Velvet Thunder (8 page)

His gaze hardened. “But some of the townsfolk didn't see it that way. They wouldn't accept her, God-fearin' souls that they were. They all but tortured that gentle soul. Just like that hard-hearted Miss Smelter did to Stevie tonight.”

“I'd like to slap that woman's ugly face.” Heath's sentiment was decidedly ungentlemanly. But he was racked with righteous indignation on Stevie's behalf, and just drunk enough to want to take on the whole world for the fair damsel in question.

It was a good thing Stevie wasn't around. He would make a fool of himself good and proper otherwise. Hopefully, by tomorrow he would be sober and out of the notion of fighting her battles for her.

It was also fortuitous that he didn't know Stevie was standing just inside the front door, listening to every word he and Pridgen were saying.

“Lord knows, they never were fair to Jeff,” Pridgen droned on. “They don't give a tinker's damn that he might be dead at the judge's hand.”

The oath Pridgen hissed shocked Heath. Stevie was suitably impressed.

“If she's not stopped, Stevie'll take it on herself to find the killer. And I'm afraid they'll kill her just like they killed her brother.”

If
they killed her brother, Heath added silently. “She sure knows how to use a gun.”

This drew a pleased smile from the eavesdropping girl.

“And I don't think I ever saw a woman, or a man, better with a knife.”

She was fairly beaming now.

“But she doesn't stand a chance in hell against hired gunslingers,” Heath declared, trying to focus on Pridgen's fuzzy image. “Why doesn't your sheriff handle these gunmen?”

Stevie suppressed a derisive snort.

“Reno's a good kid, but he's too young and inexperienced to handle a man like Judge Jack. He keeps a room here at Pilar's. But he spends most of his time fishing and drinking. He's scared shitless of Sims and Garcia.” Those were Pridgen's last words before he slumped back in his chair in a drunken stupor.

“Damn!” Heath rose. After several near misses, he hefted his unlikely drinking buddy and threw him over his shoulder.

When Stevie heard his movements, she deserted her position and scampered up the stairs.

Below, Heath berated himself. This town and its inhabitants had unsettled him. If he didn't watch himself, he would break his cardinal rule: Never become personally involved while working on a case.

He couldn't afford to care about the people in Adobe Wells; he wouldn't be very effective if he did.

But he feared it might already be too late. Thoughts of the pint-sized hellion who heated his blood more than all the courtesans of Paris teased his mind. His traitorous body responded predictably. Surprised at the strength of his urge, he leaned his forehead against the wall beside the front door. Pridgen rode his shoulder, snoring loudly.

A cool night breeze soughed through the leaves of the trees. Somewhere deep in the forest a coyote gave a mournful howl. Puddles of liquid silver dotted Pilar's green velvet lawn. Soothed by the blanket of nature, Heath straightened and pushed through the door.

 

 

Heath left Pridgen sleeping comfortably on the sofa in the parlor. Climbing stairs that seemed never to end, he put one leaded foot in front of the other. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this weary. Just two more stair steps, down the hall, through the door, and he could fall into bed. He wouldn't even bother to remove his clothes. He didn't have the strength or the presence of mind.

When he stepped onto the landing, the sight before his eyes sobered him. Lying in the middle of the dimly lit hall, just outside his room, was the most vicious-looking wolf he had ever seen. Its yellow eyes shot threatening beams in Heath's direction. In a blur, he palmed his gun and cocked the weapon. The wolf growled low, threatening.

Stevie opened the door to her room. She took in the scene with a sweeping glance.

Heath was crouched low, gun raised. “Get back.”

For what seemed an eternity to him, Stevie stood silent. If he didn't know better, he would think she was trying to suppress a smile. Maybe she laughed when she was frightened. He had known people who did.

“Just step back slowly and close your door, hon,” he whispered. “I won't let him hurt you.”

“Sweetums.”

Stevie's affectionate tone startled Heath. “What?” Smiling, she stepped back, allowed the wolf to cross the threshold into her room, and closed the door in Heath's face.

He straightened and leathered his gun. For a moment he had thought she meant the endearing term for him. Instead, she was speaking to a wild beast.

“Why am I not surprised?”

The next morning Heath awoke later than usual.

During his first few moments of half wakefulness, he marveled that he awakened at all. His alcohol-swollen brain was bursting. His head felt as if he had cradled it on jagged rocks all night.

Certain he could feel his hair growing, he struggled to a sit. Nausea rolled over him in thirty-foot waves. He drew deep breaths into his lungs until the room stopped spinning, then gingerly, he slipped out of bed. He dressed in a gray haze, holding on to the chifforobe to remain upright.

As he descended the stairs slowly, he cursed his overindulgence. If he lived through this hangover, he would never touch a drop of whiskey again. Each torturous step he took meted out his just punishment.

He sincerely hoped the wolf wasn't about this morning. And he didn't think he could face the tittering Doughs either, sweet as they were. When he reached the kitchen, he found Pilar standing at the sink, elbow deep in the breakfast dishes. “Morning,” he croaked.

“
Buenos dias
,
Sen
or
Diamond.” She turned, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Madre
Dios
! Your eyes are red. They look terrible.”

