When The Heart Beckons (16 page)

If Roy Steele were to see her blush, she
realized, he would most likely think she was embarrassed by him or
by her state of near undress, but it was not so. Remorse at having
forgotten her love for Brett once again, however briefly, brought
shame creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

She turned quickly away and donned the
shirtwaist as swiftly as she could, even enduring the added twinges
in her shoulder caused by the effort of tucking it into her skirt.
She must look a mess. But she felt even worse—confused, in
disarray, dusty and out of sorts.

“You stay put on that sofa and get some
rest,” Steele told her when she had finished dressing. He headed
toward the door. “The sooner your arm is better; the sooner we’ll
be able to ride.”

He was leaving
again
? “Where are
you going?” she demanded, knowing she should be glad to be
separated from him, yet oddly reluctant to see him walk out of the
cabin.

“I’m going to hunt for our dinner.”

“I thought we were going to talk.”

“Later.” He scowled at her, and she suddenly
was reminded of the way he had looked when he stood over the Hart
brothers in Justice. It was not a reassuring thought. “Over dinner.
If you’ve had a decent rest, and behaved yourself, like a good
little girl.”

Yet she was anything but a little girl, he
thought grimly, unsuccessfully willing his gaze away as she settled
down on the old sofa. It was warm in the cabin, even with the door
and windows thrown open, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on
her fair skin. She looked a bit mussed, a bit drowsy, and very
delectable, like a sweet soft peach that’s been warming in the sun.
But Brett’s fiancée was no overripe lump of fruit there for the
picking, he reminded himself as he turned and plunged through the
door. She had already proved herself to be a determined woman, one
who hadn’t been deterred by his sternest warnings, who had followed
him into the Mogollons with intrepid purpose, and had ridden today
for hours without complaint, despite her wound. She was obviously
devoted to Brett and would endure anything to help him.

His mouth tightened as he went outside into
the late afternoon, reveling as always in the isolated peacefulness
of this valley. If Miss Brannigan wanted information from him, well
and good. He wanted some from her too and he was going to get
it.

He checked his rifle and mounted Dickens.
They moved away from the cabin, across the meadow, toward a
thicketed gully not far from the stream. He shot a rabbit and
presently returned to the cabin to skin and roast it.

She was asleep when he came in.

Something twisted in his gut as he looked at
her. Exhaustion was stamped upon her face, but it only accentuated
her sweet, fine-boned features, which were softened in repose. A
brilliant cascade of thick, bright hair spilled about her
shoulders, nearly reaching her waist as she lay curled. Her
breathing was slow, calm, and even. He resisted the impulse to sit
beside her and watch her as she slept.

Brett, you’re a lucky man
, he
thought, wondering how it would feel just once to have someone so
devoted to him that she would risk her life and all creature
comforts only to find him. But that would never happen. He would
never let it happen.

He turned away, centering his attention on
cooking the rabbit.

He could only hope that Brett McCallum
turned out not to share much of Ross McCallum’s ruthless and
tyrannical nature—or else on that particular wedding day when the
woman sleeping on the sofa pledged her life and her heart, he would
feel more than a little sorry for the brave but unsuspecting Miss
Brannigan.

* * *

It was a hot, windless day in Eagle Gulch.
Red Cobb took his time over a glass of whiskey in the Hot Pepper
Saloon. When Lily Pardee strolled in, he stayed put in his corner
and watched her.

Cobb was a cocky twenty years old, a
handsome, square-jawed young man just short of six feet tall. He
had a stocky frame beneath his gray silk shirt and black trousers,
and a pleasing, though somewhat arrogant smile, when he chose to
bestow it. His piercing crystal blue eyes, the color of a Montana
lake, were his most striking feature. He’d come by his name due in
part to the curly, dark red hair and mustache that were so striking
against his bronzed skin, but also because he always wore a red
silk bandana knotted loosely around his neck. But in his own mind,
the red stood for the blood he spilled—lots of it. More than any
other pastime, Red enjoyed spilling other men’s blood.

