Seven Days in Paradise

Heyes looked at himself in the mirror and sighed. No doubt about it, a six-gun in a holster truly did ruin the line of a good coat. The bottom two buttons were already undone; now he shook his head and unbuttoned the rest of them. He tugged on the tail and examined the results critically. The coat fell better now, and the vest was fine, its brocade more than presentable. And at least his gunbelt and holster were black leather. He adjusted the ends of his tie and decided he'd do.

He didn't want to go to dinner, but there wasn't much choice. Hannibal Heyes might want to stay up here and order room service, but Joshua Smith needed to go downstairs. Joshua Smith needed to behave as though what had happened was an irritating annoyance, not a crippling disaster. He'd just lost an employee, a valued one perhaps, but no more than that. If he acted otherwise, Morrison might start wondering.

And that, he had to admit, would be a very bad thing.

At the moment everyone was accepting that he was who he said he was. He had the feeling that Lord Edward, at least, wouldn't feel comfortable believing that he couldn't tell his social equal (or at least near equal) from an outlaw, and that would help. All he had to do was behave as though he had hired a man who turned out to be a criminal, not such an impossible thing after all. Happened every day.

Hell, a lot of men hired criminals on purpose.

He grinned wryly at himself and left the suite.

"Why, Mr. Smith," Lady Clarissa said as he took his seat at the table. "You're carrying a gun. Are you expecting trouble?"

"I always expect trouble," he said. "I'm often disappointed, but never surprised. And since Jones isn't here..." He shrugged and nodded at the waiter, who filled his glass. He'd noticed the waiters the first night, a couple of good-looking young men in the Paradise's blue and cranberry livery. Tonight the blond one was off his feed a bit; not surprising that they made him work anyway, Heyes thought.

"Are you a shootist, too?" Lady Clarissa asked archly.

"No, ma'am," he said politely enough. "I can hit what I aim at, but a man like Jones would laugh at the notion that I'm a shootist. It is, after all, one reason I hire them."

"Them?" Ransdale asked.

And, "One reason?" Lady Clarissa said.

Heyes smiled at them both, remembering as he did so Curry saying to him once, 'You know, you got a scary smile.' At the moment he very much hoped so. He unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap, and then answered them both. "There are times when one has to be in one place and needs something done in another. Or others." He picked up his knife and fork. "A man can't be everywhere."

Morrison glanced at him. Yes, Heyes thought, that's right. Nothing like an alibi.

"Did you know he was a criminal?" Lady Clarissa asked.

"Ma'am," he said, "I don't know it now."

"But," Isobel Horne said in apparently genuine confusion, "Mr. Morrison said he was a wanted man."

"Innocent until proven guilty, what?" her husband said.

"Mr. Morrison," Heyes said patiently, "is talking about Kid Curry. I don't know that my man Jones—" he almost winced at the phrase but controlled himself "—is Kid Curry."

"He is," the Wells Fargo man said with certainty.

"Tell us about him," Lady Clarissa commanded.

Morrison was apparently happy to oblige her. For the rest of the meal the table was treated to a rather extended dime-novel version of the Kid's career. Heyes listened without comment, but he did store one or two particularly spectacular bits away to tweak Curry with at some later date.

"Lately," Morrison said as slices of rich chocolate cake were placed before them, "he's been riding with a gang." He glanced at Lady Clarissa to see if he needed to explain the term 'riding with' again, but apparently she'd understood it at last or—more likely, Heyes thought—she'd grown tired of teasing Morrison since he didn't seem to realize that she was. Instead she asked,

"Is he the leader?"

Heyes tensed internally but kept eating his cake.

"No, ma'am, he's not. A fella by the name of Hannibal Heyes runs the Devil's Hole Gang—"

He was interrupted by a peal of laughter. "The what?" Lady Clarissa said when she could.

"Devil's Hole Gang," Morrison repeated, obviously puzzled.

"Isn't that just too amusing, Teddie?" she said, but didn't give him a chance to answer. "Isobel, dear, isn't it delicious? Mr. Smith, you're not even smiling. Don't you think it's an amusing name?"

"I suppose it is at that," he said. "But you have to remember I've heard it before. They're famous."

"Are they really?" She turned back to Morrison.

"Oh, yes," he confirmed. "They're in the papers a lot, robbed a lot of banks and trains."

"Well, if this is indeed he, why isn't he still with them?"

"Good God, Claire," her brother finally got a word in. "Thieves fall out, you know. He most likely became greedy or killed one of them or something of that sort."

"Or he was, what's the phrase," said Horne, "scouting the lay of the land? Planning to rob you," he clarified.

Heyes smiled again. "I doubt that very much," he said.

"I do, too," said Morrison. "Banks and trains, that's Curry's line. But it's very likely that he fell out with the gang: outlaws don't stick together, after all."

"Oooo," Lady Clarissa said. "Do you suppose he did kill one of them?"

"Wouldn't surprise me at all, your ladyship."

"Would he get the reward?" Surprisingly, that was Isobel quietly wondering.

"Really, Isobel."

Morrison smiled. "He might well. But it wouldn't do him any good where he's going, you know, ma'am."

"No, I suppose not," she admitted.

"Really, Isobel," Lady Clarissa said again and turned back to Morrison. "Then he is a killer?"

"Well, he's not wanted for murder," Morrison acknowledged. "But, yes, ma'am, he has killed people."

"How terrible," she said breathily. "How brave you must be, Mr. Morrison." But before he could answer she looked at Heyes. "And how fortunate you are, Mr. Smith. Not to have been killed, I mean."

"I wasn't particularly worried," Heyes said, glancing briefly at Morrison. "Not being a bank, I mean."

