Rising Fire Read online

  “Three of the varmints lit a shuck out of here,” he told Denny, then snapped the Colt’s loading gate closed. “But at least they didn’t kill anybody. That’s a miracle, the way they had those two hombres dead to rights. Instead, it looks like a couple of them were the only ones to cross the divide.”

  One of the targets, the tall, slender man named Arturo, still stood on the platform near the railroad car, pale and shaken from his close brush with death. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He swallowed hard, pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped it over his face.

  The man who had saved Arturo from being shot from behind approached the gut-shot assassin. He hooked a boot toe under the man’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back. The way the gunman’s arms flopped loosely was mute testimony that he was dead. So was the large pool of blood he had left on the platform.

  For a moment, Deputy United States Marshal Brice Rogers stood gun in hand and looked down at the man he had shot. Then, evidently satisfied that the hard case was no longer a threat, he pouched his iron and turned toward Denny and Monte Carson.

  “I’m not sure what was going on here, Sheriff,” Brice said, “but I’m glad I came along when I did. When I saw that fella about to gun somebody down from behind, I figured I had better try to stop him.”

  “I don’t have any idea what it’s all about, either, Brice,” Monte said, “but you did the right thing. Those hombres were trying to commit cold-blooded murder.”

  Denny was reloading, too. When she finished, she holstered the Lightning and studied the face of the man she had shot in the head. He had fallen on his back, and other than the neat bullet hole between his eyes, his features were unmarked and looked oddly puzzled, as if he couldn’t quite figure out why he was dead. Denny didn’t recognize his hard-planed, beard-stubbled face, but she had seen plenty like it belonging to other ruthless gunmen she had encountered.

  She called over to Monte and Brice, “Do either of you know these men?”

  “Never saw them before, as far as I recall,” the sheriff answered.

  Brice shook his head and said, “Nope.”

  “I’ll go through the reward posters in my desk,” Monte went on. “There’s at least a chance they’ll turn up on some of those. I’ve got a hunch this wasn’t the first bushwhack they ever tried to pull off.”

  Brice Rogers, a medium-sized, athletic young man with brown hair and a quick, friendly grin—most of the time, when he wasn’t dealing with lawbreakers—approached Arturo and asked, “Are you all right there, pardner? None of that lead flying around nicked you?”

  Arturo swallowed hard and shook his head. “No, I . . . I’m not hurt.”

  “You came mighty close,” Denny said as she walked up to them. Now that the shooting was over, the crowd was drifting back out of the building and onto the platform, morbidly curious now. Monte Carson motioned them away from the bodies and told one of the townies to fetch the undertaker.

  Denny nodded toward the man Brice had downed and told Arturo, “That hombre was about to ventilate you from behind when Marshal Rogers winged him and then dropped him.”

  Arturo looked at Brice and said, “Thank you, sir, for saving my life.” Then he frowned, turned toward Denny to stare at her, and exclaimed, “My word! You’re a young woman!”

  Brice chuckled and said, “I’ve had some suspicions along those lines myself.”

  Denny ignored his attempt at banter and asked Arturo, “What did you think I was?”

  “A boy,” Arturo said. “I mean, a young man, I suppose, based on your clothing. But clearly I was wrong. Still, you . . . you shot that man over there.”

  “He needed shooting,” Denny said. “And a gun doesn’t know if the finger pulling the trigger is male or female.”

  “Yes, I suppose—” Arturo stopped short, as if something had just occurred to him, and looked around frantically again. “The count! I must see if the count is all right!”

  “I’m fine, Arturo,” a voice said from the railroad car. The black-haired man came down the steps to the platform. His hat was cocked at a jaunty angle on his head now, and when he reached the platform, he brushed off any dirt that might have gotten on his suit when he dived to the planks with Arturo as the killers opened fire.

  “Thank heavens for that,” Arturo said, “and thank you for saving my life, too. I never would have reacted swiftly enough on my own when those villains opened fire.”

