Blaze (32 page)

Without speaking, Hazard signaled her to answer the door. Picking up his rifle and pack, he quietly moved through the archway into Rose's dressing room.

Rose's cheeks were flushed when she opened the door but her voice was deliberately calm. "What is it, Edward?" Her recently hired monte dealer stood diffidently in the hallway.

"Keene wants credit, Miss Condieu. Over the five thousand limit you set for him. He's raising a damnable fuss." The monte dealer's eyes scanned the room over her head with the ingrained appraisal of a thief while he waited for her instructions.

Harvey Keene was apt to be the new judge from their district and, keeping that possibility in mind, Rose said, "Give him another five thousand. But after that, he's got to talk to me. His law practice isn't that good."

"Very well, Miss Condieu." His voice was smooth and unctuous, and his dark eyes, had Rose noticed, suddenly flashed fiercely. A two-inch strip of mirror, barely visible through the decorative carved archway leading into Miss Condieu's sleeping quarters, reflected a slim portion of silky black hair and black-clad shoulder.

The new monte dealer, sent into Rose's by Yancy Strahan, had just earned Yancy's promised reward. "Sorry to disturb you," he apologized deferentially. And he turned away, his heart tripping against his ribs. The damn Indian was there! Inside Rose's suite as big as life. Despite the patrols, prowling the town since they'd discovered he'd been down to see Rose. Despite the guards front and back. Despite the reward posters nailed up, offering a small fortune for him, dead or alive. How the hell had he done it? Not that it really mattered. He wouldn't be around long enough to answer the question.

The newest of Rose's monte dealers walked down the stairs and right past his table and Harvey Keene. The temperate night air cooled the flush of excitement warming his skin. Yancy had said he could be reached day or night at The California Hotel. The promised fifty thousand dollars was all Edward Doyle could think about as his long-legged stride carried him down the street to the hotel.

"NOW," Rose insisted, looking at Hazard lounging against the carved arch, her pale forehead marred by a scowl, "get the hell out of here."

"No tea this time?" Hazard teased.

"Not a chance," she snapped, totally unnerved by her dealer's visit. Rose had never trusted Edward Doyle, only hired him because he was good with cards. Some sixth sense told her now it had been a mistake. "I don't trust him," she said levelly and, lifting her hands in a small helpless gesture, softly pleaded, "Please don't stay."

"You're really worried." The anxious flutter of her hands was so uncharacteristic, Hazard's voice lost its teasing mockery.

"That man and the mother of your…"—she hesitated a moment, searching for the right word—"hostage are as ruthless a team as I've ever seen. Two sledgehammers under their soft southern drawls. And yes, I'm worried as hell."

"Sorry, Rose, I didn't mean to upset you. I came for the dresses and other things if you have them," he quietly explained, "and then I'll go."

"You came for the dresses?" She couldn't keep the shock under control.

"The dresses," he repeated. "You wouldn't have a couple of books you can spare," he inquired mildly. "And a cookbook," he added. "I promised I'd bring one back," he finished with a small smile that lit up his eyes.

Exasperation caused Rose to explode. "Do I look like I own a cookbook? Do I look the least bit domestic? Hazard, have you lost your senses?"

He gazed at her, dazzling tonight in lilac georgette, beruffled and ribboned, and softly replied, "Pardon me, Rose. My mistake." He smiled then and enigmatically said, "It must have chocolate cake in it. Would your cook have one?" he helpfully inquired.

"My chef, Hazard, would run you through if you called him a cook. His talent is spontaneous, anyway, learned but not written down. It's all in his head."

"In that case," Hazard thoughtfully murmured, "would you order one? I promised her—"

"Dresses, Guerlain, chocolates, cookbooks—what else did you promise her, Hazard?"

His smile turned faintly wolfish. "She's persuasive," he said.

"I'll bet." Violet eyes narrowed slightly, and Rose looked at him with a lenient tolerance that had always endeared her to him. "Just so long as she doesn't persuade you to buy a wedding ring along with everything else."

"Her hair's the wrong color, and her skin," he tranquilly answered, unruffled by his own intrinsic prejudice. "We're not talking permanence, only books, if you have some you don't mine lending. I know you have them sent out from Ming's in Virginia City."

"Lend?" It was a small breathless gasp. "I think you've gone mad, Hazard. Watch my lips, darling. There are men out there itching to kill you. Do not, under any circumstances, consider bringing these back," she said, snatching an armful of books from a nearby table. "Keep them! Do not return them! Do not return at all! I mean it, Hazard. Not until Yancy Strahan is gone or dead. Nothing stands in that man's way. He's the kind who'd bring out murderous instincts in a nun, he's that rotten. Understand?"

"Thanks for the books," Hazard nodded, sliding them into his fringed pack, "and for the warning. I'll be careful." His instinct for survival came from necessity and the rigors of tribal training. It was his strength. He stood and then waited, quiet, relaxed, his composure serene.

Rose wanted to holler. She was a hot-blooded, volatile woman and Hazard's impassive calm in the face of this—this—horrendous danger grated on her nerves like a high-pitched scream. "What are you waiting for?" she demanded.

"The dresses." His voice was temperate, his smile forebearing. "If they're ready."

"Do you have a goddamn death wish?"

"On the contrary," he said, smiling a little more, thinking of one very lush reason for living, all rosy flesh and heated beauty, waiting for him in the cabin.

"I hope you live, dammit," Rose exploded, stalking over to an armoire, "to let her see that charming smile again." Jerking out a dress at a time, she flung them at him. "Personally, I don't think she's worth the risk!" Spinning around she threw the last dress into his arms.

