Читать книгу Wild Card - Susan Amarillas - Страница 11

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!”