by Sandra Jones
Perhaps it was her recollection of the stranger’s drunken confession, or the fact that she knew how lethal he could be now that he was sober and sharp-eyed, but her usual sense of self-confidence fled, leaving her with a bundle of nerves and a belly full of butterflies.
“Would you like to inspect the horse?” Jupiter asked the man.
Taking that as her best chance to escape Wainwright, she turned for the door. “Well, I’ll be going so you can finish your business. Thank you, Jupiter.”
The bell jangled again as Ray Thorntree entered the building. His gaze passed over Cora coolly and then locked on the men behind her. Grim determination filled his expression. Deputy Hazen followed after the mayor. He eyeballed Cora as he walked by.
Her hands made fists. If only she could tell Ray what a disgusting creature his lawman was, but her complaining about the night she’d witnessed Hazen accosting a woman in the alley would only cause them both to realize she was the one who’d fired the shot at him—as well as the one who’d killed Sidlow.
At the door, she paused to listen to what the men had to say.
“Christopher Wainwright?” the mayor asked.
“That’s me.” His quiet affirmation was cool, unemotional.
Ray introduced himself. “I’ve been expecting you in my office today.”
“I’ve been busy. I only arrived in town yesterday.”
Cora turned around. She should say something to defend him.
Just go. Wainwright told you he was a killer. Let the mayor and deputy give him his due.
But he’d said he was hanging up his gun.
Tarnation! She cleared her throat. “Mayor, it’s my fault he’s late. After the thief’s attack last night, I didn’t feel safe coming to town alone.” She returned to the center of the barn, stopping to stand by Wainwright. “Jupiter is fixing up his horse. Then I was going to show him the way to your office.”
Wainwright’s brows went up again for a brief moment, then he schooled his features.
“I don’t appreciate that, Cora. You knew I was waiting.” Ray planted his hands on his hips, glaring down his nose at her. The mayor had enjoyed the company of the club’s women on occasion, but in public, he put on the face of a self-righteous ass. He gave the gunman a murderous look. “Mr. Wainwright, Fort McNamara may be a smaller settlement than you’re used to, but I assure you, I’m a busy man.”
The horse nickered, and Jupiter went to check on it.
“It wasn’t my intention to slight you, Mayor.” Wainwright’s blue eyes brimmed with humor.
Cora glanced between the three men. The gunslinger had no idea the firestorm he would stoke if he mocked the powerful official. She moved between them and faced Ray. “How about all of us get out here and get to know each other better at the saloon?” Drink usually mellowed Ray, made him more manageable. Deputy Hazen, on the other hand…
“No, Cora, I’ve wasted enough time today. Jim, won’t you take Miss Reilly outside so she’ll feel…safer?”
The deputy wrapped a hand around her upper arm and squeezed. “C’mon.”
“Let go of me.” Cora pulled against his repugnant hold.
He tightened his grip as he leered at her with his sickening, ferret smile—same as she’d seen on his face in the alley when he’d forced that prostitute onto her knees at gunpoint, right before Velvet Grace had shot a bullet over his shoulder. Yet now she couldn’t draw attention to her hidden pistol. Nor could she alert Jupiter, who would most likely come to her defense. Besides, it was broad daylight outside. What could the deputy do to her in the street in the afternoon with all of town looking on?
Wainwright spoke up, “You can say your peace in front of the lady. I reckon this has to do with last night when I shot that man in front of the Willows.”
Was he crazy? Stunned and inspired by the gunman’s casual admission, she ceased her struggles with Hazen, planting her feet to stay put. “I was there, Ray. That man had it coming. He stole from Mr. Wainwright right in the middle of my parlor.”
The mayor appraised the newcomer from head to foot. “What’d you do for a living back east, Wainwright?”
His amused gaze flicked to Cora briefly and then returned to Ray. “I was a businessman.”
The mayor grunted. “I heard you bought a ranch. I just left the district court where I spoke with Judge Murtagh.”
Tarnation. Here it comes. They’re going to arrest the man.
“And?” Wainwright crossed his arms over his chest, his expression calm. She had to admire his lack of concern, but perhaps that came from all the cold-blooded killing.
The mayor dug inside his coat pocket, searching for something. “We’d like to offer you a badge. You’re just the sort of man our town needs as its next sheriff.”
Deputy Hazen’s grip suddenly dropped, freeing her, and she stumbled forward with her legs tangling in her petticoat. Wainwright caught her waist, breaking her fall. She grabbed his solid shoulders to steady herself and saw a confused look in his blue eyes as their gazes collided briefly. He frowned and released her to stand on her own.
“Ray, are you out of your mind?” she exclaimed after she regained composure.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Wainwright held up a hand to the mayor as if warding off the offer. “You’ve got the wrong man.”
Cora’s thoughts exactly. The very last thing she needed was a sheriff who was more dangerous than the one she’d shot, and look where that lawman was now, lying in his grave, fodder for worms with the unruly town worse than ever. No, God willing, Kit Wainwright wouldn’t accept the mayor’s crazy invitation.
