A Stranger's Wife Read online

  “I STILL THINK WE SHOULD HAVE ANNOUNCED MIRIAM’S DEATH AND TAKEN OUR CHANCES WITH THE VOTERS . . .”

  Lily wanted to hear more, but their conversation shifted to political strategies. She tiptoed back to her room.

  Peering into the mirror, she tried to decide if Quinn had been speaking rhetorically or if Miriam really was dead. There was no way to know for certain what had happened to Miriam Westin. All she had to do was play the role she had been hired to play.

  But it wasn’t that simple anymore. She was beginning to identify strongly with Miriam.

  It was Miriam’s face she saw in the mirror. Miriam’s eyes staring back at her. Tomorrow she would slide Miriam’s wedding ring on her finger.

  And there was Miriam’s husband. And a kiss that had seared her and left her shaking . . .

  “OSBORNE HAS CREATED STRONG-WILLED CHARACTERS WHO DISCOVER THEY ARE EMPOWERED BY LOVE, NOT SHACKLED BY IT.”

  —Jodi Israel, Bookpage

  “MAGGIE OSBORNE HAS ONE OF THE BEST, MOST ORIGINAL VOICES IN ROMANCE TODAY.”

  —Kasey Michaels

  A Featured Alternate of Doubleday Book Club® Maggie Osborne is the winner

  of The Romance Writers of America 1998 RITA Award for Best Long Historical Romance

  A LSO BY M AGGIE O SBORNE

  The Wives of Bowie Stone

  The Seduction of Samantha Kincade

  The Promise of Jenny Jones

  The Best Man

  Published by

  W ARNER B OOKS

  A STRANGER ’ S WIFE . Copyright © 1999 by Maggie Osborne. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  A Time Warner Company

  ISBN 0-7595-8232-7

  A mass market edition of this book was published in 1999 by Warner Books.

  First eBook edition: April 2001

  Visit our Web site at www.iPublish.com

  A Stranger’s Wife

  Chapter 1

  Not until Lily heard the iron gate clang shut behind her did she release the anxious breath she had been holding. Outside the high adobe walls, the air tasted cleaner, fresher, freer, just as she had believed it would.

  Hurrying away from the hated gate, she scanned the barren horizon, watching heat waves shimmer above a sweep of short desert grasses broken only by the outstretched arms of giant saguaro cacti.

  For five seemingly endless years, she’d been counting the minutes until she could leave this godforsaken wasteland. Now, she was finally free. Blinking at tears of relief, she thought about Rose as she had done every day since she had placed her infant daughter in the arms of her aunt before she stepped into the sheriff’s wagon. She’d wondered if she would ever see Rose again or hold her baby daughter. Now, thank God, it would happen.

  “Here’s your satchel,” the warden said, dropping a worn and faded canvas bag near the hem of her skirt.

  “Is that the stage?” she asked eagerly, shading her eyes and peering toward the road.

  “The stage don’t come by here for another three hours.”

  “Oh.” Well, she was used to disappointment. Turning, she spotted a bench near the hitching post. There wasn’t a scrap of nearby shade, but she didn’t care. She would luxuriate in the novelty of having absolutely nothing to do, would sit and daydream about going home to Missouri and her reunion with Rose. Picking up her satchel, light because she hadn’t accumulated anything during the last five years, she carried it to the bench and seated herself on the hot wooden boards.

  The warden contemplated the spiral of dust approaching along the road. “There’s some things we got to talk about.”

  “All I want to hear from you is good-bye.” Careful, she warned herself. He could drag her back inside the walls. Folding her hands in her lap, she lowered her head and examined his dusty boots. He wore the brown boots today, with the odd white spot near his left instep. She had spent countless hours speculating about what might have caused that white spot.

  “I’d a sworn we beat that defiance outta you. Guess you still got some things to learn.” Leaning to one side, he spit in the sandy dirt. “That visitor we had about six weeks ago . . . His name is Paul Kazinski.”