He had been a nobody, a dirt-poor farmer’s
son from Kansas just outside of Abilene, until he’d discovered when
he was fifteen that he was prodigiously quick and sharp with his
gun. He’d demonstrated this at a shooting exhibition one Fourth of
July, and then, amazingly, a miracle had happened. Everyone for
miles about—even the town bullies, the Abilene boys who had chased
and taunted him over the years because they were bigger or stronger
or richer or older—took notice and showed respect. This had made
Red practice even more. He liked impressing people. He liked to
hear his father brag about his prowess, and to hear people murmur
in admiration of his skills. He saved his money and bought a
pearl-handled Colt .45, a thing of beauty. He loved that gun and
cleaned and polished it daily. He honed his skills with it.

By the time Red left Kansas a year later to
make a name for himself in the West, he knew he was faster than
most of the seasoned men with big names and even bigger
reputations. He just had to prove it.

So he started picking fights in saloons of
mining and cattle towns, killing men, building his reputation. It
felt good, real good. He was finally
somebody
. Kids
pointed at him in the street, women whispered behind their hands,
men crossed the street to avoid him lest they draw his ire. And the
saloon women swarmed to him, he found, attracted by the fact that
he was young and handsome and dangerous—and fast becoming famous.
They brought him free liquor and sat on his lap, and eagerly
invited him into their beds.

And the offers of employment rolled in.
Other men were willing to pay big money to Red Cobb, yessiree. They
hired his gun for protection, sometimes, or to rid themselves of an
enemy. He didn’t care what they wanted him to do, so long as they
had the money to pay. But one thing bothered Red Cobb as the days
and months went by and it began to bother him more and more as he
reached his twentieth birthday.

He still wasn’t considered the best. Other
names were always mentioned along with his, especially here in the
Arizona territory and down New Mexico way. People still debated who
was quicker, who more deadly, who more feared. It was
disrespectful. In particular, the name of Roy Steele kept cropping
up, and this had the power to wipe the smile from his face and make
him itch to kill someone. Preferably he would like to kill Roy
Steele himself, who was probably almost thirty by now and getting
too old to be any damned good, but since he hadn’t crossed paths
with Steele but once, and that was three years ago when he was only
setting out on his career and not yet ready to face the son of a
bitch in a gunfight, he’d been biding his time, waiting for the
right opportunity.

Now it seemed that Steele was interfering
with his latest job. And Cobb sensed it was finally time. His
feelings of enmity were growing deeper by the day. He’d lost Brett
McCallum’s trail somehow—and he felt certain it was Lily Pardee’s
fault. Lily had been the one to give him his last lead here in
Eagle Gulch a while back, a lead which had turned out to be a dead
end. And Bartholomew, nosing around before he headed back to report
to Johnson, had found out that Lily was rumored to be sweet on
Steele. So Cobb had retraced his steps and come back to get even
with her for making a fool out of him. He’d teach her to lie to
him—and he’d find out where McCallum—and presumably Steele—were
really headed. For Bartholomew had also discovered, through some
quick side trips to various small towns in the vicinity, that
Steele was definitely looking for Brett McCallum every bit as
seriously as he and Cobb were.

Cobb had no idea why, but he’d be damned if
he’d let Steele kill the kid before he could goad the stupid rich
boy into a fight himself. Johnson wouldn’t pay him a penny if
someone else killed McCallum first—and Red had worked too hard and
long at tracking the damned easterner to let Roy Steele get in his
way now. Besides, when he was finished with McCallum, he’d go after
Steele. It was time—time to finish that son of a bitch off once and
for all and let everyone know who was really the best.

“Get over here, Lily,” he called out
suddenly, slamming his glass down on the table so loudly that
everyone froze. The card players, the cowboys at the roulette
wheel, the bartender, and the other saloon women seemed glued in
place, all except for Lily, who cast him a quick, cool glance and
then turned away.

“I don’t care for your tone, mister,” she
threw over her shoulder. She was making for the back corridor, slow
and haughty, when he lunged out of his chair and crossed the saloon
to grab her by the arm.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he began, but
she whirled on him, and out of nowhere produced a silver-handled
derringer. She pointed it at his chest.

“Back off.”

Cobb started to grin. “Stupid idea, Lily.
You’re asking for trouble.”

