Читать книгу Wyoming Renegade - Susan Amarillas - Страница 11

Josh paced the length of the hotel room. Eight by ten, it was either three long steps or four short ones from the gingham-covered window to the walnut bureau on the opposite wall. He’d been pacing ever since he slammed in here about an hour ago.

A dozen times he’d started out the door, bent on going to her room, demanding to know what she knew, demanding to know where the hell Gibson had gone.

He’d stopped every single time, because there was no way, no easy way, no certain way, to get the information he wanted.

It hardly seemed likely he could go there, bang on the door and say, “Pardon me, but would you mind telling me where David Gibson is? Why? Oh, so I can kill him, of course.”

Yeah, that was a surefire way to get what he wanted, what he desperately needed to fulfill his debt of honor, to finish this bloody business and go home.

He sank down onto the bed, the coiled springs creaking in protest. His fingers absently traced the threads on the brightly colored patches of the quilt.

Feet on the floor, knees bent, he fell back on the bed. His eyes slammed shut. In the next motion, he surged to his feet, unable to remain still. He paced over to the window, his boots making a hollow thud on the pine floor, his spurs adding to the scarred surface.

Leaning one shoulder against the white wood framing, he stood very still, thinking about the men who’d murdered his sister.

In a heartbeat, the scene flashed in his mind. He could see Mourning Dove’s lifeless body, broken, contorted, while blood pooled under her. Rage had filled him, turning him hard and cold. Someone would pay for this atrocity. He would see justice served. No white man’s court would ever bring a white man to trial for killing an Indian, for killing three Indians, he corrected. There were others dead that day besides his sister.

But there’d been survivors, enough to tell him the descriptions of the men who’d done this, enough to start him on the path to revenge. That day, as they’d buried the dead, he’d pledged to the others that he would not rest until justice was served.

He was nearly done, finished with his grisly task. For Josh Colter was not a murderer, not a man who resorted easily to violence. He was a man who believed in honor and family—a man willing to do whatever it took to preserve both.

Now he had no family. Mourning Dove had been the last. He had the extended family of the Crow, but it was not the same. His family, his mother and father were gone years ago, and now so was his sister.

He felt alone, bone-chilling alone. Maybe it was that feeling of being alone that drove him, as much as the death of his sister, for he, too, had been robbed, robbed of family, robbed of someone to care about him and for him to care about.

He stared out the window, over the rooftops to the vast grassland beyond, grass greening with the promise of summer sun and gentle rain. Fifty years ago there would have been herds of buffalo roaming those hills, now there was cattle.

Things had changed, and for the Indian they had changed for the worse. Confined to reservations, their days of being lords of the plains were over. The government said it was for their own good. For the government’s good was more like it. No blankets, no supplies, no dignity. Only lies and empty promises from corrupt Indian agents.

It was no wonder that small groups of Indians from all the tribes were slipping off reservations, returning to the hills or fleeing over the border to Canada. That’s what Mourning Dove and her husband, Blue Crow, had been doing that day they’d stopped to camp on Josh’s land. He wished they’d been together all the time, but Mourning Dove had been born later to Josh’s mother and her new husband. She knew only the Indian world.

He’d welcomed their small band of twenty. He’d given them food and supplies and tried to convince them to stay permanently with him. It wasn’t the first time he’d offered, but like all the other times, they’d refused. He knew they saw it as charity, and it was not what they wanted. A man had his pride, Josh knew that well.

He straightened and paced over to the stove, cold and lifeless, waiting for someone to kindle the fire and bring it to life again.

He wished he could bring his younger sister back to life as easily. That rage was pulling in tighter, threatening to choke the breath out of him. Arms braced on the wall, he let his chin drop to his chest. Breathe. Slow. Again. Again. Again. The rage receded to a more manageable level.

He stood like that for a long time, head down, arms braced, fingers digging into the cool white plaster walls while that last day played itself over in his mind as though he could find some answer.

Guilt and regret rolled and spiraled inside him until he could no longer separate the two. He should never have left them that night, but no, he had had a business meeting early the next morning. He had needed to do some paperwork, get things in order before he went into town.

You had no way of knowing, the voice of reason entreated for what must have been the millionth time, and it was true. He knew it was true. Yet somewhere deep inside, where logic didn’t reach, somewhere close to the heart and soul of him, he felt he should have known, should have guessed. Dammit, he should have been there. They had been on his land. He’d promised them food and safety and he’d failed. His sister was dead because of it.

Beautiful little Mourning Dove, she had been only eighteen. Newly married, she had been looking forward to having a family—to making Josh an uncle, which to the Crow was the same as being a father.

