Velvet Thunder (7 page)

Just then another of the judge's men circled around behind Stevie with his gun in hand. Heath went as pale as the judge. He had to neutralize the situation—now.

Gambler that he was, he decided to bluff their way out. “Well, sugar, if you wanted me, all you had to do was send for me.” He skirted Judge Jack and his men, hurrying to Stevie's side, wrapping his arms around her securely.

“Let go of me.” She squirmed against him.

He cut her off with a passionate kiss, the likes of which had every red-blooded male in the saloon hooting and clapping. She writhed in his embrace, struggling to get her knee in position to do him mortal damage. “Oh, no, you don't,” he growled against her lips.

Stilling her legs by cradling them with his thighs, he renewed his assault. He kissed her breathless. When they came up for air, she was no longer in possession of her thoughts, nor was she in possession of her gun. It was tucked in the waistband of Heath's trousers, reminiscent of their confrontation at Mustang Mesa.

She was momentarily stunned by his passionate ministrations, then a hot flow of color flooded her face. “You bastard” —she hissed—“I knew you were in cahoots with him. Give me back my gun.”

Heath pushed her face into his neck, trying unsuccessfully to muffle her threats. “Whatrya gonna do?” He shrugged at their audience, looking quite put upon. “Women. Can't live with ‘em and can't live without 'em.”

“I'm going to blow both of you to hell,” she vowed against his bare neck.

When she bit him dangerously close to his jugular vein, Heath decided it was time to get her out of there. Women had bitten him in moments of passion, but this was ridiculous, he mused wryly, hefting her up on his shoulder, one arm across her hips, one over her thrashing legs. “Good night, Judge. I'm certain we'll meet again.” He sketched an awkward bow, almost dropping Stevie in the process. A wide hand to her derriere, he pushed her back into place.

The jacket he was supposed to be bringing to her forgotten on the back of his chair, he made his way across the saloon. The hard-drinking patrons' bawdy suggestions of how he could tame his lovely bundle blended with Stevie's shrieks of outrage. Most of the suggestions were quite risque. In fact, Heath thought some of them bore further exploration, but he was fairly certain Steyie wasn't interested at the moment.

She beat his back with her fists. His muscles were considerably harder than her delicate fists. “Oww,” she cried, rubbing her stinging hands.

“Well, behave yourself and you won't get hurt,” he spoke as if to a child.

He carried her all the way to Pilar's, but he didn't enter the house. Instead, he took her to the shed he had used earlier as a bathhouse. Kicking the door open with a booted foot, he entered the dim interior.

“Let me down, you, you—” She was so angry, she couldn't think of anything bad enough to call him.

“You want down?”

She failed to recognize the cold rage in his deceptively soft words. “Yes, you stinkin' pile of horse manure. I want down!”

“All right, I'll put you down.” He elbowed the door shut behind them, crossed over to the table, and lit a short taper. The tub he had used earlier was still filled with cold water, the surface clouded with a gray layer of soap scum.

“What are you doing?” Bracing her flat palms on the middle of his back, she tried to rise up and peer around his yard-wide shoulders, with no success. “I said put me down!”

“Delighted.” With a quick flip of his forearms he tossed her into the water, then jumped out of the way lest a surging wave splash over his freshly polished boots.

She went underwater with a whoosh and shot out like a cannon. Knee deep in his bathwater, she exhausted her supply of English oaths and Comanche threats. The People didn't curse, but as Heath knew all too well, Stevie did.

Advancing on her, he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and shook her like a dog would a rabbit. “You little fool!”

He glared down at her and tried valiantly to ignore the soaking white shirt adhered to her bare breasts. It was a losing proposition. He stared shamefully, expecting steam to rise off her chest from the heat of his gaze. The spitfire wasn't wearing anything under her blouse. Never in his misspent youth had he known a lady who didn't wear underwear. But then, he had never known a lady like the one before him—the one who had almost gotten them both murdered, he reminded himself.

With a strength of will he hadn't known he possessed, he lifted his gaze to her snapping eyes. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? 'Cause if you are, I'll give you your gun back and you can shoot yourself now. I'll watch.” He released her as if her arms were firebrands. “It should be interesting,” he raved, pacing in front of her, careful not to look at the seductive picture she presented. “I've never seen a suicide before. Really. I think it might be quite an experience.” He jerked her gun from his waistband and thrust it into her hands. “Go ahead. Put the barrel to your head and pull the trigger. Blow your brains out.”

