Simply Magic Read online

  To my mother, Sallye Carberry, for going above and beyond the call of motherhood time and again over the years. For sticking with me through dented fenders, broken hearts, and that ugly fifteenth year. For crying together at old movies, and laughing at each other’s jokes. For travel stories—especially “The Incident” (and let’s not forget the twenty bucks you owe me from San Francisco).

  But mostly, for years of making magic happen for your family.

  Mom, you are the heart of us, and the magic is in you.

  PROLOGUE

  TEXAS, SEPTEMBER 28, 1875

  He felt naked.

  Strange how not wearing a badge for the first time in ten years could affect a man.

  “I sure am gonna miss all of this,” Riley Burnett muttered. His horse shook its head, black mane flying, and Riley laughed shortly. “Yeah, I know. Makes me a stupid man. Hell,” he went on, letting his gaze rake across the stark, wide-open Texas landscape. “What kind of fool actually likes living in a saddle day after day with nothing to call home except a ragged bedroll?”

  Him.

  Damn, how was he going to survive living in town again? Surrounded by people? Trapped for days on end in one spot with no chance of hopping on his horse and seeing new country? The center of a storm of gossip again, with the town biddies flapping their gums and whispering from behind their hands.

  He shuddered at the thought. “Hell, Demon,” he told his horse, “even you’ll go crazy locked up in a stable all day every day.”

  It had probably been a mistake to ride all the way to Texas just to turn in his badge. He could’ve mailed it to the man taking over his territory. But damn it, Riley had wanted one last ride. One last time to remember what it was to be a free man. A man with no responsibilities beyond the job at hand.

  And as long as Erma Hightower had been willing to step in and watch over Becky in Rimshot for him, he hadn’t been able to resist the urge.

  Now it was done. Riley Burnett, U.S. Marshal, was officially retired. As of two days ago, he was just Riley Burnett, saloon owner…and father.

  He shook big head and rubbed the back of his neck. Father. Hell, what did he think he was doing? He was no kind of man to be raising a kid. When he’d received that telegram saying his folks had died, he should have cabled right back, telling Rimshot’s one and only lawyer to find his daughter a good home. For the kid’s own sake.

  But that hadn’t been a real option, then or now. Riley saddled his own broncs, settled his own problems, and he would take care of the child who was his responsibility.

  God help her.

  As he rode around an outcropping of rock, he pulled back on the reins. The animal stopped instantly and Riley leaned forward, folding his hands atop the saddle horn.

  “Well, now, where’d he come from?” he asked himself as he squinted into the dying sun.

  A small wagon lay drunkenly to one side, its rear wheel obviously broken. The owner of the cart stood helplessly beside it, shaking his head and glancing from the spare wheel lying on the ground beside him, to the broken hub, as if expecting it to leap up onto the axle by itself. The little fella had a helluva problem. There was no way one man could replace a broken wheel all alone. Riley glanced again at the sun, lowering on the cloudless horizon, and knew he’d be making camp here tonight.

  “Well, shit,” Riley muttered and started his horse down the slope. The short man turned at his approach and Riley called out, “Need some help, mister?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  A heavy accent from somewhere other than Texas colored the man’s voice. But that was nothing new in these parts. There were always lots of foreigners out west, looking to build new lives.

  Riley gave a last, careful glance around before dismounting. After all, it didn’t pay to take chances. This fella could be just the bait in a neatly laid trap. Then he looked into the little fella’s eyes. Clear, shining gray eyes stared back at him and, in those eyes, Riley read all manner of things, not a one of ‘em bad.

  “What d’ya say we unload that wagon of yours, to lighten it up some, and then we’ll get that new wheel on, all right?”

  “Of course,” the man responded and hurried to the back of the little cart. Between the two of them, they emptied the thing in minutes, stacking the man’s possessions on the ground. He smiled to himself. Bolts of fabric lay beside hammers and saws. Knives, ropes and baling wire leaned against a stack of hair ribbons and long johns. A tinker, he thought. A traveling man who carried his shop with him wherever he went. A man a lot like himself, drawn to the open spaces and the freedom to do as he liked.

  Well, he corrected himself mentally, the tinker was a lot like the old Riley Burnett. Shaking off the sharp pang of regret ricocheting through his insides, he walked to the listing side of the wagon. “Now,” he said, “when I lift up, you yank that bad wheel off. Then I’ll set ‘er back down, we’ll grease up the axle and do it again. Should have that fresh wheel back on in a few minutes.”

  The man smiled at him and Riley noted how those gray eyes looked almost silver in the twilight. Odd, how they seemed to capture the little bit of light available. Oh, now he was getting fanciful when all that was needed were a few muscles. Riley bent his broad back to the side of the tiny wagon. He’d always been a big man, able to move most anything once he put his mind to it. The cart was no different. In no time at all, the task was finished. Kneeling on the hard-packed earth, Riley tightened the bolts on the wheel hub, gave it a last slap of satisfaction, and stood up. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he grinned at the man watching him as if he were some kind of miracle worker.

