Velvet Thunder (5 page)

Still, he was reluctant to rise. The tepid water and frothy suds made his sore, aching body feel as if it had died and gone to heaven. On the trail he was afforded few opportunities to pamper himself. And even though he could rough it with the toughest hombre, his blue-blooded ancestry reared its head from time to time. This was such a time.

Finally, the water turned cold. Leaving the tub, he dressed quickly and headed back to the house, eager for Pilar's home cooking. The kitchen exuded the tempting scents of beefsteak, potatoes, and peas, freshly baked bread, and boiling coffee, drawing him like a siren's song.

 

 

While Heath made his way to Pilar's table, Stevie kept vigil at her father's bedside.

Dr. Ian Sullivan fought diligently to save his friend's life. “The shot to the head just stunned him, I'm thinking, Stevie darlin',” Sully said in his lilting Irish brogue as he worked. “It's the hole in his chest that could send your da to his reward. As much as it hurts to hear it, lass, you have to be prepared for the worst.” He ignored her quick intake of breath and continued. “Saints preserve us, but I've seen wounds like this kill younger, healthier men.”

Stevie jerked her chin, looking stubborn as Jenny, her pa's most obstinate mule. Blinking rapidly, she refused to cry at Sully's dire warning. She had to be strong for Winter, the frightened child cradled in her embrace.

She caressed the locket nestled between her breasts as if it were a talisman. The shell pink cameo held a lock of her mother's blue-black hair. And it was Stevie's most prized possession. It had always brought her luck before. Today would be no different. Her father would live. She told the doctor as much in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

“I pray God you're right, Stevie darlin'. I truly do.” Sullivan straightened beside the bed, washed his hands in the sanguine water, dried them on a scrap of muslin, then unrolled and buttoned his shirtsleeves. “I've patched him up the best I can. He's in God's hands now.”

“Pa will get well,” she vowed again. “And I will get even.”

Her face hardened with such hatred that Sully crossed himself. “Here now,” he sputtered: “What are you about?” He blinked like an owl, then narrowed his blue-gray eyes in patent disapproval. “Explain yourself.”

But there was no need to explain herself to Sully, and Stevie knew it. He could see clear through to her soul, if she still had one. The judge had stolen everything else; why not her very soul?

“Do you know who did this to your da, lass?” he asked anyway.

Dropping her gaze, she remained stubbornly silent.

Sully lifted her head until they were eye to eye. “I insist that you march right down that street and tell Marshal Reno who you suspect. This is men's work, Stevie darlin'. Not that of a girl like yourself. Ted'll see to the matter. That's what we pay him for.”

Stevie rolled her eyes and pulled her chin out of Sully's grasp like a turtle drawing into its shell. “Ted Reno would pee in his pants if I asked him to go after the man who shot Pa, and you know it.”

Sully couldn't dispute that. Everyone knew that Sheriff Reno was yellow as a daffodil with the backbone of a jellyfish. Undoubtedly that was why Judge Jack had appointed him.

Granted, Reno was all they had for now. But Sully had written the territorial marshal, requesting help in dealing with Judge Jack and the stranglehold he had over Adobe Wells and its law-abiding citizens. Just yesterday he had received a letter saying help was on its way. An unnamed lawman would be working undercover. For security, no one, not even Sully, would know his identity.

The man could come disguised as Queen Victoria for all he cared, Sully declared silently. Just so long as he came, and soon. It would be all he could do to keep Stevie from getting herself shot while Sandy was laid up.

“You're going to give me gray hair, lass,” he muttered, settling in the chair at Sandy's bedside, prepared for a long vigil that could well end with his best friend's death.

A short time later Stevie lay Winter, her child of the heart, on a mat in front of the cold fireplace and began to pace. While the boy slept peacefully, she boiled like a kettle of water over an open fire. Her emotions awakened, swirled, rolled, as if she would burst forth and overflow, scalding everything in her path.

Sully didn't care to be in that path. “Why don't you run over and get Pilar? We should've called her before now,” he suggested.

When she turned her darkened gaze on him, Sully sucked in his breath. He had never seen such pain.

“I don't want to leave him, Sully. He might—” she broke off, her lips trembling.

Sully folded her in his embrace. For all her bravado, this courageous young woman was afraid. “Everything will be all right, Stevie darlin',” he whispered into her hair. “I promise. It'll take more than a couple of slugs of lead to stop a man like Sandy Johns.”

