The Ballad of Emma O'Toole Read online

  “I understand the young man who died was your sweetheart.”

  “We were planning to be married. I’d never known Billy John to set foot in a gambling house before.” Emma’s anger exploded in a burst of anguish. “Oh, why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? If only he’d stayed away from that murdering gambler—”

  “I assume you’re talking about Mr. Devereaux.”

  “Logan Devereaux killed Billy John in cold blood, and I’ve vowed to see him punished for it!” Emma was walking fast now, her splashing boots punctuating her words. Let the newspaperman ask his questions. This was something she wanted the whole town to know.

  “Are you sure about that? I understand your young man was cheating, and that after he was caught, he drew a gun.”

  The revelation rocked Emma for an instant. Where on earth would he have gotten a gun? As far as she knew, Billy John had never fired one in his life. Then she remembered the rusted Colt .45 she’d seen in Billy John’s shack. There was no way that weapon could’ve been made to fire a bullet. “If he did have a gun, it would have been empty,” she declared. “Billy John wouldn’t have harmed a soul! And he wouldn’t have cheated, either!”

  “Don’t be so sure. I talked with more than one witness who said your Billy John was indeed cheating. I was told—”

  “No! I won’t hear it.” Emma wheeled to face him. “Billy John Carter is dead. I won’t stand for your speaking ill of him. Here!” She yanked the warm tweed jacket off her shoulders and flung it in his face. “Thank you for your offer of company, Mr. Armitage, but I prefer the rain!”

  She thought he would turn back. Instead he kept pace with her angry strides, his umbrella still balanced above her head.

  “My apologies, Miss O’Toole. I certainly didn’t mean to question your young man’s character. I only wondered if you were aware of what some people are saying.”

  “Whatever they’re saying, the truth will come out in the trial. And I’ll be there to hear every word.”

  “Don’t you have any family to support you?” Armitage asked in a sympathetic voice.

  “My father died when I was twelve, my mother when I was sixteen. Since then the closest thing I’ve had to family was Billy John, and now—” Emotion choked back her words.

  “I was told your mother worked in one of those houses on Silver Creek Road. Is that true?”

  The nerve of the man! Emma’s temper began to seethe. “My mother was a decent, respectable woman, not a whore. The only work she did on Silver Creek Road was cooking and cleaning and scrubbing laundry to keep a roof over our heads. And she made me promise I’d never make my living up those stairs. I’ve kept that promise. I make an honest living, and someday I’m going to amount to something. Just you wait and see.”

  They’d come to the top of Main Street, where the road cut around the hillside, skirting the gulch where the Chinese lived. The odors of joss sticks and human waste wafted upward, assailing Emma’s stomach.

  “Just one more question, Miss O’Toole.” Hector Armitage’s voice cut through the droning rain. “Is it true that you’re expecting a child?”

  Emma froze as if she’d just been knifed. Billy John had mentioned the baby where everyone in the Crystal Queen could hear. But that didn’t give a stranger the right to ask such an intimate question. Until now, she’d tolerated the reporter’s prying. But this time he’d gone too far.

  “Did you hear me, Miss O’Toole? Is it true that—”

  “I heard you, Mr. Armitage!” She whirled on him, indignation bursting like mortar fire in her head. “What kind of rotten, low-down, bloodsucking leech would ask a lady such a question?” Seizing the umbrella, she swung it at him like a club. “Get out of here, you little muckraker! Leave me alone!”

  “Really, Miss O’Toole—” Armitage took one step backward, then another. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Balderdash!” Emma glanced a blow off his shoulder. “You planned this. You were waiting for me to walk home, and you knew just how to play me.”

  Armitage staggered. Losing his balance, he pitched backward, slid down the muddy slope and crashed into a duck pen. As shrieks and Chinese curses joined the melee of squawking birds, Emma hurled the battered umbrella after him and fled. Her heart hammered her ribs as she plunged up the steep road.

  Through the rain she could make out the weathered brown blur of the boardinghouse. With the last of her strength she mounted the steps and crept around to the lean-to where she sank onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. A sob escaped her constricted throat. She gulped it back. It wouldn’t do to break down. She had responsibilities and a promise to keep.

  Once more Emma forced her mind to conjure up Logan Devereaux. She saw his face, the jet-black eyes, the golden skin, the bitter little quirk at the corner of his mouth as he confessed what he’d done. He’d claimed he was sorry. But the gambler’s emotionless gaze had made lies of his words. For all his show of regret, the man’s heart was surely as cold as a rattlesnake’s.

  She could feel her anger welling again, its fire warming her chilled body. She would use that anger, she vowed. She would use its heat to fuel her, to keep her going despite her suffering, her loneliness and her humiliation.

  Tomorrow, after her chores were done, she would go to the jail and confront the murdering villain again. She wanted to see how he looked after a night spent behind bars, contemplating his fate.

  She wanted to see him in pain.

  * * *

  “Brung you some readin’, Devereaux.” Deputy Chase MacPherson’s mouth slid into a lopsided grin as he tossed the folded newspaper through the bars.

