Читать книгу Wyoming Renegade - Susan Amarillas - Страница 10

Gunlock was a two-day journey northwest of Cheyenne. It was tucked into the notch of three hills that protected it from the wind, while a cluster of cottonwood trees guarded it from the sun. To the north, a fastmoving stream insured the town of water, an allimportant fact in a place as barren as Wyoming.

There was no train in Gunlock. The Union Pacific, on its push to Promontory Point, had taken a more direct route. That fact alone should have assured the town’s demise. It didn’t. Ragtag Gunlock was smack dab in the middle of the Montana Trail, the route for the thousands of cattle being pushed north from Texas.

Saloons were plentiful in town, all at the eastern end of the one and only street. Covered in peeling paint and raw wood, they were a hodgepodge, everything from false fronts to two stories with balconies. A pine-plank sidewalk ran the length of the street, connecting the rowdier side of town with the respectable west end.

So, while the good folks lived and shopped a few hundred yards closer to the setting sun, cowboys, tired and thirsty and looking to blow off a little steam, crowded into the saloons.

It was late afternoon when Josh Colter reined up in front of McGuire’s Saloon and dismounted, tethering his chestnut gelding to the gnarled hitching rail.

He stepped up onto the plank sidewalk, his spurs jingling as he moved. He was tired and dirty and mean, and all he wanted was to get this over with.

A woman walked past. He nodded but didn’t speak. He was in no mood for polite civilities. In the nearly eight weeks since the rape and murder of his sister, Josh had tracked and killed two men. It didn’t sit well with him, killing a man, but he’d done it and would do it again—perhaps today.

The thought of vengeance made his fingers flex, his palm brushed against the smooth wood handle of his Smith & Wesson. He tested its fit in the worn holster, reassured by the easy way the metal slid against the leather.

With grim determination, he dragged in a steadying breath and pushed through the double doors of the saloon. The doors banged closed behind him.

He blinked twice against the sudden darkness and stepped away from the doorway. Sunlight at his back made him an easy target, should anyone take a notion. Not that he expected trouble waiting for him. Hell no, Josh was the one bringing trouble—for one man, at least.

Skirting around an unoccupied table, he headed for the bar. His boots made scuff marks on a floor that hadn’t seen the business end of a mop in years. The sharp scent of cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies burned his nostrils. He’d never hated saloons before, but in the past few weeks he’d had enough of them to last him a lifetime.

They all seemed to look the same, as though there were a regulation somewhere that predetermined the arrangement. The room was long and narrow, with the bar of unrecognizable wood taking up most of one wall. There was a poor excuse for a painting of a naked woman hanging on the wall behind the bar; a couple of bullet holes marked the spots where her nipples used to be.

Six or seven mismatched tables, round and square, were scattered around the room, paired up with an assortment of chairs. A dozen cowboys, whom he figured had trailed up the cattle herd he’d passed outside of town, had taken up residence. Some were drinking. Some were playing cards. Two near the back seemed to be arguing about who was going to go first with the one and only woman in the place. Her red-lipped smile was widening in direct proportion to the bidding.

“Whiskey,” he told the slick-haired bartender as he leaned one elbow on the scarred surface.

He angled around to survey the room. His heart drummed furiously in his chest, and his fingers were funeral cold. Inside, he was determined yet scared. But he didn’t let on. Instead, he let his gaze wander across the faces of the men present, pausing, searching, looking for the last of the men he sought.

They all looked young, too damned young, he thought, feeling suddenly old at thirty. He hesitated once on a tight-lipped cowboy playing cards, but then the man shoved his hat back, revealing dark brown hair. Josh let go the breath he only now realized he’d been holding. Larson had said Gibson was blond, definitely blond.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself.

Well, did you expect him to be sitting here? A man can hope, can’t he?

“Two bits,” a man’s voice said.

Josh actually flinched and jumped a little at the sound of the bartender’s voice right behind him. He wheeled around, leaning more fully on the bar, holding the empty glass while the bartender poured.

It looked like whiskey but smelled like horse piss, and Josh wasn’t so sure he wanted to drink it.

