The Revenger Read online

  Sartain was genuinely surprised by the invitation. “Mrs. Maragon, are you inviting me, a stranger, to spend the night in your home?”

  “Indeed, I am. Besides, you’re not really a stranger, Mr. Sartain. Why I’ve read about you in all the papers.”

  “No doubt. But, still . . . what could be your reason?”

  “I need to speak with you privately. Possibly at some length.”

  Yes, Sartain thought. He was getting a whole lot more information than he bargained for here at the Painted Lady.

  “Just so we don’t shock the miners out of their boots, why don’t you ride on out of town and return after dark? Ride around to the barn in back and stable your mount. Knock on the back door. I’ll receive you there.”

  Sartain couldn’t help casting a cautious look toward the window of Maragon’s office on the second floor of the Painted Lady. He could see nothing but the reflection of the sun, however.

  “Can I at least inquire what you’d like to talk to me about, Mrs. . . .” Sartain let his voice trail off. She was no longer looking down at him. Apparently, he’d been dismissed.

  He cast another sheepish look toward the Painted Lady, then touched his spurs to Boss’s flanks. “Your wish is my command, Your Highness.”

  Chapter 14

  Sartain followed the stream into the country west of the makeshift mine settlement. He gathered a little wood and built a fire, over which he brewed coffee while Boss cropped grass nearby along the stream.

  He considered what Maragon had told him about his wife, and then he wondered what Maragon’s wife wanted to talk to him about—not that he had any problem talking to a woman who looked like Mathilda Maragon. Women like her didn’t come with every mountain. But he had to keep his head. She was Maragon’s wife, despite her having barred the mine owner from their home.

  Odd for a married woman—especially a married woman of her social standing—to invite a strange man into her realm and offer him a bed. What if she offered herself as well? Would he turn her down?

  Fat chance of that happening. She might have invited a stranger into her home, but that was a far cry from inviting him into her bed. Besides, he needed to stay focused on what she had to tell him. She’d no doubt discerned that he was here about the gold.

  As the sun dropped behind the western mountains, Sartain kicked dirt on his fire, tightened Boss’s latigo, and climbed back into the saddle. Fifteen minutes later, he rode back into the Painted Lady settlement and swung around behind the house to the log barn and corral flanking it.

  The barn’s windows, one on either side of the broad doors, shone with watery light. As Sartain stepped down from Boss’s back, one of the large doors squawked outward and a bespectacled old man appeared, half-silhouetted by the lantern light behind him, and said, “Mr. Sartain?” He had a blanket draped cape-like about his fragile shoulders.

  Sartain had slid his hand to his pistol grip when the old man had appeared so suddenly, but now he dropped his hand to his side. “That’s right.”

  “I’ll tend to your horse, Mr. Sartain. The madam awaits you in the house.”

  “All right.” Out of habit, The Revenger reached for his Henry.

  “That won’t be necessary, sir,” the old man gently chided him. “I’ll stow it away safely here in the barn.”

  Sartain removed his gloved hand from the Henry’s stock, pinched his hat brim to the old gent, gave Boss’s neck a parting pat, and sauntered down a brick path curving through tall, dark sycamores toward the house. Most of the first-story windows appeared to be lit, making the house resemble an ornate, glittering jewel set against black velvet.

  Sartain mounted the narrow rear porch. He’d tapped on the back door just once when it opened and another old person appeared in the doorway. This was an elderly woman in a plain housedress and apron, with her silver-gray hair piled in two buns atop her head. Like the old man, she wore spectacles. From behind her wafted the smell of cooking food—well-seasoned meat and gravy and possibly a fresh-baked pie, Sartain’s keen sniffer told him, causing his mouth to water and his stomach to give an eager kick behind his cartridge belt.

  “Yes, come in,” the old lady said.

  As Sartain doffed his hat, he gave his boots a scrape on the hemp mat and stepped inside a short hall dimly lit by a bracket lamp. A dark, varnished staircase rose sharply on his right to disappear into the wainscoted ceiling. To his right, a broad doorway opened into a large kitchen from which all those wonderful smells were originating. Steam rose from pots on a black range, and indeed, a pie of some kind was cooling on a wooden table near a butter churn.