  “You’re all set, mister.” He tossed a quick look at the now-lavender” sky overhead before returning his gaze to the man in front of him. “You can head on out if you want, but I’m fixin’ to camp right up by those rocks yonder. You’re welcome to share my fire.”

  “Thank you, but I must be going on,” he said in that singsongy voice of his.

  Riley never had been much for needing the company of others, in fact, had preferred to be on his own. So why was he feeling a bit disappointed that this little fella was going to leave so soon? “You need help gatherin’ up your things?” he asked, shooting the tinker another quick look.

  “No, I can manage. You have done enough, I think.”

  “It was nothin’, mister,” Riley told him.

  “But it was,” he said softly.

  Riley shook his head. “Out here, folks tend to help one another when needed.”

  “I must thank you,” the tinker went on as if Riley hadn’t spoken.

  “You already have. Don’t you worry about it.” With that, he walked to his horse’s side and stepped up into the saddle.

  “I offer you a gift,” the man said quickly.

  “Ain’t necessary.”

  “But it is,” the man said so solemnly, Riley turned to look at him. Those gray eyes of his now shimmered with a strange silvery light and seemed to sparkle unnaturally.

  Even the air around them suddenly seemed heavier, thicker. If he hadn’t known the sky above was a clear, deepening blue, Riley would have sworn a storm was rushing in.

  “My gift will come when you least expect it,” the man told him seriously.

  Riley shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “I told you, mister.”

  “But with this gift comes the risk of pain and even, perhaps,” he added in low, ringing tones, “a price. A terrible price.”

  “That’s some gift, mister,” Riley said with a low whistle. “If it’s all the same to you, you keep it for yourself.”

  A deep-throated chuckle rose up and fell around him like au
tumn leaves. “Oh my, no,” the tinker said finally. “I’m afraid this gift is not for me.”

  “Don’t sound like I want it, either, partner.”

  A long silence followed, heavy with the stillness of the air just before a cyclone sets down. The small hairs on the back of Riley’s neck stood straight up. The other man’s form was becoming more indistinct in the vanishing light. It was almost as if he weren’t there at all anymore.

  Foolishness. Of course he was there. Couldn’t hardly talk if he wasn’t there, now could he? But what was all that about pain and a price? Sounded more like a curse than a gift to Riley. Besides, he’d had all he could take here lately of surprise gifts.

  “Look, mister, I don’t need—”

  “But you do, my friend.” The voice sounded far away, yet at the same time, it was as if it echoed inside Riley’s mind. “You need this gift more than you know.”

  Hell, no wonder the man’s eyes had sparkled so strangely. He’s loco. Slipping off into the night just to spook a man? Gifts that came with pain and a price? No, thanks. But, he told himself, there was no sense arguing with a man so clearly deranged.

  “Whatever you say, mister.”

  “Hear me, my friend,” the man said in a whisper of sound.

  The horse beneath him shied and Riley couldn’t blame the beast. He suddenly wanted to be well away from there himself. Instead, he was caught by the voice that seemed to hold, him in place and by the memory of the light in those silver eyes.

  “Watch for this gift. Watch carefully.”

  “Yeah, sure I will.” Ride out, Riley, he told himself. Spur your horse and ride out.

  “And pay the price, my friend. Pay it gladly.”

  Damn it, this was just too blamed strange.

  “If I don’t?”

  The voice came again. This time, it was so soft, indistinct, Riley had to strain to hear.

  “If you don’t,” the little man warned, “the gift will be gone and no amount of regret will bring it back.”

  Just as he’d thought earlier. Sounded more like a curse than a gift.

  A whisper raced through him. “One man’s curse is another man’s gift, my friend.”

  He sat perfectly still for another minute or two, stunned by the fact that the tinker had somehow read his mind, and hoping the voice would speak again. Explain all of this nonsense.

  But there was nothing more. No sound. No voice.

  Nothing. Finally, Riley gathered up the reins, wheeled his horse around, and rode off. The hell with camping here, he told himself. He’d make another few miles before stopping to sleep. He wouldn’t be able to rest easy until he had some distance between him and the little man who had apparently vanished into the desert night.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ST. LOUIS, SEPTEMBER 28, 1875

  A small group of street hooligans surrounded a horse and cart and their owner. Each of the dirty urchins took a turn at taunting the little man with graying hair wearing poorly patched trousers and shirt.

  Stunned, Phoebe Hightower stood stock-still a long moment, staring. No one was going to help him.

  The late afternoon crowd streamed past the altercation, heads bowed, gazes averted. Then she looked back at the small man surrounded by his tormentors and made a decision. Clasping her tightly furled, slightly worn parasol in her right hand, she jumped into the center of it all. Swinging the sharpened steel tip of her weapon indiscriminately, Phoebe had the young toughs jumping back and away.

  As the brief battle waned, her bonnet slid down onto her forehead, partially blocking her vision, and she was forced to peer at her last remaining opponent out of one cool blue eye.

  “You’re crazy, lady!” the boy yelped just before he took to his heels.

  Exhilarated both by the exercise and the clear victory, Phoebe grinned and lowered her weapon. Drawing one long, deep breath, she reached up to rearrange her fallen bonnet before turning to look at the victim of those boys.

