The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 13

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps I might one day redeem myself?”

  She scrutinized him for signs of mockery, and found none. His blue eyes drank up the warm lamplight. With his golden hair wet and combed back from his forehead, his face appeared sharper, despite the perpetual blush tinting his cheeks. Water dripped from the angle of his jaw, collecting in rivulets and sliding down his muscled chest.

  Irene. Temperance. “No,” she said, with force. “Never.”

  He sighed. “Pity. I can only hope, then, that you might surprise yourself, once you come to know me. I possess the capacity for far more kindness than first appears.”

  “Kindness? Oh, that. Don’t worry. The blackmail and death threats already gave it away.”

  He grinned. “There’s that customary ice. I deserve nothing less, I suppose.”

  Her fingers tightened on the Colts. “This sudden humanity act is boring me. Do you have a proposition, or not?”

  “Two, in fact.”

  “Which are?”

  His smile faded. “It’s quite simple. You have something I desire, I have something you desire. I propose a mutually beneficial trade.”

  “Is this about the journal again?”

  “No. I still seek it, yes. But at present, I find myself yearning after more.”

  “What? The Blossom? So you can extract money from the sinners and the devout?”

  Gray laughed. “Your mind is absolutely delightful. Yes, I shall make the Blossom mine. Soon. But still, one more treasure exists beyond my reach.”

  Her heart increased its tempo. “What?”

  “You.”

  Sophia anchored herself to the weight of the revolvers. Given Gray’s bottomless stare, the word didn’t shock her, but the way it arrowed in—wreaking havoc on the deadened remains of her heart—did. Some deep part of her awakened, drawn to the hungry light in his gaze.

  He desires me. Just as Adrian hadn’t, in the end.

  She pushed the feeble thought away. Gray’s admiration was just an act, a carefully crafted strategy to find her weak point. “A few days ago, you couldn’t have cared less.”

  “Untrue. I tried to save you the day I met you, if you’ll recall.”

  She shook her head and tried again. “This is different.”

  “Yes.” His gaze softened, became even bluer, despite the buttery lamplight. “It is.”

  She looked away, if only to escape the weight of his stare. “What changed?”

  “I saw you fire a revolver.”

  “So? You find out I’m a sharpshooter and now you want me as…what? Your lackey?”

  “No. As my wife.”

  The room tilted on its axis. Had he just proposed?

  “Understand a few things, first,” he said. “I experienced a difficult childhood. One that later prevented me from pursuing…connection. In truth, I’ve always utilized my disinterest to take advantage of the world. To right the wrongs it exacted upon me.”

  “You still do that.”

  “Yes. Did you enjoy my little performance today? Ah, but never mind, that remains beside the point.” He leaned in.

  She shrank against the settee’s arm, but further retreat was impossible.

  “When you shot at me, you missed. On purpose. And I…” His eyes glowed, sparking like cinders. “Let me describe that as a moment of illumination. You experienced one too, did you not? Your mask slipped, and for just a moment, I saw…”

  The world stood still. “What?”

  “Your heart. Soft, hidden away behind an icy cage, yet yearning for a gentle touch. I understood, then, that you’re like me. Someone broke you, once. Yet still, you endure. Somewhere deep inside, you still hope.”

  He crowded her. She smelled the sweetness of his breath—which meant she was close enough to sink her fingernails into his eyes, or plant her revolver against his side and pull the trigger. But her hands hung useless in her lap, her body frozen and unresponsive.

  “You and I,” he said, “we’re the same. Blessed Margaret only proves that fact.”

  “You and I,” she breathed, “have nothing in common.”

  “Marry me, and I’ll give you the Scarlet Blossom. You’ll be Madam Sophia, and I’ll provide every possible comfort.”

  Her voice fled. Finally, she managed, “You said two propositions.”

  “Yes. That’s the first. In truth, I don’t expect your agreement just yet, given our rather…tumultuous history. My ultimate hope rests with mending your opinion of me, in time. By comparison, my second proposition is nothing. I ask only for a kiss.”