  “Mrs. Maragon is waiting for you, Mr. Sartain,” the old woman said, closing the door and latching it with a slight grunt and a wince. “Right this way.”

  Sartain followed the old woman—whom he assumed was Edna, as he’d assumed the old man in the barn was Lyle—along the twisting hall, up a very short flight of blue-and-gold carpeted stairs, and through two French doors into what appeared a drawing room appointed with heavy, ornate furniture, a walnut liquor cabinet, books, a baby grand piano, and a neat brick fireplace before which Mrs. Maragon was seated in a big armchair upholstered in cowhide. The chair nearly swallowed the woman, but as Sartain entered the room behind Edna, she rose and turned to him, holding a cut-glass tumbler in one hand.

  Sartain’s heart gave that schoolboy flutter again as his eyes raked the woman who looked even more beautiful than before, dressed as she was in a deep, dark-green velvet gown so low cut that it could hardly contain her boisterous bosom. Pearls dropped to just above her deep, pale cleavage.

  Her dark-brown hair, held in place atop her head by a comb crusted with tiny jade-green and crimson jewels, fairly sparkled in the light of the popping fire that wafted the fragrance of forest pine into the room that otherwise smelled of leather and varnish and the molasses aroma of fine spirits.

  The room also smelled of the woman—lilac with an undertone of cinnamon and orange blossoms. There was that flutter in Sartain’s chest again. Tiny gold javelins jostled in the woman’s dark-brown eyes and were reflected off the diamond earrings dangling low against her neck.

  Edna said with what sounded like faint reproof, “Mrs. Maragon, Mr. Sartain.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Edna.”

  Edna gave her dimpled chin a cordial dip, not smiling or meeting Sartain’s gaze as she turned away from the couple and ambled back through the French doors toward the kitchen.

  “Hello, Mr. Sartain.”

  “Mrs. Maragon.”

  She smiled broadly, showing all her perfect white teeth, those javelins dancing even more furiously in the lovely eyes. “You like the gown, I take it.”

  Sartain flushed and twirled his hat on his finger. “Was I staring?”

  “No need to apologize. What woman would take offense at being appraised so obviously favorably by such a handsome and storied man?” She turned and seemed to float in her billowing gown toward the liquor cabinet. “A legendary wanderer of the Western frontier . . .”

  “I’ll be hanged if I don’t sound fascinating.”

  “Bourbon?” She was at the liquor cabinet, holding an upper glass-paneled door open, glancing over her shoulder at him.

  “How did you know?”

  She pulled a bottle off the top shelf and showed him the label: Sam Clay.

  Sartain gave a lopsided grin. “How did you know?”

  “Something in the way you roll your syllables.” She set a goblet down on the cabinet table. “Water?”

  “I’m not gonna bathe in it.”

  “A neat man.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  When she’d poured his drink and refreshed her own from a fancily-labeled brandy bottle, she walked back over to the fire, gave him his bourbon, and gestured at the leather chair matching hers and also facing the fire. “Please have a seat, Mr. Sartain.”

  When he’d eased into the chair, she sat down as well, half-turning to him in her own chair. The ch
air’s leathery masculinity accented by contrast her petiteness and voluptuous femininity. She moved her right leg under the left one and crossed it over her right knee, demonstrating her dexterity and showing the long clean lines of both legs under the velvet gown that was drawn taut against them.

  She sipped her brandy and rested her right elbow on the chair arm, boldly scrutinizing him.

  “Tell me, Mr. Sartain—did my husband send for you?”

  Sartain sipped the bourbon, let it loll on his tongue for a few seconds, savoring it, before swallowing. When it hit his belly, he swore he could smell the verdant hills of Kentucky wafting in through a window, though no windows were open since the Colorado mountain night was chilly.

  “No, he did not.”

  “Then, why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for the gold and those who might have stolen it.”