"But doesn't it make you pause and think? Resolve to be a little more careful the next time you hire someone?"

Heyes smiled at her, feeling Morrison's eyes on him. "I'm always careful."

"But you hired a criminal," she pointed out.

"Claire," Lord Edward said impatiently, "he's already said he wanted a man who could handle a gun. Don't press so; it's rude and, worse, it's boring. I'm sure Smith would rather talk about other things."

"Like what?" she snapped. "Whist? Women? Whisky?"

"Or snow," suggested Isobel Horne in her soft voice.

"Snow? Don't be ridiculous," Lady Clarissa said. "Why would he want to talk about snow? Why would anyone?"

"Weather is always safe," Isobel said, "and besides... it's snowing now."

Those with their backs to the big window—Heyes, Lady Clarissa, Morrison—turned. She was right; Curry had called it that afternoon. Big fat flakes drifted out of the dark sky through the lamplight to join what looked like more than an inch already on the ground.

"Damnit," said Morrison. "Oh, I beg your pardon, ladies."

"Think nothing of it," Lady Clarissa said graciously.

"Looks like you won't be leaving in the morning after all," Ransdale said. "Not if this keeps up."

"Get the manager," Morrison told one of the waiters, and got up to peer out the window.

The manager, when he arrived, confirmed it: it was far too dangerous to attempt to take a coach down the mountain in deep snow. They shouldn't be alarmed, though; the Paradise had plenty of stores laid in. An early snow like this would likely melt off in a few days at any rate, and if not, still not to worry as they could in fact make do quite nicely for much longer. He didn't quite say 'until spring', but Heyes figured that's what he meant.

"A few days?" demanded Ransdale. "We were supposed to leave in two."

Damn, Heyes thought desultorily. Shouldn't have played cards with them... if they hadn't needed cash they'd have left day after tomorrow without Morrison ever coming up. He picked up his coffee and walked over and sat down next to the window. There he listened to the manager assuring the English that they wouldn't be charged if they were forced to remain longer and watched the snow come down with that peculiarly slow but steady, nearly vertical fall that meant there was no wind moving the heavy clouds along. It was going to snow all night, anyway... There might be a foot on the ground come morning, and no saying it would have stopped by then. 'I could do snowed in,' the Kid had said carelessly. Heyes hoped he still felt like that, considering.

For himself, the snow was more welcome than not. While it did mean that Morrison would be around longer, thus having more time to wonder about Joshua Smith if he was inclined to, it also meant that there was no particular hurry to come up with a way to spring Curry. He'd drowsed on and off on the ride up the mountain, but what he'd seen of the road confirmed what they'd been saying around the table when he'd arrived this evening: it wasn't a road he'd want to take in the dark. Still less, of course, in the dark and falling snow, but then if Morrison wasn't removing Curry in the morning Heyes didn't have to choose between springing him tonight and riding strange horses down the mountain in the dark, or taking him from the coach in the morning and being chased down the mountain in the daylight, and neither with much in the way of planning. He probably still had only the same choices—waiting till they got to Aspen was a definite third—but at least now he'd have time to plan.

"Do you like snow, Mr. Smith?" Isobel had joined him, curling up in another of the big chairs and gazing out the window.

"I like to watch it," he said. "It's pretty. But I don't much care for working around, or through, it."

"Why do people always feel they must? Why can't you just let it be?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes you can, sometimes you can't. Horses and cattle get trapped and die if you do sometimes, and sometimes people, too. And somebody's got to fetch your food and coal and such, while you're just letting it snow."

"Perhaps," she said. "Don't you believe in the Providence of the Lord? 'Consider the birds of the air...'?"

"I do believe in it, Mrs. Horne," he said. "Trouble is, I've seen far too many dead sparrows for it to be much of a comfort to me."

"I see." She regarded him for a long moment; the light was too dim for him to be sure of her expression. "So, Mr. Smith, you believe that the Lord helps him who helps himself?"

"I believe," he answered her, "that the providence of the Lord is generally shown to him who has the money to afford not to need it."

"Perhaps you're right, Mr. Smith," she said slowly. "Perhaps you're right..." She fell silent then, looking out at the black and white of the night.

Heyes drank the last of his coffee and watched the snow, wondering if the Kid had eaten and if he had enough blankets.

"Shall we play a few hands, Smith?" Ransdale came up behind them. "Give me a chance to get some of my money back? Or do you not feel up to it?"

"Oh, I'm always up to it, when 'it' is a chance to win more money," Heyes said, rising to his feet. "Losing Jones doesn't fret me that much, Lord Edward."

"Glad to hear it. Besides, I'm sure you can find another; from what Morrison says, Colorado must be simply seething with shootists."

"Near enough, Lord Edward," Heyes agreed. "Near enough."

"Good show. Ah, Isobel," Ransdale halted and turned back towards her. "Claire asked me to tell you she's a headache and has gone up to bed early."

"Thank you, Edward," she said. "I think I'll just sit here and watch the snow."

"Whatever you please," he said indifferently. "Come on, Smith, I feel certain my luck has turned."

Curry shifted on the narrow bed, trying to get comfortable. For their sake, he hoped the Paradise Hotel's maids were all short. Of course, being handcuffed, with the chain passed behind one of the headboard’s railings didn't help any. He wished Morrison had cuffed him to the post, that way he wouldn’t have had to have his arms over his head but he was just too tall to sleep sideways with his shoulders in the middle of the bed, this skinny one anyway. Damn, but he couldn't wait for the morning. A short, if cold, ride until Heyes figured out a way to spring him... at least he'd be moving.

He hoped that Wells Fargo detective remained convinced that Heyes was too cultured to be, well, Heyes. If they were both locked up it would be a lot harder to get out. He sighed. On the other hand, if they'd both been locked up, he'd at least have had Heyes to look at and talk to. Instead of nothing and no one.

