The Other Bride

Anger rushed through her again—anger at him, but even more at herself.

In that last second before his lips touched hers, she moved, bringing up a knee in a way she’d once been told to do by Mrs. Pritchard. Her aim wasn’t entirely true, but the surprise of her attack allowed her to push past Gabriel Cutter. In doing so, she snatched at the revolver holstered at his side, then whirled and pulled back the hammer, leveling the gun at him.

“Don’t move,” she warned fiercely. Biting her lip, she tried to steady the heavy gun, but her hands were trembling so badly that the tip of the revolver wavered. Nevertheless, she closed one eye and sighted down the barrel.

Cutter watched her with patent amusement, and the fact proved galling. How dare he treat her as if she were of no consequence? She was the one with the gun!

Clenching her teeth, she aimed at the bedpost next to him and pulled the trigger.

An explosion rocked the room. The gun kicked back, nearly causing her to lose her balance. Then her eyes widened in horror as she realized that she hadn’t shot the bedpost as she had supposed, but had nicked the upper corner of his sleeve.

Her stomach churned sickeningly as she waited for the blood to flow, but as Gabriel pulled the fabric aside to examine his arm, it was clear that the bullet had miraculously left him unharmed.

She was shaking so badly now that she nearly dropped the gun altogether. But when Cutter gazed up at her, his gaze dark and speculative, she knew that he hadn’t known her aim was off.

“Next time I’ll draw blood,” she said, mustering all of the bravado she could. “We’re going West with you, Mr. Cutter,” she insisted.

“Not without a male escort.”

The man was infuriating, positively infuriating!

Phoebe was about to argue with him further when she had a sudden thought.

A male.

Any male? Any male at all?

Her eyes narrowed. “What if we can find a male escort who is willing to accompany us tomorrow?”

He snorted in a way that made it clear he thought such an event unlikely. “If you can find a man to traipse halfway across the country with a passel of giggling mail-order brides before nine tomorrow morning, then you’re welcome to join us.”

Her heart pounded in her chest—this time with excitement. “I have your word on that?”

“You have my word.”

“Do I need your promise in writing, Mr. Cutter?”

A little muscle at the side of his jaw flickered. “My word is binding, Miss Gray.”

“Good.”

Without further explanation, she tugged at the strings of her reticule and dropped the revolver inside.

“I’m sure you have other guns, Mr. Cutter. As for this one, I intend to keep it until the end of our journey, to remind you that we aren’t nearly as helpless as you think.”

And with that parting shot, she whirled and marched out of the room, not stopping until she was once again in the hot afternoon sunshine. She had the matter of an escort to arrange.

By this time tomorrow, she would be on her way West.

Hurrying away from the Golden Arms as quickly as her feet would take her, Phoebe found the other brides waiting for her at the park. Judging by their hangdog expressions, it was clear they had prepared themselves for bad news.

“Well?” Mable breathed when Phoebe was nearly upon them.

“He’ll let us go if we supply a male escort.”

The women visibly wilted in disappointment.

“Then we’re in the same pickle we were in a few minutes ago,” Betty mourned.

Phoebe couldn’t prevent the smile that tugged at her lips. “Not quite. I think I know where we can find the perfect candidate.”

The women looked doubtful.

“Where?” Edith finally asked.

“Prison.”

Twila gasped.

The others looked horrified.

“I don’t think we can break a man out of prison just to accompany us West,” Betty said, blinking in confusion.

Phoebe smiled. “We won’t have to stage an escape, you little goose. We just have to gather together a few coins to pay for the man’s passage from England.”

“Won’t Mr. Cutter object to a former prisoner serving as our escort?”

“I have his word that he will allow us to join the company as long as we have a male in tow—any male.” She patted her reticule. “I, for one, intend to see to it that he honors his word.”

Needing action to take his mind off Louisa—not, not Louisa, Phoebe Gray—Gabe returned to the makeshift office he’d made of his hotel room. Despite its tawdry reputation, the Golden Arms had large rooms, the modern amenities and enough privacy to let him get his job done.