  “So my husband didn’t send for you?” she asked again with a dubious arch of her brow.

  “No, ma’am, he did not.”

  “Who did, then, if I may ask?”

  Sartain shrugged. “I don’t reckon there’s any reason you shouldn’t know. Belle Higgins put me on the gold’s scent.”

  “Ah, the sheriff’s daughter.”

  “There you have it.”

  “Well, that makes sense.” Pensively sipping her brandy, Mathilda Maragon stared into the dancing fire as though considering her next words.

  Sartain sipped his own delicious drink, savoring it. The fire felt good, and the bourbon was sweeping that warmth all through him. He was curious about what Mrs. Maragon had on her mind—why, specifically, she’d asked him here—but he’d be patient and let the lady herself get around to it. He couldn’t help sneaking glances at her, sitting there to his left, angled slightly toward him and the fire both.

  Her hair was as rich and thick as freshly-whipped chocolate. Her eyes were luminous, the flames dancing on her corneas. Her lips were rich and red and full. He couldn’t help imagining how they’d feel and taste pressed against his. Her breasts were heavy, weighing down the corset of the ornate velvet dress. Shadows danced across her cleavage.

  Slowly, she turned to him, and he pretended he hadn’t been staring at her, fantasizing about her.

  “Mr. Sartain,” she said abruptly, “I think it very possible that my husband himself is responsible for the theft of that gold.”

  That rocked The Revenger back on his metaphorical heels. He scowled his incredulity. “Why on earth would he steal from himself?”

  “He wouldn’t really be stealing from himself. He’d be stealing from my father. My father and three other investors own the Painted Lady. Richard is given a commission on each ton of gold he mills, and a salary.”

  “The gold in the strongbox would be quite a haul for him, in other words.”

  “Yes, it would supplement his income quite nicely. Also, he would be spitting in the eye of my father. He would be spitting in my eye as well.”

  “Right.”

  “I take it he told you about our relative estrangement.”

  “Yes.”

  “He tells everyone,” she said, laughing mirthlessly but loudly, her fine cheeks flushing. “The simple fool. Did he also tell you he’s diseased?”

  “Yeah, he told me about that as well. He doesn’t look good. I’m no doctor, but I’d venture to say he doesn’t have long left.”

  “You don’t need four years at Harvard to see that. It means he doesn’t have anything to lose. He hates my father because my father is paying him ‘pennies and pisswater’—those are Richard’s own words—and he hates me because I won’t allow him in the house anymore, let alone our bed.”

  “I can see how that might be the most painful punishment of all.”

  Mathilda studied him, both brows raised. Then she flushed again and smiled seductively. “Yes, well, be that as it may, I believe he hired someone to steal the gold and secret it away somewhere in these mountains. I don’t doubt that he’ll disappear in a couple of weeks. He’ll go dig up his gold and head to Mexico or San Francisco and spend the rest of his days living high on the hog—eating, drinking, and fornicating to his heart’s delight.”

  It was Sartain’s turn to be taken aback. He’d never known such a highbred filly to use such language. Spoken by those succulent lips in that high-toned English accent, the word sounded downright elegant.

  Forcing himself to stay focused on his mission, he said, “Ironically, Mrs. Maragon, your husband thinks you were the one responsible for stealing the gold.”

  She widened her eyes in surprise and fingered the pearl necklace that hung like a tongue over her bosom. “Oh, really?” She laughed. “That’s priceless. And wonderful.” She paused, thinking it over. “Oh, yes, I like that indeed. So he doesn’t just see me as some jewel he acquired through a business transaction. He suspects me. Maybe even fears me a little.” She looked at Sartain. “What do you think, Mr. Revenger? Do you think I stole the gold?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled slowly, delightedly, letting her fingers drop from the necklace and slide down over the top of her cleavage. “Really?”

  “I’ll suspect everyone, Mrs. Maragon, until I find it.”

  “Oh,” she said, a little crestfallen. “Well, that I can understand, though I would have liked it better if you suspected me most of all. For a time, anyway. That would have made the evening all the more fun and intriguing.”