Footsteps outside told him that was about to change. But he hadn't been expecting Lady Clarissa... though at some level he wasn't really surprised to see her. See her alone, without the Wells Fargo man, yes; but see her? No. Not really.

"So, Mr. Curry," she said, as though she were dropping in on him in an ordinary way. "I've never actually talked with an outlaw before. Criminals, I suppose I have, but an actual outlaw? Never."

"I'm glad to be of some entertainment value," he said.

"Oh, you could be," she said. "You could have been."

"Lady Clarissa," he said, regretting his choice of words, "I don't think your brother would approve of your being down here with me."

"Oh, Teddie," she said dismissively. "We don't interfere in each other's pleasures, Mr. Curry... What is your Christian name? I can't possibly call you 'Kid'."

He didn't tell her. She scared him, and he didn't want her to know his name.

She laughed and swayed over to sit on the bed next to him. "Oh, Mr. Curry," she said. "You Americans are so odd... But you're not much of a threat to me, are you?"

He wasn't sure what to say to that. Besides, the smell of her perfume was doing odd things to him.

"Everyone back home said Americans were so rough," she said. "But you're not, after all. You're cowards, really."

"What do you mean?" That had gotten to him.

"You're interested in me," she said huskily. "But you run away. I wondered, and then I thought, you look at your Mr. Smith as a dog looks at its master. Is that it, Mr. Curry? Do you belong to him?"

"I don't know what you mean," Curry managed.

"Really?" Her accent did something indescribable to that word. "I do know all about that sort of thing; after all, dear Teddie spends enough on stable boys, giving them five pounds to take a bath and lean over a bed for him... but you, for all they call you 'Kid', are rather older than that. And rather more male, I think."

Her choice of words brought back the previous evening, and the memory of her silk-clad toes against his leg; his body began to react. And then she put her hand on him, and there wasn't any doubt what his body wanted.

She laughed, huskily, and bent over him. He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't quite sure what, and hers closed over it, her tongue taking advantage of its openmess to delve deep inside. Her hand pushed against him; he moved—his mind was claiming it was to get away from her—and she stroked him. He'd never had a woman who wasn't a hooker touch him like that, and every part of him was ready to get laid. Every part but his mind, which was fighting a desperate battle, considering it couldn't get his hands free or make his body run away. He could shout, if she ever stopped kissing him, but, God, would that be humiliating...

Not at all male...

He pulled away from her mouth. "Lady Clarissa," he managed to say, "I don't want—"

"Oh, piffle," she said, stroking him again. "Of course you do. Here, this will help."

She filled his mouth again, this time with her silk scarf. Then she straddled him, grinding her hips against his, and leaning forward to lick his throat. He moaned into the scarf, feeling his hips moving. She laughed again, murmured, "I told you," and began unbuttoning his shirt. She nuzzled him, biting gently through the cotton undershirt and said, "God, you smell like a man."

She sat up and unbuttoned her shirtwaist, freeing small breasts Curry, giving up, really wanted to get his hands on. But his frustration was short-lived; she pushed herself down his body and began unbuttoning his trousers, rubbing her breasts against his stomach and nipping at him. Her hand was urgent on him, and she was repeating obscenities he'd never heard a woman use, except that one friend of Heyes's—no, no, no! Don't think about him!

And then she lowered herself onto him, her hands on her breasts and her head thrown back, and he thrust into her as well as he could, and she rode him until she shuddered and collapsed onto his chest. He rolled over on top of her, and she clenched her hands on his hips, raising her knees and biting his shoulder. He drove into her until he, too, climaxed in a long, shuddering ecstasy. He managed to fall off to her side, and she slid out from under him and lay on his back for a moment. She ran her hand across his buttocks and whispered into his ear, "You're no kid, Curry."

Then she sat up. He turned over almost reluctantly to see her stretching like a cat. Then she buttoned up her shirtwaist and rearranged her skirts. Leaning over, she bit gently at his stomach, and then considerately pulled his trousers up and buttoned them and buckled his belt. "It would have been even nicer if you hadn't run so hard," she said with a throaty laugh. "You don't get to do that often enough, do you?"

Fortunately, the scarf was still in his mouth. She left it there, tugging on a lock of his hair and saying, "I hope you don't end up in jail, Man Curry."

And then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a terrible finality.

And Curry lay there, staring into the darkness, and wondered why he couldn't just die right then.

Heyes shut the door, locked it, and then leaned against for a moment. He was tired to the bone. The evening hadn't been fun, even though there was, he had to admit, a certain amount of pleasure to be gained from the sparring and the role-playing. But with Curry locked up already, worry canceled out any enjoyment.

After a moment, he straightened and walked slowly into the bedroom, locking that door as well. At least there was no need to go into the other room and muss up that bed, though he'd rather there was. He'd much rather there was.

Even if he had to listen to the Kid ribbing him about his paranoia.

Sometimes he wondered where the Kid had learned that word. He'd never asked, partly because he didn't like sounding surprised when the other man knew things, but mostly because he thought he'd probably been the one to teach it him. He didn't remember it, not that specific conversation, but then it would have been back in the early days, back when Curry was just someone he liked. Back when he just wasn't paying that much attention. It surprised him, sometimes: it wasn't hard to remember those days, but they seemed very long ago, almost as far off as the War. Days of yore, he thought with a bit of self-mockery.

Days he didn't want back, all things taken into consideration.

And he always had been the considering sort if not, the mockery flashed more strongly, necessarily considerate.

