Nobody's Darling

“We ain’t got no constable, ma’am,” said one.

“But that there is Sheriff McGuire,” said the other, pointing to the man opposite them.

The sheriff’s gaze flicked briefly to her, then returned to his cards. “I’ll be right with you, madam. After this hand.”

Anne gaped at him, hardly able to believe that he’d dismissed her so coolly. Was Reginald right? Was everyone in this country an utter boor? She narrowed her eyes, studying the man more closely. If not for his sun-and wind-weathered face and fall of silver hair, she might have thought his broad-shouldered, lean-waisted form was in the full vigor of its youth. At least he didn’t dress like a savage. His shirt was bleached a blinding white and his paisley waistcoat was crisp enough to meet even Reginald’s exalted standards. A drooping mustache framed his full lips.

Anne looked away, oddly discomfited by the unbridled sensuality of that mouth. But after several more cards had been played, she decided she’d had just about enough of his indifference.

She pointedly cleared her throat. “I do so hate to interrupt your game, sheriff, but you must allow me to introduce myself. I am Anne Hastings, sister to the duke of Wyndham, and I’m looking for my niece—a young woman named Esmerelda Fine.”

He glanced up, arching one silvery eyebrow. “You’re not armed, are you?”

Taken aback by the peculiar query, she replied, “I should say not.”

“Good.” He grinned and winked at her. “Then I’ll just finish my hand.”

Growing more impatient by the second, Anne gritted her teeth and began to tap her foot on the plank floor.

Although he would have had her believe otherwise, Drew was keenly aware of the woman awaiting his pleasure. Aware of the tap-tap-tap of her dainty kid boot, the aristocratic flare of her delicate nostrils, the subtle floral scent of her perfume. He stole a look at her over his hand of cards. The soft gray hair peeping out from beneath her stylish bonnet was the exact color of a dove’s breast. Anne, he mused. The name suited her. It was both elegant and no-nonsense. She might even be a handsome woman if her lips weren’t puckered in such a haughty manner. They looked as if they were poised to suck a stick of sour candy.

Or be kissed.

Seal swore, jolting Drew out of his reverie. He dropped his gaze to the table to discover he’d just let Dauber best them both with a pair of fours. Ah, well, what did it matter? He had nothing of value in his own hand but a knave of hearts.

Feeling a bit like a knave himself, he tossed down the cards in disgust and retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair. As he came to his feet, Esmerelda Fine’s aunt took a hasty step backward.

Twirling one waxed tip of his mustache to hide his smile, Drew bowed and made a courtly gesture toward the door. “After you, madam.”

Anne lowered herself into the chair opposite the sheriff’s desk, then bounced back up with a startled “Oh!”

“Sorry about that,” he said, coming around the desk to rescue the yellow tabby she’d almost sat on. As he smoothed the cat’s rumpled fur, the beast gave Anne a decidedly malevolent look. “There, there,” he crooned. “My Miss Kitty is a wee bonny puss.”

“You’re Scottish,” Anne remarked, glancing nervously behind her this time before she sat.

“No, I’m American.” He set the cat on the floor; it went sauntering from the room, its tail still twitching with regal annoyance. “I had no choice but to flee the country of my birth as a lad when the king seized my father’s lands and gave them to some fat English sot who’d never set foot off his London estate. Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” His pleasant smile deepened, warning her that he wasn’t the least bit sorry and had every intention of offending her. “I can tell from your accent that you must be English.”

Her smile was equally pleasant. “That’s quite all right, sir. After all, it’s not as if I personally drove you off your land.” Her white-knuckled grip on the bone handle of her parasol warned him that she just might be capable of doing just that.

Drew settled himself behind his desk and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “What can I do to assist you, Mrs…?” He stretched out the title to insulting lengths.

“Miss,” Anne corrected briskly, refusing to shy away from the truth, however stark.

“Ah, Miss Hastings,” he said, nodding smugly. “We have more in common than I realized. I, too, never chose to shackle myself with the chains from which there is no escape but death.” When she only gazed blankly at him, he leaned forward and confessed, “I never married.”

“Yes, well, I can certainly see why.” Her acid tone wiped the smile from his face. Before he could recover his poise, she reached into her reticule, drew out a silver locket, and snapped it open beneath his nose. “Have you seen this girl?”