  Cutting her eyes to the left, she watched his spit drying in the October heat and remembered the man he mentioned. The visitor had spent almost an hour watching her wash sheets in the laundry yard. His attention had made her uncomfortable, and later, a dozen jealous slaps had paid her back for his interest.

  “Mr. Kazinski has a proposition for you.”

  Now she looked up and her eyes narrowed. “I ain’t interested in any propositions.” That she was sitting here outside the Yuma Women’s Prison proved she wasn’t lucky with men. Men had been her downfall, and she didn’t want anything to do with another one. She’d learned her lesson.

  The warden’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not that kind of proposition. If Kazinski wanted a whore, he could buy the best there is. You think he wants a broken-down jailbird in his bed? You’re dreaming.”

  There were things she could have said. She might have reminded him that he and his stinking guards had found her attractive enough. But she sat too close to the iron gate, and the stage wouldn’t arrive for three hours. She bit her lips, seethed, and said nothing.

  “Are you listening, Lily? Kazinski is almost here.”

  The visitor who had watched her was in the conveyance speeding toward the prison? “What does he want?” she asked, sitting up straight, alarm flaring in her eyes.

  “He wants to talk to you, that’s all.”

  But that was never all. Men always wanted something more.

  “Who is he and why should I talk to him?” She didn’t want to waste time with Paul Kazinski or any other man. She just wanted to go home to her daughter. That’s all she had thought about for five long years.

  The warden tilted back on his boot heels. “They call Kazinski the Kingmaker. He’s a big man in politics up in the Colorado Territory. Lately, he’s been touring prisons in the West, talking about reform.” Leaning, he spit again. “You owe him. If it wasn’t for Paul Kazinski, your butt would still be on the other side of the wall. He pulled some strings to get you out early.”

  If Kazinski had arranged for her early release, then she was grateful. She was also worried. Not for a minute did she imagine that Kazinski had arranged her freedom from the goodness of his heart. Her hands twisted in her lap, and anxiety thinned her voice. “Why is he interested in me?”

  “How would I know? Maybe he’s so deep into reform that all he wants is to help you begin a new life.” The warden’s expression indicated he didn’t believe this any more than Lily did. “All I know is I said you’d listen to his proposition.”

  It didn’t surprise her that he had made a promise he expected her to keep. For the past five years Ephram Callihan had been the supreme deity in her life and in the lives of every woman behind the walls. On his whim additional food could appear on the mess plates or meals could shrink to bread and water. He decided how they would dress and how they wore their hair. They slept when he told them to and awoke on his schedule. His mood determined if and when they had a rest hour, if and when they could speak. He made the rules that governed their lives.

  She had forgotten there might be men like Kazinski who could wield authority over the warden. Being reminded pleased her intensely.

  “What if I refuse to talk to Mr. Kazinski?” With the Kingmaker’s ca
rriage in sight, a bit of her old courage asserted itself, and she felt brave enough to display a flash of defiance.

  His eyes narrowed in an expression she well knew, and she jerked back from the heat and the stink of him. “You’re released into Kazinski’s custody, and that means he owns you. It means he can dump you back here if he wants.”

  Her heart stopped. “I’m going home to Missouri,” she said, trying to sound firm, her gaze fixed on the approaching coach.

  “You’re going to do whatever Kazinski tells you to do.”

  The carriage skidded onto the side road leading toward the walls and the gate. “Kazinski spent some political chips to get you out. He bought and paid for you, and don’t you forget it.” The warden stared down at her. Then he shouted at one of the guards to bring water for Mr. Kazinski’s horses, and he knocked his hat against his hip, shaking off the dust.

  Damn it. She should have guessed it wasn’t going to be easy. Nothing had ever come easy. Lowering her eyes, Lily clasped her fingers together and worried about what was coming. Sun pounded the frayed hat she wore, penetrating the straw and heating her scalp. Sweat trickled down her sides, drying almost as rapidly as it soaked through the mended black jacket she wore over skirts that were a slightly different shade. A hundred years ago in a different lifetime she would have fretted about meeting a Kingmaker in her present state. All traces of vanity had disappeared long ago, but she was plenty worried about meeting this man.

