"Should've seen somebody in Wichita before I came this time, but I never made it. Got sidetracked with Henry Tate Watkins. If I don't go to Wichita now, body's liable to think I ain't never comin' back that way."
"Body's liable to think?" Travis repeated, snorting in disgust. "A damned filly. That's what you mean. You're leavin' me shorthanded to chase some skirt?"
"Maybe. So maybe you can understand why I'm itchin' to get out. Been holed up in the cabin for weeks. Don't go to them dances and social like you, little brother."
"You're shorter, Rafe, and probably weigh less than I do. You're the little brother now. And there's no reason you can't go into town with me. Hell, if it's companionship, I can—"
"No gal at them town socials is hankerin' after the likes of me. This spread and every other's crawlin' with menfolk. A woman round here can take her pick. Not by a jugful am I lettin' you drag me to one of them barn dances, so I can watch while the gals make eyes at you and Mick Keenan. Don't belong in no boiled shirt at the meetin' hall."
"The gals don't know you got a scar under your shirt."
"Ain't my scar. Just time to mosey."
"Saloon cats givin' their payin' customers orders now, huh? You really got someone to see, or is it a case of the French pox?"
Rafe's right hand balled into a fist. "You'll always be the little brother, Travis. I can still whip you, so watch your tongue."
"I know you're never with any but rented gals. This painted cat…"
"She ain't a whore," Rafe insisted. "She works in a saloon, I grant you, but she's a pretty waiter gal. She had some trouble, so I…we started puttin' on like she's my wife."
"Your wife? Jesus! You got a soiled dove in the family way?" Travis visibly winced.
"I just told you, she ain't no soiled dove. And she ain't expectin', just claimin' we're married so she won't have to fight with the saloonkeeper about whorin'."
"Great. She's not some pregnant harlot. Just a sneak and a liar who favors the notion of bein' hitched to a mercenary. Sounds like a slice of pure heaven."
Rafe ignored the sarcasm. "Screw you, Travis. All I tried to do was saddle Snatch and get out. Don't remember invitin' your big nose into my life. But as long as we're on the subject, the gal asked where she could get in touch with me. I told her she could write me here. You hear from a gal named Sparkle, let Zach know. He or Miranda usually know where to wire me, since I transfer funds to the bank pretty regular."
"Sparkle?" Travis took two steps back, shaking his head. "Why not go whole hog and make it Golddust, for pity's sake? Ain't too bold, is she?"
Rafe glanced at his brother. "You say one more thing like that, I'll take my whip to your back. Ain't funnin', Travis."
Travis scowled. "Sparkle. If she ain't a regular doxy, she must be a singer or dancer…gal with a name like that."
"She reads fortunes."
Travis snorted and slapped his thighs. Rafe swung up into the saddle, frowning back. "You won't be laughin' when she helps me find Hoffman and put a bullet through his skull."
"Never gettin' past that, are you? Uncle Tom rode with Slade's gang. Had to go lookin' for pie in the sky. It ain't up there, Rafe. Most of the time, fellas lookin' for manna from above just find trouble here below. Miranda's always frettin' you'll meet the same end Uncle Tom did. Reckon I want to set next to her at your funeral, after you've taken a couple slugs in the back? Been offerin' you half this spread the past two years."
"Ain't the kind who can stay in one place long. You know that. Winter's enough. I couldn't do this all year round. Ain't in me to grow roots in one spot."
"Is she at least pretty, this fortune teller you're sort of hitched to?"
Now Rafe grinned. "The finest. Little bitty thing, doesn't even come up to my shoulder. Boss threw her in the street right on top of my boot. She got up and gave him hell. Then I got him to reconsider his rude actions."
"The Colt got him to, you mean."
"Yep. She's got these incredible eyes…aquamarine, all clear and sparkling…Guess that's why the name. And Sparkle LaFleur is her real name." He winked as he nudged the sorrel's flank. "Think I'd let some ugly hag claim she was my wife? I got a reputation, you know."
"She knows, too, so what the hell does she see in you? Can't be your plug-ugly face or disposition," Travis taunted. "Told her you had a handsome younger brother, did you?"
"Didn't tell her spit, except your name and that you own this spread. What's she see in me? She's a fortune teller, remember? She can see what other folks can't."
