The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (25 page)

"I do, don't I?" she said, glancing at Tom's nose.

Reese cast a speculative look at St. John. "Well, Captain. I think it's a fine mornin' for a swim, don't you?"

St. John's eyes widened. "You wouldn't—"

"Yes, we would. Wouldn't we, old man?"

"I reckon as how it's time to part company with you fellers."

"But... but," sputtered St. John, "you can't steal my Lizzie."

"Steal
is a rather strong word," Reese said, hauling the man up and shoving him toward the deck's edge, "considering your part in all this. No, let's call it a loan. A well-deserved loan." Reese reached into St. John's coat pocket and withdrew the greenbacks that constituted their fares. Then, with one well-placed shove, he sent the pilot plunging over the side into the current. Brew was already hauling an unsteady Tom Oakes to his feet.

"And don't forget your friend," Reese called, sending a woozy Oakes in after. "He might need a little help getting to shore."

"My boat!" St. John called, splashing in the current and reaching for Oakes's collar as he went down.

"Don't worry. You can have it back when we're done with it. Just follow the river east. You can't miss the place. It's big and blue and they call it the Gulf of Mexico."

Chapter 13

Ephram Sanders gathered Lyle St. John's shirt in his fist and drew him up on his toes against the wall of one of Brownsville's finer drinking establishments.

"Where?" he demanded. "And how long ago?"

"Yesterday, a-about this time, j-just upriver from Palmetto Hill," St. John choked out, clamping a hand over Sanders's fist. "Looky, you got no call to—"

"How many were there?" Sanders snapped, cutting him off.

"Three. Donovan, the old man, and the woman."

Sanders's eyes narrowed. "A woman, you say?"

"That's right. Look, I only come to you 'cause I thought it might be worth somethin' to you to know—"

"What about the boy?" the marshal pressed.

St. John shook his head and gulped. "Boy? There weren't no boy. Just her. Blond she was, and a looker. A gutsy little bitch, too. Made herself out to be Donovan's intended. Thought I was stupid or somethin'."

Sanders stared at the man for a full five seconds. "You are stupid," he said at last, shoving the man away from him. St. John stumbled back into Tom Oakes, whose nose and mouth were swollen and discolored.

Fists balled at his sides, the marshal stared at the ground. A woman. Not a boy. He felt his heartbeat slow to a dull thud. No wonder the trio had slipped through their fingers. All this time they'd been looking for something that didn't exist. Two memories flashed in his mind almost at the same moment: first, the woman in widow's weeds who had come to the jail that day—Donovan's
sister
. Second, the clumsy blond in the cantina the night his brother was shot, the one who'd stood up for the bastard.

A woman. Not a boy.

He lifted his gaze accusingly to Connell Smith. "A woman?"

The deputy's jaw tightened. "I never saw any woman. It was a boy who broke into the jail. A grubby little street urchin with dirt on his nose."

"Shee-it," Tobins muttered disgustedly.

"And I say you're a liar," Cal Mollen drawled. "I say you knew it was a girl all along and you kept it to yourself." He opened his arms wide with speculation. "What was it, Smith? Afraid if it got out it was a female who stole a prisoner out from under your nose, that little wife o' yours wouldn't be able to hold her head up in town? Is that it?" He took a step closer. "Or were you just throwin' us off the scent 'cause you're a mick lover?"

"Shut up, Mollen," Smith warned.

Mollen glanced at the silent men around him: Del Odem, Hidalgo, and Tobins. "Well, I'll say it if nobody else will. Everybody thinks it. You let him escape."

Connell Smith's fist caught Mollen hard across the jaw before the second man had time to react. The
tejano
sprawled in the dirt flat on his back. He reached up to his jaw in surprise, then lunged for Smith. He hit him at knee level, taking the deputy down hard onto the street. The pair rolled in the dirt, pummeling each other until a single gunshot, digging into the soil inches from their heads, stopped them. Sanders's shadow fell over them.

"Get up. Both of you," Sanders ordered, gesturing with his gun.

With a heated look at Mollen and Hidalgo, Connell stood, brushing himself off. The
tejano
stood, too, wiping the blood from his lip.

"If you all think I let him go," Smith demanded, "what am I doing here?" He ripped his deputy badge off his waistcoat and tossed it into the soil at Sanders's feet. "Here. Take it. It's what you all want."

"You sayin' you did it?" Sanders asked almost casually.

"No, I ain't. I'd be halfway to Arizona Territory by now if I had." Smith's fists curled at his side and he glanced up at Sanders through short blond lashes.

It was that look, that solitary glance, that confirmed what Sanders had suspected all along. He didn't forgive betrayal, and this man would be no exception. Before this was over, he'd pay for what he'd done.

Softening the tension in his expression, he patted Smith on the shoulder. "I believe you, kid. You think I'd have brought you along if I thought you'd done somethin' underhanded like that?" He bent to pick up the badge and held it out to Smith. "But I reckon if you was to quit, I couldn't protect you or your family from these rumors, could I? The only way to clear your name is to find Donovan and bring him down. Don't you agree?"

Connell Smith looked distinctly uncomfortable, but clearly caught the meaning of his veiled threat. Reluctantly, he nodded and took the badge back.

Pleased, Sanders looked up at Mollen. "Go saddle up. We ride within the hour."

"They're across the border by now," Del Odem pointed out, digging the toe of his boot into the dusty road.

"So?"