  “I think we both owe some thanks to this young fellow here for disrupting their attack—” the man began as he turned to Denny. He stopped short and let out a surprised oath in Italian, then said, “Can it be? Truly? It’s really you, Denise?”

  “It is,” Denny said.

  Then she hauled off and slapped him across the face as hard as she could.

  CHAPTER 3

  The blow took the man by surprise, striking him hard enough to make him stumble a couple of steps to his right. He caught his balance, smiled, and lifted a hand to his face. Taking hold of his chin, he worked his jaw back and forth, then announced, “Nothing broken, it seems. I suppose I had that coming.”

  “You most certainly did,” Denny said coldly. “That, and worse.”

  His smile didn’t waver as he spread his hands and said, “Cara mia, are you not glad to see me?”

  Denny just let out a contemptuous snort, turned on her heel, stalked across the platform to the door into the train station lobby, and disappeared through it. The man she had just slapped watched her go with a wryly amused expression on his face.

  “What in blazes did she do that for?” Brice asked.

  “Denise and I have a . . . complicated history, I suppose you could say,” the man replied. He held out his hand. “I believe she mentioned that you’re a lawman of some sort?”

  “Deputy United States Marshal,” Brice said as he clasped the stranger’s hand. “Name’s Brice Rogers.”

  “I am Count Giovanni Malatesta,” the man introduced himself with a more formal note in his voice. He inclined his head toward his companion. “My butler, valet, and all-around manservant, Arturo Vincenzo.”

  “Hello,” Brice said. Arturo didn’t offer to shake hands, but he did that little almost-bow again.

  A commotion elsewhere on the platform made the three of them turn and look. The undertaker’s wagon had drawn up next to the steps at the end of the platform, and the black-suited man and his helpers were coming to retrieve the bodies of the slain gunmen. The crowd that had gathered drew back to give them room.

  With that grim chore being taken care of, Sheriff Monte Carson came over to join Brice and the two newcomers to Big Rock. Brice said, “Monte, this is Count . . . Giovanni Malatesta.” He stumbled slightly over the name. “Count Malatesta, meet Sheriff Monte Carson.”

  Malatesta shook hands with Monte and said, “Please, gentlemen, you must call me Johnny. We are in America, and there is no place for titles of nobility. And Giovanni is Italian for ‘John.’ Since I wish for all of us to be friends, there is no need for formality between us.”

  “Do you plan on staying in Big Rock for a while?” Monte asked.

  Malatesta laughed. “Perhaps, if it proves an amiable place in which to spend time.”

  “We like it here.” Monte frowned a little. “Did I see Denny slap you a minute ago? You didn’t say something to offend her, I hope.”

  Brice said, “As far as I could tell, the count—I mean, Johnny—didn’t do a thing other than ask if it was really her when he recognized her.”

  “Then you two know each other?” Monte asked.

  Malatesta said, “We became well acquainted when Denise—Denny, as you so quaintly call her—was in Europe a few years ago with her brother. Is Louis here, too?”

  “You missed him, but not by much,” Monte said. “He headed back East to go to law school a few weeks ago.”

  Malatesta shook his head and said, “A shame. I would have liked to see him again. I had no idea he and Denise would be here. I recall her
telling me that their father owns some sort of large farm out here on your frontier, but I never expected to run into them again when I set out on my tour of the American West.”

  “I wouldn’t call Sugarloaf a farm,” Monte said. “It’s more of a ranch. A big ranch.”

  “Really?” Malatesta cocked an eyebrow. “I knew that Denise’s family was well-to-do, otherwise she would not have been living in England and taking jaunts to the Continent, but you sound as if her father is quite successful.”

  “You could say that. Smoke Jensen is one of the most respected men in the state. In all of the West, in fact.”

  “Smoke?” Malatesta repeated. “His name is Smoke?”

  “Well, his given name’s actually Kirby, but everybody calls him Smoke and has for a long, long time. Are you saying you never heard of Smoke Jensen?”

  The count shook his head. “Perhaps I just never traveled in the right circles to do so. And Denise never spoke that much about her family.”

