Just This Once (4 page)

Few people would consider his life dull. He
roamed the West at will, hiring himself out as a professional
gunfighter when he needed cash, now and then tracking down an
outlaw to fill his pockets with enough bounty money to stake
himself to the next poker game in the next town. All the towns were
the same to him—Deadwood and Abilene, Tucson and Laramie, Fort
Worth, Dodge. He’d passed through all the wildest places on the
frontier in the past ten years, stayed awhile in some, lingered
only a day in others, and it seemed to him that the frontier was
dying fast. Getting civilized, fenced in, closed up.

Oh, there was still space enough, land
enough, sky enough, but something told him that the wildest,
grandest days were on the wane. The sun was setting on the West
he’d made his own when he’d flung himself away from England all
those years ago.

England. Why was he thinking of England now?
He hadn’t thought of his native land in months. Had almost
succeeded in blocking it entirely from his thoughts, just as he’d
blocked his accent from his voice, his memories from his brain.

He’d never set foot on British soil again.
He was an American now.

“I’ll raise you, mister,” the old miner
rasped with a smelly grin, throwing a pile of chips onto the table
as one of the saloon girls refilled the glasses. The miner squinted
through the cigar smoke. “What’s it goin’ to be?”

Before Ethan could reply, the doors to the
saloon swung open and a neat little man whisked inside. He was
small of stature, slightly built, and balding. He wore thin gold
spectacles on a squashed little nose. He had a pleasant face, a
round chin. He was handsomely garbed in a neat black suit and gray
bowler, and his pebble-blue eyes scanned the smoky saloon with
mathematical efficiency.

They paused upon Ethan.

Then the man started forward, crossing
directly toward the poker table.

“My lord, a word with you,” he said in a
low, steady tone marked by a British accent.

That accent and the man’s dandyish
appearance, clearly out of place in this rough western saloon, told
Ethan far more than he wanted to know.

“Damn it all to hell.” He glared at the
small man, the same glare that had unnerved many hardened gunmen
who’d encountered it, and convinced a good number of them to back
down before pushing him to a fight. But the Englishman remained
outwardly calm, placid even.

“He sent you, didn’t he?” Ethan threw a
card, then glanced back up at the man. “After all these years?
Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

“Sir, we must speak in private. The matter
is of the greatest urgency.”

“Git the hell out of here, fella,” the miner
exploded, squinting fiercely at his cards. “Cain’t you see we’re
tryin’ to play poker?”

“Idiots who interrupt a game end up with an
early funeral in these parts, mister,” a cowboy in a plaid shirt
warned as he gripped his cards between tense, callused fingers.
“Git.”

Ethan raised his brows at the little man,
who was now dabbing with a handkerchief at beads of perspiration
that had popped out along his temples.

“I’ll await you at the bar, my lord.”

“Go to hell.”

He swung his gaze back from the Englishman
to his cards, but the numbers blurred for a moment before his eyes.
Must be the whiskey,
he told himself, though he’d drunk only
two glasses so far tonight.

Long practice enabled him to hide his
emotions, to keep all he was feeling, or not feeling, concealed
beneath a surly mask, but at the man’s clipped words some of the
color had drained from Ethan’s swarthy cheeks, and his eyes glinted
with a strange intentness.

Damn it all to hell,
he thought,
trying hard to concentrate. But he lost the hand.

He moved a huge pile of chips in front of
the cowboy and stood.

“Back in a minute. Play this one without
me.”

Ethan strode to the bar. The Englishman
wasn’t drinking. He was sitting there quietly, watching all that
went on through the hazy smoke permeating the crowded, raucous
saloon.

“My lord...”

“Don’t call me that. I’m Ethan Savage.
Clear?”

The other man coughed. “Is there somewhere
we can speak privately, sir?”

