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  Although he had serious doubts, Malachi mumbled, "I hope not, sir. I hope not."

  Malachi watched Knight drive off through the wooded area where a dirt path ran. The older man had merely confirmed what Malachi suspected.

  Emma Knight was a wealthy debutante with too much time on her idle hands and little productive work to fill them. She had the leisure and money to meddle in affairs she had no business in.

  Much as he liked Stephen Knight, he'd purchased a newspaper for a young woman hardly out of the nursery who had little knowledge of the business she was running. She was exactly the kind of woman he'd come to be wary of.

  Why, then, had Malachi admitted her into his professional life? And more important, why did she remain so often in his personal musings?

  But he knew the answer to the second question. Emma Knight was a hothouse beauty, the worst kind of woman – sensual, passionate, and selfish. Despite her cool façade, she had an air of experience and confidence.

  Surely Miss Emma Knight had long ago lost her innocence. After all, she'd been long years and thousands of miles away from her family at a private women's college. She would've learned a thing or two about the male sex, likely indulged the appetites of a healthy young woman.

  But he was no callow youth, and certainly he could control his lust for her. If once he had her, no doubt he'd be cured of any erotic fantasies about her.

  He'd wager his career that Stephen Knight underestimated his niece's experience. The chit clearly knew her way around men.

  #

  Supervising the household chores and writing long overdue correspondence kept Emma's mind occupied, but when she finally took a respite from work, Mr. Rivers' strange offer of an alliance nagged at her, puzzled her. She could not fathom his motives.

  Certainly he'd demonstrated little respect for her. For her uncle, perhaps, but certainly not for her. And especially not her newspaper skills.

  She wondered again whose idea it was. His or her uncle's? She had a sneaky suspicion Stephen had a hand in the whole affair. She vacillated between being offended and pleased.

  In the afternoon, she changed out of her day dress, washed up, and then stood before the cheval-glass in camisole and drawers, examining herself critically. Even though small-breasted women were all the rage, she admired her own rather lush bosom.

  She thought her narrow waist and flared hips would appeal to a man, regardless of her mother's opinion that they were traits of low-bred women. She placed her hands on those hips and turned, viewing her figure from the side and then over her shoulder. She liked what she saw and believed her assets would appeal to a man like Malachi Rivers.

  Emma had known since her first kiss – from Jimmy Saunders at the State Fair in Capitol Park when she was thirteen – that she was different from other girls. The Knights refused to partake of such common activities as state fairs, but Emma was overjoyed when they conceded to let her attend the centennial occasion with Jimmy and his parents. She had experienced true freedom for the first time in her young life, so when Jimmy asked permission to kiss her behind the admission booth, she'd consented.

  She found she liked kissing. And the occasional furtive fumbling stirred powerful and unexpected emotions in her. The stray glances she'd noticed from men since that age confirmed their appreciation for her face and form. She had no lacking in confidence in that quarter.

  Regarding her sexual feelings, she was uncommonly curious. Forward. Perhaps even improper, though she never crossed the lines of decorum. She was a lady, after all.

  An image of Mr. Rivers' roughly hewn yet pleasing features passed through her mind. His long-limbed leanness and wide shoulders. Large yet elegant hands with their long piano fingers and blunt tips and slight calluses.

  A tingling started low in her belly, a pressure that got all wound up in images of the man's physical attributes. Driven by a compulsion she hardly understood, she was determined to explore these experiences she felt were her right. Men weren't the only sex who had rights to sensual pleasures.

  Feelings which Malachi Rivers appeared to bring to the forefront. Which was ridiculous! She didn't even like the man.

  If she were to take a lover, she'd certainly choose a more malleable man than he, one like the boys who'd pursued her at Wellesley. She couldn't imagine a liaison with such a strong-willed man as Rivers. An alliance with a man like him would smother her. Thinking of the loss of her fledging independence disturbed her indeed.

  Nonetheless, the notion of Mr. Rivers as a lover persisted throughout the rest of her toilette.

