by Jo Goodman
“Viscous. Thick and sticky.”
“Oh.” Her pout disappeared in place of an uncertain smile. “I suppose.” She withdrew her fingers from her hair. A few strands clung stubbornly until she brushed them away. “I don’t figure I would mind having your fingers caught in my hair.”
“Hmm.” Quill’s eyes darted toward the top of the stairs.
Honey touched his chin with her fingertip and turned his attention back to her. “Forget about her. You have no cause to worry. Do you see anyone else here showing a lick of concern?”
He did not. There had been interest when she appeared, but it was Whitfield’s arrival that aroused apprehension. What he felt in the room now that Whitfield was gone was collective relief.
“Quill McKenna.”
“How’s that again?”
“My name. Quill McKenna.”
She smiled, tapped him on the mouth with the tip of her index finger. “I see. Finally.” She removed her finger. “Quill. It’s unusual, isn’t it? What sort of name is it?”
“Mine.” He remained expressionless as Honey regarded him steadily.
“Not much for words, are you?”
“Not much.”
His response gave rise to Honey’s husky chuckle. “That’s all right by me,” she said. “I’m thinking there’s other things we could be doing. You want to finish that drink, maybe go upstairs, have a poke at me?”
He should have wanted her, he thought. When she first approached him, he was glad of it. Honey hair, in color and texture. An abundance of curves. Lambent, cornflower blue eyes. A nicely rounded bottom that fit snugly in his lap and breasts that looked as if they would overflow the cup of his palms to the perfect degree. Spillage, but no waste. Before he saw Katie Nash, this woman would have satisfied him.
Quill finished his drink, knocking it back in a single gulp, and placed the glass on the side table. He held Honey’s eyes and jerked his chin toward the stairs. She grinned, took him by the hand as she wiggled off his lap, and Quill gave her no reason to think he did not enjoy it. She drew him to his feet, letting him bump against her before she coyly turned and led him to the steps. Giving him an over-the-shoulder glance, she released his hand and began to climb.
Quill followed until she reached the top. She went right; he went left.
“My room’s this way,” she said when she realized he was no longer behind her. Quill ignored her and she hurried after him, looping her arm through his. She tugged hard enough to pull him up. “The other way.”
“Show me where her room is.” Gaslight flickered in the narrow hallway. Shadows came and went across Honey’s troubled face as she shook her head vigorously. Quill was unmoved. “Show me.”
“No. It’s nothing but trouble for me if I do. You, too.”
“I’ll knock on every door.” He counted them quickly. “All four.”
In response, Honey doubled her efforts to hold him back by circling her other arm around his. She squeezed. “You don’t understand. You’re a stranger here. Let it be.”
Quill looked down at her restraining arms and then at her. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I will if I have to shake you off. And I will shake you off. Let me go.” He was used to being taken at his word, but she was right that he was a stranger, and so he allowed her a few extra moments to make a decision about the nature of his character. He held her gaze until he felt her arms relax, unwind, and then fall back to her sides. “Which room?” he asked quietly.
Honey tilted her head in the direction of the room on her right. “You are hell bent on makin’ trouble, aren’t you?”
Quill had no answer for that, at least not one that he cared to entertain now, so he merely shrugged. He was not surprised when Honey, clearly disappointed by his lack of response, sighed heavily.
“Go,” she said, waving him on. “But don’t ever say you weren’t—” She stopped abruptly, startled by a thud heavy enough to make the door she had pointed out shudder in its frame. A second thud, only a slightly weaker echo of the first, caused the floor to vibrate.
Quill moved quickly, pushing at the door while it was still juddering. He expected some give in it, but there was none. He looked over at Honey. She had turned toward him, hands raised, palms out, a gesture that was meant to absolve her of all responsibility and remind him he was on his own.
Behind the door, Quill could hear scuffling sounds and labored breathing. He examined the door; saw there was no lock plate, and therefore no key. He raised an eyebrow at Honey. This time she was the one who shrugged.
Quill turned the knob again and threw his shoulder into the door. It moved a fraction, but he could feel resistance on the other side. From below stairs, he heard Mrs. Fry calling for Honey. She did not hesitate to desert him to answer the summons. Once he heard Honey offer assurances to the madam, he paid no more attention to their exchange.
When Quill put his shoulder to the door again, it moved just enough for him to insert his fingers between the door and frame and provide additional leverage.
“Good way to get your knuckles crushed.”
Quill recognized the voice immediately, and nothing about it was masculine. He withdrew his fingers.
“Very wise.”
Katie Nash did not show herself in the narrow opening, but neither did she close it. Quill did not know what to make of that. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“No one’s holding a gun to my head, if that’s what you mean.”
He wondered if that were true. He heard some more scuffling, a husky moan, and then . . . nothing. He glanced down the hallway and saw that Honey was no longer standing at the top of the stairs. He waited several long beats before he pushed at the door a third time.
The response he got for his effort was, “What do you want?”
“In.”
“I am with someone.”
“I know.”
“I do not entertain two men at one time.” A brief pause. “Unless they are brothers. I believe I would make an exception for brothers.”