  Small and wiry, the man was bent over, picking up a few of his belongings that had been shaken loose from his cart.

  Since the man still hadn’t looked at her directly, she spoke up. “Are you all right?” she asked, slightly out of breath. “Did those boys hurt you?”

  “I am quite unhurt,” he answered in a soft, deep voice.

  There was almost music in his words and she wondered idly where he was from originally. St. Louis had its fair share of immigrants from around the world, notably the Irish. But they stayed mostly in their own section of the city, known locally as Kerry Patch.

  He slowly turned around to face her and Phoebe was instantly caught by the power of his eyes. So light a gray as to be nearly silver, they shone brilliantly in contrast to his weathered, swarthy skin. He seemed ageless, both elderly and young all at once. There was an obvious strength to him that belied his small stature and an innate dignity seemed to radiate from him.

  “My thanks for your help,” he said, inclining his head slightly in a courtly half-bow.

  “Not at all,” she replied and found herself staring deeply into those eyes of his. Really, they were a most remarkable color. “It was nothing.”

  “Ah, but there you are wrong,” the little man said with a half-smile. “It was much indeed. And in return for your kindness, I have a gift for you.”

  A gift? She shook her head. Phoebe didn’t want payment for helping him and told him so.

  “Please,” he said, and again she heard the soft lilt of music in his words. Extraordinary.

  “No, really,” she began.

  “I offer you four wishes,” he said, interrupting her neatly, and his statement was so surprising, Phoebe couldn’t think of a thing to say in response.

  “Four,” he went on, taking advantage of her silence, “because three is customary and five wishes really are too many for any one person, even one so remarkable as yourself.”

  Wishes? Ridiculous, of course. And yet, he seemed so sincere. He obviously believed what he was saying and Phoebe considered the possibility that her new friend was, as her former cook might have said a cookie or two short of a dozen.

  As if sensing her withdrawal, the little man locked his gaze with hers and Phoebe again perceived the power lying within. How odd. Even the air around her seemed heavier, as if a storm were brewing.

  “Please,” he said softly. “You will do me the honor of accepting my gift?”

  Well, really, she thought. What harm could it do? Not that she believed in that sort of thing, of course. If wishes really came true, she would be at home now, sipping tea and reading her books. Instead, she was here. Near the wharf, looking for a likely victim.

  Victim. Oh, it shamed her to her soul even to think the word. But what else could she call the people she’d stolen from over the last few months? She cringed inwardly even as she tried to soften the truth. Was it stealing to take something so small as not to be missed from people who weren’t harmed by the taking? Was she a thief if all she stole were warm clothes, food, and an occasional dollar or two from an unguarded till?

  Yes. She was.

  And wishing things were different changed nothing.

  Still, the man was only trying to be kind.

  “Very well,” she said. “I accept your gift. And thank you.”

  The little man positively beamed at her. Then, with a quickness she could hardly believe, he scrambled up to the seat of his cart and gathered the reins in his hands.

  Just before he smacked the leather straps in the air over his horse’s back, he reminded her unnecessarily, “Four wishes only, no more, no less.”

  She smiled, then, at his cautionary glance, steeled her features into seriousness. “I’ll remember.”

  “And kind lady, be careful as you speak them.”

  “Be careful?”

  “As with anything in this life, where
there is joy, there will be pain.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Was he trying to warn her against using the wishes he insisted on granting her?

  “Heaven demands a price from us all, dear lady. With my gift, I can do no less.”

  She had no doubt at all that when her time came, heaven would have a good deal to say about her petty thievery. But until then, she would continue to do as she must.

  “You want to be paid for your gift?” she asked.

  He drew his head back and smiled at her. But it was a sad smile, somehow, containing more secrets than she could ever have guessed at. “Not I, dear lady,” he said. “I am but a tinker.”

  She was beginning to doubt that very much. There was something about him that set him apart from the dirty city street where they stood.

  “Take care, dear lady,” he said quietly, “Wish only for what you must have. Wants and needs are very different things.”

  With that remarkable statement, he gave a snap of the reins and his horse lumbered off, joining the stream of traffic flowing along the street. In seconds, he was lost to her, almost as if he had vanished into thin air.

  Wants and needs, she thought. Yes, they were different. She wanted a blazing fire, a cup of tea, and perhaps a baked chicken. She needed to find a warm coat for Simmons.

  “What a strange man,” Phoebe muttered, already turning her gaze over the crowd hustling past her.

  Quickly, she spotted a well-dressed woman carrying a basket over one arm. And out of the basket peeked two thick loaves of fresh bread.

  Phoebe’s mouth watered and her stomach rumbled. Burying her self-recriminations deep in the pit of her hunger, she fell into step behind the woman, keeping a discreet distance as she followed her home, waiting for a chance to snatch what she needed.

  It was a long walk, leading from the downtown area to a neighborhood that had once been lovely but now looked more like a tired old dowager. Finely dressed, but wrinkled with age and neglect. As the woman went in the front door, Phoebe hurried around to the back, hoping she wouldn’t run into any servants.