“No.” Her eyes widened in surprise as she twisted around to try to peer through the crowd. “What are they doing in Hell’s Bluff?”
“Does there have to be a reason? The Delaney brothers are very close.” A smile tugged at Deuce’s lips. “Now why does this little scene remind me of the confrontation at the O.K. Corral? Doc Holliday and the Earp brothers?”
“They all had drooping mustaches,” Sierra said absently, her attention on the three men standing in the doorway. The Delaney brothers might be clean-shaven, but an aura of power and danger surrounded them. Though they were dressed in the same rough attire of jeans, boots, and jackets as the rest of the men in the room, they possessed a presence that was totally different … and riveting. She swallowed. “They’re very impressive, aren’t they? Which is which?”
“Rafe is the gypsy-looking one on York’s left,” Deuce said. “Burke’s the bloke who looks like he eats nails for breakfast.”
“And does he?”
“No, he eats corporations for breakfast.”
Sierra could believe it. Burke’s craggy face held a hint of ruthlessness as well as strength. Her gaze slid to Rafe Delaney. Gypsy. Deuce certainly had a concise way with descriptions. Rafe’s dark face was also strong, but held none of Burke’s ruthlessness. His winged brows and bright eyes gave an impression of such vitality and joie de vivre, Sierra involuntarily found herself smiling at him. Just then his gaze encountered hers, and he smiled, too, with beguiling charm. He turned to York and said something.
Sierra forgot about the corporation devourer and the gypsy as York’s gaze located and pinned her in place. A fire ignited in his eyes. Then he was striding across the room with such explosive determination that the crowd parted before him as the Red Sea did for Moses.
Sierra felt a tiny flicker of panic that she forcefully stilled at birth. She had expected this meeting, and there was nothing to be apprehensive about. She lifted her chin. “Hello, York. I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to you right now. I’m very busy, as you can see.” She picked up the tray, trying desperately to remember which table had ordered the drinks. “There’s really nothing to say anyway if you read my note.”
York took the tray and set it back on the bar. “You’ve just retired,” he said flatly. “We’re leaving. Go get your coat.”
“I’m not leaving.” Her voice was even, and her gaze steady. “I’ve been hired to be a waitress here, and that’s what I intend to be. It’s been pointed out to me that this is the one spot in town you don’t own, so you have nothing to say about it. You wanted me out of your life and I’m out. Discussion closed.”
“The hell it is.” His eyes were blazing down at her. “I guarantee that you’ll learn more than one thing a day here. The men who frequent the Dove will be happy to teach you all sorts of tricks.” His gaze fell on Deuce, leaning indolently against the bar. “You look very comfortable. Why the devil haven’t you gotten her out of here before this?”
Deuce shook his head. “I wouldn’t think of it. I’m opting out, York.” He smiled faintly. “From what Sierra tells me, you dug this particular trench yourself. I’m going to stand here and watch you dig your way out or wallow in the mire.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Introduce us, York.” It was the gypsy, Rafe, at York’s shoulder. Burke Delaney was standing beside him. Both men nodded at Deuce, then looked pointedly again at Sierra.
“Sierra Smith, my brothers Rafe and Burke,” York said without looking away from Sierra. His smile was suddenly warm and coaxing, lighting that wonderful face with special beauty. “Come home, Sierra,” he said in a voice of velvet softness. “This is no place for you. We’ll work something out.
She was almost lost for a moment. She shook her head to toss off the silken threads of charm he was weaving around her. He was doing it deliberately. She could sense the hard edge of anger beneath that velvet. “It’s my job now,” she said. “Until I move on, the Dove is my place.” She picked up the tray again. “And I’ve already worked something out, haven’t you noticed?” She ducked around the three men. “Excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Not for long,” York said grimly. “I’ll just have a word with Melanie.”
“I told her you would,” Sierra said. “Feel free. I don’t think she’ll be impressed. She strikes me as a very independent lady.” She disappeared into the crowd.