“Winfield is my brother.”
“His name is Whitfield.”
“That’s his last name. Winfield’s his first.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her dry response raised Quill’s smile. He was coming around to the notion that she was just fine, but before he quite got there, he heard her swear softly. This was followed by another thud against the door, this one hard enough to shut it in his face. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, and twisted the knob and pushed.
This time he was met with little resistance, which made his entrance ungainly as he more or less fell over himself crossing the threshold. He stumbled clumsily past the woman he meant to save.
“That’s one way to do it,” she said, not sparing him a glance as she pushed the door closed behind him.
Quill straightened, regaining his equilibrium if not his dignity, and turned. He was glad she did not look up as astonishment had momentarily made him slack-jawed. She was kneeling at Mr. Whitfield’s side, testing the ropes that trussed that former tree of a man into something more closely resembling a stump. He lay awkwardly and uncomfortably curled on his side by virtue of the fact that his wrists and ankles were now bound behind him. His sweat-stained neckerchief was wadded in his mouth, secured by a piece of linen that Quill recognized as a strip torn from the hem of Katie Nash’s shift.
He watched her place a hand on Whitfield’s shoulder, shake him hard enough to rattle his teeth if he had not been gagged and unconscious, and then, apparently satisfied, raise herself so she could rock back on her heels and finally turn narrowed eyes on him.
“Well,” he said. “So it’s true.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What’s true?”
“The ropes and gag. My brother’s proclivities in the bedroom run to the peculiar.” He thought she might smile, but sh
e didn’t. She continued to stare at him, more suspicious than curious.
“I was concerned about you,” he said.
“Can’t think of a reason why that should be so.”
“Just now, neither can I.” Quill’s gaze darted to Whitfield and then to the clothes scattered across the floor. His gun belt hung over the headboard. The man certainly had been eager. She had managed to subdue him while he was still wearing his union suit, but even that was unbuttoned to the navel. Whitfield had a chest of hair like a grizzly. His cock was a small bulge pressing weakly against the front flap of his drawers. It occurred to Quill that stumbling through a door was a lesser indignity than being laid low with a cock curled in on itself like a slug.
When Quill’s attention returned to her, his eyebrows beetled as he scratched lightly behind his right ear. “I admit to being a tad perplexed.”
She stood, hands at her sides. “A tad?”
“A touch. A mite. A bit.”
“I know what ‘a tad’ means.”
“Good. It’s better if I don’t have to explain.”
“Words I live by.” She pointed to Whitfield. “You want to give me a hand, you being here and all? Uninvited, for a fact.”
“Depends. Are you going to drop him out the window?”
“A temptation, but no. Help me get him on the bed and then tell Mrs. Fry she can send for Joe Pepper. He’s the sheriff.”
“All right.” He observed that his agreement seemed to make her more suspicious, not less. “Did you expect an argument?”
She said nothing for a moment then her cheeks puffed with an expulsion of air. “Not sure what I expect. You’re not a bounty hunter, are you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“That’s no good,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“How’s that again?”
“I said it’s no good. You would lie about it if you were.”
“Lying doesn’t come naturally to me. I have to work real hard at it.”
“Are you working hard now?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Katie,” she said. “Call me Katie.”
“I don’t think that’s your name.” If he had not been watching her closely, he would have missed her almost imperceptible start. It pleased him that he had guessed correctly, though he took pains not to show it.
“You were sitting beside Honey downstairs. I saw you. You heard Mrs. Fry tell Whit my name.”
“I heard what she said. I am no longer certain I believe it.”
“I can’t be responsible for what you believe. Call me Katie or nothing at all. Now, you take his shoulders while I get his feet.”
It was no easy task hoisting the man she called Whit, so they dragged and carried and dragged some more, and heaved him onto the bed together. Whit made unintelligible guttural sounds but never woke up.
“He’s a big one,” Quill said. “What did you use to put him down?” When she did not answer, he surveyed the room again, overlooking the scattered clothes and gun belt this time. His eyes fell on the whiskey bottle on the bedside table and the twin tumblers beside it. Only one of the tumblers still had whiskey in it. “Remind me not to drink from that bottle.”
“Suit yourself.” She picked up the glass that held a generous finger of liquor and knocked it back. Smiling ever so slightly, she replaced the tumbler on the table.
Eyeing the bottle again, Quill said, “I don’t suppose he is worth laying a bottle of good whiskey to waste, not when you can drop chloral hydrate into his drink.”
She gave him no direct response, pointing to the door instead. “You are supposed to tell Mrs. Fry about getting Joe Pepper.”
“Right. The sheriff.” His eyes darted briefly to Whitfield. “He’s going to come around soon, a big man like that. Will you be—” He did not finish his sentence because she gave him a withering look. “I am going now.”
Quill did not have an opportunity to close the door; she closed it for him. He had not yet taken two steps when he heard the telltale sounds of a chair banging against the door and then being fitted securely under the knob. Shaking his head, he went in search of Mrs. Fry and discovered that the twin parlors on the first floor were largely deserted.
