The Trailrider's Fortune

by Shannah Biondine

  "You don't need to be flirty," he replied in his easy drawl. "You talked with me and that was fine. I'd be obliged if you'd let me put my arms around you. Part of the problem is it's damned unnatural, tryin' to sleep when you're so worried you might move and the other person will think it means somethin'. Be easier if we each knew where the other one was. Then we could stop fussin' about it."

  "Maybe so. But you're not going to kiss me," she cautioned, her voice shaky.

  "Somethin' wrong with the way I kiss, too?"

  "Nothing's wrong with it. You're quite good at it. When we're both standing on our feet in the light of day, it's fine. But I don't think it's a good idea to let you kiss me here in the dark. Not a good idea at all."

  He moved closer and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Expect you know your own mind." He grinned in the dark room. Nothing was wrong with his kissing. Everything was right with it. She didn't trust herself to let him. Interesting.

  The grin faded as he realized any hope he'd entertained of taming the monster between his legs was gone. He was both blessed and cursed by being allowed to hold her. She felt wonderful in his arms. So tender and soft. She smelled like lavender water. Christ. He decided to concentrate on his next bounty. Money was a safe thing to ponder. He kept on pondering about his next case until they both fell asleep.

  * * *

  Rafe became dimly aware it was morning. He was lying on his side with a piss proud jabbing uncomfortably at the fly of his jeans. He'd never been a man who favored drawers beneath his denims. Sometimes the creased fabric made the head of his shaft sore. He was used to waking like this after sleeping all night on the trail. He rolled onto his back and was startled to feel something peculiar and warm on his chest.

  The something was moving. His eyes flew open. He was momentarily disoriented, finding he wasn't in his bedroll on the ground, but in a hotel room. A woman slept on her stomach next to him.

  The warm thing on his chest felt almost ticklish, though he couldn't say for sure what the sensation was. Most of the nerve endings in his chest were deadened since the stabbing. Some of what he detected, the doctors said, was like when a man had his arm or leg hacked off, but still thought it itched. Phantom something. Rafe never listened too closely to that part of the doctors' explanations. He just knew his skin deceived him. Sometimes he felt things that weren't there. Other times he didn't feel things that were.

  He lifted the blanket and discovered the woman's hand rested on his scar. Her fingers were moving ever so slightly, stroking the hardened central ridge where the Bowie's blade had cut deepest. The girl murmured something as Rafe's fingers closed over hers, quieting them. His nostrils caught the faint scent of lavender. He blinked.

  Something about that scent and the shiny hair was familiar. He knew this gal.

  Odd. He rarely slept with women he knew. He generally took care of his needs, then left the whore to her next customer. And he slept naked when indoors. So why was his cock jabbin' his jeans?

  Then everything came back in a rush. He'd spent the night with Sparkle, the fortune teller. This was her bed. It was Sparkle touching him intimately in a place no woman ever wanted to caress. Rafe recalled pangs of jealousy when he'd seen Mary Ellen Swanson lay a dainty hand on his brother's chest at a social, thinking that simple gesture was forbidden to older brother Rafe.

  But here was Sparkle, still sound asleep, touching him that way. Gently. With trust and reassurance oozing from her fingertips. Rafe wasn't wearing his shirt, and this gal knew the monstrosity underneath her hand. She'd gotten a good look last night.

  It was damned hard not to wrap his arms around her right then and kiss her. Harder still not to move her hand down a foot to the swollen piss proud, a genuine arousal now for all the right reasons. Rafe knew he was crazy for risking it, but somehow he couldn't keep from pressing his lips to her hair.

  And then to her temple and soft cheek. When she opened those clear turquoise eyes, not the least filmy or bloodshot from sleep, Rafe bent closer and kissed her lips.

  The kiss was slow and gentle. Carnal, but he didn't kiss her with urgency. She wouldn't have sighed and met his tongue with her own if he'd frightened her by being demanding. When he finally broke away to look down into her eyes, her voice was scratchy. "You weren't supposed to do that."

  "Not in the dark, you said. It's mornin'."

  "Yes," she sighed. "And now I have to face the others. I won't be able to bear the supercilious look Frazer's bound to have on his fat face."

