The Gunslinger and the Heiress

At his nod, she motioned to the nurse, who rose and stepped from the room. Hannah had made it a point to help Grandfather daily with his meals. So far, she’d managed to keep from pouring out her worries, but today would be doubly hard. The company lawyer had dropped by with a large packet, and the post had just arrived full of overdue bills.

She spread the linen napkin over his chest and scooped up a spoonful of soup. When she raised it to his lips, his gaze met hers.

“Whas wong?” he said, his words slurred.

Her smile was forced. “Hungry myself, that’s all.” She scooped up another spoonful, but he clamped his mouth shut.

“Whas wong?” he repeated and pointed to the lap of her skirt where she’d worried the fabric into a wrinkled mess.

She sighed. She’d never been able to get away with anything with him. He could read people—her especially. The talent had made him a keen businessman—that and his innate stubbornness. People didn’t call him Old Ironhead for no reason. He nearly always got his way. Perhaps it would be smarter to let him help her. Frustration at being kept in the dark would surely be worse than concocting a plan of action.

“I’ll tell you if you promise to eat.”

In answer, he opened his mouth, ready for another spoonful.

While he ate, she told him how she’d discovered the bills piling up. “Why didn’t you tell me about the ships? Perhaps I could have helped.”

Grandfather shook his head.

“But it affects me. It affects you and this entire household. You need to trust me with this.”

Rather than acknowledge her, he indicated he was ready for another spoonful of soup.

Pressing her lips together, she held back the retort that threatened and brought the soup to his mouth. “It appears Thomas’s company reimbursed for the first ship and cargo, but I couldn’t find any insurance paperwork on the second ship. Does he have that at his office?”

Grandfather shook his head slightly and glanced out the window. Ignoring her? Or considering what to answer? She wasn’t sure.

“Should I send a telegram to Stuart?”

It seemed the obvious solution to her. Stuart managed his own shipping business now, but having trained under Dorian, he still partnered with him on an occasional run. Grandfather furrowed his brows.

“What, then?”

He grabbed the paper and pen from his bedside table. Moving them to his lap, he proceeded to write, left-handed and awkward.

“See? You should have learned to sign. It would help now,” she said, teasing lightly while he scribbled. He grunted, apparently not flattered by her suggestion.

“Here. Let me take a look.” She picked up the note and deciphered his squiggly handwriting. “Accept Thomas’s offer?” Her gaze flew to his. “Marriage? You think the answer is for me to marry?”

He frowned at her with only half of his face, took the paper and wrote again. He’ll take care of you.

She couldn’t believe what he was suggesting. For years he’d said Lansing Enterprises was her legacy, and now he was asking her to turn her back on it? She rose to her feet and paced in the small confines of the room. “But...what about the business? Families we employ depend upon Lansing Enterprises for their livelihood. What about them? I cannot consider only myself.”

With the pen, he carved the words in the paper, tearing it in the process. You need a secure future.

“But I thought... I believed...” She searched for the right words. He’d led her to believe she would inherit the company. “This is just a temporary setback. We’ll build the business back up. We’ll press on. That’s what you always say.”

He pressed his lips together on the one side of his mouth, and wrote, “Thomas knows what to do.”

That was not how she’d envisioned her life. She’d thought she would assume control of the company. She’d made plans.... “Grandfather,” she began, sinking back onto the bed. She closed her eyes, took a big breath and then opened them again. “This illness has scared you. You’re acting like...like you won’t get better. But you will. Look how much improved you are today compared to yesterday.” The alternative, she could not bring herself to contemplate. He’d always been there for her, even when they disagreed. She couldn’t lose him.

His glare only reinforced her words. A week ago he’d encouraged her to consider Thomas Rowlings’s proposal. Grandfather’s business associate was a pleasant sort and rather dashing for a man twenty years her senior. His insurance company was prosperous. She’d want for nothing.

It was a viable solution. She didn’t expect—didn’t want—a marriage based on love. That emotion led only to disappointment and heartbreak. Yet why did she suddenly feel as though she couldn’t breathe? “I know you are thinking only of my good...”

Grandfather’s gaze never wavered from her face.