Father, yeah, Josh would have liked that.

But there’d be no children now.

Josh was alone in the world.

It seemed, sometimes, as though he’d always been alone. It hadn’t been easy living in two worlds, speaking two languages, being a half-breed.

His parents had lived together on the ranch until he was nine, then his mother had chosen to return to her people. Her request hadn’t come as a surprise to Hank Colter. Looking back on it, Josh figured his father must have seen it coming for a long time.

She hadn’t been happy in the white man’s world. She loved them both but could not stay, it was that simple.

It was the only time Josh had ever seen his father cry, that day when he’d given his mother her freedom to go. He had loved her enough to let her go. In some ways, perhaps, it was the greatest love of all.

They had explained it all carefully to Josh. He would stay with his father, be educated in the white man’s world, take his place in that society.

Some had made comments about old Hank Colter’s half-breed son not being up to the job of running one of the largest ranches in Montana. Josh had proved them wrong. He’d worked hard, damned hard, and had earned his place in the community. To do less would be to let his parents down and that he wouldn’t do. Family was everything.

So that brought him full circle. He’d taken an oath, a pledge. His vow would be complete when he found and killed David Gibson.

His gaze drifted toward the closed door to his room. Two doors away a woman had the answers he was seeking.

“Okay, Colter, what now?” He spoke to the empty room.

There weren’t many options—asking, begging, threatening. None of those sat well with him. Then another idea flashed in his mind. It was an idea as old as time.

Speaking of time…he checked his pocket watch. Seven forty-five. He closed the lid with a snap.

Scooping up several handfuls of water, he splashed his face, relishing the cool cleansing of the chilled water as it cascaded down his face, saturating his collar. He made a quick job of shaving and running a brush through his hair. He stripped off his shirt and retrieved the last clean one from his saddlebags.

He did up the buttons and was still tucking the shirt into the waistband of his trousers as he went out the door.

One way or another, he was going to get what he wanted. Judging by the way the lady had responded to him this afternoon, he thought he knew just what to do.

Josh paused in the doorway of the hotel dining room. Heads turned in his direction. All talking ceased, followed by the low murmur of voices. Men looked stern. He was used to that. Several women offered discreet smiles. He was used to that, too.

But tonight he wasn’t interested in women, only one woman. His gaze swept over the ten or so people scattered at the eight round tables. Kerosene lamps flickered and reflected off the dark paneled walls. White china was in stark contrast to the bright calico tablecloths.

He spotted her immediately, as though his gaze were instinctively drawn to her. How could he not? Dressed in blue linen the color of her luminous eyes, she was clearly the most beautiful woman there.

The light caught in her glorious mane of blond hair, hair the color of sunshine. Then she turned toward him as though knowing he was there, watching. She favored him with a half smile.

His body quickened.

Careful, Colter, this isn’t a woman to get involved with. This is business.

Yes, he knew that, had confirmed it not five minutes ago when he’d decided on his plan of action. He chose to ignore his reaction to her this afternoon. Then and now it was lust, pure and simple. He’d been a long time without a woman, after all, and a man had needs, didn’t he?

Alex and Eddie had both turned to see what was the cause of the sudden silence in the room. Somehow Alex wasn’t all that surprised to see Josh Colter standing in the double wide doorway.

He was dressed in a green shirt and black wool trousers, dark colors that only seemed to intensify his commanding presence. The gun he wore hardly seemed necessary to the powerful image he presented.

So he had come after all, was her first fleeting thought. She had to admit, to herself, that she’d wondered if perhaps he’d changed his mind, made other plans. Why was it she suddenly felt relieved, exhilarated at the sight of him?

His smile was faster than lightning and twice as hot. It pinned her to the spot.

His boots were silent on the well-worn fabric of the braided rug that filled the center of the room. The jingle of his spurs blended with the renewed conversations.

He angled between two tables and headed straight for her. There was a predatory gleam in his eyes that made her feel as skittish as a rabbit. She stiffened, resisting the feeling.

That lasted about ten seconds, which was the exact amount of time it took for him to stop directly in front of her.

She extended her hand in greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Colter.” She was pleased her voice sounded much calmer than she felt. She was anxious enough as it was, what with the contest deadline and now Davy taking off. And she did not need some sable-eyed stranger complicating her life, not now.

Her small hand was enfolded in his larger one. His thumb swept across the back of her hand in a sensuous gesture that made her stomach do funny flip-flops.

She blinked once against the sensation, resisted the impulse to groan. What the devil was wrong with her?

