Shadow's Stand (23 page)

“I expect you to do what’s right.”

Right was letting Fei go back to her family that would take care of her and protect her. A family that could offer her a home. Stability. A family that wouldn’t get her killed.

“This is the right thing.”

Ida slapped her dust rag against the furniture. “If you say so.”

H
E
WAS
GOING
TO
GET
DRUNK
. Stinking, fall-facedown-in-a-horse-trough drunk. And then if he was really lucky, he was going to get in a fight or two. Anything to let off the steam building up inside him.

The town saloon was actually rather nice. The owner, Jimmy, had owned an establishment back East and had the bar shipped out West, piece by piece. The result was a well-polished counter that sat ten on a good night, eight on any other. Shadow took a seat farthest from the door. The customer to his left grunted and shot him a look when he sat down. Shadow summed him up. Sober enough and big enough to give a good fight if the occasion arose.

Shadow tipped his hat back. “Go on, say it, asshole. Give me an excuse.”

The man turned away. Jimmy came over.

“Evening, Michael.”

“You need some backbone in here, Jimmy. Getting tough to even fish up a decent fight.”

“Then you should simply start a fight or just work out whatever’s chewing on you with whoever is doing the chewing.”

“I don’t want any trouble, Jimmy. Just getting a drink.”

“Then why are you complaining?”

“Maybe because I don’t have a drink.”

Jimmy sighed. “What’ll you have?”

“Whiskey.”

Reaching beneath the counter, Jimmy poured him a glass. Not the rotgut he served the others, but the high-end stuff. Shadow tipped him well for the consideration.

“Leave the bottle.”

“Whatever you say.”

Yes, whatever he said. Everyone did whatever he said. Shadow pounded back the first two shots, grimacing as the liquor burned down to his stomach. He was doing the right thing by Fei, it just felt wrong because he was a selfish-bastard son of a bitch.

“I ain’t drinkin’ in a bar with no stinkin’ Indian.”

Shadow smiled and raised his glass to the patron farther down the bar before taking a drink. “Door’s to your right, be easy enough for you to go through it.”

“So why don’t you hit it?”

This man didn’t have the build of the first, but he had three friends who could more than make up the difference.

Jimmy came over on the pretext of wiping down the bar. “Joking over, Michael, don’t go starting anything. We’ve got a new sheriff. He’s not as understanding as the last.”

“I don’t need understanding. Just a drink.”

“Why don’t you take your bottle on home, finish it there?”

“Because I’m here and I’m comfortable.” So was the bottle. Comfortable in his hand.

“They don’t serve Indians in here.”

He ignored the stranger’s comment. The man was a fool and there was always time to get to fools, but right now he wanted another drink. He could still feel, still think, and that wasn’t acceptable. He could still see that last look Fei had shot him from beneath her lashes as she went out the door. Inscrutable, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been disappointment.

Jimmy snapped out the bar towel and glared at the stranger. “The day you tell me who I can serve is the day you can start paying my bills, Paul. Drink up, Michael.”

Shadow tossed back another shot.
Michael.
Michael wasn’t who he was. Michael was just a name. He was Shadow Ochoa. Hated. Respected. Admired. Feared. But never fucking ignored. For the past year he’d been Michael, running and hiding, he’d been miserable. He’d done a lot of things the past year that he’d regretted, but none more than hiding who he was so he could be safe.

He missed his brother. He missed the men of Hell’s Eight. He missed their housekeeper Tia’s lectures. He missed the fights, the jokes, the camaraderie. He missed his goddamn home.

Not that he’d regretted killing Amboy. It would have taken years for the legal action to proceed. And for all those years, the man would have just kept sending assassins, and Shadow wasn’t taking chances that one of them might have succeeded. Not with his brother’s happiness on the line. Not with Caine’s happiness on the line. They’d had so little happiness in their lives. It was worth defending.

He poured another drink, and set the bottle on the counter. A man in a black duster, brown hat and a beard that obscured his features came up alongside and reached for the bottle and asked, “Do you mind, stranger?”

Yes, he did. “You touch that and you’re gonna end up bringing back a stump.”

The man laughed and kept reaching.

Shadow smiled as the anger gathered in a cold, hard ball in his gut. He flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar energy running through him. This he knew. This he understood.

