Free Willow: A Novel (No Series) by Linda Lael Miller Page B

the mustache. “I’ll leave you this to remember me by,” he said. “And don’t be playing any more of your tricks on my sister!”
    A moment later, the peddler turned and strode away into the night.

4
    Befuddled and breathless from the hard blow to his stomach, Gideon stared down at the handlebar mustache in his hand. After a few minutes, the fog shrouding his brain began to dissipate, and he laughed as he lifted himself back to his feet and tucked the glue-crusted hank of fair hair into the pocket of his coat. He’d wanted to meet Steven Gallagher face-to-face, and now he had.
    As he made his way back toward his hotel, Gideon tried to equate the Steven he’d just encountered with the desperado the Central Pacific wanted to see tried and, if possible, hanged. The two images simply wouldn’t go together. After all, considering what had been done to his innocent young sister, two years before, Steven Gallagher had every right to be furious. Few people would have blamed the man if he’d shot Gideon for a scoundrel, but he’d only executed a gutpunch, for God’s sake. Was this the revenge of a vicious criminal, the merciless outlaw he’d heard so much about?
    Once in his room, Gideon considered forgetting the whole idea of arresting Steven Gallagher. He’d obtained a temporary appointment as a deputy U.S. marshal before leaving his home city. Now he thought that his time might be better spent by finding some legal means of extricating himself from the sham marriage to Willow, going home, and building a life with Daphne.
    Still short of breath and hurting from the punch to his middle, Gideon sat down on the edge of the bed and braced his head in his hands. Why the devil had he agreed to come to Montana, where he didn’t belong, in the first place? Why had he promised to bring in Steven Gallagher?
    Gideon sighed. He had promised, though; he had given his word. And that had to be respected, despite the fact that he liked Steven Gallagher, liked his father, and felt something disturbingly beyond liking for Willow.
    In near despair, Gideon kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his shirt, then removed his trousers. He couldn’t help drawing a parallel between himself and Benedict Arnold, and the comparison smarted.
    The next morning, groggy from the excess of whiskey and the restless night, Gideon put on his best clothes and set out for Judge Gallagher’s stately house.
    Oh, yes, he thought. And it was his mother’s fine residence, as well.
    *   *   *
    Willow stared at the disembodied mustache that Gideon had presented to her, in her father’s entry hall, and thentried to suppress the smile of understanding that tugged at one side of her mouth. Once, in a poker game, Steven had acquired the moth-eaten belongings of an out-of-work stage actor. Obviously her brother was making use of the costumes.
    Gideon arched an eyebrow, watching her closely.
    Willow, having momentarily forgotten what her father had told her about Gideon the day before, remembered, and stiffened. This man was not the dashing and chivalrous Lancelot of her fantasies, and she must keep that in mind. Gideon was a liar and a trickster, as well as lecherous, and he’d come to Virginia City to find and arrest Steven. Period.
    Even worse, he was base enough to use Willow herself to achieve this end.
    “Where did you get such a thing?” she asked coolly, handing the mustache back to Gideon.
    He smiled wanly and she felt a tug in the deepest regions of her heart. “It was given to me by a Scot I met in a saloon last night,” he answered, “along with a rather forceful message.”
    Willow longed to shove Gideon back out onto the porch and slam the door in his face, but she didn’t dare. After all, this scoundrel was Evadne’s beloved son, the golden one, and as such, he was welcome in the household no matter what. “Does this—this hank of hair have some significance, or are you merely trying to bore me to death, Mr. Marshall?”
    Gideon laughed.