Evidently she wasn’t as focused as she’d thought, because she’d thought about him all afternoon. Yes, shameful as it was, she’d just lain on her bed and thought about the tall, dark stranger who’d sent her pulse racing in the hotel lobby with a few words and a long, sultry look.

Discreetly she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She forced her smile up a peg or two and looked from Josh—correction, Mr. Colter—to Eddie and back again.

“Good evening,” he returned. His eyes never leaving hers, he took her hand and lifted it toward his mouth. The air around them charged as though in anticipation of a coming storm. Lightly, oh so lightly, his mouth touched her knuckles. His lips were moist and warm.

Well, you could have heard a pin drop in that dining room. She gazed up at him through her lashes and the heat that sparked in his ebony eyes was hot enough to melt granite. Lord knows it was melting her.

Still, in what was left of the rational part of her mind, she understood this was a game, more complicated than before, but a game nonetheless. Pretending a confidence she didn’t feel, she determined to play along, not wanting to end it and so give the victory to him.

“Won’t you join us?” she asked demurely, sliding her hand free of his warm grasp.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” His voice was husky, sensual. He dragged out the chair next to hers.’ “I never like to keep a beautiful woman… waiting.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, keeping up her end of the game, though an unfamiliar heat was stirring inside her at his nearness, at the soft tone of his voice. Where was that woman of control, of purpose?

Fortunately Eddie was not so affected. His chair scraped back, snagging on the rug. He stood, his narrow face drawn into a frown. “Alex? Who’s this?” He still held his calico dinner napkin in his left hand, which rested lightly on the tabletop.

Alex saw Josh look up at Eddie, eyes widening as though seeing him for the first time. In less than an instant, his gaze returned to her, one black brow arched in utter disbelief. “Don’t tell me this is the husband I’m going to have to kill?” he inquired, craning around as though searching the room for someone else, someone more appropriate, to his way of thinking at least.

She knew he was kidding, knew it was more of their game. “Well, if you feel you must.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug and kept her pose nonchalant. “But would you mind doing it outside? I’m trying to decide on dinner here, and fights are so distracting, don’t you agree?” She focused her attention on the chalkboard near the kitchen door where the four daily specials were listed.

Eddie’s brown eyes got saucer big. “What do you mean, kill? What’s he mean, Alex?” Eddie’s voice was half concerned, half youthful bravado. He puffed out his chest, straining the buttons of his brown tweed jacket.

“Well, then, this is it, I suppose,” Josh said with feigned gravity as he braced one hand on the table and made to stand. Eddie’s gaze was riveted to the gun tied to Josh’s leg.

“Now, wait! Now just a minute. What’s he talking about, a husband?” Eddie’s voice moved up both in volume and pitch.

“Why, Eddie, darling, you mean you aren’t willing to die for me?” Her cousin was always so easy to rile. She’d been teasing him since he was five.

“Well, sure—what! No!” Eddie tugged at his collar. “What the devil are you talking about?” He dropped down in his chair. “Now, see here, Alex,” Eddie sputtered, “I am most empathetically not your husband, and you know it!”

Alex chuckled. “A little louder, Eddie, darling, I don’t think the folks at the table near the window quite heard you.”

“We heard everything just fine,” the man called loudly, and gave them a wave.

Eddie looked mortified.

Josh burst out laughing.

Alex tried to looked indignant but failed miserably.

Soon the whole restaurant was laughing.

“Well—” Josh started, his voice rich with laughter “—am I still invited for dinner?”

“By all means,” Alex confirmed, warming to the game and the man, especially the man. One minute he looked savage enough to carry out his threat of killing, the next he was full of roguish charm. He was a mystery, an intriguing mystery to be sure, but one she didn’t have time to solve, not unless it could be accomplished over dinner.

Josh angled around to face Eddie. “I’m sorry about that. It seems we started this little…game this afternoon. It was unfair of us not to let you in on it.”

Eddie dragged in a breath and let it out slowly. He tugged on his collar again. “Jeez, Alex, give a man apoplexy, why don’t you?”

Alex was still smiling when she reached across the table toward him, her hand not quite reaching his. “Sorry, Eddie. Really. Besides, what would make you think Mr. Colter would kill you?”

“Maybe because the man looks as hard as a whetstone and—” Eddie broke off, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right…Eddie, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Edward Story.”

Well, Josh thought, at least this one wasn’t a Gib’ son. “Don’t worry about it, Eddie. I’ve been called worse, much worse, believe me. Besides, I suspect it’s true. This country out here tends to harden a man.”

