Whippoorwill (12 page)

“Get him!” Milt yelled, and lunged for the pitchfork as Art went for Caitie’s feet.

Two against one was nothing for a girl who’d raised herself on the streets of Dublin. She threw the pitchfork like a spear, nimbly dodging their attack. It sailed through the air with unerring aim, pinning Art’s hands to the stable floor just as he tripped and fell.

“Aagh! Milt! Milt! Gawdalmighty! Help me! He’s gone and kilt me and that’s for sure!”

Milt had trouble all his own. While the boy’s initial maneuver to escape had been successful, he wasn’t ready to give up. Milt pivoted, scattering dust and hay as he lunged for another try, catching the boy on the run, shoulder high. They went to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. It was, however, a move Milt would soon regret.

Sharp, deadly jabs from the stable boy’s knees hit the tender territory hanging low between Milt’s legs. Milt grabbed at himself and groaned, certain his manhood would no longer be swinging as God intended and he would be forced to carry his balls out of the stable in his pockets.

“I’ll be killin’ ye both,” Caitie shrieked, wind-milling her arms and fists like a madman and nailing Milt with a random assortment of blows that kept him too busy to do anything but dodge.

Meanwhile, Art continued to shriek and moan as he tried to get free. It was no use. One of the tines from the pitchfork had gone through his hand and into the floor. Certain that he was dying, Art lay with his face in the dirt and hay, crying like a baby.

Disgusted with his brother’s lack of help, Milt could do nothing but defend himself. And in the midst of it all, Caitie suddenly rolled free. Jumping to her feet, she yanked the pitchfork from Art’s hands and aimed it at Milt.

The pitchfork had hurt like hell going in. Coming out, the shock and the pain were too much for old Art to bear. A new set of tears sprang to his eyes as he filled his britches like a diapered baby.

Milt staggered to his feet only to come face to face with the boy and his pitchfork—aimed at him—balls high.

Milt took several steps back then pulled his gun and waved it in Caitie’s face.

“It’s all over kid.”

She paled as Milt yelled at his brother.

“Draw your gun, Art. We got him cornered now. He can’t fork both of us at once.”

Art’s hat fell back as he lifted his head, revealing a shiny bald spot in a circle of ratty, brown hair. “That’s easy for you to say. He’s done forked me. I couldn’t draw a bucket of water, let alone my piece. ’Sides, he made me shit my pants.”

Milt made a face. “Well, my Lord a’mercy. If you ain’t the sorriest excuse for a—”

“Fun’s over boys.”

Caitie jerked at the sound. Another man had come in behind her when she wasn’t looking. Fear gripped her as she shifted her position, trying to decide which man now posed the worst threat. Two she could handle, but three, she wasn’t so sure. In spite of her indecision, she stood her ground with a bloody nose and a busted lip, daring one of them to make a move.

Milt’s confusion matched Caitie’s. He didn’t know who to shoot first, the stable boy, the stranger, or his brother, who was beginning to stink.

“Who the hell are you?” Milt growled.

The stranger’s stare never wavered. “Joe Redhawk. Now you get your brother and get the hell out of the stable before I shoot you both and come up with the reason afterward.”

Caitie shivered. The ominous tone in the big man’s voice held more than a warning. There was menace even in the way he slouched against the wall, holding that blue-black pistol aimed straight into Milt Bolin’s face, which had already turned pale.

Art moaned louder. “Gawdamn, Milt. Help me up. That there’s Breed, one of the fastest guns in the territory. He’ll kill you a’fore you can blink.”

Milt holstered his gun with fake bravado. “I know who he is. Now listen here, Breed. There’s no hard feelin’s between us, okay? We was just havin’ ourselves a little fun with the kid. Didn’t mean him no harm or nothin’. Why don’t you let me get my shitty brother and leave before someone makes a mistake they can’t fix.”

Joe gave the stable boy a telling glance, and when the boy finally nodded his acceptance, he took one step to the side. But only one.

Milt grabbed Art, cursing him all the way out the door for stinking himself up. There was no way they’d get a reputation when Art kept humiliating them like this.

Caitie poked the pitchfork into the ground and used it for a leaning post to steady her shaking legs. She couldn’t let herself cry. She’d forgone that luxury when she’d lopped off her hair and put on men’s pants.