He shook his head; perhaps he'd had a bit more to drink than was wise... all things considered. He smiled wryly at himself and stacked his winnings on the top of the chest of drawers. Then he took off his coat, hanging it neatly in the closet and brushing it off. Morrison wasn't going anywhere in the morning, probably not at all for a day or so. That was worth a drink or two over whist. The vest followed the coat, and then he took off the gun, standing for a moment looking at it and wondering what he should do with it.

He hadn't cleaned it yet. In fact, both guns, his and Curry's lying on the desk, ought to be cleaned after being fired this afternoon. He didn't feel like doing it, though he knew he should. His partner's was just one of the voices he could hear telling him to take care of his weapon, his life could depend on it. But Curry had cleaned his just the night before, and his own hadn't been fired since the last time he'd cleaned it until today. They could wait until the morning. He could clean them after breakfast, strip them down one at a time and think about the problems facing him while his hands performed the chore too familiar to need thought. Yes. In the morning.

He pulled his pistol out of its holster and laid it on the pillow where Curry's head usually rested. He looked at the dark shape on the white linen and sighed; it had been a long time since he'd felt the need of a gun quite so close to hand when he slept.

Of course, it had been a long time since he'd slept alone.

He was going to miss Curry for more than one reason tonight.

He blew out another sigh and pulled the curtains tightly shut, finished undressing, and got into the bed. He lay there for a few minutes, looking into the darkness, and then closed his eyes. The darkness there wasn't any better. He reached out to touch the cool sheet beside him. He missed the Kid. He was worried about him, but more: he missed him.

He shook his head and rolled over. Ridiculous. He hadn't been unable to sleep because of nerves in... years. Not since he'd grown up. He took a couple of deep breaths and relaxed. He might miss Curry, the warmth of his body and the sound of his breathing and the security of his presence, but he didn't need him.

He'd always been self-sufficient, even as a child: "almost frighteningly self-sufficient" one of his mother's friends had said to her once, neither of them realizing that young Hannibal was hiding in the snowball bushes, quiet as the proverbial mouse and filled with the need to know what was going on in the increasingly unsettled world grownups lived in and tried to keep him out of.

"Better that than needy," his mother had responded.

"But, Amabel, he's only seven!"

At the time, his mother's caroling laughter had reassured him. But even if Miss Susannah had been right and he'd been too young then, that was more than twenty years ago. And self-sufficiency had been his deliberate, and achieved, goal since the war, right up until last spring when he'd listened to the Kid's stumbling words and realized that self-sufficiency wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

So, yes: he wanted Curry, and he missed him. But he could sleep without him.

He had for years and he hadn't forgotten how.

He would.

And on the resolution he closed his eyes again and let sleep take him.

But even with Curry he didn't sleep so soundly that someone pounding on the outer door wouldn't have wakened him. He was on his feet, gun in hand, before the words became clear.

"Smith! Smith, you in there?"

Morrison. Heyes froze for a moment, reviewing options.

"Smith? Open up; I need to talk to you."

A quick flinging back of the curtains showed him night and even deeper snow; going out the window was definitely the last resort. He cautiously eased open the bedroom door to find the sitting room empty and the Wells Fargo man outside in the hall. "I'm awake," he called in a low voice. "What is it?"

"I need to talk to you," Morrison repeated. "Somethin'... somethin's happened."

His blood chilled. "To Jones?"

"No. Open the door, won't you?"

"Hold on." Heyes went back into the bedroom, pulled on shirt and trousers, and padded to the door, gun still in his hand. Unlocking it, he stood aside and watched as Morrison came in. "What happened?"

Morrison turned towards him, blinking at the sight of the Colt but not remarking on it. Those light brown eyes appraised him—half-dressed, barefoot, tousled hair, undoubtedly traces of sleep still in his eyes—and came to a decision. "There's been a killing," he said.

Heyes felt himself go very still. "A killing?" he asked after a moment. "Who?"

Morrison took a deep breath. "Lady Clarissa."

Heyes looked down at the body lying at the foot of the stairs. It had been neatly arranged by someone: feet in trim shoes together, dark purple skirt tucked around the legs, arms crossed over the matching jacket and snowy shirtwaist, eyes closed. The fair hair was only slightly disarrayed, as if she hadn't bothered with it since supper but not as if she'd been doing much, and the gold bead and amethyst drops she wore in her ears were still there, as were her two rings and a bracelet and the expensive gold watch pinned to her left lapel. "You do this?" he asked finally.

"No," said Morrison. "Sary Jackson—that's the maid who found her—says that's how she was."

"Huh."

"Yeah. Look at her feet," Morrison said.

Heyes did. He narrowed his eyes and dropped to sit on his heels for a closer look. "I'll be damned," he said.

The soft kid ankle boots laced up, and the laces were fastened and tied with neat bows. But it would have been distinctly impossible for her to have taken a single step: the outer laces were just run up the side through the eyelets, and the inner laces criss-crossed between the two shoes, tying her feet together.

"That's weird," Heyes said finally.

"Sure is," Morrison agreed. "And it must have taken a little while to do, too."

It must have. He couldn't figure her just sitting still while somebody did it, either, so most likely she'd been dead already. Why would somebody take all that time with a corpse? If they just wanted to tie her legs together, there were plenty of easier ways to do it... He stood up, shaking his head. "I don't figure it. Any ideas?"

Morrison shook his own head. "Clean out," he said, looking down at the body. "I guess we shouldn't leave her here."

Heyes looked slightly askance at him. We? he thought, but what he said was, "You told her brother?"

"Lord Edward is passed out," Morrison answered disgustedly. "I suppose their cousin..."

"Well, I guess you're in charge."

"I'm no marshal," Morrison protested.

"You're closer to it than I am," Heyes said, not smiling at the notion. "You've got Wells Fargo's prestige behind you."

