Jesse choked on his tongue.
Luke's lips quirked.
"I figured you to be Cherokee. Right after we met. Mostly 'cause you didn't recognize the hand signals that I sent you that day Sera introduced us. But Chickasaws and Cherokees have been allies for hundreds of years 'round these parts.
"Aw, c'mon," Luke teased. "You didn't think I'd know you for a brother?"
Jesse gulped down a ragged breath. Blue Thunder's attorney and its mayor were Colored folk?
Luke grinned, as if guessing his thoughts. "'Course, you gotta realize that me, Pa and the rest of us don't go around boasting about it. Leastways, not to inferiors."
Jesse bit back a sound that was half laugh, half curse. "Just how many Chickasaws live in town?"
"Oh... about 12 families, I reckon."
"Have you told Bonnie?" Jesse marveled. "About your heritage, I mean."
"Sure. Right before I seduced her. The first time." Luke smirked. He was busy tying the deer hide around his arrow shaft with a piece of red twine, which he'd also produced from a hidden pocket. Pausing in his task, he slid Jesse a discerning look. "I don't recommend keeping that sort of thing from your woman. Not the woman you want to bear your sons."
Jesse's face heated. He averted his gaze.
"Pin the badge back on, Jess. Do you know how damned long Pa and I have been praying to Great Spirit for a brother who could keep the peace for the papooses?"
Luke was withdrawing his bow from the saddle boot now.
Guiltily, Jesse obeyed.
"Are you planning to send a message?" Jesse asked.
"That's right. Lydia comes from British stock. She isn't likely to understand smoke signals," Luke added dryly, nocking his arrow. "'Sides. Sammy Junior is one of us. He'll know the red twine means there's a message attached."
Luke pulled the bowstring past his jawbone before he let the arrow fly. It released with a barely audible twang, barreling through fog, drizzle and wind to sail over the river and strike an oak beyond the fringe of the flood, about 70 yards away.
"Hmm. That one hit a bit higher than I intended," Luke mused. "Sammy's only 14-years-old, which makes five feet the ideal eye-level for him. Here." Luke offered the bow to Jesse. "You try."
Tugging off his gauntlets, Jesse tested the bow's draw weight. He pulled back the string. Impressed, he waited for Luke to tie another piece of deerhide to an arrowshaft. "What's the message say?"
"'Got guests? Who? Need supplies?'" Luke was tying a knot that rain was only going to tighten. Sammy would need a knife to cut the message free. "Both hides are inked with the same questions, in case Sammy doesn't see the first arrow."
Jesse nodded. Luke had clearly thought the task through. "And Sammy will shoot the answers back?"
Luke nodded. "We have to keep communications creative around here, thanks to mudslides and flashfloods. Oh. And ice storms. They knock down the telegraph lines at least once per season."
Luke passed the arrow to him. Jesse weighed it in his hand. The deerhide and twine shouldn't throw off the trajectory too much. The shaft was strong and light—a piece of birch sapling, if he wasn't mistaken.
Nerves made his heart skitter as he nocked the arrow. He couldn't remember the last time he'd held a bow in his hand, much less fired one. Since meeting Cass, the White man's choice of arms had become his weapons.
Staring down the shaft, Jesse loosed his breath and fired. The arrow shot off, its head glittering in a flash of lightning as it sped across the river. It thunked squarely in its target: a wind-sheared dogwood that stood two paces from the road. Jesse grunted with satisfaction to see the feathers quivering about 58 inches above the pink blossoms scattered around the shrub's leaf litter.
Not a bad strike, considering.
"Now what?" he demanded, passing the bow back to Luke.
The Chickasaw slid the weapon into his saddle boot and replaced the water-proof tarp. "Now we go home to a warm supper. Do a little praying...
"And wait."
* * *
The Next Morning
Cass was bored out of his mind. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been forced to spend time in a drafty, gloomy sick ward—much less two days in one. God knew, if he had ever envisioned himself trapped on a sickbed this long, he would have embellished the scene with a few naughty details: like a harem of randy nurses who couldn't take their hands off him.
'At least one of those beauties would have to be a real redhead—thank you, Lord!—and all of them would have to be over the age of 18! No toddlers. No teddy bears. And for crying out loud, no dollies!'