  Late Saturday afternoon Ralston drove her into town in the horse and buggy. Even though she was perfectly capable of handling the two-horse roadster herself, she heaved an unladylike sigh and relented to his concern that the horses were too wild for a lady such as herself to manage.

  Emma had already decided, since Rivers had asked her help with his investigation – and she still marveled at the oddity of that! – to spend the Monday morning court session observing her new employer. Although she hadn't given him an answer yet, and there'd been no mention of payment, to work with him on a current murder case would be a major accomplishment.

  Another thrill of excitement raced along her nerves. Engaging in trial work was the purview and privilege of males, but she intended to conduct a superior investigation for Mr. Rivers, representing as she did her entire sex. This afternoon she would begin her investigation at The Gazette office. He would find no fault with her skills.

  After shopping for new winter boots, an item long on her list of purchases – although the selection in Placer Hills was limited – she walked back to the newspaper office. She'd nearly completed the article on Alma Bentley, but wanted to edit it more carefully before handing it over to Thomas and his printing machine.

  However, when she arrived, she found herself quite alone. Although Thomas was nowhere in sight, his scattered work tools indicated he might have taken a respite, intending to return.

  Before removing her hat and gloves, Emma walked through the back office to the rear door that opened onto the alley. She rarely used the musty, narrow passageway, and never lingered there, but today, as she gazed the length of the dirt access, she realized that her back door lay directly across from the rear of Malachi Rivers' law office.

  Their separate businesses were literally back to back.

  Good grief, how could she not have previously noticed the proximity? Curiosity piqued, she veered a little to her right, the better to catch a glimpse of the interior. After all, his back door was opened wide and she could see straight through to the street front on the other side.

  Her mother's mordant warning about curiosity and cats came to mind. She ignored it.

  To the left she spied a wide desk set kitty-cornered, behind which was an oversized, but empty, chair. She caught the edge of a painting and recognized the angular, jarring lines of Pablo Picasso, a young man whom she'd met when she and Papa had visited Spain. Her mother, disliking anything she considered "foreign," had declined to travel with them.

  Frankly, Emma doubted the emerging analytic cubism would take hold in the art world, but she liked the daring display of naked women in Les Demoiselles d'Avignon which now graced Mr. Rivers' office wall directly over his desk. She felt a little chagrined that she admired art that had – in a man's office – all the earmarks of pornography.

  And how had Mr. Rivers acquired the work only just painted by the artist? She also was put out that Rivers had the temerity to exhibit the daring painting which she admired greatly but lacked the accompanying courage to display publicly.

  A lady hanging a picture of naked women cavorting around, however abstract, would never be acceptable to the community. Nor to her parents. She remembered Papa's shocked anger when he'd first heard of the painting's subject.

  The office appeared vacant, but with the open door, Mr. Rivers must surely be nearby.

  With a vague notice of speaking with him about the investigation when he appeared,
Emma propped the back door open, reentered her office, and opened the storage room where past issues of the paper were filed. The word "filing" was applied loosely, considering the dusty stacks of papers scattered in no apparent order about the dim room.

  She removed her outer clothing, covered her shirt waist and skirt with a large apron, and began to shuffle through back issues. She would start here, among the pages of print that might shed light on Alma Bentley's background. Unfortunately, without a filing system, the work was tedious at best.

  After an hour's dusty work with no success, she decided Thomas, with his wide experience at the paper, might be her best source of information. The man had worked for the previous owner, lived in Placer Hills all his life, and virtually knew everyone. If he could not remember the particulars of certain events, he might well be acquainted with persons and information that could point her in the right direction.

  Emma had a good many questions about the principals in this crime. For example, she was curious about Joseph and Frances Machado, Sr., parents to the slain man. Their son was twenty-three, but still lived with his parents. Didn't young men normally fly the coop long before that age?

  Had his parents known of Joseph's liaison with Alma? And if so, why hadn't the senior Machado dismissed the girl when the affair was discovered?

