His Most Wanted

by Sandra Jones

  “I’m sorry about what that man did. He’s never been to the Willows before. But it was no fault of mine.” She braced her feet, preparing for a challenge. “I don’t want any gunslingers—especially drunk ones—around my girls.”

  His mouth twisted in a half grin. “I’m not very drunk. I’m still far too sober, and I’m in need of a bed and a pretty lady to keep me warm. Maybe you could help me with that?”

  “Go somewhere else, sir.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. It fell in dark, shiny waves around his forehead. He leaned deeper into the doorway, his face hovering over hers so that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, as well as the smoke and leather from his travels. “You’d send me away…in this condition?” he slurred. “I promise, I’m not dangerous. I’ll let you hold my gun…”

  His cheek dimpled at his words, or perhaps at her reaction. She felt heat surging to her face at his double-entendre.

  “Besides—” he shrugged, “—after tomorrow, I won’t need it anymore.”

  She bit her tongue to keep from asking what he meant by that remark. Really, she ought to just shut the door in his face already.

  Intending to do just that, she reached behind her for the handle, but he stayed put, mocking her appraisal of him, inhaling her perfume as his eyelids drifted closed. He murmured, “If it’s your employees you’re worried about, take me to your room. My offer still stands. I’ll pay your fee. Unless you’re afraid…”

  Right now, the only thing she feared was her erratic pulse brought on by the gunman looming over her. Crazy. Drunkards had never unsettled her before. Of course, the sheriff used to keep them out of her establishment, for a price, but now that he was dead, she’d had to work to deter them. Maybe this particular drunk with his baby blues and smirking face couldn’t be too much trouble without a weapon.

  He swayed slightly, his lips coming near as if to steal a kiss. Her heart jumped in her throat. She never took customers herself, and tonight was no exception. She twisted away just in time, but her sudden movement seemed to catch him off-guard. He keened forward, losing his balance to fall face forward onto her rug.

  Chapter Two

  Soft feminine laughter broke through the heavy fog in Kit’s head, bringing a smile to his face as he snuggled deeper into a feather pillow that smelled of sunshine. Hearing the women in the next room, he could rest assured he’d enjoyed himself the night before. Whatever pleasure they’d brought him had surely been worth the pain clanging within his skull now.

  He cracked an eye open to find daylight.

  “Damnation. The old man will kill me.” He pushed up on his elbows with a groan.

  Getting caught in his own chicken house—again—would no doubt bring his Uncle Bart’s wrath upon him. Again. The righteous old man disapproved of him owning the brothel, which had always made Kit accuse him of being hypocritical. How could anyone, especially an old mountaineer who ran a brewery and a fleet of gambling riverboats, point a finger of judgment?

  Sliding his legs over the edge of the bed, he startled. Was he still wearing trousers? He touched his chest and discovered his shirt had been removed, but not his pants. Curious.

  Blinking, he brought his surroundings into focus. The room was facing the east, allowing the morning sun to stream inside, illuminating the high bed, fine dresser and mirrored vanity. Such brilliant light wasn’t conducive to entertaining those clients who preferred to sleep in. He would have to make changes—

  Then again…this wasn’t one of his rooms. Nor was it his brothel. He didn’t even own a brothel anymore. Now noticing the familiar, worn satchel presently slumped on the corner of the vanity, his memory came crashing back, and with it came the empty feeling of loss.

  Uncle Bart wouldn’t be judging him today…or any other.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, chasing away the oppressive sadness and regret, only to have needles of pain prick his chin. Ah, yes. Now he remembered the fight and the man he’d left moaning in the street.

  Yesterday’s events fell into place like acts in a play he felt he’d watched as a spectator, not really experiencing. All except one scene. He clearly recalled caressing the flesh of a pretty dove, her silky blonde hair brushing his chin. Mmmm…even now, his body hardened like rock at the broken recollection of her shapely form in his arms. Where had she gone? He’d pay her twice as much to come back to bed and help him forget the world for a few more hours.

