Bound for Glory Read online

  Kennedy Voss watched as his odds grew shorter. When he led the field, he turned to grin over his shoulder at Ava. His gaze swept her body. And then he had the gall to wink at her.

  Oh my God. What on earth had she gotten herself mixed up in? And how the hell was she going to get out of it?

  3

  I’M COMING WITH you.” Becky had squirmed her way through the half-open door and set herself stubbornly in the middle of Ava’s room before Ava quite registered what had happened. In her defense, she’d been pulled from her bed and wasn’t at her sharpest. She blinked, thickheaded, trying to work out what was going on.

  The girl had changed out of her skimpy work clothes and into sensible traveling wear. She was carrying saddlebags and had a huge straw hat rammed on her head. She wore a mutinous expression, and it was clear that she meant business.

  Ava knew she shouldn’t have opened the door. If it had been anyone but Becky, she wouldn’t have; she’d had restless nightmares about Kennedy Voss and the others coming for her in the night, and she’d all but barricaded herself in the attic room.

  Pierre LeFoy had been ostentatious in his hospitality; he wanted people to see him leading her away upstairs. She was his trump card, there to immortalize the whole event, there to immortalize him. She grew increasingly furious—he acted like he owned her. On the surface he was solicitous, but in actuality he was all but holding her prisoner. Because of LeFoy, every man and his dog in San Francisco knew she was closeted up here. She’d felt their hot gazes on her back as she’d left the bar.

  She was being led even deeper into a trap, she’d thought grimly as she allowed herself to be escorted up to a room. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t leave on her own—it was too unsafe. She could hardly parade out of LeFoy’s and walk San Francisco’s dark streets looking for accommodation, could she? One of those varmints would be sure to follow hard on her heels. There was Kennedy Voss to worry about for starters; he had been giving her looks like he was a hungry dog and she was a package of fresh sausages. But being led upstairs wasn’t a much better alternative to roaming the dark streets alone. She was a prisoner until dawn. And she was locked in the building with the very men she wanted to avoid.

  LeFoy led her to one of the rooms reserved for the dancing girls. It was in the eaves, like a servant’s room, but fancily decorated. It was a bit like stepping into a highly ornamental jewelry box; it was all sloping ceilings, plush velvets and glittering mirrors. Wherever Ava looked, she could see fragments of her own reflection. It was a room for debauchery, she thought dryly. The bed was thick with pillows and bracketed by mirrors. She caught her reflection and pulled a face. So much for her luxurious boardinghouse.

  “There will be no charge for the room,” LeFoy said graciously as he left. “You’re our guest.” He closed the door before she could respond. Clever man. Because he’d been about to get an earful.

  “You might want to lock yourself in,” a red-faced Becky suggested when she’d come by soon after with a sandwich and a glass of milk. A sandwich was apparently the best this fancy place could offer her for supper. It wasn’t even a very good sandwich. And milk? She could have stomached something a little stronger.

  “Is this free of charge too?” Ava asked dryly as she poked at the stale bread and stingily cut ham.

  “You’d hope so, wouldn’t you?” Becky’s nose wrinkled as she considered Ava’s supper. “You know what he had for supper? Prime rib.” She sighed. “I’d best get back to work. And I mean it about locking yourself in. Pete’s ordered a couple of the boys to guard the stairs but . . .” The girl shrugged.

  But indeed. If Kennedy Voss and Co. decided to come up here after her, LeFoy’s men were hardly going to stop them.

  It was only once Becky had clomped back downstairs and Ava was alone in the mirrored treasure box that she had time to really ponder how much trouble she was in, and the more she pondered, the more ominous it seemed. But what to do about it?

  As far as she could see, she had three options. One: she could get the story of her career by traveling along with the Hunters, while also putting herself at hourly risk of rape, assault or worse. Two: she could take her chances braving the gauntlet below, then running like hell until she’d got as far away as she could, losing the story but keeping herself alive and unharmed. Three: she could watch the Hunt start tomorrow and then run like hell, thereby getting some of the story firsthand, whilst minimizing her exposure to the killers.

