Savage Desire

by Rosemary Rogers

  “Hey, mister, don’t I know you?”

  Steve barely glanced at the old man. “Maybe. Maybe not…Look out…!”

  The horse finally decided to leap free of the car, and would have bolted if Steve hadn’t had a tight grip on the reins. He flipped up the stirrup and tightened the cinch, then led the animal to the side of the station house. Wind whistled around the corners, a keening sound, high-pitched like a woman’s sob. The old man followed him.

  “Yeah, I do know you! You’re that gunslinger feller, the one that shot up Jared Cady a few years back, ain’t ya? Yeah, you’re him all right. I niver fergit a face. It’s the eyes. A man’s eyes are what I niver fergit…and I damn sure would niver fergit your eyes, mister. Nope. Like two cold pieces of dark sky.”

  He swung the old man a glance again, and the garrulous voice quavered to a halt. For an instant, he saw fear leap like flames into red-rimmed eyes.

  “Last time I was here, you recommended a hotel.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure…Denver House. All Jack Prendergast’s friends stay there when they come this way.”

  “Thanks.” Steve mounted and turned the restless horse in the direction of the town that lay west of the depot. It was all too familiar, playing out just like the last time, with the same old man to greet him. Hell, didn’t the old-timer have anything better to do than hang around the railroad station and talk to strangers?

  It was eerie, the way it all came rushing back to him, as if it had happened only yesterday: the saloon with the belligerent men crowded around the bar, Jared Cady’s taunts, even the way he’d felt a weary sense of fatalism, knowing he was going to have to fight his way out or draw his gun. Then the brief, vicious confrontation with Cady before he made it out the door…only to be ambushed from all sides, bullets smacking into him and the thought that he was dying before it all plunged into dark oblivion.

  If not for Elizabeth Cady, Jared’s widow, he might have died. But she’d wanted to see him hang for murder, not take the easy way out by dying.

  And he’d been obliging enough to live.

  Even once it was proven that he’d acted in self-defense against Cady, there were plenty of folks in Prayers End who distrusted him. Beth had ignored them, ignored propriety and her own instincts and allowed him to stay with her. But in the end it hadn’t been what she wanted. He hadn’t been what she wanted. And he’d known it, too.

  Now he was back, and the town didn’t look to have changed all that much; still the same huddle of ugly wooden buildings strung haphazardly like a broken necklace. Fading light knit a sullen glow behind the outlines of the town.

  It baffled him why people wanted to live here, out in the middle of nowhere in an inhospitable land. Ranchers grazed lean cattle on scrub and rock, fought over land and water rights, formed granges and went to church, made more children and died worn-out and hollow inside. Most of them never left the territory, except maybe to go to El Paso or a neighboring town.

  Dust rose, drifted on the wind in stinging gusts that peppered his bare skin in a stinging assault. He reined in and dismounted in front of the livery stable, caught his saddlebags and hefted them over one shoulder.

  When he turned, the livery owner was staring at him, his red face gone chalky white in the swiftly darkening dusk that promised a threat of rain.

  “Steve Morgan…”

  “Yeah. Si Barker, right?”

  A terse nod made Barker’s heavy jowls quiver. He rubbed one hand over his face, managed a forced smile that showed tobacco-rusted teeth.

  “What brings you back here, Morgan? Gonna help out with the Association again?”

  “I didn’t know it needed help. Last time I was here, it was doing fine.” He slid his palm over the black’s dusty neck, gave him a pat. “Give him an extra ration of oats tonight. He deserves it after that train ride.”

  Flipping a coin at Barker without bothering to look at him, Steve pivoted on his boot heels and strode toward town. Barker would spread the news like wildfire that the hired gunslinger was back in town, the man who’d killed three men and cleared leather faster than any man here could remember seeing before.

  Still shouldering his saddlebags, he checked in at the Casa Loma Hotel; it was smaller, clean and had good food. There was no point in stirring up folks by staying at the town’s best hotel. They’d have a lot to say anyway, and he was damned if he knew why he’d come back here. He should have ridden on, got off the train in El Paso and been at Prendergast’s ranch by this time tomorrow. It was a damn fool idea to come back. A man could never go back. Hell, he didn’t want to go back anyway.