  He padded on bare feet across the rug, past his discarded boots and over the wood floor until he reached the door. The brass lock was in place. Odd that he’d locked himself inside. He made another glance around the room, making certain his lovely company had indeed left. Finding the place empty, he unlocked the door.

  The bedroom opened to a wide hall filled with velvet-cushioned chairs and marble-topped sideboards decorated with bouquets of fresh flowers. The smell of blossoms laden with pollen tickled his nose. He followed the ladies’ laughter to a large parlor where he came upon them—a half dozen women folding sheets across the room. The fabric billowed between them in their graceful movements like three sails of ships.

  Kit crossed his arms over his chest and lounged against the doorframe to enjoy the show, holding his tongue so as not to interrupt.

  Two of the girls could’ve been sisters, or twins, both with the same strawberry-blonde hair piled high on their heads. If he’d ever laid eyes on them before, he would’ve remembered…unless they had been apart. Across the room, a redhead and a brunette wrestled with a sheet, apparently arguing over which way to turn the folds. They seemed vaguely familiar, but his memory of soft blonde hair persisted. The third pair of ladies consisted of another brunette and an older woman with hair as dark as his own, both with a worldly look to them. They reminded him of the French madam who’d managed his brothel in St. Louis before he’d fired her. Powdered, painted and scantily costumed. He had no doubt they could make a man forget his own name for a night.

  No. None of these had warmed his bed to the best of his knowledge.

  As the last sheet was folded down, he noticed the dainty boots and skirt of the lady half-hidden in a wingback. He craned his neck, straining to see her face behind the big chair.

  “Oh.” A startled gasp came from one of the girls as his movement drew her attention.

  One by one, they followed her stare until all six were looking at him and smiling.

  “Gracious, I must be the luckiest drunk who ever floated the Arkansas River, or—” he bowed slightly to the ladies, offering his warmest grin, “—is this Heaven?”

  His question brought laughter. One of the twins hugged the folded fabric against her chest. “Good morning. We washed your shirt.”

  “It had some blood on it.”

  “We hope you don’t mind.”

  “It’s still a little damp, so we left it on the line.”

  The girls took turns speaking and giggling, their eyes appraising him.

  He pushed away from the doorframe and circled them. He simply had to see the face of the woman in the chair. “I’m much obliged, ladies. And I’m sorry if I made a scene outside last night. I seem to recall having a bit of a quarrel with one of your customers…”

  Reaching the seated woman, his heart sank at finding a younger lady, perhaps eighteen, with a bruise beneath her eye and a swollen lip. Her gaze held his, unblinking and wary.

  It saddened him to see why the lovely girl hid.

  He backed away, pushing his hands in his pockets and putting apology in his expression. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen the aftermath of violence in a brothel, and he was suddenly glad he no longer owned such a business.

  As long as the world held men like him, with money to spend on ladies, there would be those who preyed on the women too.

  “Would you like me to see if your shirt’s dry now?” One of the twins stood behind him as he turned on his heel
. She batted her eyelashes and leaned into him, resting a hand on his arm.

  His body responded with unexpected urgency. Had the blonde not sated his needs last night? “No, ma’am. I have a clean one in my bag.”

  “Oh. You’re not getting dressed so soon, are you?” Her twin marched up to stand beside him, frowning.

  Damnation. “Well, I could stay a—”

  “We’re not open for business for another eight hours.” A woman spoke behind the group, her voice icy.

  All six scattered like leaves on the wind, casting longing looks over their shoulders at him as they returned to their housework, leaving him facing the woman of his heady recollections. Only now, a dour expression pinched her full lips, making her disapproval clear.

  “I can’t imagine why I locked my door this morning. I’m sure I wasn’t thinking.” He nodded in the direction of his vacant bedroom. “Why don’t we go back to bed? It seems early still.”

