The Mercenary's Kiss. Pam Crooks

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СКАЧАТЬ skin as sun-darkened as Jeb’s, his build as tall, as muscular. Fast friends from their days at West Point Military Academy, they’d formed a partnership based on mutual trust, equal skills.

      And a shared passion for rebellion against rules.

      Jeb had been born with nerves of steel. Few could match his thirst for risk, that ever-present flirtation with danger he found exhilarating. Only Creed was cut from the same cloth. They’d saved each other’s necks more often than Jeb cared to count.

      But at that point, their similarities ended. Creed was headed home to a large, loving family, to the childhood sweetheart he hoped was still waiting for him.

      Jeb had no one. At least, no one who cared if he came back or not.

      The barmaid returned with their drinks, and without sparing her a glance, Jeb threw back a quick swallow. The whiskey burned the bitterness that flared inside him. A second swallow buried it altogether. He reached inside his coat pocket for a rolled cigarette, then tucked it unlit at the corner of his mouth.

      “We’ll head for San Antonio in the morning,” Jeb said, and rooted for a match. “I figure you can take the Southern Pacific to Los Angeles. I’ll send word you’re arriving, and—”

      “Come with me, Jeb.”

      “No.” His mood souring again, he found the box he was looking for.

      “You can find work out there. You—”

      “We’ve had this discussion already, Creed.”

      “Then what the hell are you going to do?”

      “I’ll think of something. I always do, don’t I?”

      Suddenly, near his left ear, a match struck flint. He stilled. Creed’s attention jumped upward to whoever stood in the shadows beside him.

      “Allow me, Mr. Carson.”

      The sharp scent of sulfur reached his nostrils. An arm appeared. Jeb dared to dip the end of his cigarette into the flame. He drew in deep. Only then did he look to see who held the match.

      A tall, burly-chested man, well into his thirties. He wore a military uniform signifying him as a field officer in the United States Army.

      Jeb leaned back in his chair. He narrowed an eye. “Have we met?”

      “No, sir.”

      “But you know who I am.”

      The officer glanced over his shoulder, as if wary someone was listening. “I’d like to join you, if you don’t mind.”

      Jeb’s instincts warned he wouldn’t want any part of why this man sought him out. But before he could refuse, Creed pulled out a chair, and the officer seated himself.

      “My name is Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Kingston.” He kept his voice low. “I’m here on direct orders from Mr. Alger.”

      Jeb put the cigarette to his lips again. He’d been gone a long time, but he made it a point to keep up with the happenings in Washington. Warning bells clamored in his brain. “Russel A. Alger?”

      “Yes, sir. Secretary of War for the United States.”

      Jeb exchanged a grim glance with Creed.

      “We need your help,” Kingston said.

      “I’m not interested.”

      The officer’s lips thinned. “You don’t know what I’m asking.”

      “Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”

      “Mr. Carson.” Desperation threaded through the words, and Jeb recognized the officer’s restraint to keep from showing it. “Perhaps this will convince you of the seriousness of my request.”

      Jeb didn’t bother to look at the paper Kingston slid toward him. “How did you find me?”

      The officer met his hard expression squarely. “We’ve made a point of keeping track of you.” His glance touched on Creed before returning to Jeb. “Both of you.”

      “I’ve been out of the country for—”

      “—five years and eleven months.”

      “Where exactly have I been, Lieutenant Colonel?” he asked softly.

      “South America. Madrid. Havana. Manila. Puerto Rico. Santiago. In that order.”

      A slow fury simmered inside him. Suspicions surfaced. “How could you have known I’d be here at this saloon? Tonight?”

      “We have sentries out watching for you at the border towns. We knew you’d arrived in Mexico on—”

      Jeb’s arm snaked out and he grabbed the man’s shirt hard, yanking him half out of his seat. “My father sent you, didn’t he?”

      A sheen of perspiration formed on the officer’s upper lip. For the first time, his gaze wavered. But only for a moment. “I told you. I received my orders to contact you from Mr. Alger.”

      “Bullshit.” Disgusted, Jeb shoved him away.

      Kingston righted himself in his chair and cleared his throat. “It is, er, possible that General Carson would be aware of—” he drew in a breath, clearly uncomfortable with the information he was about to impart “—of Mr. Alger’s intent.”

      Jeb glared at him. “Tell the General he can go to hell.”

      “I don’t think I’ll do that, sir.”

      “And don’t call me ‘sir!’” Jeb snapped.

      He downed the rest of the whiskey in one savage gulp, then raked a harsh glance around the crowded saloon. Where was that damn barmaid? He caught her eye, gestured for another drink. She nodded and winked. Jeb ignored her.

      “The document looks legitimate,” Creed said, his low voice penetrating the storm raging inside Jeb. Creed slid the paper closer.

      Because Creed wanted him to, Jeb looked at it. He recognized the presidential seal in the letterhead, the signature scrawled at the bottom.

      “It’s a copy,” Jeb snarled. “Could be forged.”

      “Maybe not,” Creed said, and looked at the lieutenant colonel. “And then again, maybe it is.”

      Kingston shook his head emphatically. “President McKinley wrote the letter to the Secretary, Mr. Carson, but it’s about you. Mr. Alger has the original. For obvious reasons, of course. He didn’t want to risk the information falling into the wrong hands.”

      The barmaid appeared, and the conversation halted. Jeb snatched the bottle of whiskey from her and refilled his glass himself.

      “And whose hands might that be?” he demanded after she left.

      “Mexican rebels.”

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