  She blinked. “What? No. Disgusting.”

  Unperturbed, he glanced beyond her shoulder. “In return, I’ll grant you the combination to the safe, that you might avail yourself of its contents.”

  Unable to bear his proximity a moment longer, she scrambled off the settee. He sank back, amused, and watched as her thoughts crumbled around her.

  He’d found the chink in her armor, the bastard. Two chinks.

  Money.

  And her longing to be someone’s world, even though she’d buried that part of herself when Adrian had abandoned her. She’d left that awful dream on the docks in San Francisco, yet here it was again, staring her in the face.

  Breathing hard, Sophia backed away until her legs hit something sturdy. Even through the smothering petticoats, she recognized the solidity of the safe. Leaning back, she hefted the Colts and let their weight slow her frantic pulse. She had to think rationally.

  This had to be a ploy.

  But…she could play, too, couldn’t she? “You’re coming to collect on Saturday?”

  “Yes. Unless you marry me, in which case the debt is forgiven.”

  She shuddered, ignoring that. “I’ll kiss you. That’s all. But you give me the combination first.”

  He raised a single eyebrow, as if that was more than he’d expected. “Certainly.”

  With her pulse hammering for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint, she circled the safe and set both revolvers on top. Gray moved to rise, but she flung out a hand.

  “You stay there.”

  He stilled. “Of course.”

  “The combination?”

  His eyes bored into her, solemn and expectant and uncomfortably blue. “Nineteen, fifteen, sixteen, eight.”

  Sophia tried to keep her fingers from trembling. Still, she had to start over twice. She whispered the numbers, emblazoning them on her memory. When the last digit clicked into place, she turned the handle, only halfway expecting cooperation.

  Thunk.

  The door creaked open. She squinted into the safe’s interior. A single bag sat on the middle shelf—the same one he’d locked inside only minutes ago. “What the hell?”

  Suddenly, the Reverend stood before her, filling her vision with acres of pale skin and bare muscle.

  She snatched the sack. “This can’t be more than five hundred dollars.”

  “I never claimed there was more. And you failed to inquire.”

  “Where’s the rest? All those church tithes?”

  “Henry moves everything to a secure location, weekly.”

  Anger pooled in the back of her throat. She welcomed it, rising into its heat until she burned. “You tricked me.”

  “I did not. Not once have I been untruthful with you. As I said, I never, ever lie.”

  Her teeth ground. She searched for a scathing reply, but none came, because he was right. Despite all the awful things he’d done, he’d never actually lied.

  “I’ll go to the Mounties.” The words fell weakly from her lips.

  “By all means. The Superintendent pays my detractors no heed, but perhaps he’ll start with you.”

  She deflated.

  “A year’s salary for a mere kiss is uncommonly generous.” Gray stepped closer. “I might have bartered for much more.”

  “I’m not for sale to you, you swine. And I wouldn’t kiss you if my only alternative was a painful death.”

  He re
ached out. “Ah, but kitten, we had an accord.”

  She meant to resist. But for reasons unfathomable, the message didn’t make it from her mind to her limbs. Gray’s hands closed on her shoulders, searing her skin through her dress.

  Then he stepped in and slanted his lips over hers.

  And she, despite every promise she’d made herself, finally admitted the truth: that she hadn’t managed to abandon her heart at all. No, there it was, alive and well, right where it had always been, and it beat like a stampede.

  24. Annie.

  Annie paced before the door, trying to ignore the lingering congregants’ pointed stares. Though some looked annoyed, most gazed at her like they hadn’t seen a woman in years.

  “Why don’t y’all just leave me be!”

  At her outburst, they looked guiltily away. A few, at least. The rest could go piss up a rope, for all she cared.

  What was taking so long? There hadn’t been any gunshots, but maybe the Reverend had overpowered Sophia somehow. What if he’d strangled her? Or worse?

  Just as her torment reached a boiling point, the door flung open and Sophia exploded from the rectory.