She regarded him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “I wouldn't do that.”

“Why not? It would be no more foolhardy than taking Judge Jack on. You'd be dead either way. At least if you committed suicide, there would be no doubt who was to blame. I mean, it would be one killing in town you wouldn't blame me for. 'Course you wouldn't be around to blame anybody. Would you?”

“Why do you care what I do?”

Heath ceased his pacing. He stood there, tall and enraged, his sapphire eyes dark as thunderclouds. Rancor sharpened his voice. “Because, Miss Johns, you very nearly got both of us killed in there.”

“I didn't ask for your help. And I was doing just fine without you.”

“If you believe that, you're even dumber than I think you are.”

She flinched as if she had received a physical blow, feeling suddenly embarrassed in the face of his repudiation.

Her wounded look took him off guard. He had to get away from this girl. In less than twenty-four hours she had him turned inside out, wanting to bay at the moon, whip her firm little fanny, then kiss her senseless.

He spoke in a low voice, taut with control. “You're right about one thing, Miss Johns. Your affairs are none of my concern.” He looked at her intensely, then turned on his heel and strode out the door.

“Well, what the hell got into him?” she wondered.

Both challenged and aggravated by his encounter with Stevie, Heath headed for the nearest saloon, the Golden Nugget. He slipped into a chair beside the window, in clear view of the street outside.

His brows drawn together in an angry scowl, he watched for the irritating Miss Johns. Shortly after he was served his second drink, he saw her pass down the street—dryer and more subdued, yet even more beautiful than when he'd last seen her. She made her way to Dr. Sullivan's house. Though he was loath to admit it, that was what he had been waiting for.

He marveled that this tomboyish child-woman who wanted his gizzard for supper had the uncanny ability to captivate his interest when he should be thinking of nothing but his job. If he hoped to remain among the living and retain his unblemished reputation as a lawman, he had better get hold of himself, he scolded vehemently, tossing off a shot of whiskey.

Try as he might, he couldn't dismiss her from his mind, nor could he extinguish the fire she set in his loins, not with all the whiskey in Adobe Wells.

He was truly bewildered by his fascination with her and even more so by her resistance to him. He and all the Turner men had a way with women. Everyone said so, he thought defensively.

Chap's wife, Kinsey—the infamous Rebel spy known as the Vixen in Gray during the war—said it was in their genes. They passed their unprecedented success with women from generation to generation. She said it was their cross to bear, much to their chosen ladies' delight.

So why didn't Stevie Johns recognize this incontrovertible fact of nature and behave like other women? Why wasn't she as attracted to him as he was to her? Perhaps it was her resistance to him that had him obsessed. A wry, bemused glint appeared in his eye. Heath Turner, obsessed with a woman? He was usually the object of obsession, not the one obsessed. Of course, Stevie was not an average woman.

She brought out the worst in him. Given a chance, she might bring out the best.

One fact was certain—nothing he said or did around her was true to his nature. Groaning silently, he recalled dumping her into a tub of icy water. Harrington Heath Turner—a sophisticated northern gentleman, a charming man-about-town who had never even raised his voice to a member of the fairer sex let alone thrown one across his shoulder like a sack of feed and carried her out of a saloon—had behaved like a beast. Still, one didn't usually encounter gently reared ladies in saloons, he weakly justified his heinous actions.

Rising out of his chair like an explosive, he uttered, “To hell with it.”

A flash of silver outside the window caught his eye. The prickling sense of impending danger raised short hairs on the back of his neck. Growing unnaturally calm, his breathing slow and shallow, his heartbeat swift but steady, he approached the barkeep. “Is there a back way out of here?”

“Si,
Sen
or.
”He pointed to Heath's left with a damp towel. “Through the storeroom in the back.”

“Thanks.” Flipping the barkeep a four-bit piece, Heath made his way through the storeroom, stepping into the night. The barren alley smelled of dirt and decay. Twinkling stars illumined the velvet sky overhead as he stood silent, still, allowing his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness.

