Wild Card
Susan Amarillas
Justice Was A Hard Mistress And one who demanded all of Jake McConnell's devotion. Until the day Clair Travers insisted that the straight-arrow lawman remove himself from her saloon. The day he knew his life would never be the same… Clair Travers Was Living a Lie She had gambled on a new life.But she hadn't counted on falling for a man like Jake McConnell, a man whose dedication to the truth could uncover the murderous secret that haunted her past.
“Who do you think you are?” Clair raged, (#u72245ac1-ae3d-5494-ad34-1e261332a0c6)Letter to Reader (#u9253daad-458f-57bd-aa20-c0937ff95c03)Title Page (#u3673bed4-d966-5ceb-ae5d-a225062d57aa)About the Author (#u2bb1d326-7507-57d2-bf58-795e9eebb104)Dedication (#u49d6a497-f4b1-5bdd-ad66-bf5676106a0e)Prologue (#uc2e8245b-666b-55fe-8fc5-aa321f6e221b)Chapter One (#ueb7a64ed-7092-5e74-9495-197636bf8fb3)Chapter Two (#ud897c1e8-7484-5502-89f8-2f3b20bc2252)Chapter Three (#u1facf19f-11ef-5b46-bfe3-9cae14aaea38)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Who do you think you are?” Clair raged,
clinging to the rage like a lifeline. “Let go of me! Who do you think I am?”
With passion clouding his brain, Jake’s temper flared. “I thought you were a woman who wants to get naked as much as I do.”
Desire disappeared faster than gold in a mining camp. “You arrogant bastard! Get away from me! Stay far away from me!” She pulled free of him.
He looked momentarily taken aback, his eyes wide with suppressed passion. “Woman, you can curse me all you want, but I know what was happening here. You want me as much as I want you.”
Without thinking, Clair reached back and swung at him, but he caught her hand, trapping it in his larger one. Black eyes locked with blue, and then he released her.
“Stay away from me!” she flung at him, and with a flounce of black cotton, she spun on her heel and stormed up the stairs.
Dear Reader,
Known for her moving and dramatic Westerns, award-winning author Susan Amarillas’s new book, Wild Card, is the story of a lady gambler who is hiding in a remote Wyoming town, terrified that the local sheriff will discover she’s wanted for murder in Texas. Susan’s last two books have won her 5
ratings from Affaire de Coeur, which has described her as “...well on her way to becoming the queen of the frontier romance.” Don’t miss your chance to read her new story.
Talented newcomer Lyn Stone is back with her second book, The Arrangement, a unique and touching story about a young female gossip columnist who sets out to expose a notorious composer and winds up first agreeing to marry him, then falling in love with him. Kit Gardner’s The Untamed Heart, a Western with a twist, has a refined English hero who happens to be an earl, and a feisty, ranch hand heroine who can do anything a man can do, only better.
This month also brings us a new concept for Harlequin Historicals, our first in-line short-story collection, The Knights of Christmas. Three of our award-winning authors, Suzanne Barclay, Margaret Moore and Deborah Simmons, have joined forces to create a Medieval Christmas anthology that is sure to spread cheer all year long.
Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books, available wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
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Wild Card
Susan Amarillas
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUSAN AMARILLAS
was born and raised in Maryland and moved to California when she married. She quickly discovered her love of the high desert country—she says it was as if she were “coming home.” When she’s not writing, she and her husband love to travel the back roads of the West, visiting ghost towns and little museums, and always coming home with an armload of books. She enjoys hearing from readers. You may write to her at the address below.
Susan Amarillas
P.O. Box 951056
Mission Hills, CA 91395
To my editor, Margaret Marbury, for her skill, her
patience and her encouragement. Thanks, Margaret.
You’re simply the best.
Prologue
Texas 1879
The gun fell from her hand....
The sheriffs body slipped silently to the floor.... Heart racing, Clair watched as the crimson stain on the man’s shirt grew steadily larger. With every frantic beat of her heart she backed away, one faltering step after another. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. Her mind denied the reality of the gruesome scene.
Panic overcame all other thought.
Run!
She flung open the door and slammed full force into the chest of Buck Hilliard, deputy sheriff. He grabbed her hard, his fingers digging painfully into her shoulders through the torn cotton of her dress, his steely gaze focused on the body beside the bed.
“You bitch,” he snarled. “You’ve killed him.”
“I didn’t,” she managed to say, though it was obvious to anyone, including her, that was exactly what she had done. Dimly she realized all sound in the saloon below had stopped.
“Hey,” a man’s voice called up. “Who’s shootin’ up there?”
She met the deputy’s icy blue eyes and she knew she was doomed. Every muscle in her body tensed wire tight. Blood pounded in her neck and her temples. He had her. Trial, jail...and worse.
Terror merged with a lifetime of self-preservation. “Let me go!” she ordered, struggling as she did.
He was still staring at the body when, without a word, he did just that. He let her go. She didn’t wait to ask questions. She shouldered past him and raced full-out toward the rear door, her red satin skirt hitched up around her knees.
Behind her, she heard the men clamoring up the stairs, their voices raised in question, heard the creak of door hinges as someone upstairs probably looked out. The sound of another shot increased her panic.
She glanced back quickly and didn’t see anyone. The deputy was gone—inside the room, most likely, she thought in the fleeting instant before she yanked open the back door.
Down the outside stairs she sprinted, taking them two at a time, the weathered wood creaking and flexing under each urgent step.
Run!
Escape was her only choice. They’d never believe her. Not her, not when their sheriff was dead on the floor of her room.
Down the dark alley between the buildings she fled, careful to keep in the shadows.
She lost her balance in the soft earth. Her hand slammed against the wood siding of the wall and she got a palmful of splinters for her effort.
“Where is she?” a man’s angry voice shouted from the doorway above.
There was no turning back now, no time for explanations.
“Find her!” came another’s voice. “She’s killed the sheriff.”
Like the answer to an unspoken prayer, she spotted several horses tied to a hitching rail in the street. Wild-eyed, her body shaking with fear, she plunged out into the open street.
“There she is!” a man yelled, and she turned in time to see him pointing at her from his place near the saloon doors. Lamplight shone through the windows and landed in a yellow-white square in the center of the street.
She darted through the light—no sense pretending they didn’t know where she was. Her only hope now was that damned horse.
She grabbed a fistful of mane and rein and somehow managed to swing up into the saddle.
Angry men surrounded her, pulling at her, grabbing her.
“Get away from me!” she-screamed, slapping, pushing anything she could think of.
The horse twisted and whirled like the beginning of a tornado. Clair hung on for her life.
“Murderer!” a man shouted, leaping up to clutch her arm, his fingers clamping on to her wrist.
She kicked him in the chest with her foot. Stunned, he fell back, landing in the dirt. At the same instant she drove her heels rib-cracking hard into the horse’s sides.
The animal reared up, screaming its protest—and hers, it seemed. Men scrambled clear of the flying hooves.
She spotted the opening and raced through and into the night.
Chapter One
Wyoming 1879
It was hard to say anything good about Broken Spur. Of course the same was true for most of the cattle towns west of the Mississippi, and in the three months since she’d fled from Texas Clair felt as though she’d seen every single one of them.
But this was a first time for her in Wyoming. As for Broken Spur, it was a quarter mile of dirt street as bumpy as the bark on a cedar tree, if there’d been any cedar trees, which there weren’t. There were no trees at all, not as far as anyone could see, and that was clear to hell and gone, it seemed.
Tired, back aching, Clair squinted up at the late-afternoon. sun and, shielding her eyes, couldn’t help thinking that a little shade would be nice right about now. That sun was darned hot on this navy blue dress of hers. Little beads of perspiration formed on her back and trickled down her spine inside her corset in an annoying itch she couldn’t scratch. And she wondered for about the millionth time in her life what fiendish mind had devised this instrument of female torture.
The stage driver handed over her carpetbag. “Thanks,” she said with a smile. “Are there any saloons in town?”
The husky driver gave her a wide-eyed look of astonishment. “Ma’am?” he muttered, snatching off his hat to wipe perspiration from his forehead with a red bandanna. “Excuse me. Did you say saloons?”
Absently she brushed at the dust coating the front of her dress. “Yes. Are there any?”
He slapped his hat back on his head, tugging on the brim as he did. “Well, yes, ma’am there’s two. The... ah. Lazy Dog over there—” he pointed across the street and south “—and the Scarlet Lady two doors down the other way on this side.”
A mischievous little smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Thanks,” she replied without further explanation. She couldn’t help chuckling. She always took a little perverse pleasure in making men wonder what she was about.
She hefted her one and only carpetbag and started off down the sun-bleached pine of the sidewalk, taking care not to catch her foot or hem on the uneven boards. Her heels made a steady clip-clop as she went.
She passed several people, women mostly, and she smiled. “Afternoon.” She kept walking, glancing in store windows as she did, checking her appearance in the reflection there. Not bad, she thought, adjusting her hat a little more to the left, brushing at her skirt front again. It was a miracle she looked decent, considering she’d been bouncing around on that stage for the better part of three days now.
She was tired and dirty and would have sold her soul for a hot bath and a soft bed. But business first.
She passed Nelson’s Grocery, with a sign in the window proclaiming a sale on yard goods, then angled across the street in front of Nellie’s Restaurant. The smell of freshly baked apple pie made her stomach growl, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Lunch later, she promised herself, glancing over her shoulder at the restaurant as though to cement the pledge in her mind. A couple of cowboys rattled past in a buckboard loaded with crates; they tipped their hats and she nodded her response.
The Lazy Dog was the last building on this end of the street, and she paused outside to give the place a quick once-over. It was large, square and reasonably well cared for. A one-story false-front with an alley separating it from the other buildings. The name of the establishment was emblazoned in a curve of faded red letters on the front window. Being cautious, she looked in through the glass trying to get a feel for the place, trying to make sure if there was anyone in there she wanted to...avoid.
Pushing open the doors, she walked inside and got the usual double take from the three cowboys seated at a table near the end of the bar. The man behind the bar had a scowl cold enough to freeze milk. She didn’t speak to anyone, just scanned the room.
The floor was bare. That was good; she always hated sawdust clinging to her skirt. The place looked pretty quiet, but it was only afternoon—around three, she thought—and saloons didn’t really come alive until after sundown when the men finished working.
