Prologue
I read the letter again. How many times had I done that since its arrival a week ago? Too many to count I was sure, and every reading was done with the vain hope that the information inside would change. This time was no different than the others, however. Nothing had changed and even after the countless readings the words still sent a jolt through me. Reading about the death of an acquaintance is never pleasant. Reading about the death of someone who was more than an acquaintance . . . well, nothing could be done about that now. As to the other matter . . . .
Sighing I tucked the letter from Everett Winters Esquire away once more and began to pace the floor. The solicitor was attempting to handle Miss Freemont's estate, and decisions needed to be made. Rarely did I find myself in a place of indecision but I was firmly fixed in one now. I could see only two paths before me, and I couldn't bring myself to walk down either one of them. I had been placed in a position of dire straits and I could see no feasible way out. For me to admit that predicament was almost laughable. How many times had I gotten myself into seemingly impossible situations and found a way to con my way out? It was very nearly my life's work.
Loath as I was to admit it, I needed help. But who could I call on? Oh, I have many acquaintances; there is no shortage of young ladies I can call on to provide company for any amount of time. I also know plenty of men who are more than willing to participate in a good swindle; a few I might even call in if I needed to divert attention away from myself. But for something of this nature, I needed someone I could trust. My family, of course, simply wasn't an option, and those I would call friends are not something I possess in abundance. To be frank, there is only one.
Bart Maverick is as trustworthy as a man can get. He's a bit too honest and forthright at times, but he is trustworthy. If there was anyone I could trust to help it would be Bart. At least, that was true at one time, I was no longer certain I could count on him as I once had.
Our last meeting hadn't ended well, and I'm now willing to admit the fault lies entirely with me. To be blunt, I treated him atrociously. I broke his confidence and doubtless made him think our friendship meant nothing to me. That was never my intent, but in hindsight, I understand why he felt that way.
It had been a particularly unfortunate time for me. A time when I'd found it necessary to seek out employment like a commoner. Bart being the friend he is had helped me obtain employment at the saloon owned by the woman who was about to become his mother-in-law. The job was almost enjoyable at times and the wage livable . . . after a fashion. I had merely thought that the sooner I could rebuild my funds, the sooner I could be on my way and therefore out of Bart's hair. The method I choose to employ in obtaining house funds was to skim a bit off the top of what the house took in every night. I freely admit that wasn't the wisest decision I've ever made, but it had made sense at the time and I had no intention of Bart or anyone else ever finding out about it. Unfortunately, Bart had found out.
That had been over two years ago, and I hadn't seen or corresponded with him since the day he'd discovered the discrepancy in the books. It was on that day he'd politely thrown me out of town, and his last words to me had been, "don't come back." To be frank, the encounter had stung more than I ever imagined it would, and I still wondered how much he had meant those words. Time heals all wounds, they say, and I've often wondered if that particular wound of Bart's has healed any. Did he have any interest in seeing me again or had I truly lost my only friend that day?
I couldn't answer my questions but one thing I did know was that I desperately needed help and there was only one person who might be willing to give it to me. Whether he would or wouldn't was something I wouldn't know unless I asked him. And therein lay my problem. I've sort of avoided Bart these past two years because if he was really through with me, if there was no hope of Bart ever forgiving me, I really didn't want to know. Winters and his letter, however, was now forcing my hand.
Blowing out a breath, I made my decision. Going over to the small desk in the corner of my hotel room, I took up a pen and started a reply to Mister Winters' letter. The wound I dealt Bart had to have healed. If it hadn't I would without question be in a situation there was no getting out of, a situation that would likely force me into doing something I truly didn't want to do. I quickly finished the letter that had the potential to alter the rest of my life and prepared it for its trip to Biloxi, Mississippi. Once that was done I began to pack my things so I could journey to Bart's hometown of Little Bend, Texas and find out just how serious he'd been about me not coming back. And all the while, I pleaded with any higher power willing to listen to me that Bart Maverick was as good a man as I had always believed him to be.