As the Cowboy Commands [Ecstasy in the Old West 2] (Siren Publishing Allure) (26 page)

He reached Pamela G’s as the sun was setting. Stepping through the front door, the aroma of beef on the grill in the kitchen tickled his olfactory senses. He sighed. There was pleasure in the world, after all. He didn’t give a damn if his father hated him, just as he didn’t give a rat’s ass if some poor miners decided to pull their pitiful savings out of his bank. He knew that what mattered was power, money, and the delicious food that could be found at Pamela G’s. Everything else, Gregg decided as he stood waiting for the hostess to seat him, was bullshit. Complete bullshit.

The hostess’s back was to him, so Gregg touched her on the shoulder, saying, “Is my table ready, Emily?”

He saw her expression change, and he knew instantly that she had heard the rumors. Damn. He’d always liked Emily, enjoying her smile whenever he walked into the restaurant and the way she always made a point of telling him that the table he preferred was
his
personal table that other people sometimes used. Emily always made Gregg feel welcome, feel special. Until now.

Emily nibbled on her lower lip for a moment before replying, “Actually…um…there’s someone at it right now. You could wait or I could seat you somewhere else.”

Gregg saw her face go slightly pale and felt a small twinge of sympathy for the young woman. He said, “Any table will do for tonight. I’ve had a dreadful day, and I can think of no better way of putting that day behind me than to sit here, have a couple whiskeys, eat a magnificent meal, and then finish it all off with one of your stupendous pies.”

Usually Emily thanked him whenever he complimented the food and service at Pamela G’s, but she didn’t this time. Gregg took notice of the error, thought briefly of telling Pamela G herself that the girl had been something less than cordial, then decided against it. With an unusual sense of forgiveness, Gregg decided that just because he’d just suffered through a hellacious day, that didn’t mean little Emily should have a hellacious night.

A prickle of concern touched Gregg’s psyche when he was escorted past three empty tables and shown the table nearest the back doors where the waiters were always hurrying in and out of the kitchen. It was another insult from Emily, Gregg decided, and this time he wouldn’t be so forgiving. He spent a small fortune nearly every week at Pamela G’s, so he had the right to have the owner summoned to him so he could make his displeasure known.

Gregg sat, his fleshy fingers laced together on the tablecloth in front of him, already mentally savoring the sound of the ice in the cut crystal cocktail glass that would hold his sour mash whiskey. There weren’t a handful of places in all of Whitetail Creek that could afford to have ice brought in during the summer months, but Pamela G’s was one of them—and she charged a small fortune for the drinks because of it, too. But Gregg didn’t care. Some pleasures were worth the price, no matter what the cost. Some things—like good sour mash whiskey over ice. And warm, fresh apple pie with vanilla ice cream on the side. Or beefsteaks cooked to perfection, topped with butter and garlic and served sizzling hot from the grill.

Those were the things that really made life worthwhile.

The click of heels against the brightly polished oak floor caught his attention. Gregg looked up to find Pamela G striding toward him, weaving her way between the tables of patrons. She did not look pleased, but this didn’t concern Gregg. The money he spent at the restaurant on a yearly basis amounted to the combined gross income of a half dozen moderately successful miners. He decided she needed to be taught that he was a man to be treated with respect, and he intended on telling her that in a voice loud enough for the other customers to hear. Gregg Neilson wasn’t a man who had to take insults from anyone.

“You fat runt, get out of my restaurant, and don’t ever come back!”

The vehemence of the assault from Pamela G, delivered from a distance of at least twenty feet and at such a volume that there couldn’t possibly be a single person in the restaurant who hadn’t heard what she’d said, made the breath catch in Gregg’s chest. Though he looked only at the proprietress, he could tell that all eyes were now trained on him. In a blinding flash of awareness, he realized that being seated at the worst table in restaurant had not been an accident or oversight.

For several seconds he merely looked into Pamela’s G’s blazing eyes, his mind in a whirl, searching for something to say. Words failed him, but not Pamela G.

