“You got a few minutes for him, don’t you, Gracie?”
“Well, sure. I like ’em young. They’re more polite. And they’re quick." She flipped her shawl over her shoulder and surveyed her prospective customer. “This one looks a mite scared, but we’ll get along just fine.” She took his hand to pull him along.
The boy renewed his efforts to get away, kicking over a spittoon in the process. But the miners only laughed again and pushed him toward the stairs. Gracie stopped to take his face between her hands, and leaned in to kiss him.
This had gone far enough, in Rankin’s opinion. Disgusted, he scanned the saloon. While the customers in the Magnolia watched with ardent interest, no one appeared inclined to break this up. The two drunks who had been watching him from the corner looked on with guarded interest but didn’t move. Damned cowards, all of them. Obviously, Clem and his gang were just fearsome enough to keep the men in this place from defending a scared, unarmed kid. When the miners passed Rankin’s table, he pushed back his chair and stood.
“Let the boy go.”
Gracie turned toward Rankin and uttered a squeak. She looked at the boy again, as if really seeing him for the first time. She dropped his hand and backed away.
Clem pushed his battered hat farther down on his big, square head. “You’d best mind your own bidness, stranger. We’re just having some fun with the little feller.”
Rankin considered the youth. His face was the color of chalk. “He doesn’t seem like he’s having fun. Find someone closer to your own size to push around.”
Clem looked him up and down. A sour, knowing grin split his scarred face, revealing rotten teeth. “I guess that wouldn’t be you, either, would it, runt?”
Like the wind sighing around the corners of a house, a quiet, wordless moan rolled through the spectators. At the surrounding tables, Rankin was aware of people rising and inching toward the door before profound silence blanketed the saloon. Sawyer Clark’s smirk flashed through his mind.
He stepped closer, staring unblinkingly into the miner’s ugly face. Clem didn’t blink either.
Rankin heard Chester clear his throat again, harshly, as though he had a quail egg stuck in it. “Clem, this here is Jace Rankin—you know, the bounty hunter. He killed a man in here today.”
Rankin felt all eyes focus on him, though his own gaze remained fixed on the miner.
“I ain’t scairt of no son-of-a-bitchin’ bounty hunter,” Clem declared, but his eyelids twitched.
“You should be,” Rankin whispered, and smiled slightly. Before the slow-moving Clem could react, he drew his revolver and nudged the miner’s bearded chin with its point.
It took all of Rankin’s willpower to keep from backing up; the miner’s breath smelled as bad as an outhouse in July. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the other miners reaching for a long blade at his belt.
“If your friend doesn’t let go of the hilt of his knife, you’ll lose what’s left of your bottom teeth when I blow off your jaw. I think Chester here will tell you that I mean it.”
Chester nodded emphatically.
“Now let the boy go.”
The color seemed to drain from Clem’s face. "Well . . . who gives a damn about this wet-tailed little pup, anyway?" He turned the boy loose with a hard push. "Get the hell out of here and go back to your mama.”
“His gun?” Rankin reminded him.
Clem nodded impatiently at one of his cronies, who handed the boy his revolver. The kid grabbed it and scrambled to pick up his hat.
Rankin stepped back and holstered his own gun. "I hope you gentlemen won’t be giving Chester any more trouble.” He glanced at the bartender, who watched with wide eyes and a frozen expression. “He’s had a bad day.”
“Come on, Clem,” one of them mumbled. “This ain’t no fun anymore.”
“No, it sure ain’t,” Clem groused, scratching his chin where the gunpoint had pressed. “Let’s go down to the China Doll. They don’t let kids hang around there to pester people.” As a group, they turned and shuffled through the swinging doors.
Following them to the door, Rankin watched until they were far down the street, then he walked back to the bar. Cutting a wide path around him, the customers finally returned to their chairs.
The boy breathed a long, shaky sigh. His eyes were red with choked-back tears. He dropped his head and brushed at them impatiently. “Thanks,” he mumbled to Rankin. Then with more vigor, “But I wasn’t scared! I coulda handled them.”
Rankin stared pointedly at the wet liquor stain on the boy’s shirt, a memento of his ability to “handle” the miners. He didn’t bother with a reply, but stepped around the slime from the capsized spittoon and brushed past him.
