The Gunslinger and the Heiress

He swiveled the ledger so that she could sign her name, and then snapped his fingers. A tall, thin man appeared from the back room. “Jackson can show you to your room.”

“Thank you. My trunk is at the train station.”

“We’ll see to it, miss.”

She followed the porter up the staircase. On the second floor, Jackson opened the first door in the hallway. A bouquet of flowers adorned the table in the center of the room, filling the space with the scent of orchids. Along the wall, an oak buffet table held matching brass candlesticks on a delicate lace table runner. Walking to the adjoining room, she found a four-poster bed and canopy. An ornate, full-size pedestal mirror occupied one corner near the foot of the bed, and a stand with a gold-rimmed china bowl and pitcher stood in the opposite corner.

Jackson lit the gas wall sconces in both rooms before closing the drapes at the two tall windows. “I’ll be about retrieving your trunk now. Dinner is at six.”

She was hungry, but she was tired, and the thought of eating by herself in the dining room with others speculating about her aloneness was more than she wanted to endure tonight. “Thank you, but might I have my meal brought up?”

Jackson nodded and turned toward the hallway. She closed the door behind him, released a pent-up breath, whipped off her hat and tossed it onto the settee, saying a prayer of thanks that she’d not been denied a room. That would have been a setback she hadn’t considered. Thank goodness the Lansing name was known here.

She pushed a loose strand of hair back into place, securing it under her twisted bun, and then walked to the window and peeked through the drapes to look out over the town. With the descending twilight, colors were fading to shades of gray. Three tall brick buildings towered over the others—their signs indicating a bank, Marsten’s store and a gambling hall. The first two appeared closed for the day, but directly across from her hotel room, the saloon was lit up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. Golden light and occasional raucous laughter spilled out on the boardwalk along with a light tune someone played on a piano.

Grasping the pendant of silver and abalone at her neck, Hannah searched through the fancy etched windows of the saloon. Somewhere inside Caleb went about his duties. Rachel had been curious as to why she was asking after him, and Hannah had made up a story about mailing the necklace back to him. Apparently Rachel had believed her ruse for she hadn’t alerted Grandfather, and no one had tried to stop her departure.

Would Caleb even want to see her after all this time? She swallowed hard. Most likely he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t. She’d made a promise to Grandfather. Although she might be skirting it a bit in contacting Caleb, she had to have an escort, and once she learned more of what had happened to the ships, Grandfather would understand—and hopefully forgive her. After all, he’d always put the business first in his life. Surely if she did the same, he could only be proud. She intended to keep her promise—a Lansing always kept a promise.

The memory of Grandmother Rose’s thin, reedy voice trilling in her ear came to her. It is paramount that in all things your conduct be above reproach. You are a Lansing. Your reputation must be above speculation or gossip of any kind. Believe me, any correction or chastisement that I give will be minimal compared to what society will bestow. At the time, Hannah had chafed against the rules of etiquette. They’d felt like a binding, an iron corset. But now, hearing the raucous music from across the street, they felt safe and secure—something that framed her existence.

She dropped the drapes into place and turned toward the small writing desk against the wall. First thing to do would be to send a missive to the port authority agent requesting an audience as soon as possible. Then a second note to the manager of the Hotel Del Coronado informing him she’d be present at the grand opening and would like a word with him. When Jackson brought her supper, she would give them to him for delivery by courier in the morning.

After eating a succulent supper of lamb, she sat down again at the secretary. It was time she wrote a short letter to Grandfather. If she posted it tomorrow, it would take a week to arrive at the house in San Francisco. By that time, perhaps she would be heading home. He’d be angry when he learned of her quest—angry when he found out she’d left San Francisco—but if the end result were the answers concerning the ships’ disappearances...

Putting the finished note aside, she stared at the new blank page in front of her. Time for one more note—and the most difficult. She swallowed hard and then picked up the fountain pen once more.

