The Ballad of Emma O'Toole. Elizabeth Lane
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gamblers and shysters had come flocking like buzzards to a dead mule. Night and day they plied their sleazy trade, robbing honest men of their hard-earned treasure. And now one of them had shot her darling Billy John.
The Crystal Queen—a dingy gambling den, far less grand than its name—was in the second block. People swarmed around the door, craning their necks to see inside. Someone spotted Emma. A shout went up. “It’s his girl, Emma O’Toole! Let her through!”
She stumbled forward as the crowd gave way. In the smoky lamplight, she could make out something—no, someone—sprawled on the floor beneath a rumpled blanket. Long, thin legs. Worn, mud-caked boots. It could only be Billy John.
He lay white and still beneath the blanket, a rolled leather coat supporting his head. She hesitated, suddenly afraid. What if she’d come too late?
“He’s alive.” The low voice, a stranger’s, spoke from somewhere beyond her vision. “He waited for you. Go to him.”
Billy John’s eyelids fluttered open. His gray lips moved, shaping her name. She pressed his cold, limp hands to her cheeks.
“You dear, crazy fool!” she murmured. “What did you think you were doing trying to gamble together a fortune? Don’t you know we could have managed somehow, as long as we had each other?”
“Too late…” He coughed weakly. “You can have my share of the claim. You and the baby. These folks here will witness to it.”
“No! It’s not supposed to be this way! We had our whole lives ahead of us, and now—” Choked with sobs, her voice trailed off.
“Promise me somethin’, Em.” His fingers gripped her hand, their sudden strength hurting her.
“Anything,” she whispered, half-blinded by tears.
“The gambler…the bastard who shot me…see that the no-account pays for what he done.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll see to it somehow. Oh, Billy John, don’t die! You can’t—”
“Promise me!” His eyes were smoldering. “Swear it on your mother’s grave.” He’d started coughing again.
“I swear it…on my mother’s grave!” Emma battled the urge to throw back her head and scream her anguish into the smoke-filled room.
“Em…” The coughing had left him even weaker. She could feel him going slack against her. “Em, I’m so cold…”
“No!” She flung her arms around him, binding him to her. But she couldn’t hold his spirit. Even as she pressed him close, she felt it quiver and rise, leaving his young body lifeless in her embrace. Her head dropped to his chest, ears straining for the sound of his heart. But he was gone.
Slowly Emma became aware that the room was full of people. She felt their curious eyes on her, watching her like spectators at a show, and she knew that she had few friends in this place. There was no one she could lean on for support. Somehow she would have to get to her feet and walk out the door all on her own. But first she had a promise to keep.
Slowly she sat up. Her eyes found the marshal, a big, ruddy man she’d often seen in town.
“Are you all right, girl?” the marshal asked her.
Emma shook her head. Lifting the edge of the blanket, she tugged it over Billy John’s face to protect him from staring eyes. Then she turned on the crowd in sudden ferocity.
“Who did this?” she demanded. “Where’s the man who shot him?”
“Here.” The voice was the one she’d heard earlier, telling her that Billy John was still alive. It came from directly behind her, its tone soft but harsh, like velvet-cloaked flint.
Slowly she turned, forcing her gaze to travel upward, over the expensive calfskin boots and along the length of lean, muscular legs encased in fawn-colored merino trousers. Her eyes skimmed the masculine bulge at their apex, then darted to the polished belt and fine woolen vest. the clothes alone were probably worth enough to feed a poor family for a season. But the details of the gambler’s costume evaporated as Emma looked up to meet a pair of eyes as black as the infernal pit. His face was dark, rugged and, except for a faint, slanting scar across his left cheek, so handsome that he might have acquired that mark in exchange for his soul.
He stood coatless, his cravat askew and his white shirt speckled with blood. His eyes were laced with red, his black hair mussed and tumbled. He looked, Emma thought, as if he were standing on the brink of hell, about to be shoved into the flames.
“I shot your young man.” His voice was drained of emotion. “My name is Logan Devereaux. The last thing I wanted was to kill the boy. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” She flung the words at him. “Billy John was only nineteen years old! He never harmed a soul in his life! We were going to be married tomorrow. That’s the only reason he was here at all, to get money for us. Now he’s dead—and you’re sorry! You can go to hell and burn there, Mr. Devereaux!”
She stumbled to her feet, ready to fling herself on the stranger and do as much damage as possible before the crowd could drag her off, but the emptiness in his eyes stopped her like a wall. It was as if he was indifferent to any punishment she might inflict on him—as if she could set out to kill him, and he wouldn’t care.
She would have to find another way to hurt him.
She drew back into herself, gathering her strength. Then, abruptly, she wheeled toward the marshal. “Take this man away! Lock him up in your stoutest cell and, no matter what he tells you, don’t let him out!”
The marshal raised a shaggy eyebrow; then, with a shrug that implied he’d had the same idea all along, he unfastened the handcuffs from his belt and clicked them around the indifferent wrists of Logan Devereaux.
Only when he’d finished did Emma turn back to face the man who’d murdered Billy John. His bloodshot eyes met hers, mirroring Emma’s own helpless rage. His mouth twitched as he swallowed, then spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“You must believe me, Emma O’Toole. I never meant to—”
“No,” she snapped, determined that his words would not move her. “I don’t have to believe a single word you say. It was a foul and brutal thing you did, Mr. Devereaux. Whatever it takes, so help me, I won’t rest until I get my revenge!”
Chapter One
A frigid rain had moved in behind the wind, its patter a dirge in the darkness. Water drizzled off the eaves of the Crystal Queen where Emma huddled in the doorway, watching the undertaker’s cart haul Billy John away.
The saloon had shut down on the marshal’s orders, but the owner had grudgingly let Emma remain with the body. She’d kept her vigil until the very last.
By now it was well after midnight. Main Street was all but deserted. Raindrops froze in the wagon ruts, forming an icy glaze. Emma shivered, her arms wrapping her body as if to protect the child she carried. Despite the cold, she was reluctant to leave the saloon behind. The Crystal Queen was the last place she had seen Billy John alive. She couldn’t stay here, she reminded herself. She needed to get back to the boardinghouse.
Jerking her woolen shawl tight around her, she plunged into the downpour. Vi Clawson, her employer, prided herself in running a respectable place. When Vi learned about the baby, Emma was certain to lose her job. Then where would she go? She couldn’t think clearly enough to make a plan. Not when all of her thoughts kept returning to the tragedy that was just a few hours old.
A moan quivered in her throat as she relived the horror of Billy John’s death. She remembered his colorless lips, the strings of hair plastered against his white forehead. She remembered the light fading from his sweet blue eyes, the tension easing from his hands…
She willed the image away. She’d promised Billy John that Logan Devereaux