Savage Thunder ww-2

by Johanna Lindsey

  That changed today, however. Sitting on the flat plain with the massive Rocky Mountains, topped by Pikes Peak, looking like an impregnable solid wall behind it was the small town of Colorado Springs, which they approached around noon. Colt said they might go on by train from here, and with visions of making love in a comfortable bed in a luxurious Pullman sleeper car, the countryside speeding by outside the window, Jocelyn didn’t object. He had intended to catch the train in Denver anyway for the last leg of the journey, and Denver was only two days north at the speed they had been traveling.

  Colt paused before they entered the town, however, and Jocelyn was forced to wait while he braided his hair. That morning he had also removed the heavy coat he had been using on the frigid mountain trails, so that he was now wearing only a fringed buckskin shirt with his tight black pants and moccasins.

  Jocelyn shook her head at him. “Why do you do that, go out of your way to flaunt your heritage? I know it causes you problems. It’s what led to that gunfight in Silver City, isn’t it?”

  “So?”

  “So if you cut your hair, dressed a little differently, you’d look perfectly normal, wouldn’t you — except maybe for your handsomeness. There’s nothing nor-mal about that.”

  He grinned at her, surprised that her question didn’t annoy him. Perhaps it was the way her eyes were admiring him. It made him feel damned good when she looked at him like that.

  “You do things your way, Duchess, and I’ll do them mine. Worse things can happen when folks make mistakes about you.”

  “Worse than gunfights?” she snorted, but didn’t wait for an answer. “And if I’m to do things my way, you’ll have to give me back my hairpins.”

  She held out her hand for them, but now he did the head shaking. “When we reach Cheyenne is soon enough for you to go back to being ‘Your Royal Grace.’ “

  She started to frown, until it occurred to her that this was a golden opportunity to do things she couldn’t do with the countess or her guard along. “In that case, while we’re waiting for the train, I wish to visit a brothel to—”

  “Like hell!”

  “Just to see what it’s like inside, Colt. IVe always wondered—”

  “Forget it, and I mean forget it. “

  She did frown now, at his implacable expression. “A saloon, then,” she said as a compromise. “Surely you can’t object to that.”

  “Can’t I?”

  Before he flatly refused this too, she said, “Please, Colt. When else will I ever have such an opportunity?

  To come to this land and miss viewing one of its cultural phenomena? Once my people rejoin me, I can’t be so — bold.”

  “You willing to wear pants and my coat?”

  For a moment, all she heard was that he hadn’t said no. “Your pants? You must be joking.”

  “No one said they had to fit, Duchess.”

  She grinned suddenly. “You think to change my mind, don’t you?”

  “Have I?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s hope the train’s ready to pull out when we get to the station.”

  It wasn’t. They had about two hours before the northbound train was scheduled to arrive. Jocelyn was pleased about that, but extremely disappointed to be told there were no Pullman sleeping cars available, until she noticed a small private railroad car in the station yard. She was told that it was owned by one of the more prosperous residents of the town, but newly purchased, so not for sale or rent. That of course meant nothing to her, and after thirty minutes spent in locating the man, exchanging messages back and forth, then a small pouch of gold, she had the car for her exclusive use all the way to Cheyenne.

  Colt, having stood back and watched the effect her money and manner had on people — she didn’t even have to mention her title — could only shake his head. He stowed their gear m the car, then waited in the parlor section while she changed clothes in the small sleeping compartment-It reminded him of her coach with the velvet-upholstered walls and plush lounge chairs, but was much more gaudy with its silk-tasseled curtains, narrow gilt mirrors between each window, thick carpeting on the floor, ceiling in white oak, pan-eled and decorated with vines and flower pieces.

  There was a Baker heater, a lavatory complete with sink and tub, a well-stocked bar, and even a piano off in the corner.

