The Ballad of Emma O'Toole. Elizabeth Lane
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thing she is, too,” the deputy added with a suggestive wink.
Logan sagged onto the bunk, his spirits blackening. He only knew one she in this miserable town, and it was a good bet she hadn’t come here to bring him chicken and dumplings. In fact, He couldn’t figure out why Emma O’Toole would come at all unless it was to vent more anger on him. He was sorry for her loss, but it was hard to feel much sympathy when her story in the newspaper was, without a doubt, turning the town against him. The young lady had him right where she wanted him, and the way things were going, she’d probably get her wish to see him hang.
Feigning indifference, Logan opened the newspaper to page two and pretended to read. He could hear the light tread of footsteps approaching his cell, but even as they stopped, he didn’t look up. Emma O’Toole had sworn to see him punished. He would show her how blasted little he cared.
“Mr. Devereaux.” Her voice quivered with defiance. Logan didn’t move.
“Hey, gambler, you got a lady friend here!” The deputy seized a bar of the door and shook it until the lock rattled. “If’n you don’t want her, I’ll be happy to—”
“All right.” Logan’s rapier glare cut him short. “I’ll speak with Miss O’Toole, but not with you hanging over her shoulder, MacPherson. Get out of here.”
“But the marshal said for me to—”
“Go on now, Mr. MacPherson.” Emma O’Toole’s voice was diamond-cool, diamondhard. “Your prisoner can hardly do me any harm when he’s locked behind bars.”
Do me any harm!
Logan bit back a curse. The woman was speaking as if he were some kind of wild animal who might leap out and have his way with her. Was that the next story she’d share with that little worm of a reporter?
But what did it matter? She was here. And this, he realized, was his chance to make sure that she finally heard him out. Emma O’Toole was not getting away until he’d told her the whole miserable story.
Logan stared down at the open newspaper, biding his time as the deputy’s footsteps faded away. In the stillness that remained, he could feel Emma O’Toole’s presence. He could feel her gaze like fire on his skin and hear her shallow, agitated breathing. Even without looking at her, Logan could sense how much she hated him.
He let the seconds tick past, stalling as he would in a card game, forcing her to wait. He was in charge now, and he wanted her to know it. Otherwise she might not listen.
And making her listen could make the difference between life and death.
Only when he sensed she was nearing the end of her patience did Logan untangle his feet, rise from the bunk and look directly at her. Even then, with so long to prepare for it, the sight of Emma O’Toole stopped his breath for an instant.
She was standing rigidly outside the cell, wearing an ugly, starched gray frock that had clearly been made for someone else. Her dark honey hair was pulled tightly back from her face, accentuating her bloodshot, blue-green eyes. She looked pale and drawn and haggard, but for all that, Logan couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Last night in the dimly lit saloon, his vision had caught little more than the flash of her anger. But now he knew that that exquisitely powerful face, with its tragic beauty, would haunt him to the end of his days.
Her lips parted as their eyes met. The awareness dawned on him that he’d slept in his clothes, that his heavy black whiskers needed a shave, and that the chamber pot under his bunk hadn’t been emptied since last night. He looked like a derelict and probably smelled worse, but there was little he could do about that now. The only important thing was that she hear what he had to say, and that she believe him. If there was a spark of understanding in her, and if he could touch it—
But this was no time to lower his guard, Logan reminded himself. The woman wanted him dead. She had said so to his face, and again in that cursed news article. The fact that she was young and vulnerable didn’t make her any less his enemy.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak. “I’m glad you came, Miss O’Toole. You and I need to get some facts straight.”
“Save your facts for the trial, Mr. Devereaux.” Emma’s attempt to sound haughty ended in a nervous quaver as the prisoner tensed. He looked like a caged wolf, she thought, wild and dark and dangerous. She’d come to watch him suffer, to fuel her own anger with his despair. But Logan Devereaux appeared neither cowed nor remorseful. His rage burned as hot as her own, leaping like black fire in his eyes.
“It seems the trial’s already begun,” he muttered, snatching up the newspaper from his bunk and crumpling it against the bars. “Have you read this? Have you seen what that lying little weasel of a reporter wrote about last night?”
Emma’s heart sank. Hector Armitage had wasted no time getting his story to press. As she took in the headline, part of her rejoiced in what seemed to be an open, public condemnation of what the gambler had done. But another part reeled with dismay. The article could expose all her secrets, leaving her open to the most vicious kind of scandal.
Devereaux was glowering at her, waiting for a reply. “No,” she declared. “I didn’t see the paper this morning. I came here straight from the boardinghouse.”
“Read it!” His fist shoved the crumpled paper through the bars. “Read this drivel. Then tell me how much of it you put into his head.”
“I didn’t put anything in his head!”
“Just read it.” His voice was a snarl. Emma pulled the paper flat, hands trembling, blurring the print. His searing black eyes fixed on her face as she read.
Young Man Murdered By Gambler—Sweetheart Vows Justice
A nineteen-year-old miner lost his life last night in a dispute over a game of fivecard draw. Billy John Carter, lately of Tennessee, had never set foot in a saloon before, but he needed money to marry his sweetheart and give their unborn babe a name. His only hope was the gaming tables and, to his ill fortune, he chose the Crystal Queen.
Today would have been Billy John Carter’s wedding day. Instead he lies cold and dead, most foully gunned down by Mr. Logan Devereaux, an itinerant gambler, who used a .22 Derringer to shoot young Carter in the chest at point-blank range when the young man accused him of cheating. Mr. Devereaux was arrested and taken to the Park City jail, where he awaits trial on the vile charge of murder.
This reporter was a personal witness to Mr. Carter’s tragic death in the arms of his bride-to-be, the beautiful Miss Emma O’Toole, who was summoned to the scene of the crime. Miss O’Toole has sworn vengeance on the villain who murdered her true love and robbed her unborn babe of a father. She was gracious enough to speak with this reporter after the tragedy. Her tear-filled eyes blazed with resolve as she uttered these words: “Logan Devereaux is a man without conscience. I mean to see him pay for this treacherous deed with his life!”
The color drained from Emma’s face as she read down the page and saw her fears realized. Thanks to Hector Armitage, everyone in town would soon know about the baby. She could just imagine the scene at the boardinghouse. She’d be out on the street by nightfall. And how was she going to find another job? Who’d even think of hiring a woman in her condition?
Her gaze met the gambler’s over the top of the newspaper. “How could he do this to me?” she muttered. “I’m ruined.”
Devereaux exploded with strangled fury. “You’re ruined? Good Lord, woman, is that all you’re worried about—your precious reputation?”
“Stop it!” Emma shot back. “You’ve no right to rave at me, you cold-blooded monster. If you hadn’t murdered Billy John, my reputation would be safe because I’d be a married woman on this day! Now—”
His hand snaked through the bars to seize her wrist in a viselike grip. She twisted and struggled, powerless against the strength that yanked her flat against the bars of the cell, bringing her eyes within a handsbreadth of his own.