Teresa Medeiros - Nobody’s Darling

She wagged a finger in his face instead. “Why, Bartholomew Ignatius Fine, I ought to turn you over my knee.”

“Ignatius?” his men chorused again. This time, one of them even had the temerity to giggle.

Jasper elbowed Virgil. “She can turn me over her knee any day of the week.”

One of the masked men eagerly raised his hand. "Or me!”

“How ‘bout me!” volunteered another. "I've been a very bad boy”

Holstering his pistol, Bartholomew shook his hair out of his eyes and fixed her with a smoldering glare. The phony drawl disappeared from his voice, leaving it clipped and sullen. “See what you’ve gone and done now, Esme.

Those men respected me. At least they did until you came along and spoiled everything. You never did want me to have any fun.“

“Fun?” Esmerelda choked out a disbelieving laugh, sweeping a hand toward the bank customers cowering in the floor. “Is this what you call fun? Terrorizing innocent citizens? Stealing the money they’ve worked for and sacrificed to save?”

He cocked his head back, as unrepentant as he’d been when she’d caught him gobbling lemon drops right out of the jar at the corner apothecary when he was nine. "I'm just doing research for my novel. A man’s got to live life before he can write about it.”

All the anger and hurt Esmerelda had hoarded in her heart over the past few months spilled into her eyes as fresh tears. “And I suppose it didn’t bother you that while you were out here living life, I was back home thinking you were dead.”

Genuine shame flickered across his face. “I’m truly sorry about that, Esme. I swear I am. I didn’t hire Snorton to hurt you, but to protect you.”

Esmerelda took a step backward, recoiling as if he’d slapped her. “You hired Snorton?” she whispered. “You hired that horrid little weasel?”

It was Bartholomew who stalked her now, stretching out his hands in supplication as she continued to back away from him. “You had to believe I was dead, Esme. It was the only way I could keep you safe. If you thought I was alive, I knew you’d take it into that obstinate head of yours to come out west and find me.”

Esmerelda stopped, standing her ground. “So you had Snorton swindle me out of the pittance I had left and deliver that overwrought account of your death?”

Bartholomew’s brow furrowed in a sulky frown. “Overwrought? That’s not very generous of you. I found it to be a very moving piece of fiction. I had to stop and dab my eyes more than once while I was writing it.”

Esmerelda heard a snort behind her that could have only come from Billy.

“You see, Esme,” Bartholomew continued. “I made a man very angry—a dangerous and powerful man. I deliberately let him believe that I was an only child. I was afraid if he found out I had a sister, he might try to use you against me or hurt you out of spite.”

“I doubt that he could have hurt me any more than you have,” she said stiffly.

Bartholomew’s words began to tumble out, propelled by his growing excitement. “Someday you’ll understand that I did what I did for the both of us. As soon as the fuss died down, I had every intention of contacting you with the wonderful news.” He clutched her shoulders, giving her the dimpled smile that had never failed to soften her heart when he was a little boy. “I’m a wealthy man now, sister. Wealthy enough to make sure that you never again have to scrimp or sacrifice or go hungry on my account. You won’t have to listen to those spoiled rich brats pound on the piano all day. You’ll be able to afford all the pretty gewgaws and ribbons you always deserved.” He captured one of the curls that had escaped from her bonnet, tenderly coiling it around his finger. “You’re not so old yet, Esme. If you fix yourself up with some powder and paint, you might even be able to snare some lonely widower and have some babies of your own to mother.”

A wave of humiliation broke over Esmerelda, flooding her cheeks with heat. She might have been able to endure it with more grace if she hadn’t known that Billy was back there somewhere, listening to the entire exchange. Did he find her as pathetic as her own brother did?

Before she even realized she was going to do it, her hand had crossed Bartholomew’s face, wiping the self-satisfied smirk from his mouth with enough force to make every man in that bank wince in commiseration.

He staggered backward, rubbing his cheek. His dark eyes brimmed with reproach. “Esme, how could you? You haven’t so much as swatted me on the bottom since Mama and Papa died.”

“I know. And I’m beginning to think I made a very grave mistake.”

They glowered at each other with simmering hostility. Esmerelda wasn’t even aware that Billy was circling them, studying the unconscious mirroring of their stances, the pugnacious jut of their jaws—a trait their mother had sworn they’d inherited from their pigheaded grandfather.

“Well, I will be damned,” Billy breathed. “You really are his sister, aren’t you?”

Esmerelda whirled on him, fighting hysteria. "Of course I’m his sister. Who did you think I was?”

As their gazes collided, she realized exactly who, and what, he had thought she was. It was there in the wariness shadowing his eyes, the raw tension curling his fingers into fists. It had been there in every exchange they’d shared, but she’d been too much of a fool to see it.

The realization hurt more than it should have. Even more than her brother’s betrayal. For a moment, Esmerelda didn’t know if she was going to be able to breathe through the unbearable tightness in her chest.

“Who the hell is he?” Bartholomew demanded, jealous of her attention just as he’d been as a toddler. “And why is he looking at you like that?”

Esmerelda barely heard him. She had eyes only for Billy. “You knew all along, didn’t you?” she asked softly. “You knew exactly what I would find in Eulalie.”

Unlike Bartholomew, Billy didn’t try to excuse his actions or charm her into forgiving him. He simply looked her straight in the eye and nodded, damning them both with his honesty.

Esmerelda’s hoarse laugh sounded more like a sob, even to her own ears. “How utterly delicious! One of you thinks I’m a dried-up old spinster, the other some outlaw’s whore.”

Bartholomew stiffened to his full height, outrage glittering in his eyes. “Just who do you think you are, sir, calling my sister a whore?”