  "Be back directly." Rafe gathered his shirt and gunbelt before slipping out of the room. Sparkle used the opportunity to dress. He was back a few minutes later. "Sparkle, I been ponderin' our situation. Always do my best thinkin' when nature calls." She smiled at that revelation, but his tone was solemn. "Reckon I better buy you a weddin' ring."

  She was certain she couldn't have heard correctly. "A wedding ring?" He nodded. She violently shook her head. "Rafe, the joke's gone far enough. Too far already."

  "Remember how you said Frazer would react if he found out we lied? I think you're right. Don't know why you're here at all, unless you need the job and money badly. You explained part of it last night, but what you ain't explained is how your pa or your brother can let you do this."

  "My parents are dead. And I told you, my brother's an invalid. He's why I need the money. We have a small house in Kansas City. I have to pay the taxes, buy firewood and matches, candles, and food. Because I can't be there with him, I also have a nurse to pay. Someday I'll get out of saloons. Just now, I don't have much choice."

  "Then it's best you go on callin' yourself Miz Conley and start wearin' my ring. Let's get somethin' to eat across town. Saw a place I can buy you a cheap weddin' band."

  "Rafe, you don't want to do this," she protested softly as he led her out of the Scarlet Lady and down the street.

  "Sure I do. I'm hungry."

  "I don't mean that. You should buy a ring because you love the woman. I told you the cards say you'll marry one day. You shouldn't buy a wedding ring for a lie."

  He didn't say anything. He just tucked her arm through his and strolled along the sidewalk, down a few blocks to a small restaurant. After the meal, he crossed to a pawn shop and bought the cheapest gold band the pawnbroker had in his case. Sparkle didn't react when Rafe slid it onto her finger. He led her back outside and donned his gray felt hat.

  "Got to head out, darlin'. Don't know when I'll be back up this way."

  "Thank you for being so kind and decent last night. And now. Is there someplace I might write you?"

  "Why, to tell me how much you love me and miss me, or that I'm going to be a papa?"

  Sparkle blushed and stammered in reply. "No, of course not. I meant because I should return the ring eventually. You paid for it. You may want to give it to—"

  He interrupted, grasping her upper arm. "Naw. Got to get my horse at the livery, then I'll give you a ride back to the Scarlet Lady."

  Sparkle dug her heels in and refused to budge until he met her eyes. "Rafe, there's a wife in your future, whether you believe it or not. There must be a friend or relative somewhere who could get this ring back to you or get a message to you. I'd like to think we're friends, that if I ever needed to reach you…you know."

  Rafe tugged his hat lower. "Got a younger brother named Travis, has a ranch outside Pueblo. I spend winters there. You could write care of Travis Conley at Crockhead Rest in Pueblo. It'd get to me."

  He paid his stabling fee and mounted a big star sorrel. Then he reached to pull Sparkle onto his lap. "This here's Snatch."

  "That's the most offensive name for an animal I've ever heard in my life."

  "He ain't offended by it. Considerin' he helps me round up trouble for reward money and the lack of certain comforts when a man's on the trail, it's a right fittin' name for my horse."

  He slid her down to the wooden porch outside the saloon. "Bye, darlin'. Thanks for the use of your bed. Better make this look good."

 
He swung down from the saddle and pulled her into his arms for a long kiss, noting she didn't push his shoulders away this time. She fit him like a snug winter coat. Damned shame she wouldn't be wrapped around him after this.

  "Goodbye, Rafe. Oh, and be careful." She frowned slightly. "I forgot to tell you. The cards also said you could meet up with a snake."

  He laughed and gave her backside a pat. "Don't hardly need mystical cards to warn me about that. Met up with my share of snakes, and I'm still around."

  But Rafe wasn't laughing a few days later as he watched the horse doctor run his hands over Snatch's foreleg. They'd been riding flat out when Snatch suddenly reared and threw him. Rafe was unhurt, but as he dusted himself off he heard the distinctive dry sound of a rattler. He looked for the snake, but couldn’t spot it amid the loose sand and rocks. Snatch danced back a few paces and suddenly the rattlesnake struck at the horse. The fangs missed, but Snatch had pulled his leg avoiding the strike.

