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  Deathrider didn’t dignify that with a response. White knight. It was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. If he was anything, he was a lone wolf, not a white knight. Hell, he wasn’t even white.

  Micah didn’t take the hint. As usual, he kept on bitching. “Last time we were in Utopia, I had to sit through hours of those women swooning over you. You rescued Alex Slater from some crazy varmint who was out to rape her, blah blah blah, and saved the other one’s kid from death, blah blah blah. And when we’re camping with the Cheyenne, Yellow Bird always twitters on about how you saved her from a witch.”

  “She made that up,” Deathrider said shortly. “She was always hoping I’d dress up and sit outside her tent and act the suitor. If her father thought I’d saved her from a witch, he might have let her marry me.”

  “There was also that white girl you pulled from the river last winter, even though she was screaming fit to bust because she’d never seen an Indian before. You can’t seem to help but get mixed up in other people’s business.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I don’t even like people,” Deathrider grunted.

  “You like ’em just fine. They just don’t always like you.” Micah looked down at the pink dress Deathrider had slapped on him. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “I certainly didn’t agree to be your white knight, so quit your complaining.”

  “You sure didn’t,” Micah grumbled, yanking at the collar of the dress. “Why I agreed to this, I’ll never know.”

  “You can leave anytime you want.”

  “And miss all the fun?”

  Deathrider rolled his eyes.

  * * *

  • • •

  “NOW WHAT?”

  The next morning found them miles from Mariposa after hours of hard riding. They’d put on a ridiculous display as they’d left. Deathrider had waited until the town was awake and businesses were opening on the main street, to ensure they’d have a receptive audience. There’d still been drunken miners lolling about the whorehouse and a couple more sleeping it off on the porch. Enough people to bear witness to their nonsense.

  Micah had crept out to the stable before dawn, to get the horses ready. He’d gone out the back entrance, down the outside stairs off the whores’ washroom. He didn’t pass for a woman on close inspection, and they couldn’t risk him going down the main stairs. His part would have to be played at a distance—letting the costume do the work. The first bit of the performance was left entirely to Deathrider. And Deathrider took his performance seriously.

  He’d removed his shirt, revealing his tattoos, and knotted his hair with his eagle feather; he’d even slapped on some war paint—not in any design he would have used in real life, something much blunter and sillier. All of it was in aid of looking the way whites imagined Indians to look. Frightening. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and carried his ax.

  People were scared of him when he wasn’t even trying; now that he was trying, they just about fainted on sight. He didn’t need to whoop and holler as he left La Noche. As soon as he appeared at the head of the stairs, the room below fell silent. A few of the whores had been milling about over morning coffee; as they spied him, they hushed. The hush disturbed the leftover miners, who grew wide-eyed at the sight of him and rose shakily to their feet. Deathrider kept close watch on them. None of them was armed, but who knew what they’d do, as spooked as they were?

  He swaggered down the stairs, keeping his ax visible. The miners and the whores watched him warily, as though he were some kind of wild animal that had wandered in from the hills. It never ceased to amaze him how jumpy whites were around him. As he reached the front door, he called over to them in his native Algonquin. They all flinched. They might not have looked so scared if they’d known he’d just told them they looked like they’d found a bug in their coffee. But then again, maybe they would have.

  It was only once he got outside that things got interesting. He could see Dog standing at the mouth of the stables, ears cocked. Deathrider caught a flicker at the edge of his vision and turned to see the group from inside the whorehouse all but pressed up against the windows, gawking at him. Good. He gave a sharp whistle and Dog barked. The snoozing drunks on the porch startled awake. Once he had their attention, Deathrider threw his head back and gave voice to a war cry. Again, not one he’d ever use in real life, but it was guaranteed to strike terror into anyone who heard it, so it served its purpose.

  At the sound of Deathrider’s cry, Micah came tearing out of the stable, pink satin blazing in the sun. He had a fistful of reins, leading Deathrider’s horse and the packhorses. He kept his head down as he rode, hiding his face from view. It wasn’t a bad disguise, Deathrider thought appreciatively, as Micah reached him and dropped the reins to Deathrider’s horse. All you saw was pink. And that telltale orange hair.