“She’s right, you know,” Deuce said. “Melanie doesn’t like being told what to do.”
“I know,” York said between his teeth. “She’s almost as stubborn as Sierra.”
“What are we going to do now?” Rafe asked. His eyes were dancing. “I pictured you throwing her over your shoulder and striding out through those swinging doors. You’re a big disappointment to me, York.”
“It may come to that yet. We’re sure as hell not leaving here without her. Find a table and get yourselves a drink. I’m going to hunt up Melanie and try to talk some sense into her.” He scowled at Deuce. “Join us by all means, if you don’t consider me too far beyond the pale to associate with.”
“I’d be delighted. Sierra seems to be scoring off you quite splendidly. Do you think I’d miss a chance of watching the show at close quarters?”
“Perish the thought.” York turned toward the stairs. “We mustn’t deprive you of a single particle of amusement.”
For the next hour Sierra caught only fleeting glimpses of Rafe and Burke Delaney, sitting at a table by the front door, as she hurried about the room. As the evening wore on, the milling crowd increased, and it became difficult to retain sight of anyone. She had no time to worry about them anyway. It was hard enough just to keep going when her breath was growing more shallow and her legs weaker with every trip through the throng.
“All right?” Monty asked as he set two beer mugs on her tray. “Why don’t you take a break? I can hold things down here.”
“A little later maybe.” She smiled gratefully. “When the crowd thins out.” A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. “It does thin out, doesn’t it?”
“Not much.”
“Rats.” She picked up the tray. “We’ll see.” She moved briskly toward a table near the bar. She had almost reached it when she felt a tugging at her skirt. She glanced over her shoulder with a smile that died instantly. It was Brutus. No, she corrected herself, Sam Beattie, but close up he looked even more like the cartoon villain. A five o’clock shadow gave his face a sinister air, and his eyes … She moistened her lower lip nervously. “Did you need something?”
The other three men at the table laughed, and she felt the color rise to her face. Lord, what a stupid thing to say in a place like this. Beattie’s cohorts were obviously as unpleasant as Beattie himself.
“Attention,” Beattie answered. He leaned back insolently in his chair, still holding her skirt. “I don’t like Monty waiting on our table. Why can’t we have a little ‘personal’ service?” He showed his crooked teeth in an unpleasant smile. “Maybe I shouldn’t complain. I overheard you turning the boss man down a while ago. I liked that. The Delaneys think they own the whole damn world.”
“Personal” service. The double entendre was clear, Sierra mused, but she tried to ignore it. “We’re too busy for one person to handle everyone. Monty is only helping me. I’ll be glad to tell him you need something.”
Beattie shook his head. “Monty can’t give me what I need.” The short blond man on Beattie’s right snickered. “I want to sample the boss’s private stock.”
She shifted her hold on the tray so she could release one hand. “Not possible.” She jerked her skirt out of Beattie’s grasp and stepped quickly out of range. “I’ll send Monty.” She turned and hurried to the table that had been her original goal. Her hands were shaking slightly as she set the beers down. She mustn’t be so frightened. Beattie was undoubtedly unpleasant, even menacing, but nothing could happen to her in a crowd like this.
Yet that self-admonition did little to reassure her as she caught Beattie’s narrowed ga
ze on her several times in the next ten minutes. Then, to her intense relief, she saw him rise unsteadily to his feet, weave across the room, and start up the staircase. Evidently he was going in search of more willing prey.
York passed Beattie as he came down the stairs, and by his expression Sierra could tell he had gotten nowhere with Melanie. She should have been pleased, but wasn’t. The glance he threw at her as he strode past the bar was filled with frustration, exasperation, and something else. Pain? Oh, damn, she didn’t want York to worry like this about her.
“Well, if you’re not going to take a break,” Monty said, “will you do me a favor? I need some clean bar towels. Will you run upstairs to the linen closet and get them for me?”
She pulled her attention from York’s unyielding back. “Sure, Monty. How many?”
