Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

Rafe had had the misfortune of crossing paths last night with Fred and Fiona. Much to his dismay, his train had been re-routed to Leadville due to a spring snowfall-turned-avalanche, and he'd been forced to disembark. Fred had been standing on the platform, hawking handbills for his theater troupe's latest comedy of errors.
    With nothing else to do but stand on the depot's porch, Rafe had made the mistake of inquiring after Fiona; Fred had started blubbering like a baby; and Rafe had apparently been robbed of his last shred of common sense. Why else would he risk recognition by his old nemesis, Sheriff "Rooster" Crow, by helping Fred swindle the members of the Leadville Mining Exchange?
    Rafe tossed a dour look at the Windbag, who seemed to think stories about hydraulic mining, in which whole hillsides washed away, made riveting conversation. Pompous ass. Clearly he'd been too busy raking in gold dust to worry about the waterways he was making unfit for travel or drink. Robber barons like the Windbag were marks Rafe delighted in fleecing, when Sheriff Crow wasn't stalking the premises. On occasion, as the inspiration presented itself, Rafe became rather like a nineteenth-century Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to save Mother Nature—a hobby Fred deplored, since it smacked of sentimentality.
    Rafe scowled as his thoughts drifted back to his former employer, a man whom he'd once naively hoped might become his second father. Playing on that youthful aspiration, Fred had begged him to visit Fiona at the wagon. And Rafe had gone, dragging his feet all the way. The old reprobate had duped him one too many times into performing with the troupe after Rafe had gotten the itch to strike out on his own.
    But Fiona was sick. Really sick. If Rafe hadn't seen her with his own eyes, he might not have believed it. And Fred... well, never had he seen Fred so convincingly lost. The Brit had filled Fiona's wagon with bouquets of wildflowers, a tender gesture completely alien to the man, and then, confiding in broken whispers that Fiona only had six months to live, he had vowed before Rafe and God Himself that he would find a way to make his "Fee" well again.
    Unfortunately for their sakes, Rafe thought gloomily, consumption didn't have a cure. He'd watched his mother succumb to the lung plague. Six years later, Sera's letter had found him in Texas, bringing news of Gabriel's decline. The boy had battled bravely, postponing his rendezvous with Saint Peter until Rafe could say a personal good-bye.
    Of course, on the afternoon that Rafe had dared to show his face at the house, Michael and Jedidiah had barred the door so Gabriel's soul wouldn't be contaminated. Rafe had threatened to beat them both senseless until ten-year-old Sera had sneaked Gabriel out the window and around to the front porch. Weak but exuberant, the boy had fallen into Rafe's arms, begging to be taken back to Texas so he could live out his days as a cowboy. Content with Rafe's promise, Gabriel had died that night in his sleep.
    Rafe's throat constricted at the memory.
    Needless to say, Rafe was all for finding a cure for consumption. But cheating death of Fiona's soul would take doctors, medicine, an extended vacation in a hot, dry climate, and money. Lots of money. Fred, as usual, had none.
    That's why Rafe, against his better judgment, was risking Sheriff Crow's recognition to help Fred humbug the silver barons of Leadville. The rest of his reasoning, he owed to his own embarrassingly low finances. Keeping Octavia housed and fed was costing him a damned sight more than any female had a right to cost. If Tavy hadn't practically become his whole world, he would have dumped her back in the mountains where he'd found her.
    Twitching his nose in a futile attempt to stop his mustache from itching, Rafe finally yielded to the need to scratch, swallowed an oath to find the glue still wet, and prayed he hadn't shifted the irritant off-center.
    Damn Fred anyway. He should have burst