A mahogany bar took up the length of one wall, and six—no, eight—tables were scattered around the room. The wallpaper was so faded the dark flowers dissolved into the cream-colored background. A half dozen stuffed animal heads decorated the walls—elk mostly, and one antelope. Over the bar there was a painting of a well-endowed nude.
The air smelled stale and acrid from too much tobacco and whiskey and sweat.
The barkeep was a slick-haired little guy who was staring at her with all the fierceness of a bulldog. He toyed with his flimsy excuse for a mustache that appeared to have enough wax to make a candle jealous. She took an instant dislike to the man.
Arms braced on the bar’s surface, he leaned forward, his white shirtsleeves pulling tight against his wrists. “Lady, if you’re on one of them temperance crusades you can save your trouble and just move on,” he told her in a voice that rubbed on her nerves. “This here is a saloon, not a sideshow. So just turn your behind around and sashay right on out of here.”
The three cowboys lounged back in their chairs, laughing.
“Come on, lady,” the barman prompted. He made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Or do I have to come around this bar and move you out?”
Clair hesitated for a full five seconds. His type always rankled her and she was tempted to tell him just what she thought of him. But she didn’t. She didn’t want any trouble. She didn’t want to attract any...unpleasant attention to herself, all things considered. So she bit back her deliciously sharp retort and merely said, “Too bad, mister. It’s your loss.”
Turning on her heel, she strode out the door, which she slammed just as hard as she could. Hey, she had to do something with that temper of hers, didn’t she?
Outside, the sun was high overhead. A pair of blackbirds perched on a hitching rail squawked but didn’t move as she went past. She skirted a supply wagon parked in front of Hansen’s Hardware and cut across the street, the dirt marble-hard against her shoes.
A breeze tugged at her upswept hair and she had to fuss with pushing a stray lock back under the rim of her hat.
On down Front Street she continued purposefully toward the opposite end of town and the only other saloon Broken Spur had to offer. This one was two stories and shared a common wall with Brownell’s Feed and Grain, and it sure looked the worse for wear. The outside was raw wood. weathered and cracked from too much sun and too little paint. The one large window hadn’t been washed since Noah was a boy, judging by the dirt and mud splattered there.
Over the doorway someone had nailed up a handmade sign proclaiming this to be the Scarlet Lady Saloon. Scarlet Lady, huh? Sounded good to her.
Feeling a little more confident, she pushed open the door and went inside. It took a couple of seconds and a little blinking for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The place was pretty much the same layout as the first, though this one was more rectangular than square. The bar ran the length of the left side of the room and the walls had the added elegance, if you could call it that, of wainscot halfway up—though it was anyone’s guess what kind of wood it was, it was so black with dirt and stains.
The nose-stinging scent of unemptied spittoons permeated the air, and dust motes drifted in the sunlight that managed to filter inside.
A dozen tables were mismatched with an equally odd assortment of chairs. The floor hadn’t seen the business end of a mop in a week of Sundays. A big yellow dog, with a tail as long as a whip, was licking up beer from under one of the chairs.
With a heft of the carpetbag, which was getting heavier by the minute, she walked over to the bar, careful to keep her distance from those spittoons, and tried not to look at the paintings of nudes on the wall.
“Afternoon,” she said to the rotund man who was eyeing her suspiciously.
. “Lady, you sure you’re in the right place? This ain’t no tea parlor.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. His black vest tugged dangerously at the buttons holding it closed over his bulging stomach.
“I’m sure.” Well, at least he was being civil—sort of. Better than the other place. She was hopeful.
She let the carpetbag drop to the floor with a thud, glad to put the thing down for a while. She flexed her fingers to work out the cramps.
“You ain’t temperance, is you?” the man prompted.
“No. Not temperance.”
He seemed to think on it for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, girlie. It’s up to you.” He wiped at a spot in front of her on the bar. “What can I do for you?”
“I think it’s more what I can do for you.”
Clair turned around and surveyed the room again. It was dark, dingy, with paint peeling from the ceiling over near the front doors. Common sense said she should swallow her pride and go back to the other ptace—at least there were customers there. This place was clearly the poorest of the two, the underdog.
Ah, well, now, she always did have a weakness for underdogs. Probably because she’d always been one herself. Besides, she thought with a ghost of a smile, how could she walk away from a place called the Scarlet Lady?
Instead, she said, “Business slow?”
The man stopped his cleaning. “A little. You gonna order, or what?”
Clair had worked in saloons a long time and she knew her way around men—most of the time. Taking her hat off, she slid the long hat pin through the blue satin, then put it lightly on the bar in front of her. “What do you do for entertainment around here?”
“Huh?” He raked her with an explicit gaze. “Why, honey,” he said in a voice rich with innuendo, “you don’t look the type. You lookin’ for a job...girlie?” His mouth quirked up in a lecherous excuse for a smile that revealed a broken front tooth.
Clair didn’t falter. She was in her element. She did, however, put him straight. “I don’t do that kind of work.”
His smile disappeared faster than the setting sun. “What kind, then?” He went back to rubbing that same spot on the bar. “I don’t need no one to clean and—”
“That point is debatable, but if you’d like to increase your business I suggest having someone to play cards.”
If thoughts were sounds she would have sworn she heard the wheels turning; she half expected to see steam coming out of his ears. “Cards?” he muttered, rubbing his beard-stubbled double chins.
She knew the instant the whole picture came together in his mind. His eyes widened and he regarded her with new interest. “You?” Incredulity was obvious in his baritone voice.
“Me.” Without hesitation, she produced a deck of cards from her drawstring reticule and thumbed the ends, making a fluttering sound like a stick on the spokes of a wagon wheel.
“I like a game of cards as much as any man, girlie, but...”
Crossing to a table, Clair dragged out a chair and sat down. “You name it and I can play it.” She gestured for him to join her and he obliged. “Five-card all right with you?”
“Huh, yeah, sure.”
She dealt and he watched like a man trying to keep track of the pea under the walnut shells.
They played six hands.
She won six hands.
He frowned. “You think you’re pretty slick, don’t you?”
“I think I’m good, if that’s what you mean.”
Clearly he wasn’t a man who liked to be bested. “Hold on there.” He retrieved a fresh deck from a drawer behind the bar and slit the seal with his dirty thumbnail. “Let’s try that again...with my deck.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “You deal this time.” She wanted him to know that she was good, not a cheat.
Up till now there’d been no money wagered. Clair was merely demonstrating, proving her ability to do what she said she could do. Men liked the notion of taking on a woman. They got all loud and know-itall and took for granted that they could win.
Mostly, Clair was lucky. Though ever since Texas, well, her luck had taken a turn for the worse. Now, there was an understatement if ever she’d heard one. Ever since Texas her luck had been harder to find than an ace high straight. All of which was why her bankroll consisted of exactly fifty-seven dollars. Not a lot when you have to be your own banker.
“One dollar,” the man said, tossing the money on the table.
“Look, we don’t have to—”
“One dollar. Put up or shut up.”
Reluctantly, Clair matched his bet.
Six more hands and she was up by eight dollars, which was a lot of money; it was a week’s room rent and a couple of dinners.
Could it be? Was her luck changing? Something was happening. She glanced appreciatively around the worn-out saloon once more. Maybe it was one Scarlet Lady to another, this change in her luck. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to question it, just enjoy it.
When he started to deal another round, she stopped him with a touch on his sleeve. “So how about it?”
The barkeep lounged back, folding his hands over his barrel chest like a man in a coffin. He looked at the cards that he’d been dealing and the money still on the table. His gaze rose. “You been gambling long?”
“Long enough,” she told him, not willing to give him her personal history, not after Texas. Absently she shuffled the cards, feeling more at home with them in her hands.
He cocked his head to one side. “I don’t want no trouble. Women and saloons—”
“There won’t be any trouble. Just more business... which it looks as though you could use.” She lounged back, the chair creaking as she did.
“I suppose.” He let out a long, slow, thoughtful breath. “I ain’t bankrolling you. You understand that?”
“I’ll play for myself. Whatever I make I keep. You get the extra business at the bar. Having me here won’t cost you.anything.”
“When do you want to start?”
“Tonight.”
He gave a sharp nod. “Okay.”
“Okay.” She beamed and shook his paw of a hand. “My name’s Clair.”
“Bill Mullen.”
“Nice to meet you, Bill. You are the owner, right?”
“Yeah.” He stood and started for the bar.
She picked up the money. “Is there a boardinghouse?”
“Addie Hocksettler’s. Middle of the street, blue clapboard. Sign’s in front,” he added.
“By the Lazy Dog, right?”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “You know Slocum?”
She frowned. “Who?”
“Slocum. Beady-eyed little runt. Owns the saloon.”
“We’ve met.”
His expression turned dark. “Say ...did he send you here? ’Cause if he did—”
“No one sends me anywhere.” She cut across his words. “I met a man—I guess it was him—a while ago. We didn’t hit it off.”
Mullen made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “Man’s been trying to run me outta here for—” He broke off, as though thinking better of what he was saying. Not that she cared about his troubles—she had more than enough of her own. All she wanted was a place to do her work for a few nights, maybe a week, if business was good. She put her hat on, adjusting the pin in her upswept hair. “I take it you and Slocum aren’t friends.”
Mullen circled behind the bar. “One of these days I’m gonna...” He looked at her directly, straightening as he did. “You said tonight.”
“I’ll be here.” She picked up her carpetbag.
“I’ll tell the boys when they come in,” he called to her as she headed for the door. “And I’ll be wanting to get them eight dollars back.”
“You’re welcome to try,” she said as she stepped outside, a smile on her lips.
Thank you, Scarlet Lady.
By seven she was comfortably seated at the table nearest the window and in plain view through both the window and the propped-open front doors. The place was empty, but it was the first of the month and payday. The cowboys from the local ranches should be coming into town—at least, that’s what Bill had told her when she’d returned from getting settled in her room at the boardinghouse.
She’d pressed the creases out of her working dress—burgundy satin, black lace trim, cut low enough in front to be, what was the French—oh, yes, risqué. Part of the image, she confirmed, fluffing the lace.
She wore no jewelry—didn’t have any to wear, having lost it and everything else when she’d fled an angry mob.
“Get her!”
“Murderer!”
Clair blinked hard against the sudden terrifying words and forced herself to focus on the reality of the present She was here, a long way from Texas, a long way from that grim night.
You can’t change the past.
