An Unlikely Lady (2 page)

The blush staining her powdered cheeks only reinforced his opinion that there wasn't a woman alive who couldn't be plied with a little bit of flattery—even a woman as worldly as Scarlet Rose.

With a rag retrieved from beneath the counter, she began polishing the already spotless bar.

“So have you ever been to Leadville?” he asked conversationally.

The rag stopped in mid-circle and Scarlet tensed. “Once. It was an experience I don't care to repeat. Then again, I expect there ain't a body alive who hasn't had one of those.”

Jesse could certainly relate to that sentiment. He'd had several.

“What about you? You look like a well-traveled man.”

He swallowed a mouthful of spirits and nodded. “Just came from there, as a matter of fact. I was supposed to meet up with a pal of mine, but he never showed. He might even have passed through here in the last few weeks,” he
ventured, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Big fellow, red hair, thick Scots brogue . . . ?”

“Sorry, sugar. The closest thing to Scotch I've run across in this area is the bottle I've got collecting dust in my storeroom.”

Jesse bit back the urge to ask her if she was sure. Not that he doubted her, exactly. He'd just learned that folks tended to overlook the insignificant, and a little prodding often helped them with their recollections.

But Scarlet Rose, for all her good humor, had the shrewd feline eyes of a woman who had seen it all and forgotten nothing, and the fastest way to raise her hackles was to pelt her with a bunch of questions. Jess hadn't survived the last twelve years in his profession by making stupid mistakes. “Ah, well.” He forced a smile. “It was a long shot anyway.”

He doused his disappointment with another swig of the rotgut Scarlet passed off as whiskey. Duncan McGuire was known to frequent larger towns that provided a variety of opportunities either to load or lighten his purse—depending on which way the wind was blowing. One look around told Jesse that his quarry would have avoided this place like smallpox.

His hostess crossed her arms on the counter and leaned forward with a smile. “Tell you what, sugar, I've got a stable out back where I
keep my mule. If your horse don't mind putting up with Bag-o'-Bones caterwaulin', he's welcome to rest up there for twenty-five cents a night.”

The price was a bit steeper than he expected, but Jesse didn't dicker. He could hardly blame the woman for trying to make extra coin. “Much obliged. I'll be needing a room myself for the night, too, if you've got one to spare.”

“Got half a dozen sittin' empty upstairs. Fifty cents a day, including meals.”

Jesse almost choked on a swig of whiskey.

“You pay whether you eat or not, so you might as well eat.” Pointedly taking in his appearance, she quirked one brow. “And no one gets a room without a bath.”

“I suppose you know just where a man can find a bath hereabouts, too,” Jesse countered with a crooked grin, fully aware that it, too, would come with an outrageous price tag.

“Now that you mention it, I've got an old tin tub in the pantry I'd be willin' rent. A dollar a filling—a dollar fifty if you want hot water.”

“That's robbery!”

The mischievous smile she gave him made her look more like an adolescent girl than a calico queen. “There's always the creek.”

That ribbon of mud and muck just outside of town? Jesse heaved a sigh of part despair, part
amusement. At this rate, he'd be flat broke by nightfall. “You drive a hard bargain, Scarlet.”

“So I've been told. But I make it worth every penny.”

The smoky lilt of her voice left no mistake that they weren't just talking a room, a meal, and a tub of water. “How much more for personal treatment?” he couldn't resist asking.

“Depends on how personal.”

“A back scrub and hair washing—for starters.”

“Well, normally that would cost an extra ten cents, but for you . . . it'd be on the house.” Her voice dropped a notch. So did the direction of her gaze. “Anything more will be up for negotiation.”

The first genuine smile Jesse had felt in months tugged at his mouth. He was hardly a stranger to a woman's advances; hell, they'd been throwing themselves at him since he'd picked up his first straight razor. He never quite understood what it was they found so appealing about him, but neither did he question his good fortune. Passable looks were as much an advantage in his line of work as his sharp wits and nose for the truth—three gifts that Jesse never failed to use when necessary.