  Emma didn't hear the scuffling sound from the other room until a quiet knock on the storage door startled her. "Mr. Rivers!" she exclaimed, dropping the newspapers and clasping her hand to her breast. She glared angrily at him. "You shouldn't pounce on a person like that!"

  "I'm sorry, Miss Knight." He grinned, not looking at all repentant, but rather like a small boy who enjoyed teasing a younger sister.

  His ocean-swept eyes raked over her from head to toe, reminding her of the dusty smudges that no doubt creased her cheeks and the cumbersome apron that belonged to Thomas. Damn, why did this man always seem to encounter her at her worst?

  Her irritation notched up a bit. And who gave a fig what color his eyes were, ocean-swept or lake-deep?

  She heaved the sigh of a martyr, as if greatly put upon by his interruption. "What can I do for you, Mr. Rivers?"

  He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. Today he'd shed his jacket and waistcoat, as well as his hat. "Since we are to work together, you should call me Malachi."

  She arched a brow, stared him down, and stepped through the door to her desk without answering. "If I am to be your employee, we should maintain proprieties."

  "Ah, you've decided then," he asked, trailing behind her and sprawling in the chair before her desk.

  Apparently, his rough manners precluded the notion of standing until a lady seated herself. She plopped down rather ungracefully in her own chair and leveled him a serious look even though his eyes sparked with an emotion clearly not businesslike.

  "Yes, I have," she answered, folding her hands on the desktop and tilting her chin in a pugnacious gesture. "Why? Have you regretted your offer?"

  "I have many regrets relating to you, Emma, but the offer of work is not one of them."

  She wrinkled her nose in suspicion. Was the man flirting with her? Or making fun of her? She considered the probability and prepared to do battle, but he became diverted by the stack of newspapers.

  "Are you working on the case? Is that why you've muddied yourself with grimy papers?" He leaned forward, a glimmer of interest on his face. "You are! What direction are you taking? What are you looking for?"

  Suddenly eager to share her ideas with him, she abandoned her annoyance for the moment. Compelling questions raced through her mind – of Joe and Alma and their tawdry affair, of the older Machados and their relationship with both the defendant and their son, of the woman for whom Alma had been tossed aside.

  As she spoke, she detected a glint of respect in Malachi's eyes and suppressed a tiny shiver. There, she'd given thought to his name.

  Not Mr. Rivers, but simply Malachi.

  Chapter 7

  "If a man were porter of Hell Gate, he should have old turning the key." – Macbeth

  Emma Knight offered thought-provoking questions, many of which Malachi had already asked himself. But he wondered at what price he'd gotten himself embroiled with her. Wondered if he would be able to manipulate her as he'd planned. She seemed intelligent enough to see through any ruse of his.

  He might very well have opened the floodgates of the mighty Missouri River.

  At that moment the ringing bell heralded a visitor from the front office of The Placer Gazette, and interrupted the animated discourse between them.

  Emma wiped her hands on a cloth, shuffled her notes aside, and glanced once his way. The stack of papers on her desk fell unheeded to the floor. He stood and trailed behind her as she removed her apron and reached the front counter just as a slender, immaculately-dressed woman swept unannounced through the door.

  "Mother!" Even from behind her, Malachi detected the stiff tightening of Emma's shoulders, the unpleasant surprise in her voice. "What are you doing here?"

  The woman eyed her daughter's appearance and sniffed the air as if something foul lurked in the corners of the room. Her sharp eyes darted throughout the work area as though she expected to be set upon by thugs.

  "Might I not visit my only daughter at her place of ... business?"

  The last word held all the denigration of a queen gazing at her lowly slaves. So this was the indomitable Mrs. Franklin Knight, the former Mary Elizabeth Winchester. Perhaps she pined for the society she'd left behind in New York and Boston. Or perhaps she suffered an intestinal discomfort which caused the unbecomingly pinched look on her face.