That was for sure. Besides, things had taken a turn for the better. Why she hadn’t been in this town but a few hours and already she had a place to work and was up eight dollars.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Seven of those newly won dollars had gone toward a week’s rent at the boardinghouse, so her bankroll was untouched—an important factor for her these days.
“Feels like rain.” Bill’s gruff voice broke into her musings. “I’m getting mighty tired of rain. You know, it never rains in California in the summer and there’s places there where it never snows. Ain’t that something?”
“So I’ve heard.” She glanced up to see him standing at the doorway, peering out at the darkening sky. “I guess this means it’ll be a slow night.”
Bill only shrugged in answer.
“Maybe the rain will hold off,” she said hopefully. Rain meant muddy roads, which meant that cowboys couldn’t get to town. All she needed was a couple of good days. She wasn’t asking for much, no milliondollar bets, just enough to get her to the next town and the one after that and the one after that....
Shaking her head to dispel her dismal thought, she dealt the cards out on the table, her fingers brushing over the gouged surface as she did.
Bill wandered over, his boots thudding on the floor. “Solitaire?”
“Keeps my fingers nimble.”
With a nod, Bill went to light the three kerosene lamps suspended from the ceiling down the center of the room. The metal shades clinked against the glass as he worked.
Red six on the black seven...
She glanced hopefully toward the street, scanning the sky beyond. The air felt damp and heavy, quiet, as though in anticipation of something. An involuntary shiver shimmied over her skin and she tensed against the feeling. This was silly. She was being silly. Still, the feeling of eerie foreboding lingered just a minute longer.
Black eight on the red nine...
You’re just jumpy, tired. is all.
Yes, sure, that was all.
Red queen on the black king...
As she played the cards, her nerves calmed. Cards and saloons. It seemed as though she’d spent most of her life sitting in a saloon somewhere playing cards and waiting; waiting for that big hand, waiting for enough money to buy her own place, waiting to settle down.
Settle down, now where had that come from?
Probably being on the run, that’s where.
Why was it a person always wanted the one thing they couldn’t have? Sometimes, late at night, she’d lie awake feeling alone, wondering about the future. Times like that she would have liked to have someone to turn to, someone to lean on.
It’ll take more than luck for that to happen.
Red two on the black three...
Yes, she knew about luck and the lack of it. Clair was a realist and she had absolutely no illusions about who she was or what she did for a living. She crossed her legs, and the satin of her dress rustled as she adjusted the skirt under the confines of the table.
There were those, she knew, who objected to gambling and drinking and other vices mostly. attributed to men. She understood it was easier to blame the temptation—namely her—than the man. But men had been drinking and gambling long before she was born, and they’d probably be doing the same long after she was dead and buried.
If she’d had more choices maybe she’d have done something else, something more...respectable. But there weren’t a lot of choices for women, not poor women, anyway, and Clair Travers had been born dirt-poor in New Orleans. She’d never known her father, and her mother—a good woman—had taken in laundry to try to make ends meet. Clair had seen her mother age ten years for every one on the calendar. She was old by thirty and dead by thirty-seven, and at fourteen Clair had been left alone to fend for herself or starve.
So she’d done laundry and cleaned houses. She’d gotten barely enough to live on, and more than a tolerable amount of groping from the “gentlemen” of the house for all her trouble.
Well, she wasn’t going to end up like her mother, and when that temper of hers had made her dump a pan of scrub water on a certain banker, she’d quit or been fired, depending on whose version you believed. Out of work, with no references, those few choices of hers had disappeared like snow in July.
She’d begged, borrowed and even stolen food when she’d had no other choice. It was something she wasn’t proud of but, dammit, she was nothing if not a survivor. She’d slept in stables and alleys and abandoned buildings, always looking for that better way—always refusing to sell her body as so many women did in desperation. After a year, she’d begun to think there was no hope, that she, like her mother, was doomed to a life of subsistence, only to die early and probably be glad for going.
Then one day she’d seen the boys shooting dice on the dock. Intrigued, she’d stood by and watched. It was a simple game and she’d caught on quickly enough. Like a true gambler, she’d wagered her last three cents on a throw of the dice and won. Another throw and another win. Two more and she was up twenty-five cents and grinning ear-to-ear.
She was a natural, they’d told her. After that she was there on that dock every day. It didn’t take her long to figure out that the boys came around because they were intrigued playing against a scrap of a girl who always seemed to win. It got to be like a badge of honor with them, trying to beat her.
But luckily for her, they couldn’t—not most of the time, at least—so they’d challenged her to other games: poker, monte and faro. She learned fast, got cheated a few times in the beginning, but only a few. She’d learned to defend herself. Yes, Clair had learned to fight and to win, to do whatever it took to stay alive.
By the time she was seventeen, she was playing poker in a local saloon and making a living—not a great living, but she was off the streets and had three meals a day.
Over the past eight years. she’d played in saloons and gambling halls all over the West. She played poker and she played fair. Oh, not that she couldn’t have cheated—she could. But she didn’t need to. She was that good. Even if she hadn’t been as good as she was, well, there was a thing called ethics.
Yes, the lady gambler had ethics. She might have had to fight and scratch for everything she got, but she was no liar and no cheat-a matter of pride.
Black nine on the red ten...
Two cowboys wandered in. They stopped dead in their tracks and stared at her as though she were a three-legged heifer.
A nervous flutter moved through her stomach. These days, strangers always gave her an anxious moment until she realized she didn’t know them—that they weren’t the law. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Pulling the cards into a neat stack, she smiled sweetly. “You gentlemen play poker?”
What do you know, they did. So did about a dozen more who filled the Scarlet Lady that night The rain held off and business was good. She was winning. For the first time in months, she was winning. A smile threatened, but she held it back, afraid of jinxing her new found luck.
She just dealt the cards, made small talk and collected her money. Cowboys stayed a few hands, then left. Bill strolled by every so often, paused to watch a hand or two, then ambled away. She figured he was checking on her, and that was fine. She didn’t mind. Occasionally she’d see him at the bar, talking, taking a drink or two with the customers.
“That’s it for me, ma’am,” a young cowboy said. Scraping the remains of his money into his hand, he left.
Bill surprised her when he plopped down in the vacated chair. “Uh, Bill, shouldn’t you be watching the bar?”
“Bar’s fine,” he replied, his bushy brows drawn down almost to one. Before Clair could argue the point, he banged a handful of money on the table—a mix of coins and notes—and an open bottle of whiskey, one-third empty. Judging by his red-eyed appearance, she knew exactly where that missing liquor had gone.
Seeing Bill at the table got everyone’s attention. Men who’d been at the bar and other tables moved in. The four other men seated at Clair’s table scooted forward, eyes wide, giving everyone a closer view of what was about to happen—whatever that was.
Clair coughed slightly as a puff of smoke circled her head like a gray cloud. The pungent scent of several unwashed bodies permeated her nostrils. Apparently some of these boys didn’t adhere to the notion of a weekly bath.
Bill spoke up, his deep voice loud enough for all to hear. “I been watching you all night and I figure
I can beat you now.” His chin came up in a defiant gesture that got him several pats on the back from those who’d lost a little money over the past few hours.
Clair studied him through narrowed eyes. Under any other circumstances she wouldn’t refuse a man so intent on playing, but this was Bill, the owner. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that losing to a woman gambler would make him angry, had made him angry. If he got his tail in a knot, he’d be bound to send her packing just to save face. He might even call the law, claim he was cheated or such. No, this definitely wasn’t a good idea.
“Bill,” she began in what she hoped was a sweet, soothing voice, “I’d rather not play against you.”
Bill obviously got the wrong impression. His grin got Cheshire-cat big and there was another chorus of encouragement from those gathered. Damn, this wasn’t working.
“I got you scared, huh?” Bill announced triumphantly to her and those backing him up. He dropped a fresh deck of cards on the table in front of him and took a swig of that whiskey straight out of the bottle. “You ain’t gettin’ outta here without me winnin’ back some o’ that money you owe me.” He slit the seal and pulled out the cards with a flourish. A quick shuffle and he removed the jokers from the deck.
“You tell her, Bill,” one cowboy said.
“You can win,” another added.
There was a general egging-on all around.
Now, Clair didn’t mind a little heckling, didn’t mind the men watching, but she did object to the implication that she owed him money. “I won that money fair, Bill. I don’t owe you anything.” Clair shoved back her chair, moving about an inch before she rammed into a lanky cowboy who was intent on leaning over her shoulder.
“Do you mind?” she prompted, assuming he’d step back. He didn’t. She felt cornered, trapped, and the first stirrings of unease swirled in her stomach like storm clouds.
“Come on. Come on,” Bill was demanding. “You ain’t backin’ out.” He took another long swig of whiskey from the bottle and put it down with a thud. Liquor trickled out of the corners of his mouth and he wiped his face with the back of his hand.
Muscles clenched along Clair’s bare shoulders. “I’m tired, Bill. How about later? Tomorrow night?” She tried to stand, pushing harder against her chair with the backs of her legs, and this time managing enough room to rise. She reached for her money. “I was just thinking about calling it a night when—”
“Oh, no, you don’t, woman.” Bill grabbed her hand to stop her, his rough fingers clamping tight around her wrist. Fear exploded in her and she jerked free.
“Don’t!” she flared. “I don’t like to be touched.”
Bill rose out of his chair to mirror her stance. “You ain’t gettin’ outta here without dealing them cards.”
Bill was staring at her, and so were eight or ten cowboys—she was in no mood to count Stetsons. Their expressions ranged from daring to smug confidence.
Damn. This wasn’t good. Why the devil wouldn’t the man take no for an answer? By tomorrow he’d be sober, and grateful she’d refused to play him. Sagging down in the chair, she tried again. “Look, Bill, what say we do this tomorrow when you’re...more your self.”
He sat down, his eyes never leaving hers. “Nope,” he said, punctuating his refusal by slamming his hand, hard, on the tabletop. Money sprang upward like Mexican jumping beans. “What’s the matter? Afraid?” He earned himself another round of encouragement and back slapping.
She was trapped. If she did this, she’d be out of a job. If she didn’t, she’d be branded as unfair or worse by those watching and her chance of playing cards in this town would be over before she got started.
This wasn’t fair, not when her luck had just changed. A quick look around at the faces all staring at her told her she didn’t have a choice.