"You're a sweetheart," Hazard blandly responded, familiar with Rose's hot temper and its equally rapid abatement. "I don't suppose you found any Guerlain."

If it was possible for a human to steam, Rose began to steam. "Good Lord, how could I have forgotten?" she replied, sarcasm dripping syrupy-thick. Turning back to the armoire, she reached up to the top shelf, snatched a package down, and hurled it at Hazard like a lethal weapon. "We wouldn't want Miss Braddock to wash with ordinary soap, would we. Hell no!"

Putting his hand out with an ease that belied the required speed, Hazard plucked the hurtling box from its trajectory and tranquilly placed it atop the six dresses packed swiftly into his leather bag. "I owe you, Rose," was all he said.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd get yourself out of here so I'll be able to collect someday!"

"I'm on my way… except…"

"Except what?"

"Well," he paused and grinned. "The chocolates."

"All I can say," Rose sighed exasperatedly, "is I hope you live to enjoy them."

"I'll do my damndest." A minute later the box of chocolates was being laced into the bag with the books, dresses, and soap.

"Anything else?" Rose sweetly inquired, watching Hazard tie the rawhide strings tight. "A maribou fan, perhaps, for my lady, or emerald ear clips for when she dresses for dinner?"

Hazard's head snapped up. "That reminds me. Jimmy hasn't come up. Do you know why? Is it Molly?"

"No, he broke his arm."

"How?"

"Apparently a barrel rolled off a freight wagon the wrong way when he was helping unload. Ron Davis, a clerk at Klein's, knows Jimmy so I sent him up to get some information when he didn't come for the food you wanted."

"Who's Ron Davis? A customer?" Hazard asked.

"A friend." Rose smiled, adding, "who'd like to be a customer, but I've never worked, as you well know."

"Can you trust him?"

"He'd do anything for me."

Hazard raised a brow in understanding. "In that case, would you send him up to Jimmy's with a message for me?" He slung the pack over his shoulder.

"If you hurry and get out of here, I'll do anything, including murder. You're not safe here, I'm telling you." The odd glow in Edward Doyle's eyes suddenly struck her ominously, a delayed reaction swimming up from her subconscious.

"If I don't come back for a while—"

"Don't! Good God, don't!" Rose interrupted.

"I just wanted to say," Hazard went on, reaching out to take her hand, soothing her wrist with gentle strokes, "I might go back for the summer hunt. Let Yancy cool his heels for a few weeks."

"And her?" Rose asked, her orchid eyes watching Hazard's face intently.

"She'll go too. My insurance," he said, omitting the fact she'd become much more to him.

Rose knew Hazard's answer was evasive. No one risked his life over dresses and chocolates for a woman who was just insurance, but he'd admit it in his own good time, she knew. "Can he take the claim in your absence?" she asked, concerned not only for Hazard's physical well-being but for his future as well.

"Not legally. It's all filed right and proper. Besides, he won't know we're gone."

"When will you be back?" The touch of his fingers was exquisitely tender. And comforting even now when her nerves were skittish.

"Two weeks, three, a month maybe. When Jimmy's better, you could have him go up every few days as usual. That way no suspicions will be raised. We'd still be there as far as Diamond City's concerned. And thanks again, Rose, for everything." Hazard's fingers lingered another moment then he dropped her hand. He was reaching for his rifle when the door crashed open.

The man standing in the doorway, blocking the light from the hall, held a custom-made sawed-off double-barreled shotgun trained on Hazard, his finger curved precariously over the hair trigger. "Don't move, you mother-fuckin' redskin," snarled Yancy Strahan.

Hazard thought he was beyond umbrage at gratuitous slander directed at his race; he'd lived in the white man's world enough years to have heard it all. Heard it and discounted it as so much ignorant rhetoric by a race the Indian viewed as ill-bred, noisy, childishly impatient, and devoid of good manners. But he felt a virulent hatred, like venom from a snake bite, spreading through his senses at Yancy's coarse command—potent, out-of-con-trol hatred. And for the first time in his life he was prompted to kill a man on impulse alone.

Rose screamed.

"Shut up, you slut," Yancy said, stepping quickly into the room and kicking the door shut, "or I'll shoot you too. I'm just itching to shoot you, mother-fucker," he growled, looking at Hazard. "And I will too, just as soon as you sign your claims over to me."

Hazard slowly eased himself straight, the rhythm of his breathing returning to normal. He had time to think. Yancy needed him alive for his signature. "It won't be legal unless it's recorded," Hazard ventured.

"Then we'll fuckin' well record it."

"Just you and me?" Hazard quietly asked, his eyes trained on Yancy's flushed face. Whoever had fetched Yancy must have found him drinking somewhere. The smell of bourbon pervaded the room. And the recording office was six blocks away, Hazard pleasantly thought.

"You and me," Yancy bluntly replied, "and the five men out in the hallway and the ten men downstairs and the dozen men front and back." Like so many bullies, Yancy relished center stage only when reinforcements were close behind.

For Hazard's purposes, Yancy's need for importance made the odds considerably more advantageous. He glanced at him standing solidly in front of the door like a bull, exhibiting none of the refinement southern tradition extolled, devoid of the elegance or civilized veneer so assiduously cultivated by aspiring white gentlemen. Yancy was brutishly strong, over average height and heavily muscled, with the fair skin and sandy hair of his Scots forebears. The kind of skin that only reddened under the sun, or like tonight, with too much bourbon. Hazard could see that the pale eyes were dilated and a slight tremor affected the workmanlike hands holding the shotgun. Too much whiskey. Good. Another advantage, provided he didn't accidentally pull the trigger. "How does the Colonel feel about this?" Hazard calmly asked. "I might have Miss Braddock set to detonate if I don't return."