  Malachi was willing to wager on both.

  This much Malachi had learned from the local gossip. The Knights had previously lived in Placer Hills – more than a decade ago, long before Malachi's time here, and their reputation had preceded them. They ran in the most elite circles.

  They'd taken up residence again shortly before their daughter was graduated from Wellesley College. As all of Knight's considerable agricultural property lay south of them in the rich San Joaquin Valley, their return to California made sense, but rumors held that Mrs. Knight was not pleased with the move.

  Malachi stepped from behind Emma and inclined his head in greeting, rather relishing Mrs. Knight's reaction to his coatless frame. He'd abandoned his morning coat and waist coat while working alone in his office and failed to put them back on when he noticed The Gazette alley door open.

  Catching Emma in such a disheveled state, he was glad he'd neglected his attire. Too formal for his taste anyway, although he'd learned well how to play with formal society in San Francisco years ago.

  "Mother, may I introduce Mr. Malachi Rivers?" Ever the gracious society lady, Emma swept a hand to her left. "You might remember that his law office is on the next street over."

  "Humph." The mother emitted a decidedly unladylike sound.

  That gas again? Silence for a few minutes while she squinted and speared him unwaveringly with faded gray eyes. She'd clearly been a beauty in her youth, was, in fact, a handsome woman now. But life's vagaries had etched themselves on her remarkable complexion and she was but a pale reflection of the vivid rose of her daughter.

  Mrs. Knight's eyes widened as she finally realized who he was. "You're that attorney," she exclaimed, "the one who's defending that ... that woman."

  Malachi felt his jaw hardened at the woman's tone, but he forced his voice to remain civil. "Yes, I am, Madam. Alma Bentley is my client. Are you acquainted with her?"

  The mother fairly sputtered. "Of course not! How should I know anything about a woman of her standing?"

  "Oh, I thought perhaps she worked for you?" Malachi answered, his voice all innocent mildness. "She cleans houses for a living, takes in laundry, that sort of thing. A hard-working young woman."

  Mrs. Knight's mouth went white around her already pale lips right before she tossed her mane of thick curls, another washed-out version of her daughter's
auburn locks. "No, I do not know the woman. And I do not believe I should like to know her."

  Without waiting for a response, she turned to her daughter. "I've come to invite you to Sunday dinner," she said. The words were less invitation than command. "Your father wishes to speak with you."

  Emma glanced around the room. "I'm very busy, Mother, perhaps another Sunday?"

  "No," Mrs. Knight insisted, "tomorrow. Your father has invited Stephen and wishes the entire family to be present."

  Emma's face brightened like a newly-lit candle in a dark corner. "Uncle Stephen's to come?"

  The mother glowered and set her lips in a thin line. "You needn't be so thrilled about seeing him, when you've neglected your own parents so shamefully," she reproached.

  Emma darted a glance at Malachi who turned away from the two of them. He had no wish to meddle in a family quarrel.

  "You know I've been frantic with the opening of the paper," Emma answered, her voice a soft whisper.

  "An enterprise you'd never have entered if you had one iota of respect for your father's and my wishes," the mother countered.

  Emma lowered her voice further. "Mama, this is private business best discussed in private."

  Malachi covered his mouth and pretended to peer at the top paper stacked on the counter. Perhaps he did wish to witness this family quarrel. He rather enjoyed seeing the prim Miss Knight squirming under the thumb of her dragon mother.

  "I won't leave until you've promised to come to the house tomorrow," Mrs. Knight threatened. Malachi could feel the dragon's breath spewing toward his back and turned to face the two women.

  Mrs. Knight glanced back and forth between Malachi and Emma as if she were ascertaining their relationship. "Well?"

  A change came over Emma, a stubborn set to her lower jaw that Malachi had begun to recognize as sheer perversity. "All right, Mother, you win. I shall come to Sunday dinner tomorrow." She paused dramatically. "If you extend the invitation to Mr. Rivers."