The man’s hand touched the bottle. Shadow grabbed his wrist, twisted it up behind the guy’s back and, with a flex of muscle, broke it. With a foot on his ass, Shadow shoved him across the bar. Swearing viciously, the man held his arm. His cronies came up beside him. Shadow smiled.

“It’s always best to wait for an invitation.”

Jimmy said, “Doc’s still in his office, couple doors down.”

The men nodded and hustled their friend out the door.

When Shadow turned back, it was to find Jimmy’s hand on the bottle.

“Whatever’s eatin’ you, Michael, you need to take it home.”

Shadow shook his head.

“I’m not taking a goddamn thing anywhere until I finish my drink.” Inside Shadow, the smile started. This was who he was. Not some white knight, not some stable family man, but this. Shadow Ochoa. Devil. Killer. The bastard nobody messed with.

He sat back down on his stool.

The stool was hard under his ass. The bottle was hard in his hand. The men around him were hard in their ways. This was his world. This is how he lived and this was how he’d die. Maybe women coming into Caine’s, Tracker’s, Sam’s and Tucker’s lives had allowed them to change midstream, but a woman couldn’t change anything for him and not just because of the price on his head. If he was half the man his brother was, he never would have let Fei go. He would have held her and been what she needed and to hell with the price on his head.

The bell sounded at the stage office down the street. The stage was coming in. When it left tomorrow, Fei would be on it and he wouldn’t see her again. He’d have the memories of her softness and the illusions that had come with it, and she’d have her life. It was a fair trade.

Shadow poured another drink and tossed it back. He didn’t even feel the burn this time. Always a good sign that he was well on his way to drunk. There was a tingling in his fingers. The barricade that kept the demon inside him weakened.

Four men in the corner, who’d been keeping to themselves since they walked in, glanced his way. The one with the long, dirty-blond hair gestured excitedly. The others leaned in. Their voices rose.

He spun his shot glass on the counter, flipping it over. He might get that fight, after all.

“Go home, Michael.”

Michael.
He’d picked the name because it sounded normal. Michael didn’t get into trouble. Michael wasn’t an outlaw. Michael paid his bills, laid low, didn’t cause a ruckus. Michael had had a shot at redemption. Too bad Michael didn’t exist.

Chairs rattled as the four men got up. Jimmy reached under the bar for a shotgun. Shadow shook his head.

“No need, Jimmy.”

“Looks like they’re gonna commit some violence on you.”

He nodded. “Looks like the plan.”

The drinks hadn’t hit him yet, but they were starting to warm his stomach. To a man, the yahoos coming at him were a hard-eyed bunch with the lined faces that came from spending too much time outside. Bounty hunters? That would explain why Jimmy was trying to get him out of there.

He turned as they got closer, resting his elbows back against the bar.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“You might be able to.”

He waited. They fanned out around him, blocking him in. Their ages ranged from early twenties to mid-thirties. They wore common enough brown pants and blue shirts. Their hats were equally unspectacular. But their guns were impressive. Worn low, some in single holsters, others in double. Shadow had no doubt they knew how to use them. The one on the right reached for his gun. Shadow had his out and pointed at the other man’s head before it cleared its holster.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Put your gun away, Rufus. We just came to talk.”

“Do you mind, mister?”

Shadow shrugged. “Talk away. Not sure how much longer I’m gonna be listening, but you’ve probably got a good five minutes before the whiskey hits and my attention starts to wander.”

The kid on his right was still entertaining thoughts of pulling that gun.

“Get your hand away from the hogleg, sonny, or I’m going to put this bullet right between your eyes.”

The kid moved his hand away from his gun.

“What do you want to talk about?” Shadow asked the apparent leader.

“Are you the guy that married up with that Chinese gal instead of dancing at the end of a rope?”

They made it sound as it were a sacrifice.

“Yeah.”

“Word is, she found gold a while back.”

There was no point denying it. Fei said she had brought it to the assayer’s office. “I didn’t stay with her long, but she did show me a nugget.”

The men perked up.

The talker pushed his hat back, revealing a receding hairline. “We’d like to buy you a drink while we talk about it.”

“I already bought my drink and there isn’t anything to talk about.”

“We heard it was real.”

That rumor he didn’t need to build. “I saw it.”

“And?”

He spat. “If it was real, do you think I’d be sitting here in this bar drinking cheap whiskey, talking with the likes of you?”

“No call to get nasty.”