The Ballad of Emma O'Toole. Elizabeth Lane
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Название: The Ballad of Emma O'Toole

Автор: Elizabeth Lane

Издательство: HarperCollins

Жанр: Исторические детективы

Серия: Mills & Boon Historical

isbn: 9781472004086

isbn:

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      There was no hint of repentance in the man’s face as he shrugged. “I had a deadline to meet, and you weren’t exactly the soul of courtesy.”

      “So you went after that poor fool girl and made a local spectacle of her.”

      “A local spectacle? You don’t know the half of it. When the Eastern papers get the story over the wire, the lovely Miss O’Toole will be a national heroine. I even wrote a song about her and passed out copies!” The reporter’s ginger eyes glittered in triumph.

      “I heard the damned song from next door,” Logan snarled. “Now, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

      “When I smell a good story, I go after it, and I smell a good story here, with you.”

      Logan glared at the wretched little man. “So what is it you want?”

      “The story of your life, Mr. Devereaux.” Armitage inched closer to the bars. “Every detail, from the first day you can remember. I want to know what brings a man to this state of depravity and desperation and, I guarantee you, so will every reader in the territory.”

      The man clearly had no interest in giving Logan a fair chance to give his explanation of the tragic events. He just wanted more ammunition to continue painting Logan as the villain.

      “So what’s in this for me?” Logan mouthed the question, knowing its answer would only deepen his disgust.

      “Money, Mr. Devereaux! And plenty of it. Maybe you’ve got a sweetheart of your own, hmm? You’d like a chance to leave her set for life, rather than have her struggle to scrape out a living when you’re gone, wouldn’t you? Or if there’s a child—is there a child? Oh, you may well hang—there’s nothing I can do to prevent that. But this way you could leave something behind.” The reporter’s eyes narrowed calculatingly. “I’ll be wanting exclusive rights, of course. A contract may be in order. And that way, you can designate, for whomever you chose, a percentage of—”

      “Go to hell,” Logan interrupted, his voice soft, like the warning hiss of a cougar.

      “I beg your pardon?” Armitage blinked.

      “You heard me the first time.” Logan stretched out on the bunk, his deliberate yawn masking a heartfelt urge to lunge at the bars, grab the little muckraker by the throat and squeeze the miserable life out of him. “I’m not interested in lining your pockets. If I’m going to hang, I’ll do it with my privacy intact, thank you. I’m certainly not going to give it up for a slimy little scandal-chaser like you.”

      “You’re making a grave mistake, Mr. Devereaux. It would be very foolish to drive away a representative of the only paper in town when it’s public opinion that will decide if you live or die.”

      “I thought that’s what the trial was for.” Logan’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. He watched as the reporter fumbled in his vest pocket and came up with a small white card, which he flipped between the bars.

      “Think it over,” he said. “Let me know when you change your mind.”

      “I won’t.” Logan lay motionless, contemptuously indifferent. Armitage turned to go, then paused, an impish grin lighting his face.

      “Almost forgot—I do have one piece of news for you. They’ve appointed the judge for your trial. Want to know who it is?”

      Logan feigned a doze, ignoring the bait.

      “Well, then, let me tell you. Judge Simmons, who’d most likely have heard the case, is back East for his daughter’s wedding. And Roy Bamberger, the local alternate, is down with gallstones. So…”

      He paused for dramatic effect. Logan opened his eyes and allowed a twitch of his left eyebrow to betray his interest.

      “So they’re bringing in a judge from Salt Lake City. The Honorable T. Zachariah Farnsworth. A Mormon judge! I hear tell he hates outsiders—gentiles, as the Mormons call them. He looks on Park City as a latter-day Sodom and Gomorrah, and as for gamblers and gambling…” A malicious sneer stole across Armitage’s features. “Why, Mr. Devereaux, nothing would give a man like Judge Farnsworth greater satisfaction than writing your sinful, debauched soul a one-way ticket to hell!”

      “Are you finished?”

      “For the most part. But there’s one more thing I want you to know, Mr. Gambler. Whether you cooperate with me or not, this murder is going to make my reputation as a journalist. I’ll be there to cover your trial, and I’ll be there, standing right beside the lovely Miss Emma O’Toole when you walk up those steps to the hangman’s noose. I’ll be there to describe the terror in your eyes as the hood slides over your face, and the jerk of the rope as you drop. You’re mine, Devereaux, whether you cooperate or not. This is my story, and I won’t be finished with you until I’ve walked away from your grave!”

      Logan willed his nerves to freeze as Armitage left the jail. But dread was a leaden weight in his stomach. Thanks to an obnoxious little man in a checkered suit, the trial, the verdict and the hanging had all become sickeningly real.

      From down the street came the tinkle of a tinny piano and an off-key tenor voice singing the song that had become all the rage—a mawkishly written piece of doggerel that grated on Logan’s nerves every time he heard it.

      Dying he lay in his sweetheart’s arms

       As his blood spread out in a pool.

       “Avenge my death,” he whispered low.

       “Avenge me, Emma O’Toole, oh, yes…

       Avenge me, Emma O’Toole.”

      Logan cursed the treachery of circumstance. He’d been on a roll that night, winning big against two wealthy mine owners, enough to last him for months, maybe even get him to Europe or South America, when that wild-eyed young fool had walked in and ended it all.

      What had happened to his winnings? Probably snatched up and pocketed by some bystander when no one was looking. And that was a pity. If the verdict went against him, which seemed likely, he would have wanted the girl to have the cash and mining stock certificates. No matter how much her bullheaded refusal to listen to the truth irked him, it would be the least he could do for her and for the child his bullet had orphaned.

      Was this the end fate had decreed for him? Logan did his best to scoff at notions of destiny, but as the son of a French Creole father and a half-breed Cherokee mother, superstition was bred into his very bones. On his twentieth birthday his grandmother had read his tarot and predicted a violent life. Three years later, he’d fled New Orleans with blood on his hands. Now it had happened again. Maybe he was fated to meet death at the end of a rope. If so, he would face the scaffold with his head held high. The only thing that shook his confidence was the thought of rotting away in a prison cell, instead… .

      But never mind that, he wasn’t going down without a fight. His lawyer might be an unassuming little toad of a man, but Logan had detected a glint of intelligence in those pale blue eyes. The next time they met, Logan swore, he’d be ready with a plan and insist that the lawyer follow it. He would find a way out of this mess or die at the end of a rope. Prison was not an option.

      The trial of Logan Devereaux was the nearest thing to a circus the small county seat of Coalville had ever seen. The ten days it had СКАЧАТЬ