Joe took his time about holstering his gun because the Bolin Brothers weren’t known for keeping their word. When he was convinced that the two were really gone, he shifted focus.

“You all right, kid?”

Caitie nodded and looked away. This was the kind of man who would see straight through a short haircut and a pair of man’s breeches to the woman beneath.

“I had them cold, I did,” she muttered. And then felt obliged to add out of courtesy. “But I’ll be thankin’ ye just the same.”

Joe’s eyebrows arched. The lilt to the kid’s voice was unmistakable. He’d known men like him before—from the country of Ireland they called it. Only they hadn’t been as small as this one. And not nearly as pretty.

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The thought had come out of nowhere, and it shouldn’t have. The kid was a kid. He could be sissy. He could be tough. But he shouldn’t have been pretty!

Joe looked closer. Red-gold eyelashes as long as butterfly wings shaded the upper portion of the kid’s cheeks. His nose was too turned-up. His chin too shapely. A thought occurred. If he could only see the rest of his face.

“Hey!” Joe yelled.

His sudden shout made Caitie look up.

He’d seen a lot of things in his twenty-nine winters, but never a boy with a mouth like that. He considered calling her hand and then shrugged. Her deception was ludicrous, but Joe Redhawk was a man who minded his own business until someone minded it for him. After that, it was a different story. The
girl
obviously had her reasons.

Caitie pulled the pitchfork out of the ground, suddenly afraid she’d be needing it again. “And why would ye be yellin’ at me now?”

The corner of his mouth tilted. Just a little. Just once.

“Just checking your hearing, I reckon.”

Caitie started to roll her eyes, and then caught herself. That was not a manly behavior.

Joe turned away to hide his grin.
Yep. I was right. This here’s a girl and that’s a fact.

“Better watch your back for a day or two,” he warned. “That pair hasn’t got sense enough to pound sand in a rat hole, but that don’t mean they aren’t dangerous, just the same.”

“And I’m already knowin’ that,” she muttered. “I’ve been takin’ care of me’self since I was seven. Swill rats like that can’t be hurtin’ the likes of me.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. Her defiance touched a long forgotten chord of memory from his own childhood. He’d done all right up until the day two men had called him a half-breed, then beat hell out of him to see if he bled two different colors. Years later, they were the first two men he killed. He shook off the memory. It was time to move on.

“I’m staying at the hotel a couple more days. If you need help, you know where to find me.”

Before she could answer, he disappeared as quietly as he’d come.

Caitie swiped blood from her nose with the sleeve of her shirt and glared after the man who just left.

“May they all be damned,” she muttered. “I’ll not be needin’ any man’s help. I will be takin’ care of me’self, just like me Paddy taught me.”

That night when she went to bed in the loft overlooking the horse stalls, she pulled the ladder up behind her. No one would be sneaking up on her in her sleep unless they could fly.

Meanwhile, Art Bolin sat immersed in a tub of hot water, compliments of Shirley at the boarding house, while his only suit of clothes hung outside the window, drying in the cool night air. Every time Milt came into the room he would look at his brother, then spit and curse and walk away. Art didn’t know what hurt worse, his hands, his ass, or his pride.

And the more Art dwelled on his misery, the more certain he was that they’d been bested by a girl. He didn’t care what old Milt said. He knew a girl when he saw one. And dadgum it all, he was going to prove it. In the morning, when his clothes were dry and his hands didn’t hurt so much, he was going to go back to that stable and show them all.

Down on the street, Joe Redhawk leaned against the post outside the saloon and stared into the darkness toward the livery.

Are you asleep, little one? Or are you lying in the dark alone, afraid to close your eyes?

A loud shout, accompanied by a round of gunfire echoed behind him in the saloon. He looked back at the ongoing scuffle inside then stepped off the sidewalk. He had no desire to die back shot, no matter how accidental it might be. Moments later the night had swallowed him whole.

***

It was just shy of sunrise when Caitie bolted for the outhouse. Minutes later she exited, again on the fly. She would have the horses fed and watered before the stable owner showed up, or know the reason why. She wasn’t giving any man a reason to fire her. The security of a regular job at Mudhen Crossing was the first real job she’d had since landing in New York City almost a year ago.