Honey, he saw, had found another lap to warm. He meant to give her a wide berth, but she put out a hand to stop him when he would have walked by. “If you’re looking for Mrs. Fry, she’s gone for the sheriff herself. I warned you not to interfere.”
He frowned. “What are you saying? She’s not bringing the sheriff here for me.”
“You certain about that?”
“He’s coming for Whitfield.”
Honey shrugged, dropping her hand. “Two birds. One stone.”
Quill looked to Honey’s companion for confirmation, but the lanky cowboy had his face in the curve of her neck and was rooting like a piglet to his mama’s teat. He regarded Honey’s guileless expression and wondered what he could believe. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “I’ll take my chances.”
She merely smiled and ruffled her cowboy’s hair. “Upstairs, lover. You can nuzzle at your leisure.”
Quill stood back as the pair got to their feet. He watched Honey pull her cowboy along just as she had pulled on him. It was as choreographed a move as any he had seen in a Chicago dance hall, and while he could appreciate, even admire, the practice needed to acquire the skill that made such moments appear spontaneous, he had a deeper regard for those moments between a man and a woman that were spontaneous.
He turned away before Honey and her new partner reached the stairs. No one was at the piano. The brothel was as quiet as it had been when Whit came calling. He approached a pair of whores drinking beer in a dark corner of the main parlor. Although they looked up when he came upon them, neither gave an indication they welcomed his attention. Just the opposite was true. Their expressions were identically sullen.
“Mrs. Fry,” he said. “Where can I find her?” At first, Quill thought they did not mean to answer him, but then they traded glances, shrugged simultaneously, and pointed to the front door.
“She’s really gone for Joe Pepper?” he asked.
They nodded, and the one with a drooping green velvet ribbon in her hair was moved to add, “Had to, what with you causin’ such a fuss. The menfolk that took off kicked up dust like stampeding cattle. You cost us some earnings there.”
The whore who wore a cameo pendant around her neck said, “The ones who stayed skedaddled to the rooms. I expect they’re under the beds, not on them.”
Quill frowned, but he said, “All right. I suppose you can tell the sheriff that I am waiting for him upstairs.”
“As if we wouldn’t,” said Droopy Ribbon.
It occurred to Quill to retrieve his hat and gun belt, but then he thought better of it. There was no sense in tempting fate, and Whit was no longer armed. That evened things out if he came around, and the Colt was useless against Katie Nash. Quill had never shot a woman, never pointed a gun at one, and if he were going to start now, he figured he would take aim at Miss Droopy Ribbon or her equally bad-tempered companion, Miss Cameo Pendant.
That thought buoyed him all the way to where Mr. Whitfield was being held, and he was still grinning when he politely knocked on the door.
“Is that you, Joe Pepper?”
“No. Not Sheriff Pepper. But he will be here directly if that eases your mind.”
“My mind is not uneasy.”
“That’s good. A clear conscience is a comfortable companion.”
“Who said that?”
“I thought I just did. Why? Did it seem profound?” Quill drew back when he heard the chair being moved aside. A moment later the door opened, although she blocked his entrance with a hand placed on either side of the frame.
“It seemed,” she said, “like something a badly behaved
schoolboy would have to write repetitively. Probably under his teacher’s watchful eye.”
A small vertical crease appeared between Quill’s eyebrows as he gave her observation full consideration. A few strands of sun-licked hair fell across his forehead when he tipped his head sideways. He raked them back absently, still mulling. When he was done, his face cleared and he regarded her with guileless blue-gray eyes.
“No,” he said. “I never put chalk to a slate to write something like that. I think it is an original thought.”
“Well, damn. When I woke this morning, I did not anticipate standing in the presence of a man with an original thought, and yet here I am, practically basking in his glow. My day is steadily improving, wouldn’t you say?”
Quill grinned. “You think I have a glow?” A chuckle stirred at the back of his throat when her eyes narrowed—green eyes, he noticed, not blue, not soft, but remarkably fine in their own way, sharp and sentient, a shade sly, and framed by a sweep of thick, dark lashes. She surprised him by opening the door wider and gesturing him to enter. Afraid she would change her mind, he did not hesitate to accept the invitation.
Whit was still bound and gagged on the bed, though it was clear from the state of the covers and the angle of his body that he had been restless in Quill’s absence. “He woke?” asked Quill.
“Briefly.”
Quill did not ask how she subdued him a second time. He suspected that a careful inspection of Whit’s skull would reveal a lump or two. The man’s revolver was no longer in its holster. Instead, the .36 caliber Remington rested on the windowsill, far outside of Whit’s reach should he free himself. He did wonder for a moment if Whit was still alive, but then he observed a breath shudder through the big man and had his answer.
“I wasn’t sure you would let me in,” he said.
She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure I could keep you out.”
He nodded, looked her over. She was no longer wearing the cotton shift; or rather she was no longer wearing only the cotton shift. He supposed it was under her black-and-white-striped sateen dress, along with a tightly laced corset, a chemise, a flounced petticoat, a wire bustle of only moderate size, white or black stockings, suspenders to hold them up, and knickers. Courtesy of the corset and bustle, there was an illusion of curves, but Quill did not think they suited her.