  Deathrider leapt smoothly onto his horse, dropping his saddlebags in front of him. He’d cinch them on later, once they were safely away. The two miners on the porch were scrambling for cover, and he was wary of them reaching for their weapons. He shook his ax at them, whooping, and tore after Micah down Main Street before anyone could shoot at him. He had a hard time not laughing as he saw the looks of horror on the townspeople’s faces. Not to be outdone by all the whooping, Micah had pulled his Colt and was taking random shots at the signs swinging from the shop fronts. There were screams at the sound of shattering glass. People ran for cover.

  It worked perfectly. No one would forget them. When Hec Boehm, Kennedy Voss and that Archer woman rode into town, all they’d hear about was how Deathrider and the whore had shot up the place. The citizens of Mariposa would be rehashing this tale for a good long while.

  And now Deathrider and Micah were hours away, with no one on their trail that they could see, and Micah wanted to know what they were up to next.

  “Now we head to the Apacheria,” Deathdrider told him calmly.

  “But that’s so far away!”

  He ignored Micah’s groan. “I told you: we’re going to stage our deaths.”

  Micah snorted. “And how are we doing that?”

  “We’re going to get ourselves killed by Apaches.”

  “I assume you mean pretend to get ourselves killed by the Apaches?”

  Deathrider didn’t dignify that with an answer. “We’ll follow their plunder trails, find the remains of one of their raids and dress it up to look like us. No one will mistake that pink dress.”

  “You mean I can take it off?”

  “Not yet. We need to make a few more appearances as we head south—we need to lay a trail for those Hunters: we want everyone between here and Mexico talking about us.”

  “You’re the only man I know who wants to let a posse find him.”

  “And you’re the only man I know who’d let me dress him up like a whore and then let a posse find him.”

  That shut Micah up. But only for a minute or two. “Can we at least go to Mexico after? There’s a pretty señorita I promised to visit next time I was back this way.”

  Deathrider sighed. If only his life was that simple.

  5

  Two days earlier

  THERE’D BEEN NO question of not traveling with the pack. Ava had seen the way it was going to play out the minute she’d descended from her mirrored bedroom to the gallery of the Palladium to find Kennedy Voss waiting for her. Voss had his eye on her, and he wasn’t letting her out of his sight. He’d been waiting in the gallery, watching the doorway for her to come down the stairs from her room in the eaves. He was the only one there. The rest of the jackals were presumably saddling up for the Hunt. But not Voss. No, he was set up at a table in the deserted gallery, with a napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt, eyeing a plateful of steaming biscuits. She felt an icy curl of terror at the sight of him. For all of his farm boy good looks, there was something . . . off about him. He had flat eyes. Empty ey
es. It was like looking into the gaze of a rattlesnake.

  “Miss Archer,” he said cordially, rising from his chair. He looked for all the world like an awkward suitor. He was completely out of place in the fancy surroundings of the Palladium. His rumpled, dusty clothes jarred with the polished oak and etched-glass lamps. He seemed painfully aware of the juxtaposition, brushing at the crumbs on his pants. His pose was that of a hick boy courting a girl far above his station.

  He seemed innocuous. He had dimples. And a shy way of looking up through his eyelashes. But those eyes . . . they put the sheer fear of God into her. Maybe if she hadn’t known about all the things he’d done, she might have been fooled. But she did, so she wasn’t.

  “I’ve done the courtesy of ordering us some breakfast,” Voss told her, beaming proudly. His cowlick bobbed. The eyes, though, the eyes looked her up and down, lingering where they had no right to linger.

  Never trust a charming man. Or a powerful man. Or any damn man at all. That was what Ava had learned from watching her mother’s mistakes. Ava’s father had been—was—a powerful man. And he’d brought her mother nothing but gilded servitude. Not even all that gilded now that she’d grown old. That was what happened when you let a man make you his mistress. You had no rights to even the gilt on your cage.