America, land of the free, had not proven to be the place she had dreamed it to be. When she’d gotten off the boat from Ireland, New York City was ankle deep in snow. Within hours of her arrival she’d discovered that women alone in America had the same opportunities as women alone anywhere. Basically, there were two options to keep from starving. Scrubbing floors or fucking for money. That’s when she’d cut off her hair and donned the men’s pants. A week later she’d hopped a train, bedded down in an empty boxcar, and rode it west until they reached something called the Mississippi River where it ran out of track. She made do by her wits until the weather warmed and was on the first wagon train heading west. After that, she’d seen nothing to remember except weird little towns with even stranger sounding names.

She remembered making camp near a small town called Feeny, because she’d once known a green grocer in Dublin by the same name. After that had been Lizard Flats, then Sweetgrass Junction. By the time they’d stopped near Mudhen Crossing, she was sick of wagons and making dry camps. When they moved on, she’d stayed behind. Now here she was, in the middle of nowhere—in constant fear of being found out and living a lie.

Caitie cleaned up the stalls, unaware that Art Bolin was back at the same knot hole, peering through the opening, watching the stable boy hard at work.

Art was a lot cleaner than when he’d left yesterday and only a little bit damp, but this time he’d come alone. Milt had a way of belittling everything he did, so he’d have the facts before he made any more accusations.

Caitie hefted the last fork full of straw into the last stall, sighing with relief. Everything was ready and waiting for the next customer to ride in. Edward Pevehouse, the owner of the stable, had already come and gone, pronouncing everything fit before adjourning to Shirley’s boarding house for breakfast. He hadn’t bothered to offer the stable boy a meal. It didn’t matter. The stable boy would not have accepted the offer if he had.

Caitie stabbed the fork into the haystack then looked around once more to make certain she hadn’t left a chore undone. Her back ached and she would have killed for an all-over bath. Bits of straw tickled and poked at the tender skin on her neck and itched something awful around her waist. The bath she would have to forego, but she could at least shake out her shirt before getting herself some food.

With one last glance toward the open doorway, she darted into an empty stall at the back of the stable and yanked her shirt over her head. The breeze coming through the open windows was cool against her skin. Her nipples pearled as air brushed over them.

She shook out the shirt, popping it twice in rapid succession before pulling it back over her head. Satisfied for the moment that she’d eased her discomfort, she darted across the street toward the saloon to settle the hungry growl in her stomach. She couldn’t afford Boarding House Shirley’s prices, but the bartender always had cold biscuits on hand. It wouldn’t take much to talk him into frying up an egg. She’d slap it between that biscuit and have herself a fine meal.

Meanwhile, Art Bolin was caught between happy and a hard-on. Watching her strip down had been fine. But there was a time for everything, and right now he had a point to prove to his smart-ass brother.

Once the girl disappeared into the saloon, Art set off in the opposite direction to find Milt. His swollen hands and damp pants were forgotten in the delight of being right. A short time later, he burst into the room of Boarding House Shirley and caught his brother and Shirley in bed.

“Oh, my Gawd,” Shirley screeched.

Art stood in the doorway with a grin on his face as wide as her butt. Shirley began grabbing at the sheets, trying to cover up her abundance and her shame. It was no use. Milt wasn’t through pumping.

“Hey, Milt!”

Milt grunted and cursed, then collapsed upon Shirley with a hump and a thump.

“Ain’t you got no damned sense at all?” Milt groaned, and rolled buck-naked off of the shrieking woman. “I was busy.”

Art grinned at his brother’s limp state. “You ain’t no more,” he chuckled. “Besides, you’re gonna love what I got to say.”

Milt grabbed for his pants. “Start talking.”

“I was right.”

Milt snickered. “You ain’t never been right.”

Art scratched his balls and considered the possibility of asking Shirley for a turn. But the state she was in and the look on Milt’s face told him he’d best get on to what he’d come to say.

“I was right yesterday,” Art said. “He’s a she.”

Milt went still. Anger over their rousting still rankled. “How do you know?”

Art sucked on a tooth, savoring the thrust of his news before he sent it home.

“I seen her without a shirt. She’s got a bosom just like old Shirley there.” And then he peered a little closer at the wailing woman’s body and recanted. “Well, not exactly like Shirley’s. They don’t swing near that low.”