  After all that had happened, in a strange way he felt almost disloyal to Ginny to even wonder what had become of Beth. Before, even when he hadn’t thought Ginny dead, he’d taken other women, enjoyed them without a thought for anything but the moment. But hell, he wasn’t a callow youth any longer, reckless and selfish. Maybe his grandfather’s lectures had finally sunk in, penetrated his conscience. How Concepciόn would laugh if she ever heard him say that! The fiery gypsy had been his careless mistress whenever they met, enjoying each other’s body without a thought for anything but their own pleasure. She had once told him that Ginny had changed him.

  “She is a bitch, that one,” she’d added frankly, “but I understand her because I am a bitch, too. You need a strong woman, but ay di mi, she will end up killing you one day!”

  A cold wind was blowing up with the promise of an early winter. It had a bite to it, sweeping down the slopes to blow tumbleweeds down the middle of the street.

  He found himself at the Red Sky Saloon again; it was close to the livery stable and not that far from the hotel. Only a few men were inside, two playing a card game at a rickety table in one corner, and another nursing a drink at the bar. Tinny music plinked on the old piano, and the same ancient black man sat hunched over the keyboard, gnarled fingers picking out tunes with surprising deftness.

  A couple of Mexicans sat at a table near the door, intent on a hand of poker. The barkeep looked up, his face reflecting astonishment when he recognized the newcomer.

  No one said anything, not even the barkeep as Steve walked to the bar. He dug into his vest pocket and pulled out a coin, flipping it to the bar.

  “Whisky.”

  But the barkeep was already pouring it, a generous splash into the glass he’d just cleaned and wiped dry. It had gotten quiet. He glanced toward the piano. The old man was getting up, one hand against the top of the piano for balance. He moved away, toward the back of the saloon, steps wobbly but certain.

  “He’s just taking a nap.”

  Steve glanced back at the barkeep; blue eyes were wary and hard when he met the curious gaze.

  Shrugging, the barkeep said, “He’s getting old, I guess. Can’t play as long as he used to.”

  “That happens.” He tossed down his drink, felt it sear a path to his belly. It wasn’t the rotgut that he’d had here before, but the better stuff, smoother and not as harsh. Bert. That was the man’s name. Bert.

  “Yeah,” Bert said with another shrug. He looked nervous and a bit chagrined. “If he wasn’t so damned good, I’d find me a new piano player, but ole ’Lijah’s the best around. He can play any tune you name.”

  The same curtains that had swallowed Elijah fluttered, and a woman sauntered into the saloon, an overly bright smile pasted on her face. Pausing at the end of the rough wooden counter stretched between huge barrels that passed for a bar, her smile couldn’t disguise the bored, petulant look in her eyes. She was new since the last time he’d been here, younger and prettier than Lottie.

  Light hair, a kind of dark blond, was crimped into curls that swept back from her forehead, and the dress she wore was gaudy purple satin trimmed in black ruching that had come loose over her breasts, as if torn by eager hands. The matching satin slippers had seen better days, with stains and rundown heels. If not for the sulky expression on her face, she could have been appealing.

  One of the men at the table said
something to her in a low voice, and she lifted one shoulder in a shrug that sent a thin strap of her dress sliding down.

  “You still owe me for the last drink, Stan. Go on home with you before I tell your wife.”

  Pulling free of the hand he’d put on her arm, she turned, and her gaze raked over the tall, lean man at the bar. Her eyes widened when she saw him, the smile growing brighter, and her expression changed.

  “Well hello, stranger,” she said, coming toward him, satin skirts making a whispery sound as she walked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t reply, only sipped at his drink.

  Bert leaned forward, a warning note in his voice. “Janey, better leave this one alone. You try any of your tricks with him, you’re liable to regret it.”

  Close up, Steve saw that she wasn’t as young as he’d first thought. Maybe it was her hard life. A tiny web of fine lines radiated out from the corners of her eyes, and one eyelid drooped slightly, giving a lopsided appearance to her face.