  The first option was the riskiest, but it would give her enough material for a whole slew of books. The second option was also risky—she was liable to be caught midflight by Voss or one of the others—and even if she did escape, she’d be left not knowing the outcome of the Hunt and having to scrounge for the crumbs of the story after the fact.

  The third option was the only sensible one. It was a logical balance of risk and reward. A sane person would obviously take it. . . .

  Ava pushed the sandwich away, overcome by revulsion.

  Oh, but how could she?

  The mere thought of missing the action sent a bolt of angst through her. She’d be running away from the biggest story of her career. It would be like Cinderella missing the ball.

  She hated the thought of missing the action. How on earth could she hide away from a story like this one? After everything she’d been through, after all she’d risked and all she’d achieved. To miss out on the big story now . . .

  Ava met her own gaze in the mirror. No. She might be a storyteller by trade, but she had one cast-iron rule: she never lied to herself. This was about more than a story. This was about Deathrider.

  Most people were disappointing when you met them, legends more so than most. Like Jim Bridger, for example. He was the most famous mountain man in the west—but in person he was just a grump who didn’t wash very often. Deathrider was liable to be the same. He was probably short, plain and thick as a plank. Maybe he didn’t even have pale eyes, like everyone said he did, because she hadn’t ever met an Indian with blue eyes. And he definitely couldn’t turn himself into a wolf at will—that was pure fantasy.

  In the telling, Deathrider was mythical: tall, bronzed, with quicksilver speed and the stealth of a hunter; he was as strong as a buffalo, as fast as an antelope and as deadly as a rattlesnake. She knew Deathrider the man could never live up to the story version of him she’d helped to construct . . . but what she wouldn’t give to find out. . . .

  What if she never could?

  Because those men down there were out to kill him. And while deep down she didn’t really think they’d succeed—because this was Deathrider—what if they did? If she didn’t go along on the Hunt, she might never get the chance to see him alive. . . .

  Her stomach twisted into complex knots as she contemplated traveling with the villains downstairs. English George and Irish George; Pete Hamble; the Butcher of Borrego Springs . . . Kennedy Voss . . .

  But Deathrider. Imagine seeing him in person. Finding out if he really did have eyes the color of ice. If he traveled with a wolf. If he exuded the dark majesty and aura of threat that people said he did . . .

  God help her. She was really going to do this. . . .

  She didn’t see how she couldn’t do this. Their destinies were intertwined, hers and Deathrider’s. He’d shadowed her for almost a decade, a flickering presence on the edge of her life. Everywhere she went, there were traces of him. And, she admitted, while she had made his name legendary, he had also made her. Because of him she had managed to escape; she could turn her back on the money her mother offered—money that Ava had once needed, but which came with so many compromises. She could walk away from being her father’s mistake and her mother’s last great hope. Because of Deathrider, Ava had her own money. She was free. Her future was her own.

  Her feelings for the Plague of the West were colored by these facts, she knew. Deathrider was doubtless even more terrify
ing than the men downstairs. His name struck fear into the hearts of travelers and homesteaders from here to Missouri, and going to find him was objectively insane. The man made Kennedy Voss look like a saint. And yet in her secret heart, Deathrider remained her savior, the man who had enabled her to forge her independence, on the back of the books she wrote about him.

  Maybe she’d live to regret it, but she was going on this ugly hunt. If anyone was going to find Deathrider, it was her. Come dawn, she’d be saddled up, down there on the street with the rest of them, waiting for LeFoy to fire his pistol in the air and declare the Hunt open. If she didn’t fall off her horse from exhaustion, that was.