“Okay.” She relented, adjusting her skirt, the light catching on the satin and making it dance in shades of fiery red. “Two hands.” She figured she’d try to placate him. Absently she traced a long, curving gouge in the tabletop.
“Five,” Bill countered,. his mouth pulled down in a grim expression that said he was determined.
Clair straightened. Her gaze flicked from one intent face to another, then back to Bill. “What is this, an auction? Two hands and then I’m done for the night.” She wanted out, and she figured a couple of hands wouldn’t get her into too much trouble.
“Five.” Bill’s tone was adamant.
Apprehension circled in Clair’s brain. “Five,” she reluctantly agreed. If she could keep the bets small, they could get this over with quickly. “Win or lose, that’s all. Right, Bill?”
Bill’s brown eyes widened with excitement. “Five.” His head bobbed up and down like a pump handle and he was already reaching for the deck of cards. “Five.”
“Show her, Bill,” a wide-faced cowboy in a black Stetson prodded.
Thanks a lot, she thought but didn’t say. She didn’t object to Bill dealing-in fact, she preferred it. There’d be no arguments later about her cheating.
She beat him three out of four, and she guessed she was up about twenty dollars, though she never counted her money at the table.
He kept looking around at all those frowning male companions, the ones he’d been so arrogant in front of, the ones who were never going to let him live this down. Never mind that most of them had also lost at least a few dollars to Ctair—at least they’d been smart enough not to make a public spectacle of the losing.
“All right, Bill, last hand—right?” It was an order, not a question. She shifted in the chair, the wood rough against her bare skin above her dress. That acid in her stomach was swirling with tornado force. One more hand and she was out of this. Twenty dollars didn’t seem so bad—surely he’d understand tomorrow.
Yes he might, but she knew these men wouldn’t. Bill would be the talk of the town for months, and not pleasant talk, either.
He dealt the cards, five to each of them. Clair took a quick peek, careful not to reveal them to the onlookers, then put them facedown on the table again, her fingers lightly resting on the stiff paper.
Bill took a long gulp of whiskey, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat with each swallow, then slammed the bottle down with a bang on the table. “Bet fifty.”
If the man had said “Bet a thousand” she couldn’t have been any more surprised. “Five-dollar limit,” she told him emphatically. She was so close to getting out of this reasonably unscathed.
“My saloon. My rules,” he countered. “Fifty.” Those ogling cowboys all got openmouthed quiet. They crowded the table as though Bill was serving a free lunch and they didn’t want to miss their share. They pressed in so tightly she was actually bent forward, a belt buckle cutting into the base of her neck.
“Hey! Watch it!” she snapped, twisting and pushing the man back with the flat of her hand against his chest.
“Sorry,” he, at least, had the good grace to mutter, though if he moved it was so fractional she could hardly tell.
Shaking her head, she turned and counted out the fifty dollars, which was a hell of a wager in any man’s game.
“Cards?” Bill barked, the deck dwarfed in his big, clumsy hands.
Clair kept her gaze focused on his face. “I’ll play these.”
He hesitated the barest fraction of a second, .his whiskey-hazed eyes honing in on hers. She never flinched, never looked away.
Finally he said, “I’ll get one.” He slapped the card down on the others with a force that threatened to tear the paper. Cautiously, like a man looking under a rock for a rattler, he picked up the cards and fanned them out. She knew the instant he got to that draw card. Something—excitement—flashed in his eyes. She had seen it often enough in men’s faces.
So, she thought, he’d drawn whatever card it was he was wishing for. She figured he either had a straight, probably jack high, or four of a kind—couldn’t be higher than tens.
He straightened in the chair and squared his shoulders beneath his stained white shirt. “A hundred.”
“A hundred! Are you crazy?” She eyed that nearly empty bottle of whiskey. He was drunk as hell, that was for sure. “Now look, I—”
“What’s the matter? Ain’t up for a real game?” he mocked, and several cowboys laughed. The man was practically preening, he was so damned pleased with himself.
A leather-faced cowboy spoke up. “That’s it, Bill. You’ve got her on the run now.” There was more backslapping and grinning.
But Bill’s smile melted faster than ice in summer when he looked down at his money. It was obvious he didn’t have anywhere near a hundred dollars—thank goodness.
“You seem to be a little light there,” she observed, thinking a hundred would clean her out if she lost.
Bill took another slug of liquid courage and said, “I’ll just git the damned money.” He lurched to his feet, swayed and grabbed the shoulder of a plaid-shirted man for support. “Watch my cards,” he commanded, and several men nodded with all the solemnity of being asked to guard the bank vault.
Clair watched Bill make his way to the bar. She had to give the man credit—he walked as straight a line as any man in the place, a hell of a thing considering the amount of whiskey he’d consumed.
She looked around, her eyes stinging from the smoke-filled room. “Look, Bill, we could—”
“Never mind,” he pronounced. “I’ll git the money.”
What could she do? She shook her head and waited while he banged around behind the bar. Maybe he wouldn’t find the money. There hadn’t been that much business tonight and—
“This’ll do it!” he exclaimed, returning to the table.
So much for playing out a lucky streak.
“Okay.” He plunked a piece of paper down with the flat of his hand. “This ‘ere is the deed to the Scarlet Lady. I’m puttin’ her up for the...money.”
For about five seconds you could have heard a pin drop in the place. Clair didn’t believe her ears.
“I don’t want your saloon,” she told him.
“She’s worth a hundred,” he countered in a tone that brooked no challenge.
“I’m sure she is, but—”
Then everyone started talking at once.
“You can take her, Bill.”
“Wait till word gets out.”
“Wait till Slocum hears.”
Clair didn’t care about Slocum or male pride or anything else. Things kept going from bad to worse. Where was all that luck she’d been so sure of only a few hours ago? All she wanted was to sit here and play a few friendly hands of poker. This wasn’t fair. “I don’t want your saloon.”
Bill drained the last of the whiskey from the bottle and put it slowly but firmly down on the table. “If you can’t match the bet, then what are you, scared?”
The cowboys fell silent.
That temper of hers was getting the best of her. She figured she’d done about all anyone could do to be fair, more than fair. Her conscience was clear.
“Have it your way.” She counted out a hundred—all the money she had on the table plus an emergency gold piece she kept sewn in the lining of her reticule.
Bill grinned Christmas-morning big. He put down the cards one at a time as though to savor the victory. “Straight, jack high,” he announced to everyone at once. There were gasps from those present, smiles on most of the faces as all eyes turned to her.
Clair looked at him directly and said, “Four aces.”
Chapter Two
Rain came down harder than a springtime waterfall. It poured off the brim of Jake’s hat and ran in rivulets down his tan slicker, soaking the black wool of his trousers where it was exposed below the hem. It seeped through every opening around his collar and cuffs and generally annoyed the hell out of him.
Overhead the sky was gunshot gray; ominous clouds were snagged on the tops of the mountains and showed no sign of easing away. The rain beat down the buffalo grass and made puddles in the loamy soil.
Jake shifted in the saddle and tucked the last of his breakfast into his mouth. Breakfast—cold jerky and no coffee. No way in hell could he build a fire in this downpour.
“Looks like we’re in for a long one, Tramp,” he said to his gelding as they trudged steadily through the storm. He was headed northwest.
Lightning flashed across the sky, arcing like a long, bony finger pointing the way. Thunder crashed. The packhorse neighed and balked at the sound, pulling the rope Jake had tied to the saddle horn tight against his leg.
“Hey,” he snarled, grabbing the lead and yanking on it where it cut into his thigh. He turned and glared at the horse and the grim cargo that was strapped to the animal’s back. There, wrapped in canvas, was the body of the man he’d sought, the man he’d killed. Ben Allshards.
Jake had been out here alone for the better part of a week chasing Allshards and the man’s partner. He’d followed them from one hole to another, always a half day behind them, always pushing to catch up. He’d finally closed in at Jensen’s, a soddy saloon on what was commonly called the outlaw trail. But Allshards had spotted Jake, and he and his partner had slipped out the back door. To make matters worse, they’d split up.
Jake had had to make a choice. Too bad for Allshards—he’d won the toss.
The wind picked up, sending the rain swirling in odd directions, water pelting Jake on the side of his face. He flipped up his collar and turned his head away. “Damn.”
For two more days and nights Jake had followed wherever Allshards had led. With no sleep, and eating in the saddle, Jake had nearly run old Tramp into the ground, a dangerous thing to do in this unforgiving country. But he’d be damned if he’d give up.
Allshards had broken the law. No one broke the law in Jake McConnell’s territory and got away with it. First and last, Jake was a lawman, second-generation lawman. He believed in justice and fair play, and mostly he believed in the law. Rules to live by or, in an outlaw’s case, rules to die by.
Late yesterday he’d cornered Allshards in a canyon near Angel’s Peak, a strange outcrop of rocks that shot up a hundred feet out of the prairie floor like some misplaced giant spike. Allshards must have figured he could hole up in the small cave at the base. Maybe he figured Jake would get tired, what with the rain and all, and pack it in. Hell, the man had said as much in a little shouting match they’d had along about sundown yesterday.
Now, Jake might be a by-the-book lawman, but nobody ever said he wasn’t fair.
He’d tried to get the man to surrender, had talked to him for quite a while on the subject, but Allshards hadn’t been buying. He’d probably known he was facing a rope for killing that bank teller.
Right after the sun went down, the outlaw had made a break for it and Jake, left with no choice, had done the job the good people of Carbon County paid him a hundred and fifty a month for.
Grim faced, he glanced back at the tarp-covered body once more, the feet bobbing up and down with each slogging step of the horse. Hell of a way for a man to finish his life, he thought with a touch of sadness for the man, and perhaps for himself.
He dragged in a long, slow breath, the slightest hint of sage tangy on the air, and let it out slowly, feeling the tension ease in his shoulders and gut. Adjusting the reins in his hand, he glanced upward and got a faceful of rain for the effort.
Disgusted, he scanned the treeless horizon. Even the usually ever-present antelope were nowhere in sight. That town had to be close. He stood in the stirrups, the stiff leather groaning in response.
Where the hell was Broken Spur?
A quick look out the front window at the sky confirmed Clair’s concerns. The rain that had started during the night showed no sign of letting up. Water cascaded off the porch roof. Water pooled in the street. Water dripped from the leak in the ceiling near the end of the bar, plick-plopping into a metal bucket in a way that was beginning to irritate her nerves.