In fact, Billy's ideal love lair would have been equipped with feathers, silky-to-the-touch cornstarch, hot melted chocolate, the softest lamb fur that money could buy...
And Sadie.
Sadie Michelson, if his lust-fogged, 13-year-old mind remembered correctly. At the time, he and his 16-year-old debaucher had been too busy locking lips to waste time on introductions.
But autumn-haired, golden-eyed Sadie had grown up to become the prettiest, priciest, haughtiest madam in all of San Francisco's Barbary Coast. While he... well, he'd turned into a bit less than his mama had hoped for: a wannabe Texas Ranger with no hope of redemption.
And all because of that butchering bastard, Abel Ainsworth.
Cass scowled to remember how Ainsworth had tortured and mutilated Bobby, the cousin who'd tried to raise him for two years after the last of their parents had died.
Cass's gaze strayed furtively to Collie, who was sitting in the chair that Sera had abandoned. The boy was busy whittling an opossum—or maybe a coon—from his chunk of white pine. With his silver-blonde hair, wolfish face, and wiry build, Collie bore a haunting resemblance to Bobby.
Except, of course, that Collie was the cagiest damned kid that Cass had ever met—even if Collie was still a novice with a gun.
At Collie's age, Lynx had needed quick-draw lessons too. Cass had obliged, mostly because he liked an audience. That, and he preferred to keep a flock of folks who owed him. The way that Cass figured it, you never knew when you might need to call in a favor.
Even so, he hadn't figured on starting up a life-long friendship with an Injun. Hell, he hadn't even known Lynx's name when he'd found him hogtied in the slag of Ainsworth's smithy.
But Lynx had proven his usefulness about three days later, when he'd nursed Cass back to life. Who would have thought that a little, bitty bumble bee could make him puff up like a bull frog and damn near stop his heart?
Collie's growl of annoyance interrupted Cass's reverie.
"You want a knuckle sandwich?"
"Now what's eating you, boy?"
"You, if you don't quit staring."
"You always talk to your elders that way?"
Collie snorted. Blowing sawdust from his porcupine—or whatever the hell it was—he lapsed into another one of his surly silences.
Back in Chinatown, in Frisco, Cass had heard about a torture the Johnnies did with water. Supposedly, a simple drip-drip-dripping on the forehead could make a grown man bawl and spill his guts. Cass had scoffed at such hogwash; however, after a quarter hour alone with Collie, he was beginning to wonder if the tick-tick-ticking of a clock could drive a man insane.
"When's the girl coming back?"
"Miss Sera," Collie corrected him.
"Yeah. Her."
"I ain't her keeper."
Cass glared at the brat. Collie's sass—followed by his endless silences—was making Cass yearn for Lynx's comparative chattiness. Who would've thought I'd miss that ol' Mother Hen?
"Why don't you ring the bell for her?"
"Why don't you stop acting like a crybaby?"
"Why don't you quit your whining?"
"Why don't you keep your pecker in your pants, Snake Bait?"
Cass scowled. If he hadn't been so desperate for company, he might have socked the kid in the nose.
He tried another tactic.
"Think you know something about women?"
"Nope."
"Guns?"
"Sure."
Finally. An agreement.
Cass cocked his head, sizing the boy up. Collie might think right highly of his skills as a shootist, tracker, and backwoodsman, but he wasn't any Lynx. The boy couldn't elude McCoy forever. And that old Whitney of his wasn't going to be any match for Thorn Taggart's Winchester once the bastard got Collie in his sights.
"Know a smart-mouthed hillbilly with stringy blond hair and peach fuzz on his chin, who rides a roan gelding?"
Collie barely blinked an eye. The knife in his hand didn't miss a stroke—although it did shave a bit deeper than it should have for the head of such a tiny little skunk.
"Can't say that I do."
"Can't or won't?" Cass challenged.
"What's it to you?"
"Oh, I don't know. I figured you might want to know he's planning on plugging you. Right after he hurts Sera to make you cough up anything you might know about some old payroll loot."
Collie knocked the ear of that skunk clean off.
But Cass was ready for him.
Before the kid could finish flipping that knife to throw it, Cass drew his revolver from under his pillow.