  She didn’t look up until she heard the coach stop in front of the hitching post, then it surprised her to discover a closed Rockaway and not an open gig. Heavy silk shades protected Kazinski from curious onlookers and against the heat and dust; a fine pair of matched blacks stood in the traces. The conveyance was as elegant as any Lily had seen.

  The door opened before the driver could climb down to offer assistance, and an impeccably dressed man emerged. She thought he might be forty or so, younger than she had expected a Kingmaker to be. He was so immediately and completely in command of his surroundings that she didn’t at first realize how ordinary his features were. He was slightly below average in height, with dark hair and eyes, and broad cheeks that made her think of peasants tilling fields. But his confidence and obvious importance, the powerful way he moved and the cool authority in his eyes made her forget about peasants and think instead of feudal lords. People would not want to cross this man, and they wouldn’t forget him.

  Ignoring the warden, Kazinski walked directly to the bench where she sat, and removed his hat. That simple act of unexpected politeness melted the coldness she had intended to show him, and a hot lump rose in her throat. It had been a long time since anyone had shown her a bit of courtesy.

  He gazed at her for a full minute, studying her intently. “Miss Dale? My name is Paul Kazinski. I believe Mr. Callihan explained that you and I have some business to discuss.”

  Unnerved by his frank scrutiny, she swallowed hard and strained to detect a hint of his intentions. Nothing came to her, indicating that he was skilled at concealing his thoughts and purpose. Those were probably good traits in a Kingmaker. Shrugging, hoping to hide her nervousness and appear indifferent, she said, “I’m listening.”

  “It would be more comfortable to converse in private, don’t you agree?” Clearly their business did not include the warden, which pleased Lily. “May I offer you a ride?”

  There was no real choice about accepting his offer, and she understood that, but she hesitated, pretending there was. Not until she saw him lift a questioning eyebrow toward Callihan did she reach for her satchel and stand. “I guess I wouldn’t mind a ride.” At least she wouldn’t be sitting here for three more hours worrying that Ephram Callihan would throw her back inside.

  Immediately the driver hastened forward to take her satchel and drop the step in front of the coach door. It was hard to grasp that she would depart five years of squalor in such a splendid conveyance, difficult to wrap her mind around the contrasts. She stepped forward, then stopped and held herself rigid when she heard the warden call her name.

  “You have paid your debt to society, Lily Dale, and you have a new life before you.” Callihan delivered a sermon worthy of a preacher, a speech Lily suspected was designed to impress Paul Kazinski more than herself. When he finally finished, she raised her head and looked him squarely in the eyes.

  “I hope you die a painful death and burn for all eternity,” she said in a low, shaking voice. She’d waited five years to deliver her own speech, and she took great pleasure in watching a dark flush of fury and embarrassment turn Callihan’s cheeks florid. He would have backhanded her into the next territory, she knew, except the Kingmaker stood watching.

  “I have a long memory, Lily.” Not taking his eyes off of her, he leaned forward and spit near her scuffed boots, spattering her hem.

  “Go to hell, you bastard,” she said before she shook her skirts and climbed into the carriage. She hoped someone made him pay for his brutality and for all the beatings she had endured. One thing was certain. She would die rather than return to the Yuma Women’s Prison.

  The interior of the carriage was dim, perhaps a degree or two cooler than the desert heat outside. But it was the upholstery she noticed first, sinking into the seat. Removing one glove, she pressed a hand against real velvet, gently stroking the nap back and forth and wishing the calluses on her palms would instantly vanish so she could better enjoy the sensation.

  A sharp hiss of breath from the facing seat startled her and she jerked her head up. “Oh!”

  At once she became aware of the scent of hair oil and barber’s cologne and a residue of cigar smoke. If the luxurious trappings had not distracted her, she would have noticed the other passenger immediately. The man stared at her, then hastily lifted a finger to his lips. Lily frowned, then nodded, inspecting him in silence.