Ethan glanced over at the poker table. He
wasn’t about to cash in his chips, leave the game, and take this
damned nuisance in a bowler hat over to his hotel room for a chat.
He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Hey, you.” He rounded on Stickley, the
owner of the Golden Pistol, busily strutting around the premises,
keeping an eye on all the saloon girls, the piano player, the
roulette dealers.

“You got a room where my friend and I can
have a private chat?”

He saw the instant calculation in the man’s
eyes and almost sneered. Ethan had been in town only a few days,
but he’d already spent an exorbitant amount of money on liquor, had
gambled extensively, and had kept the saloon packed with those who
enjoyed watching him play. He was a cool gambler, with a hawk’s
eyes and a smooth deal, and Stickley was eager to oblige him.

“Upstairs, my friend. I have an office at
the end of the hall. Last door on the right.”

Nodding his thanks, Ethan turned and started
toward the back stairs the saloon owner had indicated. He heard the
Englishman following, but didn’t bother to turn around to look.

Up a narrow flight of stairs they went, and
down a thinly carpeted, poorly lit hall. As they approached one of
the doors on the left, the one marked 202, it opened part way and a
woman’s voice floated clearly out into the hall.

“Jo, Stickley’s mad as hell that you didn’t
dance tonight. He doesn’t believe that you’re sick. Says he’s going
to fire you in the morning. But I think he’s really upset because
he suspects what you did for Penny.”

“Believe me, Rose, Stickley is the least of
my problems.”

Ethan halted at the sweet musical tones of
the second woman’s voice. It was her. That thief who’d tried to
snatch his wallet today.

So. She was a dance hall girl.

He’d halted so abruptly outside the door
that the Englishman very nearly plowed right into him but, at the
last instant, managed to stop in time.

Ethan ignored him, and cocked his head to
one side as he listened.

“What are you going to do, Jo?” the first
woman asked, sounding nervous and upset.

“Get out of town on the morning train. And
Rose, if anyone asks for me, anyone at all, don’t tell them where
I’ve gone. Please, just lie and say—”

“Don’t worry about me, Jo. I’d never give
you away. But where will you go, what will you do? I hate to think
of you in trouble. Maybe me and the other girls can help—the way
you helped Penny.”

“The kind of trouble I’m in, no one can
help.”

Ethan stepped forward until he reached the
doorway. Through the partial opening, he glanced into the room. And
there was the girl, the thief with the incredible violet eyes. His
mouth tightened as he took in her changed appearance. Though still
wearing the gingham gown, she’d loosed her hair from its
restrictive coil, and now it swirled down past her shoulders in a
sensuous riot of rich mahogany curls. She was leaning over a
valise, folding some item of clothing, and didn’t see him. But the
other woman did.

The dancing girl, still in her pink satin
costume, gave a small gasp and pursed her lips. Quickly, she pushed
the door shut.

Ethan continued down the hall. It was
nothing to him what became of that sneaky little thief. If she was
in trouble, she no doubt deserved it. Probably had the law
breathing down her neck.

Hell, it was no concern of his.

As he reached the end of the hall his
thoughts jerked back to his own situation. Frowning, he entered
Stickley’s office and paced to the window as the Englishman quietly
closed the door.

The room smelled of cigars. It was cramped
and over-furnished, filled with a cluttered oak desk, a bureau,
bottles of whiskey lining several shelves, a deeply worn ruby
velvet chair and settee, and a patterned rug on the floor. The
red-flocked walls were covered by elaborate gold-framed
paintings—nudes, painted in bold and vibrant detail.

It was warm and stuffy inside, and Ethan
resisted the urge to loosen his shirt collar as he swung back to
face the Englishman.

“Out with it,” he ordered curtly, his eyes
sharp on the other man. “How the hell did you find me, and what in
damnation does my father want with me after all these years?”

“If you please, sir, I had best start at the
beginning. This is not going to be an easy interview and perhaps if
you would care to sit down—”

“What’s your name?”