She had to get away, had to take time to consider things. She rubbed her forehead. “You truly believe this is the best course?”

He nodded once, slow and firm.

She dragged in a shaky breath. “I see. Thomas is due back from Sacramento in one week. I’ll...I’ll give him an answer then.”

* * *

In the study, Hannah sat numbly at the large desk, staring at the piles of papers without really seeing them. Marriage... It seemed so final...like an iron door closing. And although she respected Thomas, he hadn’t shown any interest when she’d mentioned her desire to start a school for children who couldn’t speak. He’d simply smiled, rather patronizingly she thought, and changed the subject.

She gathered the stack of ledgers and deposited them in the third drawer. As she started to lock the desk, she noticed a packet from the lawyer and the pile of bills still sitting out. Although she trusted Edward, it wouldn’t do to have the other servants learning the extent of their circumstances and gossiping to others in town. She stuffed the papers into the drawer, yet one envelope refused to fit tidily in. She pulled it out and then recognized Stuart’s careful penmanship.

He’d taken his ship south several weeks ago and should be returning any day now. He seldom made long trips anymore, always anxious to return to Rachel and his children. Years ago he’d had a falling-out with Grandfather. Other than an occasional business dealing, they no longer communicated. So this wouldn’t be a personal letter. As acting owner, she had the right to read it. She drew the silver letter opener across the seal.

Dorian,

I trust this letter finds you and Hannah well.

While finishing business here in Los Angeles, I’ve discovered information that may prove useful to you.

Wares from your last shipment have appeared on the open market here—without evidence of ill use by the sea. My records show that the Margarita stopped in San Diego and disappeared shortly thereafter. I shall see if I can learn anything more before starting home.

Stuart

She stared in shock at the note. This changed things. If the merchandise was turning up in Los Angeles—and in salable condition—that meant the ship hadn’t gone down due to rough seas. It meant something entirely different altogether. Could it be the ship was somewhere else—possibly across the border in Mexican waters?

Visions of the lighthouse where she had once lived filled her mind. Even now she could hear the cry of the gulls as they glided effortlessly on the updraft created by the sandstone cliffs.

Shaking off the memories, she read the letter again. Nervous energy built inside, a fine tension that ricocheted through her. If she could find out what had truly happened, perhaps it would be possible to fix things enough to save the business. That would solve everything! She wouldn’t have to marry Thomas—at least not on his terms.

This was not something she could hand off to someone else. She needed to keep control. Only then would Grandfather believe she could assume leadership of the business. She must prove herself. She shoved the letter into the drawer and locked the desk.

It was simple. She must go to San Diego. There would be some maneuvering involved—particularly regarding Grandfather. He couldn’t know until she was safely away. She’d have to leave a note for him. The staff—Nina—could give it to him after she was well on her way. Time enough later to explain things.

She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and realized her hand was trembling. Excitement coursed through her even as she tried to tamp it down. This was impulsive and perhaps a bit foolhardy, but if she considered every angle and prepared for difficulties, then surely she would get her answers. To sit and wait for Stuart to return or Grandfather to get well wouldn’t accomplish anything!

She’d need an escort. Edward could accompany her. Oh, think again, Hannah! Edward will go straight to Grandfather. The butler’s loyalty was commendable, but in this situation could only hinder her.

What about Caleb...?

The thought stopped her midflight, and she plopped back onto the chair.

Her gaze darted to the drawer that held the small address book. No. She couldn’t. She’d given Grandfather her word.

Besides, with Caleb’s penchant for adventure he could easily be in Timbuktu by now. Yet the thought refused to leave her. Caleb knew about the currents and tides—things she didn’t. After all this time, would he still be in San Diego? And more than that—would he even see her after the way she’d treated him?

She looked back at the desk drawer. At one time, back when they’d been friends, she’d written his name in that book. She fisted her hand. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. She’d been so good. Tried so hard to please Grandfather. He would never approve of this.

Caleb even knew the shipping lanes and the crosscurrents.

Barely breathing, she reached out and pulled on the drawer. She withdrew the book...flipped through the pages.

Harrison...Heinrich...Houston...