  Logan let the paper land on the bunk, then ambled across the cell to pick it up. There was no hurry. Even before he opened the Record to the front page, he knew what he would see.

  But he hadn’t anticipated how bad it would be.

  Logan’s jaw tensed as he read down the page to the clumsily rendered drawing of Emma O’Toole. The reporter Hector Armitage had played up the dramatics of the story, ignoring most of the facts. The innocent youth, the black-hearted gambler, the bereft, pregnant sweetheart—hell, it was pure melodrama! Why hadn’t the slimy bastard mentioned that young Carter had been caught cheating or that he’d drawn a pistol and threatened to use it? Why hadn’t Armitage interviewed the men who’d seen the gun and heard those threats?

  As Logan’s memory blundered once more through the nightmare of events, he saw himself bent over the dying youth, pillowing the boy’s head with his own jacket. He remembered the reporter’s freckled face thrusting into his vision, heard the annoying prattle of the man identifying himself and then pelting Logan with questions.

  He’d sworn at Armitage and shoved him so hard that the little man had fallen against a spittoon and knocked it over. Only now did Logan realize what a dangerous enemy he’d made. With this story, it was clear that Hector Armitage was intent on turning the whole town against him.

  “You got a visitor, gamblin’ man.” As the deputy sidled into view again, Logan’s heart convulsed with hope. It could be the lawyer he’d been demanding since dawn, or—

  “Right purty thing she is, too,” the deputy added with a suggestive wink.

  Logan sagged onto the bunk, his spirits blackening. He only knew one she in this miserable town, and it was a good bet she hadn’t come here to bring him chicken and dumplings. In fact, he couldn’t figure out why Emma O’Toole would come at all unless it was to vent more anger on him. He was sorry f
or her loss, but it was hard to feel much sympathy when her story in the newspaper was, without a doubt, turning the town against him. The young lady had him right where she wanted him, and the way things were going, she’d probably get her wish to see him hang.

  Feigning indifference, Logan opened the newspaper to page two and pretended to read. He could hear the light tread of footsteps approaching his cell, but even as they stopped, he didn’t look up. Emma O’Toole had sworn to see him punished. He would show her how blasted little he cared.

  “Mr. Devereaux.” Her voice quivered with defiance. Logan didn’t move.

  “Hey, gambler, you got a lady friend here!” The deputy seized a bar of the door and shook it until the lock rattled. “If’n you don’t want her, I’ll be happy to—”

  “All right.” Logan’s rapier glare cut him short. “I’ll speak with Miss O’Toole, but not with you hanging over her shoulder, MacPherson. Get out of here.”

  “But the marshal said for me to—”

  “Go on now, Mr. MacPherson.” Emma O’Toole’s voice was diamond-cool, diamond-hard. “Your prisoner can hardly do me any harm when he’s locked behind bars.”

  Do me any harm!

  Logan bit back a curse. The woman was speaking as if he were some kind of wild animal who might leap out and have his way with her. Was that the next story she’d share with that little worm of a reporter?

  But what did it matter? She was here. And this, he realized, was his chance to make sure that she finally heard him out. Emma O’Toole was not getting away until he’d told her the whole miserable story.

  Logan stared down at the open newspaper, biding his time as the deputy’s footsteps faded away. In the stillness that remained, he could feel Emma O’Toole’s presence. He could feel her gaze like fire on his skin and hear her shallow, agitated breathing. Even without looking at her, Logan could sense how much she hated him.

  He let the seconds tick past, stalling as he would in a card game, forcing her to wait. He was in charge now, and he wanted her to know it. Otherwise she might not listen.

  And making her listen could make the difference between life and death.

  Only when he sensed she was nearing the end of her patience did Logan untangle his feet, rise from the bunk and look directly at her. Even then, with so long to prepare for it, the sight of Emma O’Toole stopped his breath for an instant.

  She was standing rigidly outside the cell, wearing an ugly, starched gray frock that had clearly been made for someone else. Her dark honey hair was pulled tightly back from her face, accentuating her bloodshot, blue-green eyes. She looked pale and drawn and haggard, but for all that, Logan couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Last night in the dimly lit saloon, his vision had caught little more than the flash of her anger. But now he knew that that exquisitely powerful face, with its tragic beauty, would haunt him to the end of his days.

  Her lips parted as their eyes met. The awareness dawned on him that he’d slept in his clothes, that his heavy black whiskers needed a shave, and that the chamber pot under his bunk hadn’t been emptied since last night. He looked like a derelict and probably smelled worse, but there was little he could do about that now. The only important thing was that she hear what he had to say, and that she believe him. If there was a spark of understanding in her, and if he could touch it—

  But this was no time to lower his guard, Logan reminded himself. The woman wanted him dead. She had said so to his face, and again in that cursed news article. The fact that she was young and vulnerable didn’t make her any less his enemy.

  He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak. “I’m glad you came, Miss O’Toole. You and I need to get some facts straight.”

