“What about the law? Is there a sheriff? A marshal?”
She shook her head and glanced down at her hands holding Willow’s reins. Despite the soft kid gloves, a blister had developed between her fingers. And she dearly longed for a hot bath and a hot meal, not necessarily in that order. “There’s no law. At least there wasn’t. Why?”
His body stiffened in the saddle, his muscles taut. He released his horse’s reins and stretched his hands, wiggling his fingers—she assumed to relieve the cramping after holding the straps of leather so tightly for so long. “What about a telegraph? Is there someone who can send a telegram for me?”
“There’s a station where the stagecoaches change their horses and people can get a bite to eat and stretch their legs.” She took off her hat and wiped the sweat from her brow, then placed it back on her head. “It’s not too far. Bill Ransom runs it. He might have a telegraph machine, but I can’t be certain. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there.”
“At this point, I’ll take whatever I can get. Lead the way.”
Stevie Rae nudged Willow’s sides and moved ahead of him on the small path, leading them down a slippery slope covered in dried pine needles and fallen leaves. They didn’t speak, which wasn’t unusual. After a week riding beside each other and sharing a campfire at night, she didn’t know any more about him than when they’d started this journey. Brock MacDermott didn’t share very much, but then, neither did she. The only thing about him she could say with certainty was that she admired the breadth of his shoulders and the easy way he sat a saddle when she rode behind him. And she liked his smile, though seeing that was a rare thing, indeed, but oh so wonderful when he bestowed it upon her.
The settlement had changed in the thirteen years since Stevie Rae had been there with her father when he went on his rounds to treat the sick. The Silver Spur still stood, as did the station where Bill Ransom had exchanged horses, but she got the distinct feeling Bill wasn’t there anymore. A proud man, he would never have allowed the station to fall into such disrepair. The corral still held a few horses, but an air of ennui and abandonment oozed from every slat of wood used to erect the buildings around her.
The general store was shuttered, heavy boards nailed over the windows. The sign swung in the breeze, suspended over the raised wooden sidewalk by one hook. The barbershop, where one could get a hot bath as well as a shave, had closed its doors as well. If there was a telegraph machine here, she doubted it would be usable or that anyone was left to operate it.
A few of the homes looked lived in, if one could call it living, and she saw a curtain draw back from a window in one of the houses they passed, then quickly swing back into place. No one strolled the dirt road winding its way between buildings, though Stevie Rae could hear bits of conversation behind closed doors—whispers about who they were and why they were here, followed quickly by admonishments to hush and get away from the window.
The train at Raton Pass must have taken away the stagecoach business, leaving this nameless settlement to die a slow, painful death. But it was more than that. There was fear here. Stevie Rae could feel its insidiousness creeping into her bones. Despite the warmth of the day, she shivered against the cold chill skittering up her back.
Brock must have felt it, too.
“Stay close to me,” Brock said, his words barely audible.
Stevie Rae glanced in his direction, noticed how stiffly he held himself, and moved Willow a little closer to his horse.
A woman strolled out onto the second story porch of the Silver Spur. She rested her hands on the wooden railing and watched their passage. Strands of flame-red hair caught the breeze and worked themselves loose from the haphazard knot piled on top of her head. She wore pantalets that might have once been white, but now were dingy yellow, a corset, and a loose robe. One of the ruffles at the edge of her pantalets had torn loose from the garment and hung down her skinny leg, emphasizing the gaping hole in her stocking. She looked tired and worn out, a woman who had no hope of a better life and knew it. She didn’t nod in their direction, but rather narrowed her eyes as she watched their progress. After a moment, she went inside, closing the door.
Stevie Rae stared at the spot where the woman had been and came to a quick decision. She led Willow toward the saloon and slid from the saddle, her boots kicking up a whirlwind of dust as they met the hard, dry street. She swung the horse’s reins around the post in front of the building.
“Stevie! You can’t go in there,” Brock hissed, as if knowing raising his voice would not be wise.