Exhaling, she stared at her own childish penciled handwriting. Grandfather hadn’t updated the entry. In fact, he’d crossed out the name with bold slashes of indigo ink, nearly obliterating its existence. The action spoke of suppressed anger...possibly fear, but he had nothing to worry about. A promise was a promise—and for a Lansing, it held even more weight.

And because of it, Caleb was no longer a part of her life. She wasn’t proud of herself for what she’d done that day; in fact for many years she’d done her best to put it from her mind. It hurt to remember. But she’d kept her promise to Grandfather. That was the important thing. Her friendship with Caleb had been the price. Caleb would never forgive her, which was as it should be. She didn’t expect his forgiveness—didn’t deserve his forgiveness.

Her throat constricted. She couldn’t have it all. A choice had to be made and she’d made it. Selfish? Yes. Purely and wholly selfish—wanting to speak, wanting Grandfather’s approval, wanting...Caleb. She smoothed her fingers over her lips. To this day she remembered how his kiss had felt, how it had made her feel.

Suddenly angry with herself for dredging up a past she’d knowingly formed, a past that couldn’t be changed, she slammed shut the drawer. It had been a crush. Puppy love, perhaps. And it had died years ago.

She would still keep her promise to Grandfather. If Caleb was in San Diego, she’d hire him for his expertise—and that alone. She wasn’t going there to see him. That part of her life was over. What mattered was the business. Only the business.

Chapter Two

Southern California, 1888

Keeping a steady hand on the reins, Caleb maneuvered his gelding past a sprawling pear cactus and then up the muddy slope from the river delta. With every step forward, the gelding slid halfway back through the soft muck. For the past three days, rain had drenched the earth, swelling the creeks and splattering the brown landscape with patches of green. The sparse vegetation needed it—for that matter, the people needed it to survive through the dry months.

He hiked the burlap sack higher on his saddle, tying it securely to the horn. Thoughts of the three coastal quail he’d shot made his mouth water. Bit by bit, with each mile that passed, the peaceful feeling he’d absorbed while hunting disappeared. Hardly came as a surprise. Solitude fit him. Always had.

He glanced at the horizon. The sun hovered just above the ocean. Wyatt would be looking for him. Putting the mudflats to his back and leaning forward in his saddle, he urged his mount into a rocking gait toward town.

When he entered the saloon on Fourth Street, his boss looked up from analyzing the ledger in front of him. His gaze landed on the heavy burlap sack in Caleb’s hand and a slow smile grew beneath his dark handlebar mustache.

Caleb tossed the bag to Yin Singh, Wyatt’s personal cook. “There’s three. I’ll take the biggest.” The cook grinned and bowed, and then disappeared under the stairs and into the kitchen.

A cursory survey of the room found two customers at the bar and another three at the gaming tables. The evening was just getting started, and so far things were quiet. It wasn’t until later that the whiskey and tanglefoot loosed inhibitions and tongues—not to mention fists. Jim Avery, the barkeep, stood behind the counter, and with his meaty hand methodically polished the waxed countertop with a cloth, making it glow a deep honey color while he watched the goings-on. Jim nodded, acknowledging Caleb’s entrance.

“Stop by your land?” Wyatt asked from his seat at the faro table.

“I’m still ponderin’ about buyin’ that particular stretch.”

“I’m surprised someone hasn’t beat you to it with the length of time it’s taking you to decide.”

Caleb shrugged. The stretch of river valley was choice grazing land—hunting, too. He had the money—had saved it up over the past five years, but each time he headed for the land office, something made him stop. He wasn’t the “settling” type. And owning land sounded more like an anchor than an investment.

“Ya sliced it, mister!”

A young man—boy more likely, judging by his spare frame—hollered at two men playing billiards. When they ignored him, he bellied up at the end of the bar, tried to hook his boot heel on the rung of his stool and missed. Another attempt and he sat square, grabbed his Stetson off his head and slammed it on the counter. His unruly red hair, matted with sweat and grime from the confining band of his hat, sprang up in shock at the sudden freedom. He beat his fist on the bar, motioning to Jim for a beer.

“Haven’t seen him here before,” Caleb mentioned to Wyatt. The kid couldn’t be a day older than seventeen.