  “If he’s as smart as you think, Bert, I won’t need to use any tricks, now will I?” Her arch reply was directed at Steve rather than the barkeep, and he turned finally to face her.

  Something in his eyes made her pause, and the smile wavered slightly. “Buy a lady a drink, handsome?”

  Steve tossed a coin to the bar and pushed away.

  “For the lady,” he said, and touched the brim of his hat with one finger as he turned toward the double batwing doors.

  His progress was unremarked, and it wasn’t until he was outside on the wooden sidewalk that he realized he’d been half expecting trouble. A confrontation of some kind, maybe even another ambush. It was almost an anticlimax, a sense of relief mixed with disappointment that no one had shot at him or challenged him.

  Taut muscles relaxed slightly, and by the time he reached the Casa Loma, he wanted nothing more than to eat a hot meal, go to bed and sleep. It was unsettling. What had he expected when he came here? An apology? A parade? He felt slightly foolish and more than a little let down.

  Hell, he’d be gone tomorrow. It didn’t matter about the first time he’d been here. Not anymore. For a long time he’d dreamed about it, violent nightmares with bullets and orange spurts of flame, ropes that cut into his throat and slowly choked the life from him…cold, deliberate voices spouting hate and vengeance while he lay helpless.

  The dining room was nearly empty when he went into the hotel, and he took a table in the corner opposite the door, casually checking out all the exits. A hot meal of steak, potatoes and baked apples was ample and tasty, followed by a mug of steaming, bitter coffee and a cigar.

  “You’ll have to smoke outside, mister,” he was told, and he paid his bill and took his unlit cigar out to the porch, leaning against a support post.

  The wind was colder now that the sun was down, and rattled a few loose shingles on the roof in a clattering sound that made him a little jumpy. Yellow lights gleamed in the windows, casting wavering squares of light on the wide street.

  Cupping his hand over the flame, he struck a match and lit his cigar. The tip glowed red. In the distance, a coyote howled, a wavering, lonely sound in a night surprisingly quiet. The smell of dust and decay was in the air. It was a dying town. Not even the avoidance of a range war had kept it alive, it seemed. He wondered if Milt Kehoe and the others still met in the Smallholders Association. Had any of them been stupid enough to take on Prendergast, or had they stuck to their agreement to lease land in exchange for water rights?

  Big Jack Prendergast wasn’t the kind of man to fool around once he decided he wanted something, but he was honest enough to keep a bargain he’d made. And he’d been made to see the advantages to dealing with the smallholders instead of fighting them.

  Dropping his cigar to the wooden sidewalk, he crushed it beneath his boot heel, then went inside the hotel. Down the street was the Denver House, the hotel where Prayers End had celebrated the successful negotiation of the deal with Jack Prendergast. It boasted crystal chandeliers and a fine kitchen, with thick carpets in the lobby floor and hallways, and a real East Coast chef preparing the meals. He’d spent part of his last night in Prayers End there, and didn’t intend to set foot in it again.

  After a restless night, he went downstairs and ate a light breakfast, then paid his bill before heading for the livery stable. Weak light spread a thin glow over the hills, chasing shadows from deep crevices and valleys as the sun rose higher.

  The black was fresh and eager, pawing the ground and tearing up chunks of hard dirt with his hooves as Steve mounted.

  “Still ride a barefoot horse, I see,” Barker remarked, and Steve met his eyes for the first time. “The ’Paches, they ride ’em that way, too.”

  There was a note of derision in his tone that set Steve’s teeth on edge. He leaned forward, tossed a silver coin in the air so that it caught the light in a glittering spiral. Barker missed catching it and had to bend down to retrieve the coin. He straightened, and looked resentfully at the man watching him, eyes narrowed when Steve smiled.

  “I learned a lot from the Apache, and Comanche, too. I used to live with them, ride with them, raid with them. If I’d met you then, I’d probably have a red-haired scalp hanging from my belt.”

  Barker blanched, and Steve nudged his horse into a trot that took him out of Prayers End without a backward glance.

  When he was about a mile out of town, he saw the dust from an approaching wagon ahead. It came closer at a high rate of speed, a double team drawing it.