So he toyed with the glass, revolving it between thumb and forefinger, absently making a game out of not spilling it. A couple of men came in and took the table closest to him. He eyed them suspiciously and discounted them just as quickly.

When no one was paying much attention, he asked the bartender, “You seen Gibson around lately?” He made it sound like they were old friends, though Larson and his pal, Cordell, never got around to first names.

“Davy Gibson?” the barman replied. He was cleaning a glass with a grimy-looking towel that needed to spend a couple of hours in the company of hot water and soap.

“Yeah, Davy Gibson,” Josh repeated, taking in the new information. “He around?”

The barman seemed more interested in the glass he was wiping than in conversation.

Behind Josh, a round of laughter came from a group of cowboys, and he turned with heart-slamming speed, his hand instinctively resting on his gun. It took a couple of seconds to realize the man was busy telling tall tales to his pals and totally unaware of Josh. He willed his heart rate down to something less than a stampede pace and focused on the bartender, who still hadn’t answered his damn question.

“About Gibson?” he prompted, struggling to keep his anger in check. Lord, he was tired and he wanted to end this—today, if the spirits allowed. He hoped like hell they did.

The barman held up another glass toward the window as though studying it. He talked as he worked. “I know Gibson. What of it?”

“Like I said, he around?”

“How the hell should I know?” He called to a cowboy nearby. “Hey, any you boys seen Gibson from over at the bank?”

“Heard he left town,” one called back.

Like air to a flame, Josh’s temper flared. “Damn.” He fixed the bartender with an icy stare. “You sure he’s gone?” He couldn’t keep the flinty edge out of his voice. At least it was sharp enough that the bartender stopped what he was doing.

“Well—” he put the glass down on the shelf behind the bar “—that’s what the man said, didn’t he, or are you deaf?” He braced both hands on the wood, arms straight, revealing a beer stain on the sleeve of his dingy white shirt.

“But you don’t know for certain,” Josh pressed. He didn’t want maybes, he wanted answers. He wanted the bastard Gibson squared off in front of him in what would be a fair fight—fair as it could be, considering that Josh knew he was faster with a gun than most men.

“Hell, how many times I gotta say it, mister?” The bartender spoke as though he were talking to a child. “I ain’t seen him around.” He made a sweeping gesture. “So… I figure… he must be gone. That clear enough for you?”

Meanness was fast overtaking patience. This guy’s smug attitude was grating on Josh’s nerves and he was beginning to warm to the idea of rearranging the man’s face.

“Well, where the hell did he go?”

“Hey, what am I, his mother? He sure as hell didn’t come in here and say goodbye, if that’s what you mean.” He gave a cocky laugh and started to turn away.

One second Josh was thinking about his sister and the men he’d killed, the man he would kill, and the next second he was reaching over the bar and dragging this grimy weasel toward him.

All sound in the room ceased. Wisely no one moved.

In a voice, deadly cold and hard as a Montana winter, Josh said, “Now, you little runt, you tell me where the hell he went or so help me—” he pulled the squirming barman up a little closer “—I’ll kill you right where you stand.”

The man’s blue eyes bulged in his head. He opened his mouth to speak but the only sound was a gurgling, like a man dangling at the end of a rope.

Josh loosened his grip a fraction, then shook the barman hard enough to make him groan. The man’s beady eyes darted around the room, searching for escape or for help. Neither was an option.

“I…” He pried at Josh’s hands, his dirty fingernails digging into the flesh. Josh hardly noticed. Muscles along his shoulders tensed. Tendons in his back pulled wire tight. His breath came in hard, shallow gulps of smoke-filled air.

“I…” The barman wheezed again. “I don’t…know nothin’.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “Check at the bank.”

“What bank, dammit?” His fingers were still twisted in the man’s shirtfront. There was the distinct sound of cotton ripping.

“City Bank o’ course.” The bartender’s hands pried at Josh’s fingers again. “Gibson worked at the damned bank!”

Josh had what he wanted. He released the man so suddenly, he half fell, half staggered back. Wide-eyed, the barman sidestepped away and pushed his crumpled shirt back into place.

