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Authors: Rachelle Morgan
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he looked at her like that, but the grim set of his mouth told her louder than words that he didnât much care for what he saw.
âYes,â he finally said in a flat tone, âIâm sure the customers will be well satisfied.â
Chapter 5
J esse strode outside to the porch, feeling as if heâd barely survived a twister with his hide intact. In the space of twenty-four hours, two women had taken control of his well-laid plans and turned them upside down. And all because heâd set out to repay a debt he owed to a man whoâd saved his life.
What the hell kind of trouble had this cursed assignment landed him in now? More important, how was he going to get out of it? He didnât have time to dally away the next week in this two-bit town.
Unfortunately, damsels in distress had always been his weakness.
Propping the bottom of his foot against thewall, he leaned back and scanned the darkened town with cynical distaste. Mountains loomed before him, capped peaks shimmering in a haze of setting sun. Shadows crept along the ground from the trunks of aspens and bounced off the sides of rocks in every shade from sand to rust. Far in the distance, a train whistle blew.
Rebirth? Hell, Scarlet wanted a miracle. Oh, Last Hope had been a grand place once, that was evident. In its heyday, it had probably never known a momentâs peace. He imagined raucous laughter pouring from the eight saloons, and dance hall trulls calling out their wares; merchants conducting business on every corner, and bankers discussing the latest hike in ore prices. There may even have been a few ladies strolling down the boardwalk, parasols shading their delicate skin as they passed by shops with hats, dresses, childrenâs toys, and hand-made furniture, while miners, the backbone of the community, led their pack-laden mules down the center of the road and traded nuggets for new handles, pans, and picks.
Yeah, Last Hope had probably been a grand place once. Now it was just tired and dreary, a broken-down poverty-stricken skeleton of what it once had been.
Much like he felt.
When had it happened? he wondered.During the Appleton Stagecoach heists? While chasing the James Younger gang? He couldnât pinpoint the exact moment, but it had been creeping up on him for some time now. And that last job . . .
If anyone had told him heâd tire of being a Pinkerton Agent, heâd have laughed himself loony. Twelve years ago, fed by noble intentions and an outrage at injustice, Jesse had packed his boots, his hat, and his horse and walked out of his fatherâs upper-crust Chicago house. Heâd been young and rash and recklessâhell on hooves, McParland used to say. No assignment was too dangerous, no subject too elusive. Heâd spent every waking moment racing from one end of the country to the other, rooting out the bad seeds of society, and heâd loved every blazing moment.
Until the day obsession for the job gave way to passion for a woman, and landed him six months in the deepest bowels of hell.
That had been the beginning, Jesse thought. What he felt lately seemed to go beyond tired, though. He couldnât explain it, couldnât define it, yet he felt it sucking at him like quicksand around his ankles, draining the life out of him. Heâd spent so long immersed in a world of deception and intrigue, pretending to be someone he wasnât just to expose the criminals, that he didnât even know who he was anymore. Assoon as he found McGuire and took him back to Denver, he wanted to . . . to . . .
Hell, he didnât know what he wanted. But it sure wasnât to stick around this pathetic excuse for a town, or use a rusty talent heâd rejected years ago just to entertain a bunch of traveling drunks.
Jesse sighed and stared up into the overcast sky. Damn Scarlet for manipulating him with her sad story and bartered solutions.
And damn Honesty, too, for touching
âYes,â he finally said in a flat tone, âIâm sure the customers will be well satisfied.â
Chapter 5
J esse strode outside to the porch, feeling as if heâd barely survived a twister with his hide intact. In the space of twenty-four hours, two women had taken control of his well-laid plans and turned them upside down. And all because heâd set out to repay a debt he owed to a man whoâd saved his life.
What the hell kind of trouble had this cursed assignment landed him in now? More important, how was he going to get out of it? He didnât have time to dally away the next week in this two-bit town.
Unfortunately, damsels in distress had always been his weakness.
Propping the bottom of his foot against thewall, he leaned back and scanned the darkened town with cynical distaste. Mountains loomed before him, capped peaks shimmering in a haze of setting sun. Shadows crept along the ground from the trunks of aspens and bounced off the sides of rocks in every shade from sand to rust. Far in the distance, a train whistle blew.
Rebirth? Hell, Scarlet wanted a miracle. Oh, Last Hope had been a grand place once, that was evident. In its heyday, it had probably never known a momentâs peace. He imagined raucous laughter pouring from the eight saloons, and dance hall trulls calling out their wares; merchants conducting business on every corner, and bankers discussing the latest hike in ore prices. There may even have been a few ladies strolling down the boardwalk, parasols shading their delicate skin as they passed by shops with hats, dresses, childrenâs toys, and hand-made furniture, while miners, the backbone of the community, led their pack-laden mules down the center of the road and traded nuggets for new handles, pans, and picks.
Yeah, Last Hope had probably been a grand place once. Now it was just tired and dreary, a broken-down poverty-stricken skeleton of what it once had been.
Much like he felt.
When had it happened? he wondered.During the Appleton Stagecoach heists? While chasing the James Younger gang? He couldnât pinpoint the exact moment, but it had been creeping up on him for some time now. And that last job . . .
If anyone had told him heâd tire of being a Pinkerton Agent, heâd have laughed himself loony. Twelve years ago, fed by noble intentions and an outrage at injustice, Jesse had packed his boots, his hat, and his horse and walked out of his fatherâs upper-crust Chicago house. Heâd been young and rash and recklessâhell on hooves, McParland used to say. No assignment was too dangerous, no subject too elusive. Heâd spent every waking moment racing from one end of the country to the other, rooting out the bad seeds of society, and heâd loved every blazing moment.
Until the day obsession for the job gave way to passion for a woman, and landed him six months in the deepest bowels of hell.
That had been the beginning, Jesse thought. What he felt lately seemed to go beyond tired, though. He couldnât explain it, couldnât define it, yet he felt it sucking at him like quicksand around his ankles, draining the life out of him. Heâd spent so long immersed in a world of deception and intrigue, pretending to be someone he wasnât just to expose the criminals, that he didnât even know who he was anymore. Assoon as he found McGuire and took him back to Denver, he wanted to . . . to . . .
Hell, he didnât know what he wanted. But it sure wasnât to stick around this pathetic excuse for a town, or use a rusty talent heâd rejected years ago just to entertain a bunch of traveling drunks.
Jesse sighed and stared up into the overcast sky. Damn Scarlet for manipulating him with her sad story and bartered solutions.
And damn Honesty, too, for touching
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