  Decision made, and realizing she needed rest, she’d checked the door was locked, then double- and triple-checked it, and then propped a chair under the handle and then she’d climbed onto the bed fully clothed, boots still on, her gun close to hand. It wasn’t the most soothing way to rest, and sleep was hard-won that night. She woke at every noise, which meant she was awake more than she was asleep, because the Palladium below was still doing a roaring trade. It was impossible to sleep, knowing those killers were directly beneath her, especially remembering the look in Kennedy Voss’s eye as he’d stared at her, and knowing what she knew about his past victims. Every noise made her heart leap into her throat.

  As she jerked in and out of sleep, the night became both endless and slippery. She lost track of time. When Becky came knocking, Ava was thickheaded with exhaustion and she’d thought vaguely that Becky was there to wake her up for the Hunt.

  But it seemed Becky was here on her own business. Her small frame was rigid with determination, and her chin had a stubborn set as she shoved past Ava into the room.

  “I’m coming with you,” she repeated mulishly.

  Ava had a sinking feeling that this wasn’t any kind of wake-up visit she wanted. She reached over and lifted the heavy curtain away from the window. It was still full night, although the street below teemed with revelers who had decided to wait out the hours until the Hunt, drinking rather than sleeping. She could see some wobbly drunk trying to paint a starting line in the dirt and some of the “Hunters” were out there too, cheering him on. Then she spied Kennedy Voss and pulled away from the window so sharply that she whacked her head on the sloping roof.

  That was another thing to hold against him, she thought sourly as she rubbed her head.

  “I’m coming with you,” Becky repeated more forcefully. “On the Hunt.”

  Becky was glaring at Ava like they were arguing about it. Which they weren’t. Yet. But only because Ava was still rubbing her head and gathering her overtired wits.

  “I can help you,” the girl insisted.

  “Help me do what?” Ava gave the rumpled bed a longing look. She was so tired. She’d come into town last night simply looking for a place to post off her books, and then to get a solid month of rest. She remembered her fantasy of a plush boardinghouse, with rocking chairs on the porch and a view of the sparkling water and bustling streets. She hadn’t wanted to find any chatty English lords, or gunslingers, or a skinny bar girl who wanted to run away from home. She’d just wanted a bed. When all this chasing ghosts across the west was done, and her bank accounts were healthy enough for her to quit writing about these jackals, she was going to buy herself an enormous feather bed and sleep for at least a year. Maybe even hire a servant to bring her coffee when she called for it. She could have a rope pull installed right next to the bed, she thought dreamily. She could yank on it without ever lifting her head from the pillow.

  “I can help you with the Hunt.” Becky’s eyes were gleaming. She looked mighty pleased with herself. Too pleased, considering the hour, Ava thought grumpily.

  “You didn’t bring a pot of coffee up with you, by any chance?” Ava dropped into an overstuffed armchair. It was close enough to dawn to abandon all hope of sleep. She could add tonight to her tally of sleepless nights, she thought crankily. She doubted she’d slept a night through for the past month. It was a damn poor way to be starting out on a dangerous journey: she wasn’t provisioned, and her horse was run into the ground. The fact was, she’d have to stay back in San Francisco once the Hunt had galloped off, whether she wanted to or not. She couldn’t be riding a horse that would drop dead beneath her, or be running out of food and water in the middle of nowhere. She sighed and dropped her head to rest her forehead on her knees. She didn’t have the energy for any of it. Why couldn’t LeFoy have planned for this nonsense to start a week from now? After she’d slept and eaten and recovered her zest.

  “We can get coffee from the kitchen on our way out, and I’ve packed food for us already,” Becky told her. “I’ve been planning to get out of here for a while. I hate it here. I hate working my fingers to the bone for that no-good liar; I hate that bar; I hate those men who drink in it; and, God have mercy, I hate those three little hellions. I’ve tried my Christian best to be the closest thing to a mother to them, but those three don’t need a mother. They need a horse breaker. Or a dog trainer. Or a lion tamer.” The words were bursting from her, like water overflowing from a river after the snows had melted. “I’m done. That soft-bellied no-count snake ain’t never going to marry me; Mrs. Tilly was right: he’s all talk. I ain’t wasting any more of my best years on him. I’m all ready to go: I’ve got us provisions and fresh horses, including spares. I’ve done enough traveling to know we’ll need us some spares.”

