The Devil's Own Desperado (19 page)

Amelia spun on a heel to Colt. “Why are you going into town?”

Colt buttoned his shirt, wincing as he moved his shoulder. “For a couple of reasons. One, I don’t want whoever it is coming out here looking for me. Two, men in saloons talk a lot, so he’ll know where to look for me.” He shoved the tail of the shirt into his trousers. “Three, I am not going to take a chance you and those kids get caught in the cross fire. Four, Taylor wants me in town for the reasons I just listed. You really think he sends that kid out every time some hot-headed drunk starts bragging he’s going to kill someone?”

Amelia shook her head. “I doubt it.”

“So do I.” He stood on tiptoe and reached into the back of the cabinet and withdrew his revolver and holster.

Amelia’s heart froze in her throat as he slipped the leather around his hips and buckled it. She couldn’t stop the small gasp of fear for his safety when he bent and tied the bottom of the holster just above his knee. Nor could she help noticing how narrow-hipped the holster made him appear. Buckling on that contraption created a man she didn’t know. His expression seemed carved of granite, tinged with a mockery that added a deadly, determined glint to his eyes.

She stopped him before he walked out the door. “Are you going to put your arm back into a sling?”

“Not for this, Amy.” A thin smile, devoid of amusement, skimmed his lips. “The last thing I want to do is look like I’m at a disadvantage. Sometimes a reputation keeps the other man from drawing. If I’m wearing a sling, he’s going to think he’s got an advantage. I don’t want to have to kill anyone.”

“Be careful, please. Come back to me.”

He smiled, but the warmth never reached his eyes. They were as cold as a mountain lake slumbering under a January freeze, and they reflected nothing back at her. She had seen that look when he first arrived, and it had frightened her then. Now, it terrified her.

“Be careful,” she repeated.

“Yes, ma’am.”

****

Colt reined Angel in at Morris’s livery and swung off the gelding. The livery was less than a city block from the Thirsty Dog. He had to give Taylor credit. The man had given him the advantage of walking to the saloon, rather than riding up and announcing his arrival to the would-be Johnny Quick Draw. Colt wondered again just how close to the line between law and outlaw the marshal had walked.

“You constantly surprise me, Evans.”

Colt dipped for his revolver, but halted the motion when he realized who had spoken. “That’s a good way to get yourself killed, Marshal.”

“I figured you’d stay the draw, so I also figured you wouldn’t kill me.” Marshal Taylor materialized from the deep shadows of the livery and paused on the boardwalk. His badge caught a thin ray of light as the moon emerged from the eclipse. “You’re not going to kill that braggart in Silas’s saloon either. Not tonight.”

“He draws on me, I sure as hell am going to try.” Colt looped Angel’s drop-rein over the hitching post.

“No, you’re not.” Taylor leaned a shoulder onto a post. The flare of a match briefly illuminated his face as he lit a cigarette. He flicked the match away, and gestured to the roof of Greenburg’s Feed Mill. “There’s a man on the roof of that building there. His name’s Ben Hauser. He’s my foreman and a town deputy.”

Without turning Colt inclined his head a little to the roof of the feed mill, acknowledging the deputy. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. If that drunk in the saloon insists on calling you out, get him out in the street and Ben will take him down. You’re not going to kill him.”

“You are? Or rather, your deputy is?”

Taylor shook his head. “Nope. Just going to bring him down, wing him most likely. You just make sure Ben’s got a clean shot and you won’t even have to clear leather tonight.”

Colt laughed. “Hell, Marshal, what’s stopping your deputy from putting a bullet into my back?”

Taylor pulled a drag off the cigarette and then studied the glowing end. “Not a damn thing. The only thing keeping me from shooting you, or letting you get shot, is I’d have to face Amy and she thinks she’s in love with you.” He took another drag. “Against my better judgment, I’d say you’ve got feelings for her. I would have put even odds on you not showing up tonight.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want them coming out to Amy’s looking for me.” Colt flexed his fingers. “Regardless of what you think about me, I won’t do anything to put Amy or those two kids in danger.”