“Say, mister, you ain’t got no call to do that,” the barman muttered, sounding a lot less smug than a few minutes ago. He raked his hands through his thinning brown hair. “Davy owe you money or somethin’?”

“Or something.” Josh tossed back the whiskey and winced. He threw a ten-dollar gold piece on the bar. “For your trouble.”

No one said a word as he strode for the doors.

Outside, standing on the boardwalk, he took a deep breath, then another.

He glanced over his shoulder at the saloon. Damn, Colter, you’re losing it.

Yeah, well, killing did funny things to a man. Lack of sleep didn’t help, either. He hadn’t slept in weeks, or at least it felt that way. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was his sister’s bloodied, lifeless body. Even now, if he—

Stop it! You’re doing no one any good like this!

Now there was a truth if he ever heard one.

Okay, so the bastard is gone. You’ll find him.

Hand clutching the rough wood of the porch post, he stood there, letting the sun warm his body through the blue wool of his shirt.

All things in time, he told himself.

Slowly his muscles uncoiled, first in his shoulders, then his back. His heart, like his body, responded to the gentle warmth of the sun. People moved past him. Across the street, two children chased a calico cat. The sights and sounds of everyday life filled in and they, too, calmed him.

He swung down off the walk and went to where his horse was tied. Tossing up the stirrup, he made as though he were checking the cinch while he rested his head against the saddle; the sun-heated leather felt good against his forehead and cheek.

Like a gallows-bound man given a last-minute reprieve, the reality of the situation filtered into his mind. There would be no killing today. How long he stood there, he wasn’t exactly sure. When he lifted his head, he knew he was in control again. He waited another minute, unconsciously rubbing his hand on his horse’s neck as he did, letting the trembling in his fingers cease, taking solace from the touch of another living thing. Death and grief made a man seek out the living, if only to confirm that he, too, was alive.

Lifting his head, he glanced at the horse, which had craned his neck around to stare at his master. Josh managed a ghost of a smile. “Yes, I know. Don’t look so worried.”

The ‘horse shook his head, whether in disgust or agreement, Josh wasn’t sure.

“Well, boy,” he mumbled, dropping the stirrup back in place, hearing the leather creak,’ “let’s go ask a few more questions.” He glanced around and spotted the bank at the end of town, and then his gaze settled on the hotel. “You know, Sundown, I think I’ll get a room for the night. I haven’t slept in a bed since I left the ranch.”

A buckboard rattled past, a man and a young boy perched on the seat, the boy loudly asking if he could have a licorice whip at the mercantile.

It all seemed so normal, so easy, so safe. Josh smiled: for the first time in days, weeks, probably, he smiled. It felt good, human. He dragged in a deep breath and swung up onto the saddle. A sage-scented breeze ruffled his hair along his collar and he adjusted his hat more comfortably on his head.

He glanced over at the hotel again as though it were a sanctuary, and he was suddenly anxious for a refuge. Business first, though, he told himself as he reined over and headed for the bank.

An hour later, he’d learned that Gibson had quit a couple of months ago and that he had been seen around town with two men fitting the descriptions of Larson and Cordell.

Okay, so, at least he was on the right track, though the image of a mousy bank clerk as a murderer didn’t fit.

Josh had asked questions at the mercantile, and at the livery when he’d stabled his horse for the night. Everywhere, he’d gotten the same answer: Gibson was gone and no one knew where. North, someone had said, and though “north” was a helluva big place, it was a start.

Josh would find him if it took a week, a month, a year. The man couldn’t hide forever, and since he didn’t know Josh was on his trail, odds were he wouldn’t cover his tracks. It was only a matter of time, Josh promised himself. Only time. He had that.

Feeling reassured, or at least resolute, he headed for the hotel. That bed and bath were sounding better and better.

The hotel was called the Palace, like a hundred others scattered from San Francisco to St. Jo. This particular palace was two stories of white clapboard with forest green shutters. The glass panes in the double front doors were clean enough to reflect the red-orange glow of the setting sun.