He reached into his pocket and flipped a silver dollar to Chester Sparks before walking back to the table to retrieve his duster, his rifle, and the bottle of whiskey.
“Y-you already paid me for the whiskey, Mr. Rankin.” Chester held out the dollar as Rankin walked past the bar.
“Keep it. I’m going to the hotel. Your place attracts too much trouble to suit me.”
Rankin stepped out into the lengthening shadows on the sidewalk and lit a cheroot. The sun had dropped behind the Owyhee Mountains but the street was still busy with mules, wagons, teamsters, and miners, all headed, it seemed, to the saloons and sporting houses here on Jordan Street. He leaned against an upright, scanning the shadows around him and the faces of approaching riders. Looking right and left was something he did partly out of habit—a bounty hunter was always a target for someone’s revenge. And partly because he felt directionless tonight. He wasn’t sure which way to turn. Right now, he was certain only that he wanted a clean bed and a quiet room. He headed down the sidewalk toward the hotel. So much for celebrating.
“Hey, Mr. Rankin, wait up!”
Looking over his shoulder, he saw the same pest he’d just left behind in the Magnolia. The boy’s tangle with the miners apparently hadn’t taught him to leave well enough alone. Rankin didn’t stop.
The boy jogged up alongside him in the street, leading a good-looking dun. “Hey, wait a minute!” Out here in the twilight, it was even more obvious there wasn’t much to the kid. He had bones like a bird and no muscle to speak of—even Gracie might have bested him. His clothes hung on him, and beneath the dirt his face was smooth as a cue ball. Hell, his voice had barely even changed. He looked he had probably always been the butt of harassment and torment from older, bigger kids.
Rankin could empathize with that.
“Shouldn’t you quit while you’re ahead, kid?” grumbled. He glanced ahead at the hotel in the distance, where yellow lamplight gleamed from the windows, and he kept walking. The boy trotted to keep up with the pace Rankin set.
“My name is Kyle Springer. And I’ve got business you. You’re the reason I was waitin’ outside the Magnolia in the first place. I’ve been lookin’ for you for more than a month.”
Oh, damn it, Rankin thought, consumed with bitter weariness. He’d probably just saved the kid’s skinny neck so that he could challenge him to a draw here in the street.
It didn’t happen often, but once in a while some hothead got a yen for the kind of reputation that outgunning Jace Rankin would bring. And this one was just a drip of a boy, with pale skin and a few freckles to go with that red hair. Well, he had to hand it to him—the kid might not have common sense, or the brawn to make up for its lack, but he had grit.
“Yeah? What do you want with me, Kyle?” He went along with the steps of this dance, but he knew where it was headed.
“I want to hire you to kill a man.” The young voice was cold, flat—devoid of anger or any other emotion. His eyes matched his tone.
Rankin stopped in his tracks and glared at him. That sure as hell wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He tossed away the cheroot. “Not interested.” He turned and walked on.
“I can pay you,” Kyle called after him. “Isn’t that what you want?" He could hear Kyle’s steps a
nd the horse’s on the hard-packed dirt as they trotted along behind him.
Rankin had his standards, and his anger flared at the insulting question. “You’d better get your facts straight, kid. I’m a bounty hunter, not a hired gun.” He sidestepped a mule skinner who came staggering out of a noisy saloon.
“You’ve killed men. Everybody knows that, and I saw you shoot that drifter today. I saw it through the window.”
Rankin’s hand tightened on the Henry. “If you were watching, then you saw it was self-defense. It always has been self-defense. Anyway, I guess you don’t know why I was after Clark.”
“It don’t matter to me. Some people need killin’.”
Rankin stopped again and faced the kid. His curiosity got the best of him. “Like who?”
As if a grim memory cut across his mind, Kyle let his gaze drift to the mountains that embraced Silver City. The horse whickered and nudged his shoulder. Catching his balance, the boy wiped his nose on his shirt cuff; then tucked his hair behind his ears.
“His name’s Tom Hardesty. He murdered a man over in Blakely, Oregon, and stole a ranch there that rightfully belongs to me.”