  The blonde—why couldn’t he recall her name?—glanced at the others as they piled stacks of linens in two baskets. Her blue-green eyes danced with mischief. “Go back to bed? Um, yes. We could, but…unfortunately, you’ve been summoned to the mayor’s office.”

  She turned and sent him toward the bedroom with a sweep of her hand. He caught the slight frown on her brow before she pasted on a benign smile.

  “The mayor? I don’t even know the mayor. I just arrived in town yesterday.” He padded back into the room while the lady followed.

  In the sunlit bedroom, he could see her better, so he wheeled back, intending to do whatever he might to convince her to warm his bed again. Then he saw what she held in her hand.

  His Colt.

  “Lady, I—”

  She smiled and extended the wooden grip to him. “You said I could hold it, Mr. Wainwright.”

  “Cora.” He placed a hand over hers on the gun as her name put a new smile on his lips. Now he remembered. The tiny empress reigning over the Willows. Soft, smooth skin that smelled like spring.

  She trembled slightly, her eyes losing some of their confidence. “Go ahead. Take it.” She eased her hand from beneath his, leaving the gun in his loose grip. “I kept the ammunition.”

  She tilted up her chin haughtily, leaving her mouth at the perfect angle for a kiss. Suddenly, urgently, he wanted nothing more. He dropped his hand holding the gun to his side and brought his other hand to her back, keeping her close, and then moved forward.

  She flattened her hands against his chest and averted her face. “Our business together has ended, sir, and Mayor Thorntree is expecting you.”

  “I told you I don’t know the…” A flash of the evening’s events ran through his mind. Two men standing over the thief in the darkened street. One of the men was the mayor. Christ. The man would want to have him arrested for the shooting. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. You can keep the gun. Tell the mayor I won’t be shooting anyone else. I’ve bought a ranch just west of town. I won’t even come to Fort McNamara often.”

  She spun away from him, heading to the vanity where she touched his satchel. “I’d rethink those plans if I were you. Fort McNamara isn’t the place for anyone looking to start a ranch or…to hang up their gun.”

  Her gaze ran over him, and his blood heated. Perhaps she wanted him to stay after all. “So far it seems exactly like my kind of town.” He flashed another smile at her.

  Her expression darkened. “Yes. I suppose it does. Well, if you leave your gun at your ranch, you’re welcome to come back. Next time, it seems you’ll have your pick of any of the ladies for your token.” She shrugged and made for the door.

  If his uncle’s passing had taught him anything, it was to never have any regrets or to leave anything unspoken or undone. He would enjoy every minute and possibility of his life. And right now, he would make certain Cora Reilly wasn’t going to be another of those missed opportunities. Next time, he wouldn’t visit the saloon before the Willows. “If I come back…when I come back…I’ll offer my first token for you.”

  Now it was Cora’s turn to flash a saucy grin over her shoulder at him, then she closed the door.

  Not exactly reassuring…but not a no either.

  “You know, it’s really not fair, Cora.” Millicent twirled a piece of her fiery-red hair around her finger as she lounged against the closed piano. “You’re the one always telling us we each have a specific responsibility.”

  “Yes. Millie’s right. You make her keep playing music and order me to keep greeting the gents.” Bernadette sat in the chair beside the piano and rubbed her eyes. A familiar sight as she often wore heavy face powder on her nose. “But what about you? You’re supposed to stay in the parlor to collect the money.”

  Cora lifted a palm-sized slice of steak to Andrea’s face. Pausing, she murmured, “This will hurt a bit, but keep it there…for the swelling.”

  Andrea, her youngest employee, nodded and clamped down on her bottom lip.

  Nausea pooled in Cora’s gut, but she refused to let the others see her self-disgust. This feeling of guilt, no matter how much she deserved it, was a weakness, and she’d never let her ladies think she wasn’t strong enough to support them.

  Gingerly, she covered Andrea’s bruised eye with the meat and held it there until the girl took over. Then she rose, wiping her hands on a towel and turned to address her accusers. “After all these years, how many times have I put anyone else in charge of collecting money from the men?”