“Get out of my restaurant and don’t ever come back,” Pamela G continued, her tone high-pitched and shrill with moral indignation. She extended an arm, pointing a finger at the front doors of the establishment. “You are a swine, and I want you out of my restaurant this instant. Marcus told me all about what you’ve done. Go! Leave! Leave and don’t ever come back. I don’t ever want to see your fat, ugly face again.”

There was a high-pitched ringing in Gregg’s ears as he got unsteadily to his feet. For a moment he thought he might actually get sick right there in the restaurant, in front of all the people who were staring at him. He squared his shoulders, determined to be dignified even if Pamela G was not, and began walking toward the front doors.

As Gregg walked, Pamela G added a final insult. “And tell your father he’s not welcome, either. You tell him I said that!”

Gregg had thought the worst was over, but it was not. As the last of Pamela G’s insults echoed off the restaurant walls, the patrons began clapping their hands, applauding their proprietress, cheering the courage of her convictions. Thirty people were smiling at his agony, clapping their hands in public approval of his humiliation, utterly without fear of his retaliation.

The room began to spin. Gregg hurried his stride. He had to get outside. There suddenly wasn’t any air in Pamela G’s, it seemed.

Good Christ, could it be that his one true sanctuary, the one blissful refuge in all of Whitetail Creek, was now forbidden to him?

Marcus. It was all his fault. Pamela G had said so. And Helen, now homeless, was staying with Marcus.

Gregg started back toward the bank, a plan beginning to take shape in the convoluted recesses of his fevered brain. There were people who needed punishment, among them Marcus and Helen. This time Gregg was determined to administer the punishment personally!

* * * *

“What do you think will happen now?” Marcus asked, sitting by the fireplace in the one overstuffed chair in his home.

Helen, sitting in a bentwood chair at the kitchen table, shrugged her shoulders. “Samantha and Amanda are going to say they are the ones responsible for killing those three men. Jared says there’s no jury in the world that’ll convict them of anything. After all, they were only protecting themselves and their own property.”

“You mean Jared was protecting them and their property.”

Helen nodded. “Without him, the Neilsons would have been able to run Whitetail Creek like it was their own personal kingdom.” She smiled, enjoying it whenever her thoughts turned toward Jared. He was a topic she adored discussing. “He said the sheriff has been taking bribes, so he’ll be of no use to us, but he knows someone else who might be able to help the good people here in Whitetail Creek. I forget the man’s name, but Jared was going to send him a telegram tonight.” Helen’s smile broadened. She took a sip of her wine and then turned to look at Marcus. “Jared really is a prince, isn’t he?”

“A prince. A king. I can’t say for certain, but whatever he is, he’s royalty.” Marcus sighed a bit dramatically and rolled his eyes heavenward. “I won’t ask you for a second time with him. We both agreed that it would only happen once. But now that I know what
that
is supposed to feel like, how am I ever going to be satisfied with anyone else?” He looked at Helen questioningly. “Is he always that good?”

Helen nodded. “Always.”

“I’m
sooo
jealous. You just wouldn’t believe how jealous I am.”

Before Helen could issue the blathering reply suggesting that one day soon Marcus would find his own version of Jared Parker—Helen didn’t believe there was another Jared out there to find—there was a knock at the front door. Helen’s countenance broke into a beaming smile as she leaped from the chair.

“Jared’s here! He said he’d come to me just as soon as he sent the telegram,” Helen explained as she worked open the locking bolt on the door.

The instant the bolt was thrown, the handle turned and the door burst open, striking Helen hard, knocking her backward several steps. Gregg stepped into the room and kicked the door closed. Helen, stunned at having been struck in the forehead by the door, was on wobbly legs for a couple seconds.

“You’ve no right to come in here,” Marcus said after a moment, but there wasn’t quite the vehemence to his voice that Helen had hoped for.

While rubbing her forehead with her fingertips, Helen looked at Gregg and asked, “What are you doing here, Gregg? Don’t you know that it’s over between us? You’re the one who burned my house. You had your bully boys do the dirty work while making yourself visible to all at the bank. That didn’t fool me for a second.” Her mouth quirked into an expression of utter contempt. “It didn’t fool anybody. The whole town’s talking about you.”