“Latherby, sir. Lucas Latherby. I am a
junior partner in the office of your father’s solicitor, Mr. Edmund
Grismore.”

Grismore. He remembered Grismore—unpleasant,
supercilious son of a bitch, the perfect lackey to work for his
father. “Go on.”

Ethan’s hard gaze was pinned to Latherby’s
face as the smaller man gave a short nod and continued.

“I bring you, I fear, unfortunate tidings.
Your father, the late Earl of Stonecliff, is dead.”

Ethan’s knuckles tightened on the back of
the chair. His expression, however, remained unchanged.

When he accepted the news with stoic
silence, Latherby cleared his throat and went on.

“It was ill health, I’m afraid, a steadily
weakening condition which was worsened by his catching a chill and
coming down with a fever. He suffered in the throes of it for a
week, and then, alas, succumbed.”

“So?”

Latherby’s eyebrows shot up, then hastily
down. He spoke again, more hurriedly. “So, I have been dispatched
by Mr. Grismore to find you, sir—and may I say, it has been quite a
feat to do so—to impart to you certain information which I believe
you will find most interesting, and perhaps, not unwelcome.”

Ethan walked to the shelf upon which
Stickley had several gleaming crystal goblets set out beside a
decanter of brandy. He splashed the dark liquor into a glass, then
shot a questioning glance at Latherby, who shook his head in
refusal.

“Tell me that you’re almost finished and
you’re going to leave and let me return to my poker game—that’s
what I’d find welcome,” Ethan rasped.

“No, sir, it is a bit more... complicated
than that. According to your father’s will, and assuming that
certain conditions will be met, it is my duty to inform you that,
well, that...” He swallowed, his gaze taking in the striking
appearance of the man before him, his tall, hard-muscled form, the
cold blue steel of the guns resting against his powerful thighs,
the harsh line of his mouth, his very American way of tough direct
speech.

“Out with it, you sniveling weasel!” Ethan
commanded, and downed the brandy in one gulp.

“You are next in line to inherit your
father’s title and estates and his position as the Earl of
Stonecliff,” Latherby announced and bowed his head. “My lord,” he
added respectfully, and clasped his hands before him.

Thunderstruck, Ethan stared at him for
several seconds, then gave a short bark of laughter. “The hell I
am.”

I’
m no more in line
to be the next Earl of Stonecliff than you are, Latherby.” Ethan’s
sneer widened. “My esteemed brother, Hugh, has the honor of that
particular headache. What the hell have you and Grismore been
drinking, man? You’re on a fool’s errand. I am the
youngest
son of the late Earl of Stonecliff, and as my father and brother
repeatedly told me over the years, before I left dear old England,
it is as well that I am, for if Stonecliff were to fall into my
disreputable hands, all of our ancestors would no doubt rise up in
horror from their graves.”

“Then I’m afraid there will be a bit of
milling about in the family graveyard at Stonecliff Park, my lord,
for you are indeed in line to become the next earl, to inherit all
of your father’s properties and lands. The grievous news is that
your brother, Hugh, was killed some six months ago—thrown from his
horse while hunting—a most regrettable incident. That makes you the
only living son of the late earl. I regret the necessity of
carrying to you two pieces of such sobering news.”

Ethan felt a chill rock him. Hugh dead. And
his father. He braced himself to reveal no outward reaction, but
his legs felt shaky in a way they never had before, not when he’d
faced down Billy Laredo in a gun duel, not when he’d been ambushed
by a war party of Cheyenne in the desert with his horse lame and no
water left in his canteen.

He turned away from Latherby, mechanically
poured himself more brandy, and drank it without tasting a drop.
Then he paced back to the window and stared down into the
shadow-darkened street.

The crowds were gone. Night was falling like
a gray shawl over the prairie and dusk softened the harsh outlines
of Abilene. The men and women and children had gone home to their
kitchens and parlors, chatting of the day’s events, of the work to
be done tomorrow, of the thousand little details of their lives and
families.