Mr. Houston. I’m in town for a short visit. Please feel free to call this afternoon. Horton Hotel.

Hannah Lansing

Caleb fingered the impression in the wax seal—a curled, elaborate HKL. Leave it to a Lansing to use fancy paper. He read the note again. The Horton. Not the best, most expensive place in town but pretty near to it. And way too close for comfort. He glanced through the open doors of the saloon and across the wide, dusty street to the Horton’s entrance. Acid churned in his gut. Miss High and Mighty. What was she up to? They weren’t exactly on speaking terms any longer.

“You say this arrived at noon?”

“Seems I mentioned that.” Jim narrowed his gaze at Caleb’s tone. “It ain’t my job to come lookin’ for you. You’re good at makin’ yourself scarce. One minute you’re hunting quail up to Tecolote Canyon and the next thing I know you’re hauling in a string of fish.”

Caleb ignored him. Right now, fishing off the point sounded like a fine place to be until Miss Lansing left town. Maybe he’d camp there.

“Ain’t you goin’ to go see her?”

In answer, Caleb walked around the counter and deliberately poured himself a shot of whiskey.

“You’re not foolin’ me.”

Caleb scowled. “Leave it, Jim. It’ll take a lot more than her crooking her finger for me to drop everything and look her up.”

Jim shook his head as if Caleb were dense. “I’ll say it plain, then. You’re not one to drink this time of day, and suddenly a note from this woman has got you doing it.”

Caleb looked at the amber liquid, swirled it around in the glass before shoving it toward Jim. “Save it, then.” Whatever Hannah wanted—if anything—she would have to ask a whole lot nicer for him to mosey over to her hotel. Pushing thoughts of her from his mind, he walked over to the Bradison brothers’ weekly poker game.

Chapter Four

Caleb stared at the fancy stationery as if it was a stray cat with a piece of dynamite strapped to its back. The envelope, all gussied up with a black satin ribbon, had arrived from the Horton just after supper. He’d been eyeing it for the better part of two hours. He should set fire to the thing, but another part of him wanted to march across the street and tear up the note in front of Her Highness, dropping the pieces at her royal feet. It wouldn’t appease what happened between them, or Dorian’s slight of Rachel and Stuart, but it would sure make him feel a sight better.

Instead of taking either trail, he slid his pocketknife along the paper, breaking the ties, and opened the envelope.

Mr. Caleb Houston,

I find I am in need of your assistance. Please meet me at the Horton Hotel at your earliest convenience. The sooner the better.

Your friend,

Hannah Lansing

Well. That was a sight more cordial than the previous note. So she needed his help—not that he planned to give it.

His sister’s request nagged him. He didn’t want to “look out for Hannah.” He didn’t want to get that close. It would muddy things, and right now he was doing just fine with the line he’d drawn between them. But Rachel asked so little of him now that he was grown.

Maybe a quick check wouldn’t hurt—just to appease his conscience. He’d only make sure she was safe and sound, send the information to Rachel and then go about his business.

He had to admit, he was kind of curious as to what Hannah looked like now. How had the years changed her since she was sixteen? She’d been pretty back then—just starting to fill out. He couldn’t imagine her any more so. Too bad her beauty was only skin deep.

He slipped off the bar stool.

“Where you agoin’?” Jim asked, straightening.

“Got a score to settle, and for the first time I’m holdin’ a full house.” He stuffed his arms into his leather jacket and straightened his collar. “Won’t take long. I’ll be back for some of Yin’s stew before Clyde plays another round on the piano.”

He strode to the road, his gaze locked on the front door of the Horton. Two doors down a dog snarled from the shadows and then barked incessantly at a passing rider. Caleb shut out the sound, intent on getting his first look at the woman who had been the hull stuck between his molars for the past five years.

He entered the hotel, absently noting the rich interior, and then without a pause in his steps, zeroed in on the front desk.

The man behind the counter took one look at Caleb as he approached and raised his nose in the air—an interesting position since the clerk was the shorter of the two.