“Who says? You?” She didn’t wait for his answer. Instead, she stepped up onto the raised sidewalk and slipped through the batwing doors. After the fading light of day, the candlelit darkness inside the saloon temporarily blinded her. She stood motionless in the doorway as the conversation in the room silenced. The shiver of fear that had skittered up her back before returned twofold as she became the object of everyone’s attention—because she was a stranger? Because she was a woman? Or both?
The answer didn’t matter. Neither reason boded well, and her plan to boldly announce she was looking for Zeb Logan died a quick death. She willed herself to remain calm and fight the sudden churning in her belly.
There were six men inside, not counting the bartender, who stood behind the bar, resting his big, beefy hands on the polished mahogany. Three men occupied a table closest to her—whiskey bottles in front of them. Two others stood at the bar, holding shot glasses, gun belts slung low around hips, the holsters tied down around their thighs in the fashion of professional gunfighters. She didn’t miss the slight movement as one of those men reached down to rest his hand upon the handle of his revolver. He made no other move, but his gaze settled on her and stayed. Weariness and suspicion gleamed from his eyes.
Stevie Rae didn’t blink as her focus shifted to the last man, who sat alone at a corner table, his hat drawn low, hiding his face. He glanced up and she sucked in her breath as recognition hit her with all the subtlety of a wooden plank across the back of her head.
In fact, she recognized them all. The Wanted posters hanging in Sheriff Hardy’s office had depicted each and every one of them with detailed accuracy. Hal Beech and his brother, Tom, wanted for bank robbery. Deacon Roberts, Sweet Jimmy Aldrich, and Jesse Murphy, members of the gang that stole cattle from unsuspecting ranchers. And the man in the corner, once more hiding his face from her scrutiny? Carl Windom. Wanted for murder.
This unnamed, dying settlement had become a haven for men wanted by the law.
And here she stood in the middle of them.
Her heart hammered in her chest so hard, she thought it might burst, but the churning in her belly was so much worse. She shouldn’t have come in here. She should have listened to Brock, but now it was too late. She couldn’t turn tail and run. She had no choice but to play it through, no matter how foolish and dangerous. If she didn’t, she might not make it out of the saloon alive.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when an eighth man came out of the backroom and settled himself at the piano in the corner. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was, when Texas Jim Roberts started playing a classical piece full of angst and heartache. Not something she would have expected from a murderer.
Pretending bravery she didn’t feel, Stevie Rae strutted across the floor toward the bartender as the man studied her, his bushy black eyebrows drawn into a frown, lips pressed together into a thin line. “Ain’t seen you before.”
“Just passing through,” she said, staring the man down as she dug a few coins from her pocket and laid them on the bar. “Got thirsty. I’ll take a bottle of whiskey.”
As she stood at the bar, the batwing doors swung open, filling the interior with a flash of dying sunlight then shadow as Brock entered the saloon. All gazes shifted toward him, including hers. The music, so loud just moments before, died. If anyone recognized him, they’d both be dead. Tension became a tangible thing, the uneasiness growing within the confines of
the room. She heard the audible click of the hammer being drawn on someone’s pistol, then nothing but silence.
For the longest time, no one moved, no one said a word—until Brock opened his mouth. “We gotta go.” His voice sounded overly loud—and angry—as his gaze swept over the men in the saloon. If he recognized the outlaws, he didn’t give himself away, though his stance remained alert and wary. His focus shifted back to her. Their eyes met and held. “Told ya we ain’t got no time for a drink.”
Her lungs burning, her body quivering, Stevie Rae released her breath in a rush, then ordered, “Whiskey for the house.” Her voice stayed calm, belying the inner turmoil rumbling inside her like an earthquake she’d once felt. She grabbed the bottle and glass the bartender offered and sauntered over to a table as the music started once more. Placing the bottle on the rickety table, she kicked the chair back with her foot, then slumped into it, willing her body to relax and her heart to stop its frantic pounding. Her gaze rose to Brock. She gave one slight nod of her head. He returned her nod with one of his own, then strolled over to her table as if he hadn’t a care in the world, his boot heels heavy on the wooden planks under his feet. He said nothing as he slid into a chair, but the rage flashing in his eyes frightened her, almost as much as the group of wanted men staring at them.