  Annie breathed a sigh. But her relief was short-lived—Sophia charged past, cheeks flaming, a gun in each hand. The few scattered parishioners gasped and shrank back.

  Annie caught her by the arm.

  Sophia spun, her delicate features contorted into a mask of fury. “What!”

  Annie hollered right into her face. “Put those damn things away! You trying to get us arrested?”

  Blinking, Sophia looked down. “Shit.”

  But things only went from bad to worse. Sophia hiked up her skirts and jammed the Colts into their holsters, flashing her bare thighs in the middle of church.

  That was it. Grabbing Sophia by the shoulders, Annie marched her toward the door. Even without looking back to check, she was damn near certain a few miners had fainted.

  They emerged into the blinding sunshine. “What’s got into you? I ain’t never seen you this riled up.”

  “Nothing. Let’s just go home.” Sophia scrubbed the back of her hand over her mouth. “I got into the safe. Snagged us five hundred dollars.”

  The world screeched to a halt. “How in Sam hell’d you pull that off?”

  Sophia just gazed into the distance.

  Annie looked closer, studying that bee-stung mouth, that angry flush. Everything added up to one ugly, godawful conclusion—one that made her feel like her skin was trying to peel right off her bones. “Holy buckets. Did you…?”

  “No!” Sophia jerked away. “I would never.”

  “Christ. I know we’re fairies, but the Reverend? I might actually toss my breakfast.”

  “I didn’t touch him!” Sophia unhitched the appaloosa.

  “Mmm hmm. And I suppose them puffed-up lips are because something just fell outta the sky and smacked you in the face?”

  Taking an acrobatic leap, Sophia landed in the saddle without even touching the stirrups. “Fine,” she growled. “He kissed me. Happy? Then he gave me five hundred dollars and let me go. It was just another game to him, and I don’t want to talk about it, and all I want to do right now is go home and chew some soap. And possibly throw up. And most definitely forget this ever happened.”

  Thoughts spun too quickly to grab hold of. “I thought you didn’t ride anymore.”

  “I’m the best rider in this whole cursed town. I just don’t, because my last lover was a horse trainer, and every time I get on one of these stupid things, it reminds me of how thoroughly broken my heart still is. But you know what? Right now, I don’t even care. I just want to go.”

  Annie waited for more, and her heart softened; poor Sophia looked raw and frantic and terrified.

  The Reverend tended to have that effect.

  “I’m sorry, sugar,” she said, more gently.

  Sophia set her jaw and looked away. “You coming?”

  “’Course. But you gotta help me up. I don’t got fancy judo moves like you.”

  Sophia rewarded that with a crack in the façade—a tiny smile, so faint it barely showed. “I told you, I’m an acrobat.”

  “Not a martial artist…yeah, yeah, I know. Here, grab my hand.”

  Sophia reached out. “You actually listen when I talk?”

  “Only if I got nothing better to do.” Annie hitched her boot into a stirrup and clambered up. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  ***

  Annie knew the look of a woman arguing with herself, and Sophia had it—bringing her hand up, pressing her fingers to lips before tugging them away. Like she was remembering. Like she was trying to decide how to feel about it.

  Sighing, Annie watched the post office go by. In four more blocks, they’d reach home. “So…how was it?”

  “How was what?”

  “What do you think I’m asking about, the church services?”

  Sophia stiffened. “Eww. I’m not discussing this.”

  “Well, seeing as how we’re both on the same horse, I don’t think you got much of a choice.”

  No response.

  Maybe bluntness wasn’t the right tactic. But Annie’d never been much good at diplomacy. Diplomacy was for people who drank less, who wasted time with things like patience and respectability.

  Couldn’t hurt to try it out, though.

  “You know, I’ve walked a mile in your shoes. Remember Samuel? By the time I left him, I hated him something fierce. Still had to fulfill my wifely duties, though, if you take my meaning.”

  Sophia’s head turned a fraction.

  “Every time we went to bed together, it was hot as Hades. But I hated myself afterward. Like I couldn’t stand him with my mind, but my body had itself a different idea.”