"I guess..." He blew out a breath. "Anyway, I guess we can't just leave her lying here. Damn. I don't know what to do with her. There's no funeral home or nothin'. No doctor even."

"I guess you could put her in the ice house or something," Heyes said. "It's cold enough. You didn't tell the manager?"

"No." Morrison sounded a bit distracted.

Heyes raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should."

"I suppose so. Him and then Horne, I reckon." He looked down at the body a minute longer. "Too bad we can't just send down the mountain to Aspen for the sheriff."

Heyes didn't agree with that at all, but he didn't say so. Instead he followed Morrison to the manager's room on the first floor and leaned up against the wall listening to him break the news. Predictably the man was horrified and then worried that Lord Edward was going to find some way to blame the hotel for this. And if Lady Clarissa had been killed by a waiter or something, Heyes thought, Lord Edward would have a point. But somehow he didn't think that was what had happened. The way she'd been laid out... that was personal.

"Was she... attacked?" Weston, the manager, joined them in the hallway after hurriedly dressing.

Heyes found the question absurd at first; she'd been murdered after all, but as Morrison answered he realized what Weston had meant.

"Not as far as I could tell. I mean, I didn't look, but her clothes aren't messed up and she doesn't look like she struggled or anything. And her jewelry's all there, too, I think."

Weston looked happier. If it wasn't rape or robbery, Heyes supposed, and then the odds were it wasn't one of the hotel's employees. Still, he'd be willing to bet that Lord Edward wouldn't think this was the sort of thing that should happen in a luxury hotel.

He himself, he'd realized already, was mostly hoping that this would keep Morrison off balance. He hadn't cared for Lady Clarissa, and he didn't like her brother, either. Or her cousin, for that matter. It wasn't that he'd wished her dead, or was happy that she was, but he wasn't broken up about it, either. And anything that kept Morrison distracted could only help.

He almost missed a step. He wondered if Morrison had checked on Curry. He couldn't ask now, but he would as soon as he could. He listened to the manager's predictable remarks over the body and then the short argument he and Morrison had over whether to wake Horne up first, or move the body and then wake him. Finally he decided it had gone on long enough and interjected himself into the conversation. "I don't think they'll appreciate it if you leave Lady Clarissa at the bottom of the stairs."

"No, you're right. Fortunately," said Weston, "it's cold outside. If we put her in a room at the end of a hall and open all the windows..." He looked at them assessingly. "Mr. Morrison, if you'd help me carry her?"

Heyes smothered a smile. Clearly Weston didn't think he could ask a paying guest to lug a corpse around. Morrison didn't look too happy, but he took Lady Clarissa's feet without complaining. Heyes followed them up the stairs thinking about those feet again. Lacing the shoes together like that was definitely purposeful and definitely not entirely rational. Maybe he should worry about it... Or maybe he should just let Morrison and Ransdale worry about it, and Weston, and stick to worrying about Curry.

Almost on cue he heard Weston, backing carefully up the stairs, say, "I suppose that man is locked up?"

"Curry? Yes," Morrison answered. "I checked on him; he's still locked up. Besides, this kind of thing, well, it's not what he's known for."

Heyes was glad to hear that, all of it. The surge of anger he'd felt when he heard the question had been strong enough to have shown in his expression if either of them had been looking at him. He'd have had to spin some tale about Joshua Smith not being that bad a judge of character to cover it up, and it might not have worked. He decided he wasn't interested enough in what Horne had to say to follow Morrison around any longer; for that matter, he didn't want to get sucked into this. He blinked a couple of times as he wondered, for the first time, just why Morrison had taken him to see the body in the first place.

Maybe, he thought as he turned away from them to go his suite, maybe Morrison hadn't been sure about the mysterious Mr. Smith. That amused him slightly; Morrison's soft call didn't, much. "Yes?" he answered, pausing outside his door.

"I want to talk to you for a minute," Morrison said. "I'll be along as soon as I can, okay?"

Heyes nodded; he didn't see any way out of it. So instead of going back to bed he stood and watched the snow falling until Morrison rapped softly on the door and came in.

"Horne's simply appalled," the Wells Fargo man said, probably quoting, "and Mrs. Horne says she's not frightened but if you ask me she's terrified."

Heyes wondered if the Lord's providence was looking more and more out of reach for Isobel Horne. He said, "I suppose she has some reason."

"I reckon she does, at that." Morrison fell silent, looking at him.

Heyes gave him a couple of minutes and then decided not to wait till dawn. It was, as he'd found when he collected his watch a few minutes earlier, nearly six in the morning. "What did you want, Morrison?"

The man grinned briefly. "Help, I reckon. Horne figures me to be in charge, too."

Heyes raised an eyebrow. "From me?"

"I don't think I'm going to get much help from the Ransdales." He paused, and then visibly decided to take the plunge. "They got their money with us, and whenever they get into a mess, they call us to clean it up for them. I been doing that all over Colorado, California, New Mexico, Texas... It's been interestin', I guess, but I don't have much faith in Ransdale's ability to deal with his sister bein' murdered."

"It's not my job, or my problem," Heyes said.

"You're stuck here, though," Morrison said with a bit of unexpected humor. "Like the rest of us."

"You have a point..." He thought for a moment, and then looked at the Wells Fargo man and decided he might as well take advantage of the situation. "I want to see Jones."

"Why?" Morrison asked, and then grinned briefly. "Expert advice?"

"I thought you said at supper that Curry wasn't wanted for murder," Heyes was able to say mildly, knowing Morrison's opinion already.

"He's not. But he's still wanted. I'm not lettin' him loose."

"I didn't ask you to—"

"Yet."