As of ten-thirty yesterday, Clair Travers was the proud owner—a laughable overstatement—of this ramshackle saloon: peeling wallpaper, faded mirror, mismatched tables and all.
Business was bad. Heck, there was no business. Bill, with all his belongings in a small trunk, had left on yesterday’s morning stage. She’d tried to talk to him, tried to give him back the Scarlet Lady. What the devil did she want with the a saloon?
But Bill had had other ideas. It seemed he’d been thinking about California for quite a while, thinking about those summers without rain and winters without snow. Mostly, he’d been thinking about a certain woman who had a small apple orchard near the base of the sierra. He just hadn’t wanted to sell out to Slocum.
No, he didn’t hold any hard feelings, he’d told her in a tone that lacked sincerity. She was sure there was a certain amount of deflated male pride involved in his willingness to leave.
His parting remark, as he’d stepped up into the stage had been, “This town is too small for two saloons.”
“Well, great, but what am I going to do with it, then?”
“That’s your problem,” he’d said, and the stage had pulled out.
So here she was, alone in an empty saloon.
That drip had turned to a thready stream. Terrific. She went to get a larger bucket from the storage closet she’d discovered near the back. Bill had stashed everything in there, from food to mops.
As she substituted one bucket for the other, she had to shake her head in wonder—maybe it was disgust. Both, probably.
She needed to own a saloon about as much as she needed an anvil chained to her leg. She hefted the rain bucket to the back door and tossed the water into the mud behind the building. Kicking the door closed, she turned.
You aren’t staying.
No. Of course she wasn’t She was wanted by the law, for heaven’s sake.
Her mind flashed on a man’s leering features, his hands pawing at her body as his mouth covered...
She jumped as though she’d been struck. Heart pounding in her chest, she sucked in a couple of deep breaths.
Abruptly she tossed the empty bucket down with a ringing thud and, needing to move, strode across the room, ten long strides from front to back. She pulled open the front doors and stood there, watching the rain splash and puddle in the street. The chilly air penetrated the worn yellow cotton of her shirtwaist, and she rubbed her upper arms. After a minute or so, she felt calmer and stepped back, looking at the room.
It’s yours, lock, stock and leak.
This was something, wasn’t it? A ghost of a smile teased her lips. She’d never owned anything before—nothing more than the clothes on her back, anyway, and a few pieces of jewelry.
“Umm.” She made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. “My saloon.”
Intrigued with the notion, she strolled around the room, sort of checking things over—not that she was staying, mind you, but just...checking. There were twelve tables and an odd assortment of chairs, all in need of a coat of paint. How much was paint these days, anyway?
That wallpaper was a disgrace even for a saloon—red roses on a background that had probably been white at some time in the ancient past Now it was closer to brown, dark brown.
The place did have possibilities though. She’d start by doing a thorough cleaning, take down the wallpaper and see—
You aren’t staying.
Well, she hedged, there’s staying and then there’s staying. She sure wasn’t going anywhere in this rain. Why, she doubted the stages were running today. The mud was probably up to the wheel hubs by now.
She toyed with a stray lock of hair that had come loose from the pins, twisting the blond strand around her index finger, thinking.
An old adage about a moving target being harder to hit or, in this case, harder to find, floated through her brain. Move on. It was the wisest thing to do. It was the only thing to do, but...
As she ran her hand along the top of her bar, her fingers glided over the rough surface and her eyes skimmed the floor, badly gouged from too many pairs of spurs. Floors could be sanded, bars could be painted, and walls...
Her saloon.
The words, the reality settled softly, warmly in the pit of her stomach; she felt like a child with an unexpected present.
Broken Spur was remote, she reasoned. The likelihood of running into someone from Texas was next to none. She’d been on the run three months and she hadn’t seen any posters—not once. Maybe they weren’t looking for her.
Phrases like “starting over” and “second chance” flitted through her mind. Logic struggled with a lifetime of longing.
Her luck had changed here. The Fates wouldn’t hand her this dream, this wish, if she wasn’t meant to have it. Broken down as it was, it was hers and...and, dammit, she was keeping the Scarlet Lady.
Decision made, exhilaration soared in her. Breathless, eyes shining, heart racing, she was actually grinning when a sudden gust of wind banged the front door open; hinges squeaked as the door slammed against the wall, then bounced back. Cold air poured into the room like a ghostly presence, carrying with it an eerie foreboding that sent her euphoria fleeing. The fright was so real, so intense, it took her a couple of seconds to shake it off.
“This is silly,” she said out loud as though to dispel any demons that might have floated in with that rainy mist Forcing her smile back in place, she strode across the room to close the door, her black skirt flouncing with each long step.
That was when she saw him.
A moving shadow against a menacing gray sky, he was all but obscured by the rain. A shiver moved through her. Instinctively, she hugged herself in a protective gesture, though why, she wasn’t quite sure.
The street was a lake, ankle-deep in water and mud.
The horse and rider didn’t seem to notice. The sorrel moved slowly up the street, lifting his legs free of the quagmire one at a time. As though heedless of the rain, the rider never hurried the animal or the packhorse he led.
Sidestepping, she edged over to the window as she paralleled his progress.
She could make out his tan slicker, the bottom third stained brown with splattered mud. Water ran off his black hat, front and back, the brim sagging. He was tall, she could tell that much, and he moved with the horse in the way of a man who spent a lot of time in the saddle.
So what brought a man out in this miserable weather? she mused and almost instantly she spotted the answer. That packhorse he was leading wasn’t carrying supplies—it was carrying a body, slung facedown over the saddle, the boots protruding from the end of a dark brown tarp used as a shroud.
Clair went very still.
“Bounty hunter.” She said the words on a funereally-quiet whisper as though to say them too loud would confirm her fear, as though he would hear her and know she was there, watching.
Self-preservation made her take an instinctive step back, then another and another, until the rounded edge of the bar pushed hard into her back, the corset stays digging painfully into her flesh.
“He’s come” was all she managed before she spun on her heel and started for the back door, only to come up short.
Dread snaked coldly and relentlessly up her spine as she stared at the door that represented escape—but escape to where? She didn’t own a horse or a wagon of any kind. There were no stages until day after tomorrow, assuming the stages got through. In the meantime, where could she go?
Trapped!
Calm. Stay calm.
She repeated the words like a litany until the panic eased and her heart rate slowed to a manageable level. She glanced over her shoulder toward the window and the man still visible through the glass. Her gaze flicked from him to the back door then to the man again. If he came in here, she could... What?
So he’s a bounty hunter. So what? There could be a hundred reasons he was here. Broken Spur was the only town around for at least fifty miles. The storm could have driven him in.
Through the rain haze she saw him again. He was here to get out of the storm and collect his bounty, his...blood money. He’d be gone soon, tonight, tomorrow at the latest. She’d seen his type more than once. His type liked noise and women and wild times, none of which he’d find around here. Confidence built on reason.
He’d get his money and go and she’d never even see him again. Again? Why, she never had to see him at all, she realized with a start.
Cautiously, almost on tiptoe, she moved toward the front doors and pushed them closed, pulling down the shades and praying she didn’t attract his attention.
Her breathing came in shallow, rapid gasps as, eyes fixed on the man, she reached for the lock. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal, feeling the hole where the key should have been. Nothing.
No! There had to be a key. Where the hell was the key? Everything would be all right if she could just lock the damn door.
Gritting her teeth in frustration, she grabbed up the closest chair and wedged it under the rusty knob, but the knob was too low and the chair too tall and it only slid to the floor like some drunken cowboy.
Think. She shoved the hair back from her face. Hitching up her skirt, she tore around behind the bar. Paper. She needed paper, something to write on. Frantically she scanned every surface, every nook and cranny.
Spotting a pasteboard box buried under the weight of empty whiskey bottles, she dumped out the bottles in a wild tumble of glass that shattered on the floor.
Her fingers slipped on the slick paper surface as she tugged, muscles straining, and finally ripped off the top flap.
Okay, now pen, pencil, something. She yanked open drawers, one after another, her hand groping in the dark confines until blessedly her fingers closed around a pencil.
Quickly she scrawled a word and raced back to the door, sliding the sign in front of the shades.
Closed.
With a sigh, she turned and sagged against the door frame, her trembling hands sandwiched between the smooth wood and the cotton of her skirt.
Closed. It was so simple. She was safe.
Jake was never so glad to see any place as he was to see Broken Spur.
Muscles in his legs, stiff with cold. complained as he swung down from the saddle and stepped in mud that oozed up around his boots like quicksand.
Looping the reins of both animals over the gnarled hitching post, he grabbed his gear, saddlebags and rifles and strode the three long steps to the marshal’s office.
“Damn, it’s cold,” he grumbled by way of a greeting as he stepped inside. As he shook his hat and himself like a hound, water sprayed against the wood walls and dripped on the pine flooring, making tiny circles in the dirt.
“Thanks a lot, Jake,” Woodrow Murphy said, looking up from his place behind the desk. “And here I just cleaned.”
“Oh, yeah, I can see you’ve been hard at work.” Amusement danced in Jake’s jet black eyes as he scanned the ten-by-twelve unpainted room, glancing at a pair of barrel-backed chairs and an oak desk that looked scarred enough to have been through a couple of wars. Every flat surface was stacked with papers, and Jake figured Woodrow hadn’t filed a thing since he’d taken this job three years ago.
“Why, I have been cleaning,” Woodrow retorted, his expression remorseful enough to make a parson smile. “You shoulda been here last month.”
Jake chuckled. “Woodrow, it’s good to see you again, old timer. It’s been too long.”
Woodrow grinned like a kid on the last day of school and came around the desk, his hand extended as he walked. “You, too, Jake. What’s it been—six months now? Seven?”
“I couldn’t say.” Jake shrugged out of his slicker and the black wool jacket he wore underneath and hooked both on the pegs by the doorway.
The men shook hands.
Jake dragged one of the two chairs toward the stove. “You look good, Woodrow.”
“You look like something the dogs chewed up and spit out.”
“Thanks,” Jake replied, warming to the teasing. “I didn’t need to come up here to be insulted. There’s folks a lot closer to Rawlins that would be more than happy to do the job.”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet,” Woodrow confirmed with a chuckle.
Jake settled his weary body into the chair, while Woodrow perched on the edge of the desk. Jake could see him out of the corner of his eye. He held his hands up to the stove, letting the heat warm his fingers and inch its way up his arms.
