IN ABEYANCE

Prologue

Anne Connor began her naughty dance routine for her audience of one. Although no musical accompaniment guided her moves, she kept a throbbing beat in her head, her undulations increasing in tempo with each article of clothing she shed, tossed to the seedy hotel floor as a forced smile lifted her lips.

Were her sensual wiggles enough to hold the mark's attention?

They'd have to do. She'd already rejected her husband's order to remove more of her costume. At this very moment, Mr. Connor was most likely scowling at her through the peephole due to that very refusal of hers.

She tossed her head. Too bad about him, anyway.

Gawdy gyrations were not to her taste. Far too obvious. To her mind, drawing out her unveiling might mean the difference between a successful take or the Boston Police kicking in the flimsy door and arresting her. Not only an unbearable thought, but one that would leave her alone holding the proverbial bag while her husband took off.

Next, Anne undid the front buttons on her shirtwaist, all the while making visual contact with their victim.

So far, so good. The mark had yet to blink.

"If you don't mind my saying so, ma'am, you've got some mighty pretty Irish green eyes there, like moss moistened by the sweet morning dew."

Lord! Her husband had picked a poet to filch, one who excelled at a pretty turn of phrase. That morning dew he referred to were the bitter tears she'd dare not shed. And those Irish green eyes made for an easily identifiable description should this patsy find her out.

Fortunately, her eyes weren't green as moss, but hazel, as common as mud after a rain and as plain as the rest of her. Why was her intended victim sweet-talking her? The shoe should be on the other foot here...

"Thank you, sir. Now do make yourself comfortable," Anne cooed, her voice sultry and sweet, tinged with her brogue as well, all the while trying her best to distract the victim from her appearance.

Although, why bother?

She shouldp just let his misguided words stand as is. His description couldn't possibly serve to identify her later to the police. The mark only perceived her as such. Some sort of hard to pronounce glandular condition, Anne suspected, a frantic smile lifting her lips, a silly grin this time, masking her rising hysteria.

What was she doing here? Why-oh-why had she ever agreed to her husband's get rich scheme?

Because he had strong-armed her. Because an empty belly had become too familiar to her over the years to take his threats of starvation lightly. Because homelessness made having a roof over her head, any kind of roof, sound like paradise.

Anne knew the sort of woman she was, and that was not someone who would ever bedazzle a man. Nondescript was the kindest thing that could be said of her. However – the intended victim of this robbery did make one excellent point:

Her brogue.

In picking her as a decoy, her husband had never once considered her voice, a giveaway as to her identity. No matter how much she practiced, she could never seem to rid herself of her Irish heritage.

Although, once again, and on second thought, this was Boston, a port city where cargo ships and emigration vessels from around the world routinely docked. Anne was just one of many who bore the same distinctive accent.

Then there was the problem of her naturally red hair, an outrageous shade as far from burnished as night is from day. A walnut bark dye darkened the hue to a ladylike dull brown, a shade so fashionable now of days to be considered de rigueur. And entirely unremarkable, her very aim. She needed to fit in, not stand out in a crowd.

Her fear of discovery lessening somewhat, Anne began a suggestive hip-rolling spin, undoing the skirt's back fasteners on the sneak as she twirled.

Grand! A sharp look of male discomfort spread across the victim's shaven face. His masculine features tightened. Her teasing performance was absorbing all his attention now. Just what her husband needed to avoid detection.

Anne continued, disrobing at a snail's pace and smiling all the while as she peeled off the cheap satin, slowly dropping each crimson piece of her costume to the floor, not so close that her dancing feet would slip. As rehearsed, she continued her shimmy while unlacing her corset.

Drawers and matching camisole were as far as she'd agreed to strip... unless further unveiling became absolutely necessary. For example, if her husband grew clumsy and made some sound while rifling through the mark's valuables – his bulging money belt, to be exact. Naturally, such a mistake would call for her intervention by creating a further distraction.

A distraction. That was all Anne had ever been to her husband, and the only reason he'd married her.

Not that she knew for sure, but, supposedly, no mark had ever caught Mr. Connor red-handed in the act of thievery. To ensure success, her husband reassured Anne, he always used this very same hotel room, with its quick and convenient exit to a rarely used back alley. Naturally, the manager received a cut of the proceeds from the take, payment for looking the other way during a robbery.

Anne's attention flickered nervously to the curtained-off hallway door. A telltale noise, akin to scampering mice, indicated her husband's arrival at the rear of the dark room. He'd wait to make his move until the mark was otherwise occupied before grabbing the victim's bulging money belt and making a run for it

Anne's part wouldn't end even then. She'd stay and "entertain" their robbery victim until her husband could make a safe getaway with the stolen goods.

So much pressure on her! She could hardly bear it.

Although, Anne had practiced her routine endlessly under her husband's intense scrutiny, she'd never done this before with an actual mark. And, heaven help her, she was frightened to death of what might come next.

Would she be called upon to bed a complete stranger, an act that would not only name her a thief but a whore as well?

What was her choice but to?

She dared not refuse her husband's demands... for all that she'd never stolen anything beyond a loaf of day-old black bread from the baker's shop back home in Ireland. The hunger pangs had just proven too much to bear.

