Badlanders (15 page)

“All three of us?” the man on the left said. He rose, too.

The third man stayed in his chair. “Hell, shoot him and let's get back to our drinkin'.”

“I believe I will,” the wolf in the middle said, and went for his six-shooter. So did the man on the left.

Scar had his Smith & Wessons out and cocked before either could draw. He fired both simultaneously, going for their heads.

The third man saw his friends crash down and froze. “They didn't stand a prayer!” he gulped, and thrust his arms out from his sides.

Scar trained the Smith & Wessons on him.

“Hold on!” the man cried. “I'm not goin' to go for my gun.”

“You should,” Scar said, and shot him.

B
eaumont Adams woke up but didn't open his eyes. He felt Isolda's cheek on his chest and her soft breath on his skin, and he lay savoring the miracle that had come into his life until the muffled hubbub of voices out in the street reminded him he couldn't lie there all morning.

The drawn window shade had a glow around the edges. By the clock on the dresser, it was past ten. Early, by Beaumont's standards, but he'd been in bed by eleven the night before. His usual bedtime was four a.m. or later.

Beaumont lightly placed his hand on Isolda's head and ever so gently ran his fingers over her silken hair. “You beauty, you,” he whispered.

“About time you woke up,” Isolda said. Raising her head, she grinned and kissed him on the chin. “I've been lying here for over an hour listening to you breathe.”

“I suck in air and let it out, like everybody else,” Beaumont said. Shifting, he sat up with his back to the headboard and she rose with him, her forearm on his chest, her eyes lovely pools he'd love to lose himself in.

The bedroom was nicely furnished, with feminine
touches in the form of lacy curtains and a doily and a pink bedspread.

“If my father were alive, you wouldn't be breathing at all,” Isolda remarked.

“Don't take this wrong,” Beaumont said, “but thank God he isn't. We could never have moved in together.”

“I wonder if my sister has found out yet.”

Beaumont pulled her close and kissed her. “We were lucky this place was for rent.”

“A whole house, all to ourselves,” Isolda said dreamily. “How you found it on such short notice is beyond me.”

Beaumont held his tongue. It wasn't a case of finding out the house was available so much as paying the owners a visit—with Dyson and Stimms in tow—and explaining how happy the owners would make him if they left for, say, Denver for five or six months and rented their home to him. At first the couple refused. The man couldn't possibly be away from his job for that long. Beaumont explained how much healthier they'd stay if they agreed, and the pair promptly changed their minds.

“I'll go fix breakfast and you come down in a bit,” Isolda offered.

“I have a better idea,” Beaumont said. “We get dressed and go down together.”

He liked being in her company. In fact, he'd gotten so used to it he didn't like to be separated from her for any length of time. It was silly. He'd never felt this way about a woman. Most, he'd bedded and forgotten. Not Isolda. She'd gotten into his blood, into his very marrow, in a way he'd never have imagined a woman could.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Beaumont reminded himself that she didn't miss a thing. “I still can't get used to us being together.”

“You disappoint me, Beau,” Isolda chided. “You need to come to grips with this. We have a town to take over. I can't have you playing catch-up all the time.”

“This is you we're talking about, not the damn town,” Beaumont said peevishly.

Isolda smiled and touched his arm. “I wouldn't have taken you for a romantic. I forgot you're from the South.”

“Southerners aren't any more romantic than Yankees.”

“I beg to differ,” Isolda said. “I'm a Northern girl, remember? And Northern men, by and large, are cold fish when it comes to their women. I can't recall a single instance when my father bought my mother flowers or a gift out of the fondness of his heart. He wasn't romantic whatsoever.”

“You can't judge all men by your pa.”

“As if I ever would. Do you rate my intelligence that low?”

“You're about the smartest female I've ever came across,” Beaumont confessed. He was in awe of her ability to see to the root of a problem, and to do whatever she had to to solve it. She was also so practical she was spooky.

Isolda rose and stretched, seemingly unconscious of her nakedness. Showing no embarrassment whatsoever, she crossed to the chair she had draped her robe over and casually slipped into it. “To get back to you and me. Don't get me wrong. I like your romantic streak. Just don't let it get in the way of what we have to do.”