Heyes shrugged. "It's sure enough true that if there's a murderer running around the Paradise Hotel I'd feel a whole lot better with Jones at my back. It's why I hired him, after all. But all I asked you was to see him."

Morrison paused. "Why?" he repeated.

Heyes looked at him, projecting faintly exasperated confidence. "He might know something. If you'd been here the last couple of days, you'd know that Lady Clarissa spent a lot of time talking to Jones."

Morrison's expression indicated that quite possibly not all of the messes he'd been called on to clean up for the Ransdales had involved the lord. Heyes wasn't surprised.

"You think she might have...?"

Heyes shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Not in my suite," he said, "but who knows? My thinking was, though: Jones complained she treated him like an amenity, and she didn't exactly treat her servants well, for all that 'oh my maid will be upset' talk yesterday. Who knows what she might have said when Jones was around?"

"Good point. Him, or her maid. Or one of the hotel staff." He sighed. "I already talked to a couple of the maids. Guess I'll need to go back and talk to them again, and everybody else that works here."

"Waiters and stable hands," suggested Heyes with malice aforethought though in a reasonable tone.

Morrison sighed. "I reckon so." He paused. "He was complainin' about her?"

Heyes raised an eyebrow. "He was locked up, remember? Besides, he wasn't worked up about it, just said she didn't act like a lady. From what I've seen of him, Jones likes to be the one doing the picking out."

Morrison nodded. He didn't seem to be in any hurry to go talk to the maids again, or start waking up the rest of the help. Instead he walked over to the window and looked out at the falling snow. "Don't look like stopping soon," he said.

Heyes made an agreeing sort of sound.

"As much money as Curry's worth, I'm starting to wish I never come up here." He turned and looked at Heyes. "I ain't a Pinkerton. I mean, I don't solve crimes. I just catch crooks."

"I don't even work for Wells Fargo."

"I know. But you're a smart man, Mr. Smith."

"And?" Heyes said cautiously.

Morrison shrugged slightly. "You want to see Curry?"

"Jones."

"Jones." He laughed shortly. "I reckon whoever killed her knew her. I mean, they didn't rob her or, or anything. So it wasn't because she was a pretty woman, or a rich woman. It was because she was Lady Clarissa."

He paused. Heyes obliged him by nodding and saying, "I expect you're right."

"And whoever it was, they're still here. They didn't go anywhere in that."

Heyes found himself getting curious despite his better thoughts. "You're right. And yet they waited until now to do it."

"Yeah. Something must have happened. Now, I wasn't here. I don't what's been goin' on. And whether your man is Curry or not, he is the kind that lives off trouble."

Another pause, and then another nod from Heyes. No harm in acknowledging that.

"So," Morrison said, "I reckon he might have some ideas. Might have seen somethin', heard somethin'... I also reckon he won't tell me."

"Probably not," Heyes conceded, though actually Curry most likely would tell him if he knew who the murderer was.

"Will he talk to you?"

Ah. Heyes shrugged. "I pay his wage," he said. "He generally does."

"He acts like you still do," Morrison said. "I mean, he talks like you're still his boss."

"He's a good man, Jones. Worth what I pay him."

Morrison looked as though he'd dearly love to know what that was, but he didn't ask. Heyes didn't volunteer the information; he didn't think Joshua Smith would, for one thing, and for another, if Curry were to give a different figure it would be bad. "You'll tell me what he says?"

"If it has any bearing on this killing, yes."

"All right, and then." Morrison nodded decisively. "Come along, Mr. Smith."

It was probably a good thing, Curry thought morosely, that he'd given up on all thought of sleep after Lady Clarissa had left. The number of people who'd gone tromping up and down the stairs since then was amazing. He had no idea what they were all doing, though he supposed the hotel must store supplies down here. And in the normal way of things, of course, wouldn't anybody be disturbed by it. Just their bad luck he was down here.

He sighed. His bad luck, that was.

Still, he hadn't been really disturbed, because he hadn't been able to sleep. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, he'd been gratefully distracted from thinking about what had happened. He much preferred trying to figure out who was doing what out in the rest of the hotel than—

He shifted slightly, the cuff chafing his left wrist a little, not enough to worry, barely enough to notice. He'd slid upwards on the bed after Lady Clarissa had left, crooking his elbow around the rail in the headboard so that he could pull her scarf out of his mouth. He'd dropped it on the floor in disgust and curled up on his side, knowing he needed to get some sleep because tomorrow was going to be a busy day, but every time he'd closed his eyes he'd seen either her—laughing, moaning, bare-breasted—or else Heyes, the way he'd been this afternoon, sunlit on that grey rock and creamy sheepskin... He didn't know which was worse. Was it just that morning he'd told himself that today was not going to be the day he hurt Heyes?

He'd given up on sleep finally and sat up, leaning his shoulder against the wall with his legs crossed Injun-style and his hands on his thigh. He was comfortable enough, though he hoped Morrison would show up fairly soon for more than a quick check that he was still there. Pissing on the floor would not, in Heyes's phrase, add to the ambience. Heyes... Curry sighed again and thumped his head against the wall. Sure, he was comfortable enough. Except for the thoughts he couldn't get rid of.

He didn't have any illusions about being able to lie to Heyes for any length of time. The only thing that would save him was if Morrison moved him out right after breakfast, and Heyes got so busy saving his butt that it never occurred to him that something might have happened. If that bitch didn't say anything. If.

If.