  Ava had learned that lesson many times over.

  “I didn’t know if you took coffee or tea,” Voss said, stumbling charmingly over his words, as though he’d had a fit of nerves at talking to a pretty woman, “so I ordered you both.”

  Hell. She didn’t want coffee or tea, not if she had to have it with him. Ava considered her options. There weren’t many. She could sit and eat with him, or she could beg off. Which would be more dangerous?

  It was hard to say.

  “Eat,” he said. He didn’t seem to blink. “I insist.” As he pushed the plate of biscuits toward her, she saw the gleam of lamplight on his bandolier. It was mighty well stocked with bullets.

  Yes. Well. Begging off might not be an option.

  Oh well. At least it meant she could take accurate notes. She resigned herself to the situation and joined him at the table. Besides, two could play this game.

  “How dreadfully kind of you, Mr. Voss,” she sighed, wilting into the chair like a fatuous belle. “Coffee would be delightful. I didn’t sleep a wink.”

  “Too excited?” The farm boy pose slipped slightly; now his voice had a lascivious edge. “I hear you like a bit of action.”

  Wonderful. He wasn’t going to waste any time, was he? Hell. How was she going to manage him . . . ?

  “I’ve read those books you wrote about me.”

  Ah. He had, had he? Well, that shouldn’t come as a surprise. But what did he think of them? That was the real question. Ava kept her expression lightly flirtatious and tried to look as unthreatening as possible. “They sold very well. You’re quite popular.”

  That got him. He got all puffed up like a bantam again. Vanity was the downfall of so many men. Ava leaned in for the kill. “You have no idea how the readers clamor for more.”

  The first flicker of feeling sparked in those rattlesnake-flat eyes. “I can give you more,” he suggested. Greed, that was what was in his eyes. Greed, hunger, the desire for fame.

  She heard a gasp and turned to see Becky in the doorway. The girl couldn’t contain her horror at the sight of Ava sitting with Voss.

  Amateurs. Ava gave her a sharp look. “I’m just having coffee before we ride out,” she said calmly. “It’s so horrifically early. I’ll never survive without coffee.” That, at least, was true.

  Becky’s traveling gear was already looking rumpled, despite the fact that they hadn’t gone anywhere yet, and her giant straw hat was hanging from her neck by its cord. “We can’t stop here,” Becky blurted, her gaze darting over Kennedy Voss. “I just gave my notice! And I told Pete I’ve left him.” She pulled at the cord until she was almost strangling herself. “I can’t stay here for breakfast!”

  “Of course you can,” Ava said calmly, turning back to the table, where Kennedy Voss was pouring her coffee. “You’re a paying customer now. What’s he going to do?”

  She heard Becky make a despairing noise. “And his lordship is waiting for us . . .”

  “His lordship?” Voss sounded lazily curious, but Ava could see the sharpness in his gaze.

  “He’s nobody,” Ava said swiftly. “Just a burr we picked up. Sit down, Becky. We have time enough for coffee.” She had no idea if they had time enough at all, but she was going to need coffee to face the ordeal ahead. She was glad Kennedy Voss had already poured it for her because her hands were trembling; she would have spilled it all over herself. I can give you more. He gave her the holy terrors.

  “This lord fella, is he the tall one what was at the bar with you last night?” Voss asked. He was spooning sugar into his tea: one, two, three, four teaspoons. And a hefty dose of cream. The spoon clanked against the cup as he stirred. It got on Ava’s nerves.

  “There really isn’t time for this,” Becky said anxiously. “Everyone’s down in the street already.”

  “They’re not going to start without us; we’re the star attractions.” Voss didn’t look up from the biscuit he was eviscerating but reached over and yanked a chair out for Becky. “Sit.”

  Becky sat. “He might start without you,” she muttered under her breath. “You don’t know him.” Ava kicked her under the table. Kennedy Voss wasn’t a man to get mouthy with.

  “Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Mr. Voss?” Ava asked, stealing his move and looking up at him though her eyelashes.