“No, I’m kicking it out of my place. Get
moving. And don’t come back.”

“You lied to me,” Cobb said softly, his
crystal blue eyes glittering. “About Brett McCallum. Remember? I’m
not going anywhere until you’ve told me where he is. And if you
come sit down with me in the corner right now and talk and
apologize real pretty, maybe I’ll leave without shooting up your
place so bad it won’t be fit for customers till ...”

“Go to hell.”

Cobb’s mouth thinned into an ugly hard line.
He was breathing faster now, the red-hot anger flaring in him,
because everyone was watching, everyone had heard this whore curse
at him and treat him like a piece of buffalo dung. He had no
choice.

He moved like lightning, and twisted the
derringer from her hand before she could get off a shot. He tossed
it down the length of the bar and then tightened his grip on her
arm. Then, with quiet satisfaction he backhanded her, enjoying the
sharp crack of his knuckles across her face.

“Let’s go upstairs, Lily,” he said in a low,
pleasant tone, “and finish this in private. I don’t reckon anyone
down here has any objections ...”

“Wrong, mister. I do. Let the lady go.”

It was a kid who spoke out of nowhere. Not
the bartender, or one of the old-time cowboys, or anyone else in
the saloon, which was now silent as a tomb, and crackling with
deadly tension, but a freckle-faced kid, a boy no more than
seventeen or eighteen, who looked to be a new hand, probably at one
of the ranches along the river valley.

Cobb sneered at him, “Stay out of this, boy,
if you know what’s good for you. This is between me and Lily
...”

“N-no. Let her go.”

Cobb saw the fear in the kid’s eyes, sensed
the apprehension quivering through his thin shoulder blades, and
smiled. But the fool boy’s misgivings obviously weren’t enough to
stop him from sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

Cobb itched to teach him a lesson. His eyes
narrowed, and he gave a low, ugly laugh, but before he could call
the kid out, Lily spoke suddenly, imploringly.

“It’s all right,” she gasped, holding a hand
up toward the boy, waving him off, her ruby ring sparkling in the
tobacco-thick air. “I’ll ... talk to him. Go back to your whiskey,
cowboy, and don’t worry ... about me. Order another drink on the
house and ...”

“I’m not going to let him hurt you,” the boy
flung out. “My ma didn’t raise me that way ...”

“Well, maybe your ma raised you to die
before your time,” Cobb growled. “Because if you don’t back off,
kid, I’m going to splatter your brains from here to Tucson!”

“I’ll back off—when you let her go!” the kid
exclaimed gamely.

Cobb lost his temper and his patience all at
the same time. The deathly stillness in the saloon invited him to
show off. And to get this kid out of his hair once and for all.

“Suit yourself,” he muttered, a fierce gleam
entering his eyes. And with that he thrust Lily violently across
the floor, and went for his gun.

The kid tried to draw, but he never quite
got his six-shooter from its holster before Cobb’s bullets pierced
his chest, neck, and forehead. The young cowboy toppled over in a
river of blood.

The saloon girls screamed. No one else said
a word.

“It was a fair fight—he asked for it. You
all saw,” Cobb announced, holstering his gun without even glancing
at the body. “Anyone else got a problem with my talking to Miss
Lily Pardee?”

Only silence echoed back from the taut,
ashen faces circling him. The only sound was a horse whickering
outside in the street.

Cobb grinned. “Good. Now Miss Lily and me
are going upstairs.”

Her eyes glazed, Lily made no protest as he
grabbed her arm and pulled her up off the floor and toward the back
corridor, but at the doorway she stared back in mute sorrow at the
young man sprawled on the saloon floor in his own sticky blood.

“Don’t worry none about him,” Cobb advised
as he dragged her up the stairs. “Worry about what’s going to
happen to you if you’re not straight with me pronto. I want to know
where Brett McCallum has gone and I want to know
now
. Or
else,” he told her as he yanked her viciously toward her room,
“you’ll be envying that kid down there because he’s dead and out of
misery. What’ll happen to you will hurt far worse.”

“Steele is going to kill you, Cobb,” Lily
whispered as he shoved her inside and slammed the door.