Eddie offered his hand, and Josh accepted. “I really am sorry. It’s just that this is all a little new to me and seeing you with the gun and the talk about killing…”

Josh sobered. “You have every right to be angry. Killing is something a man shouldn’t joke about. My apologies if I frightened you.”

Apology flashed in Alex’s eyes.

Josh lounged back in his chair, feeling the wooden curve press into his back. “Since I know young Eddie here isn’t your husband, a fact for which I’m eternally grateful—” his smile was lush “—then he’s…”

“I’m her cousin—on her mother’s side,” Eddie said, a grin replacing his earlier frown.

“Ah,” Josh acknowledged. He toyed with the fork next to his plate. So far, so good. Keep it friendly. So, she’s here with her cousin, but why?

“Is your visit to Gunlock business or pleasure?”

“Both,” Alex replied.

Just then the waitress, a buxom woman in her forties, ambled over to take their orders. Josh ordered steak, well-done. Eddie followed suit. Alex ordered the fried chicken. Coffee for everyone was understood, and the waitress brought that first.

There was a minute of awkward silence. The ping of silverware on china, the murmur of voices filtered around them.

Josh sipped his coffee. It was strong enough to float a horseshoe and black as the bottom of a mine shaft. Just the way he liked it. Ignoring the saucer, he put the cup on the tablecloth, holding it lightly between his fingers. “You know, we were never properly introduced this afternoon. I confess I looked on the register. Is it Miss or Mrs.?”

She chuckled. “It’s Miss Gibson.”

So she wasn’t married to the bastard, that was something anyway, he thought, strangely relieved. Why? Why should he care if she was married? He didn’t, he told himself emphatically. This was business, brutal business. She had information that he wanted, and he was willing to do whatever he had to get it.

“So; what brings you to Gunlock?” Absently he traced the curve of the cup handle, the china smooth to the touch.

“Alex is an artist,” Eddie piped up, pride obvious in his voice. “She’s going to be famous after she wins the competition.”

“An artist?” He shifted in the chair, the wood creaking in response. “You’re kidding?” If she’d said she was the queen of the Nile, he couldn’t have been any more surprised.

There was something in the way he said “artist” that pricked Alex’s temper. It was a tone, the barest skepticism, that she’d heard before. It was a sure-you-are tone, as though she couldn’t possibly be competent. “Yes,” she said flatly. “I am an artist.”

He leaned in, resting his forearms on the table edge. “What kind of artist?”

About that time the waitress banged through the kitchen door, loaded down with three plates, and headed straight for their table. She served the meals with all the grace of someone slinging rocks in a pond, although she did stop long enough to refill the coffee.

Josh smiled his thanks, then to Alex, said, “You were saying you’re an artist. What do you paint? Portraits?”

“Occasionally.” Her tone was guarded. “I prefer landscapes.”

Josh put the napkin on his lap and started to cut his steak. “Have I seen any of your work?”

Alex paused, her fork resting on the mound of fried potatoes on her plate. “I doubt that you would. I’ve been working in Europe until recently.”

“What medium do you prefer, oils or watercolors?” Josh took a bite of steak.

“Oils mostly.”

“In the classical or impressionist style?”

“You are familiar with the impressionists?”

Josh chuckled. “I’ve been known to wander into a museum from time to time.”

“You must have wandered a long way, because as far as I know, the closest museum showing impressionists is the Metropolitan in New York.”

“That’s right.” He lifted a forkful of potatoes to his mouth.

“You’ll excuse me if I’m a little surprised.”

“Why?”

“Well, you hardly seem the type. I mean…I thought…”

He chuckled again. “I’m a rancher. From time to time I have to go to New York on business. I’ve also been known to go to Chicago, and even all the way to San Francisco. I’ve been known to drop by a theater, and on rare occasions, a library.”

“Touché,” she replied with a ghost of a smile. “It isn’t often I meet men with an appreciation for art.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am,” he said. “This time I’m the one who will take it as a compliment.” He smiled a slow, easy smile that lit up his face like sunshine after a storm. “You, I mean Eddie here, mentioned something about a competition?”

She sliced into her chicken. “There’s a national competition for the most original sketch or painting that best depicts the culmination America’s Manifest Destiny.”

He sipped his coffee. “And you hope to find that in Gunlock?”

“Not in Gunlock but here in the West.” She put her fork down. “The western expansion typifies what’s best in America today. Pioneers taming a savage land. It shows the ultimate in character, strength, courage—”

“Patronization, condescension and forced assimilation,” Josh muttered.

“What?”

“Oh, I was only thinking about the Indians all those pioneers murdered in order to conquer the wilderness.”