  Now Rafe would be holed up outside Tulsa for several days. He paid the horse doctor to tend and stable his animal, then set out on foot to look for lodging. He found a hotel with a clean room and a hot bath. He stripped down and lowered himself into the steaming tub. His tensions ebbed as a tremor ran through his body—both from the delicious heat of the water and Sparkle's caution to him when he'd left Wichita. Could she really have the gift?

  It certainly seemed possible, or Snatch almost being bitten by a rattler had been one hell of a coincidence.

  It was late summer. Rafe had some unfinished business here in Oklahoma, another fella to see down in Texas. He'd be headed up through Kansas by mid-autumn. Maybe he'd stop in Wichita and see Sparkle again. She might be able to tell him something about Dan Hoffman, the one man Rafe had hunted without success for years.

  Rafe closed his eyes and soaked, letting his head loll against the tub rim as he thought again about Sparkle's aquamarine eyes and shiny hair. The smell of lavender, the way she'd fit so perfectly within the circle of his arms. He'd slept like a baby, cuddled against her in that soft bed. Then awakened to find her fingers on his scar.

  The water was steaming hot, heating his blood. Making his thoughts turn carnal. Sparkle. Dainty fingers on his bare chest. God, he'd wanted to feel her hands on the rest of his body. Wanted her to close her fingers around his length and stroke it as she had the scar tissue on his chest. Even now he felt the ache of need, lustful want.

  Hell, it wasn't Hoffman or a need for information. Rafe could make that excuse to see her again, but that's all it was—an excuse. He wanted to see Sparkle because she was in his blood. He'd ridden away before and forgotten most of the females he left behind. But not this one. He wanted to kiss Sparkle again, wanted her in bed again.

  She liked him, maybe more than a little. She'd asked how to get a message to him. When had a woman other than his sister or ma ever given a rat's ass about Rafe Conley? But that didn't mean Sparkle felt like he did.

  He told himself not to lose sight of that. She was unsullied, despite working in saloons. Men were after her all the time. Fellas like that Brooks. Probably dozens of men like him, maybe a hundred drifters like Rafe himself. She wasn't intimate with any of them. Which meant there could be a damned good reason: like she was sweet on somebody or some man already had a claim. But if so, why wasn't he takin' care of her, so she didn't need to work in a saloon? Why wasn't she settled down with him, sleepin' beside him, with her hand on his bare chest?

  Rafe didn't like the image of her that way with anyone else. There couldn't be anybody in Wichita, or she wouldn't have asked him to play her charade. Her boss wouldn't have tossed her out if some fella would get wind of it and march into the saloon to punch him in the mouth.

  Sparkle wouldn't be the ice queen if she had a man available to protect her.

  The more Rafe thought on it, the more he felt baffled by the whole business. One thing he knew for sure, though. Sparkle LaFleur was gnawing a hole deep inside his chest—and this one would take more than some half-drunk country doctor's stitchin' to close up.

  * * *

  Sparkle wasn't surprised to find the gold band and Frazer's tales had a definite effect on customers. She was busy as ever, telling fortunes and hustling drinks, but the men no longer asked to dance with her. Whatever Deputy Thompson or Rafe himself had divulged, Frazer had embellished the stories. Now Rafe Conley's exploits were beyond bold, to practically legendary.

  The man himself was conspicuously absent. Weeks went by, then months, and still there was no sign of him. No word. It was absurd that she found herself feeling slightly dejected. What had she expected from a hired gun? Maybe he'd lost a gunfight somewhere. That was a definite possibility, she realized, "legend" or not. The thought left her heart cold.

  But in early December, a tall stranger walked through the swinging doors and immediately drew the eyes of every girl in the place. He was over six feet and lanky, with blue-black straight hair past his shoulders and an almost savage look. Sparkle suspected he was part Indian. So did Benton Frazer. He reacted the second he spotted the man at Sparkle's table.

  "Take your cards to the bench outside if that breed wants his fortune told," Frazer asserted, scowling. "Don't cater to his kind in my place."