Collie's eyes glittered like shards of smoky quartz as they rose from the muzzle, trained on his chest, to lock with Cass's stare.
"You got one chance, mister. You'd best not miss."
"I never miss, boy. But I'm not your enemy. I'm trying to protect Miss Sera. And maybe even you, if you'd let me."
Collie's lip curled in a mixture of distrust and simmering rage. "I got protection."
"Yeah?" Cass challenged more gently this time. Never once breaking their eyeball lock, Cass snapped open the wheel and dumped out the cartridges. "Let's see how you draw."
He offered the Colt to Collie.
The boy didn't back down from the staring contest, either.
However, in the amount of time that it would have taken Cass to blink two times, Collie drew a small caliber handgun from his boot.
"You're slow, boy."
"That's 'cause I used my left hand."
"So you're counting on your gun hand to be free all the time?" It was Cass's turn to snort. "Thinking like that'll get you killed."
"You talk big for a dumbass with no beans in his wheel."
The kid sure has a way of growing on people. Like a wart.
"Does Sera know you carry a .32?"
Collie scowled.
"Didn't think so," Cass taunted softly. "Tell you what. Since I'm bored—and since you saved my life—"
"I didn't save you," Collie snapped. "Hell, I wanted to leave you in the mud. Both times."
"But you didn't."
"That don't make us friends."
Cass's lips quirked. Now that friendship dig was just pathetic. Did Collie like anyone? Besides Sera, of course.
"Personally, I don't give a damn if Thorn Taggart blows your head off," Cass lied. "But someone's got to keep an eye out for Sera. So if you get close enough to Taggart—or his bootlicking pal, Peach Fuzz—then I want to be sure you don't miss."
Collie's flinty stare narrowed. He didn't debate his shooting skills. "Who's Taggart?"
"A murderer. 'Course, the courts like to turn a blind eye to his killing and call him a bounty hunter."
Collie's face turned a shade darker. "Maybe I should become a bounty hunter."
"Don't think that never occurred to me, boy."
Collie's thumb brushed the .32's safety in a yearning sort of way. "What's this Taggart want with Miss Sera?"
"Taggart doesn't want Sera. He wants the loot. Sera's just leverage. To make you cooperate. Comprende?"
Collie's stare grew downright deadly. "Yeah. I get the picture."
"Good. So let's see you draw with your gun hand."
Collie's jaw twitched. He eyed Cass's Colt. Then he sized up Cass's bandaged leg, plumped up on a pillow.
"What's Taggart want you for?" the boy demanded.
"I gave him his limp."
"You missed? And you think you can teach me something?"
Cass flashed his most pleasant smile. "If you're as smart as I think you are, then you know why I aimed for his knee."
"A memento, eh?"
"That, too."
Collie grunted. Sticking his knife in the arm of the chair, Collie reholstered his Remington and reached for Cass's Colt.
"It feels lighter," he acknowledged.
"That's 'cause it's custom-made. Balanced for a quick-draw."
Collie was inspecting the line to the sight. Cass already knew that the barrel was straighter than the road to hell.
"So where'd a varmint like you get a fancy piece like this?" Collie demanded.
"I won it."
"Won it, huh?"
"Shooting match."
"You sure you didn't kill somebody?"
"Killing a man ain't something to be proud of," Cass snapped.
"Yeah?" Those canny, silver eyes drilled into his. For a lad who was barely old enough to shave, Collie sure was jaded. "So what is?"
"Helping folks. Keeping them out of harm's way. Making the world a safer place so kiddies can play."
A grudging flicker of admiration lighted Collie's stare. He handed the Colt back to Cass—the polite way, butt first.
"I reckon s'long as we're bored," Collie said grudgingly, "we both could—"
His eyes widened and his nostrils flared.
Cass didn't smell anything alarming, but he was quick to hear a light, female step in the hall.
They both scrambled, Cass hiding his gun and bullets, Collie grabbing his half-carved critter and knife.
A pleasant cloud of gardenias, cinnamon, and java breezed into the room. A heartbeat later, Sera followed these scents, bearing a breakfast tray loaded with sticky-buns, a pot of Arbuckle's, and two plates of eggs and ham. In the hearth's dance of firelight, she looked particularly fetching with her steam-flushed cheeks, crisp white pinafore, and the deliciously tight, 20-year-old Federal Nurse's uniform that Lydia had dug up for her.