“Five or six will do.” He nodded at a polished oak door at the far end of the bar. “Better take the service staircase to the second floor. We wouldn’t want any of the boys to see you go and think you might get lonely up there. The linen closet is the first door to the left at the head of the stairs.” He grinned. “Make sure you don’t get the wrong door. Sometimes the customers get a little peeved when their privacy is invaded.”
“I can imagine.” Sierra cast a quick glance at the balcony landing. Beattie was nowhere in sight. He must be occupied behind one of those closed doors, she thought. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about him for the rest of the evening. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and walked briskly toward the door Monty indicated.
“And just where the hell do you think you’re going?”
York. How had he gotten across the room so quickly? She turned, her hand on the knob of the service door. “I’m running an errand for Monty. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Have him send someone else,” he said curtly. “I don’t want you out of my sight for the short time you’ll be here.”
“It’s part of my job. I can’t tell him—” She broke off. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m just going to the linen closet. Will you please sit down and leave me alone?”
“No.” He leaned one elbow on the bar. “I’m going to stand right here and not take my eyes off this door. If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming after you.”
“York …” She could see by the grimness of his expression arguing would be futile. Her lips tightened with anoyance as she opened the door. “Oh, do what you like.”
“That would be a novelty, at least. Ten minutes.”
The heavy oak door closed behind her. The short hallway leading to the austere concrete steps of the service staircase was brightly lit, but she still felt isolated. No smoke, no noise, no Wild West decor. The silence was curiously jarring, even … threatening. She shook her head impatiently at the thought and swiftly climbed the steps. York’s unreasonable concern must be clouding her judgment, she thought, for her to have this weird reaction to such commonplace surroundings.
She opened the door at the top of the steps. As she stepped onto the balcony landing, she was immediately aware again of the noise and smoke. The first door to the left, Monty had said. She opened the door and flicked on the light. Stacks of sheets, blankets, and towels of every size and description neatly lined the shelves. The closet itself was as large as a small room. It took her less than a minute to locate the bar towels. She picked up half a dozen from the shelf, flicked off the light, and closed the door behind her as she stepped back into the hall.
A large meaty hand closed on her arm. “Come on.”
She glanced up swiftly. Beattie. Her heart jerked with shock and the beginning of fear. Heavens, he was a monster. Six feet five at least and as brawny as Paul Bunyan. She suddenly felt very small and ineffectual with that huge hand wrapped around her wrist. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, come on.” Beattie’s voice was slurred and he was swaying slightly. Poison-mean when he was drunk, Melanie had said. As he continued there was no doubt about either his inebriation or his viciousness. “Nice of you to save me the trouble of coming down to get you. I’ve got a room for us just down the hall.”
“No, you don’t understand. That’s not my job and—” His hand tightened on her arm with bruising force, and she gasped with pain. The bar towels fell to the floor. “Let me go!”
“You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t your job.” His arm slid about her waist, and his fingers dug painfully into her side. “Everyone in town knows you’ve been shacking up with Delaney.” He sneered. “Did you get bored and want a little variety? Well, I’m your man. I can show you ways of doing it that—Ouch!”
He didn’t release her as she’d hoped, but the kick to his left shin had at least broken off that slimy proposition. “I told you to let me go,” she whispered with fury. “Take your hands off me or I’ll scream the house down.”
“The hell you will.” The expression on Beattie’s face was ugly. “You’ll come along and give me what I want. Ain’t I good enough for you?” He started down the hall half carrying her. “I’m tired of being spit on.”
“You can’t do this.” She was pulling desperately at the hand on her waist.
“I’m doing it.” He glanced down at her with drunken malevolence. “If you so much as peep, I’ll break your ribs.” His hand tightened cruelly and she inhaled sharply. He could do it, she thought. That broad, powerful hand was granite-hard. That he would do it wasn’t even in question. Poison-mean. The phrase ran through her mind as he swept her along in his wake. She could feel that poison flowing out of him, touching her with its acid. She cast a furtive glance at the barroom below. No one was even noticing them. The sight of a couple walking along this corridor was a common occurrence, and the veil of smoke and noise was a barrier almost impossible to overcome. She couldn’t even see the table where the Delaneys were sitting. She turned her head and caught a glimpse of York standing at the bar. His gaze was fixed broodingly on the service door beside the bar just as he’d told her it would be. Look up, she commanded silently. For heaven’s sake, look up, York.
