“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.
Aggie’s expression was pinched. “You ever heard of a man called Win Parmelee?”
Sarah took a deep breath, her heart skipping a beat. “He was a Yankee provost marshal. Bret killed him down at Fort Smith just after the war.”
“Tall man?” Aggie asked. “Blond, hard blue eyes, muscular? Likes to dress well? Maybe about thirty-five or so? Something almost snakelike about him?”
“Very like that. But like I said, Bret shot him at Fort Smith.”
“Shot him … or killed him?” O’Reilly asked cautiously.
“Why, killed, of…” Or had he? All Bret had said was that he’d shot him. Dear God, could it be? “It was a shooting on an army post. It’s not as if we stayed around to view the body. Bret was wounded. Badly. I put him in a wagon and we pulled stakes.”
“I’ve heard of a Win Parmelee”—O’Reilly fingered his chin—“who runs a parlor house in Denver. A known killer. A man said to serve a clientele dedicated to the more brutal of Aphrodite’s arts. A specialist, is what I think he calls himself.”
“Wait.” Sarah lifted her hands. “Aggie, why are you telling me this?”
“Because he’s here, Sarah. In Central. He was at my house. Took Theresa upstairs for a trick. She said he was a rough ride, and while he was pumping, he was demanding information on Bret. Any time she hesitated, he hurt her just a little more.”
“It could still be someone different,” O’Reilly noted.
Aggie crossed her arms. “I might think so, Pat, but when he asked me about the Saturday game, he wanted to know if the Anderson who gambled still traveled with a tall blond servant woman. Said she was ‘a damn beauty’ that he kept for fucking.”
Sarah stiffened; a cold wind blew through her soul. “Said he was coming back for me after he killed Bret,” she heard herself say as if from a distance. Parmelee’s rapacious look had stuck with her, as clear as it had been that day in Fort Smith.
“D’ ye need anything from me, Mrs. Anderson?” O’Reilly asked. “A place to stay? Protection?”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Reilly. You are indeed a good friend. But, no. Thanks to Aggie, we have fair warning. I’m going to wake Bret and pack a few things. I think we’ll take the pass over to Virginia Canyon and down to Idaho Springs.”
“What about the snow up there?” Aggie asked.
“I heard that it’s melted enough that two jerk-line teams brought wagons over the top yesterday. If they made it, we should surely be able to get across on two horses.”
She turned to O’Reilly. “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind, could you drop word at the stable and have Jefferson and my mare saddled and brought up? We would also need to rent a packhorse for a week or so.”
“Of course, Mrs. Anderson.” O’Reilly clamped his homburg onto his red hair. “I’ll be right aboot that. And as soon as I check with the moine, I’ll be back to see t’ anything else ye moight be need’n.”
“By then, Mr. O’Reilly, we should be long gone,” Sarah told him, forcing a smile.
As O’Reilly left, Aggie followed her inside. “How will you know if Parmelee’s gone?”
“Pass the word, Aggie. Spread it around town. We’re gone to the Comstock. We are shut of Colorado, and shortages, and sulfated ore, and headed west to Virginia City where there is real money to be made. You can mention that at the next game. George Nichols will surely ask, as will the others. Then, in a week, we’ll send word. If he’s gone, we’ll come back and collect our things. We’ll have time to plan by then.”
She hurried into the back room, stopping beside the big brass bed. She’d never understood what could have possessed someone to haul it across the Plains in the first place, but she was sure going to miss it. She glanced around. Her chest. The mirror. A handmade wardrobe. Precious things that made her a rich woman by Colorado standards.
“Bret? Dear? You have to get up.” She reached down, shaking his arm.
Bret jerked, sat up, his hair standing on end. “What’s wrong?”
“We have to go. Now. Win Parmelee isn’t dead. He’s here. In Central. And he’s looking for you. He traced you to Aggie’s. Now, get up while I pack a few things.”
“Parmelee? I shot him!”
“Well, my love, apparently you didn’t kill him any more than he killed you. Now, hurry. I’ve made plans, and Pat O’Reilly’s sent for the horses. Aggie’s in the front room.”
Bret rubbed his face, stood, and stretched. She admired his whip-strong body, the matted hair on his chest, his broad shoulders. How many times had she run her hands down his sides, along those lean hips and down his muscular thighs?
“Bret?”
“Yes, yes, I know. Let me think. I should have—”
“Bret, I just need you to know how much I love you.” And she stepped into his arms, hugging his warm body to hers. “We’re going over the pass to Idaho Springs. We’ll wait until he’s gone, and come back for our things. I’ve told Aggie to spread the word that we’ve gone to the Comstock.”
“Got this all planned out, have you?” He grinned, chuckling in amusement as he broke away and reached for his trousers. “I’m tired of running. Wouldn’t it just be better if I found him first and made sure of it this time?”
“It would not,” she told him crossly. “Not that I don’t want him dead, but I don’t want the complications. There will be an inquiry. The marshals will have questions. Most likely a trial. And what? Sure, it was self-defense. Parmelee came to kill you. But it would come out that you were a deserter. One way or the other, Bret, our days in Central are over.”
He studied her thoughtfully as he pulled on his warm wool shirt and buttoned it. “As always, you are right. Very well.