“Murdered seems rather a harsh choice of words, don’t you think, Mr. Colter?”

“I call it like I see it.” He didn’t try to keep the sharpness from his voice. How could he when murder was so fresh in his mind?

If she noticed his sudden change of tone, she didn’t show it. Instead, she seemed to consider his remarks, then said simply, “I’d call it progress.”

“I see.” He thought of the high price the Indians had paid for this progress, knowing hers was the prevailing attitude. “I guess this means you won’t be making sketches of Indians then.”

“Indians?” Eddie spoke around cheeks pouched out with steak. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Good Lord, are there still Indians running around?” He fixed Alex with a hard stare. “You didn’t say anything about savages, Alex.”

There was that word again. Why the hell did all whites think all Indians were savages? When whites massacred Indians, it was a great victory. When Indians retaliated, it was a great slaughter.

For a moment he wondered what these good people would think if they knew he was half Indian?

“Don’t worry, Eddie,” Josh reassured him. “With only a few exceptions, all those savages, as you call them, are on the reservations.”

“Whew.” Eddie heaved a sigh of relief, and Josh didn’t resent him for it. He was a boy. How could he know the truth? He wished they could see what it was like, how the Indians lived, then perhaps…

Eddie leaned in. “I was worried there for a minute, Mr. Colter. I mean, I agreed to come along to help Alex, you know, with the wagon and such, but I wasn’t counting on any trouble. Of course, I mean to protect her.”

Josh gave the boy the once-over. “And just who is it you are protecting her from?” By the look of him, he couldn’t protect a baby in a bathtub, let alone anything the frontier would throw at them. “I don’t want to worry you, but Indians are the least of your problems. San Francisco and New York might be civilized, but out here the James Boys are still holding up banks, not to mention several other gangs running loose between here and the Canadian border.”

“Outlaws?” Eddie repeated in a hushed whisper, as though he thought such men were lurking behind the potted palm.

“This is a wide-open country, you know,” Josh told them. “There isn’t a policeman or a sheriff on every corner. Hell, there aren’t even very many corners.”

Eddie turned a worried gaze on his cousin. “Alex, maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Montana is awfully far.”

Alex stiffened. “Mr. Colter, please don’t frighten Eddie.” Then to Eddie, she said, “Don’t worry so, we’ll be fine. The mere fact that it is such a wide, open country means the chances of us running into some such group as the James Gang is highly unlikely.”

Eddie dragged in a breath. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Alex confirmed, not liking this turn of conversation. She had to finish this trip. She couldn’t do it alone, and she didn’t appreciate Mr. Colter scaring Eddie to death.

But all this talk about outlaws brought caution to the fore. She’d heard about men who pretended friendship to unsuspecting travelers, only to be scouting for some group who would later waylay them and rob them. She was a woman alone, well, nearly alone.

The caution bell in her head sounded.

It went to the level of a six-alarm fire when Josh Colter said, “I’m leaving tomorrow myself. Perhaps if you told me where, exactly, you are going, I could give you directions, tell you what to look out for and such. I believe you said something about Montana?”

“That’s right,” Eddie began, “there’s a friend of Alex’s who has a ranch—”

“You know,” Alex interrupted, “it occurs to me, Mr. Colter, that I don’t know you very well. And if what you say is true, then it would be unwise for me to discuss my plans…with anyone.” She gave him her sweetest smile in an effort to soften her words.

Smart girl, he thought grudgingly. Too smart. “I applaud your caution. It’s just that I’m heading north myself and thought I could ride along, give you a hand.”

“Yes, Alex,” Eddie entreated, “wouldn’t that be a good idea?”

Alex’s expression was blank. “It’s very kind of you to offer, Mr. Colter. However, I think we’ll be fine by ourselves. We are well-armed, should the need arise. I am an excellent shot,” she added deliberately.

Josh made a derisive sound in his throat. “What do you shoot? Targets?”

“Why, yes.”

“It’s a lot different when you’re about to blow a hole in a man.”

The silence was long and discomforting. Alex pushed her plate away and folded and replaced her napkin on the table. “I’m quite finished with dinner. How about you, Eddie?” She stood.

“Well, no.” Eddie glanced between the two. “Oh, yes, I’m finished.” He stood. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Colter.” They shook hands again.

She didn’t extend her hand this time. “Good evening, Mr. Colter. It was nice to have met you.”

With that, she turned and strode from the dining room with Eddie following close behind.

Josh sat there for a long time, his dinner forgotten.

Lady, you and I are a long way from finished.