Rising Fire. William W. Johnstone

the best hotel in Big Rock . . .”

      Monte Carson said, “Hold on a minute, Count.”

      “Johnny, please,” Malatesta said.

      Monte’s voice remained more formal, however, as he went on, “I’m asking as the sheriff now. Why did those hombres try to kill you?”

      Malatesta spread his hands innocently. “I assure you, I have no idea. I assumed they were mere brigands, bent on robbery.”

      “And they just happened to pick you and Mr. Vincenzo out of the crowd?”

      “My garments are expensive, and Arturo dresses in a suitable fashion for a gentleman’s gentleman. Those . . . desperadoes is the accepted western term, is it not? Those desperadoes probably looked at us and assumed that we were suitable targets for their larcenous intentions.”

      Monte rubbed his chin and said, “Yeah, maybe.”

      “I believe that if you find any of those wanted posters you mentioned with those men listed on them, you’ll find that they have long histories of being thieves.”

      “More than likely,” Monte agreed with a shrug.

      “Now, if you can recommend a hostelry . . .”

      “The Big Rock Hotel is the best place in town to stay.”

      “And an establishment that offers fine dining and drinking?”

      “Longmont’s,” Monte said without hesitation. He provided directions to both businesses.

      Malatesta made a shooing motion at Arturo and said, “Scurry on about your business, my friend.” He tipped a finger against the brim of his slouch hat and told Carson and Brice, “Good day to you, gentlemen. It was a pleasure meeting you, even under these somewhat trying circumstances, and I hope to see a great deal of you in the future.”

      With that, the count strolled away, whistling under his breath.

      The two lawmen watched him go, and as Monte Carson’s eyes narrowed, he asked, “You believe what he said about why those hombres tried to kill him?”

      “Not for one minute,” Brice replied.

      * * *

      Wes “Pearlie” Fontaine was standing on the high porch and loading dock in front of Goldstein’s Mercantile, talking to Leo Goldstein, the store’s proprietor. A couple of Goldstein’s clerks had just finished loading the supplies into the back of the wagon Pearlie had driven into town that morning with Denny coming along to keep him company.

      The lanky former hired gunman and longtime foreman of the Sugarloaf—now retired—had his hat tipped far back on his head, and his hands were tucked in the back pockets of his jeans. Like most of the other men on the streets of Big Rock in these early days of the twentieth century, he wasn’t wearing a gun, although that still felt funny to him at times. It was said of some men in the West, “He packed iron for so long he walked slanchwise.” Pearlie was such a man.

      As he looked along the street and saw Denny walking toward the mercantile, he stopped the small talk he was making with Leo Goldstein. The young storekeeper noticed her, too, and commented, “Miss Jensen looks just about mad enough to chew nails.”

      “Yep, and then spit ’em out to fasten somebody’s hide to the barn.”

      Denny took the steps at the end of the porch two at a time. As she came up to Pearlie, she asked sharply, “Are you ready to go?”

      “I reckon. Leo’s clerks just finished loadin’ us up. I sort of figured we’d get some lunch in town before headin’ back out to the ranch, though.”

      Denny shook her head. “No, I want to go now.”

      Pearlie considered that and slowly nodded. “All right,” he said. “That’ll be fine. So long, Leo.”

      He shook hands with the young merchant and then started to reach out to help Denny onto the wagon seat. She ignored his hand and made the long step from the porch onto the driver’s box without any assistance.

      Pearlie climbed up beside her, unwound the reins from the brake lever, and flicked them against the horses’ backs to get the team moving. He guided the wagon through a wide turn across Big Rock’s main street and then headed west toward the Sugarloaf.

      When they were on the road and the town was falling behind them, Pearlie said without looking over at Denny, “I heard all the shootin’ a while ago. Sounded like it was comin’ from the direction of the depot, and since I knew you’d gone down there, I started to go see what it was all about. But I ran into Phil Clinton along the way, and he told me what had happened. He said you were all right, but that you’d been mixed up in the ruckus.”

      Denny maintained her stony silence for a moment, then relaxed a little and said, “I didn’t notice Mr. Clinton there, but I’m not surprised. I’m sure he’ll put a story about the trouble in his newspaper.” She paused. “That means he’ll probably talk to . . .”

      “Talk to who?” Pearlie asked when Denny didn’t go on.

      “Count Giovanni Malatesta.” Denny said the name like it tasted bad in her mouth.

      “Who?”

      “Nobody,” Denny snapped. “Nobody worth writing about in the newspaper. Nobody even worth knowing.”

      “You sound like you know him, right enough,” Pearlie pointed out.

      “I wish I didn’t,” Denny said. Her voice grew softer as she turned her head and stared off into the distance. “I wish I had never met or even heard of Giovanni Malatesta . . .”

      CHAPTER 4

      Venice, Italy, two years earlier

      It was the fanciest, most exclusive ball of the season, with only the most illustrious members of Italian society there, along with many distinguished visitors from England and the rest of the Continent. The great, glittering hall in one of the palaces overlooking the Grand Canal was packed with aristocracy, wealth, power, and influence. Ladies in exquisite gowns, with jewelry shimmering on their fingers and wrists and around their milky white throats, swirled around the dance floor in the arms of dashing, expensively dressed gentlemen as a small orchestra played.

      Nineteen-year-old Denise Nicole Jensen was perhaps the loveliest young woman in the vast room. Her blond hair was coiffed in an elaborate arrangement of curls that tumbled around shoulders left bare by her pale blue gown. The dress was cut fashionably low, cinched tight at her trim waist, and flared out around her hips. A smattering of lace decorated the neckline and sleeves.

      The ball had not been under way for long, and at the moment, Denny was dancing with her twin brother, Louis, who shared the same fine features and slender build but had sandy brown hair instead of blond. They were making one of their periodic tours of the Continent, during a break from the school Louis attended in England.

      When they were younger, they had always been accompanied on these journeys by their grandparents, their mother Sally’s mother and father, who owned the estate in England where Denny and Louis had grown up. Louis’s poor health as a child had prompted Smoke and Sally to seek the very best medical care available for him, and that had been in Europe. Rather than split up the twins, Denny had gone with her brother to live on the Reynolds estate. Smoke and Sally hated to be apart from their children, but they had to do what was best for Louis.

      These days, now that the twins were almost fully grown, they traveled on their own, although their grandmother still wasn’t too keen on the idea. So far on this trip, they had been to Paris, Rome, and now Venice.

      “I have a feeling you’re about to be swarmed,” Louis said quietly as they danced. “All the young men at this ball are waiting to swoop down on you like a pack of vultures. Quite a few of the older men are, too.”

      “What a lovely image,” Denny said caustically. “I