“Then start thinking real hard about moving along, Evans. I’m good friends with Silas Kirk and Silas was good friends with Amy’s daddy. Had this tomfoolery been going on at the Golden Eagle, we wouldn’t have known about it until the glory hound showed up at Amy’s place.” Taylor pulled another drag off the cigarette. “You’re always going to have a past that will come looking for you.”

“Let’s get this over.” This wasn’t the time or the place to debate whether or not his past would come for him. Having Taylor tell him what he already knew didn’t make it any easier to hear. Colt walked down the center of the dusty avenue, mentally cataloguing the buildings, weighing each corner, nook, or alcove in the event of a gunfight in the street.

The clock on the tower of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church chimed the three-quarter hour. Nearly four in the morning, but loud piano music and drunken laughter spilled onto South Street.

Taylor went into the saloon, calling out, “Going to have the church ladies here again, Silas, if they find out I got dragged into town in the middle of the night.”

Silas shrugged. “They’re here most of the time, protesting and complaining about my business, even though I keep it clean. Wouldn’t be anything new, and I might think they’ve given up on leading me to salvation if they didn’t show up at least twice a week.”

Colt paused on the boardwalk, letting his eyes adjust to the light inside the saloon. He shoved the swinging doors open, and took a second or so to note where everything and everyone was, just as he had done out on the street.

A saloon girl hung on the neck of a drunken cowboy seated at a poker table. Three other men sat with him. Another scantily dressed woman leaned over the railing of the second floor and gave him a quick smile and a wink. One girl slunk further into the deep shadows at the back of the room, as if not wanting to be seen. Colt looked away. Taylor was at the other end of the teakwood bar, already in a conversation with Dr. Archer and some drunk in a fancy black frock coat. Taylor must be expecting gunfire if he’d dragged the doc into town at this hour of the night.

Another group of cowboys sat around a table in the back of the room, the poker chips on the table attesting to a large haul for someone that night. The piano player was murdering some tune on an off-key upright.

A heavyset, balding man stood at the bar. He spat onto the floor, and thumped his glass on the teak counter. “Gimme another one, and then I’m riding out to find him.”

Colt leaned an elbow onto the bar. Silas glanced at him, but Colt shook his head, motioning him away.

Silas said, “Mister, from what I’ve heard about Colt Evans, he’s not a man to be trifled with. I’ve heard tell he’s killed fourteen men, and some say he’s about the fastest man alive on a draw.”

Colt raised his brow. Lord, the total kept going up. Did the gossips just add one for every year he’d been packing iron?

“He ain’t as fast as everyone says he is,” the drunk slurred. “I’ve seen him draw. He can be beat. And he can’t be accurate every time.”

“You think so?” Colt asked in a voice he kept cool.

The balding drunk wobbled around to him. “Yeah, I do. I can beat him.”

Colt glanced at the man’s gun. He picked up a match from a shot glass on the counter and stuck it in his mouth. He chewed on the small piece of wood, and then said, “I don’t think you can beat me, mister.”

The heavyset man’s jaw dropped. The color drained from his face as if someone had pulled the plug from a bathtub. “You’re Colt Evans?”

At the words, conversation in the saloon died, and silence rippled out from the bar. Even the piano player’s hands stilled on the keyboard.

“Yep.” Colt splintered the match between his teeth, sparing a glance at Taylor. “Who are you, so the Marshal can notify your next of kin in the morning?”

“Jedadiah Fox. Look, I was just shooting off my mouth, Mr. Evans. Me and Donnie was talking today and he said you was practicing and you weren’t hitting your target every time, and then a man gets too much to drink and starts thinking he’s something he ain’t.” Sweat rolled off the man’s balding head and he wiped it away. “You know what happens when a man starts to drinking.”

Donnie Morris…so the little celluloid duck actually did have a bit of grit to him. Not a lot, but enough to lie to try to get his competition out of the way. “Actually, I’ve made it a point never to drink before I decide to call someone out to a gunfight. You might want to remember that.”

“Mr. Evans, I wasn’t really going to come out to that girl’s place and call you out. I was just shooting off my mouth. I didn’t mean them things.”

“No harm done then,” Colt said. He dropped the match to the floor and let his gaze sweep around the silent room, allowing his glare to linger on a few men. “You tell anyone who wants me, I’ll be found in town.” His gaze locked on Taylor. “You tell anyone looking for me to stay the hell away from the McCollister place, because I’ll kill any man coming out there looking for me.”

