Dance With A Gunfighter (9 page)

Gabe jumped onto the boardwalk beside him. "I’ll show
you what I do with smart-mouthed good-for-nothings!"

"Hold it!" he cried. She hurled herself against
him, giving him a push that knocked him off the boardwalk, into the street and
onto his backside.

"Watch out, Sanders," a cowboy called. "She
might beat you up."

Shaking with fury, Sanders got to his feet. "I’ll
teach you some manners, you filthy-mouthed brat!"

"You wouldn’t know how!" she replied, leaping
off the boardwalk, her arm reared back to slug him.

McLowry ran toward her. She thought she was a lot tougher
than she really was.

"You need to cool down that temper, gal!" The
barkeep ignored her blows as he picked her up and swung her like a sack of
potatoes over the water trough. She reached up, grabbing his hair with one hand
while trying to break his hold with the other.

As he dropped her into the water, his hairpiece sailed
from his head to land in the water with her. His head was bald and pink as a
newborn piglet.

The whole street erupted in laughter. Sanders blushed from
his collar to the top of his very exposed pate as he reached into the trough,
lifted out the soggy hairpiece and stormed back into the saloon, not looking at
anyone as he went.

"You hurt?" McLowry bent over the trough, his
hands on the sides of it.

Gabe struggled to sit up. Her eyes were teary, though he
couldn’t tell if it was from anger, or the dirty water in the trough.

He reached for her elbow.

"Go away!" She coughed up water, barely managing
to get the words out.

He didn’t. Instead he slipped his hands into the water and
took her by the waist and lifted her out. Water sheeted off her, first back
into the trough, then all over the dust-laden street as he stood her on her
feet in front of him.

She looked scrawny and mad as a wet cat.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Her head was bowed so as not to have to look at him or
anyone else. Stubbornly, she pursed her lips.

He grinned. She must be going through hell, he thought,
wanting to cry, die of embarrassment, and spit nails from anger all at the same
time. He’d had a moment or two of his own like that.

As he waited for her to calm down, he noticed how snugly
her wet shirt clung to her, the material almost transparent against her
breasts. Irritation heated him--irritation that she wasn’t doing a damn thing
to cover herself from the stares of the miners and cowhands. Why he would care,
he had no idea. He grabbed her arm, pulling her close to shield her from the
others, and realized how dangerously cognizant he was of the woman’s body
against his own.

She scowled. Water dripped onto her face from strands of
her short, wet hair. He raked his fingers through it, pushing it back. As he
did, her face tilted upward, her lips full and parted, but she averted her
eyes, her long lashes glistening with drops of water as shadows from those
lashes fell across her cheeks. A tightening, deep in his belly, sharpened.

Her breasts rose and fell as she took heavy breaths, and
he could feel her shaking with unvented anger. When she lifted her gaze to his,
her eyes smoldered. His body’s reaction to hers hit as fast as the bite of a
rattler.

She put her hands against his chest and pushed him away
from her. "Let me go! I’m not a child!"

He tucked his fingertips into his pockets and sucked in
his breath. Glancing again at her shirtfront, he arched an eyebrow. "So I
see," he replied.

She followed his gaze, then blanched. "Oh,
hell!"

He grinned. "Guess you are still a smart-mouth."
Then he picked up her hat, plopped it on her head and draped his arm over her
shoulders, pressing her against his side. "Let’s get out of here."
She gave herself over to him; her eyes downcast to shut out the people who had
laughed at her. She held one hand lightly against his chest, the other to his
back, as he guided her to her hotel room.

He pushed open the door. She hurried inside, away from
him, stopping at the foot of her bed. She threw her hat on the mattress, her
head hanging.

His fingers closed tight against the doorjamb, watching
her, wanting her, and not trusting himself to walk into her room.

"I’m sorry, Jess." She kept her back to him, her
voice choked. "Damn it all! I didn’t mean to embarrass you, or involve you
in this. I’m sorry."

"It doesn’t matter, Gabe."

"They wouldn’t tell me anything. The marshal
wouldn’t, then when I tried to ask some men in the saloon, they wouldn’t answer
me. I saw their reactions when I mentioned Will Tanner, though. I’m sure they
know something. Maybe even his whereabouts. But when I asked them, pleaded with
them to tell me anything about where he might be, they just laughed."

He didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly he was
standing behind her. "It made me so angry," she whispered.

"You did what you had to." His voice was husky.

"No. I didn’t do nearly enough. Once again, I haven’t
done enough."

She faced him then, her eyes wide and innocent. That was
the problem. She
was
innocent, and he was quite the opposite. And now,
she was far too close to him.

He walked away from her to the window and looked down to
the street.

The room fell silent.

"I guess I’d better get this filthy water off
me," she said finally, her voice unsteady.

He nodded, not facing her as he listened to her every
step, imagined her every movement as she walked about to gather up towels, soap
and a change of clothes for her bath.

He felt her gaze fall upon him, and when he looked up, her
eyes were confused and questioning, yet with an openness and vulnerability that
tugged at him.

Then she turned and left the room.

It seemed empty without her. He glanced at her saddlebags,
at her comb, her hat. He stroked the smooth felt of the hat, then picked it up,
holding it by the brim. It was a funny, floppy hat--youthful, like Gabe. He
wondered if he had ever been so youthful. Or so innocent.

He had been little more than a boy when he traveled west
with the band of Confederate ex-soldiers who had lost everything and everyone
they loved in the War. They were tough and bitter, and gave ground to no one.

McLowry had one skill that had set him apart from the
others. He was fast with a gun. As word of his ability spread, he was hired to
protect men and money. He learned how to kill. Not for home, land or honor as
he had during the War, but for greed and petty feuds. Disgusted by the side of
men’s characters he saw then, he taught himself not to value life--not that of
others, and not his own. His reputation grew until he found he had to kill for
no reason other than some men wanting to see if they could best him at the
draw.

"All they that take the sword shall perish with the
sword." He had learned that Bible lesson from his mother, and he’d learned
from life that it was true.

His life had been wasted, and he wasn’t proud of it. It
seemed that, since the War, the only decent thing he had done was to try to
help this girl. And he had stood in her hotel room and looked upon her with
lust. What kind of low life was he?

He brushed some of the street dust off her hat with his
shirtsleeve and then held it up near the window to see if he had missed a spot.

He wondered if he would be able to talk her out of her
revenge. It seemed clear the law wouldn’t help her. No one would, unless he
did. But if he went with her and she found those men, if she found Tanner, he’d
be the one who would have to kill him...

Could he walk away from her? She was only trying to do
what was right by her family. But he knew how vengeance could ruin her life. He
had seen it happen to others close to him. He couldn’t stop them, but maybe
with Gabe...

Could he do it? He remembered the face of every man he had
ever killed. Every Yankee. Every gunfighter.

And always, at the back of his consciousness, every waking
moment, was the vision of a little blond-haired boy in Mesa Verde.

Gabe didn’t deserve his kind of nightmares.

As soon as she would let him, he’d take her home to
Jackson City, to all those young men who had been too blind to see her beauty
or her passion. They would see it one day. One day, if there were any justice
in this life, she would be able to smile again. Not just the turning up of the
corners of her lips, but a full smile from deep in her heart, filling her eyes.
One day, she would have again all the joy and warmth and passion he saw at a
moonlit dance on the desert so long ago. To see her smile again....

The words his mother spoke in his dream of two nights ago
came back to him. "With you, I know she’ll be safe."

He placed Gabe’s hat in the middle of her bed and left the
room.

Chapter 7

That evening, Gabe heard a knock on her door and opened
it. McLowry’s blue eyes gazed at her with concern.

"How about coming with me to the Gold Dragon for
supper?" he asked.

She shook her head. The laughter of the townspeople still
rang in her ears.

"It’s got good down-home cooking--sort of--served
with rice, tea and even chopsticks, if you want to try them."

"I’m not hungry, Jess."

"You’ve got to eat, Gabe. And if you hide here in
your hotel room, how do you expect to find those men you’re all fired up
over?"

She pondered his words a moment. "All right."

