“Gimme a whiskey, boy.”
“Yessir, Mr. Hoyt.”
“Make mine a double—your best.”
“Comin’ right up, Mr. Daniels, sir.”
More of the salesmen were entering the car now, their ruddy faces alight with anticipation. When they glanced his way, Rafferty knew they’d heard of Rafe Jackson, wild-eyed maniac, and they merely nodded to him and clustered in twos and threes near the bar. They were fashionably attired, but the way they tugged at their shirt collars, and their freshly-slicked hair, and their lip-lazy drawls gave them away as stock farmers aspiring to worldly sophistication.
Everyone certainly has his game tonight, Jack mused as he sipped his tea. But he had no doubt Amber would emerge the clear winner—until he escorted her back to his car to claim his own winnings.
His pulse drummed as the minutes ticked by. She was pulling their strings, making them wait while the liquor flowed freely from Thomas’s generous hand, and by 9:20 all eyes in the smoky, crowded car were flitting between the two doors with anxious regularity.
And the moment Amber LaBelle appeared, the talk stopped—so suddenly that the men seemed to be rendered speechless. She took her time assessing her audience, nodding or favoring each man with a subtle grin that held the promise of an evening like he’d never before experienced. She artfully avoided Rafferty’s gaze as she made her way between chairs and admirers to the candlelit table Thomas had arranged for her, in the corner a car-length from Jack’s.
He willed her to look at him, chuckling when she refused. Amber’s spicy perfume lingered in the wake of her rustling, red-orange skirts, and her cream-colored peasant blouse caught the car’s low light and drew all eyes to her soft, swaying figure. Her chestnut waves tumbled about her shoulders, held back from her face by a patterned scarf shot through with gold threads that shimmered like the hoops dangling from her ears.
She was a walking, talking aphrodisiac. Rafferty shifted in his chair, praying these hours would pass quickly . . . knowing that this same intimate misery was prickling at every set of privates in the parlor car. And when Amber finally blessed him with a slow, purposeful smile his heart thundered with imminent victory.
“Which of you brave, strong men will be the first to hear what the Fates hold in store?” she intoned in a low, husky voice. “As the Lord loveth a cheerful giver, so the spirits present among us will behave more graciously for those who approach my table with generous hearts and open minds.”
Some of the salesmen glanced about, as though looking for those spirits in the swirls of cigar smoke around them. Others gazed at the exotic lady almost shyly, gulping their drinks for courage, even though none of them looked like the type who’d believe in her predictions.
“Ah, Mr. Parker,” Amber crooned in a teasing whisper, “you have an aura about you that speaks of a man rising to the top like cream. A man soon destined for success with a lady named . . . Tillie ...or, Millie, it is! Shall I tell you what the future holds for a bright, enterprising man like yourself?”
Jack choked on his tea. Parker was a pale, carrot-haired fellow with an Adam’s apple so prominent he looked like he’d swallowed a walnut. The mention of Millie’s name—a tidbit gleaned from her chat with Thomas, no doubt—flustered the salesman so badly that he was stammering when he sat down across from her.
“I—I haven’t told a soul I plan to propose when I—how’d you know, Miss LaBelle?”
Amber’s smile simmered with mystery. “That’s why I tell fortunes, dear man. Now cross my palm with silver, and we’ll see what other pleasant surprises await you.”
Parker appeared at a loss for a moment, and then reached for his money clip. Rafferty had to sip his fake brandy to keep from laughing aloud: Amber’s table was arranged so he viewed her interviews in profile, and her current victim was already awash in a sea of gullible awe when she reached for his hand. Jack couldn’t poke too much fun, however. Her murmurings about heart lines and mounts of Venus, coupled with the slow stroking of her graceful hands, evoked memories of his own helpless descent into her brown-eyed power the first time he met her.
And as he watched Madame LaBelle charm one rube after another, his admiration for her grew. Around him, the men were telling ribald jokes about animal matings and bragging about women they’d had in towns along their tour, but as they approached Amber their mood changed. Most were skeptical at first—or said they were just playing along. Yet within moments of having his hand caressed and hearing the purr of the palm reader’s voice, each customer assumed a different attitude. Certainly Miss LaBelle’s sensual appeal affected them. But mostly, Rafferty thought, the men succumbed to her kindness.