  Colt looked around the room and wondered what the hell he was doing there. It suited the duchess, but the trappings of wealth were not for him. His one-room cabin in the hills above Jessie’s ranch didn’t even have a bed in it. Jessie had insisted on stuffing it with some furnishings, but a bed he had refused, preferring to sleep on the floor. And he had actually toyed with the idea of keeping the duchess? He’d been crazy to even think about it.

  What he needed now was to get her off his hands for his peace of mind, which was why they were here.

  He liked being with her too much, like providing for her, liked her dependence on him. But the danger had been there all along, that this short time with her wouldn’t be enough, that he’d end up wanting to keep her permanently. He’d hoped it would be otherwise, but no such luck. He just hadn’t thought he’d feel so strongly about it.

  Thinking about it brought back all the old bitterness and anger. It didn’t matter what he wanted, he couldn’t have her. She was white, he wasn’t. White women didn’t marry breeds unless they wanted to be ostracized by their own kind. She likely hadn’t forgotten that, even if he had for a while. She was amusing herself with him, but she’d walk away without a backward glance when the time came. Hadn’t she used him to dispose of her virginity so she could marry someone who would suit? Someone who would suit!

  “I’m ready.”

  Christ, even when she looked ridiculous, she looked good to him. “No, you’re not. Stuff that hair under your hat.”

  She did, frowning at his tone. “Is something wrong?”

  “Should it be?”

  “You don’t really want to take me to a saloon, do you?”

  “It makes no difference, Duchess. what I want.”

  There seemed to be a double meaning there and it annoyed her that she couldn’t grasp it. His surliness was annoying too, since she’d thought she’d seen the last of it.

  “Then if it makes no difference, shall we go?”

  She didn’t wait for his consent, or for him. She left the car and marched angrily toward the main street.

  Colt jerked her around before she’d even left the station yard.

  “You want to do this damn fool thing, then you’ll do it my way. Keep your hat on, your eyes lowered.

  You stare at some man looking like one yourself, and he’ll think you want to fight. Keep your mouth shut, too. And for Christ’s sake, don’t cling to me if something startles you. Remember you’re supposed to be a man. Act like one.”

  “Like you? I don’t think I can manage that particular scowl, but you’ve got so many to choose from, I should be able to imitate at least one. How’s this?”

  The face she made was his undoing. He turned her about and shoved her forward before she noticed the grin he couldn’t keep back.

  They didn’t have too far to go to find a saloon. “Do they brew gold here?” Jocelyn inquired after seeing the sign out front that read “The Gold Nugget Brewery.”

  Colt wasn’t ready for any more of her humor just then. “Trouble is what they brew in these places, Dutch. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Dutch?” She grinned. “I assume that’s a manly nickname and not a nationality. Do I really look like a Dutch?”

  “You look like something dragged in off the range,” he retorted and yanked her hat down to cover her delicate earlobes. “Christ, this will never work. One look at your face and it’s all over.”

  “But what could happen if they know I’m a woman?”

  “Anything, dammit.”

  She could see he was about to change his mind about letting her go inside, so she backed up toward t
he batwing doors as she said, “Just five minutes, Colt, please. Nothing will happen in just five minutes.” And she pushed through the doors before he could stop her.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The Gold Nugget Brewery hadn’t sounded that crowded from the outside, but it was. Jocelyn didn’t go very far into the room. She wondered if today might be a holiday of some sort, to account for so many people being there in the middle of the afternoon. But then she noticed most of the men up at the bar had plates of food in front of them, and realized it was still the lunch hour — and that she was hungry herself.

  “You didn’t tell me it was also a restaurant,” she whispered when she felt Colt at her back.

  “Who you talkin’ to, kid?”

  She glanced around with widened eyes to find an old-timer in pants almost as baggy as hers, wearing nothing but long Johns and suspenders with them. He was scratching a full gray beard as he eyed the bar rather than her, to her relief.

  “I beg your pardon, I was—”

  “You beg my. “

  He cackled before he finished. Jocelyn grimaced and looked over his shoulder to see what had happened to Colt. He wasn’t there. And the old-timer was squinting at her now.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra nickel on you that you wouldn’t mind partin’ company with, would you, sonny? Food’s free as long as you buy a drink with it.”