Slamming the door behind him, he instinctively squelched his reaction to the memory of Phoebe and leaned over a table spread with maps. But he couldn’t focus.

How long had it been since he’d felt anything in the company of a woman? It had been years since the death of his beloved wife, Emily.

Not that he hadn’t tried to experience even the faintest stir of emotions. Knowing that he wasn’t the kind of man to “taint” a Sunday school teacher or a minister’s daughter, he’d found himself at the Golden Arms more times than he could count. But he’d found soon enough that he couldn’t will his body to respond. Emily’s death had been a blow to him, emotionally and spiritually. All of his tender emotions and sensual instincts had died the moment he’d found the body of his wife and small son in the orchard behind their house.

From that day to the present, Gabe had lived a life of torment. Plunged into an abyss of grief, he had not rejoined his unit for more than six months after his family’s deaths. His actions had branded him “yellow” and “untrustworthy” to his fellow officers, but he hadn’t cared. Once he’d returned to battle, he’d lived each succeeding day on the brink of disaster, purposely volunteering for one dangerous assignment after another. But the Fates had not granted his death wish.

In an effort to exorcise his memories, he’d drowned himself in his work as a Pinkerton. But never in all that time had his heart pounded with anything akin to real emotion.

Until now. In a single confrontation with a hellcat woman intent on journeying cross-country with a passel of mail-order brides, the tender scars on his heart had been torn wide open.

Growling in self-disgust, Gabe vowed that he would not betray Emily’s memory by becoming involved with another woman. He owed his late wife that much, at least.

And he couldn’t afford to drop his guard for a beautiful woman. Especially one who was now using a different name. He’d have to ask one of his men to watch the boardinghouse and follow her if she left the establishment.

Forcing himself to concentrate, Gabe traced his planned route West on the map. Unbeknownst to the passengers, the excursion was not all it appeared to be. Gabe had been hired to organize a group of men to escort a clandestine payroll shipment destined for the western offices of the Overland Express Railroad. The shipment would be made under the watchful eye of Victor Elliot, a high-ranking employee for the railroad.

The addition of Elliot to Gabe’s team still rankled. The arrival of an Overland Express representative was an open slur against Gabe’s trustworthiness, but he hadn’t bothered to argue. Gabe knew he wouldn’t have been offered the prestigious job at all if Josiah Burton hadn’t been an old friend. The assignment was a chance for Gabe to make a name for himself as something other than a deserter. Cracking the case would mean national news exposure.

But if anything happened to the shipment, Gabe also knew that he would be held personally accountable.

The door to his room opened and Gabe peered up at the portly shape outlined by the afternoon sun streaming into the corridor.

Victor Elliot.

Gabe scowled. Although he understood the concerns of Overland Express and their wish to have a member of the company on the railway journey, that didn’t mean that Gabe had to like the man.

“The shipment is safely stowed away until it can be loaded onto the train?” Elliot inquired.

Gabe nodded and returned his attention to the maps. Although he’d memorized the route, he traced the lines again and again as if he could imprint the contours of the land on his brain.

“I’ve got a concern about the men who accompanied the gold from England,” Victor continued, with open irritation at Gabe’s aloofness. “One of them is little more than a boy.”

“I’ll be sure to register your complaint at the same time I offer mine,” Gabe said tightly.

“You picked them.”

“No,” Gabe retorted, “I picked most of the local men. The Pinkerton Agency hired the two men who accompanied the funds from England.”

“Then fire them.”

Gabe looked up then, his eyes narrowing. “On what grounds?”

“They’re both green as grass, man! I doubt they could guard their own mothers, let alone a valuable shipment of gold.”

“They won’t be doing it alone.”

“They shouldn’t be doing it at all!”

Gabe weighed Victor’s concerns against his own, then shook his head. “It’s too late. Hiring two new guards would provide a security breach, and we can’t afford to go shorthanded.”

“But—”

“The matter is finished.”

Victor visibly seethed, but Gabe ignored him. Scooping his hat from the bed, he decided it was time to make the rounds and check on security matters himself. Then he would need to make his way into the city to meet with Josiah Burton in the main office.

