wasn’t glib or arrogant—far from it, in fact, more like humble and down-to-earth—but even so, Denny was leery of opening her heart again. She figured she would get over that someday . . .
But she had never expected to see Giovanni Malatesta step off the train in Big Rock, as handsome as ever and evidently doing quite well for himself, with his fancy clothes and his manservant and his tour across the American West. He must have found some other way to settle up with Salvatore Tomasi.
“You been about a million miles away the whole trip out from Big Rock,” Pearlie commented from the wagon seat beside her. They were almost back to the ranch headquarters.
“I’m sorry. I guess the way it turned out, I wasn’t very good company after all.”
“This have somethin’ to do with that ruckus at the train station?” Pearlie squinted over at her. “I know you’ve been in a heap of gun trouble for a gal, especially a gal your age . . . No, a heap for any gal. You’ve been as cool-headed as any child of Smoke Jensen ought to be, but still, it’s got to bother you a mite when you have to kill a man, like you did back there.”
“You think when we get home, I’m going to take to my fainting couch?” Denny asked, forcing a note of dry humor into her voice.
“No, not hardly. I’m just sayin’ that if anything’s ever botherin’ you, you ought to talk to your pa. Smoke’s done a heap of shootin’ over the years, but I know for a fact he never killed nobody who didn’t have it comin’. I don’t reckon he’s ever lost a minute of sleep over it.”
“Neither have I,” Denny said, “and I don’t intend to start now.”
Pearlie nodded slowly and said, “Well, all right. I won’t pester you about it no more. But you can always talk to me, too. I know how close you and your brother are, and with Louis gone, if you ever need a sympathetic ear . . .”
She patted him on the knee and said, “Thank you, Pearlie. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The big main house, the bunkhouse, the barns and corrals, and the other buildings of the ranch headquarters were visible up ahead now. As Pearlie kept the wagon rolling toward the main house, Denny told herself to put all thoughts of Giovanni Malatesta out of her head.
As far as she knew, her parents had no idea anything unusual had happened in Venice two years earlier. Louis had promised not to say anything to Smoke and Sally, and Denny believed him. She had persuaded her grandparents not to mention the money she had arranged to have wired to Venice, then backed out of the deal before the transfer could be made. Denny didn’t know if they had kept that promise or not, but her mother had never brought up the subject, so she believed there was a strong possibility they had honored their word.
So there was a good chance the subject was dead and buried. She wanted it to stay that way.
Unfortunately, Monte Carson had seen her slap Malatesta, there on the train station platform. The sheriff might say something to Smoke, and Smoke would know there had to be a good reason for what she had done. His daughter didn’t go around just slapping random strangers.
Brice had witnessed the unexpected encounter, too, she reminded herself, but Brice wasn’t one of her father’s best friends and wouldn’t have any reason to mention it to Smoke. Monte Carson was the weak spot in the wall Denny had built to keep all those bad memories at bay. All she could do was hope that it wouldn’t crack.
“There you go, wanderin’ off in the hinterlands again,” Pearlie said as he brought the wagon to a halt in front of the house. “You must have a whole heap of things on your mind today.”
More than the ex-foreman knew, Denny thought as she jumped gracefully down from the driver’s box. “I’m going for a ride,” she announced. She started toward the barn, taking long strides. That would puzzle Pearlie even more, and she figured he would probably say something to Smoke and Sally about it. But it couldn’t be helped. Denny wanted to be alone right now. She had a lot of thinking to do.
And she wished she knew if there was some hidden reason Giovanni Malatesta had shown up in Big Rock like that.
* * *
The sharp, precise rap of knuckles sounded three times on the bedroom door, followed by Arturo calling, “Count?”
Knowing that Arturo would repeat that twice more in his usual annoying pattern if he received no response, Malatesta stopped pacing and stepped to the door to jerk it open.
“What is it?” he demanded as he looked past Arturo into the sitting room of the suite in the Big Rock Hotel. It was the hotel’s finest accommodation, and paying for it would take just about all the money Malatesta had left. If he paid for it, of course. Such things were always open to question and a matter of the circumstances in which he found himself.
“The sheriff is at the door and wishes to speak with you,” Arturo reported.
Normally, that was the sort of news Malatesta never wanted to hear. A visit from the law always brought unpleasantness with it. But since he had just arrived in Big Rock a couple of hours earlier, he couldn’t think of any reason he needed to skip town yet.
Malatesta had taken off his coat and loosened his collar. He quickly remedied those two things to make himself presentable and told Arturo, “By all means, let the sheriff in.”
Arturo nodded and went to the corridor door. By the time he opened it, Malatesta was standing nonchalantly by the window, lighting a thin black cigar.
“Ah, Sheriff . . . Carson, was it? So good to see you again.” Malatesta shook out the match he’d been using, dropped it in a glass ashtray on a small table near the window.
“That’s right, Monte Carson’s the name,” the lawman said. “I hope you’ve gotten settled in good here at the hotel.”
“Of course. These are very comfortable accommodations.”
“Probably not what you’re used to, being a European nobleman and all.”
Malatesta smiled and said, “I have stayed many places, Sheriff, and have always found that the pleasantness of the people is more important than the luxuriousness of the furnishings. So far, I have to say that Big Rock is a pleasant place.”
“Mighty generous of you,” Carson said drily, “considering that as soon as you stepped off the train, folks started shooting at you.”
“Ah, but those scoundrels were not citizens of your fine community, were they?”
“That’s what I came to tell you. I had a look through the wanted posters in my office, like I said I would, and I turned up those two fellas who are down at the undertaker’s now.”
Carson pulled a couple of sheets of folded paper from his pocket and held them out to Malatesta. The count took them, unfolded them, and studied the words and likenesses printed on them.
“‘Casey Murtagh and Wilbur Morrell,’” Malatesta read. “‘Wanted for murder, assault, train robbery, arson . . .’” He looked up from the reward dodgers. “Outlaws, just as I thought.”
Arturo had been standing in the background, listening. He said, “They sound like villains from some American dime novel.”
“Yeah.”