What was she doing? she asked herself. Just because she was frightened, she wanted to run to York for protection. This situation wasn’t any different from any other in her life. She was capable of handling it just as she had the others. Think. She had to think. Fear was tightening the muscles of her stomach and making her feel slightly sick. He was so big. If he got her into one of those rooms, she’d be as helpless as a child.
“That’s my little girl,” he said as he reached for the knob on a door. “I won’t hurt you as long as you let me—”
His arm at her waist had loosened a trifle. She wouldn’t have another chance. She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow at the same time she whirled away, breaking free of that clamp on her side. He was solid as a stone wall, but at least she had broken his hold. She backed away from him, her breath coming in little gasps.
“Bitch!” He was lumbering after her, as menacing as a wounded grizzly bear. “That was a mistake. You’re not going to like what I’m going to do to you now.”
She kept backing down the hall. Which room was Melanie’s office? Sierra asked herself. It was on the other side of the landing. She’d never make it before he caught her. She couldn’t make it to the stairs either. He was blocking the hall.
He smiled nastily. “Scared? You should be.”
She searched wildly for a way out. Then she saw it. Bertha and Charlie! She kicked off her high heels and ran down the hall. She heard a low curse, then Beattie’s pounding footsteps behind her. She climbed over the rail of the balcony and edged out on the six-inch ledge to cling desperately to the support post.
“What the hell!” Beattie was right behind her, reaching out for her. She couldn’t wait any longer. She released the post and leaped. Her hands touched the bar of the dove swing and she held on. She’d made it! The silver cords seemed to give a little with her slight weight, and the plaster of Paris doves swayed drunkenly on their perch.
She heard a sudden o
utcry from below as someone caught sight of her hanging from the swing. Then there was laughing and applauding—even a few whistles. Oh, Lord, they thought it was some kind of a prank. Except for York. She could see him looking up at her in stunned disbelief, mouthing words she couldn’t hear.
“York,” she called desperately. She swung back as far as she could until she was against the ornate post that supported the second floor balcony. “Catch me!”
She pushed away from the post, swinging her lower body to gain momentum. Her palms burned with the friction of the strain she was placing on them. Once, twice, three times. She could see a blur of movement below her. York? It was now or never.
She closed her eyes as she released the bar. If he wasn’t able to catch her, she certainly didn’t want to know about it ahead of time. She fell swiftly through the smoke-filled air.
Strong arms snatched her out of that air and cradled her in a protective embrace. Enormous relief surged through her, making her dizzy. “York,” she whispered.
“Burke.”
Her eyes flew open and she found herself looking into green eyes, not blue. The brother who ate corporations for breakfast.
“I was closest,” he explained with the faintest flicker of humor. He inclined his head politely. “How do you do?”
“Much better than a few minutes ago.”
“I should imagine.” He turned as York ran up to him. “Your property, I believe.” He transferred her into York’s arms. “You should fatten her up though. She doesn’t weigh more than a feather.”
York’s arms tightened around her possessively. “No, she doesn’t,” he said hoarsely. He was oddly pale, and a muscle was jerking in his cheek. He seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. “Thanks, Burke. I don’t think I could have gotten here in time.”
Burke nodded. “Anytime. My pleasure. May I suggest that you get her out of here? By the look of that man charging down the stairs, she won’t be safe for long.”
“The devil she won’t.” Rafe Delaney was suddenly beside them, his face as hard as his voice was soft. A reckless lopsided grin curved his lips. “What do you say we eliminate her problem?”
York, the Renegade: A Loveswept Classic Romance Page 10