  She dug into her coat pocket where she had stuffed a few coins earlier and handed him one. She realized her mistake at once when his eyes bulged and he nearly broke her fingers getting the twenty-dollar gold piece out of her hand before she changed her mind.

  “You must be fresh in from the gold fields, kid. Come on and I’ll buy you a drink. Hell, I’m rich now.”

  He headed off toward the bar, cackling again. Jocelyn wasn’t about to follow him. She had started for the exit, in fact, when she was swung back around to see a very disgusted Colt, who’d been standing behind her the whole while.

  “I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “He thought I was a boy,” she explained quickly. “We didn’t consider that. If I can pass for a boy, mightn’t we stay long enough to have some lunch?”

  “No, we mightn ‘t,” he gritted out irritably. “Have you seen enough?”

  “I haven’t seen anything yet, actually, but…”

  Her voice trailed off and her eyes rounded on what she saw just then, a long gilt-framed picture hanging over the mirror behind the bar, of a woman reclining on a sofa, without a single stitch of clothes on. Colt’s chuckle made her realize she was blushing — and staring.

  “Come on, the view’s better from over here. Five minutes, Dutch, and we’re out of here.”

  She nodded and followed him to the bar. It was a long affair, made of carved walnut, with towels draped from it at about eightfoot intervals, so the patrons who were eating could wipe their hands, she supposed. Bootheels were hooked on a brass foot rail which ran along the base of the bar, with cuspidors on the floor by it, placed one to about every four customers. Sawdust surrounded the spittoons, and it was her misfortune to see why as one fellow spat a wad of chewing tobacco toward one. but missed the thing.

  When she reached the bar, the man behind it came over to wipe the space in front of her that had some remains of the free lunch on it, and asked, “What’ll you have, boy?”

  “A brandy, if you please.”

  “Make that two whiskeys,” Colt nearly growled next to her and tossed a dime on the counter.

  His scowl was worth a thousand words, making her realize she’d made another mistake. Brandy, very possibly, wasn’t even heard of in these parts, much less stocked.

  “Sorry,” she offered in a small voice.

  All he said was, “Hold it, don’t drink it,” when the shot of whiskey was set before her.

  She took the small glass in hand, turned around, and leaned one arm back on the bar as she saw another fellow doing. Colt remained facing forward, but the mirror behind the bar was there and he could see the whole room in that mirror. Jocelyn preferred to view it firsthand.

  It wasn’t a very large saloon, about the size of the smaller parlor at Fleming Hall. Besides that lewd picture that she refused to look at again, there were other interesting things hanging on the walls: a deer’s head, the bleached skull of some large animal, old weapons, the butt end of a buffalo — she blinked twice at that one.

  There were a few gambling tables, a faro layout, a roulette wheel, a monte bank, but nothing to take away from the room’s main business, which was drinking. In the space of a few minutes she heard such things as Snake Poison, Coffin Varnish, Red Dy-namite, Tarantula Juice, and Panther Piss, all being requested of the bartender, and guessed them to be different names for whiskey. She was almost tempted to take a sip of her own drink just to see why it warranted such colorful descriptions. A glance at Colt, who was still watching things through the mirror, convinced her not to.

  There were all manner of men present, in all man-ner of dress: prospectors, gamblers, businessmen, cowboys, drifters. It was almost a surprise when she finally noticed the women sitting at some of the tables.

  Hurty-gurty gals, she’d heard they were called. Actually, she’d heard them mentioned by a few other names as well, though not so nice. They were apparently available for more than a drink or a dance, but the only things Jocelyn could see different about them from the women of the town were that they weren’t wearing plain frocks or calico and were wearing face paint.