“I’m lookin’ for Han—Miss Hannah Lansing,” Caleb said. Guess they weren’t on a first-name basis anymore. Not after the way things had set between them. The clerk muttered something about waiting while he notified her.

Caleb sauntered over to the fireplace. A woman like her would take her time coming to see him, no matter that the meeting had been at her request. She’d make some kind of a grand entrance.

The heat from the cracklin’ logs took the chill from the damp night air. He rubbed his hands together, blew on them a time or two and then turned around to give the same consideration to his backside. A flash of light glanced off his eye—light reflected off a woman’s dangling gold earrings.

She spoke with the desk clerk. There hadn’t been enough time to fetch Hannah, so it couldn’t be her. This woman wore a quality deep red traveling suit that hugged her waist. A fancy matching hat, swathed with black netting and three large black feathers, hid her features, although anyone with eyes could tell she’d be a looker just by the confident way she held herself. She tapped the toe of her polished boot, obviously not pleased with what she was hearing. Rich people always thought the world spun around them.

She turned from the counter, twisting her handkerchief in front of her waist. He stopped short in the middle of blowing on his cold hands. Memories flooded him of a little girl crying over her puppy, practically strangling her pinafore. It couldn’t be...

The woman looked straight into his eyes. Beneath the black netting, her dove-gray eyes widened against pale, creamy skin. Her jaw slowly opened before she seemed to remember herself and closed her mouth. She tucked a wayward strand of blond hair over her ear and then checked the fancy twist at her neck, a move that unconsciously showed off her figure in that formfitting jacket and full skirt.

Caleb might as well have been sucker punched, the way his gut twisted into a knot. It wasn’t enough that she was rich and confident—she also had the looks to match. Like fine wine in elegant crystal, she outsparkled the chandelier. His mouth went dry. He counted it significant that he remembered to remove his hat.

It didn’t change one thing, though. He still planned to speak his piece.

And in that moment her face became a mask of perfect, controlled alabaster. Slowly, she walked across the room and stopped before him. “Mr. Houston. How good of you to come. I...I feared you might not have received my message.”

He froze—and couldn’t draw another breath. Hannah Lansing...speaking?

He’d never believed it was possible after so many years of silence. And yet here he was, hearing her voice with his own ears! The rich, cultured cadence held him mesmerized. He’d never given it much thought—her speaking like everyone else. Didn’t actually believe it would ever happen. She’d been young and not much more than a baby when she’d lost the ability to speak. How had she gotten it back? And when?

It took him a moment to come back to his senses and realize that although her words were polite enough, her tone was formal—distancing—like being doused with a bucketful of cold water. He sobered instantly. She might be talking, but she hadn’t thought enough of him to inform him. That only pounded the nail of truth deeper about their lack of any real friendship.

Now, what had she said? Something about her note?

“It came,” he said. “They both did. Just took a while to decide if I’d answer.”

That seemed to shake her up. She looked down, away from his face, and swallowed hard. “I see. Then, I thank you for deciding to come.”

“Didn’t figure we had much to say to each other after so long.”

She blinked. “I suppose I deserve that. Touché, Mr. Houston.”

He was baiting her, punishing her for the way she’d left things between them. He’d thought he was over it, that he’d buried the bitterness a long time ago, but seeing her now—well, guess it wasn’t buried deep enough after all.

She looked him over, starting at his boots. He could sense her cataloging everything as her gaze touched on him. Boots—leather, dusty. Denim jeans—worn, serviceable. His hat in his hands—a tan, weather-beaten Stetson. Cotton shirt. Leather vest. Neckerchief tucked at his collar. She stopped when she reached his face. He didn’t look his best, but he wasn’t plannin’ on changing up just because she’d ridden into town.

“Your sister will be gratified to know you are looking well.”

“I get by all right.”