Billy gave her brother a look of pure contempt. “I’m William Darling, you ungrateful little whelp, the man you let Snorton accuse of killing you.” Slipping his hand into his vest pocket, he pulled out something shiny. He shoved the object under Bartholomew’s nose, distracting them all from the quicksilver grace of his other hand drawing his Colt. "I'm also the deputy U.S. marshal who’s about to take your sorry ass to jail.”

“Oh, son,” Virgil wailed, squinting at the badge in Billy’s hand. “Say it ain’t so!”

Esmerelda stood transfixed by the sight of the shiny tin star while Bartholomew’s gang went scattering in all directions. They shot through the three doors hard enough to leave them banging behind them. Only Sadie appeared unfazed by Billy’s revelation. She reclined on her haunches and hiked one back paw for a lethargic scratch behind her left ear, yawning in satisfaction.

“Get the hell out of here, Virg,” Billy ordered, never taking his eyes off of Bartholomew. “Take the boys and go before I have to haul you in, too.”

Enos and Sam huddled together, looking even more sallow than usual. Jasper snorted in disgust while Virgil shook his head, genuine grief darkening his eyes. “I do believe my big ole heart is broken. I never thought I’d live to see the day a Darlin‘ crawled into bed with the law.”

They silently filed out, Jasper pausing at the door just long enough to spit over his shoulder.

Ignoring the crude insult, Billy jerked his head toward the cowering bank patrons. “You’re free to go,” he called out. “And I wouldn’t waste any time about it.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. They crawled, ducked, and scrambled their way to freedom, leaving Billy, Bartholomew, and Esmerelda alone in the deserted bank lobby.

Esmerelda was still reeling from shock when Bartholomew grabbed her wrist, bruising it in his desperate grip. “You can’t let him take me, Esme. You don’t understand. I’ll never make it to trial alive. I’ll never even make it to jail. He’ll make sure of that.”

“Step away from the lady,” Billy said, his steely composure as unwavering as the pistol in his hand.

Bartholomew began to inch backward, freeing Esmerelda’s wrist when he realized her feet were still rooted to the floor. “He paid you, didn’t he?” he shouted at Billy. “Paid you to shoot me down in cold blood. Well, if I die, he’ll never find out where that gold is hidden! And neither will you.”

“What gold?” Esmerelda wailed. “Who are you talking about?”

Bartholomew stabbed a finger toward Billy. “Ask him. He knows who hired him to find me.”

“Of course he does. I did.”

That admission momentarily distracted her brother from his mounting hysteria. He squinted at her. “With what? You don’t have any money.”

Painfully conscious of Billy’s heavy-lidded scrutiny, Esmerelda said, “Mr. Darling is well aware of my present impoverishment. A state, I hasten to remind you, that I owe solely to your selfish and callow pilgrimage west. However, he was kind enough to extend me credit. Especially after I explained to him how grateful our grandfather would be once you were found.” She clenched her teeth in a frantic approximation of a smile. “We both know how generous dear Grandpapa is inclined to be when it comes to his beloved grandson.”

“Grandpapa? Grandpapa?” Bartholomew parroted with a shrill squawk of laughter. “And you dare to call my fiction overwrought!”

“Step away from the lady and put your hands over your head, boy.” Billy’s lazy drawl warned them that he was running out of patience. Esmerelda had already deduced that the slower Billy talked, the faster he could move.

“Do what he says,” she urged her brother. “We’ll sort out all this confusion later.”

“Why not sort it out now?” As Bartholomew shifted his attention from her to Billy, his eyes took on a calculating glint. “You and me, Mr. Darling, we could be partners. I’ll even give you Winstead’s share of the gold. Whatever he’s paying you, it can’t come close to what I’ve got stashed away only a few miles from here.”

Although Esmerelda feared both men had lost their wits, her brother had left her no choice but to appeal to the least deranged of the two.

She ran to Billy, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, and gave him a savage little shake. “What in heaven’s name is he babbling about? Who is this Winstead and why is Bartholomew trying to bribe you?”

She might have thought she was invisible if Billy’s arm hadn’t clamped around her waist, drawing her hard against him. She barely managed to wiggle around enough to see her brother’s face, which was now wreathed in a friendly smile.

“You’re probably thinking you can’t trust me,” he said, taking a step backward each time he paused for breath. “But I swear I never would have double-crossed Winstead if I hadn’t overheard him telling one of his hired guns to kill me after I returned with the gold.”

Billy’s exasperated sigh ruffled her hair. “I don’t want your gold, son. I want you to put your hands over your head where I can see them.”

A spasm of raw panic crossed Bartholomew’s face. He began to scuttle backward in earnest, a strategy that might have been successful if he hadn’t tripped over his own boots and gone sprawling on his backside. Even with the beard disguising his baby fat, in that moment he looked painfully young.

Esmerelda breathed a sigh of relief. Until she saw his hand rumble with the mouth of his holster.

“Don’t do it!” Billy shouted.

“Bartholomew, no!” she screamed.

Billy drew back the hammer of his own pistol. The click rang in Esmerelda’s ears, louder than a gunshot itself. Frantic with desperation, she wrenched herself out of his arms and stumbled across the lobby, flinging her body across her brother’s.

Dead silence greeted her gesture. Bartholomew’s chest heaved beneath her own, but his arm did not close around her as Billy’s had. Raising herself up on one elbow, she twisted around until she could meet Billy’s stricken eyes.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he whispered hoarsely, his words more prayer than oath. “I could have killed you.”

Billy lowered the gun, his hand unsteady for the first time in his memory. If he hadn’t been gazing at Esmerelda in helpless horror, he might have heard Sadie’s low-pitched growl, felt the hair at his nape prickle in warning.