“First time would be my guess. I believe that young man is on his way to a whale of a headache come morning.”

“One’s all it takes with someone his size,” Caleb said, pushing away from the bar and sauntering toward their object of discussion. The boy stopped guzzling and faced him with the reckless bravado and glassy gaze liquor could bestow.

“Had enough?” Caleb said.

“None of your business how much I drink. My money’s as good as the next man’s.” The boy took a defiant swig of beer and turned back to the bar.

“I can see that. Hard earned, too, I’ll bet.” The kid was nothing but stringy, corded muscle held together with sweat. “Which ranch you ride for?”

He didn’t answer. Probably didn’t even hear Caleb, the way he was caught up in his attitude—nursing some wrong with a heavy dose of anger. Suddenly he blurted, “Took six months! Six months of slavin’ for her daddy only to find out she planned to go back East to finishing school and catch herself a dandy.”

Acid roiled in Caleb’s gut. He wasn’t going down this trail. “What’s your name?”

“What’s it to you?” A belch rumbled out, and with it some of the boy’s bravado evaporated. “I might as well be a flea on a rock. Why’d she even treat me nice in the first place? Got me thinkin’ ’bout her all the time, thinkin’ about us. It was all a lie. Big sinkhole of a lie.”

“Best chalk it up to a lesson learned the hard way.”

“Sure bet! I’ll be a whole lot smarter from now on. Won’t no pretty skirt fool me again. I’ll take me another beer, barkeep!”

Jim’s gaze slid to Caleb. “Older and wiser,” Caleb murmured with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “Startin’ now.

“’Fraid you’ve had enough to drink, Rusty. Time to head home while you can still sit your horse.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

Caleb wasn’t fooled by the belligerent tone. The kid was heartsick and slidin’ toward misery. Caleb preferred anger. “Matter of fact, I can.”

“Just try it, mu—ister.”

On the last word, Caleb grabbed the boy’s upper arm so tight he figured he’d kill off some fingers—whose he wasn’t sure—but he wasn’t going to let the boy stay and drink himself to the floor. Better for him to throw a punch or two and get some of his feelin’s out.

Rusty flung a weak hook with his free arm. His fist stopped just short of Caleb’s jaw, caught in another firm grip. “Leave it!” Caleb ordered, and twisted the boy’s arms behind him while at the same time forcing him toward the door.

They stepped outside, and Caleb could have sent him sprawling into the street easily enough. Would have without a second thought if the boy had been a man—a man should know better—but the kid had had enough damage to his dignity in one day.

“Go home. Count yourself lucky you found out early on she was a gold digger.” He let go of the boy’s arm.

“But she weren’t. It was her daddy.”

“One and the same.”

Rusty met Caleb’s gaze. The young whelp still wanted to challenge him! Unbelievable. And stupid. Caleb raised one brow. When the boy swung, Caleb blocked with his forearm and jabbed his other fist into the kid’s gut, striking quick, like a snake. The blow knocked the boy down two steps, where he lost his balance and sprawled face-first in the dirt.

Caleb followed and stood over him. When he didn’t try to stand, Caleb reached down and yanked him to his feet. “I’m doing you a favor, kid. Take it. Make a move other than heading out of town and you’ll be sorry.” He picked up the boy’s hat, slapped it against his thigh once to knock off the dust and handed it over.

The boy curled the brim before stuffing it on his head and meeting Caleb’s gaze. “Name’s Josh. Not Rusty.”

It took a slice of humble pie for a boy this age to admit defeat...and a scrap of respect for authority. Caleb took the offered olive branch. “Caleb Houston. See you around, Josh.”

The boy nodded, found the reins to his horse and climbed on. Caleb figured he’d get about halfway to his ranch before spewing out the liquor that sloshed around in his belly.

“Well,” Wyatt said, standing up when Caleb reentered the saloon. “You handled that with more perception than usual.”

Caleb ignored him.

Wyatt slipped on his wool coat and bowler hat. Didn’t look much like the lawman who had cleaned out Tombstone, but anyone who crossed him knew those looks were deceiving. “Keep things quiet tonight. I need to check on my other properties.”