He saw the way Amber looked at them and seemed genuinely interested—the fact that she recalled their names and the details Thomas had given her made each man feel special no matter what sort of gypsy-talk she was feeding him. And Jack knew well enough how seldom men received such warm, undivided attention from an attractive woman ... a gift worth twice whatever he paid for it. How nice it was to come away feeling hope instead of futility; inspired, rather than reminded of his failures and shortcomings. For a few moments, a man could see himself as the confident, handsome, successful person Amber made him feel he was, and it was a welcome escape from reality.
“Mind if I join you?”
Jack looked up to see a stout, bespectacled man in a green tweed suit smiling expansively at him. “Sure, have a seat.”
“It’s Jackson, isn’t it? From Omaha?” he queried as he lowered his bulk to the chair. “If my memory serves me, your family’s made its considerable fortune in cattle ranching and the Union Pacific.”
Where he got that idea Rafferty didn’t know, but it was best to let the man believe what he wanted. “And you are—?”
“Conrad Becker . . . rhymes with pecker,” he added with a conspiratorial chuckle.
Has all the manners of one, too, Rafferty thought as he glanced toward Amber. This man hadn’t yet taken his turn at her table, and he sensed the liquor and the heightened excitement of the occasion might make him a customer to be watched.
“I’m uh, in the breeding business, Jackson. Guess that gives us something in common, eh?”
The way Conrad was eyeing Miss LaBelle when he said this further confirmed Rafferty’s original opinion of him. “I think your impression of my relationship with the lady may be mistaken, Mr. Becker,” he said coolly. “She’ll sense your attitude immediately. Consider yourself warned.”
Becker studied him from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, his jowl twitching. “You’re not telling me you pay that woman to chase after you, and then you don’t breed her! I haven’t had that much to drink, sir!”
“I’m not telling you anything,” Rafferty replied frostily, “except that perhaps you shouldn’t base your assumptions on appearances. The word assume begins with ass, after all.”
Conrad Becker sucked his expensive cigar until its tip glowed hellfire red. “If you’re so damn finicky about what people think, why do you let your woman come on to my salesmen this way?”
“Because she’s good at it.”
The man’s chortle turned into laughter edged with too much whiskey. Everyone in the parlor car looked his way, but Becker didn’t seem to notice—or care. “Bet she’s good at a lot of things. Personally, this little parlor game’s just a warm-up to the poker we’ll play tomorrow, she and I. She deal a square game?”
“Absolutely. And she’ll beat the pants off you, Becker,” he answered with a sneer. “Just another little warning.”
The man brayed like a jackass when he laughed, and Rafferty was searching for a way to get rid of him—except he realized Amber would be the lout’s next victim. He was about to make another barely-civil comment when Becker’s pudgy fingers closed around the neck of his tea decanter.
Jack stood up so fast his chair flew backwards, grabbing the stoppered bottle. “Two things I don’t share, Mr. Becker,” he said loudly. “My brandy’s one of them.”
“An
d?” his opponent challenged.
“Touch my woman, and you’ll wish you’d been reamed by somebody’s prize bull. You know what I’m saying?” He gazed steadily at Conrad Becker, widening his eyes to achieve the wildness Amber had attributed to him earlier.
His unwelcome guest released the decanter and rose from his chair. “You are a crazy sonuvabitch,” he muttered, “but that’s not keeping me from having what every other man in my company’s enjoyed tonight. Don’t try to stand in my way, Jackson. Just a little warning, you understand.”
Chapter 10
Amber had overheard Jack’s spat with the man now approaching her table, and she felt a kink in the pit of her stomach. Conrad Becker was the man who’d remarked about setting her up when she first boarded the train. Thomas had told her he owned the company these salesmen were touring with, and that he thought very highly of himself. He’d been drinking whiskey like it was water—smelled like a distillery, too—and she’d have to be very careful not to ignite him with anything she said or did.
“Mr. Becker, what a pleasure to finally converse with you,” she murmured. “I truly appreciate this opportunity to look into your men’s futures. And for you and your company, I predict great financial success as your impeccable reputation spreads throughout the country.”
