Dillman. Here. Here, in her foyer, in his wheelchair, two young aides—or guards?—flanking him.
Her breath caught as panic invaded her. She’d been an idiot. An absolute idiot, a fool. She should have found a way to create a false identity for Sabrina. She should have told Hawk the truth long ago. Dillman had always been smart. He’d found out about the telegrams. Easy enough for a senator. He’d followed Sabrina. And now…
Sabrina was coming here.
She gasped, inhaling raggedly, realizing she had ceased to breathe altogether.
“Senator Dillman, how do you do? Welcome to Mayfair.”
It was Hawk. He was striding into the foyer from the downstairs library. His hair tied back, he was dressed in white shirt, dark, form-hugging breeches, and high boots, ready for a day of work at Mayfair.
“Lord Douglas! I was acquainted with your good father, you know. Casually, I’m afraid to admit. He was a visionary. An extraordinary man. I am heartily sorry regarding his passing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Lord Douglas, Thomas Henley and Bo Dykes. My assistants.”
“A pleasure, gentlemen. Won’t you come in? Meggie will see to coffee and breakfast. I must admit, however, Senator, that I’m surprised to see you at this late date. I’m afraid the council with the Sioux leaders did not go as the government might have wished, and I’m afraid that I don’t agree with the stance the government is taking with the Sioux.”
“Precisely the point, my dear sir!” Dillman said. “I’m here to learn what I can from you! I can’t agree either with the tone being taken by the generals in the field—kill them all, let God sort them out, and the like! Any man with half a brain—and not fanatical abolitionists!—can take a look at the history between the white man and the Indian and see where we have been at fault.”
“That’s quite an unusual view, Senator—and an unpopular one,” Hawk replied. He frowned suddenly, pausing as they neared the door to the dining room. “Meggie,” he said softly, “would you ask Lady Douglas to come down? I’ll have Sandra bring the men coffee.”
“Of course, Lord Douglas.”
Skylar watched Meggie coming up the stairs. The woman immediately appeared concerned. “Lady Douglas! You’re ill! Poor dear, my God, you’re as white as a sheet. I’ll—I’ll get Lord Douglas right away!”
Before Skylar could say a word, Meggie was heading back down the stairs. Skylar watched her, glad that she hadn’t had a chance to deny the possibility that she might be ill.
She backed away from the staircase. She didn’t want anyone coming back into the foyer and looking up by chance. She looked back. The door to Hawk’s library stood open. She fled behind it. Oh, God, she’d wanted to tell him the truth.
Now it might be too late.
The truth was sitting downstairs in her dining room.
After he had eatenbreakfast in the quiet respectability of Mrs. Smith-Soames’s dining room, Sloan decided to pay a visit to Loralee. He walked across to the Ten-Penny Saloon. There was a group of men—very drunk men—seated around one of the gaming tables. Sloan ignored them at first, going up to the bar. He asked Joe for coffee and inquired if Loralee was up and about yet. Joe said he’d see about Loralee.
Sloan sipped his coffee. As he did so, he became aware of the men at the gaming table. One was Ralph Marks, a miner who couldn’t seem to strike things quite right. He’d tried gambling, he’d tried scouting. He was a man of about forty, once probably handsome enough, and built like a young ox. But years of drink were catching up with him. He was more rotund than powerful, with a permanent gin blossom reddening his cheeks. The man at his side, sometimes his partner, sometimes not, was a mixed-blood Cherokee named Horse McGee. Horse wasn’t given todrink, but he was prone to devious behavior. He was suspected of having been involved in a few stagecoach robberies to the south of Gold Town. Two of the other men were Crows. Both had worked for the army on and off, trailing Sioux warriors. Sioux and Crow were enemies. Sloan couldn’t think badly of a man for remaining an enemy when the tradition of violence between the two tribes was an old one. Rounding out the group was Abel Mc-Cord—retired US Army. It was said that he wanted to be in politics in the territory and that he wasn’t fool enough to kiss political rump out here, but he made sure he kissed it back in Washington, DC.
Curious group, Sloan thought.
More curious because they were so damned drunk. And talking a bit loudly, as if they weren’t even aware he was in the room.
“I still don’t rightly get where this gold is coming from,” Horse grumbled.
“I tell you,” Abel said excitedly, “there is gold, lots of it, being paid by a guy from back east.”
“Abel, you know what’s going on here,” Running Jack, one of the Crows, said.
“I know the money is big, and that it is coming from back east, and that when I can prove I’ve got the one white woman, dead or alive, all I’ve got to do is leave word here at the Ten-Penny for a Mr. Smith.”
Running Jack groaned.
“Between us, surely, we can get the damned girl!” Abel exclaimed.
Running Jack shook his head. “I know of a dozen men who died going after her. You’re forgetting. This woman is married to Hawk Douglas.”
Abel didn’t seem to hear him. “Both women are worth five hundred dollars. All in gold. He don’t care what you do to either of them, and he’d just as soon get the blonde one dead.”