  With a noticeable intentness in his voice, Brice asked, “Were the two of you particularly close, over there in Italy?”

  “Very close,” Malatesta said as that arrogant grin reappeared on his face. Brice frowned and stiffened. The count chuckled and slapped him on the arm. “But do not worry, my dear marshal. Anything that was between Signorina Denise Nicole Jensen and myself has long since passed into the realm of friendship and friendship alone.”

  Brice nodded slowly. “All right.”

  The bodies had been toted off by now, the crowd on the platform had thinned, and the train was getting ready to pull out. The leather-lunged conductor leaned out from one of the cars and bellowed, “Boooaaarrrddd! All aboooaarrrddd!”

  Malatesta rubbed his hands together and turned to Arturo. “Now that this grisly business is concluded, we can return to our original plans. I’m sure these gentlemen can tell you where to find the best hotel in Big Rock . . .”

  Monte Carson said, “Hold on a minute, Count.”

  “Johnny, please,” Malatesta said.

  Monte’s voice remained more formal, however, as he went on, “I’m asking as the sheriff now. Why did those hombres try to kill you?”

  Malatesta spread his hands innocently. “I assure you, I have no idea. I assumed they were mere brigands, bent on robbery.”

  “And they just happened to pick you and Mr. Vincenzo out of the crowd?”

  “My garments are expensive, and Arturo dresses in a suitable fashion for a gentleman’s gentleman. Those . . . desperadoes is the accepted western term, is it not? Those desperadoes probably looked at us and assumed that we were suitable targets for their larcenous intentions.”

  Monte rubbed his chin and said, “Yeah, maybe.”

  “I believe that if you find any of those wanted posters you mentioned with those men listed on them, you’ll find that they have long histories of being thieves.”

  “More than likely,” Monte agreed with a shrug.

  “Now, if you can recommend a hostelry . . .”

  “The Big Rock Hotel is the best place in town to stay.”

  “And an establishment that offers fine dining and drinking?”

  “Longmont’s,” Monte said without hesitation. He provided directions to both businesses.

  Malatesta made a shooing motion at Arturo and said, “Scurry on about your business, my friend.” He tipped a finger against the brim of his slouch hat and told Carson and Brice, “Good day to you, gentlemen. It was a pleasure meeting you, even under these somewhat trying circumstances, and I hope to see a great deal of you in the future.”

  With that, the count strolled away, whistling under his breath.

  The two lawmen watched him go, and as Monte Carson’s eyes narrowed, he asked, “You believe what he said about why those hombres tried to kill him?”

  “Not for one minute,” Brice replied.

  * * *

  Wes “Pearlie” Fontaine was standing on the high porch and loading dock in front of Goldstein’s Mercantile, talking to Leo Goldstein, the store’s proprietor. A couple of Goldstein’s clerks had just finished loading the supplies into the back of the wagon Pearlie had driven into town that morning with Denny coming along to keep him company.

  The lanky former hired gunman and longtime foreman of the Sugarloaf—now retired—had his hat tipped far back on his head, and his hands were tucked in the back pockets of his jeans. Like most of the other men on the streets of Big Rock in these early days of the twentieth century, he wasn’t wearing a gun, although that still felt funny to him at times. It was said of some men in the West, “He packed iron for so long he walked slanchwise.” Pearlie was such a man.

  As he looked along the street and saw Denny walking toward the mercantile, he stopped the small talk he was making with Leo Goldstein. The young storekeeper noticed her, too, and commented, “Miss Jensen looks just about mad enough to chew nails.”

  “Yep, and then spit ’em out to fasten somebody’s hide to the barn.”

  Denny took the steps at the end of the porch two at a time. As she came up to Pearlie, she asked sharply, “Are you ready to go?”

  “I reckon. Leo’s clerks just finished loadin’ us up. I sort of figured we’d get some lunch in town before headin’ back out to the ranch, though.”

  Denny shook her head. “No, I want to go now.”

  Pearlie considered that and slowly nodded. “All right,” he said. “That’ll be fine. So long, Leo.”