Approaching the side of the building he saw a man standing in the shadows, watching the front entrance of the saloon. His long-blade knife was poised to do some unsuspecting soul mortal harm. Heath recognized him as one of Judge Jack's men, the brigand who had tried to sneak up on Stevie.

Quietly, Heath moved up behind him and locked an arm around his neck, effectively cutting off his air supply. The man put up a fierce struggle, but he was no match for Heath's strength. When he lost consciousness, Heath pulled him deeper into the alley, tied him securely with a length of rawhide, and gagged him with the silk scarf he wore around his neck.

Moving on silent feet, he checked the other side of the building and found another man crouching in the shadows. Heath leaned slightly away from the wall. Glancing across the street, he saw Judge Jack perched on a bench in front of the Silver Dollar, surrounded by his hoard of cutthroats. He had a front-row seat to witness Heath's ambush.

“Sorry to disappoint you, old man,” Heath uttered.

He returned to the saloon through the back door. Retrieving the bottle from his table, he pushed through the batwings and turned right, heading in the direction of Dr. Sullivan's office. When he approached the edge of the building, the man waiting in the shadows jumped out, swinging his knife in an arc toward Heath's throat.

Before the knife found its mark, Heath smashed the bottle against the side of his assailant's head. The shattering glass reduced the man's face to a bloody pulp. He sank to the boardwalk, lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood.

Looking pointedly in the judge's direction, Heath saw that Jack was now standing. Sims and the Mexican were shaking their fists. They were content, however, to remain where they were, safe at the judge's side.

Heath's eyes sought the judge's. In a battle of will, Judge Jack was the first to look away. Heath suppressed the urge to preen.

Tonight, at least, he had won the battle. But the war had just begun, a war that would be waged in the little kingdom Judge Jack had erected for himself. Undoubtedly, there would be bloodshed, perhaps even Heath's.

Oh, well, that's what the United States government paid him for.

Tipping his hat to Judge Jack and his men, he turned his back on them, inordinately vulnerable, blatantly unafraid. This simple act of bravado impressed and intimidated them as little else could. Bold as brass, he sauntered down the street. Adding insult to injury, he threw back his head and whistled an airy tune.

His feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they followed the invisible path Stevie had taken through town. He didn't question his motives for following her. In fact, he concentrated on the stars overhead so he wouldn't think of her at all.

 

 

Goose bumps covered Stevie's skin like snow dusting the open plains. She had the distinct feeling that she was being watched.

“Is it too cool in here?” Sully asked.

“Feels fine to me,” Pilar murmured from her chair beside Sandy's bed.

“Guess it's just me.” Stevie chafed her skin to warm herself. She must have caught a chill when that horrible man threw her in the tub. Which was just one more reason for her to hate him. So, if she hated him so much, why did she keep wondering where he was? More to the point, why did she keep wondering what he was doing and with whom he was doing it?

As if it mattered to her . . .

Pilar noted the strained look on Stevie's lovely visage. “Stevie, you're done in. If you don't get some rest, you'll make yourself sick. Why don't you run back to the house and get a few hours sleep? Sully and I will be here with Sandy. We'll call you if there's any change.”

Stevie shook her head no. Still feeling odd, she stared out the window quietly.

Pilar used her most effective argument to get Stevie to do what was best for her. “Don't you think Winter would sleep better at my place?”

Stevie glanced at the sleeping child. Sighing, she nodded. Pilar was right; Winter would rest better snugly tucked in bed at the boardinghouse. And she needed to let Sweetums in the house for the night. “You promise you'll come for me if there's any change?”

“Promise,” Pilar said.

Gently, Stevie lifted Winter into her arms. At the door she whispered, “I won't be long.”

“Take your time, lass,” said Sully.

 

 

After checking his horse at the livery, Heath made his way back to the boardinghouse. Pridgen was sitting at the portal, a bottle of whiskey resting on a small table next to his chair.

“Heard you disabled two of Judge Jack's men outside the Golden Nugget.”

Heath never ceased to be amazed at how fast news traveled in small western towns. “Guess you could say that.”

“Was it that bastard Sims?”

“I didn't have time for a formal introduction, but no, it wasn't Sims.” Heath sat down beside Pridgen. He leaned his chair back on two legs and propped his feet on the railing of the portal. “Sims, a fat guy, and a Mexican watched the show with Judge Jack from across the street.”