“What makes it yours?”
A sharp autumn wind rushed down the street. Keeping one fist clamped on the horse’s reins, Kyle hunched his thin shoulders and shivered. "My pa left it to me. But Tom—he’s one of Luke Jory’s bootlicks. Jory heads up the Vigilance Union. He arranged for Tom and the Union to come and force me off the ranch so’s Tom could take it."
Rankin hadn’t been to Blakely in several years; vigilantes there were news to him. “So? Tell the sheriff.”
The boy hitched up the waist of his jeans with his free hand, then absently stroked the dun’s nose. “I did tell the sheriff, but it didn’t do no good. The Vigilance Union owns Blakely. They can make the law do whatever they want. They’re just a bunch of lyin’, thievin’ bastards who murder men so they can steal their cattle and land. There’s been a lot of that goin’ on. That’s why I set out to find you. The Vigilance Union has to be wiped out.”
Rankin had never been a defender of widows and orphans, and he wasn’t about to take up the chore now. “Forget it. Too messy. I’m only interested in bounties. And this isn’t my fight.” He looked up and saw that he’d stopped in front of the undertaker’s dark windows. “Besides, I’ve got business to take care of in Misfortune, and that’s where I’m headed in the morning. You get on your horse, go back to Blakely, and try to stay out of trouble. Those miners could’ve carved you up for dinner back there.”
A tinge of desperation crept into Kyle’s voice. “I got no place to go to, not in Blakely, not anywhere. If you won’t help, I’ll find someone who ain’t afraid to. Or I’ll do the job myself.” He rested his hand on the butt of the revolver in his holster. “I swear to God I will.”
“Yeah? Have you ever shot anybody?”
A sigh and downcast eyes were Kyle’s answer.
Rankin nodded. “It doesn’t make you feel better, and it doesn’t mean you’re a man. Besides you’d probably get yourself killed for your trouble.”
“Well, I gotta try, at least!” Kyle curled a hand over the dun’s bridle. “I got nothing left to lose, anyway.”
Rankin stared at the boy in the gathering darkness. He was too young to feel that way, but Rankin understood it. There seemed to be a number of things about this kid that he understood. And one or two that he didn’t. But he had a lot of stubborn courage despite his wispy build.
That brought memories back to Rankin of a boyhood spent first running from bullies, then eventually standing up to them and taking the inevitable beatings that resulted. The worst ones had come from his stepfather, until the day he strapped on a gun and threatened to pull the trigger.
And now, after thirty years of a hard life, he faced another cold winter and another youth who reminded him of all those beatings. Maybe it was something in the kid’s eyes. Later he’d probably kick himself, but he asked, “Can you prove that Hardesty killed anyone?”
“I saw him do it,” Kyle answered, shivering again. He leaned against his dun’s shoulder for a moment.
Rankin shrugged. "I don’t give a damn about politics and I’m no do-good, so I’m not about to tangle with vigilantes. And I won’t take this job to kill Hardesty. I’ll see to it that he’s delivered to the law in another town to stand trial.” Seeing that Kyle was about to object, he cut him off. “Believe me, that’s a sight more trouble than just shooting him—but it’s the only way I’ll do this. I have to go to Misfortune first, though. Are you still interested?”
“But it won’t help to get rid of Hardesty if Luke Jory and them damned vigilantes are still around. They ain’t gonna leave me in peace."
“That’s my offer. Are you interested or not?”
The kid looked disappointed. “Yeah," he grumped. ‘I guess.”
“How much are you planning to pay?”
Kyle stared at him dead on. “I’m not sayin’ how much I’ve got.”
“And I’m not asking. The bounties I go after usually start at about five hundred dollars.”
“F-five?” Kyle stammered.
“But I’m willing to help you out for half of that. Two
fifty.
“Well . . .”
“Damn, kid, you don’t think I’m going to do this for free—”
“No!” The horse sidestepped nervously. “I’m gonna pay you, but I ain’t got the money with me.”
"Where is it?"
“It’s in a strongbox, buried in a secret place.”
“Let me guess—I’ll bet this ‘secret place’ is at the ranch.”
Kyle hunched his shoulders and nodded.
