skin beneath became exposed. And for a few minutes he was able to concentrate on the task of shaving, not on the sounds of argument below.
But when he was finished, his thoughts drifted back to Emma. He turned and eyed the bag the whiskey had arrived in. There was something still inside it. Curious, hereached in and brought out a stack of thick folded paper. He unfolded one of them and gaped in astonishment at what he saw.
Amos!
It spooked him at first to see his brother so clearly—the lanky hair, the severe jaw, the cold, steely eyes. It was like suddenly having a bad dream come to life. For the past few days, that’s what his month with Amos had seemed like—a bad dream. Here was evidence that his time with Amos’s gang of cohorts had had definite repercussions. The picture resembled himself, especially now that he was clean shaven, and bore his name underneath. To anyone who recognized him, there was an offer of a hundred-dollar reward.
Lang felt sick.
He hobbled to the mirror, examining his face. His hair was actually darker than Amos’s, and curlier, but that was something a crude drawing couldn’t really capture. Anyone looking at him, then this picture, might very well believe that he was the killer advertised in it.
He was holding the picture up, still examining it against his own image, when a cold realization occurred to him. Emma. She’d gone to town today and pulled down these posters herself, in broad daylight. And there was only one reason she would have done such a thing—she knew the picture was of him, and she wanted to protect him.
The hand that was holding the poster dropped to his side, and he stared at his reflection, thunderstruck. Why would Emma Colby want to save his worthless hide? She knew it wasn’t lawful to aid a criminal. Why would she put her own reputation on the line to keep him from harm?
He had known mostly good luck all his life. True, the last month had been rough, and he was in a spot now, but he wasn’t one to moan and complain and pretend his problemsweren’t of his own making. Overall, he’d been dealt a fair hand. But running into Emma Colby…nothing so fortuitous had ever happened to him before. What had he done to deserve her help, and how was he ever going to repay her? At the best of times he’d been poor, and now he didn’t have two sticks to rub together.
Downstairs, another dining-room skirmish erupted. It would be a miracle if those people finished their meal in one piece, he thought wryly.
Then, slowly, as he stared at his newly tidied self in the mirror, an idea occurred to him. In the wardrobe was a suit of clothes, plus boots and a cane. A gentleman’s outfit.
Maybe there was a way to repay Emma’s kindness…
They should have skipped dessert. Lorna, whose appetite varied from birdlike to ravenous, was just picking at her plate. Annalise announced she didn’t like apples, even in pie, and Rose Ellen ate half of her piece, declared the crust heavy, which as Emma’s handiwork it naturally was, and pushed her plate away. Nervously Emma gulped down her piece and felt it settle in a lump in her stomach.
She was just about to suggest they give up on the meal altogether when she heard someone descending the staircase. All three women looked up; Lorna and Emma exchanged alarmed glances.
Rose Ellen shot Emma a suspicious look. “That must be Mr. Archibald. I thought you said he was an invalid.”
“He is,” Emma croaked, discovering her throat had gone bone-dry. It went even drier when Johann appeared.
At least, she assumed this was Johann.
The man she’d rescued had disappeared, and in his place was an even more devastatingly handsome impostor. He towered in the doorway, tall and distinguished, though he leaned slightly on his cane. The dark brown suit and snowywhite shirt, which Emma recognized immediately as her father’s, suited him to a T. His dark hair was combed back neatly, but had a rakish wave in it she suspected no barber could
But when he was finished, his thoughts drifted back to Emma. He turned and eyed the bag the whiskey had arrived in. There was something still inside it. Curious, hereached in and brought out a stack of thick folded paper. He unfolded one of them and gaped in astonishment at what he saw.
Amos!
It spooked him at first to see his brother so clearly—the lanky hair, the severe jaw, the cold, steely eyes. It was like suddenly having a bad dream come to life. For the past few days, that’s what his month with Amos had seemed like—a bad dream. Here was evidence that his time with Amos’s gang of cohorts had had definite repercussions. The picture resembled himself, especially now that he was clean shaven, and bore his name underneath. To anyone who recognized him, there was an offer of a hundred-dollar reward.
Lang felt sick.
He hobbled to the mirror, examining his face. His hair was actually darker than Amos’s, and curlier, but that was something a crude drawing couldn’t really capture. Anyone looking at him, then this picture, might very well believe that he was the killer advertised in it.
He was holding the picture up, still examining it against his own image, when a cold realization occurred to him. Emma. She’d gone to town today and pulled down these posters herself, in broad daylight. And there was only one reason she would have done such a thing—she knew the picture was of him, and she wanted to protect him.
The hand that was holding the poster dropped to his side, and he stared at his reflection, thunderstruck. Why would Emma Colby want to save his worthless hide? She knew it wasn’t lawful to aid a criminal. Why would she put her own reputation on the line to keep him from harm?
He had known mostly good luck all his life. True, the last month had been rough, and he was in a spot now, but he wasn’t one to moan and complain and pretend his problemsweren’t of his own making. Overall, he’d been dealt a fair hand. But running into Emma Colby…nothing so fortuitous had ever happened to him before. What had he done to deserve her help, and how was he ever going to repay her? At the best of times he’d been poor, and now he didn’t have two sticks to rub together.
Downstairs, another dining-room skirmish erupted. It would be a miracle if those people finished their meal in one piece, he thought wryly.
Then, slowly, as he stared at his newly tidied self in the mirror, an idea occurred to him. In the wardrobe was a suit of clothes, plus boots and a cane. A gentleman’s outfit.
Maybe there was a way to repay Emma’s kindness…
They should have skipped dessert. Lorna, whose appetite varied from birdlike to ravenous, was just picking at her plate. Annalise announced she didn’t like apples, even in pie, and Rose Ellen ate half of her piece, declared the crust heavy, which as Emma’s handiwork it naturally was, and pushed her plate away. Nervously Emma gulped down her piece and felt it settle in a lump in her stomach.
She was just about to suggest they give up on the meal altogether when she heard someone descending the staircase. All three women looked up; Lorna and Emma exchanged alarmed glances.
Rose Ellen shot Emma a suspicious look. “That must be Mr. Archibald. I thought you said he was an invalid.”
“He is,” Emma croaked, discovering her throat had gone bone-dry. It went even drier when Johann appeared.
At least, she assumed this was Johann.
The man she’d rescued had disappeared, and in his place was an even more devastatingly handsome impostor. He towered in the doorway, tall and distinguished, though he leaned slightly on his cane. The dark brown suit and snowywhite shirt, which Emma recognized immediately as her father’s, suited him to a T. His dark hair was combed back neatly, but had a rakish wave in it she suspected no barber could
Similar Books