“Damn cowards! ” The old man poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and pushed it toward Heath. “The fat man is Bear Jacobson. He got his name by killing a bear when he was just a boy. Looks like he would move with the speed of thick molasses in January. But don't let his appearance fool you; he's fast as lightning. The Mexican is Carlos Garcia, one of the most ruthless gunslingers I've ever known. He always has that damn grin on his face.” Pridgen shivered involuntarily. “Turns my blood cold.”

Heath cast him a quizzical glance. The old codger sounded almost civil. Where was the irate citizen who had challenged him at the dinner table? he wondered.

Pridgen had obviously drunk a great deal of whiskey and was in a talkative mood. Any other time Heath would have seized the opportunity, interrogated him carefully, compiling information that might help him with his case. But he was so damn weary. Silently, he declared that he was off duty for the remainder of the night.

He removed his hat and leaned his head against the wall. Every muscle in his body relaxed, Heath's mind wandered. Pridgen's soft chatter lulled him into a state of half wakefulness.

“I've taught school in this wilderness for twenty years,” Pridgen said. “Tried to make my mark in this godforsaken country, to do something worthwhile. Taught homesteaders, ranchers, and Indians side by side. I'm retired now, too old to do any more. Nellie, bless her heart, and I want to live our remaining years in peace and quiet. We thought Adobe Wells was the place for that.” Pridgen sighed heavily, sloshing himself another drink.

A bullfrog croaked down by the creek. A host of crickets and tree toads began a discordant chorus. An owl hooted from a clump of cottonwoods, perhaps expecting a call in return. The old codger and the young lawman listened to the night creatures together, in companionable silence.

With words slightly slurred from emotion and drink, Pridgen's voice was
as
warm and smooth as the whiskey sliding down his throat. “Since Judge Jack has taken over, he's turned this town upside down. He brought in those rough miners. They're digging up everything for twenty miles. God only knows what they're looking for. They have little regard for human life, and the gunmen who trail around after the judge have no regard for it at all. Damn if a body knows what to expect next.” He said this last softly, as if to himself.

Heath placed all four legs of his chair on the floor. Bending over, he rested his forearms on his thighs. “I'm curious about the miners.” He slanted his head toward Pridgen. The abrupt movement and drinking more than he should caused his head to spin. He saw two Pridgens; he addressed the one on the right. “I didn't know there was anything in this area worth digging for.”

“Isn't.”

“So what are they doing here?”

Pridgen hesitated briefly, then erupted like a Fourth of July pyrotechnic display. Grabbing his cane, he waved it around in a wild gesture, barely missing Heath's head. “That's it!” He shook the deadly scrap of wood in Heath's face. “That's why he took over Sandy's place. So's he could get to his caves.”

Pridgen looked at Heath as if he should stand and salute his brilliant deduction. “Don't you see? There's something valuable in Sandy's caves, and Judge Jack knows it. That's probably why he came to Adobe Wells in the first place. It was Sandy's place he wanted all along. But Sandy wouldn't sell. The only way for Judge Jack to get the Rocking J was to run Sandy off—or kill him.”

It occurred to Heath that this was unusually clear reasoning for a man as well into his cups as Pridgen. But then, what did he know? He was half drunk himself.

As if to celebrate, Pridgen poured another round of whiskey. Heath groaned, just what they needed.

As drunks were wont to do, Pridgen changed the subject abruptly. “So you were gonna talk Stevie outta shootin' the judge.” Pridgen laughed until he lost his breath, choked, and coughed. “She's a hellcat, that one. Whooee!”

His amusement disappeared like the sunlight at dusk. “But what's one girl in the face of so many? And a Comanche at that?” He jerked his head toward Heath, pinning him with a bleary glare. “Not that bein' Indian makes one whit of difference to me.”

He was silent for so long, Heath thought he had fallen asleep—or more likely, passed out.

In the darkness, Pridgen's eyes took on a wistful look. He peered off in the distance, not seeing the black outline of the mountains, but the distant past. “Swan, that was Stevie's ma. She was a pretty little thing when Sandy found her out on the range. Half starved, more dead than alive. Never did know why she was by herself, why her own kind deserted her. Frankly, I never asked. Sandy loved her so much, nothing else mattered. And he said she was the best damn wife a man ever had.”