Figuring he already knew the answer, Rankin had to ask anyway, “Have you got any money with you?”
Kyle wiped his nose on his sleeve again and glanced at his scuffed boots. “Yeah, seventy-eight cents.”
“Have you got a place to bed down tonight?”
“I’ve been sleepin’—out—” He gestured over his shoulder in the general direction of the scrubby hills outside of town.
Rankin shook his head—this was getting worse by the second. The kid probably didn’t have one penny more than seventy-eight cents anywhere, and there were too many things about this situation that bothered him. He sure as hell didn’t want to take on the job of nurse-maiding this weaner. It was hard for him to imagine how the kid had even gotten this far from Blakely. He knew he should walk away from this situation right now.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out two silver dollars. “Here,” he said and tossed the coins to Kyle, who scrambled to catch them with one hand. “Take your horse to the livery, then get a room at the hotel. If you still want my help, be out front at daybreak.”
Kyle gave him an even stare, and a moment of silence passed. Finally he looked at the money, then closed his fingers around it. “I’ll pay you back,” he insisted, “just as soon as I can get to the strongbox.” He turned, hauled himself up into the dun’s saddle, and headed toward the livery down the street.
Rankin regarded the lift of the youth’s chin—proud, defiant, foolhardy. The kid had guts, if nothing else. And he had to admire that.
* * *
The boy who had introduced himself as Kyle Springer closed the door to his hotel room and turned the key.
He threw his hat and the poke carrying his belongings on the mattress, then fished through his pockets for a match to light the plain bedside lamp. Purple dusky shadows gave way to the bright kerosene flame, and he looked around to see what Jace Rankin’s dollar had bought. It ate at him that he’d had to take money from the bounty hunter. Kyle usually paid his own way or did without, and if he weren’t so dead-dog tired, he’d have refused. But his struggles, first with the miners, then with Rankin, had drained the sap right out of him.
It wasn’t the best room in the place—faded green paint clung to chipped walls and the shabby jumbl
e of furniture sported threadbare upholstery. But the iron bed looked clean and inviting, and it beat the hell out of spending another night in the open. The earth was like granite, and the cold made his hands ache. These past few mornings he had awakened to a hard chill and frosted landscapes.
Bouncing once on the mattress, Kyle decided that the springs wouldn’t screech enough to wake him. At any rate, he was so weary he imagined he wouldn’t move once he closed his eyes. He stood and unbuckled his gunbelt, slinging it over the bedpost where it would be close at hand.
After pulling the shades on the two windows, he walked to the cloudy mirror hanging over the washstand and stared at his reflection, taking in the lank, uneven hair and dirty face. He knew he was lucky, that he played his role so convincingly no one ever questioned his identity, but sometimes he got tired of this masquerade. The bad grammar was becoming a habit. So was the swearing. And graceless acts like belching and using his sleeve for a handkerchief were almost second nature.
But they worked. For a moment, though, he had thought the saloon girl Gracie had caught on to him just as Rankin intervened. Her look of surprise—naw, he was probably imagining things.
Hell, he had even fooled Jace Rankin, a man who bad a reputation for seeing through people as if they were panes of glass. But he didn’t suspect the truth.
Still watching the reflection, he unbuttoned his shirt and long underwear with hands that shook with fatigue and strain. Beneath the thin shirt was a length of fabric, wrapped in tight circles around his ribs. He removed the safety pins, releasing the constricting pressure.
And Kyle Springer, the boy, was transformed into Kyla Springer, an ample-breasted, twenty-four-year-old female whose nipples felt as if they’d just been unbuttoned from her backbone. An ache spread over her chest as circulation surged into her compressed flesh.
The binding prevented her from taking a decently breath, but it also prevented the world from seeing the curves that would put her in far more peril than she had experienced at the Magnolia Saloon. Certainly that had been frightening enough. It had taken every bit of bravado she could muster, false and real, maintain Kyle’s angry hostility, and to keep his voice deeper than her own. Traveling as a boy for safety might have its drawbacks—it hadn’t saved her humiliation—but not nearly so many as traveling as a woman. Her life might depend on her disguise and she did everything she could to protect it.
Desperate Hearts Page 2
