I don’t know if she’s heard of the Rose Riders’ escape from Wickenburg or if Vaughn managed to alert folk at the railroad gala. But I do know this: the lady with the rifle has recognized me, and if I don’t wanna die, I’m gonna have to shoot a woman after all. Maybe I can get her in the leg or something—spare her the worst but buy myself a window to run.
It won’t be an easy draw, not like pulling a piece from a holster. The Colt’s tucked away in my waistband, and she’s already got that rifle pointed at me, the butt of it pressed into her shoulder, the barrel aimed at my chest.
And then—right as I’m seriously considering snatching the Colt and trying my luck anyhow—I see her belly. It’s big, bulging, full of life.
Goddammit, I can’t do it. I don’t got it in me. I think I really would rather die than draw on her.
“Yer kind deserves to rot in hell,” she says, glaring at me fierce.
“You gonna be the one to send me there?” I half pray she does. Maybe it’d be better for this to all be over. To just quit running. To close my eyes and not have to live like this no more.
“What’n the hell is that?” She jerks her chin at my forearm. The rose scar’s sitting there pretty, all clean of dirt and sweat from when I washed in her dry sink.
“You won’t believe me,” I say. “No one ever does.”
Something flickers over her face—sympathy, maybe. But it’s there and gone so fast, I’m certain I imagined it. Especially when she unloads a shot.
I flinch, but the lead flies past me, splintering the door of the bedroom to my rear.
She missed, but she coulda hit true. She’s only standing a few feet away. I twist back toward her, and that’s when the butt of her rifle comes flying at my face. There’s a crack—my nose breaking—and the world goes dark.
Chapter Seventeen
* * *
Charlotte
I inform Uncle Gerald about the Rose Kid and my need to speak with the sheriff, but he is woefully unconcerned about a bloodthirsty criminal roaming Prescott’s streets.
“I’d think something like that would be all over the wire,” he says, “and we have pressing business to see to at the house.”
Of course, lining his own pockets is more important to him than the well-being of the community.
We make haste for the family residence. It is an older property, built before the Victorian style of construction swept through Prescott—or rather, it was. When we pull up to the plot, the childhood home I remember is gone, replaced with a regal building that does not appear more than a few years old.
“What happened to—”
“Your uncle had it rebuilt,” Mother supplies. “He said the place was drafty and dank, and if he was to oversee your father’s affairs, he ought to do it from a proper headquarters.”
“But Father spent nearly every night at the mine. There’s no need for posh headquarters here.”
Mother simply nods in agreement. It’s only a half day’s ride in the saddle to Jerome, the mining community that’s home to the Gulch Mine and a few others. What Uncle Gerald is doing is preposterous. How he expects to maintain a rapport with the copper miners when he spends most of his time in Prescott escapes me. Theft and high grading stem from overworked and underappreciated miners, and Father at least recognized this.
“This must have cost a fortune,” I say, peering at the steeply pitched roofline of the two-story house adorned with detailed trim work and bracketed eaves. A front porch with intricate spindles and columns frames a large bay window that overlooks the street. The only thing Uncle has saved is our old barn, which stands behind the new home looking dreary by comparison.
“Yes, Gerald certainly spends beyond his means,” Mother says bitterly.
The door to the carriage opens, and Uncle Gerald escorts us inside. We are quickly ushered through the foyer, past the sitting room, and into the study. A fire is blazing in the hearth, and the curtains are drawn, so the room is quilted in shadow. Uncle’s writing desk is littered with papers and ledgers, his glasses resting atop both.
Mother and I are instructed to sit in upholstered velvet chairs facing the desk. I’ve no sooner leaned into the backrest when a knock sounds at the door and Mr. Douglas enters.
“Ah, Barty, thank you for joining us,” Uncle says.
“Mr. Douglas,” I blurt out, “I need to speak with the sheriff. It’s of upmost importance that he knows—”
“Priorities first,” Uncle barks out, shuffling through the papers on his desk until he finds what he’s looking for and plucks it free. “The will,” he says, passing it to Mr. Douglas, who reads it over carefully—once, twice—then turns to Uncle.
“It seems all is in order. A pen, Gerald?”
Uncle supplies one. Mr. Douglas signs the document. And the men shake.
“Mr. Douglas?” Mother says, raising a hand, but he is already shrugging on his jacket. “Mr. Douglas!”
“Nice to see you again, Lillian,” he says, and strides from the office.
Mother and I stare at the door as it swings shut.
“I’ve had an attorney review the documents as you requested, Lillian,” Uncle says, propping his elbows on the desk. “I hope you are pleased.”
“What did he sign?” Mother asks.
“I have worked hard for my brother, and how does he repay me? By cutting me off, keeping me from inheriting what is rightfully mine.” Uncle crosses his ankles and rubs his chin, as though we are merely discussing the fine winter weather or the merriment at the earlier gala. “So I’ve been forced to take matters into my own hands, find someone willing to overlook a few legalities. This is what my brother always failed to understand: everything is a business, and everyone is for sale.”
Dread blooms in my stomach as I make sense of his words. Uncle paid Mr. Douglas to ignore the will. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the paper they just signed is a contract between the two of them, an agreement where Mr. Douglas forgoes the proper execution of the will in exchange for . . . something from Uncle.
“You weren’t owed any of it,” I snap. “You never backed the Gulch Mine with investments, and you never did the real work, either. You swooped in when you saw Father was onto something, when the Territory’s gold veins dried up and they turned to copper and silver instead. And then you sat behind a desk. You wrote numbers in ledgers while Father repaired smelters and stacked dynamite and ate alongside the miners in the chow house. And then when we moved, you hired new people to do those tasks and built this house to lounge in while other hard-working men saw to things in Jerome. How dare you insinuate that you are owed Father’s hard-earned money.”
“Are you quite finished?” Uncle says calmly.
“Charlotte, please,” Mother warns. “Keep your tongue.”
“Yes, listen to your mother, Charlotte. Better yet, listen to me, for I will be your father in due time.”
Now it is Mother’s turn to raise her voice. “Gerald, that will not happen, and you know it.”
“I thought that might be your answer,” Uncle says. “In which case, Charlotte”—he looks at me—“you will marry Paul.”
“But he’s my cousin!”
“A fine observation. And this will not be the first instance where such a marriage is arranged. It’s about keeping assets in the right pockets. This is an agreeable match.”