“I’ve got Ben Allshards outside.”
“Yeah?” The marshal’s pale blue eyes widened in his round face and he looked toward the window and the horses standing head down in the storm. When he looked back, his mouth was drawn in a thin white line, and his brow was slightly knit. “What happened?” As he spoke, he opened a desk drawer.
Jake saw Woodrow produce a bottle of whiskey and two metal cups from the drawer. “Drink?”
“Yeah.” Jake joined him at the desk.
Woodrow splashed whiskey in both cups and handed one to Jake.
“So what’d he do?” Woodrow raked one hand through his thinning, graying hair.
“Him and a partner held up the bank at Broomfield.” Jake took a long drink, nearly emptying the cup. The whiskey burned his tongue and the back of his throat. He needed a drink, something to ease away the cold and the regret. Killing a man wasn’t easy. He helped himself to another splash of whiskey. “Partner got away...so far.”
Woodrow dropped into his chair, the metal swivel squeaking. “You going after him?” He tipped back, making his plaid shirt pull tight over his rounded stomach.
“Naw.” Jake wandered over to the window to look out at the body draped over the packhorse. Water streaked down the canvas and the soles of the man’s boots. “The man’s in the next county by now and out of my jurisdiction. I’m gonna send Bill Hurley-”
“Sheriff in Laramie County.” Woodrow filled in the information by way of understanding who Jake was talking about “Good man.”
Jake sipped his whiskey. “I’ll send Hurley a wire. It’s his job now.” He returned to the stove and sank into the chair, his feet stretched out in front of him, the half-full cup resting on his chest, his faded blue shirt stained dark down the front from the rain. Muscles in his back and neck slowly relaxed.
Woodrow leaned forward, elbows propped on the edge. of the paper-strewn desk. “You get the money?”
“I got lucky.” It was a hell of a thing to call killing a man lucky. But he knew that Allshards had had a choice. He made the wrong one—he’d gone against Jake McConnell.
The two men sat in silence, the kind that comes from being longtime friends and from being lawmen. Feeling safe and relaxed for the first time in a while, Jake let his eyes drift closed. Lord, he was tired. He hadn’t realized how tired until just that second.
Outside, lightning sizzled overhead like fireworks on the Fourth. Thunder rattled so close, he could feel it in his teeth. And that rain, hell, the rain pounded on the metal roof.
“Sounds like a stampede going on up there.”
“Yeah.”
Woodrow motioned - with the whiskey bottle. “More?”
“A little.”
Woodrow asked, “You know who Allshards’s partner was?”
“I’m guessing it was Ingles. Those two usually ride together.”
“You know—” Woodrow shuffled the mound of assorted paper on his desk “—I think I’ve got a poster around here on them two....”
“Woodrow—” Jake straightened “—you couldn’t find your hat in a room full of elbows. One of these months I’m going to come in here and you’ll be gone, buried in the paper.”
Woodrow gave up on the looking. “Fast as I put this stuff away, some government weasel down in Cheyenne, with nothing better to do, sends me more. Why, in the old days when me and your pa was riding together—”
“I know. In the old days when the world was flat—”
“Never mind, you young pup!” Woodrow broke in, laughing.
And Jake laughed, too. It felt good to laugh again, better to be with a friend. “Before we get down to some serious name-calling, I think I’ll call it a night,” Jake let his feet slam to. the floor and stood all in one motion. “I’m headed over to the telegraph office to let the Broomfield bank know I got their money.” He hefted the saddlebags. “I’ll stop by the local bank and get them to lock it up until we can send it out on the next stage.” Jake shrugged on his slicker, still wet from the storm. “Will you rouse the undertaker out and get him to take care of the body?” He settled his hat comfortably on his head, then gathered the rest of his gear and his guns.
“Sure.” Woodrow came around to Jake, giving him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Son, you look tired.”
“I feel like I could sleep for a week.” Too long on the trail mixed with whiskey on an empty stomach--he thought if he didn’t get to bed soon, he’d go to sleep standing right here.
They started for the door. Woodrow grabbed his tan hat and navy blue coat, the one with the torn left pocket. He pulled them on as he spoke. “You remember about the trouble, don’t you?”
“Trouble?” Jake halted, hand curled around the smooth brass of the knob, the door barely open. “What trouble?”
“You mean you didn’t get my wire?” Woodrow was doing up the last of his jacket buttons.
Jake forced himself to focus. “What wire?”
“Hell, I sent it a week ago.”
“You’re the marshal here.” Jake leaned down on the knob. “What kind of trouble needs the county sheriff?”
“It’s Earl Hansen out to the Bar W and Amos Carter over to the—”
“MJ. Yeah, I know,” Jake interjected. It was his business to know the ranchers in the county, and the MJ and Bar W were two of the biggest. “What about ’em?” He was feeling annoyed.
“They’ve been going at it over water rights.”
“What do you mean, ‘water rights’? They’ve been friends for years, as far as I knew.”
Woodrow shrugged. “All I know is Hansen and Carter had a blowup and Hansen went and built a dam cutting off Carter’s water.”
“Did you talk to ’em?”
“Course, but they won’t listen to me. I figured maybe you being the county law...”
“Oh, yeah, that’s me, all right—big shot.” He was too tired to talk and too tired to care right now. He opened the door. “Well, those boys shouldn’t be having any trouble with water on a day like today.”
“That’s for sure.” Woodrow made a derisive sound in the back of his throat.
Jake stepped out onto the sidewalk, Woodrow right behind him, both men ducking their heads and turning away from the beating rain. Jake had to hold on to his hat brim to keep it from flapping in the wind. “I’ll come around tomorrow and we can talk. Okay?”
Lightning split the gloom of the gray sky like a flash of gunpowder and was followed by the explosion of thunder.
“Sounds good.”
Woodrow grabbed up the packhorse’s rein and reached for the lead on the gelding. Jake shot him a questioning stare.
“Let me,” Woodrow said, talking loudly over the storm. “I’m headed to the livery anyway.”
“A man’s not much of a man if he can’t put up his own horse,” Jake countered, rain soaking through the wool of his trousers and icing his recently warmed skin beneath.
“A friend’s not much of a friend if he can’t help out once in a while.”
With a smile and a pat on the shoulder, Jake said, “I owe you.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” Woodrow left, leading the horses.
Jake trudged off to send the wire telling the folks in Broomfield their money was safe. It was the part of the job he liked. Law and order.
Clair paced back and forth, back and forth along the length of the bar, her heels drumming a steady rhythm on the uneven wood floor. Every so often she’d pause long enough to glance over at the marshal’s office.
How long did it take to identify a body? How long did it take to write a voucher for the bounty hunter’s money?
Just go, why don’t you? she thought, as though her wishing would make it so, would make him leave.
Anxious, downright worried, she started pacing again, the hem of her skirt picking up the dust with every step. She’d about reached the far end of the bar when the front doors banged open, the wood slamming against the wall and sending her heart up into her throat. Clair whirled around faster than a carousel.
It was him.
He filled the doorway like some dark menace and sent her mind racing. Was he after her? Had he seen a Wanted poster somewhere?
Well, there was no escape now. She had to play out the hand she’d been dealt. Good sense and a little healthy caution made her move discreetly behind the bar. She needed a protection—of sorts.
“Hell of a storm out there,” the man said in a voice that was deeper than a well bottom and smooth as fine whiskey. Her nerves prickled at the sound and the closeness of him.
He kicked the door closed with his booted foot and took off his slicker and hat, which he tossed on the nearest tabletop as if he hadn’t seen the Closed sign displayed in the front window. She had the distinct feeling his type didn’t bother with things like signs or warnings. His type did what they damn well pleased. A reckless temper flared and before she could stop herself, she said, “Can’t you read? We’re closed.”
“Since when?” he challenged. “This isn’t Sunday.”
If he was angry, he didn’t show it. In fact, when he turned to look at her the man was smiling. Who would have expected that? Not her. She’d had the misfortune to meet a few bounty hunters over the years and not one of. them had ever smiled. Leered, frowned, snarled, even, but smiled—never.
Her pulse took on a funny little flutter, then settled. This was crazy. Maybe so, but he was looking at her all soft and easy and way too familiar. Her pulse fluttered again.
“No, it’s not Sunday, but we’re closed, all the same.”
“How come?” he asked again.
He took a step in her direction and she was glad for the bar between them. His face was all chiseled planes and smooth curves like the wild countryside he’d come in from. Several days’ growth of dark beard covered his square jaw and framed his mouth like a mustache.
His hair was black as coal and gleamed from the wet. There were deep furrows where he’d finger-combed it back from his face. The overly long ends curled around his ears and neck and skimmed the top of his collar.
But it was his eyes that held her. Even in this dim light she could see they were black as midnight and just as wild. She was transfixed, intrigued by his unrelenting gaze. A restlessness stirred in her like some long-forgotten memory—eager, exciting, promising.
Bounty hunter, remember?
Sure she remembered. She tore her gaze away, pulled herself up to her full height, all five feet eight inches, and said, with all the authority she could manage, “I don’t have to explain to you. I said we’re closed.” She was feeling awkward and uncomfortable and it was more than just his being a bounty hunter, though Lord knew that was enough. She grabbed up a rag and absently started wiping a glass.
For a full five seconds he looked straight at her as though he was giving her declaration some thought.
She kept right on wiping that glass. She polished the darned thing as if it was Irish crystal instead of green glass.
He moved in close, his chest pressing against the edge of the bar, his fingers curving over the polished wood trim. He flexed his shoulders like a man who was tired. “Look, lady, it doesn’t matter to me if you’re closed or open. Where’s Bill?”
“He’s not here. We’re closed.”
His mouth, the one that had smiled so seductively, now curved down in a hard, fierce line. A muscle flexed in his cheek. “I got that, lady.”
Stay calm. He doesn’t know anything. He’s looking for Bill, remember?
“Bill left on the stage yesterday. If you leave now, you could catch him, I’m sure.”
Jake arched one brow in question. “You think I’m going back out in this to go chasing . after Bill? Woman, are you crazy, or what?”
“You’re the one who was asking about Bill. So go after him if you want to see him.” There, she thought, feeling more churlish than cautious.
At that moment the rain turned particularly heavy. Lightning close enough to illuminate the room in a bolt of white light Thunder crashed.
Jake saw the woman jump, heard her sudden intake of breath. If he hadn’t been so tired he would’ve jumped himself.