"So." Del swallowed hard. "That's outta our jurisdiction, ain't it?"

"Jurisdiction?" Sanders repeated with disbelief. "He killed my baby brother. He shot Deke down like a dog. You think I'm gonna let something like a border keep me from bringin' him back to justice?"

"I reckon," Del said, "you'll have to go without me, Marshal. I'll just, uh, take what you owe me."

Tobins rubbed his mouth. "We all knew if they got across the river it was over. I'm out, too. Sorry, Ephram."

"Son of a—who else?" Sanders nearly shouted. "Mollen? Hidalgo?"

Mollen glared at Smith. "I ain't particular about goin' on a rabbit hunt in Mexico with this bastard. Good luck, Sanders."

Hidalgo shrugged. "Is my home. You pay me the money you owe to me,
patron,
the rest you pay when we find them."

Knowing he had little choice now, Sanders shook his head. "Money-grubbin' sons of bitches," he muttered under his breath, stalking toward his horse. "What's happenin' to the moral fiber of this country?"

* * *

The vermillion sun sank into the endless horizon spread out before the rolling prow of the steam-powered revenue cutter,
Defiance.
With one hand on the rail, feet braced apart on the deck, Reese welcomed the salty wind against his face and tug of it on his hair. In the half-dome of sky above him, cerulean blue faded into darkness and stars winked like so many pinpricks of light in time to the rythmic
ka-thunk-ka-thunk
of the engine.

It was the fourth such night aboard the
Defiance.
There had been many moments, such as this one, when he wished that they could just keep going until they ran out of ocean. And others when he thought if he didn't get off this ship, and soon, he'd lose his mind.

He pulled the makings for a cigarette from his pocket and deftly rolled one, then struck a match against the wood rail. Inhaling the smoke deeply, he stared out over the water. He'd been right about Bagdad. It had taken less than a day to ditch St. John's boat and find a privateer heading for mainland Mexico. If he'd had his choice of any of the mercenaries working the coastline, Tom Newcastle was the man he would have picked.

Tough, hungry, and often ruthless, Tom was an old friend who'd carved a name for himself along the Gulf coast as a man who had no use for failure. The
Defiance
could outdistance any of the sailing ships on the open sea, even loaded down as she was with a full cargo of contraband. They'd run at full steam, twenty-four hours a day, with only a handful of crew members. Tom was in a hurry to unload his guns and reap the considerable rewards for the risk. Now, one day out of Tampico, Reese knew time was running short.

He had to make a decision.

For the hundredth time in a few short hours, he fervently wished for a drink. Though alcohol was banned aboard ship, per Tom's orders, Reese had spent the first few days aboard the
Defiance
scouring it for hidden bottles. He'd come up with one at last, but as he'd upended it, waiting for the burn of whiskey to hit his throat, Grace had tripped coming on deck and crashed into him with the uncanny accuracy of a well-fired howitzer. They'd watched, together, as the bottle sank into the deep blue sea—he, resisting the urge to dive in after it; she, cheerfully lecturing him on his promise to her and on how well he was doing without the demon spirits.

Reese shook his head and flicked the stub of his cigarette into the water. In truth, he wanted a drink now with every inch of his being. The craving made his palms itch and his head ache. And seeing her at every bloody turn, looking... well, the way she did, didn't help his precarious state of mind.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

With a silent curse, he turned to find the object of his thoughts standing beside him, wrapped in some gauzy little shawl, watching the last of the sun gild the current. The days in the elements had bronzed Grace's cheeks to a healthy glow and streaked that blond hair of hers with silvery highlights. Tonight, she'd pulled the sides of it back away from her face with a pair of tortoiseshell combs. She was a picture, he thought, with the wind tugging at those plain ornaments in her hair. It occurred to him that he'd never met a woman so unconcerned about her appearance who always managed to look so perfectly appealing.

"Aye, beautiful," he murmured, watching her.

She smiled up at him. "The sea agrees with you," she observed, brushing a strand of long hair away from his cheek.

"Does it?" he asked, without moving to touch her in return. "I guess we suit one another."

"Evie said you spent some time during the war running cotton around the blockades."

"My cutter would have given the
Defiance
a run for its money."

She looked out over the water. "Why did you give it up?"

"I had my reasons."

She glanced up at him as if she wasn't surprised by his answer. "Ah. I'm supposed to guess, is that it? Perhaps bloodthirsty pirates held their cutlasses to your throat."

He grinned. "No."

She cupped her chin comically between her thumb and index finger. "No? Hmm... seasickness, then?"

He shook his head, trying to suppress his smile.

"Let me see—oh, I've got it! A great white whale like Herman Melville's Moby-Dick ate your boat."

Reese threw his head back and laughed.

"No?" she asked, feigning confusion. "Well, frankly, Mr. Donovan, I'm running out of reasons."

"You're a corker, Grace Turner," he said, still laughing.

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's both, I'm afraid."

She laughed then, too. "It's good to hear you laugh. You don't do it often enough."

He didn't answer, but let his gaze rove over her face, lazily appraising her.

"So," she asked, "are you going to tell me?"

"I was looking for someone."

Her eyes didn't leave his face. "A woman?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

This time his laugh was without humor. "Hardly. His name was Jake Scully."

"Who was he?"

"A friend, once. Or so I thought," Reese replied.

"Did you find him?"

Reese turned to the railing and rested his forearms against it. "Not yet."

"And when you do?"