“You and I will discuss this later.” His voice lowered to barely a whisper, but within that whisper, was anger. “If we make it out of here alive.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but never had the chance as the bartender bellowed, “Annie, quit yer lollygagging and get yer ass down here!”
Her gaze swung to the staircase to her left, the one she hadn’t even noticed, and saw the woman who’d been standing on the balcony earlier. She’d changed into a dress that seemed to be held together by a minimum of thread and sheer force of will, the once-vibrant color of red faded to pink. As with her pantalets, a piece of black lace at the edge of her skirt had pulled away and hung below the hem, resembling the intricate spinning of a spiderweb. She looked so much younger than Stevie Rae originally thought as she watched the woman step across the floor and approach the bar. Annie cringed, as if expecting a slap as she retrieved several bottles of whiskey from the bartender.
She made short work of passing out the booze to the saloon’s patrons, handily sidestepping the hands reaching out for her.
Annie slowed her pace and her eyes narrowed as she approached their table. She drew in a deep breath, then a warm smile transformed the harsh lines of her face. “I remember you.” The barmaid slid a glass onto the surface in front of Brock though her intent stare never left Stevie Rae. “You came up here with your father when you were just a kid. He took care of me real good when I was sick.” A bruise near the woman’s eye, faded with time and a heavy dose of powder, drew Stevie Rae’s attention. “How is Doc?”
“He’s dead.”
The woman took a step back and brought her hand to her chest. “Oh, I’m so sorry. He was a good man. What happened?”
“Zeb Logan killed him,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “You seen him?”
The woman moved closer, her eyes flitting over the outlaws around her. She lowered her voice. “He was here about a week ago, but I haven’t seen him since.”
“Do you know where he went?”
Annie shook her head. “Don’t care where he went.” Her fingers came up and gently touched the bruise on her face. “Just glad he’s gone.”
Stevie Rae dug into her pocket and pulled out a small roll of crisp bills. “Here, take this and get out of town.”
The woman looked at the money, the sadness in her eyes almost overwhelming. “I ain’t got no place to go.”
“Yes, you do. Martha Prichard in Little River will take you in, help you get on your feet. Tell her Stevie Rae sent you.”
Wariness flickered in her eyes as if compassion was not something she expected. Or that it came with a price. “Why are you being so kind?”
Stevie Rae shrugged. “I have no reason to be unkind, Annie. Take the money. It’s a chance to get away from this and start a new life.” She pressed the cash into the woman’s hand.
After a moment, the bills disappeared into the bodice of Annie’s dress. She didn’t say thank you, but she didn’t have to. The tears shimmering in her eyes showed more than enough gratitude. She drew in a deep breath, then swiped at those tears. “He headed south. Taos, I think.” Her voice cracked just a bit before she cleared her throat and sashayed back to the bar.
Stevie Rae poured herself a glass of whiskey, took a sip, and tried to relax despite sitting in a saloon among outlaws. It was easier than she thought. Aside from the occasional glance in their direction, the patrons left them alone.
Now she only had to contend with Brock.
The murderous gleam in his eyes never dimmed.
Chapter 6
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Brock grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into the soft skin, and yanked her toward Willow. She’d scared the hell out of him—a deeply unsettling feeling. After their drink, which had done nothing to alleviate his anger, leaving the saloon turned out to be relatively easy. No one tried to stop them. No one even looked at them, all patrons happily finishing off the whiskey Stevie Rae had purchased for them. “You could have gotten us both killed.”
“But I didn’t.” Her chin rose as she rubbed her arm where his fingers had pressed into her skin. The stubborn expression she wore, the one he’d become used to, riled him even more.