Saddlebags slung over his shoulder, and carrying his rifles and shotgun, Josh walked into the lobby. It was small and clean—a good sign. The walls were covered in flowered wallpaper, red roses and green vines. Not his taste, but then, it wasn’t his hotel.

A staircase led to the second floor. Off to the right he noticed a small dining room, the tables empty but set for dinner—calico tablecloths and white china. The definite scent of fresh bread baking made his mouth water. Yep, dinner in the dining room tonight. Something that hadn’t been cooked over a camp fire, something he didn’t have to cook himself.

He put the arsenal he was packing on the dark pine counter and, seeing no one around, he rang the small brass bell next to the desk register.

A man appeared through the door off to the left. “Afternoon,” he said, his thin face wreathed in a crooked-toothed smile.

He was of medium height and medium build with medium brown hair—about as ordinary as you can get, Josh thought. His white shirt was open at the collar, and his dark blue pants were shiny from one too many pressings.

“Room, please,” Josh said with confidence, his half-breed status never an issue with him. Since he was dressed in range clothes—not Indian garb—most people never inquired, and he never clarified.

The clerk flopped the book open, spun it around, then pointed to a place halfway down the page for Josh to sign. “Will you be staying long?”

“One night, I think.” Josh spotted the inkwell, but there was no pen in sight. “Pen?”

“What? Oh…” Startled, the clerk glanced around the counter, lifting the register as if he thought the errant pen was hiding there. “Where the devil…” He checked the small shelf behind him and, not finding it, turned away. “If you’ll just wait a minute.” He was already heading back through the door.

Josh sighed. All he wanted was to get settled. He wanted to stretch out on something more forgiving than hard earth sprinkled with rocks that always ended up directly under his aching spine.

He thrummed his fingers impatiently on the gleaming counter surface and was about to go hunt up the man when a banging on the front doors made him turn.

“What the-”

One door crashed open. The glass rattled dangerously. The hinges creaked from swinging a bit too far.

A woman half stumbled, half walked through the opening. She was loaded down with two oversize carpetbags and a wicker traveling case. She was so busy trying to keep her hold on the bags she obviously didn’t notice him, but he noticed her all right.

In a heartbeat he took her in. She was slender, a little too slender for his taste, but tall. He was partial to tall women. She was wearing green, the color of willow leaves. Her skirt was full, her jacket short, with a pale yellow shirtwaist underneath. She had light hair, sort of honey colored. It looked soft where it peeked out around the battered old Stetson she was wearing, though only God knows why she’d chosen to cover up such a glorious attribute.

She had her head turned so he couldn’t really see her face, but he did see one carpetbag take a nosedive for the floor about the same time she said, “Oh, no!”

A couple of long strides and he was there. “Let me help you,” he said, snatching up one bag and reaching to take the others from her, his hand naturally covering hers as he did so.

She angled her head up to look at him, and he found himself staring into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, dark and luminous like a high mountain lake.

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips breathlessly parted, and her eyes, those wondrous blue eyes, were wide with excitement. She looked tousled and wild, like a woman fresh from a very lucky man’s bed, he thought, his own lust stirring.

You’ve been too long without a woman, Colter.

For the span of two heartbeats, neither of them moved, then, as though they’d both been hit with the same bucket of ice water, they abruptly straightened, nearly banging heads in the process. Each gave an awkward chuckle.

She slipped her hand free of his, her skin velvet smooth against his palm. He kept hold of the carpetbag, though he’d rather have held on to the lady.

He did the gentlemanly thing and relieved her of the other luggage. His father had taught him good manners at an early age.

Alex turned a wary gaze on this stranger who had rushed to her rescue. Tall and dark, at first glance he looked every inch the outlaw, from his overly long hair to his dust-covered clothes, to the way a pistol hung low on his hip.

His face was all chiseled angles and smooth curves, high cheekbones and a straight nose. But it was his eyes that held her attention, midnight black with a restlessness that intrigued and frightened at the same time.

Maybe it was the artist in her that was making her stare—maybe it was simply the woman.