Travis watched his brother ride off, mulling over Rafe's revelation. Then he went back to the main house, straight to his desk, and took out a pen and paper. He settled at the kitchen table with a mug of strong coffee to write Miranda. He knew Rafe would be furious, but Travis felt their sister ought to know Rafe had gone loco over some doxy. Travis would just bet she was indeed a whore, no matter what Rafe said.
Maybe she was everything Rafe thought she was. Maybe.
But saloon gals were known to judge a man by the gold in his pockets. If she had the smarts Rafe credited her for, she could figure out he must have reward money piling up. Travis prayed this Sparkle genuinely cared for Rafe. Because Rafe had never been sweet enough on a gal to ride three acres to see her, let alone three hundred miles. Rafe had to have it bad for this gal in Wichita, whoever she truly was.
And Lordy, she'd better be someone mighty special. If not, Travis warned Miranda in his letter, their brother might just turn into quarry stone. If Sparkle La-Dee-Da was just another calculating saloon slut, Rafe was headed for a world of misery.
* * *
Rafe strolled into the Scarlet Lady, his hands and lips chapped, his lower body stiff from riding nearly two days straight without stopping for more than an hour at a time. He'd been on the trail for two weeks. One of the red dresses he recognized from his previous visit detached herself from the little clump of employees hovering near the bar and sashayed over.
She had curly light hair and big doe eyes. The same dress that made Sparkle look trim had this gal resembling an overstuffed pillow ready to bust its seams. "Howdy, y'all," the girl muttered, offering a weak smile. "Sparkle ain't back yet. Won't be, till day after tomorra. My name's Brenda. Sparkle and I are friends."
Rafe interpreted that to mean she knew where Sparkle was. "She gone home to visit her brother?"
"Well, of course, silly. She took the train to Kansas City last Monday. How come you don't know where your own wife is? Out playin' Goldilocks, testin' other beds?"
Rafe vehemently shook his head. "Been workin' in Colorado. Got here sooner than I figured. Recollect she wanted to go home for a spell," he lied. He'd only been guessing.
"Frazer wouldn't let her go for Christmas, even though it was so slow round here, we damned near had to start givin' the faro dealers free rides upstairs, just to keep in practice." She wet her lower lip and gave Rafe a different sort of smile. "She didn't get to spend the holidays with you, neither."
"I work all over. Can't always make it back when I want."
"Saw the ring you bought her. Funny, she's never talked about how y'all happened to get hitched or nothin'. Not that she tells me everything…like how she enjoyed her weddin' night."
Rafe caught the key significance of that comment. The doe eyes were fastened on the crotch of his jeans, making him mentally squirm. He hadn't been with a woman in…shit, he realized it had to be several months. Any other time, he'd have been halfway up the stairs with this one. He wasn't a man to disregard an open invitation. But he also wasn't about to risk dippin' his ladle in this particular well. Frazer would make sure Sparkle heard about it before the doors stopped swingin' behind her bustle.
Rafe tipped his hat. "Got other business hereabouts. Tell Sparkle I'll be lookin' for her."
He headed down for Sadie's and had a drink while sitting in on a few games of faro. Gambling usually kept his mind off women. He took it seriously, almost as seriously as his business contracts. Luck
wasn't with him today, though. The house changed dealers, a buxom female taking over shortly after he'd begun a brief winning streak.
Her eyes kept going back to him and holding his a second or so before drifting toward the other players. An hour later, the male she'd relieved for his meal break returned. She pocketed her tips and invited Rafe to have a drink. Four sips later, she led him upstairs. He entered a room nicer than the one Sparkle had across town.
He watched the woman strip down and spread herself across the bed, parting her thighs to give him a view of her wares. She was one fleshy meal, with remarkably abundant breasts. Her nipples were the size of half-dollars. Rafe imagined they'd tighten up to look like twin bullets once he started sucking on them. He'd take his time with this one.
"Got to put your gunbelt over there, Sugar," the whore pointed. Rafe shook his head.
"I'll put it on the floor here beside my boots and spurs, unless you'd like me to wear 'em." He gave her a randy grin, then reached for the buttons of his fly. She watched with interest until he removed his shirt. Then her expression dimmed.