She twisted the handkerchief again, obviously uncomfortable with the awkward gaps in their conversation. Guess his attitude didn’t exactly inspire small talk. He had one foot trampling on everything she was sayin’ and one foot already headin’ for the door. It wasn’t like him to be so cantankerous, but she just seemed to bring out the worst in him.

“So you’ve taken your grandfather’s name,” he said, trying halfheartedly to remedy his mood. “Where is Dorian?”

“He didn’t accompany me.”

That brought him up short. “You’re traveling alone?”

“Of course not. My valet and maid have accompanied me. However, there have been some complications. It has put my business here behind schedule.”

So he hadn’t been a thought in her head until she’d run into trouble with her schedule. Guess that told him where he stood. He chewed on that notion and grew angrier with the chewing.

“Believe me,” she continued, “this is as uncomfortable for me as it is for you.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Her mouth pressed together in a perfect seam.

“I take it you are representing Lansing Enterprises now. Congratulations. Although I gotta admit I’m surprised Dorian eased up on the reins enough to give you a position.”

“Yes...well...he did.”

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.

Heaven help him. Hannah was all grown up.

Chapter Five

Hannah woke early the next day, her thoughts on last evening’s encounter. Dressed and ready, she waited at the sitting room window, watching for Caleb to emerge from the saloon.

He hated her. She felt it to her bones. What she’d done years ago had ruined any hope of friendship between them.

She raised her chin. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t a social visit. Paying him would keep things businesslike and proper between them. He was the right man for the job. Although it hurt deep inside that he wouldn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart. He would have—before. But obviously, things had changed. He had changed.

She thought back to the first look she’d had of him in the lobby. He was as tall as a ship’s mast, and, though lean, he looked solid, as though nothing could move him from the path he set. The day’s growth of whiskers and the simple clothes he wore had only enhanced his ruggedness. And the gun belt—low on his hips... He carried a gun now. Years ago he’d only carried a knife.

How much more had he changed on the inside? Was it a fantasy of her own mind that she even knew him at all?

If only things were different. If only she hadn’t been forced to make a choice. The ache in her breast deepened, and she tugged on the pendant. But no. She hadn’t really been forced. She’d done what she had to do. The stark reality was that, at sixteen, she’d wanted to speak more than she’d wanted anything else, even Caleb’s friendship, and so she’d made that vow to Grandfather—a vow that existed to this day.

Absently she twirled the long gold fringe on the heavy draperies. Caleb had been lanky then. That wasn’t the case any longer. Last night she’d noticed his stance that guarded their privacy. How his wide shoulders had easily blocked out the curious stares of Mr. Bennett and Jackson. He’d fairly cocooned her in a corner of the lobby. The thick red hair of his childhood had darkened to the color of a rich brown cherrywood color, and his face—always a bit angular—was now square-jawed and firm. A man’s face. She swallowed. The boy she’d caught sand crabs with on the beach was gone, and in his place stood a compelling stranger. A compelling—brooding—stranger.

A polite knock sounded on her door. She opened it to Jackson.

“Mr. Houston is in the lobby.”

Hannah nodded her acknowledgment and shut the door. She walked to the bedroom and stood before the full-length mirror to smooth her skirt. For the third time that morning, she puffed the sleeves on her blouse and repositioned her blue velvet hat just above her chignon. “What Mr. Houston thinks is not my concern,” she told her image. “It’s the manager at the Hotel Del that I need to impress.” She took a deep breath, grabbed her parasol and started for the door.

In the lobby, the sight of Caleb waiting for her, holding what looked to be a new black Stetson, had her gripping the handle of her parasol a bit more tightly than necessary. He’d been busy. He’d shaved, which brought the strong line of his jaw into view. His hair hung wet and slightly wavy where it brushed his white shirt collar. Instead of the bandanna he’d had on yesterday, a dark gray bow tie circled his neck. He wore a dark gray vest and black pants. And his boots... He’d polished them recently—this morning? Caught off guard by the sudden butterflies inside, she pressed her hand snug against her tummy.