She sucked in a breath, straightened and cleared her throat. Somebody better say something, she figured, so she muttered her thanks, at least she thought that was what she said, she wasn’t altogether sure.

She managed a smile that fell a little short of true confidence. “Thank you, Mr….”

“Josh Colter,” he said with a grin that seemed to touch his lips and his eyes at the same instant. The change was startling. Those trembly nerves of hers moved up the scale to pulsing.

“Well, then, Mr. Colter, if you would accompany me to the desk?” Her voice sounded off, formal, but at least she had put a coherent sentence together.

“I’m yours to command,” he replied, wicked grin firmly in place. He hefted the baggage to a more comfortable position under his arms.

“You know, Mr. Colter—” she spoke as she walked “—a man could get himself into trouble being this forward.”

“Forward? Really?” His expression was all boyish innocence. “How so?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she mused, coming to a halt at the front desk. “A husband, for example, might take exception to a man flirting with his wife.”

His smile faltered, but he recovered so quickly she probably wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been looking right at him. She saw his gaze flick to her left hand, which was covered with a leather glove. This time she did keep her smile in check.

“And is there a husband I should be concerned about?” His tone indicated absolutely no misgiving at all. And, judging by the arsenal displayed on the counter, he was a man who could take care of himself in any situation, including going toe-to-toe with an irate husband.

Still there was a certain mischievous thrill about intimidating a man who looked so formidable. The fact that she was in a public place with help, she hoped, within earshot, bolstered her confidence. “One never knows…about husbands. They’re apt to turn up at any moment.”

“Ah.” He put the bags on the floor between them, one carpetbag sagging against her skirt. He lounged casually against the counter. “So I should be prepared to be called out?”

“Could be,” she replied, and hoped he didn’t notice the glint of amusement in her eyes.

She couldn’t miss the spark in his eyes, and it wasn’t amusement, that was for darned sure. No, that look was hotter than August in New Orleans and just as sultry. Her experience with men might be limited, but even a girl of fourteen would recognize the look.

She tore her gaze away, focused on a spot of chipped paint on the wall behind the desk and said, “Now, where’s that desk clerk? Never one around when you need—”

A man came careening around the doorway, speaking as he moved. “I found the pens I was looking for,” He waved a couple of pens and lurched to a halt when he spotted her.

“Are you speaking to me?” A bit confused, she glanced from the clerk to Josh and back again.

“No, ma’am. Sorry,” the clerk said. “I was looking for a pen for Mr….”

“Colter,” Josh supplied for the second time.

There was a moment of awkward silence, then Josh said, “Please.” He made a small gesture toward the register with his hand. “After you.” He took the pen from the clerk and offered it to her like a chevalier offering his sword.

“Thank you.”

She scribbled her name and Eddie’s, whom she’d sent on to the livery with the horses and wagon. He’d join her later for dinner.

“How long will you be staying?” The desk clerk asked the standard question.

“One night, I think. Maybe two. I’m not exactly certain.”

She’d thought she’d be here longer, maybe spend a few days in the area making sketches and, of course, visiting with her favorite brother. But, no, leave it to Davy to complicate matters. How could he have quit like that and then taken off for parts unknown? Now she not only had to complete her sketches for the competition but she had to find her brother, hopefully before her father got the news of Davy’s latest exploits.

Please don’t let Davy be in trouble.

She dropped the pen into the holder. “I’ll need two rooms. One room for me and one for my traveling companion. He’ll be along soon.” She added that traveling companion part deliberately. She enjoyed a bit of mystery, a bit of being… a touch risqué. Too long in Paris, she supposed.

“Yes, ma’am,” the clerk said casually, and she was disappointed at his lack of shock. Evidently things were more relaxed on the frontier.

He removed two keys from the brass hooks behind the desk. “Rooms 5 and 6. I’ll bring up the bags as soon as I finish with Mr. Colter.”

“Anytime is fine.”

“The rooms are connecting, if you—”

“Thank you.” She cut him off, seeing no need to explain herself or her traveling arrangements to anyone, particularly a tall, dark man who was taking this all in with undisguised interest.

