Quinn Callahan appraised the crotchety old hag who had finally dozed off. She was swathed in yards of black fabric, her head and face concealed behind an oversize plumed hat that was draped with a heavy veil. He could easily imagine what the witch looked like—beady eyes, hooked nose and pointy chin. And plump as a grain-fed old hen.
Yet, there was something about the way she moved, the way she held herself, that didn’t quite ring true. But Quinn reminded himself that he was cautious and suspicious by nature—and habit. It was difficult to grasp what there was about her that niggled him because he was too busy countering her taunting comments.
Which made him wonder if she was doing it to distract him. From what? He wasn’t sure. But every time he stared overly long at her she dreamed up something to say that dragged his attention away from the way she looked and forced him to concentrate on her challenging remarks.
And then there was her grating, nasal voice that sounded so unpleasant to his ears. If he didn’t know better he would swear she was purposely trying to alienate him. Just why was that? He didn’t know the answer to that, either.
One thing that didn’t escape his attention was how she had tucked her beaded purse protectively beside her after he mentioned the possibility of encountering outlaws. He was willing to bet she was carrying a great deal of money that would make her ripe for the picking.
Well, it didn’t matter what this persnickety—and obviously wealthy—old widow was up to, Quinn told himself. He was a man on a mission. He had volunteered to pose as a shiftless gambler who boasted about his recent winnings to every stage agent and employee he met along the route from Fort Stockton.
And Quinn would bet his life savings that the gang he was after—that spoke in code and referred to themselves as the Knights of the Golden Circle—had spies working for the stage line.
That was the only logical explanation for the accurate targeting of passengers who carried valuables and cash.
Quinn had made the same monotonous ride back and forth to El Paso three times in the last two weeks, and had gained nothing for his exhausting efforts. Tired, impatient and cranky though he was, he vowed to make this trip a dozen more times, if need be. He wouldn’t rest until he encountered the ruthless outlaws that had killed the one true friend he’d ever had. The attack had taken place six months earlier in a secluded canyon near Catoosa Gulch. He was going to become bait for the thieves so he could track them to their remote hideout.
His thoughts trailed off when the coach hit a deep rut and catapulted him against the ceiling. He braced himself as he watched the old woman tumble willy-nilly off the seat. She let loose with a shrill squawk when she sprawled atop his legs.
When he reached down to upright her she elbowed him out of the way and crawled onto the seat. “Keep your hands to yourself,” she demanded huffily.
“I was only trying to help,” he said defensively as he watched her fluff the dust off her gown and sink a little deeper into her corner of the coach.
“I’ve taken care of myself for years. Confounded conveyance coaches anyway,” she grumbled before she craned her neck out the window to scan the area.
Quinn studied her discreetly as she leaned farther out to survey their surroundings—to check for the outlaws he had mentioned earlier, no doubt. He kept waiting for the breeze to lift that heavy veil so he could get a good look at her. But she withdrew before the air rushing past the speeding coach caught her veiled hat and sent it flying away.
“Well, thank God,” she said with a relieved sigh. “About time we had a rest stop.”
Quinn glanced outside to see the station a half mile ahead of them. He was more than ready to stretch his legs and boast of his supposed winnings to the stage line’s hired help. He silently willed the nest of outlaws to attack so he could do what he had been sent here to do. As for the perplexing widow, he thought that having her wits scared out of her might improve her disposition.
He glanced at her again as the stage rolled to a stop, then decided that being frisked and robbed would probably make her more difficult to deal with than she was already.
Piper didn’t wait for the gambler to exit the coach first so he could hand her down. She couldn’t risk having him touch her more often than necessary without arousing his suspicion.
Leaning on her cane to remain in character, she watched three Mexican attendants stride from the corral, leading a fresh team of horses. Her gaze strayed reflexively to the gambler who emerged from the coach. His long shadow fell over her, eclipsing the afternoon sun. Despite her better judgment, she found herself oddly fascinated by his rugged appearance and the confident way he held himself. The comparison to a graceful mountain cat came to mind as she watched him saunter over to strike up a conversation in Spanish with one of the attendants.
Physically speaking, he was a rare specimen of brawn and muscle. Nothing like the gentleman dandies she was accustomed to. Not that she would ever be romantically interested in any of the suitors who treated her like a prize catch because of her wealth and affluence in polite society. Neither would she be interested in a man like this gambler, she assured herself sensibly.
Truth be told, Piper wasn’t sure she wanted any man in her life at the moment. And maybe never. She had given up on the idea of love and romance because she had never found a man who inspired her affection, no one who was willing to accept her for who she was.
The whole objective of this long jaunt was to gain control of her own existence without some man trying to dictate, manipulate and use her for his ulterior purposes, she reminded herself.
Her gaze narrowed in concern while she watched the gambler fish two silver dollars from the pocket of his gold brocade vest, then roll them over his fingertips. He had told her no more than three hours ago that thieves lurked in this area. Yet here he was, flashing coins that caught the rapt attention of the stage attendants.
Piper surged forward, tapping her cane in agitation. She clutched the gambler’s arm to draw him aside. “What the dickens are you doing?” she said with a quiet hiss. “Put those coins out of sight. You might as well send an engraved invitation to outlaws that you have money for the taking.”
Quinn stared down at the old crone who stood only a few inches over five feet tall. Her mouth, he decided, was bigger than she was and she never hesitated in using it. “Where did you get the idea that anything I do is your business?”
Her head snapped up and he knew instinctively that she was glowering at him. “Your carelessness and lack of discretion might affect me. Can’t you find something else to do besides flaunt your money?”
Quinn did exactly that. He pulled another cigar from his vest and lit it up. When he blew smoke over the top of that ridiculous-looking plumed hat she grew exasperated and tramped off. Her cane beat a sharp staccato on the trodden path.
“A relative of yours, gringo?” one of the stage attendants asked as his gaze followed the old battle-ax until she disappeared around the corner of the adobe station.
Quinn chuckled. “Not hardly. We just met. I’m hoping it will be a short acquaintance.”
To ensure that the attendants knew he carried valuables as well as money, he retrieved the expensive gold pocket watch to check the time. He also flashed the diamond ring he wore on his pinky finger. He noted the interest he had drawn from one of the Mexicans—the same man he remembered from his previous jaunts along this route. He took note of the fact that the man was wearing the same patterned red bandana