Ignoring the fact that Sully's reassurance was contrary to his earlier warning, she held it close to her heart.

Sporting clean clothes, Heath looked quite the gentleman.

He was dressed in a dark, expensive frock coat and a charcoal-gray waistcoat over an open-collared linen shirt. The sapphire silk scarf tied around his neck matched his blue eyes to perfection. The overall effect was sedate and sophisticated, as intended.

The western contribution to his ensemble consisted of his hat and weapon. The hat—which he removed at the table—was a flat-crowned black Stetson with a wide brim, its shiny band made from beaten silver. His Navy Colt, a constant companion, rested in a side holster tied to his muscled thigh.

He absolutely refused to dress in the bright clothing of a professional gambler. There was only so much he would do for his country. And that didn't include wearing bright yellow waistcoats or crimson silk cravats, as gamesters were wont to do.

Nodding to the other guests at the table, he took the chair beside Pilar. Studying him with an appreciative eye, she decided that he looked like a dangerous dude with whom the fainthearted shouldn't tangle.

“Well, what're you waitin' on?” the old codger across from Heath barked at Pilar.

Not offended, Pilar smiled and passed the first dish.

Heath glanced at the disgruntled man and his petite wife. She smiled; her husband scowled. The old couple spoke exclusively to each other throughout the meal. The fact that they failed to address him didn't disturb Heath. He was too busy enjoying the first decent food he'd had since he couldn't remember when.

And of course, Pilar's other boarders demanded his attention. In addition to the old couple, she had assembled an off assortment of nesters; Miss Smelter, Adobe Wells's old maid schoolteacher, Joe Waters; a drummer who was just passing through, and Penelope and Gwendolyn Dough, two short spinster sisters who were twins. The twins personified their name—white, fluffy, doughy, as wide as they were tall. Premature at birth, neither had weighed over three pounds. Their mother had lovingly christened them Itsy and Bitsy, they told Heath.

When Heath smiled and complimented their nicknames, they both tittered like girls fresh out of the schoolroom, a disconcerting fact since they were on the shady side of forty. But they were sweet ladies and he charmed them instinctively.

Miss Smelter was a horse face of a different color, however. She found life very distasteful, quite miserable actually, and she wanted everyone to suffer along with her.

Unfazed by Miss Smelter's dour personality, the drummer seated to her right smiled continuously, even when he ate. He brought to Heath's mind a jackass eating briars as he informed him that he sold notions. Not ideas, he teased, notions. Everyone—except Miss Smelter and the old codger—chuckled politely at the tradesman's standard joke.

Looking over the rim of his coffee cup, Heath allowed his gaze to wander idly around the table. He wondered if Jay would believe his description of these people. Mentally, he shook his head. Not in this lifetime.

When everyone was finished eating, Pilar removed the plates and announced that there would be gooseberry pie and fresh cream for dessert. The Dough sisters could hardly contain their excitement.

Abruptly, the old man turned to Heath. His eyes narrowed, his lips slightly tense, he stated flatly, “Name's Robert Pridgen.” He jerked his head toward the diminutive lady at his side. “My wife, Nellie.”

Heath nodded respectfully. “Ma'am.”

Pridgen's mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “What the hell are you doing in Adobe Wells?”

Heath choked on his coffee. The scalding liquid slid down the wrong way, bringing tears to his eyes as he tried valiantly to meet Mr. Pridgen's inquisitive, no-nonsense glare. He was too startled to reply immediately.

The twins gasped their horror at Mr. Pridgen's swearing. Embarrassed, they left the table, casting a last longing glance at the gooseberry pie. Miss Smelter sniffed her disapproval and quit the room as well. Chuckling, the drummer just melted away.

“Pardon me, sir?” Heath wheezed finally.

“Are you deaf, boy? I asked what the hell you're doing in Adobe Wells?”

Heath regained his equanimity, quelling the urge to smile. He had not been called
boy
since he turned fourteen years old and topped six feet.

He considered asking the man if he was kin to Stevie Johns, but thought better of it. His tone deferential, he replied, “I'm just passing through, sir.”

“Few people come here these days unless they want to see Judge Jack.” Pridgen's accusation was apparent.

“Now, Dad, leave the young man be,” Nellie scolded.