  His features were anything but ordinary, and he wasn’t dressed in business attire like Paul Kazinski. This man wore a Stetson, a leather vest over a white shirt, and handsomely tooled riding boots. Although he was younger than Kazinski and looked like a cowboy, Lily gazed into eyes the color of hard-polished pewter, and she understood he was as powerful a man as the Kingmaker. In fact, his request for silence suggested he was someone the warden might have recognized.

  Although he continued to stare at her openly and rudely, he, too, removed his hat, revealing wavy dark hair sun-streaked with reddish highlights. He was tall, Lily guessed, judging by the length of his legs, broad-shouldered and lean. His face was square, strong jawed and clean-shaven; it looked like his nose had been broken at one time. His was a craggy, lived-in face that men would respect and women would find slightly dangerous and arresting.

  She met his eyes and felt her face grow hot in the sudden realization that it had been a very long time since she had been with a man. Not that she wanted to be. She didn’t want any more men in her life. But this man’s rugged handsomeness sent a tiny frisson of electricity down her spine.

  Mr. Kazinski entered the carriage then and fell heavily against the velvet upholstery. No one spoke until the coach had lurched forward and settled into a steady rate of speed.

  “Well, Miss Dale, are you happy to be free?” Kazinski inspected her through the dust motes dancing between the seats.

  “I ain’t in no mood for polite conversation,” she said, striving to give the impression that riding in a fancy coach with a Kingmaker didn’t intimidate her, that she wasn’t nervous and wary. “What do you want?” It puzzled her that Kazinski didn’t acknowledge the second man’s presence.

  “For the moment, I’d like to hear your voice and how you speak.” Paul Kazinski smiled, as if trying to put her at ease. As if that would happen. “Would you care for a glass of lemonade?”

  Now she noticed the basket at his feet. The thought of something wet and cool made her mouth seem drier, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d tasted real lemonade, but she shook her head. She didn’t want to add to her indebtedness until she knew w
hat this was about.

  “Perhaps you’ll change your mind later.” Leaning back on the coach seat, Kazinski opened his collar, then placed his hat on the seat between himself and his silent companion. The other man continued to scrutinize Lily through narrowed grey eyes, making her acutely conscious of every small movement she made. “I believe you grew up on a farm in Missouri?”

  “So?” As far as she knew, it wasn’t a crime to grow up in Missouri.

  “If you would, Miss Dale, please elaborate on your answers.” Because for some strange reason they wanted to hear her speak. “How did you happen to come to the New Mexico Territory?”

  “I expect you know.” The second man kept staring like she had two heads or something. Fidgeting, she shifted on the seat. “I think your cowboy friend might be ill.” His face seemed paler beneath his tanned jaw, and although he pressed his hands flat against his thighs, she noticed a tremble in his fingers.

  “He’s not ill. I’d like to hear your story in your own words,” Kazinski said.

  She wasn’t naive enough to suppose he’d arranged her release without knowing her history, but she owed him her freedom. If he wanted to hear her story now, she supposed she was obliged to tell it. “When I was eighteen I ran off with a man just home from the war. We drifted west.” It felt like a hundred years ago, something that had happened to a different person. She might have been reciting a story she had read or recalling a half-forgotten nightmare. “When that man went bad and went off to prison, I found another. Cy wasn’t much good either. When he couldn’t find work, he got into trouble just like Albie did.”

  “And you along with him?”

  “Eventually.” An expectant silence told her that he wouldn’t be satisfied with less than the whole sorry tale. “This last incident . . . well, Cy decided to rob one of the gambling halls in Tombstone, but his partner got sick.”

  Then had come the talk, talk, talk that she hated. Cy wouldn’t wait for Charlie to recover from the fever, he said he could manage the job alone if Lily would help. All she had to do was dress like a man and hold a gun in her hand. Make it appear like she was covering him. He would never ask this of her again. He was only doing it for her, so he would have money to buy her and Rose some nice things, money to move on to another town. Eventually their luck would turn, but he had to do this one thing first, and she had to help him. Talk, talk, talk, until she was worn to a frazzle.