  Sophia faced forward again, silent.

  Annie resisted the urge to shake her into talking. “All I’m saying is, it’s no surprise if part of you liked kissing that two-faced weasel. I might even call him handsome, in an oughtta-be-Pope-one-day kinda way.”

  Still nothing. Cupcake ambled along, clopping through the mud. Overhead, clouds billowed in—great gray things, their bellies swollen with rain. Eventually, Paradise Alley appeared, and Cupcake turned, despite the slackened reins. She knew her way home.

  The whole time, Annie searched for some other way to break the silence.

  At the Blossom’s front door, Sophia vaulted down onto the raised boardwalk. She gazed up, her eyes as glossy and dark as puddled ink. “I didn’t like it. It was…slimy. With way too much suction.”

  Annie exhaled; a ropy knot uncoiled in relief. “You had me worried, there.”

  “Don’t bother. The Reverend isn’t my type. Not in this lifetime, at least.”

  Annie laughed. “Why? ‘Cause he looks like he qualifies for sainthood? Or ‘cause of that cold black heart he’s toting around?”

  Sophia didn’t smile. Instead, she stared so long, Annie wondered what she’d said wrong.

  “Actually,” Sophia said, “it’s because he’s a man.”

  25. Temperance.

  Dusting her palms, Temperance stepped back to admire her handiwork. With the decor righted and the bed reassembled, the boudoir gleamed. Gone were the skeletons of overturned furniture, the mocking ghost of Madam’s perfume.

  No longer a tomb, but an office.

  Yet she hadn’t found the journal. She’d expected to, and had inspected every nook and cranny, but the book’s utter absence confounded her. She imagined it out in the wild somewhere, buried. Or burned, if Irene had really wanted to hide it.

  A sigh escaped. She’d probably never know.

  Leaving the boudoir behind, Temperance headed toward her room. In the hallway, she found the Professor outside Annie’s door, his hand raised to knock.

  “Palmer, honey.” She stopped. “She’s not here.”

  He gazed down, his eyes unreadable. When he’d fled her room earlier, she’d thought him angry, but now he wore the same stolid expression as always. />
  “Look…about before. I want you to know I’m doing everything possible to keep us safe. You don’t need to worry about the Reverend, or the tithe.”

  “I do,” he said. “It’s my job.”

  She studied his sharp features, remembering the way he’d stepped in front of the Reverend’s gun. For a moment, he’d become so much more than just their barman, and in that simple act, she’d recognized something she should’ve noticed long ago. “Honey, how long have you been in love with Annie?”

  Palmer’s gaze slid left. When he didn’t answer, she stepped past him, content to leave the subject be, if he preferred.

  “Three hundred and fourteen days,” he said.

  She stopped, turning back. “Does she know?”

  “No.” Palmer shook his head. “I don’t want her to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she doesn’t love me back.”

  Temperance started to reach for his shoulder, then remembered. Her hand fell away. “How can you be sure?”

  “She once told Madam Irene she’d never love again. That she’d rather eat a plate of nails.”

  A huff snuck out, not quite a chuckle. That certainly sounded like something Annie would say. “You overheard her?”

  “No. She said it right in front of me.”

  “Hmm.” Temperance clasped her hands together. She ached to reassure him—sweet, strange Palmer, who she’d always felt tempted to protect. “But you know her. She’ll say something one day, then turn around and do the opposite the next.”

  “She’s illogical, sometimes, yes.”

  “You should tell her.”

  “I should protect her. That’s all.” He turned away, his long braid arcing as he spun.

  She let him go. After all, conversations with the Professor often ended in odd places.

  Yet he stopped at the end of the hall, surprising her. “Love is…strange,” he said. “I could write it as an equation: the sum of my feelings on one side, the sum of hers on the other. But my sum increases, while hers never changes. One side multiplies while the other remains constant. It violates the most basic law of numbers.”

  Temperance blinked. Where had that come from?

  “Therefore,” Palmer said, “love must be a mathematical impossibility.”