“You all right?” he asked, wondering if it was entirely the storm that had her on edge.
“What? Yes. Sure. I’m fine,” she said with not a bit of conviction. “Now you have to leave.” She put the glass down and picked up another.
For the first time he really looked at her. Up until now all he’d been thinking about was sleep. However, he began to think about just how pretty she was—blond hair, blue eyes, delicate features that hardly fit the usual saloon-girl image.
He propped one foot on the brass railing and settled in for one or two more questions. “Are you from around here?” He didn’t get up this way much, but he was sure he’d have remembered her.
“No” was all the answer he got—almost all. “We’re closed,” she repeated emphatically.
“You keep saying that. You know, I could start to take this personally.”
“Good,” she retorted, her tone brusque enough to make him curious. She had on a yellow blouse that had seen one too many washings. The long sleeves were rolled up and the collar was high under her chin. She had on a black skirt. He’d seen that before she’d hightailed it behind the bar. It was long and full and revealed absolutely nothing of her womanly curves.
Ah, now, why would a saloon girl want to conceal anything? Her skin was winter pale, not powdered or painted, and her hair was pinned up in a haphazard way that bespoke more practicality than come-hither.
The more he looked, the more curious he got, and since the subtle approach hadn’t worked thus far he decided to go straight for the gut. “All right, woman. Who are you? Why did Bill leave?”
She blinked twice, then said, “Drink?” With a flurry of motion she retrieved a glass from the shelf behind the bar.
Jake regarded her through narrowed eyes—narrowed mostly because they hurt, like the rest of him. He needed sleep. “What? No, I don’t want a drink.” He ran the flat of his hand over his face, trying to wipe the exhaustion away. Maybe if he could clear his mind some of this would make sense.
When he looked again she was pouring liquor, the drink he’d just turned down. With a sigh he ignored the glass she was intently shoving at him. “I asked your name.”
“Why?”
“Is it a secret?” He could be as tenacious as her.
“It’s none of your business. Now, have a drink if that’s what you came for, then leave. I keep telling you we’re closed.”
Thunder rumbled overhead and she flinched. He saw her fingers tighten on the glass, saw her gaze dart to the window.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” he asked one more time.
“Yes.” Her tone was curt.
Okay, he’d had enough. Without another word he retrieved his hat and coat from the table where he had tossed them. He looped his slicker over his shoulder, the muddy hem banging against his pant leg, smudging the black wool with mud. “I’m going to bed.”
“Goodbye,” she said, her lips curving up in the closest thing to a smile he’d seen since he’d walked in. “Come in again sometime, when we’re open.”
Of course, Clair didn’t mean a word of it. She was hoping he’d get on his horse and ride out of town, never to be seen again. Bounty hunters were trouble. Bounty hunters with suggestive smiles were a whole other kind of trouble. She wasn’t in the market for either.
She circled around the bar intent on following him to the door and closing it firmly behind him.
She was making a beeline for the front when she realized he was headed up her stairs. “Hey, hold on there.” She skidded to a halt and planted her balled fists at her waist. “Where do you think you’re going, mister?”
The man never stopped, just kept plodding up the stairs, his boots making one hollow thud after another, like a man climbing to the gallows. “Like I said, I’m going to bed.” Gripping the oak banister, he glanced back over his shoulder long enough to say, “Care to join me?”
It was a brazen, impudent remark and she should be offended. She was offended. The nerve of the man!
Never mind the wicked grin on his face, never mind the dimples that were barely visible through the beard.
The man has dimples!
Rogues and scoundrels and charmers had dimples. Bounty hunters did not. Even so, it took two tries to get her voice to work. “I most certainly don’t wish to join you! Now get off my stairs and out of my saloon!”
He turned on her, gunfighter slow, and she actually took a step back, banging into the wall by the front windows. Her eyes were riveted to his.
“What do you mean, it’s your saloon?”
She was in it now. That temper of hers was on a rampage. “I—” she thumbed her chest near the top button of her blouse “—own the Scarlet Lady.”
He came down a step, then paused again.
There was no sign of humor or kindness in his eyes or tone when he spoke, and she instinctively knew this was the darker side of the man, the side that killed people. “All right, honey, let’s have it. What’s going on?”
Clair’s temper knew when to beat a retreat, and this was definitely time. In a voice that was mild, maybe even a little shaky, she said, “I own the Scarlet Lady.
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday.”
“You buy it?”
“I won it.”
“how?”
“In a card game.”
He closed in on her like a predator on the hunt, standing on the bottom step so that he towered over her even more. “You’re a gambler?” There was a bit of the incredulous in his voice—and disdain.
Who the hell did he think he was to judge her? “Yes,” she returned, refusing to flinch. “I’m a gambler. What of it?”
“And you tricked Bill out of the place, huh?”
“No. I won the saloon fair and square, not that it’s any of your business, and if anyone tries to say different I’ll—”
“Hold on, honey. I believe you.” He held up his hands in surrender, but since they were both holding weapons, a shotgun and a rifle to be precise, he didn’t look very meek.
“Don’t call me honey,” she snapped back.
“Fine.” He started back up the stairs again speaking as he went. “Look...whatever your name is...I have a deal with Bill. When I’m in town I sleep here...up there.” He pointed to the second-floor landing and the two furnished rooms that were there.
Panic merged with that temper of hers. She’d moved in here right after Bill had left, figuring to save the rent money. “You can’t sleep here.”
He was still climbing the stairs. “Lady, I’m not arguing with you. I’ve been on the trail a week, the last three days without enough sleep to fill a shot glass. I’m going to bed.”
“Find another place.”
“No.”
“I’m ordering you to leave,” she said with all the authority she could muster, which was usually enough to send a bleary-eyed cowboy on his way. This man had the audacity to laugh.
“Honey, you want to stop me, then you’re gonna have to shoot me. As a matter of fact, I wish you would, just to put me out of my misery.”
Tempting as that was, she resisted. These days she had an understandable aversion to guns. “I could call the marshal and have you thrown out.”
He was nearing the top of the stairs. “Go ahead and call the marshal. It won’t do you any good.”
“And just why not?” she hollered after him. “I doubt the marshal has any sympathy for bounty hunters.”
“Bounty hunter? Is that what you think?” He paused on the landing long enough to look down at her. “I’m no bounty hunter. I’m Jake McConnell. I’m the sheriff of Carbon County.”
Chapter Three
Morning came as cold and gray and wet as yesterday. The rain and gloom were bad enough; having a sheriff, of all things, sleeping in the next room—well, that was nothing short of a disaster waiting to happen.
With a flounce of sheet and quilt and nightgown she rolled over in the bed and was rewarded with a chill where her feet touched the sheet her body hadn’t warmed yet.
“Damn man,” she muttered, punching her pillow, trying to get a little fluff out of the feathers that were long since matted down to the thickness of an envelope.
Her hair fell across her face and she swiped it back. Muscles in her back hurt and her eyes felt as if there was gravel in them. That was lack of sleep, she knew. That was his fault, too.
Of all the things the man could be, he had to be a sheriff! Jake McConnell. Yeah, that was his name.
She rolled over again, trying to get comfortable. Useless. As for him, she wished now he was a bounty hunter. At least bounty hunters and gamblers were both on the fringes of the law. Gamblers and lawmen were natural enemies, like rabbits and wolves. She was feeling decidedly like the rabbit, and she didn’t like the feeling, not one bit.
Out of nowhere she was assailed with images of another sheriff. Him holding her down, tearing her clothes, forcing up her skirt...
No! She refused to think about that. She refused to give in to panic or fear that washed over her faster than a flash flood.
Throwing back the covers, she scrambled to her feet, her toes flexing against the chill of the bare floor. A couple of short steps and she was at the window. The sash worked easily and she leaned down to take a deep breath of fresh, sage-scented air. The rain was finer today, the drops like tiny pellets, which stung her face and dampened the front of her nightgown, making the cotton cling to her bare flesh beneath.
She forced herself to think about the rain and the cold and the wagon that was rumbling along the street below, anything but the terrifying images that continued to haunt her when she least expected it.
Enough, she told herself. She owned a saloon now. She was making a new life, She had to let go of what she couldn’t change, and move on.
No regrets. No turning back.
With a resolute determination, she shoved her sleep-tousled hair behind her shoulder. It was morning, the start of a new day, a new beginning. A day filled with possibilities and chances to be taken. What was a gambler if not a chance taker?
The creak of door hinges and boot steps on the bare wooden floor caught her attention and she turned toward the closed door to her room. She knew he was out there, on the landing, moving around. Would he knock on her door? What would she do if he did? There was a moment of uneasiness, then she remembered that he hadn’t bothered her during the night.
For that matter he could have made advances in the saloon, could have done just about anything he’d wanted—they were alone, then as now. He hadn’t.
So he’s not a lecher. So what? Are you going to invite him to tea?
Hardly. She knew quite clearly the danger she was in. Having a sheriff under the same roof was like having an open flame in a fireworks factory. There was bound to be an explosion. The only question was when.
Well, maybe she could put that flame out.
She knew a couple of things. First, he wasn’t here looking for her. Because if he was, and he’d recognized her, then he would have said or done something last night.
A smile threatened, but she knew she wasn’t in the clear yet. He was not the local law. No, she’d seen the town marshal yesterday, an older man who looked as though he ought to be someone’s grandfather. Local law, she’d convinced herself, was too remote to be aware of “things,” of people wanted in faraway places like Texas, for instance.
But a county sheriff, well, that was different. He would get the posters and such, if there were any.
In the meantime, she had an immediate problem. How to stay away from him until he left town. He was probably downstairs just waiting for her so he could ask some more of those questions he’d had such a supply of last night. Lawmen.
She listened at the door, trying to hear if he was moving around. Nothing. Silence.
She went back to the window and lifted the shade with one hand. Son of a gun, there he was crossing the street. She pulled back the shade more, wanting to get a good look. No time for mistakes.
Nope, it was him, all right. He was so tall and broad shouldered, she couldn’t miss him if she wanted to. And she did—want to miss him, that is.
But he was there, trudging across the street. headed straight for the marshal’s office. Could it be? Her stomach clenched in anticipation. He’d left. Just like that. No words. No questions. Just gone.
Her spirits soared.
“Lord, I’m sorry I doubted you.”