  * * *

  “Save your facts for the trial, Mr. Devereaux.” Emma’s attempt to sound haughty ended in a nervous quaver as the prisoner tensed. He looked like a caged wolf, she thought, wild and dark and dangerous. She’d come to watch him suffer, to fuel her own anger with his despair. But Logan Devereaux appeared neither cowed nor remorseful. His rage burned as hot as her own, leaping like black fire in his eyes.

  “It seems the trial’s already begun,” he muttered, snatching up the newspaper from his bunk and crumpling it against the bars. “Have you read this? Have you seen what that lying little weasel of a reporter wrote about last night?”

  Emma’s heart sank. Hector Armitage had wasted no time getting his story to press. As she took in the headline, part of her rejoiced in what seemed to be an open, public condemnation of what the gambler had done. But another part reeled with dismay. The article could expose all her secrets, leaving her open to the most vicious kind of scandal.

  Devereaux was glowering at her, waiting for a reply. “No,” she declared. “I didn’t see the paper this morning. I came here straight from the boardinghouse.”

  “Read it!” His fist shoved the crumpled paper through the bars. “Read this drivel. Then tell me how much of it you put into his head.”

  “I didn’t put anything in his head!”

  “Just read it.” His voice was a snarl. Emma pulled the paper flat, hands trembling, blurring the print. His searing black eyes fixed on her face as she read.

  Young Man Murdered By Gambler—Sweetheart Vows Justice

  A nineteen-year-old miner lost his life last night in a dispute over a game of five-card draw. Billy John Carter, lately of Tennessee, had never set foot in a saloon before, but he needed money to marry his sweetheart and give their unborn babe a name. His only hope was the gaming tables and, to his ill fortune, he chose the Crystal Queen.

  Today would have been Billy John Carter’s wedding day. Instead he lies cold and dead, most foully gunned down by Mr. Logan Devereaux, an itinerant gambler, who used a .22 Derringer to shoot young Carter in the chest at point-blank range when the young man accused him of cheating. Mr. Devereaux was arrested and taken to the Park City jail, where he awaits trial on the vile charge of murder.

  This reporter was a personal witness to Mr. Carter’s tragic death in the arms of his bride-to-be, the beautiful Miss Emma O’Toole, who was summoned to the scene of the crime. Miss O’Toole has sworn vengeance on the villain who murdered her true love and robbed her unborn babe of a father. She was gracious enough to speak with this reporter after the tragedy. Her tear-filled eyes blazed with resolve as she uttered these words: “Logan Devereaux is a man without conscience. I mean to see him pay for this treacherous deed with his life!”

  The color drained from Emma’s face as she read down the page and saw her fears realized. Thanks to Hector Armitage, everyone in town would soon know about the baby. She could just imagine the scene at the boardinghouse. She’d be out on the street by nightfall. And how was she going to find another job? Who’d even think of hiring a woman in her condition?

  Her gaze met the gambler’s over the top of the newspaper. “How could he do this to me?” she muttered. “I’m ruined.”

  Devereaux exploded with strangled fury. “You’re ruined? Good Lord, woman, is that all you’re worried about—your precious reputation?”

  “Stop it!” Emma shot back. “You’ve no right to rave at me, you cold-blooded monster. If you hadn’t murdered Billy John, my reputation would be safe because I’d be a married woman on this day! Now—”

  His hand snaked through the bars to seize her wrist in a viselike grip. She twisted and struggled, powerless against the strength that yanked her flat against the bars of the cell, bringing her eyes within a handsbreadth of his
own.

  “I’ll scream,” she threatened.

  “Scream and I’ll break your wrist.” The black heat of his gaze seared her soul. “You’re talking to a desperate man, Miss O’Toole, a man you just called a cold-blooded monster. Don’t underestimate what I can—and will—do if you push me to it.”

  “What do you want?” Emma’s voice was a raw whisper.

  “Just this.” His grip tightened, twisting her against the bars. Her eyes traced the scar on his cheek and the thick, black stubble that shaded his jaw—anything to avoid getting pinned by that awful, angry stare. “I want you to shut that lovely mouth of yours long enough to hear me out. Then I’ll let you go, and you can scream or faint or do whatever you damn well please!”

  “You’re hurting me!” She braced her free hand against the bars and tried to pull away, but his strong fist only clasped her tighter.

  “Hey, everythin’ all right back there?” The deputy’s nasal twang echoed down the corridor.

  The grip on her wrist tightened in warning. Emma glared into the gambler’s anthracite eyes. “Yes,” she said loudly. “Everything is quite under control.”

  She felt his fingers relax slightly, but he made no move to let her go.

  “I’m not afraid of you!” she said. “Do your worst, Mr. Devereaux. You can’t hurt me more than you already have. You killed Billy John! You destroyed two other lives, and, by heaven, you’re going to get exactly what you—”

  “Damn it, woman, listen to me! The last thing I wanted was to kill your Billy John. But he was pointing that big .45 at a helpless old man. He was in the act of pulling the trigger.”

  “That gun was too old and rusty to fire. It could only have been used for bluff.”

  “How the devil was I to know that?” His breath rasped in Emma’s ear. “From the way the young fool was waving that pistol around, I’m not sure that even he knew it.”