Maybe by keeping his mind on the details of the job, he would push the mysterious Phoebe Gray from his thoughts once and for all.

Chapter Four

“You’re going to do what?” Doreen Llewelyn-Bowes blurted when the women outlined their plan to obtain a male escort. “Have you all lost your minds?”

Phoebe was beginning to grow tired of Doreen. The other women had barely returned to the boardinghouse and gathered together their emergency funds before she’d begun a litany of complaints—they’d taken too long, the weather was too hot, New York was too noisy. When Mable and Maude explained the plan to hire Bertram Potter to escort them West, Doreen had stared at them with as much horror as if they’d announced they planned to strip naked and dance in the streets.

“I really don’t know what you find confusing about the plan, Doreen,” Phoebe said. “We need a man—any man—who would be willing to travel West with us in the morning.”

“B-but you said this Potter person was in jail!”

“Merely a formality. He hasn’t committed a crime. Not really. He merely…played stowaway. I heard the captain say that he would forget the charges if Bertram could find a way to raise the necessary funds. If not, they’ll send him back to England.”

“So let them.”

“He’s our only chance, Doreen,” Twila said impatiently.

Without another word, Phoebe dumped the bonnetful of coins they had collected onto an overstuffed settee. Allowing for those expenses that would arrive during their journey, the women had contributed any money they felt they could spare. Now, gathered in the sitting room, they feverishly counted their stash.

“Do we have enough?” Edith breathed.

“If I’ve figured the correct exchange for dollars into pounds, we’re…” Phoebe quickly counted, then bit her lip. “We’re five dollars short.”

Five dollars. She found it ironic that only weeks earlier she had boarded a ship as the daughter of the Marquis of Dobbenshire. If only the title had come with tangible wealth rather than letters of credit.

En masse, the women turned to look at Doreen.

Betty proclaimed indignantly, “You haven’t contributed yet.”

Doreen sniffed. “That’s because it’s a horrible idea. It won’t work.”

“You’ll contribute or we’ll go without you,” Mable said. She clasped the handle of her walking stick in a way that warned she wasn’t so ladylike that she wouldn’t consider using it.

Doreen huffed again, folding her arms tightly beneath her breasts. But her stance had lost some of its bravado. “I don’t have five dollars to spare.”

“Give what you have,” Phoebe said softly, “and I’ll find a way to get the rest.”

It was clear that Doreen didn’t believe Phoebe’s assertion, but she finally sighed with great theatrical emphasis. Bending, she lifted her skirts to remove a small coin purse stitched to the inside of a petticoat. Removing two large dollar coins, she tossed them on the pile.

“I expect my money back when this preposterous idea fails to work,” she proclaimed. “If Gabriel Cutter frowns on women joining his group, he won’t let a felon board that train.” Then, turning on her heel, she left the room in a swish of skirts.

“We still need three dollars,” Mable said, counting the money, then counting it again.

Phoebe mentally reviewed the valuables she’d sewn into her spare corset—a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry and the signet ring her father had given her as a wedding present. The items were precious to her, worth far more in sentimental value than they could ever obtain on the market. But she was at a crossroads. She had no money to speak of, merely the smallest amount she had thought necessary for the journey. Even her friend “Louisa” could be of little help to her until she arrived in Boston and was able to exchange the letters of credit for cash.

So Phoebe would have to sell something.

Spying her dusty satchel still lying on the floor next to the door, Phoebe said, “Can someone show me to my room? I’ll just freshen up a bit, then we’ll find Mr. Potter and obtain his release.”

“But how?” Edith whispered.

Phoebe squeezed her hand in reassurance. “I’ve got a few valuables socked away for an emergency.” She grimaced good-naturedly. “I just hadn’t thought I’d be dipping into them before I managed to leave New York.”

Phoebe’s heart thumped against her ribs as she pondered the audacity of what she was about to do. After taking stock of the treasures she’d hidden in her trunk, she knew there was only one item of value that she would ever be able to sell.

The Dobbenshire signet ring.

By selling the piece, she would be severing the last tangible link with her father. And although she had convinced herself that such an action would be an easy enough matter to accomplish, she was discovering that the thought of forfeiting the ring filled her with a small amount of sadness.