“A man has a right to question strangers if he's a mind to.” Pridgen's voice was gruff, but his parchmentlike face grew soft when he looked at his beloved wife.

Astonished, Heath decided that he liked the crotchety old gentleman. He saw something in Pridgen's eyes that he admired; a sense of pride in his home. Obviously Judge Jack was threatening the citizens of Adobe Wells and this old bird didn't intend to take it lying down.

“Please call me Lucky, Mr. Pridgen.” He paused, a look of sincerity sculpting his features. “And I assure you I haven't come to see Judge Jack.”

Pridgen took the gambler's measure. Persuaded by what he found, he nodded tersely.

Heath realized he had passed muster . . . again. “I am curious about Judge Jack though. He must be rather”—he searched for a word that wouldn't inflame Pridgen—“influential.”

Pridgen snorted, biting back a curse.
“Influential
isn't the word I'd use.
Ruthless
would fit his pistol. Since the first day he came here, a year ago, that bastard, pardon, Pilar, Mother, has wielded absolute authority over Adobe Wells and the surrounding territory like he was Jesus H. Christ.”

“With all due respect, why did you elect him as judge?” asked Heath.

“We didn't,” Pridgen responded heatedly. “Colonel Banes from over at Fort Bascomb brought him to us. Before you could spit, he had installed the crook as judge over the entire area.” He gestured expansively, barely missing his coffee cup in his exuberance. Puffed up like a toad, he was fair to bursting with righteous indignation.

“But he carried no written credentials from Washington, or from anywhere else. Said he didn't need 'em. And since the son of a—the judge was backed up by a hoard of hardcases, we had no choice but to accept him.” Pridgen looked away, embarrassed. “We've just tucked our tails and given him a free hand. Adobe Wells is a town under siege. And there's not one damn thing we can do about it.”

“The Johns resisted him.” There was a hint of pride in Pilar's voice.

Mrs. Pridgen wrung her hands. “And considering what happened to Jeff, Stevie and Sandy are just courtin' disaster.”

Heath took a sip of coffee. Sandy was obviously Stevie's father, the old man who had been shot. He hoped his wound was as superficial as it appeared; Sandy Johns would be needed to fight another day.

But who was Jeff? Stevie's husband? Heath remembered the Indian child who called Stevie “mother.” Was the beautiful hoyden a wife and mother? He just had to ask, “Who is Jeff?”

“Stevie's brother. He disappeared a couple of months ago,” Pilar explained. “Didn't I mention him earlier?”

“Judge Jack had him killed!” Pridgen interrupted with a divine pronouncement.

Ever the voice of caution, Mrs. Pridgen patted her husband's arm. “Now, Dad, we don't know that for sure.”

Heath stared down at the table, deep in thought. He was inclined to agree with Pridgen; Judge Jack was undoubtedly to blame for Jeff Johns's death.

And it appeared that he
had
taken this town hostage. But why? What did Adobe Wells have that the judge could want? Badly enough to kill for?

Well, that's what he was being paid to find out.

“Stevie's hot after Jeff's killer, but so far all she's done is rile the judge.” Pilar penetrated Heath's thoughts..

“And shoot at strangers coming to town.” He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table, unaccountably angry. “It's just a matter of time before the little fool'll get herself killed! Can't anybody in this town control her?”

“Nobody can make Stevie do anything she doesn't want to.” Heath narrowed his eyes. He could have sworn that Pridgen had just offered him a challenge.

Averting his eyes, Pridgen unfolded his gnarled frame, picked up his cane, and limped from the room. “If I was twenty years younger, I'd show Jack—that no good son of a—” His muttering faded away.

Excusing himself, Heath strolled outside onto the veranda for a smoke. He was so tired, his nerves throbbed, yet he was energized in a strange way as well. It was probably the challenge of the new job.

The sun dipped slowly below the western horizon like the last few notes of a lover's concerto, casting hazy fingers of reddish purple to grip the darkened sky. A cool night breeze blew over his sun-bronzed face, infusing Heath with a false sense of peace. A cloud of blue smoke, tranquil as the atmosphere around him, hovered about his head.

Raucous noise from the saloons wafted to him, pianos, punctuated by the soft tinkle of female laughter and the rumble of rowdy men relaxing after a day's work. It was a familiar sound to Heath, one that drew him like a magnet. Tossing his cigar away, he stepped off the porch into the dark night.

He never even saw his assailant coming.