Becker sat down and clasped her hand atop the table, his gaze roaming freely over her. When his eyes lingered on her breasts, he chuckled and said, “Pecker—I mean Becker—Enterprises manufactures a very fine ointment called Udder Butter, Miss LaBelle. I have some in my sample case, and I’d be happy to demonstrate its soothing qualities on that gorgeous skin of yours. Say, fifteen minutes from now in my private car?”
Amber thought beyond his crass remark to the lust behind it. Becker was displaying the same brazen intent Jack Rafferty had when he requested a nude photograph, but this time the situation wasn’t funny. “Perhaps you misunderstand the nature of my profession. I—”
“I didn’t make my millions by misjudging my public,” he interrupted with a wolfish grin. “Jackson obviously can’t meet the needs of a woman like you, Amber, and it wouldn’t take me but five minutes to show you—”
“Your time just ran out, Becker.”
Her heart pounded with relief when Jack sidled up beside her, his eyes shining hard and black. Still, this was a touchy situation: a carful of men would stand with Becker, their drinks inspiring their loyalty, while only Rafferty and maybe Thomas would help her.
She smiled and gave him a coy shrug. “Palms aren’t the only things I read, sir. And right now I sense you’re a man about to do something he’ll regret when he sobers up. Perhaps tomorrow—”
“I’m not drunk, Miss LaBelle, and—”
“What the lady’s saying is that she’s closing up her table for the evening,” Rafferty warned as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “And what I’m saying is that she and I are retiring to my car. Good night, sir.”
Conrad stood up slowly, resembling an angered bull about to paw the ground and charge. “Perhaps you and I should step outside and discuss this man to man, Jackson. You’ve said yourself—”
“Oh, that not be such a good idea, Mr. Becker, sir,” Thomas piped up as he approached with another tumbler of whiskey. “A man’d catch his death on that windy platform, sir. And Miss Amber, she surely needs her rest after providin’ yo’ men with such fine entertainment.”
“This is none of your business, boy.”
“Oh, but yessir, it is.” The porter planted his massive hands on Becker’s shoulders with a purposeful, too-polite grin. “It’s my job to protect the passengers on this train. If I suspects a fight, I’s to call the conductors, sir. You’ll be put off at the next station for disturbin’ the peace.”
The man jerked away angrily. “Get your hands off me, nigger, or I’ll see that—”
“That be a fine idea, sir,” Thomas said in a voice just as serious, “because befo’ I’s a porter, I’s a prizefighter. Now why don’t you and yo’ men have a nightcap—on the house—while Miss Amber and Mr. Jackson excuses themselves? Come mornin’, we can all forgets this little incident ever happened.”
The only sound in the car was the rhythmic clacking of the train as Becker glowered at the porter and then at Jack. All three stood motionless, each intent on having his way, while Amber hoped reason would win out—at least until she and Rafferty were safely locked into his Pullman. Around them, twenty men gripped their glasses and glanced nervously at each other, until young Parker cleared his throat.
“You know, I’m too tired to even finish this drink,” he said with a tense chuckle. “And since we have that presentation to prepare for the fair in Minneapolis, I think I’d better turn in. See you boys tomorrow—and thank you for being such a gracious hostess, Miss LaBelle.”
Amber flashed him a grateful smile. And as the other salesmen took his cue and mumbled their good nights, she felt the tension seeping out of the parlor car with each opening of the far door. Within minutes only the four of them remained—Rafferty, Becker, Thomas, and herself—swaying slightly with the rhythm of rolling along the track, standing silently.
Nervous as she was, Amber had to stifle a yawn. “Excuse me, I—”
“I suppose Parker made a valid point,” the businessman muttered, “and I can see that you’re tired, Amber. So we’ll meet here tomorrow morning for poker, as you suggested—just you and I, sweetheart,” he added pointedly. “Be ready for me.”
Then Becker pivoted and strode toward the door, pausing only to grab the crystal decanter from Jack’s table in a final show of defiance.
When the door shut behind him, Rafferty laughed. “Well, that’ll surely put him out for the night!”