  "Oh, that's just dandy, Frazer," Sparkle replied, reaching for her tarot deck before taking the newcomer's arm. "He probably doesn't cater to your kind in his place, either." She dropped her voice and glanced shyly up at the stranger. "At least I wouldn't. He's a real asshole."

  The Indian didn't even smile.

  They stepped out onto the porch. "Conley sends his good wishes. He cannot come now, but thinks of you often. He asked that I see you are well."

  "He's all right, then?" Sparkle realized she sounded too eager. "I mean, I worried when so much time had gone by…"

  "He is strong, a good man. We ride together from time to time. He does not like the one inside, that man who makes life hard for you. He worries. You worry about Conley too, I see. This is good. Good bond." He nodded firmly.

  Sparkle coughed. "Well, I suppose you could look at it that way. Conley's a friend of mine. Mister…?"

  "Parker."

  "That doesn't sound Indian."

  "My grandmother married a white man. My father was raised with your book of the Great Father in Heaven. He liked the tale of the one called Samson, who had great power in his hair. I am Samson Parker." Still no smile. A stiff bow from the waist.

  That explained the looks and strange speech, Sparkle thought. "Would you like to sit down, Samson Parker? I can take a break and read your fortune, if you'd like."

  "My destiny is already known to me, wife of Rafe Conley. You must help Conley find his."

  Sparkle felt ashamed flaunting the ruse to this fellow. Hadn't her mother spoken of Indians and other ancient peoples as having prophetic abilities of their own? Lying wouldn't do.

  "Rafe isn't my husband," Sparkle rushed to amend. "He bought this ring and pretended he was, because of my boss and to protect me from other men."

  "But you are Rafe Conley's woman."

  "Rafe is…" Sparkle stopped and tried again. How to make it plain? "Here, in this saloon, I'm Rafe's close friend. He stayed with me here one night, but we are not truly—"

  Samson Parker abruptly stepped off the porch into the street and solemnly glanced back. "Everywhere you are Rafe Conley's woman. The signs say this. I will tell him that you are well and send your regards in return."

  "Thank you," Sparkle muttered, watching him disappear into the swirling dust as an overloaded wagon filled with lumber rattled by.

  Ruby Ann was braiding her ash brown hair as she stepped onto the porch to stare after the tall stranger. "I'd like to warm his wigwam. Take it he's a friend of your husband. What'd he tell you? Rafe due back anytime soon?"

  "I don't know. It didn't sound like it. We better get back inside."

  "Spark, I know it ain't my place to say, but shouldn't he be comin' for Christmas, at least? It's been months since yo
u got married, and you ain't had no time together. Rafe must seem a huckleberry above a persimmon to you, but I always figured you for a different type. The steady sort, some fella who'd work down at the bank or general store. Not some gun out to prove who's fastest in a bullet-pissin' contest."

  "Sometimes the strangest people turn out to be the right type, Ruby," was all Sparkle said before she walked back into the saloon and took up her post at the fortune-telling table.

  She hoped a customer would come up quickly to distract her. She didn't want to face the thoughts running through her mind just now. She wished she couldn't hear her mother saying cryptic words about Indians. She wished at that moment that Eliza Cummings had never spent time in Europe or met the Italian strege, or witch woman, who taught her about tarot and helped developed Eliza's second sight. And in particular, far above everything else, Sparkle vehemently wished she hadn't understood exactly what Samson Parker had come to tell her.

  CHAPTER 5

  Travis Conley was two inches taller than his older brother and even leaner. His legs reminded Rafe of a woodstove's flue pipe. Nineteen and positive he already knew everything, Travis was used to bossing other men around and accustomed to his men—most years older than Travis—following orders without question. The bluster wasn't working on Rafe, though. He smoothed the saddle blanket and tightened the cinch on his sorrel, barely acknowledging his brother's anger.

  "You know, Trav, I don't get what the gals see in you sometimes." Rafe stepped past Travis to lift his bedroll. "Might have Pa's looks, but you got his cranky disposition too."

  "Rafe, you know damned well I was countin' on you to stay on at least until March. You never leave this early. If I'd known you'd be headin' out so soon, I wouldn't have let three hands go this winter."

  "Your bunkhouse ain't empty."

  "No, your damned head is! There's still more than a foot of snow out there."