadable. Bartlett knew his friend was hurting from the wound. Had to be. Checker had struggled with himself about dealing with evil; something within him wanted the evil to go away and leave him with a normal family. And it wouldn’t. Evil had a way of transforming everything.
Bartlett unlashed the ropes connecting the riders and began ordering them to dismount, one by one. He liked the precision of the order.
Across the street, a small gathering of townspeople had stopped to watch, uncertain of what had transpired. A well-dressed man in a charcoal-gray suit and a slightly tilted, short-brimmed hat announced they should go over and arrest the two strangers, certainly the town didn’t need their kind around, that Jaudon worked for Lady Holt and was a fine, upstanding citizen.
Murmurs of agreement followed, interspersed with brash comments, but no one moved. Especially not the well-dressed man. A frail-looking woman with snow-white hair harrumphed and crossed the street to ask what was happening. Her face went as white as her hair when Checker informed her of the situation. Her chin rose in defiance and she spun to return to the group and relate the details.
The tall Ranger wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or concerned.
As she retreated, the sound of peeing reached Checker’s ears. In the alley between the jail and a saloon, a silhouette weaved as he attempted to relieve himself. The tall Ranger returned his attention to the arrested men. His leg was throbbing and forcing pain throughout his body. Reacting to it would have to wait; sleep would have to wait. Until Jaudon and his men were safely behind bars. He barely heard the sheriff say they would have to cram the gunmen into the five cells, but Jaudon would have one by himself.
“We’re not through, Checker,” Tapan Moore yelled, and flashed a wide, toothy smile.
“Another time. Another time.”
Standing next to him, the half-breed Dimitry made a slicing motion across his neck with his hand.
Chapter Five
Above them in an apartment over the town bank, a green-eyed woman faced the scene in the street. She didn’t like being in town that much, but she wanted to be close when Jaudon brought the news of Gardner’s death, trying to escape. She was also looking forward to some special time with Tapan Moore. The sound of horses had awakened her immediately and she watched from the small window, dressed only in her nightgown of deep emerald.
Anger brought her skin to contrast her gown. It was obvious the night had not gone as planned. At first she thought Jaudon had brought Emmett Gardner in for the law to deal with. That wasn’t her instruction, but it was all right. A closer look told a different story: Jaudon and his men were bound. Tapan was among them; she grimaced and wanted to blow him a kiss. She recognized one of the dead gunmen draped over a horse as working for her. Two strangers had apparently brought them in. Who could they be?
Moira Holt, or Lady Holt as she insisted being called, told herself to be calm. This was not a time for her well-known temper. She must first learn of the situation. It appeared Jaudon and his men had been surprised at the Gardner Ranch. Surprised by two men she didn’t know. Even from here, she could tell the two were well armed; it looked as though the taller one had been wounded in the leg. She didn’t see Emmett Gardner or any of his sons, so either they remained at their ranch or Jaudon’s men were successful before these two arrived. She doubted it was the latter.
As she spun away from the window with its green curtains, her mind was whirling with questions that needed answers. The best way to do that was to meet these two strangers. As soon as she had bathed.
Her long red hair cascaded along her shoulders as she walked across the green-walled apartment, dropping her night garments as she walked. Lady Holt was a mature woman, born in Canterbury, England, and given a good education—and one with a fine face and figure, as she often reminded herself. Governor J. R. Citale definitely thought so. Her smile was vicious.
Two hours from town was her ranch headquarters, a stately mansion she had purchased from an old Mexican rancher. She had bought the spread shortly after arriving from New York. Her stay in the East had lasted long enough for her to decide Texas was the place to be. The old man had been shot on his way to town with the money she had given him for the ranch.
No suspects were ever found. Or the money.
That was six years ago. Since then, she had bought five other ranches in the area. In the same way. Only three remained that she was interested in. Emmett Gardner’s was the most important because of his water. Charlie Carlson owned another small spread and the third was owned by a young widow, Morgan Peale.
“That old fool has no business owning such land. I can turn it into gold. And power.” She stared at the empty room. “Iva Lee, I can do it. I can own Texas. You know I can. And you’ll be with me all the way.”
Iva Lee was her long-dead twin sister. Lady Holt often talked to her. Iva Lee was Moira’s twin, older by minutes. She died from cholera, when only twelve, back in England. The disease took their parents, too, and Moira grew up in an English house for orphans. During her early teens, it wasn’t long before her looks turned into a significant asset as men, young and old, sought her favors. Some of them didn’t live long. She left Britain a few steps ahead of the law; a sea captain was enamored with her ways and gave her passage in exchange for herself.
On the way to her dressing table, she touched the painting of a phoenix dominating the north wall. She had been fascinated with the legend of this supernatural bird since she was a child. She knew the story well. A phoenix lived for a thousand years, then built a fire and burned itself up in the flames. Out of the ashes, the creature is reborn to live another thousand years.
She had heard the story first from the man who ran the orphanage. He was a practical man who thought the legend had probably been started when someone saw a large bird, like a crow or raven, dancing in a dying fire. He said it would sit and spread its wings, to enjoy the heat and kill feather mites. But flapping its wings might cause the fire to flame up again and the bird to fly away. Suddenly one had the impression of a bird rising from the flames and ashes. He had been very nice to her, enjoying her young body when he pleased.
She preferred the legend to his explanation and endured his passion as long as necessary. He had been dead ten years, dying in a fire that consumed his estate in London. Before the fire, Moira Holt had stolen the gold and currency kept in the estate—and this painting—deciding the phoenix was her good-luck charm. A slight scar near her right eye served as a physical reminder of her first criminal endeavor.
Since then, like the phoenix, she had been reborn and now owned the biggest ranch in this part of Texas and controlled thousands more acres of grazing land.
Her apartment was stylishly decorated with the latest in French furniture; she owned the building. Slowly she dressed for the day, deciding on having an early breakfast before determining what had gone wrong. Her eighteen-inch corseted waist was something she was quite proud of. A dark green dress with a matching coat that flared at the waist was selected from her wardrobe. Her pale green blouse was buttoned high around her neck. On her lapel, she pinned a small gold bird, a phoenix, she told herself. A dark green hat with a short veil was the last touch.
Methodically, she had used her newly acquired ranch as a base to build her empire. It had been a slow process, quietly pushing her neighbors into forced sales. At the same time, she had supported the new governor in his political goals, providing money, men—and herself. Governor Citale had been eager to return the favors.