Taylor touched the brim of his hat, dipping his head, and resumed his conversation with the drunk and the doctor.

Colt turned on his heel and walked to the doors. A hissing intake of breath on the other side of the room alerted him. He dropped his hand to his revolver and spun into the saloon. The weapon was cleared of leather, cocked, and aimed before he had completed the turn.

Jedadiah Fox lowered his gun into its holster and stared down the barrel of Colt’s revolver.

Colt straightened and lowered the hammer, but kept his revolver aimed at the other man’s chest. “I should kill you for drawing on my back,” he said through clenched teeth.

Taylor grabbed the balding man’s gun and slid it down the teak counter to Silas. “You’re not killing anyone tonight, Evans. Jed, that was about the stupidest and lowest thing I think I’ve ever seen you do.”

Heart slamming against his breastbone, Colt eased the revolver into its holster. He took a short, shallow breath before he shook his head. “Mister, you damn near got yourself killed. The last man who drew on me behind my back ended up dead.” Colt nodded to Taylor. “Tell him it’s his lucky night, Marshal.”

“It’s his lucky night, all right. He gets to sleep this one off in the town lockup.” Taylor guided the pale, shaking man to the doors. As the marshal neared Colt, he paused. “You’re a hell of a lot faster than even I gave you credit for…and cooler too. Most men would have fired.”

“Most men don’t live by a gun, Marshal.”

Taylor’s mouth curled up in a cold smile. “And most won’t die by it either.”

Amelia couldn’t sit at the table waiting another moment. If she did, she would go insane with the fear and tension pulsating through her. She had traced the red and white squares on the table cover until her fingertip numbed with the repetition.

Was this what it had been like for her mother every time that knock came in the middle of the night? Before Daddy hung up his guns, left Brimstone in the past, and became the Reverend Phillip McCollister? Was that the reason that even after Brimstone was left in the past, Daddy moved them so many times before he settled in Wyoming? Did he finally think he was far enough away that he and his family could be safe?

She bolted to her feet and paced the room, twisting her robe in her hands. At the window, she peered into the gray-shrouded dawn. The birds were twittering sleepily to themselves as the night gave way to daylight. A light fog banded sections of the landscape, shifting and altering in the light breeze.

No one approached up the road. Hugging herself, she forced away the thought that Colt might have been hurt or even killed. If Marshal Taylor was there, surely he would make sure there was no gunfire. Surely he would make sure that Colt and the other man didn’t get hurt.

Her heart stammered to a halt. Taylor had said he would have to decide if Colt rated a new rope to be hung with. Was this a plan to put Colt into a situation where he would be forced into shooting another man so the marshal could hang him?

No! Thinking like that was only going to increase her tension and panic.

She had known Marshal Taylor almost all of her life. He had been the marshal when Momma and Daddy moved to Federal and she knew he wasn’t that kind of man. Despite his recent rush to judgment concerning Colt, she knew Marshal Taylor to be a fair and decent man. She could not envision him entrapping any man.

She had to stop pacing, had to stop the terrorized sensation crawling over her, had to find a way to stop her insides from quivering with nauseating fear.

Amelia slipped into Jenny’s room and dressed in the ever-lightening gray. She let herself out of the house and made her way to the barn. With shaking hands, she lit a lantern and banished the shadows into the deeper recesses of the warm, quiet building. Angel’s empty stall hit her as hard as a mule kick to her stomach. She shivered, as much with the sight of the empty stall yawning at her as from the chill of the night air.

No, she wasn’t going to worry. He had promised he would be careful.
Just like he was careful when he was shot by someone days before he rode in here?

Gritting her teeth, she seized the milk buckets and her stool. The dairy cows blinked at her, as much in surprise as from the light of the lantern. “I know,” she crooned. “I’m early.”

She settled on the stool and pressed her head into the first cow’s flank. The animal shuffled a little to the side. Amelia rubbed her hands together. “Sorry, I guess my hands were colder than I thought.”

The barn cats gathered around the milk bucket, Jenny’s little kitten at the front of the group. Amelia aimed a stream at the kitten, hitting her in the face. The cat pawed her face and daintily licked the cream-rich milk from her paws.