Amber melted against him in relief. “Thank you, Thomas. Thank you both for—all the others were so polite, but I knew—”
“Here, you earned this,” Jack said as he pulled a bill from his back pocket. “You’re a good man to have around, Thomas. I’ll see that your supervisor hears about the level-headed way you rescued Miss LaBelle here.”
“Don’t want yo’ money, sir,” the porter protested with a grin. “I sees that type ev’ry day, and it woulda been my pleasure to plant ’is teeth in the back of ’is throat. And don’t you worry none, Miss Amber. Thomas’ll be here tomorrow bright and early, so’s Becker cain’t pull nothin’ on you beforehand. He’s the type to try it.”
She suddenly felt so wobbly she could only nod and clasp his dark, corded hand. “Goodness, I—I didn’t realize I got so tensed up. I feel—”
Before she could finish, Rafferty was sweeping her up into his arms. “I know just the treatment for those aching muscles, Miss LaBelle,” he whispered as Thomas opened the door for him. He savored her warm softness against him as the porter hurried across the platform ahead of them to open the door to the private Pullman.
“One word about Udder Butter and I’ll slap you,” she muttered.
“Udder Butter?” Rafferty stepped inside and leaned back against the door to close it. “That’s what Becker was seducing you with? No wonder you got peeved.”
Amber scowled. “There really is such a thing?”
“Yep. Dairy farmers smear it on their cows in the wintertime, to keep the skin around their . . . teats from chapping and cracking.” He glanced teasingly at the lush mounds that rose and fell only inches below his face. “You’re nicely endowed, Amber, but you’re hardly a cow. May I ... help you forget about that nastiness with Becker, honey?”
Jack’s breath fell upon her face, warm and so much sweeter than the liquor fumes she’d been breathing all night. She closed her eyes, her pulse fluttering as he lowered his lips to hers in a light, comforting kiss. As his arms tightened around her, Amber realized she hardly knew this man who was fiery fury one moment and tenderness itself the next, but his affections felt too perfect to question. His tongue was following the outline of her mouth, and then he eased into a longer, deeper kiss that left her quivering with a need she desperately wan
ted him to satisfy.
“Better?” he murmured.
“Wonderful. You’re absolutely wonderful, Jack.” She opened her eyes, grinning as she reached into the gathered front of her blouse. “And before this goes one step further, I’m getting rid of these money bags. We raked it in tonight, Rafferty.”
Recognizing the white fabric pouches from their tussle in Amber’s tent, he couldn’t help chuckling. “You stuff your money in your bust?”
“Keeps it out of reach,” she said as she fished the second pouch out. “And it makes me more fascinating as the evening goes by. Here—count out your ten percent, plus half the cost of this car. You certainly earned it, putting the brakes on Becker the way you did.”
Rafferty looked at the wad of bills in her hand, and then into her sparkling brown eyes. “I meant it when I said I didn’t want your money,” he replied softly. “It’s you I want, Amber. All night long, making love to me.”
Dozens of customers had made her such a proposition, men who’d left her alone when her pistol or Gideon Midnight appeared. Tonight, however, she had neither defense, and every vibrating fiber in her body was telling her she didn’t want to refuse this man. Maybe it was the danger and risk he represented, or maybe it was that wicked, mustachioed grin that turned her joints to jelly . . . but whatever it was that made Jack Rafferty so damned irresistible, she wanted it. Now.
Sensing she was almost his, Rafferty lowered her feet to the floor and took the two bulging cash bags. “Let’s not let money come between us at a time like this,” he murmured, laying them on the table. Then he ran his fingers through her wind-tossed waves and along the angle of her jaw. “You’re so pretty, Amber. It’s a real treat to be with a lady like you, and I want to do everything just right. If you don’t like the way I touch you or kiss you, honey, show me what you need instead. I like a woman who takes what she wants.”
He kissed her again, cradling her head in one broad palm, and Amber heard the last whisper of resistance escape in her own deep sigh. His hands felt incredibly soft upon her skin. Jack held her captive with his searching lips while his other hand slipped beneath the neckline of her blouse to cup her aching breast. What heaven this was, after enduring Gideon’s inept seduction and lewd innuendo from men like Becker! Longing for him to touch her everywhere, she shrugged out of her blouse and camisole until they lay gathered around her waistband.
Outlaw Moon Page 9