  “Ask me anything.” His eyes still had that spark. He liked talking about himself; that much was clear.

  This wasn’t an easily managed man, but his self-absorption might be the way to do it. “How do you plan to catch the Plague of the West?” she asked, glad her voice betrayed no trace of her unease.

  A slow smile broke across Voss’s wide freckled face. “You’ll see for yourself,” he drawled. “Firsthand.”

  “She will?” Becky asked weakly.

  Voss didn’t spare her a glance. His rattlesnake gaze was fixed on Ava. “You can ride with me the whole way.” He was still grinning. “I insist.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “HOW ARE WE going to get away from him?” Becky hissed when they’d finished breakfast and were following Voss down the stairs.

  “We’re not.”

  Becky tripped and almost went head over heels down the staircase. Ava caught her by the elbow and yanked her back to her feet.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Becky whispered, appalled.

  “Honey, you’re the one who signed us up for the Hunt.”

  “Yes, the Hunt. Not cavorting with Kennedy Voss!”

  Ava gave a harsh laugh. “What did you think the Hunt was?” She settled her hat on her head and yanked it to a rakish angle. “And it’s not just cavorting with Kennedy Voss. There’s the rest of them too.”

  “The rest of them” were already saddled up and milling around in the street, loosely keeping behind the crooked line—the very line Ava had watched the drunk painting on the hard-packed dirt the night before. Cactus Joe was already on his horse, chewing on a wad of tobacco and glaring at anyone who dared to come close; Irish George was red-faced drunk and gabbing away with Pete Hamble (both of them could talk the hind leg off a mule); and Sweet Boy Beau was flirting madly with Skipper Wallace, who looked half-besotted already. Who could blame him? Beau was beautiful.

  She and Becky looked to be the only women in the pack. Ava was intensely aware of the attention they drew as they descended from the porch of the Palladium. A hush met them, and ripples of gossip followed them. The pack of jackals had been joined by untold numbers of joyriders, most of them drunk and trigger-happy and whooping up a storm. They were far more uncontrolled t
han the actual killers and villains. The street had the feeling of a lynch mob—only without a victim. Ava imagined they’d remedy that before long.

  As she and Becky wound through the pack, dawn was splitting the sky: a bloodred wound. Banks of clouds were soaked with lurid color, and even the dust in the air was ruddy, swirling in russet clouds in the sea breezes. Ava could smell the brine of the harbor. She’d never even managed to get to the shore, she realized regretfully.

  She was so mighty sick of traveling. Her saddle sores had saddle sores.

  “His lordship has our horses,” Becky said. She’d lost some of the zest she’d shown previously, when she’d come barging into Ava’s room. Breakfast with a killer would do that to you. She was more than a little slump shouldered as she led Ava toward Lord Whatsit, who seemed entranced by the killers around him. He was standing near the back of the field, close by the porch of the bakery, holding the reins of half a dozen horses. None of them was Ava’s, which was probably for the best. Her horse had been worn out by the last journey, and the hostler was welcome to keep her. After a good feed and a rest, he’d be able to sell her. Ava felt a pang about losing the money she’d bring, but only a small one and only for a moment. After all, by the looks of it, she was gaining two horses. And my, a couple of them were prime horseflesh.

  “Is that an Arab?” she asked, stunned by the beauty of the animal standing immediately to Lord Whatsit’s right.

  “Indeed, she is.” Lord Whatsit tore his gaze from the killers and beamed at Ava. “A beauty, isn’t she? I brought her all the way from England with me.” He gave the horse a vigorous slap on the neck, and she danced sideways. “High-spirited, the way a lass should be.”

  “These are yours,” Becky said sullenly, untangling a couple of sets of reins from Lord Whatsit’s gloved hand and holding them out to Ava. “You owe me eighty dollars.”

  Ava stared at the horses at the end of the reins in disbelief. Goddamn. She’d been so dazzled by the Arab, she hadn’t noticed these fleabags. “There’s no way those animals are worth eighty dollars!”