She saw him go into the office. Yes! This had to be it. He was leaving. He was probably going over to say goodbye. He was probably anxious to get going; there were other places he needed to see, maybe criminals he needed to take back to Rawlins.
Relief washed through her. “Yes!” she said to the empty room. All that worrying, all that losing sleep had been for nothing.
Well, this called for a celebration—coffee. She made quick work of getting dressed in a royal blue skirt and pale green shirtwaist, and ignored her corset completely. It was a celebration, after all.
She washed up in the bowl on the washstand and twisted her hair up in a serviceable knot on the top of her head. She’d change later for business, assuming the storm let up enough to have some business. In the meantime, she’d do a little of that fixing up she’d been thinking about.
Grinning like a kid with a brand-new peppermint stick, she strolled out onto the landing. The door to his room, or rather, her extra room, was open a foot or so. She would have to see about fixing it up. Maybe she could rent it to someone—not a sheriff or marshal or bounty hunter, but someone. A little extra money would help with expenses.
Using only the tips of her fingers, she pushed the door open as though she expected him to jump out at her, then chided herself for her foolishness. In a blink she noticed that his shirt, the blue one from last night, was draped around the curved-back chair, the hem dragging on the dust-covered floor.
What the devil? His shirt. His saddlebags.
That joy of hers dissolved faster than sugar in hot water, which was exactly what she was in. It didn’t take a genius to figure that if his things were here, then he’d be back.
Her temper got the best of her. She had half a mind to pack up his things and toss them right out on the sidewalk, rain or no rain, sheriff or no sheriff.
Good move. Let’s make the lawman angry. That’s a sure way to keep from calling attention to yourself.
“Damn the man.”
Breathing a little harder, she stood there glaring at the rumpled bed he’d slept in. That was her bed and her room and her saloon. The man had no right, sheriff or not.
Why, just look at the way he’d tossed that quilt off the end of the bed. It wasn’t his quilt, so what did he care? Never mind that it wasn’t hers, either, until yesterday.
She stormed in and picked it up, intent on putting it on the bed. Instantly she was assaulted with the feeling that she had invaded his privacy, which was ridiculous, but she felt it all the same.
Her eyes went immediately to the straw-filled mattress, to the shape of his lean body perfectly outlined there. She dropped that quilt faster than a stick of dynamite and took a half step back.
Her eyes were riveted on the bed. Heart racing, she was starkly aware that his bed was against the wall, the same wall that her bed was against, the same wall that was the only barrier that kept them from being intimately close.
She suddenly wondered what it would be like to open her eyes and see Jake McConnell there first thing in the morning. There was something about him that stirred her up just a bit, and... Tiny nerves in her skin fluttered to life, prickling as though skimmed by an electric charge.
Stop it right now!
On a sharp breath, Clair marched from the room. She was not going to think about dark-eyed men with the devil’s own smile. She was not!
That familiar ache was building behind her eyes and muscles were knotting along her shoulders. Coffee, she needed some coffee. She marched down the stairs with the precision of a West Point cadet.
Fortunately, Bill had a supply of coffee and a few cans of food, but the storage closet was dark—bordering on well-bottom black—and trying to read the labels was next to impossible. She heard the wind howl outside an instant before the closet door slammed shut and cut off any and all light.
Alone in the dark, a childhood fear surfaced in a gut-wrenching instant.
She threw down the can she’d been holding and lunged for the door. “Open,” she commanded, as though there was some power holding it shut. She tried the knob. It turned, but the door didn’t move. “Come on,” she demanded, more loudly and urgently this time. “Open, will you?”
Panic took shape and form like a demon lurking in the darkness, waiting, watching, ready. to pounce.
Heart racing, breath ragged, she jiggled the knob again, twisting hard, her skin nearly tearing on the brass knob. “Open!” she ordered once more. With all her weight she pulled on the door and this time the door obeyed.
With a creak and groan, the door flew open and she half fell, half stumbled into the empty saloon, managing to stay on her feet only by her grip on the knob and some fancy footwork.
She stood there, bent slightly at the waist, trying to regain her breath, her composure. Eyes shut, she waited for the panic to melt away.
When, finally, she felt in control again, she spared the threatening cave a look.
With a shake of her head, she forced a little laugh, mostly to dispel the last of the demons. Demons always went away when you laughed at them.
“Dumber than a prairie dog,” she muttered to herself. Now, there was something she hadn’t heard in a while. Sully had always said that, usually to her.
Sully. Why, she hadn’t thought of him in years. She put a chair in front of the closet door this time, took a lamp from the bar with her for light and found the coffee and the pot.
The stove, which she’d started earlier, was going nicely and she fetched water from the rain barrel out back. A couple of scoops and she set the pot to boiling.
Clair always liked her coffee strong and hot. She liked to feel the steam against her cheek and wasn’t above blowing on the liquid, even if it was not ladylike.
But Sully was different.
Sully had liked coffee mild—not too mild, but mild. She never was quite sure what that meant, but she certainly knew when she got it wrong. Sully got angry if his coffee was too hot or too strong. Wouldn’t want Sully to get angry. She shook her head in disgust—or wonder, she wasn’t sure.
She took a seat at the table closest to the stove and let her mind wander back a few years.
She’d met Sully in New Orleans. Clair had been seventeen and green as spring grass. Sully was tall, dark and handsome and had a way of talking that could charm a preacher’s daughter right out of the church. Sully always knew what to say to get his way—with her, and with about any other woman, she had come to realize too late.
She went to check on the coffee and tossed a small piece of firewood into the stove, using her skirt as hand protection when she closed the door.
She stood there warming herself, listening to the metal crack and snap as it expanded with the heat. Rain sprayed the windows, and the distant rumble of thunder echoed off the mountains.
Sully had always liked warm weather. He’d never have made it around here, not in this damp cold. Of course, there was no danger of running into Sully here or anywhere else. Poor Sully, she’d heard he was dead—shot by a jealous husband, no doubt.
She’d felt bad when she’d heard, though why, she wasn’t sure. Lord knew he’d lied and cheated on her, used and abused her and always had a reason they couldn’t get married.
Four years. That’s how long she’d stayed. That’s how long it had taken her to wise up and figure out that she could make it on her own, that she’d be better off on her own. It simply came to her one day, one morning. She woke up and knew she didn’t love him anymore, that if this was what love was she wanted no part of it.
Sully hadn’t taken her announced departure gracefully. It had taken a month for the bruises on her face to heal.
The coffee boiled over, brown liquid foaming and sizzling on the hot surface. Thoughtlessly, she grabbed the handle. “Ouch!”
Searing pain shot up her fingers and through her hand. Remembering to use her skirt as protection, she dragged the pot off the burner then plunged her hand into the bucket of water, gritting her teeth as the cold of the water covered the burn. Her eyes fluttered closed as she moved her fingers in the water.
Another minute and she lifted her hand out to take a look. She could see her palm was as red as flannel but not a blister in sight. Thank goodness for small blessings. The pain eased off to almost nothing.
Just thinking about men is trouble.
Well, no more. Ever since Sully, she’d sworn off. She didn’t think about men, didn’t want a man, didn’t need a man. Instinctively, her eyes lifted to the top of the stairs.
Nope! She wasn’t thinking about him anymore. He could come and go—especially go.
With that thought firmly in place, Clair went to check on the storm. The sky was still gray, but optimistically lighter, and the rain was more of a mist than anything else.
No one much was stirring and the street was more like a lake bottom. She had the distinct feeling few, if any, men would be venturing out just to have a drink or play a hand of cards.
That being the case, she might as well leave that Closed sign in the window and do some housekeeping. Nothing like hard work to keep her mind off...things.
Cleaning required soap so, after retrieving her coat and some money from upstairs, she ventured outside, made a dash along the plank sidewalk and ducked into the mercantile, which was three doors down on the same side.
Large and square, the store had wooden counters on three sides. The walls were white wood and the counters a shade of pale blue. The glass in the cases gleamed from recent cleaning, and all the wall space was lined with shelves, floor to ceiling. They were well stocked with everything imaginable, including brightly labeled canned food—mustard to canned oysters. The countertops were stacked high with rolls of calico and gingham, and near the back, barrels held an assortment of brooms and rakes and shovels like some strange bouquet.
A narrow-faced young clerk watched intently.
“Morning.” She brushed the rain from her hair and smiled.
“Morning,” the clerk answered, his somber expression split with a broad grin that revealed a broken bottom tooth. “Miserable weather to be out.”
“Yes, it sure is.” She strolled along one counter, looking at the needles and thread and carved hair combs displayed under the glass. Window-shopping was a weakness.
“Can I help you with something?” He came over to where she was standing by the calico. He was tall and gawky in the way of boys before they fill out.
“Yes. I’d like a cake of lye soap and—” she scanned the shelves “—and, now that I’m looking, a few other things.”
Twenty minutes later the wooden counter was stacked with sugar, flour, salt, coffee, eggs, bacon, butter and dried apples. She added a broom to the order, another bucket and lye soap.
“Whew! I only came in for one thing.” She laughed.
“Well, that’s how it is sometimes, and we’re glad—that is, my pa will be glad. It’s his store. I’m Larry Nelson.” He offered his hand.
She accepted. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Clair...ah...Smith,” she added falteringly. No sense tempting fate.
Larry ran the tally on a notepad, his red brows drawn down in concentration. “Comes to $7.15.” He beamed. “You passing through or settling in?”
“Settling in,” she told him, liking the sound of it.
He put the pad down and reached for a ledger book. “You want me to start an account?”
“That would be nice. Thanks.”
“No trouble.” He flipped open the well-worn book. “Name...Clair Smith. Miss or Missus?”
“Miss.”
“Where are you living?”
“The Scarlet Lady.”
He stopped midmotion and looked up at her through his brows. “Really?”
“Yes.” She looked him square in the face.
“Scarlet Lady it is.” He marked the book again. “Seven dollars and fifteen cents is your total. We ask for half of your first purchase now and balance on the first of the month. After that you pay at least ten percent if you don’t pay it off.”
“Sounds fair enough.” Clair relaxed a bit and paid him four dollars.
Larry stacked her groceries in a wooden crate. “You want help?”
“If you don’t mind?”
“Glad to do it.” He didn’t bother with a coat, and as he hefted the box, he leaned in closer. “Any excuse to get out of here.” He punctuated his words with a wink. In a louder voice he called toward the back, “Ma, I’m helping a lady with her groceries. Back soon!”
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