  They were, in fact, dressed in the height of French fashion. She recognized one of those styles herself from her fashion plates, though she didn’t remember the bodice being quite so low. It was when one of the women stood up that she saw where the resemblance to current fashion ended. Her dress had no skirt, or what skirt it had ended only halfway down her thighs, not her calves but her thighs, revealing long legs encased in gaudy silk striped stockings.

  Jocelyn caught herself staring, mouth open, and snapped it shut. Well, she’d asked to be shocked, she really had, by coming in here. And if these women dressed so scantily, good Lord, what did the women in brothels wear? No wonder Colt had been so appalled at her wish to visit a brothel.

  “You got a problem, mister?”

  Now she groaned. Colt had warned her not to stare at anyone, and the bearlike man who was looking in their direction appeared mighty disgruntled for some reason. But she couldn’t recall staring at him. She didn’t even recall seeing him until just then. Perhaps he hadn’t been talking to her.

  “I asked you a question, mister.”

  He wasn’t talking to her, she realized then, he was talking to Colt. And glancing at Colt, she saw that he was watching the man through the mirror, that he was doing the staring he’d warned her not to do, and the bear, who could also see him clearly in the mirror, definitely didn’t like it.

  But Colt didn’t turn around to answer the man, didn’t answer him at all. He had gone still, however, deathly still. Not a muscle moved throughout his whole body.

  “Shit, you’re a breed, ain’t you?” Jocelyn heard next and stiffened herself. “Who the hell let you in here?”

  She waited for Colt to turn now, to tell that obnox-ious creature where to get off. Why did he have to wear those braids along with the buckskin shirt and moccasins? One thing alone wouldn’t have mattered.

  There were other men right there in the room who had hair longer than Colt’s. There was another man in buckskin. There weren’t any others wearing moccasins, but still, all three things together were like wearing a hand-painted sign in large letters anyone could read. It was just asking for trouble. So why didn’t he turn and meet it?

  “I’m talking to you, breed.”

  The fellow stood up as he said that. He really was a big man. He really did resemble a bear too, with a wild, shaggy mane of brown hair and a face full of beard and mustache. He wasn’t wearing a gun and didn’t seem to care that Colt was. He did have a coiled whip att
ached to his belt, however, proclaiming him as some kind of animal driver. A freighter probably, who had to push his animals up the mountain trails. Jocelyn pitied those animals, for the man looked not only mean but rather cruel.

  And Colt still hadn’t answered him.

  “Maybe you need something to get your attention,” the bear suggested.

  Jocelyn gasped then as that whip unwound onto the floor. The man wouldn’t dare! And yet everyone standing at the bar must have thought otherwise, for they scattered, moving far back against the walls.

  The tables nearest the bar cleared too. Someone even grabbed a fistful of her coat to yank her out of the way. And Colt still didn’t turn around.

  By the time Jocelyn jerked loose of her would-be protector, the whip had cracked. And she could see the dark imprint across Colt’s back where it had struck, crushing the nap of the buckskin. Her horror was indescribable. That beast had actually done it, lashed Colt to get his attention. But he didn’t get it. To her amazement, and to everyone else’s surprise, Colt did nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t show by the slightest inflection that he’d been hurt. And that blow had to have hurt. The crack had been as loud as a gunshot.

  The bear was also surprised that he’d gotten no reaction from his victim, but only for a moment. His eyes narrowed on Colt’s back, moved to the mirror where he could see his face, then narrowed even more.

  “You look mighty familiar, breed. Did you give me trouble before, maybe when I was too liquored up to remember?” And then he shouted, “Answer me, you bastard!” and let that whip slice through the air again.

  “No,” Jocelyn gasped when it struck Colt again, and she started forward, only to be held back by a firm hand on her shoulder.

  “Stay out of it, boy. He’s only a breed.”

  She lost her reason then. She didn’t understand any of this, the prejudice that could make a man say that, the apathy that could let the rest of them just stand there and watch instead of doing something to stop such cruelty. Most of all, she didn’t understand what was wrong with Colt that he could remain silent and take it. She couldn’t.