  Sartain met her simmering gaze as she tapped two fingers on her cleavage. He felt his pants grow tight as she made love to him from across the three-foot gap between them, with only her eyes and those two fingers caressing the V-shaped space between the tops of her breasts. She bounced her left foot as it hung down from her opposite knee.

  “Mrs. Maragon?” Edna’s voice startled their pregnant silence.

  Mathilda let her hand drop away from her bosom. “Yes, Edna?”

  “Dinner is ready, Mrs. Maragon.”

  Sartain thought the housekeeper might have put an ever-so-slight accent on the “missus” as though to remind them both that Mathilda was married.

  “Wonderful!” Mrs. Maragon rose. “Shall we, Mr. Sartain? Or may I call you ‘Mike?’ I think we’ve come to know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis, don’t you?”

  “I do indeed,” Sartain said, his bullet-burned temple throbbing with male attraction.

  Chapter 15

  Halfway through the delicious meal served at a long table draped with a snow-white silk cloth and trimmed with crystal and fine china that sparkled like diamonds in the candlelight, Mathilda cleared her throat and turned to Edna, who was standing off her right elbow. “Edna, would you and Lyle please prepare the bedroom next to mine for Mr. Sartain? He’ll be spending the night with me. And heat water for a bath, will you?”

  Edna glanced across the table at Lyle, who was standing behind Sartain holding a china gravy boat and ladle.

  Edna asked, “A bath for you or Mr. Sartain, Mrs. Maragon?”

  Mathilda smiled through the candlelight at Sartain. “For both of us. In my room. In fact, you might as well skip the second room. Make sure my room is presentable, won’t you?”

  Sartain choked on a bite of the potatoes to which Lyle had just added a liberal dollop of hot elk gravy. Mathilda smiled at him from across the table. Edna stood staring down in shock at her mistress before glancing conspiratorially at her husband once more and saying, “Well, then.” The old woman’s sagging, craggy cheeks were mottled red. “I guess we’d better get started, Lyle.”

  “Yes, you may be excused,” Mathilda said.

  The two retreated to the kitchen in a silent snit. Sartain heard the range door squawk open and the thumps of wood being added to the firebox.

  He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and said, “You’re taking much for granted, Mrs. Maragon.”

  “Am I?”

  “How do you know I’m that kind of a boy?”

  She forked a small chunk of meat and gravy-drenched potatoes be
tween her full red lips, and chewed. “A woman can tell these things.”

  “Word will spread like that wildfire mentioned earlier.”

  “Yes, it will, won’t it? Sort of the way word of my husband’s infidelities has spread like that very same wildfire.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you offended?”

  “At you using me to seek revenge on your lecherous husband?” Sartain sipped his wine and set his glass back down on the silk tablecloth. “I am not called The Revenger for nothing, dear Mathilda.”

  She leaned back in her chair, laughing. “I think we’re going to have a bloody good time together this evening, Mike. I haven’t had a good . . . time . . . for over a year.”

  “You might just kill me.”

  She made no attempt to lower her voice as she said, “Shall we forego dessert? Maybe save it for the wee hours of the morning as a post-coital treat? I for one don’t like to make love on an overfilled belly.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  Mathilda turned and called through the kitchen door, “Edna, we’re skipping dessert. Hurry with that bath, will you, please?”

  The only response was something fragile shattering on the floor.

  Mathilda smiled devilishly at Sartain and shrugged a shoulder as she chewed.

  A half-hour later, when they’d finished their coffee and another glass of wine, they rose from their chairs and retired to the second story. Mathilda pushed open the door to her bedroom and walked in, Sartain following, staring at her backside with appreciation. He was partial to women with full figures.

  She grabbed a rear poster of her large, canopied, four-poster bed and swung back toward him. The bathtub steamed to her left. It was a large, ornately-painted copper affair with a high back. Lamplight reflected off the dark surface of the water and the steam rising from it, humidifying the room.

  Sartain closed the door.

  “Well, then,” she said, glancing at the tub. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”