It was only then that Helen realized Gregg’s right hand was in the pocket of his jacket. The smile on his face was maniacal, insane in a way that Helen had never before seen. Suddenly she was very frightened. She hadn’t really been frightened when her ex-fiancé had first burst into Marcus’s home, but she was scared now, right down to the marrow her bones.

Gregg pulled his hand from his pocket. Inside his fleshy fist was a small, gold-plated, double-barreled derringer. Even though she knew almost nothing at all about guns, Helen could tell that the piece was meant to be showy, but that didn’t make it any less lethal. Her spine stiffened, and she stopped rubbing the bump on her forehead. For once in his life, Gregg Neilson was a man to be taken seriously.

In as calm a tone as she could manage, Helen asked, “What are you doing, Gregg?”

“You and I are going to do a little business transaction. Right here. Right now.” With his left hand he pulled several sheets of folded paper out of the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. With a snap of his wrist, he unfolded the pages and stepped over to the kitchen table where Helen was. “You’re going to sign right where I tell you.”

“What are these?”

“Deeds to your homestead. You’re selling your land to me.”

“Like hell I am!” Helen snapped, her eyes shooting emerald-green flames at the man she now loathed with a passion.

Gregg pointed the deadly, little pistol at her face and slowly thumbed back the hammer. He said, “Sign your name to the deed of sale, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

Helen looked down the big, black twin barrels of the pistol, closed her eyes, and replied, “No. I won’t do it, and if you kill me, you still won’t get the land.” Very slowly, she opened her eyes. Gregg was still standing in front of her, towering over her with that golden gun in his hand—but now in his eyes was doubt. “I know you hate me. I don’t care. I welcome your hatred. I won’t sign the papers, Gregg, and I won’t sell you my land.” Her expression was impassive. “And there’s not a damn thing you can do to change that.”

Helen almost smiled then. Almost, but not quite. She had thwarted Gregg with her refusal to be cowed by his threat of violence. But she hadn’t counted on Gregg’s merciless savagery or on his understanding of her emotional vulnerability.

Despite his size, Gregg moved swiftly though not light-footedly, rushing to the overstuffed chair by the fireplace and its slender occupant. Marcus let out a short scream and put his hands up to defend himself. Gregg batted his hands away and grabbed him by the hair, yanking him cruelly to his feet. He put the muzzles of the derringer to the back of his head and then turned slowly to look at Helen with eyes that held not a trace of sympathy.

“If you don’t care about your own life, that’s fine. But if you don’t sign that deed of sale, I’ll blow this freak’s brains all over this room.”

“Don’t!” Helen screamed. Gregg smiled, and Helen knew that she had shown him her weakness and that he would exploit his knowledge to the fullest. “Leave him alone,” Helen whispered, the horror of abject defeat washing over her. “This isn’t his fault.”

Gregg, never one to miss the opportunity to inflict pain, whether it was physical or emotional, shook Marcus hard by the hair for a full fifteen seconds. When he stopped, he jammed the muzzles of the derringer into his temple and, with eyes glowing red with sadism, looked at Helen once again and asked, “So, are you ready to sign the deed, or do you want to watch me administer some justice to this bigmouthed freak?”

Helen looked into Marcus’s eyes. Earlier they had held horror in them, primal fear. Now they were glassy, his gaze unfocused. He was in the early stages of shock. Helen decided that, for Marcus, going into shock was a small blessing because he wouldn’t be entirely aware the danger he was in or the pain that Gregg was joyously but needlessly inflicting.

“I’ll do it. I’ll sign the deed,” Helen said, the words tumbling out of her mouth.

She had recently discovered that Gregg was evil, it was true. But it wasn’t until that very moment, when she could look Gregg directly in the eyes as he held Marcus by the hair and the small, golden pistol to his temple, that Helen realized he was evil. Pure evil. All the fancy clothes that Gregg favored, the golden palomino mare, and the hand-tooled saddle and bridle that was finer and more ostentatious than any owned by anyone else in Whitetail Creek—it was all just a disguise. Beautiful
things
that people could see,
things
to disguise the malicious, unholy person
hidden
by those things.