"I declare," she said, laughing. "It got so quiet in this room, I feared you two had killed each other."
Collie donned his habitual, surly mask and whacked another wood chip off what now resembled a unicorn without legs. "We thought about it."
"Oh, did you now?" She hiked an eyebrow at Cass.
He winked. "Collie doesn't take kindly to artistic direction."
"Like you got something useful to say."
"Toads don't have beaks, grumpy puss."
Collie's lips twitched, belying the irritation in his voice. "Shows how much you know, donkey brain. This here's a beaver."
"With two tails?"
"Boys," Sera chided firmly. "As long as the flood lasts and the bridge is down, we're going to be cooped up together for a while. Could you please try to get along?"
Collie's wiser-than-his-years gaze locked with Cass's. But where there used to be distrust, Cass imagined that he spied a glimmer of respect.
"I reckon," the boy grunted.
Cass chuckled to himself. A new protégé. Too bad Lynx isn't around to join the fun.
Chapter 13
The Thunder Valley Orphanage was a small community, numbering approximately seven adults and 32 children. So when Sammy Hubbard, Jr., found an arrow near the riverbank with red twine and a message attached, it didn't take long for the news to reach the sick ward.
"Run for the hills!" bellowed seven-year-old Petey Wright, effectively silencing Sera, who'd been reading The Silverado Squatters out loud. "We're under Injun attack!"
Billy and Collie didn't look the least bit concerned, and Sera couldn't blame them. Petey stood on the threshold in full "chief" regalia, including a chicken feather from last night's pot-pie dinner and streaks of boot black for war paint. He started whooping, dancing, and brandishing a serving spoon as a tomahawk.
"Shh, Petey, you'll wake the baby," scolded six-year-old Mary Jane Monahan. The doe-eyed brunette
was seated on the floor between two vacant beds, under a blanket that Sera had rigged like a tent so she could play "house" with the stickman that Billy had fashioned for her out of clothespins.
"'Sides," Mary Jane chided. "You know you're not supposed to play with Miss Mamie's cutlery."
"Scalp the traitor squaw!" Petey roared, charging into the room with the spoon waving over his head.
Mary Jane shrieked. Grabbing her yarn-haired doll from its "cradle," she scampered out from under her "Louisville mansion." When Petey cornered her against the window, proclaiming that her dolly had been scalped, Mary Jane started bawling, "Mama Lydia!" and fleeing down the hall.
Petey laughed manically, giving chase.
Collie never raised his eyes, never missed a stroke with his whittling knife. "Luke must've made it to the river," he announced dryly.
"Who's Luke?" Billy demanded.
"Chickasaw. Probably shot an arrow across the river. Always does."
Sera arched an eyebrow. Luke's a Chickasaw?
Billy looked bemused. "You got an Injun who wastes arrows, shooting nothing?"
"Luke sends messages that way, bonehead. The telegraph's down."
Now Sera was reeling from the news about the telegraph. How did Collie know such things? He'd barely left her side since they'd arrived at the orphanage!
"You got a lot of Injuns living in these parts?" Billy asked with interest.
"Some," Collie said. "Peaceable folk. Farmers, mostly."
Billy looked disappointed.
Sera decided to keep her mouth shut.
The day before, when she'd asked Billy what he was doing so far from home, he'd confided that he had plans to rendezvous with his Indian friend, Lynx, about 15 miles south of town. Apparently, Lynx and Billy were going to hunt "big game" in Tennessee. Sera couldn't imagine what game was bigger than the elk and bears that roamed Blue Thunder Mountain.
On the other hand, she really didn't want to think about hunting in the hills. Thoughts of hunting made her think of scouring the woods for wild berries. Berry-picking made her think of Jesse.
And any thought of Jesse made her heart hurt.
Knowing that Luke had been keeping his origins a secret from his friends and neighbors—like Jesse had—didn't help. She imagined Jesse buddying-up to Luke and Walter Frothingale, Blue Thunder's most prominent men. She imagined all the lies that the three of them must have in common.
Seduced by an Angel (Velvet Lies, Book 3) Page 19