Caleb raised his chin in acknowledgment. Earp ran into more trouble at his other gambling halls. Caleb should know—he’d worked at both, the worst on the edge of the Stingaree district. A rougher brand of men with fewer rules and even less restraint frequented that establishment. After surviving a year, Wyatt had offered him the job here. Caleb looked over the waxed and polished wood of the bar and tables. Here in the center of the business district the glassware was finer, the clientele classier and even the brawls more refined—if that was possible. Oh, they happened—the arguments, the fights—but they started out subtle, creeping up on a body with only a look or a word before suddenly turning deadly.

Once Wyatt left, Caleb slid onto the closest bar stool. “Make it black, strong and hot,” he called loud enough for Yin Singh to hear in the kitchen. Lowering his voice, he turned to Jim. “Newspaper come yet?”

Jim reached under the counter, pulled out the most recent weekly and dropped it beside the steaming mug of coffee Yin delivered.

Caleb grunted his thanks and started to skim the front page.

“I signed for this, too. Hope it ain’t bad news.” Jim slipped a telegram on the bar.

Caleb stared at the paper. The only person who’d send him a telegram was his sister. His gut took a dive. He grabbed up the official-looking transcript. If anything had happened...

Hannah arriving in two days. Please look out for her—for me—for Stuart. Love, Rachel.

Hannah? His thoughts raced back to the last time he’d seen her—a time he’d buried deep and refused to think about.

“You look like you got the wind knocked out of your sails,” Jim said. “Someone die?”

“More like resurrected,” Caleb mumbled. It had been years since he’d seen Hannah Lansing. Five years and five hundred miles. He’d figured San Francisco was far enough away that he’d never again see her in this lifetime. That had been his plan. What was she doing coming here?

“Ghost from the past?” Jim eyed the telegram with growing interest.

Caleb crushed the paper in his fist, left his coffee untouched and slid off the stool. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t aim to find out.”

Chapter Three

Hannah stood just inside the lobby of the Horton Grand Hotel and breathed a sigh of relief. Her heartbeat slowed to a steadier rhythm as she noted the large display of flowers on the central table. The Horton Grand Hotel appeared to be the essence of respectability—an oasis in a town of gambling halls and smaller businesses. The walk from the train station had caused her no small amount of anxiety. She wasn’t used to being so totally on her own, especially in a strange town. Halfway here, she’d seen three men on horseback racing through the main street of town, whooping and yelling and kicking up a minor dust storm. She’d known when starting her journey that this was no San Francisco, but it was a wilder town than she’d expected.

Not for the first time did she consider that her flight here may have been a bit impetuous. She hadn’t thought the trip completely through, and now those things she’d taken for granted in San Francisco—things like getting from Nob Hill to the docks, a trip usually made in a carriage with a servant accompanying her—seemed difficult and worry laden.

She had picked the Horton specifically for its location. The Florentine would have been a safer choice for a single woman, but Rachel had said Caleb worked at the saloon across the street. That would make him more accessible should she need him. She strode through the lobby past a middle-aged couple sitting in overstuffed leather chairs and placed her reticule on the ornate oak-and-brass front desk.

A short, round, gray-haired man looked up from studying the ledger. “May I help you?”

“I’d like a room.”

He surveyed the lobby behind her. “You’re alone? I’m afraid the Horton does not—”

“I’m Miss Hannah Lansing,” she said quickly before he could deny her accommodation. “And here on official business for my company.”

The clerk straightened, a small Napoleon at attention. “Of Lansing Enterprises?”

She nodded. “I’ll be attending the grand opening of the Hotel Del Coronado.”

He looked confused. “But you are staying here? Rather than there?”

It did sound suspicious. Those who’d helped finance the hotel had seaside rooms for the celebration. Grandfather hadn’t wanted to invest. It wasn’t any of this clerk’s business, but she felt she had to give him a plausible explanation. “I will be meeting with a few friends and business associates while here. It seemed simpler to stay in town rather than out on the peninsula.”

“Then, on behalf of the Horton, I am delighted you chose our hotel for your respite.” His hand hovered over the ledger before printing her name.

She relaxed somewhat. The first hurdle was behind her. She’d made it safely this far.