But, if he looked half as bad as he felt, it was a wonder any woman would look at him twice,
much less flirt with him so brazenly. Then again, women of Scarlet's profession would flirt with a fencepost if it meant adding to the till.

Just as he started to ask where he might find the old tin tub, warning prickles once again danced up the back of his neck. Jesse reflexively shifted his hand to his hip.

“There you are, Honesty,” his hostess called out, looking past him. “We've got us a visitor.”

The guarded glance Jesse cast over his shoulder became an eye-popping double-take as his sights filled with the most stunning vision he'd seen in years. She stood halfway down the staircase, five feet six inches of temptation wrapped in red satin, with one hand on the banister, the other propped lightly on her hip. A mass of thick, amber ringlets tumbled from her crown down her back, with stray wisps framing a fine-boned face that belonged on a cameo pin. Slender brows arched over wide eyes with impossibly long, sweeping lashes, her nose was small and narrow bridged, and her mouth . . . Jess swallowed hard. Oh, mercy. Lips that ripe and full were known to lead a man down the long road to trouble and make him thank God for the trip.

Even the dress she wore should have been outlawed. Jess swore the shimmering red silk hugging her figure from bodice to knee had
been designed solely to drive a man crazed with lust. And if all that red wasn't enough torture, black lace edged the slopes of her breasts and wrapped around her waist to form a ruffled bow at the low of her back.

“Honesty, why don't you show Mister—”

“Jesse,” he supplied, finding his voice. “Jesse Jones.” The false name fell from his lips with surprising ease, considering his tongue seemed to have affixed itself to the roof of his mouth.

“Show Mr. Jones to his room while I scare up something for supper?”

“Sure thing, Rose,” she replied in a spun velvet voice that wrapped around Jesse's vitals. “Follow me, cowboy.”

Anywhere,
he thought, watching black lace brush across her red satin clad bottom as she started up the stairs. A forgotten fever surged through his bloodstream and settled below his buckle. With her being just a few inches shorter than his own five feet eleven, it didn't take a scientist to figure that their bodies would fit together like heat on fire, and the picture that formed in his mind sent desire slamming through him with the force of a cannon ball. Jesse saw himself walking up behind her, pulling her back against his front, her bottom to his groin, sliding his hands down either side of her rib cage, her hips, her thighs, then slipping
up again beneath her hem to the dark stockings beneath . . .

She paused on a middle step and twisted around. The up and down gander she gave Jesse, as if judging his worth, left him with the impression that she found him sorely lacking. “Are you coming?”

Not yet, but he would if he stared at her much longer—right here in the middle of the Scarlet Rose.

Jess thanked the week's growth of whiskers for hiding the color heating his cheeks. Never in all his thirty years had he felt such a swift and immediate response toward a woman; the fact that one sultry-eyed saloon girl could affect him so strongly, and at a time when he needed all his wits about him, left an acrid taste in his mouth. “I'll be along after I've seen to my horse,” Jesse announced, pushing away from the bar. Best put some distance between himself and this lush-lipped distraction till he got himself under control.

With a tip of his hat, he strode out the door.

Long after he disappeared from sight, Honesty stared after him, her mouth agape, her heart tapping faster than musician's spoons. Never in all her born days had a man looked at her like that—as if he'd waited his whole life to see her and finally got the chance. It was
humbling and astonishing and . . . thrilling. Every inch of her skin tingled, and a strange, faintly wicked sensation danced deep in her belly.

“You gonna give me a hand, or are you gonna stand around gawking all day?”

Wrenched from her musings, Honesty snapped around to find Rose watching her with amusement. Good cow feathers, what was wrong with her? If she didn't know better, she'd think the feelings their guest had stirred inside her were desire. Honesty shook off the disturbing thought. Impossible. The only feeling men roused in her anymore was disgust.

“I wasn't gawking,” she denied, following Rose into the kitchen.

“You were gawking. Not that I blame you—that one's got the makin's of a true Lothario.”

Warmth flooded Honesty's cheeks. “If your tastes run toward the scrawny desperado type.”