“You should see them from this side,” he groaned, sounding as though he had been guzzling gravel.

He took a seat across from a middle-aged gentleman. As far as he remembered, the man wasn't one of Pilar's regulars. But the disapproving way he was regarding Heath's bloodshot eyes didn't sit well. If he had been able to summon the energy, he would have glared in the man's direction. As it was, he shot him a bleary grimace.

“You'll feel better after you eat.” Pilar patted Heath's shoulder as she placed a dish of tortillas and beans before him.

Swallowing, he pushed the plate away. “Just coffee. My stomach's a little chancy this morning.”

Pilar nodded understanding. The man glaring at Heath cleared his throat forcefully. Pilar spoke softly, mindful of Heath's headache. “Where are my manners?
Sen
or
Diamond, this is the Reverend Jenkins Black. Pastor of the community church.”

Heath raised his gaze to the reverend. Black was a tall man with a bulbous red nose and a face creased with deep wrinkles. He wore a coal-black suit and tie, blinding white shirt, and god-awful yellow waistcoat—the same color as Sweetums's eyes. His graying hair, slicked back with macassar oil, hung long, dripping onto his collar. Heath disliked and distrusted the man on sight.

“Sen
ora
Pilar tells me you're a gambler.”

Heath nodded.

The reverend didn't bother to hide his disapproval. He screwed his face up as if he smelled something vile. “Will you be here on the Sabbath, Mr. Diamond? I have a very strong sermon against the evils of gambling.”

Heath made no comment. He pressed his temples between his thumb and middle finger. Just what he needed, a Bible thumper. And he thought yesterday was bad. . . .

Black was insulted by Heath's refusal to answer a direct question. He went on the offensive. “I was just informing
Sen
ora
Pilar about your violent activity outside the Silver Dollar last night.”

Heath contemplated the steam rising off his coffee, paying the pious old bird no mind.

“And the fact that you have somewhat of a reputation. You did, I believe, kill Barnes Elder.” Black paused for Heath's reaction to his accusation.

Still, Heath remained silent.

Pilar flashed Heath an apologetic look. He smiled slightly.

Stevie Johns stood just out of sight, listening to Reverend Black's harangue with mounting interest. It occurred to her that she was turning into a regular snoop. Oh, well, half-breed spinsters get their pleasures how they may. She shrugged the uncomfortable thought away, listening more closely.

“Violence is not the answer to all of life's difficulties, young man. Sometimes we feel we should take the law into our own hands and strike back against men like Judge Jack. But we must remember, vengeance belongeth to the Lord.”

Black crossed his arms over his chest.

As he sipped his coffee, Heath imagined tucking a lily into Black's folded arms, knocking him on his tail, dumping him into a coffin. . . .

The reverend's face grew mottled at Heath's lack of verbal response. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Years ago, when my wife was taken from me, God rest her soul, I felt an urge to punish the men who killed her. Through prayer and fasting I humbled myself before God and was able to forgive my adversaries. Someday the Lord will punish them for what they did. But that will be His doing, not mine.”

Heath rose and sauntered over to the stove, pouring himself a refill.

Pilar threw a glance in his direction, then bounced it back to the preacher. In the doorway Stevie bit back a chuckle.

The reverend puffed up with righteous indignation. As if a string from the ceiling were attached to the top of his head, he rose straight up, anger emanating from his rigid body. He pointed an accusing finger at Heath. “You, young man, are a violent, hungover reprobate!”

Slowly, Heath turned. His face carefully blank, his body deceptively relaxed, he responded in a low voice, “You, Reverend Black, are right.”

Preacher Black gasped, then with as much dignity as he could muster, the irate clergyman quit the room.

Heath and Pilar's chuckles followed him out the door.

“Where is he?”

Pilar grabbed her throat. “Stevie, you scared me out of ten years of my life.”

Leaning against the pie safe in Pilar's dining room, Stevie looked like she had spent a month on the trail. Her braids were half unraveled, her plaid shirt wrinkled as a dog's tail, her wide, intelligent eyes were dulled, evincing her lack of sleep and worry for her father's health. Winter clutched her shirttail in a brown fist, Sweetums stood licking the child's dusty, bare feet.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The dude.”

“If you mean
Sen
or
Diamond, he's up in his room.”

“Sleepin' it off,” she muttered. Dropping her gaze to her son, her tone gentled. “Winter, would you take Sweetums outside to play?”

The child nodded and ran from the room. The wolf nipped at his heels.

Stevie pivoted and headed purposefully toward the staircase.

Pilar raced behind her, catching her by the elbow on the second step from the bottom. “What are you up to?”

“I'm gonna hire me a gunman.”

It took Pilar a moment to catch on to what Stevie intended, another moment for the shock to subside. “
Sen
or
Diamond?”

“Do you know any other gunslicks in town? Who aren't on the judge's payroll, that is?”

“He isn't a gunman. And you couldn't hire him if he were. Sandy would lock you in the corn crib for even suggesting such an irresponsible, not to mention illegal thing as hiring a man to commit murder for you.”