If wishes were horses then beggars would ride, his ma had used to say. If ifs and ands were pots and pans there'd be no work for tinkers' hands. If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we'd all have a merry Christmas... What was that one Heyes had quoted at him, that time they'd gone through all that trouble in Colorado Springs and ended up floating down Fountain Creek (creek, hell) in a boat about two hours away from sinking? He'd been snarling about their bad luck in being a day late, and Heyes had paused, the bailing bucket in his black-gloved hands, and laughed at him. It had just about killed Curry, though he hadn't really understood why, looking at Heyes all sunlit and laughing... "Of all sad words of tongue and pen, Kid," he'd said, "the saddest are these: it might have been."

Curry sighed. If, but, maybe, might... none of 'em were is. And what was could turn into what had been so fast it would make your head spin. He'd seen that a time or two in his life. If Heyes turned into what had been... Curry thumped his head on the wall again and called himself a string of names. If it happened, he'd have only himself to blame. And he didn't know if he could take it. What he hadn't yet understood a couple of years ago was in his bones today: he loved Heyes and wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. He'd known that last part first, and it had worried him into discovering the first, because it was a woman you were supposed to want to spend your life with.

He swallowed. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Heyes, sure enough, but just as sure he'd wanted a woman. That woman. Still did, somewhere inside himself. And he didn't even like her.

He couldn't quote like Heyes could, though he had a lot of the things Heyes had said over the past three years stored up in his mind, but one book he did know. "Whosever lusteth after a woman in his heart..." And while he'd like to whine, with Adam, "the woman tempted me", the flat fact was that just like Adam he'd jumped at the chance. He'd pretended he didn't want to, didn't have a choice, but God knew he could have gotten rid of her. Maybe he couldn't have talked her away, but he'd bet a couple of strategic kicks would have changed her mind. As far as that went, if he didn't mind a few bruises, he could have gotten his hands around her lovely white throat and...

He shook his head. That kind of thinking never got anybody anywhere, except a gallows. And it wouldn't solve the problem, anyhow.

Because the problem was him. Hadn't anybody been holding a gun to his head when he wandered around the woods thinking about her, or sat at supper wondering what she'd be like in bed. And sure as hell wasn't anybody putting those other thoughts in his head, the dark ones. Maybe... He shook his head again. Maybe this was the real reason men weren't supposed to love men. Maybe it was one of those natural laws you couldn't get around...

But how could he live without Heyes?

Oh, God. He turned slightly and leaned back against the wall. Maybe he should just go to jail.

The door opened; he flinched. But the voice that spoke was Morrison's. "Curry, you got a visitor."

He straightened up. Probably it wasn't her again, not with Morrison. God, he hoped—

"Jones," Heyes said, sounding a tiny bit surprised. "I was going to apologize for waking you up."

Mindful of Morrison, who might still be there, Curry answered, "Kinda hard to sleep, Mr. Smith. If a herd of elephants run through here every hour it couldn't be noisier."

"There's been a lot of traffic?"

And that was Morrison, following Heyes in, so good thing he'd said 'Smith'. But Curry was taken aback at the sharpness in the lawman's tone. "How should I know what a lot is? It's not like I spent any time down here before."

"Listen, Curry," Morrison started.

"I'll talk to him," Heyes said. His tone was sharp, too.

Curry blinked and pulled himself out of his self-focussed musings to actually pay attention to the others. Morrison looked liked he'd been rode hard and put away wet, but Curry really didn't care about the lawman. Heyes looked all on edge, the way he got when he was trying to do too much on too little sleep. Living on his nerves, which this trip was supposed to be a break from. Damn it. This was more than his being arrested, too... Man, he hoped Morrison wasn't arresting Heyes. No—Heyes was wearing his gun. Had that bitch—he took a deep breath. Don't jump to conclusions, he warned himself. It would be easy to tell Heyes something he didn't already know, something he didn't need to know.

Ignoring Morrison he said, "Mr. Smith? Somethin' goin' on I should know about?"

"Yes." Heyes looked at Morrison. "Why don't you go see if Ransdale is awake yet?"

"He won't be." Morrison managed half a smile. "But I'll check on breakfast. Want some coffee, Curry?"

"Yeah, I would," he said.

"Okay. Ummm... Mr. Smith?"

"Where would he go?" Heyes asked.

For some reason that made Morrison smile wryly. "I reckon... Okay." He turned and left; a minute later Curry heard him going up the stairs.

He looked at Heyes. "He's just leavin' you here? He must trust you."

Heyes shrugged and blew out a sigh. "He's boxed, Kid. A lot's happened." He crossed over and sat on the foot of the bed. "You comfortable?"

"Reasonably. Like what?" He'd as soon Heyes wasn't on the bed, actually. That's gotta be a first, he thought.

"For one thing, you called it. It's snowing."

"Bad?"

"Bad enough you're not going anywhere today. Or tomorrow, probably." Heyes's dark eyes were flicking around the room, cataloging the details almost without him realizing it. His right hand was rubbing his leg, just above the knee, in a nervous habit he didn't let many people see. "Manager says it should melt enough by then."

Curry was glad his partner hadn't seen him the night before, before he was cuffed to the bed; he couldn't know what it meant that his shirttails were untucked, half the buttons still undone. He spoke before that guilty thought had a chance to show up on his face. "That'll give you more time to decide what to do. And win some more money—Okay," he said as Heyes shook his head. "What else, and then?"

Heyes hesitated, and then said, bluntly, "Somebody cracked Clarissa Ransdale over the head and killed her."

"Wha—" Curry felt like somebody had just cracked him over the head. He didn't like her, but all that vitality just crushed... "Who? Why?" He stopped. "When? I mean she was—" He stopped again, this time too late.

Heyes raised an eyebrow, but all he said was, "I told Morrison she'd been bothering you. She was here last night?"

"He's investigating this?"

"He's what passes for law, considering the snow," Heyes said. "He knows the Ransdales, too, and this had to be personal. When was she here?"