True, her father had never loved her. She’d been an inconvenience to him and a burden—and he’d never lost the opportunity to remind her of that fact.

But he was her father. Didn’t that title alone demand a certain amount of respect?

Shaking free of that thought, she collected her things and followed the other women down the hall to her room, knowing that if she didn’t sell the ring quickly, she might well lose her resolve.

Gabriel waited until he was sure he hadn’t been followed before making his way into the “rarified” area of town frequented by the wealthy.

Checking quickly to ensure that he’d garnered no attention, he slipped into the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel and quickly made his way to a back set of stairs used by the staff. Tugging his hat more firmly over his brow to avoid giving anyone a clear look at his face, Gabriel wound his way through the narrow corridors to the presidential suite. He knocked once, paused, then scratched the gleaming wood three times.

For one beat of silence, there was no response. Then the door creaked open a slit.

Gabriel waited, knowing that he was being studied. This time a far more experienced pair of Pinkertons completed the inspection. He’d trained the two men himself during the past three years.

“All clear, sir?” a voice whispered.

“Clear.”

The space widened only enough to allow Gabriel to slip into the darkened room. Then, with a thump, the door closed and the lock was driven firmly into place.

Gabriel waited, hearing the rasp of a match. A bright flare of light revealed two men dressed like London dandies in creased trousers, silk shirts and brocade vests. With a wry smile, Gabriel noted that the elegant attire contrasted sharply with the ammunition belts draped across their chests.

“Green and Miles.” Gabe nodded to the men.

Isaac Green spat a stream of tobacco into a spittoon on the floor. The shot was made with amazing accuracy, revealing just how long the men had been cooped up in the opulent hotel suite.

“You can call me Sally and pin a bonnet on my head as long as you tell me we can get out of this stinking hotel.” In as long as Gabriel had known him, Isaac had never been fond of being closeted indoors.

“The crossing was smooth?”

Abner Miles didn’t even pretend to misconstrue the meaning of Gabriel’s question. They all knew he wasn’t speaking of the weather they’d encountered while sailing from London to New York.

“No problems, cap’n. I don’t think a soul on board cared if we finished the trip alive for all the attention they gave us. Not much has changed since we’ve arrived here. No one has given us a second glance.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way.” Gabriel examined the trunks and crates stacked in the corner.

Here was where the real payroll shipment was hidden—amid boxes labeled Farm Equipment and battered steamer trunks bearing the names Miles or Green.

From the moment the Overland Express’s payroll gold had been removed from an English vault, Gabe had gone to great lengths to ensure no one would ever know that Roberts and Peterson, the two new Pinkerton agents, guarded little more than crates filled with lead bars. At the same time, on a separate ship, Miles and Green had been unobtrusively making the same journey with their trunks of gold.

Satisfied that the seals on the containers were still intact, Gabriel surveyed the men again. He’d asked them to blend in with the other genteel travelers at the Biltmore, and judging by their attire, the men had followed his instructions to the letter.

“The two of you will need to see to the transfer of the gold before nine tomorrow morning. I’ll send the usual agents dressed as stevedores to give you a hand, but I’ll only be able to watch from afar.”

“No problem, cap’n,” Green said.

Miles nodded, then asked, “The rest of tomorrow’s instructions are as planned?”

Both of them stared at Gabe intently, knowing the trust he’d placed in them.

“Everything else goes as planned,” Gabe confirmed. He studied the men again, noting the ease with which they held their weapons. Despite the duo’s casual stances, Gabriel had no doubts that they could shoot and reload faster than the average man. Their senses were highly tuned to each nuance of sound outside the hotel room. They could sense trouble like a deer smelling a hunter. Such skills had kept them alive during the war and made them invaluable to Gabriel now.

“See to it that you change your clothes before you arrive at the station,” Gabriel said. “The moment you join the group of settlers on the train, I want the two of you to look like dirt-poor farmers who have finally managed to scrape together a few dimes for your passage.”

It was clear that both men were eager to abandon their current mode of dress for the more comfortable gear usually worn on the job.