“Why would I?” Beaumont asked.

“By confusing what we share in here with what we share out there,” Isolda said, gesturing at the window. “In here it's you and me, our hearts entwined. Out there, it's you and me against the world.”

“Now who is thinkin' the other one must be dumb?”

“You're anything but that, my handsome rogue,” Isolda said. “The thing you lack isn't intelligence. It's your ambition that needs improving. I'm here to remedy that.”

“You think that you have more ambition than I do?”

“How long have you been in Whiskey Flats but you don't control it yet?” Isolda replied. “You took a while to get started, and you've let events control you instead of controlling events. I won't. We'll seize the initiative
before someone else comes along and seizes the town for themselves.”

“Anyone tries and they'll regret it.”

“I'm with you there, but why let it come to that? We lock Whiskey Flats down as quickly as we can.”

On that note their conversation ended until they were in the kitchen and she was pouring coffee into his cup.

“The hotel is off to a good start,” Isolda mentioned.

“It won't be all that long before you can have that suite you hanker after,” Beaumont said, “unless you decide to stay in this house.”

“A suite is more in keeping for a queen.”

“Is that how you see yourself?” Beaumont said, and chuckled. “Queen Isolda does have a nice sound to it.”

“Doesn't it, though?” she said, and laughed.

Half an hour later they emerged into the bright glare of the new day to find someone perched on their porch rail.

“Deitch?” Beaumont said. “What in blazes are you doin' here?”

“Waiting for you, Mr. Adams, sir.” Deitch was a mousy man who wore spectacles that made his eyes seem as large as an owl's. Hopping down, he smoothed his ill-fitting suit.

“Why didn't you knock?” Beaumont asked.

Deitch averted his eyes. “I didn't want to risk disturbing you and Miss Jessup.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” Isolda said.

“Why are you here?” Beaumont demanded.

“It's Scar Wratner,” Deitch said. “You instructed me to report to you if he did anything he shouldn't. I believe last night qualifies.”

“What did he do? Shoot out the mirror or a window? Or maybe pistol-whip somebody?”

“Would that that were all,” Deitch said, shaking his head. “I'm surprised you haven't heard. It's all over town.”

“What is, damn it?”

“Mr. Wratner took it on himself to kill three customers.”

“The hell you say.”

“I saw it with my own eyes. He shot two of them so fast that if I'd blinked, I'd have missed it.”

The fine morning Beaumont was having shattered by a burst of anger. He swore, then caught himself and asked, “What did they do that he shot them?”

“They swaggered in and shoved people around and pushed a couple of men at the bar to make room. Then one of them whooped and said that they were there to have a wild time, his very words, and to bring on the doves and the coffin varnish, his words again. They went over to a table and the loudmouth fired a shot into the ceiling to force the men already there to vacate their chairs.”

“What was Scar doin' while this was goin' on?”

“He showed up a little later. Caught on quick that something was amiss, I must say. When I directed him to the table, he went over and talked to them. One of them mentioned he'd shot the ceiling and that's when Scar shot all three.”

“Damn him, anyhow,” Beaumont said. “I told him not to scare our customers off.”

“Hold on,” Isolda said. “How did the other people in the saloon react, Mr. Deitch, when Mr. Wratner shot them?”

“Some of them cheered and clapped. A gentleman at the bar said they had it coming. Another that they deserved it, that they shouldn't have gone around shoving and shooting.”

“Then not much harm was done,” Beaumont said. At least, he hoped not. When a saloon acquired a bad reputation, it was shunned.

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Wratner is right this minute?” Isolda asked.

“Probably at the boardinghouse where he and his partners took a couple of rooms. It's early yet for them to be out and about.”

“Would you do me a favor?” Isolda said. “Would you go there and ask him to meet Mr. Adams and me at Ma's in half an hour? Tell him I would be ever so grateful if he isn't late, as I have a lot to accomplish today.”