  He shook hands with the young merchant and then started to reach out to help Denny onto the wagon seat. She ignored his hand and made the long step from the porch onto the driver’s box without any assistance.

  Pearlie climbed up beside her, unwound the reins from the brake lever, and flicked them against the horses’ backs to get the team moving. He guided the wagon through a wide turn across Big Rock’s main street and then headed west toward the Sugarloaf.

  When they were on the road and the town was falling behind them, Pearlie said without looking over at Denny, “I heard all the shootin’ a while ago. Sounded like it was comin’ from the direction of the depot, and since I knew you’d gone down there, I started to go see what it was all about. But I ran into Phil Clinton along the way, and he told me what had happened. He said you were all right, but that you’d been mixed up in the ruckus.”

  Denny maintained her stony silence for a moment, then relaxed a little and said, “I didn’t notice Mr. Clinton there, but I’m not surprised. I’m sure he’ll put a story about the trouble in his newspaper.” She paused. “That means he’ll probably talk to . . .”

  “Talk to who?” Pearlie asked when Denny didn’t go on.

  “Count Giovanni Malatesta.” Denny said the name like it tasted bad in her mouth.

  “Who?”

  “Nobody,” Denny snapped. “Nobody worth writing about in the newspaper. Nobody even worth knowing.”

  “You sound like you know him, right enough,” Pearlie pointed out.

  “I wish I didn’t,” Denny said. Her voice grew softer as she turned her head and stared off into the distance. “I wish I had never met or even heard of Giovanni Malatesta . . .”

  CHAPTER 4

  Venice, Italy, two years earlier

  It was the fanciest, most exclusive ball of the season, with only the most illustrious members of Italian society there, along with many distinguished visitors from England and the rest of the Continent. The great, glittering hall in one of the palaces overlooking the Grand Canal was packed with aristocracy, wealth, power, and influence. Ladies in exquisite gowns, with jewelry shimmering on their fingers and wrists and around their milky white throats, swirled around the dance floor in the arms of dashing, expensively dressed gentlemen as a small orchestra played.

  Nineteen-year-old Denise Nicole Jensen was perhaps the loveliest young woman in the vast room. Her blond hair was coiffed in an elaborate arrangement of curls that tumbled around shoulders left bare by her pale blue gown. The dress was cut fashionably low, cinched tight at her trim
waist, and flared out around her hips. A smattering of lace decorated the neckline and sleeves.

  The ball had not been under way for long, and at the moment, Denny was dancing with her twin brother, Louis, who shared the same fine features and slender build but had sandy brown hair instead of blond. They were making one of their periodic tours of the Continent, during a break from the school Louis attended in England.

  When they were younger, they had always been accompanied on these journeys by their grandparents, their mother Sally’s mother and father, who owned the estate in England where Denny and Louis had grown up. Louis’s poor health as a child had prompted Smoke and Sally to seek the very best medical care available for him, and that had been in Europe. Rather than split up the twins, Denny had gone with her brother to live on the Reynolds estate. Smoke and Sally hated to be apart from their children, but they had to do what was best for Louis.

  These days, now that the twins were almost fully grown, they traveled on their own, although their grandmother still wasn’t too keen on the idea. So far on this trip, they had been to Paris, Rome, and now Venice.

  “I have a feeling you’re about to be swarmed,” Louis said quietly as they danced. “All the young men at this ball are waiting to swoop down on you like a pack of vultures. Quite a few of the older men are, too.”

  “What a lovely image,” Denny said caustically. “I always enjoy being compared to a piece of carrion.”

  “Oh, now, that’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m just saying that as the prettiest girl here, you’re going to get the most attention. It’s inevitable.”

  “I’m hardly the prettiest girl here,” Denny scoffed. “Look at all those gorgeous Italian signorinas and French mademoiselles and Spanish señoritas. Poor little old me can’t hold a candle to them.”

  “You underestimate yourself,” Louis assured her.

  Denny laughed. “What do you know about it? You’re my brother.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m blind.”