“Once on the train, we won’t speak unless necessary,” Gabe continued. “You’ll have two men at your disposal—Garrison and Withers—to spell you off every twelve hours. Use them as runners if you need anything from me. Any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“Until tomorrow.”

Gabriel turned to leave, but paused when both men saluted.

He knew the gesture was automatic. After all, Miles and Green had served beneath him during the war. They’d grown accustomed to taking orders. But after charges of desertion had been brought against Gabriel, more than one man in his old regiment had turned against him.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to challenge the men for believing in him when so many didn’t. But he knew the pair hadn’t meant to remind him of things he wished to leave forgotten.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” was all he said. Then Gabriel retreated into the corridor.

The afternoon heat was beginning to mount when Gabe exited the Biltmore and pulled a pocket watch from his vest.

Nearly twenty-four hours remained before the journey West would begin.

Sighing, Gabe resisted the urge to rub away the tension gripping his neck muscles. Instead, he paused outside, leaning his shoulder against the marble facade of the hotel. Hoping to catch a hint of a breeze, he took the hat from his head and wiped his brow with his arm.

Replacing his hat, Gabe looked up, then froze. The man he’d sent to follow Phoebe was mere yards away, sitting on an iron bench with careful nonchalance. What catastrophe had caused the Pinkerton to abandon his orders in order to find Gabe?

“O’Mara,” Gabe said quietly as he approached.

“Cap’n.”

“What’s happened that you were sent to find me?”

The Pinkerton seemed confused. “Beg pardon? I followed the woman here.” The Pinkerton pointed to a jewelry shop across the road. “She’s gone in there.”

The fact that Phoebe had felt it necessary to visit a posh jewelers did nothing to calm Gabe’s suspicions. Why would a woman dress like a pauper to meet with him, then indulge in a whim for pretty baubles mere hours later?

“Go on home, O’Mara. I’ll take care of things from here.”

“You’re sure?”

Gabe nodded. “Perhaps it’s time Miss Gray and I had an in-depth talk.”

As the door snapped shut behind her, Phoebe bit her lip in disappointment. She had instructed the hansom cab to bring her to the “most expensive jewelry store in New York City.” But after gathering her courage and entering the establishment, she had been treated no better than a beggar.

Twenty dollars! That was all they were willing to offer her for the signet ring. Granted, twenty dollars would help her buy the things she needed, but the amount was a tenth of what she had been expecting. She’d been so angered by the patronizing tone of the clerk that she’d stormed from the shop with the ring still clutched in her palm.

What was she going to do? She needed money. Desperately. Quickly.

Stepping out of the way of the passers-by, Phoebe vainly tried to brush as much of the dust as possible from her skirts and bodice, sure that there must be another jeweler nearby where she could try again. But with her gloves as soiled as her dress, her efforts were less than satisfactory.

“Problems?”

Phoebe jumped when a deep, husky voice murmured the word in her ear. For a moment, her heart leaped and she was sure that it was the stranger from the boat. But when she turned, it was to find Gabriel Cutter standing at her shoulder.

Her stomach flip-flopped and her mouth grew suddenly dry. “Mr. Cutter,” she said weakly. Then, with more strength, she added, “Has no one told you that it isn’t polite to startle a person on a crowded thoroughfare?”

His expression remained neutral, but she thought she caught a glint of humor in his steel-gray eyes. “I would imagine it’s impolite to startle a person at any time or in any location.”

Phoebe pressed her lips together, refusing to rise to the bait offered by the lift of his brows. It was clear that he found her amusing and wished to rile her. But she would not argue with the man. She wouldn’t. With her luck, she would make him angry and he would find a way to renege on his agreement.

The thought caused her to frown. “Have you been following me?”

His dark brows lifted even more. This time his gray eyes darkened with something akin to suspicion. “Why would I possibly want to follow you, Miss Gray?”

“Perhaps you should tell me,” she insisted archly. Something about his look made her uncomfortable. So much so that her shoulder muscles grew tight with the effort it took not to run away.

“For your information,” Gabe said, “I had an appointment in the area. Imagine my surprise when I emerged on the street to find you here.”