“You want me to wake Scar up? That could prove dangerous. He's liable to shoot me for disturbing him.”

“Be discreet,” Isolda advised. “Mention our names so he knows we're the ones who sent you.” She smiled and said graciously, “Please. For me.”

Deitch frowned and looked down at his feet and then off along the street. “For you I will, Miss Jessup.”

“Thank you. Now off you go.”

Beaumont watched his minion scurry away. “I hope you know what you're doin'. I'd have waited until tonight and gone over and laid down the law.”

“That's exactly what I intend to do,” Isolda said, “in a manner of speaking.” She clasped his arm. “How about a muffin and coffee, my treat?”

Beaumont let her usher him along. He suspected she was up to something with regards to Scar, but he couldn't imagine what. She needed to be careful. Scar must be treated with care or he was liable to turn on them. Beaumont placed his free hand in his pocket, glad he had his Colts.

Deitch must have been wrong about Scar being in bed, because it wasn't ten minutes after they got to Ma's that Scar barged in with his perpetual shadows behind him. He came straight to their table. “Your errand boy told me I had to get my ass over here. I don't like bein' bossed around, gambler-man. I don't like it at all.”

Isolda smiled her sweetest smile. “It wasn't Mr. Adams who sent for you, Mr. Wratner. I did. Have a seat, if you please. We have some things to discuss.”

Looking as puzzled as Beaumont felt, Scar hooked a chair with his boot, turned it around, and straddled it. “Are you talkin' for the card mechanic, lady?”

“You will address me as Miss Jessup. And yes, I am. I feel compelled to point out that Mr. Adams is far more
than that, as I'm sure you realize.” Isolda paused. “Now on to other matters. We've heard about the incident at the Tumbleweed last night.”

“Now, look, lady—” Scar said, and caught himself. “Look, Miss Jessup. They were askin' for trouble and they got it.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Isolda said.

“You do?”

“From what we hear, you handled the situation admirably.”

“I did?”

“Which is why I sent for you,” Isolda said, and sat back. “We need to consolidate our power. We're going to hold an election and arrange things so Mr. Adams is Whiskey Flats's first mayor.”

Now it was Beaumont who threw in “We are? Lord in heaven, but you work fast.”

“We'll send out flyers in the next few days announcing that an election will be held in, say, two weeks' time,” Isolda said. “You're well liked, Beau. Everyone knows you don't cheat at the table, and that you deal fairly with people. You should be a shoo-in, but we'll make sure you are by buying as many votes as we need to ensure that you're elected.”

“You're awful free with my money,” Beaumont said.

“Who said anything about money?” Isolda replied. “We'll quietly spread the word at each of your saloons that you're offering a free drink to anyone who votes for you. Water down your whiskey a little and it will cost you practically nothing.”

Scar Wratner laughed. “Miss Jessup, I like how you think.”

“Then you should like my next inspiration even more,” Isolda said. “The first order of business for our new mayor will be to appoint a town marshal. For Whiskey Flats to prosper, there must be law and order. And I can't think of a better man for the job than yourself.”

Scar sat back, astonishment etching his face.

Beaumont was equally dumbfounded but recovered his wits quickly. “You're forgettin' his reputation, my dear. That he just gunned down three men won't help our cause at all.”

“To the contrary,” Isolda said. “He took care of some troublemakers. People will like that. The few who object won't be an issue.”

“Me?” Scar said. “Tote tin?”

“Think about it, Mr. Wratner,” Isolda said. “Ponder the power you'll have. You'll be able to do anything you want under the guise of the law. Anything at all, so long as you don't get carried away.”

“Anything I want?” Scar said. His eyes gleamed and he broke into a slow grin.

“What do you say?”

“Lady . . . Sorry . . . Miss Jessup, you're about the craftiest female I've ever come across. If anyone had told me a year ago I'd be a marshal one day, I'd have said they were loco. But you can count me in.”

“With my brains and Beau's money and your guns, we'll be unstoppable,” Isolda predicted. She raised her coffee cup to them in salute. “Gentlemen, to our alliance. Very soon now, Whiskey Flats will be ours.”