“Sheer luck,” he hissed as he helped her into her saddle. “Let’s get out of here.”
Darkness had descended, but the full moon shed an eerie light. A few lanterns glowed in the windows of the buildings on either side of the saloon and across the street as well. A curtain fluttered as shadows moved behind the glass. They were still being watched, by whom he could only guess.
Townspeople? Or more outlaws?
He had no desire to find out. His one thought was to get out of town while they still drew breath, then report what he’d found to Sheriff Hardy so a posse could arrest every single one of those outlaws.
He climbed into Resolute’s saddle, clicked his tongue against the roof of his dry mouth, and led the way south, back the way they’d come, away from the possibility he’d feel the pain of a bullet between his shoulder blades at any moment.
An hour later, he still seethed. Shoulders stiff, stomach still churning with anxiety, his fingers cramping around the reins gripped in his hands, Brock peered through the trees and spotted a likely campsite for the night. He glanced behind him to make sure Stevie Rae still followed when all he really wanted to do was leave her on the mountainside—or shake her until she finally found some sense.
Stevie Rae Buchanan was trouble looking for a home. Impetuous. Reckless. Hasty. And foolish, too, not thinking before she acted, a trait that would be the death of him. Of them. Didn’t she realize how dangerous a cornered outlaw could be? Or that she could get herself killed?
It was the last thought that made his stomach clench even more. He tugged Resolute’s reins lightly and headed deeper into a copse of trees and came to a stop. He slid from the saddle, his feet landing atop a pile of pine needles, silencing any sound. “We’ll camp here.”
“Fine.” Stevie Rae rode up beside him and dismounted as well.
He grabbed her, pulling her closer, his fingers once again digging into the soft skin of her upper arm, but a little gentler this time. He tipped back her hat so he could see directly into her eyes, which widened with surprise in the moonlight. “Remember what I said about being responsible for someone else, Stevie?”
Stevie Rae nodded as her eyes narrowed. She made no move to free herself from his grasp. “I remember.” She never blinked or tried to turn away, and once again, Brock was struck by the depths of her conviction, her pride, her tenacity, but most of all, her lack of trepidation. Most women—and some men—would have quailed before his anger. Not her. She stood absolutel
y still, her gaze holding his captive. “I also remember telling you that I hadn’t asked that of you. I can take care of myself.”
He took a deep breath, willing himself to gain control, to tamp down his irritation and yes, his fear, but he failed. “And walking into a saloon full of outlaws is your idea of taking care of yourself? What were you thinking?”
She didn’t answer his question but asked one of her own. “Are you finished yelling at me?”
“I’m not yelling, but I’m a long way from finished.” He released her then, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a step back. “I oughta take you over my knee and tan your hide for that little stunt!”
Her slender frame tensed. “Are you man enough to do it?”
He said nothing as he stared at her, but his thoughts ran rampant. Hell yes, he was the man to do it. That and more. Staring into her eyes, seeing the defiance written clearly on her face, he was torn between making good on his threat…or crushing her enticing lips beneath his own.
Startled by the path his thoughts had taken, his breath hissed through his teeth. “Don’t tempt me, kid.”
Eyes flashing, daring him, she straightened to her full height. “Try it! I guarantee it’ll be the last thing you do.”
He took another step back, his hands balling into fists at his side, then took another and another until he was on the other side of the camp. Despite his anger, he’d never raised his hand to a woman. He wasn’t about to start now.
He said not another word as he turned and headed into the woods.
By the time he came back to the camp, his anger was under control, but barely. He dropped the armload of wood beside the small fire she had already started. She’d seen to the horses—both had been divested of their saddles—and now all three animals munched contentedly on the oats filling the feedbags tied around their heads, but there was no coffee brewing, no dinner cooking over the flames. It was just as well. He wasn’t certain if hunger gnawed at his belly or if his stomach still churned from the events of the past few hours, but in any case, he didn’t think he could eat.
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 6