Still eyeing her warily, Drew took the locket and studied the yellowing daguerreotype nestled within.

“She wouldn’t be a girl anymore, of course. She would be a young woman,” Anne hastened to explain. “But I thought perhaps you might recognize a hint of something familiar in her features, some nuance of her expression that might jar your memory.” She leaned forward in her chair, her icy veneer cracking to reveal the vulnerability beneath.

Drew recognized Esmerelda immediately. Her solemn eyes still held that poignant hint of wistfulness that gave her perfectly ordinary features the promise of extraordinary beauty.

He also recognized the plump, dark-eyed child in her arms. A child who had grown into a man who called himself Black Bart and, according to Thaddeus Winstead, U.S. Marshal, had traded playing with toy trains for robbing real ones. Drew leaned back in his chair to stroke his mustache. So Bartholomew Fine had a sister after all. What would Billy make of that? He stole a brief look at Anne Hastings. The one thing Billy never could tolerate, aside from a weeping woman, was a woman meddling in his business. And Winstead’s offer had made both Bartholomew and Esmerelda Fine his business.

Until Drew lifted his gaze to Anne’s hopeful eyes, he hadn’t realized how much he would hate lying to her. He sensed that she was not a woman to forgive easily. Or ever. Snapping the locket shut, he shoved it back across the desk at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, and this time he meant it. “I’ve never seen your niece before.”

“Oh.” That single syllable was more a sigh than an exclamation. It took Anne Hastings a moment to gather both her composure and her belongings. She finally rose from the chair, giving him a rueful smile that was a weary echo of Esmerelda’s. “I’m quite sorry to have troubled you, Sheriff McGuire. Thank you for your time.”

Thinking only to be polite, Drew took the hand she offered. It was surprisingly soft, surprisingly white—a lady’s hand. As their eyes met—his troubled, hers startled— he couldn’t help but linger over it, tenderly caressing her knuckles with his thumb.

The door to his office flew open. Anne snatched her hand back, flushing like a fifteen-year-old caught allowing an indiscreet suitor to steal a kiss.

Oblivious to her discomfiture, Reginald came storming in, his bald pate pink with excitement. He was waving a sealed envelope as if it were a battle flag.

“We’re not too late, Anne. She was here! Our girl was here only three days ago!” He clutched the envelope to his chest. “Such a bold girl! Such a brave girl! It seems she fired a pistol at that dastardly outlaw and spent the afternoon confined in this very jail.”

Anne slowly swiveled her head to give the man seated behind the desk a look that should have melted the set of iron keys hanging on a peg behind the desk. Drew suddenly took it into his head to examine his well-manicured fingernails.

Reginald was beaming like an idiot. “She left me a letter at the hotel desk. Can you imagine that? A letter for me! A cold and unforgiving ogre of a man if ever there was one!”

He tried to open the missive, but his hands were trembling with fear and eagerness, just as they always did at the arrival of one of his granddaughter’s letters.

Growing impatient with his fumbling, Anne snapped, “For God’s sake, Reggie, give it here.”

He meekly obeyed, unaccustomed to being told what to do by his dutiful sister. Anne broke the seal with her fingernail and unfolded the letter.

“ ‘Lord Wyndham,” “ she read, already alarmed by the untidy scrawl that was so out of character for her painstaking niece.” ’It is with great trepidation and no little regret that I am writing to inform you that due to your enduring neglect and indifference, I have been forced to barter my virtue to a ruthless desperado.“”

The sheriff made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but when Anne whipped her head around to give him another one of those basilisk’s glares, he choked it into a cough.

She returned her attention to the letter. “ ‘I trust you will suffer no distress on my behalf since you never have before. Ever your devoted granddaughter… Esmerelda Fine.”“

Anne stood in stunned silence, trying to absorb her niece’s message. Reginald gently took the letter from her hand and pressed it to his lips, closing his eyes.

Touched by the rare display of emotion, Anne squeezed his shoulder. “What is it, Reggie? Does she remind you of Lisbeth?”

“No.” He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and sniffled into it with fastidious care. When he opened his eyes, they were bright with unshed tears and brimming with tender affection. “She reminds me of me.”