“You just ain't looking at all the possibilities.” Rose opened the door to the cast iron stove and started shoving chunks of pine into its mouth.

Possibilities? Honesty caught sight of him through the window, leading a muscled brown horse across the back yard. Good gravy, he looked as if he'd been dragged through a riverbed and hung out to dry. It wouldn't surprise her if his face was plastered on wanted posters from here to Mexico. All those whiskers,
that long, matted hair . . . hadn't she heard somewhere that long hair often hid the cropped upper ear marking a horse thief?

Yet despite his scruffy appearance, Honesty couldn't deny that there was something about the man that sent her heart racing. Maybe it was the way he walked, with the straight-shouldered confidence of one at ease with himself and the rest of the world. Or maybe it was the aura of unleashed power and mystery he exuded.

Who in God's green pastures was he? And what was he doing in Last Hope?

“Fetch me a kettle out of the pantry, will ya, hon?”

Once again snapped to the present, Honesty did as Rose bade and brought a large copper cooking kettle from the pantry, as well as a pair of banded wooden buckets to haul bath water. Thanks to Rose's Uncle Joe, they weren't forced to heat water over the stove the way they used to. He'd rigged up a cistern out back that sat upon a constant flame, so when visitors like Mr. Jones showed up, they wouldn't have long to wait.

After filling the buckets she returned to the kitchen, where Rose was chopping a slab of beef into pieces. “So what does he want?” Honesty asked, hoping the woman read nothing more into the question than idle curiosity. She
wished she could have heard the conversation between the two of them, but the stranger's voice had been too low pitched to make eavesdropping possible.

“Same thing as every other man.” Rose shrugged. “Good whiskey, a hot bath, a soft bed, and a willing woman to share it with.”

She should have guessed, Honesty thought with a grimace. Why should he be different from nearly every other man she'd encountered? “He didn't have to make a trip all the way out here for that.”

“He didn't. Apparently his horse went lame.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Don't see why I shouldn't. No one comes to Last Hope willingly anymore.”

That was an understatement. Even she wouldn't be here if fate hadn't struck such a cruel blow. But when a girl found herself dodging predators left and right, the best place to hide was the last place anyone would look. A nearly deserted town in the Rocky Mountain foothills worked quite nicely.

“That water should be plenty hot, hon,” Rose remarked, steering Honesty's thoughts back to the subject at hand. “So go on and take him his bath while I throw a stew on for supper.”

A sudden flurry of panic erupted in Honesty's middle at the idea of being in the same
room with the stranger. “How about if I cook the stew and you take him his bath?”

Rose's brows dipped into a V; her face softened in concern. “Honesty, are you afraid of him?”

“Of course not!” She wasn't afraid of any man. Cautious, yes. And why not? Her father had been a master swindler, and in the three months since his death, she'd found herself pursued relentlessly by every mark he'd ever swindled. Who wouldn't be wary after that? “I just can't shake the feeling that his showing up here isn't as innocent as he wants us to believe.”

“That may be true, but his reasons aren't any of our concern. He's the first customer to walk through that door in weeks, and as long as he's got the coin, we'll oblige his every whim.”

The thought of obliging the stranger anything made the disturbing sensation in Honesty's middle return full force. She couldn't forget the hungry look he'd given her—as if given the chance, he'd gobble her whole . . .

“Look, hon,” Rose broke into her thoughts, “you and I both know I didn't hire you to decorate the mantel. But I also know you've had a rough time of it lately. So go on and take him his bath. If he wants more than a good scrubbin', just turn him over to me.”

The wink told her that Rose wouldn't consider the task much of a sacrifice, and she drew
comfort in the fact that the option was there if she needed it. Unfortunately, if she ever hoped to leave this place she had to make money, which meant doing the job she'd been hired for—tending to the customers.

Besides, maybe she was overreacting. If it turned out that Mr. Jones was her best chance of solving the mystery Deuce had left behind, could she really let a few silly worries get in the way of finding out whatever secret he'd kept from her all these years?

Managing a smile braver than she felt, Honesty patted Rose's hand. “Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself.” She'd had plenty of practice in the last three months.