Go sábhála Dia sinn...

Dying a little inside, Anne performed her high kick. She was now down to her new chemise, a pink rosebud adorning the provocatively low top. Never before had she owned anything so pretty. Or so revealing. She was about to untie the string closure on her equally new ruffled drawers and allow the pantaloons to plummet to the floor when the victim drawled:

"Hold on there, ma'am."

What! Why the interruption? What had she done wrong?

In a blind panic, Anne lifted her eyes to the mark.

The understanding she saw reflected there nearly made her weep.

She sniffed forlornly. "Pardon me, sir?"

"Don't give it away to the likes of me. Is this here really what you aim to do?"

Her eyes popped wide when the robbery victim then proceeded to pull back the hallway curtain behind which her husband crouched, poised to sneak out of the rent by-the-hour room, stolen money belt in hand.

At the sight, the mark drew his weapon, then pointed the Derringer directly at Mr. Connor's heart.

Anne had a sinking feeling this man never aimed wrong and when the gunslinger pulled the trigger, he never missed.

Their intended victim winked over at Anne. "Don't think, I haven't enjoyed your burlesque routine ma'am, because I surely have, but no brag, I was onto this thievery setup right from the start. Who is this man to you?"

"My husband. Please don't kill him, sir."

"I have no intention of killing him. Unless, of course, he provokes me."

Anne interrupted. "Oh, thank you, sir, thank you." Dropping her whore masquerade, she smiled in gratitude.

"... so long as you agree to stay behind here a little while with me... and chat."

Anne was not so innocent that she'd misunderstand the mark's meaning.

For further instructions, she looked over to her husband, Mr. Connor.

At his nod of agreement, she lowered her gaze in acquiescence, though mutinously. "Of course, sir," she replied to the floor. "I'd be happy to oblige."

"I doubt it. But I give you my word – I mean you no harm." With a shake of his head, their intended victim then motioned to her husband with the barrel of his gun. "Leave the money belt, then get the hell out of here, Mister."

Now alone in the cheap hotel room together, the gunslinger U who was no longer the victim, if ever he had been – holstered his weapon and turned back to Anne. "You cut a fine figure of a woman, ma'am, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I don't mind, sir," Anne heard herself respond. Goodness knows, her husband never complimented her. And kind words were nice to hear even if they weren't true.

He grew serious. "Damnation, woman. Open your eyes. That scurvy swine you hitched your wagon to ain't nothing but a user. Why'd you ever marry scum like that?"

She sniffed. "It was either him or starve." Disloyal, yes, but true.

He shook his head. "Well, ma'am, I respect marital vows. Such as they are in this case. But think on this for a minute – what kind of husband slinks off alone, leaving you, his wife, here with me? So much for marital loyalty, I reckon."

Anne and the gunslinger sighed simultaneously.

"Pardon me for saying so, considering your so-called marital state and all – but I was taken with you at first sight." He pushed the brim of his Stetson higher on his forehead. "And since you wore no wedding band, I decided to see where this attraction of mine took us."

"Not far," Anne muttered. "Wedding ring or no, I'm still married, sir."

"Like I said, I respect vows, even though flimsy legalities don't matter spit out in the Badlands where I'm from."

"I'm from Ireland, sir, and vows do matter there."

"You deserve better than a man who whores you out for the sake of a take from any two-bit thievery."

"This is my first robbery attempt, sir."

"Make it your last. And, ma'am, best hang onto these next few words of mine. The name's Josiah Bow. That last on account of my fondness for using bows and arrows instead of a rifle during a hunt."

"Nice to meet you Mr. Bow."

"I like the way that last slides right off your tongue, ma'am, like it maybe belongs there. Anyhow, giving an animal even odds to escape only seems fair. Tell you what – I come up northeast way every so often. Next time I'm in Boston, I'll look you up. See how you're doing."

"I don't know where I'll be then, sir. But wherever that place is, I'll still be married."

"Now don't you fret none. I promise to honor that sacred commitment of yours. But just so you know, it's like this here with me – everyone could use a friend, and I aim to be that to you. I'll find you, wherever you are. I get hired on as a tracker and bounty hunter for a reason. And this next is a promise – got time to hear it, ma'am, before I slip on out of here?"

Definitely speechless and just about falling-down-shocked by this gunslinger's outrageousness, Anne had all to do to nod.

He nodded as well. "Next time I'm up this way, if I find out that no-account varmint you wed still treating you wrong, I'll help you in any way you need."

"Pardon me, sir? I fail to understand your meaning."

"You've got gumption. Use it to kick that no-account pimp thief on his way to somewhere else, preferably hell. You deserve better than him."

That said, the mark who turned out to be no mark at all, smiled as if he really saw her, saw her down to her beleaguered soul. "I mean to keep my eye out for you, ma'am. Ensure you're safe, and all. Make no mistake, you'll be seeing my pretty face again."

Pretty?

Anne snorted to herself. Her hero was big and tough and scarred, one of those brawny American frontier types she'd heard so much about, but there was nothing even remotely pretty about him.

Save for his lopsided idea of what constituted honor.