Two doors past the hotel stood the Chinese restaurant run
by three brothers named Ying who split their time between working in the mines
and running their restaurant. The walls were painted red. On one wall,
black-lacquered frames held pictures of mountains that seemed to float over
clouds, and women dressed in colorful long gowns with high wooden sandals and
paper parasols. The back wall was covered with a gold dragon with bulging black
eyes fiercely staring down at the customers. Colorful lanterns hung from the
ceiling.

No women were in the restaurant. The men were seated on
black-lacquered chairs at square black tables, each decorated with a red paper
poppy in a glass. One by one, heads turned toward Gabe and stared.

As McLowry led her to a table, a couple of cowboys
snickered. McLowry half-turned their way, his face hard. A friend of the
cowboys leaned toward them and whispered. Gabe watched the cowboys cast a
glimpse at Jess, pale, then get up and hurry from the restaurant.

The other customers hunched so low over their rice bowls
they could have counted the grains.

McLowry held a chair out for Gabe. His gaze flickered over
the other diners, as if daring them to say a word or make a move he didn’t
like. The restaurant was so still not even the horseflies circled because no
one dared shoo them away after they had landed.

Gabe sat stiffly, her face aflame, while McLowry pulled
out his own chair and sat. Only then did others begin to relax. Eventually, normal
conversation filled the dining room.

They ordered a platter of pork cutlets, collard greens,
and biscuits with honey. Steamed rice came with the supper, as did a pot of
green tea.

The waiter poured some tea into their Chinese-style
handleless cups. Gabe tried to relax, but she didn’t want McLowry fighting her
fights, or intimidating people into leaving her alone. At times, though, such
as when they entered the restaurant, his presence was akin to a force of nature
and others, herself included, simply gave way.

He sat now with his back to the wall, facing the door. He
had left his hat on, as did other men in the restaurant. As he ate, he wasted
no motion, and Gabe knew he kept aware of everything happening around him.

His blue eyes met hers then, and she dropped her gaze to
her plate, suddenly flustered as she tried to stop the warm feelings that
seeped through her whenever he looked her way.

When they finished their meal, he walked her back to her
room. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

"I am, Jess. Thank you."

"I should tell you I asked around a bit," he
said, leaning against the wall by her hotel room door in a way to readily see
anyone stepping into the corridor. "Seems none of the men you’re looking
for are in Tombstone. You’re wasting your time here. We should head for Jackson
City in the morning."

To return to Jackson City would be tantamount to giving
up. She knew it and so did he. "You go, Jess. I want to stay awhile. I’ve
got to do this my way."

He seemed to reflect on that a moment, then apparently
decided it wasn’t worth arguing over. "Guess I don’t have to leave just
yet, myself." He started to turn away, but at the last minute glanced at
her again. "Go inside and lock your door. I’ll see you in the
morning."

Relief coursed through her that he would stay with her a
little bit longer, at least. He would leave eventually; she accepted that,
expected it, in fact. This wasn’t his fight. Still, her heart beat easier as
she went into her room and shut and locked the door.

About a half-hour later she heard the door to McLowry’s
room open then shut. Footsteps retreated down the hall.

Opening her door a crack, she saw his back for just an
instant before he turned to go down the stairs.

She ran to the end of the hall, then down the stairs, not
far behind him.

Instead of following him outside, in the lobby she hurried
to the big glass window and cupped her hands around her eyes, pressing her nose
to the glass. She watched his easy swagger down the street to the Crystal
Palace Saloon, the biggest, loudest, raunchiest cowboy bar in Tombstone.

He stepped into the bright light that spilled over and
under the swinging doors of the saloon onto the boardwalk, then pushed the
doors open and stepped inside.

She dashed into the street, heading for the saloon. She
wouldn’t burst in and demand answers this time, but would see what the
situation was first. With Jess beside her, she should be able to talk to some
of the men, and ask about Tanner’s gang. Of course she knew what went on in
those saloons besides liquor and gambling. She had only guessed in Bisbee, but
she had been inside the Crystal Palace long enough that afternoon to be sure
about the dancehall women and the way they flaunted themselves at the
customers. Suddenly, the barkeep’s statement that she wasn’t the ‘type’ woman
to be in the saloon made sense to her--and made her feel more foolish and
unsophisticated than ever. No wonder they all had laughed so hard.