He laughed softly, shivering as the cold wind ate into him. “A decent woman? We’re both ruins in our own ways. I’m a disgraced gambler, a deserter, and murderer. Just where, my dear, do you see some decent and upright young virgin swooning into my arms? Let alone setting up hearth and home, and later explaining to the cherubic fruit of my loins, ‘Oh, be good, little ones! Papa is due any moment with his take from the saloons!’”
“Bret, you’re impossible.”
“No, my love. We both are.”
“What of your … needs?” She cocked her head, staring up at him. “I spent my days watching Paw slip away, always on the prowl. Since he shared a bed with Maw, it wasn’t as if he had no outlet. For you, on the other hand, it would be a necessity.”
“You sound sharp when you say it.”
“I shouldn’t.” She shrugged. “What a hypocritical wretch I am. I’m spoiled goods. But were we married, I wouldn’t want you between some stranger’s legs. What’s the old story about the dog in the manger?”
He lifted her chin with a finger, staring down at her in the darkness. “Do you trust me?”
“Up to a point. Sometimes you don’t have the good sense a—”
He bent down and kissed her. His lips weren’t on hers for more than two seconds, conforming, loving, and then he straightened.
“By God,” he whispered as he walked back toward the coach. “I’ve wanted to do that for months.”
She stood, fingering her lips, unsure if she were staggered by the wind, or the aftereffects.
66
December 1, 1865
Charlie Deveroux stood resplendent in his black broadcloth suit. Yellow lamplight filled his parlor, casting its soft light on his guests—and upon his resplendent Martha where she stood in her white muslin wedding dress. Occupying the place of honor beside the fireplace, she held a crystal glass of champagne in her delicate and white-gloved hand. Outside the window the night was black, the pattering of rain barely audible over the happy conversation filling the parlor.
The neck of the champagne bottle clinked as Hank Abrams poured another measure of fizzing champagne into Charlie’s glass.
Phil Seymore, the Austin mayor’s right-hand man, leaned close, a satisfied smile on his lips. “Mr. Deveroux, I’m afraid I shall have to make my apologies and take my leave. It was a most becoming wedding. And, while the mayor was unable to attend, again, I assure you that he sends you and Mrs. Deveroux his fondest regards and best wishes for your happiness.”
Charlie inclined his head graciously. “I just hope that I have been of service, sir.”
Seymore’s smile was a fleeting thing. “Texas will change under Reconstruction. Hamilton and Throckmorton are going to ease it back into the Union. But until then it falls upon those among us with insight to quell the violence and restore the peace. You have made the right choice. The information you’ve provided has allowed us to run down most of the worst of the lot.”
“What about Billy Hancock?”
With a tilt of the head, Seymore indicated that Charlie should follow him out into the foyer. There he turned, sipped his champagne, and said, “You were right. His scout, Danny Goodman, showed up at that whorehouse outside San Marco two nights ago. Everywhere Billy Hancock goes, he sends Goodman in first. I thought I’d hear today that they’d either captured or killed him.”
“That would have been the perfect wedding present.” Charlie thoughtfully smoothed his mustache. “I want that five-thousand-dollar reward for fingering Captain Loomis’s killer.”
Seymore watched him through narrowed eyes. “How’d you know he’d be headed for Magdelena’s?”
“He’s developed a thing for Mexican whores.” Charlie grinned. “Besides, I was supposed to meet him there. He expected me to pay him two hundred dollars for killing Antonio Guzman over in Bandera.”
“Why?”
“Why what, sir?”
“What do you hope to gain from betraying all of your old comrades in arms?” Seymore crossed his arms, gaze intent.
“Look around, friend. I have a house, a wife, and new associates.” He fought a smile. “There is a new political structure in Texas. The Yankees are here to stay. You all are going to need a man like me. One who can attend to the less savory parts of running a government.”
“And Billy Hancock?”
“Phil, I got to tell you, Billy Hancock scares the shit out of me. Men kill for lots of reasons: passion, lust, greed, revenge. Billy? He lives for the hunt. Killing fills his heart with a tingling fever. The way he tells it, the devil comes alive inside him.” He paused. “That’s why I told you to send ten men to ambush him.”
“I sent five.”
Charlie stiffened, his heart skipping. “Jesus jumping Jehoshaphat! You may have killed us all.”
“Dear Lord, Charlie. He’s just a single malicious young man. The five I sent are good. Ex-Rangers. All salt, sand, and tanned leather. They’ve taken down Comanche raiders, Mexican bandits, and some of the nastiest men this state’s ever seen. If they can’t take one young—”
“Billy says he’s possessed by the devil himself.”
“If he’s not already tied crosswise over a horse with bullet holes through his heart and head, the devil better start looking for someone else to possess, because Billy Hancock’s going to be swinging from the gallows within the week.”
“How soon are you going to know if your men got him?”
“Might be someone waiting at the governor’s office now.” He glanced toward the front door. “Assuming the storm hasn’t washed out the bridges between here and San Marco.”
“You send me word, Phil. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night.”
Phil gave him an incredulous look as lightning flashed outside the window and, a second later, the bang shook the house. “Tonight? It’s your wedding night, man. I’ll send someone in the morning, late. You have other things to enjoy.”
Clapping Charlie on the shoulder, Phil Seymore retrieved his coat and hat from the rack in the hall. Donning them, he graced Charlie with a farewell grin, then opened the door and stepped out into the storm.
“You better be goddamned