"That sure is nasty. You get burned with lamp oil or somethin'?"
"Accident some years back. Don't worry, it won't rub off on you."
"But you'll be rubbin' it all over me." They could have been talking about a dead rat from her tone of voice.
Rafe put his clothes back on and picked up his gunbelt. "On second thought, don't reckon I will." He tossed a half-dollar at her. It landed between her pendulous globes. "There. Now you got three of 'em. Thanks for nothin'."
He silently berated himself as he wandered back out into the street. He shouldn't have let the bitch get to him. He ought to be used to women gapin' and the distaste on their faces. What had he expected, that things would have changed just because…He stopped and wiped his coat sleeve across his face, the cold stinging his cheeks.
Christ, Rafe, you can't let a stupid slut get you to thinkin' you ain't a man. Can't let Sparkle's reaction get your hopes up that other gals will see you any different. They don't.
Suddenly the craving to see Sparkle became unbearable. He'd thought about her almost constantly back at Crockhead Rest, until he'd been driven to pack up and come back here. He'd give anything to see her face, talk with her. She'd laugh in that titter that warmed his insides, remind him that everyone had scars. She wouldn't make him feel worthless.
Not that Rafe didn't believe Sparkle LaFleur could flay the hide right off a man if she put her mind to it, but flayin' a man wasn't her way. Oh, she put on that tough act, but he sensed she'd sooner hurt herself than somebody else. She had a big soft spot inside. That's what the act was protecting.
An hour later, after a hot meal and a tall bourbon at the Cowcatcher Saloon, he aimlessly prowled the town, reminding himself there was one sure way to get past what had happened. Work. That always made him feel better. Few people understood why he'd chosen to earn his pay as a freelance gun. Few understood what the profession could offer.
Hiring out was much like what everybody assumed: perilous, intermittent, intense, difficult at either extreme—long hours of waiting, brief split-seconds of life and death. But goddamned satisfying. And it paid incredibly well. Rafe could buy most anything he wanted, but his needs were simple. He helped Travis out with money for stock and supplies for Crockhead Rest. He drank and gambled some. He wired the bulk of his earnings to his brother-in-law Zach, an Omaha banker who managed Rafe's investment portfolio.
But folks didn't understand the years he'd devoted to perfecting his skills. He'd learned tracking and hunting from his father and uncle, learned to shoot a rifle, then a Colt peacemaker, learned to use a bullwhip. When he began hiring out, he had his Colt's action smoothed and grip honed to fit his right hand perfectly. Other gunmen favored the shorter barrel, but Rafe liked the classic Colt model. He'd had the trigger removed years ago and spent hours thumbing the hammer. Firing the gun was a reflexive action now, so he could draw and hit in the literal blink of an eye. His right hand was virtually wired straight to his eyes. No precious seconds wasted on morality debates.
Rafe gave every man a fair chance to let things go down easy, but if the fella didn't opt to take that chance, Rafe took him down hard.
He realized someday his reflexes would be too slow, his quarry too fast. That's why he had Zach putting money away and making it grow. Someday Rafe would have to find another way to occupy his time. He didn't like pondering that, for he suspected there wouldn't be anything more lucrative or satisfying. Most people followed their instincts for self preservation. Rafe deliberately taunted death, faced it, conquered it. Every time he prevailed, he proved his mettle and earned more than money.
Work had given him the scar, but it was also the answer for the darkness in his soul the scar inspired. There had to be someone in a cow town worth a bounty. Rafe began to hunt.
He spent the night in a cheap hotel and was up early the following day, scouting Wichita. He checked with Art Thompson and pored over Wanted posters. He familiarized himself with the descriptions of every lawbreaker suspected of being in Kansas or Nebraska, visited the saloons, barber shop, general store, and pharmacy—where he was disgusted to find the irritating dandy working.
The next day his diligence paid off in a lucky coincidence. Bowlegs Barker and the Poe twins came sneaking around the side of the livery. One of the twins had Snatch's reins in his fist. In the countless times Rafe had gone after outlaws, this was the first and only time he'd caught them stealing from him.
"You three are about the dumbest pukes I ever did meet," Rafe announced, peacemaker aimed at Barker's head. "Not only stealin' horseflesh in broad daylight, but that sorrel's my horse."