“So, there is a husband, after all,” Josh said softly, his expression suddenly serious.

“And if there were?”

“I’d be disappointed. Of course, if you were my wife—” he let his gaze travel blatantly down the length of her and back again “—I would never ask for two rooms.”

Heat moved up her neck and skidded to a halt on her cheeks. She knew about sexual banter from her encounters with men in Paris, but she was getting in over her head here, and much as she hated to retreat, there was a time to fall back and regroup. This was definitely one of those times.

“If you’ll excuse me.” She kept exactly the right amount of aloofness in her voice.

She had one foot on the bottom stair when his voice stopped her.

“Then I’ll see you for dinner?”

“I think not.”

“Well, I have to eat and you have to eat and there is only one dining room, so unless you’re planning to eat in the saloon…” He arched one brow in question. “Besides, I’m looking forward to meeting your husband. He’s a lucky man.”

How could she not smile. “Good evening, Mr. Colter.”

Josh watched her go. The woman was something: beautiful, tempting and fun. Yes, fun, he realized with a start. He didn’t believe for a minute there was a husband, or, at least, he was hoping like hell there was no husband. He was banking on what he’d said earlier. No man who had her for a wife would willingly sleep alone. So who was the other room for? He didn’t know—sister, mother, brother—and he didn’t care. These past few minutes with her, he’d felt more like himself, more like the old Josh, than he had in weeks. A grin lingered on his lips when he turned back to register.

“You’re in Room 2, Mr. Colter,” the clerk prompted.

“What? Oh, thanks.” He reached for the pen when her whiskey-rich voice stopped him.

“Excuse me.”

Both men looked up. She was poised on the staircase, looking quite regal, he thought, even with that damn hat.

“I understand David Gibson had a room here. Is that right?”

Her words sliced through him like a lightning bolt. He must have heard her wrong. He went very still. Wariness coiled in the pit of his stomach. His gaze was riveted on the woman at the top of the stairs.

“Yes,” the clerk said. “Mr. Gibson did stay here, but he left some time ago. I can look it up if you want to know exactly.”

What the hell was going on? Josh wanted to ask, but didn’t, couldn’t, all things considered. He had no choice but to clamp his jaw down—hard, so hard his back teeth hurt.

She continued. “I was wondering if you knew where Davy…Mr. Gibson went?” Her brows were pulled down, her sensuous mouth curved in a thoughtful frown.

Davy, huh? Josh’s fingers closed into a fist.

The desk clerk said, “Mr. Gibson didn’t say anything. Just packed up and left.”

“Ah,” she muttered, looking disappointed.

The clerk spoke up. “Well, there was…”

“What?” She came down a step.

“Mr. Gibson came in with two other men and, as they were leaving, I heard him tell the others that he knew someone who might give them work…cowboying, I think he said.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m trying to think where…” He made a clicking sound in the back of his throat. He shook his head, signifying his failure to remember.

That noose knot in Josh’s stomach drew in tighter. This was going from bad to worse.

Then something sparked in her face, her eyes—recognition, understanding perhaps. “You did say cowboying, didn’t you?” she prompted, her head cocked to one side. “Not something else, like gambling or—”

“Cowboying. I’m certain.”

“Cowboying? You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes. I told you.” Impatience tinged his voice. “Somewhere up north, I think.”

She grinned. “Thank you very much. You’ve been a big help.”

She spared Josh some of that smile, then turned and practically raced up the stairs.

Josh dragged in a breath that didn’t do a thing to quell the frantic beating of his heart. What the hell kind of cryptic conversation was that? Whatever it was, two things were clear. The woman was somehow involved with Gibson, and she knew, or thought she knew, where he’d gone. That was all Josh needed to know. He was nearly to the stairs when the clerk called to him.

“Mr. Colter, you didn’t register.”

Who the hell cared about registering now! But he figured it was faster to go along than to argue. He grabbed the pen and dragged the register closer to him. Halfway through writing his name, he paused to read the signature above his—her signature. It was then he realized she’d never introduced herself. It was then his world took a sudden tip to the left as he read and reread the name written there.

A. J. Gibson.