  As it got near enough for him to make out the driver, he realized that this is what he’d really been waiting for since he’d gotten to New Mexico Territory. He reined in his mount and waited, hooking one long leg over his saddle horn and rolling a smoke.

  The wagon rumbled to a halt beside him, horses blowing noisily. “Were you going to leave town without even bothering to come and say hello to me?” Elizabeth Burneson demanded.

  The wind had flushed her cheeks pink, and it was obvious she had dressed in a hurry; she wore a plain gown of dark-rose wool, pretty but simple. Her hair was half-loose and straggling over one shoulder, dark curls tangled.

  “It seemed best.” Steve licked the edge of the thin paper to seal it, and stuck the smoke in one corner of his mouth.

  “You still have bad habits, I see.” Her eyes were wide and dark with emotion, and he noted the slight trembling of her hands on the reins.

  “Is that what you rode so hard to tell me?” Amused, he saw the flush rise higher in her face, her high sculpted cheekbones wearing color like flags.

  “No. I—I do have something to tell you. It’s—it’s not easy, but Martin—We got married not long after you left town.”

  “I figured you would. He’s the kind of man you needed, the kind of man who would make you happy.”

  “Yes, you’re right about that.” Her gaze was steady, and her hands didn’t tremble quite so much now. The wind tugged at her hair and the hem of her gown. “He makes me very happy. He’s a good man, a decent, hardworking man who would do anything for me.” She paused, then added, “And anything for our children.”

  “I’m glad to know that, Beth, really I am.” He meant it. Maybe he should feel remorse, but he hadn’t thought of her much after leaving, and not at all once he’d discovered that Ginny was still alive. Only recently had he thought of her, reminded by Ginny’s confessions.

  One of her horses shied slightly, spooked by Steve’s horse, and the wagon rolled forward. Instinctively, he reached out to grab the reins. Elizabeth had lunged to grab them up, and swayed precariously over the seat of the buckboard.

  “Sit down before you fall out and a wheel rolls over you,” Steve said roughly, and reached over to set the brake.

  She glared at him. He could smell her now that he was so close, the woman-smell of fresh-washed clothes, soap and a faint powdery fragrance.

  “Steve…” Her voice falte
red and she took a deep breath to steady it. “When Sheriff Blaine came out to tell us that you had come back, I didn’t want to see you again. I just didn’t see the point in it, in raking up old memories.”

  “So what changed your mind?” He watched her closely. He had always been able to tell when something was bothering her. She got fidgety, like she was now, plucking at her skirts, restless fingers moving from her gown to her hair, hands fluttering like sturdy birds in the air.

  “Martin changed it. He said…he said you should know, that it wasn’t right to keep such a thing from a man. Even when I told him that you wouldn’t care, that you didn’t even want the two you already had, he—Well, he’s a good man, and he says I must do the right thing. He left it up to me.” Her mouth twisted slightly. “He knows that I always want to live up to his high expectations of me.”

  Steve was quiet now, and wary, his blue eyes narrowed and watchful as he waited, sensing before she said it what she would tell him.

  “You—I—we have a son, Steve. And I knew about it before you left. I kept it from you because you had told me that you weren’t cut out for parenthood. There. I’ve said it. You’re free to hate me now for not telling you.”

  Carefully, he took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and tossed it to the ground. “How does Martin feel about him?”

  Apparently, it wasn’t the question she’d expected him to ask. She folded her hands in her lap, knuckles white with strain.

  “He adores him. And Matthew adores his father. Martin is his father, Steve, in every way but one.”

  “I’d like to see him.”

  All color drained from her face, leaving it ashen. She began to shake her head, her voice a kind of moan.

  “Nooo…he’s too little to understand!”

  “Then it won’t hurt if I meet him. He doesn’t need to be told anything but that I’m a visitor. Christ, Beth, it’s the least you can do after not bothering to tell me about him!”

  Her eyes flashed. “Not bothering? You told me you have twins, a boy and a girl, that you had never bothered to even see! Why should I think you’d feel any differently about this child?”