"Do tell," the Poe with the reins chuckled. "Ain't we got taste?"
"Nope. What you got's a fondness for rustlin' stock," Rafe contradicted. "Along with about two seconds to ease your guns into the dirt. Try to be some pumpkins, Barker'll be nothin' but a pair of bowed legs without a place to hang his hat."
"Good seein' you again, too," Barker sneered as he gingerly set his pistol down. "You're makin' a mistake now, Conley. This sorrel's mine. Bought him yesterday from a rancher."
"What's his name?"
Barker shrugged. "Hell if I know. Didn't give a crap. Fella just sold me the horse." The Poe twin leading Snatch was unarmed. His brother made no move to put down his pistol.
"Not the rancher," Rafe drawled. "The horse. If he's yours, you must call him somethin'."
"What's it to you, what I call my horse?"
"Nothin'. But that sorrel ain't yours, he's mine. I can prove it." Without shifting his gaze, Rafe spoke to the animal. "Snatch, johnnycakes."
The horse reared and kicked viciously at the man holding his reins. Pandemonium broke out. By the time Art Thompson and the marshal arrived, a group of local vigilantes were gathered at the livery, threatening to string up the horse thieves. The young stable hand who'd been on duty had been knocked unconscious by the twins, and finally came back to his senses. Barker sat bleeding from the bullet Rafe sent through his shoulder. After giving his statement to the two lawmen and making certain Snatch was safely back in a stall, Rafe reluctantly agreed to visit the doctor's surgery.
The town was abuzz with the news of a shoot-out and the valiant gunman who'd been taken with the stable boy to Dr. Stone's surgery. Swanie Johnson swore he'd been at Doc Stone's and witnessed the gunslinger's refusal to be treated until after the doctor saw to the youth. Then the stalwart fellow had given the stable boy a gold eagle and sent him to find some johnnycakes, instructing him to feed them to the star sorrel. He politely tipped his hat to the lad and ordered him to keep two cakes and any money left for himself.
Sparkle heard the gossip at the depot as she disembarked. The train butch and baggage handlers were talking to some men about the ruckus at the livery. Apparently, the episode had occurred less than an hour before. She found her bag and began walking briskly toward the saloon, grimacing at the thought that Benton Frazer would
be agog like the rest of the men in town. As if trailheads weren't the rowdiest places on the prairie.
Frazer barked at her as soon as she stepped through the swinging doors. "Your husband's been shot in some hubbub. He's over at Doc Stone's surgery."
She dropped her satchel, numbly realizing the man everyone had been talking about was Rafe Conley. "How bad is he?"
"Hell, I don't know. But I'm telling you right now, LaFleur—excuse me, Conley—you can't have another night off. I don't care if he's dyin'. You been out a week. Go see what's up, then get your behind back here right quick."
Sparkle dashed the few blocks to Dr. Stone's, fighting a stitch in her side by the time she stumbled through the door. "Doctor? It's…Mrs. Conley."
"Back here."
She followed the voice to a small room, where Rafe sat calmly on a table watching the doctor suture his upper arm. "He's lost some blood and a small section of muscle." The doctor never looked up from his task. "Bullet missed the bone, thankfully. If you can keep it from suppurating, he should be fine. Provided no one else tries to steal his horse." Dr. Stone gave Sparkle a look of wry amusement.
She moved closer to the table, and felt her throat go dry.
"Hey, darlin'," Rafe smiled in greeting, reaching for her just in time. Her knees started to buckle. "Whoa! Got some smellin' salts handy, Doc? She's lookin' kind of pale. Probably the sight of blood."
Sparkle steadied herself, gripping Rafe' s good forearm. Some dim part of her mind wondered why he'd bothered to put his hat back on. He was sitting there naked from the waist up, and his denims were stained deep crimson in several places. He did indeed look like a man who'd just been in a gun battle.
"I'm all right," she mumbled. "It just came as a shock, learning you're the hero everyone's talking about. Three outlaws at once?"
He chuckled and shook his head. "Three turkeys. Good thing I taught Snatch to work with me. Them three pukes—er, sorry, Doc. No offense meant, case you're from Missouri." When the doctor only released a soft laugh, Rafe drawled. "They didn't stand a chance."
The Trailrider's Fortune Page 5