Curry made himself shrug. "I don't know. She didn't stay long, just wanted to talk to a real outlaw, I think. Late, but not real late." He paused. "What time is it now?"

"Six, maybe... That explains why she was still dressed, downstairs in the first place. Kid, this is a mess."

"You got a real way with words."

Heyes's lips quirked but it wasn't a real smile. "I don't like being trapped here with no way down the mountain, and that's without a murderer running loose and you locked up down here. Especially not shackled like that."

"I'm okay," Curry said. "But you seem buddy-buddy with Morrison, maybe you can get me a little loose."

"I'll try. You notice I'm still calling you Jones?"

"Yeah. I didn't admit anything to him."

"Good. Keep it that way." He cocked his head. "Sounds like Morrison."

Curry heard the footsteps on the stairs then. "Yeah."

Heyes reached out and touched Curry's shoulder, squeezing it lightly and briefly. "Hang on," he said. "I'll get you out."

"I know."

Heyes stood up then, turned to say something, and then paused, his dark eyes narrowing. Something had caught his eye, something on the floor too close to the bed for Curry to see. He bent over, reaching, and then froze for a moment. When he straightened up, he had Clarissa's scarf, a long narrow piece of pale purple silk, in his hands. It wasn't damp any longer, but it was crumpled and torn. He looked at it expressionlessly, and then began folding it neatly. After the fashion of silk, it reduced itself to nearly nothing; he tucked it carefully away into the inner pocket of his vest.

"Heyes," Curry said, and then stopped. He couldn't think of a thing to say.

Heyes waited a minute, and then shook his head. "Not now."

And then Morrison was in the room. "You done, Mr. Smith?"

"Yes. Yes, I am." Heyes glanced back at Curry but then said, "Breakfast as usual?"

"For those who can eat," Morrison nodded. "I'll talk to you later then?" That tailed up into a question that Curry thought he hadn't meant.

Heyes nodded and left.

Morrison turned to Curry. "He tell you about the snow?"

"He did. Sounds like we're stuck."

"You can say that again. So even if you was to get away from me down here there's nowhere for you to go."

Curry nodded. "Not much chance of that though, is there?" He rattled his chain.

"Yeah, well," Morrison produced the key. "Can't leave you like that all day." He pulled his gun out of its holster and put it on the floor by the door before coming over to unlock the cuffs. Curry rubbed his wrists and flexed his arms in relief but otherwise stayed still. "Come on," the Wells Fargo man said. "I'll take you up the back way to the servants' water closet."

"Thanks," Curry said with feeling.

They made the trip in silence, Morrison several paces behind Curry the whole way, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Curry splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the little mirror they had on the wall. He looked normal, he realized. A little worried, maybe, but he guessed he was entitled. Nobody would think twice about it. Morrison rapped on the door and Curry went out at once, not wanting the man to decide he needed to come in the next time.

Once back in the room, Morrison held out the cuffs again. "Okay," he said.

Curry sighed and extended his wrists.

"I'll let you stay loose in here, but you understand how it is."

"Yeah," Curry said, grateful to be able to walk around. Plus with his hands cuffed in front of him he wasn't that hobbled. "I guess so."

"I'll bring down some breakfast for you if you want it. And coffee," he added as Curry nodded emphatically.

"Thanks. So," he figured he'd better ask, "what went on last night except for the murder?"

"I reckon pretty much the usual. We ate, and then Lord Edward, Mr. Horne, Mr. Smith, and Raines played cards for a while. Whist, what the cultured folks from England play when they want to lose money," Morrison elaborated. "Your boss... sorry, your former boss took 'em for a pretty penny."

"Huh," Curry said. "Yeah, he's pretty cut-throat, for a businessman. Said to me once, you don't make a lot of money by being nice."

"I've met his kind," Morrison nodded. "He hire you to guard his payroll and himself, or to ride point in a range war?"

Curry blinked. Then he said, "You don't really expect me to answer that, do you?"

"No," Morrison admitted. "But he seems a bit too sharp to have been so completely fooled."

"Well," Curry shrugged, "is it actually against the law?"

"There is something called hindering prosecution," Morrison said, but it was obvious he had no intention of ever challenging Joshua Smith as to whether he'd known he'd hired an outlaw. Probably, Curry thought, the notion that a man might figure the $7,500—no, he corrected himself, $10,000; he had to get used to that—wasn't worth taking into consideration had stopped the Wells Fargo man, who made about thirty a month if he was lucky. Hell, it would have made Curry stop and think for a minute or two, anyway.

It would have made Heyes stop and think about how to redistribute that wealth a bit. Curry almost grinned, but then remembered what Heyes had looked like the last time he'd seen him, and he didn't feel like grinning any more. Suddenly he wanted Morrison to go away.

"I don't suppose Smith worries about judges much," Morrison said almost tentatively.

"No," Curry shook his head while sitting down. On the bed, of course, since that's all the furniture there was in the room. He couldn't help think how different it was from the one upstairs... He throttled that thought and added, "He don't. I think some judges may worry about him a bit, though."

"Yeah... He an honest man?"

Curry thought about that for a minute. "You wonderin' if he killed her? I really doubt it."

"No," Morrison shook his head. "Not so much that..."

Curry laughed, a sudden snort of real amusement. "He don't like it any. And he's a smart man. You need help, you could do a lot worse."

Morrison nodded slowly. "I'll be back with your breakfast," he promised, and left.

Curry sighed. He wasn't hungry. He could use some coffee, though, clear up his mind. He had a lot of thinking to do.

And he wasn't that good at it.

But it was possible that his whole life was going to hang on just how well he could figure out what to say.

Hell, he thought. Figure out himself.