  The two women exchanged glances and shrugs.

  “Right. I didn’t think you would be able to remember.” Cora held up two fingers. “Twice. Once when I was in bed, sick with a fever, and then last night. The only reason I put y’all in charge was so I could keep an eye on Wainwright.”

  Bernadette planted her hands on her waist and shot Cora a glare. “I coulda kept an eye on him. Any one of us coulda.”

  “Yes, and see what happened.” Millie folded her slender arms over her chest. “Andrea took a punch and got robbed. Even worse might’ve happened to the poor dear. All because you wanted to keep the gunslinger to yourself.”

  Cora tossed the towel at Millie’s feet. Boiling at their selfish accusations, she glanced about for more to throw. Luckily, the parlor held nothing fragile enough to satisfy her temper. “How dare you! Both of you. You know I would never leave you exposed to danger to dally with a customer. When Wainwright passed out, you two helped me drag him to my room. There was no question about it.”

  “Your room was the closest to the door. We had no choice. But we didn’t make you stay with him.” Millie pouted.

  “You saw what he did to that thief. I had to disarm him, and I was afraid if he awoke and found his weapon missing, he might—”

  “Please. We saw him shoot the bastard.” Bernadette rolled her eyes. “But we also saw Wainwright just now. Don’t tell me you didn’t like having him in your bed.”

  Millie nodded. “Right. And he seemed to enjoy whatever you did with him last night.”

  “And we overheard the two of you talking. You didn’t correct him when he offered his next token for you.” Bernadette’s shoulder butted against Millie’s. Clearly, the two were of one mind.

  “Nothing happened. He passed out.” Cora scoffed, “Do you two think I should’ve told him he didn’t get his money’s worth? Hardly. What Mr. Wainwright doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  Millie turned to Bernadette’s ear and murmured, “I don’t know why she won’t admit she played with him. Just because the three of us don’t earn money, doesn’t mean we have to be abstinent.”

  Bernadette leered at Cora. “A kitten’s gotta play with her prey—”

  “You’re both being outrageous. I don’t sleep with the clients, and you know it. You’re behaving like…” Her mother had warned her never to allow her employees to make decisions. Now those two probably thought they could say anything
without consequences. Cora wheeled her back to them. “Never mind. I’m through with this discussion. I was wrong to leave the parlor in your hands. That I’ll admit.”

  She heard their squawks of protest as she marched to the back of the house and into her office, so she slammed the door behind her. Her pulse drilled with anger as she rounded her desk and collapsed into the chair.

  It’s my fault.

  Certainly, it was. Just this one time, she’d thought it would be okay to let her ladies take charge. It had only been for a few hours. The local men knew her expectations—buy a token, enjoy a romp with one of the women, leave a happier man. Except the customer who’d visited Andrea’s bed had paid in cash, directly to her, and when he’d finished his business, he’d struck her down, taking his money back before he fled the premises. No one had been there to stop him.

  Why? Because Cora had been in bed with a gunslinger.

  Not just any gunslinger though. A silver-tongued charmer with a granite chest and eyes like mountain spring water. She could still picture them, like looking into glass that warmed at her touch. And she could also hear his silken voice sharing intimate things about himself as he’d whispered in her ear while she’d relieved him of his stained shirt.

  Growing up the daughter of a madam, she’d been propositioned nearly every day for as far back as she could remember. The taunts and offers had become as common and meaningless as dust motes in the air, but coming from Kit Wainwright, the words had struck a chord.

  He’d been drunk. Dead drunk. He probably had no idea what he’d said, and it certainly hadn’t been intended for her.

  Yet what he’d spoken of, along with his entreaty for her company, had been an outpouring of his regrets. His confession had touched her so that she couldn’t leave him alone, nor could she get it out of her head today…

  He’d woken as she finished unbuttoning his shirt, wrapped his hand around hers and drawn her closer. “My uncle died last week. Do you know where I was while he was being beaten to death, Cora?”