  Ava wearily lifted her forehead from her knees and squinted up at Becky. “Us? There is no us.” The last thing she needed was Becky in the mix. Things were difficult enough as it was. Lord, imagine trying to keep both of them safe in the midst of that pack of jackals . . . because Ava was planning to be in their midst, right in the thick of it. That was where the story was. And there was no room there for Becky. The girl would only get herself killed.

  “There’s no us, Becky. There’s no we. And there’s no way in hell you’re coming along,” she said firmly. The story of Becky’s rape and murder was not one she planned to write. The girl was staying put, and that was all there was to it.

  “Oh, yes, there is.” Becky crossed her arms, and she got an obstinate look on her face. “I want out of here and this is my ticket. I’ve entered the competition.”

  “You what?” Ava was horrified.

  “I’ve got the longest odds,” Becky said proudly, as though that were a good thing. “I’m going to make a fortune. And you can have a front row seat to write about it.”

  The girl had most definitely lost her wits.

  Ava tried to keep her patience and took a deep breath.

  “I figure we head to Mariposa behind the rest of the group,” Becky told her quickly before she could interrupt, “and work out what to do from there. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  No. There was no chance Ava could keep her patience. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Ava said crisply. “It’s dumber than a bag of hammers.”

  “I know him,” Becky interrupted before Ava could get into the swing of her scolding. “I know Tom Slater! The Plague of the West. I traveled with him for a piece, when he was with his brother Matt. I didn’t know it was him at the time—everyone thought he was dead. I mean, everyone thought that Deathrider was dead. We didn’t know then that he was Tom Slater! I only knew it was him afterward, when I read your book.”

  Ava’s head cleared in an instant. It was like having ice-cold water splashed in her face. She was on her feet and had seized Becky’s arm before the girl had even finished speaking, as though she needed to hold fast to her before she could disappear.

  “You know him? You could recognize him—even in a crowd?”

  “I know exactly what he looks like,” Becky said in an eager rush. “I know his voice. I know his horse. I know his dog. I even know his favorite food: it’s fresh-caught walleye, fried in butter.”

  Ava took note of the specificity.

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p; “And better yet, he knows me.” Becky’s grin was getting wider by the second. “He trusts me. I reckon we could get right up close to him, talk to him even, without him getting suspicious. He’d never think a couple of women would be out for him.”

  Ava felt a thrill. Deathrider. Becky knew Deathrider.

  “And once you’re up close, you honestly think you’re capable of killing him?” Ava asked dubiously, evaluating the scrap of a girl. She already knew the answer: of course she wasn’t capable of killing him. It was an absurd proposition.

  “I don’t know,” Becky admitted. “But I’d rather be going on this Hunt than scrubbing the floors here. Besides, according to your books, it sounds like he’s in need of killing.” She bit her lip, her eyes troubled. “Did he really rape that little Fuller girl?”

  “That’s the story I was told,” Ava said, her mind whirling. There was definitely a book in this. It didn’t even matter if Becky was a real contender or not—the story had spark. The Killer Barmaid? Deathrider Meets His Match?

  Even without the story of her hunting Deathrider, just talking to Becky would be worth its weight in gold, considering the details the girl knew about him (fresh-caught walleye, fried in butter). Just imagine what Ava could learn, simply by riding along with the girl, plundering her memory.

  While Ava was bursting with questions about Deathrider, this wasn’t the time. She pulled her watch out of her vest pocket. Dawn was inching closer. No, this definitely wasn’t the time. She felt a familiar fizz of excitement. Her exhaustion had evaporated. “You’ve got fresh horses, you said? And provisions?”

  Becky nodded vigorously, grinning now that she realized Ava was going along with her. “Yes. Good ones too. I didn’t skimp. His lordship is waiting with the horses, to make sure no one steals any of our stuff.”