“You expect me to believe you’re doing this out of the better angels in your nature?”
“Hell, no. It keeps you from selling me out to one of my rivals, say, Ralston, Sharon, or Rockefeller. I have removed the financial incentive.”
“Got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
Nichols leaned back, arm extended to his whiskey. “Billy, when this is all said and done, I want to be the most powerful man in the Rocky Mountains. You take care of me, and I’ll take care of you.”
“What about Danny?”
“Do with him what you will. He’s your associate. Your responsibility. You’re the smart one with vision. That is … as long as you don’t let your personal demons destroy you.”
“What demons?”
“Heard a girl disappeared down in New Mexico.” Nichols smiled, adding lightly, “Heard she run off with a gambler?”
“Danny tell you that?”
Nichols shook his head slowly. “I’m not the one to go meddling in your business, but don’t ever think I’m not keeping track of my interests.”
At the words, the Devil’s fingers stroked coolly down Billy’s back.
80
May 6, 1867
Patrick O’Reilly clattered into Sarah and Bret’s yard and reined his team to a stop.
Wiping her hands on a cloth, Sarah watched him through the window. She smoothed her dark chintz housedress and batted at the full cut of her bishop sleeves where flour clung to them. Why did she always turn into a mess when she was baking?
Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and unfit to be seen, but Pat was climbing down from his phaeton. She dared not leave him standing outside while she took the time to fix it.
Sarah opened the door and stepped out onto her porch. The midday sun glimmered on distant, snow-capped Mount Black Hawk. She shielded her eyes, calling, “Hello, Mr. O’Reilly. How are you today?” Her breath hung before her only to vanish in an instant in the cool air.
“Quite well, Mrs. Anderson.” He pulled himself up, as if at attention. As he doffed his homburg hat, his ruddy Irish face bent with a smile. He wore a black wool sack coat over a thick brown-and-black checked vest. A high collar stuck up almost to his ears, and his trousers were wrinkled. Looking at him, it was hard to believe he was one of the city’s most prominent men.
“I’d invite you in, but Bret is still asleep.”
“No need, dear lady.” Reaching into a coat pocket, he removed an envelope. “The game down to the hotel saloon ran a wee bit late last night. I had the most damnable luck, and Bret, saint that he is, covered my debts. I told him I’d repay him by noon, but—foul wretch that I be—you’ll notice tis nearly two-thirty.”
“Mr. O’Reilly, I sincerely doubt Bret would care. Not only does he refer to you as a gentleman, but he considers you a friend.”
O’Reilly handed the envelope over, sighing as he did so. “I think he be the only mon in this dad-blasted excuse fer a city that I admire and envy, lassie.” He gave her a twinkling wink. “And tis all because he has you.”
“You’re too kind.”
O’Reilly’s expression sobered. “Oh, not at all. You saved Aggie. I was on the verge o’ calling her loan. I loike the lassie, but I wasn’t throwing good money after bad. ’Twas her property and building I was after. And I told her right out.”
“She just needed to figure it out, Mr. O’Reilly. No one trains women how to run a business.”
“Nor yourself, either, I’d wager.” He was watching her through wary Irish eyes. “And I’m well aware that you are the root o’ her salvation. My dear old father, may he rest in peace, told me once that nothing on earth was more dangerous than a competent woman with a clever and cunning moind. But then, I’ve always appreciated and been drawn to danger.”
He gave her a slight bow.
“I’ll convey your warning to Bret.”
“Aye, an’ I’ve already told him till the poor mon’s ears are blue.” O’Reilly waved it away. “But since we’re sharing hearts and souls, I’ll tell you this: a smart one he is. Perhaps the best hand at cards I’ve ever known. He plays us loike fiddles, ye know? Knows his odds as if he can see through the cards. Lets us win just enough that we don’t know we’re being skinned.”
“Mr. O’Reilly? If you know, why do you play?”
“Why, to beat ’im, o’ course! The mon is master! Loike one ’o them swordsmen in France, I know he’s better, eh? But playing ’im, I sharpen me own skills.”
She laughed. “I still do not understand men.”
“Nor I women. Makes us even, lassie.”
“Could I get you a cup of tea? Perhaps water?”
“No. I’m just going to admire the view for a moment more, and then I’ve got to get to the moine. The superintendents have need o’ a decision before they dig me more gold.”
“Not much of a view from here. Most of the high peaks are blocked by the clouds today.”
“Wasn’t the mountains I was lookin’ at,” he said easily.
“You are a tease.” She caught movement down on the slope road where it wound past miners’ shacks, sheds, and prospect holes. She squinted, knowing that familiar phaeton. “Speaking of which, isn’t that Aggie now?”
O’Reilly turned, shaded his eyes, and added, “Aye, ’tis. Yor day fer foine comp’ny, I’d say.”
“She seems to be in a hurry.”
Moments later, Aggie drove her carriage into the yard, pulling up short of O’Reilly’s. She fought the brake, spoke calmingly to her half-winded horse, and pulled up her full-cut poplin skirt to step down and hurry across the rocky yard.
“Aggie?” O’Reilly called. “What brings ye in such a rush? Were ye a-pining fer my comp’ny, I’d a stopped by at the house and saved ye a trip.”
“Pat? Well, in a way I’m glad to see you.” She let her hooped skirt drop. A velvet cap was tied