Chapter Four
Kit downed a shot of whiskey while trying to ignore his present company, Deputy Hazen, glaring at him from across the saloon table. How many drinks would it take to forget the reason why he was still in this wretched town? Five? Six? Sunset was too early in the evening to get drunk, but that had never stopped him from raising a glass before.
“Are you even listening to me?” The lawman slapped the table.
Kit lowered the drink and considered which would have more satisfying results, punching the ill-tempered deputy in the mouth or smacking his forehead with the tumbler. He’d been alone in the deputy’s company no more than three hours and had already determined that the sheriff’s killer had chosen the wrong victim.
“Talk to me one more time in that manner.” Kit’s voice came out in a low rumble, his disgust boiling to the surface. He glared at the annoying little man. “I meant to shoot that thief where I did. Think about that before you choose your next words to me.”
Hazen’s sneer quivered slightly as uncertainty crept into his eyes. “My apologies, Sheriff.”
Kit winced and glanced down at the damnable new metal star adorning his vest. How in the hell had he allowed himself to get into such a mess? He’d had no problem declining the mayor’s initial offer of a job, arguing the man didn’t even know him. Why, he could be a negligible liar whose only desires in life were to drink and chase women—all true. Yet for some reason, Thorntree thought him capable of protecting a town and its citizens from murders and thieves.
“With your sharpshooting skills, you’re the perfect choice to send after the sheriff’s killer and bring the criminal to justice,” Thorntree had declared. Kit had flatly refused. He didn’t need the money. He was loaded with cash, bonds, land. Then the mayor had trumped all his arguments with the one thing Kit couldn’t refuse. “When I told Judge Murtagh my idea to hire you, he figured you wouldn’t accept. That’s why he said to remind you about some debt you owe him.”
And with that, his week collapsed into horseshit.
Honoring his uncle and repaying the old man’s debt were the reasons why Kit had come west. If bringing in a murderer would make Uncle Bart proud, he must do it.
The deputy suddenly reached in his coat pocket, pulling Kit out of
his thoughts. Kit dropped a hand on his holstered gun instinctively. Hazen had made it clear from the start that he wanted the sheriff job. Now the two of them must work together, but they were also rivals. Prickles of unease ran across the back of his neck, the finely honed sense that had him ready to draw and shoot if he must. But instead of a weapon, the deputy removed a piece of paper from inside his clothing. He passed it across the table to Kit.
“This here’s your first criminal…the one who killed the sheriff and tried to murder me.”
Kit unfolded the worn paper, which turned out to be a poster.
Reward $1,000 for the outlaw known as Velvet Grace.
Wanted for murder and various crimes against society.
“‘Velvet Grace?’ Is that a woman’s name?” Incredulous, he glanced up to catch the deputy’s solemn nod.
“That’s what we’ve nicknamed her since she’s always seen wearin’ velvet. She’s cold-blooded. Targets lawmen. Beat one man in the street against a brick wall. Demolished another man’s home.”
Kit reassessed Jim Hazen. Anger and embarrassment tinged the deputy’s voice, and in Kit’s experience, that much emotion clouded a thinking man’s judgment. No wonder the law hadn’t been able to bring in the killer.
He took another look at the poster. Below the caption was a charcoal-shaded sketch of a hooded figure. “You’re pulling my leg, right? There’s no way anyone will recognize your killer with this likeness.”
“Can’t be helped. No one’s seen her face. We don’t even know her hair color since she hides it beneath her hood.”
“You also realize she could be more than one person, right? And in clothes like this, she could be a he.”
Hazen vehemently shook his head. “I know a female when I see one.” He winked.
Kit’s late aunt, a gentile lady from Chicago, had raised him to use decorum at all times, so he managed to keep from rolling his eyes. “All right. As you say, she was seen leaving the sheriff’s apartment after the shooting, so I’ll try to find her and bring her in.” He folded the paper and slid it inside his vest. Suddenly, he wondered how long Hazen had carried the thing. Had the wanted poster represented some sort of unfulfilled fantasy for the deputy—a woman in disguise with whom the smarmy little man was obsessed? Kit’s tongue tasted acid at the unpleasant thought. And what had made the killer want to shoot the sheriff in the first place?
Velvet Grace might be his first duty, but if he could find a worthy man to replace him as sheriff, the lady would be his last capture too. After all, he had yet to see his ranch.
He glanced around the room full of cowboys. “Hazen, are any of these men herders?”
The deputy reached for his whiskey. “A few.”
“Any for hire?”
Hazen nodded in the direction of a cowboy seated alone. The man’s salt-and-pepper hair was a little unkempt, but his gaze looked clear and his clothing carried the dust of a good day’s work. “That one’s Ben Hughes. Lived here all his life. Works out at the feed store now.”
Kit ordered another drink from the barkeep, then carried two glasses to the cowboy’s table. If he was going to wear two hats for a while, as sheriff and rancher, he would need help with the farm.
Just a few more days, he promised himself as he introduced himself to Hughes. “The deputy said you might be looking for a ranch job. I need to hire a cattle handler.”
Hughes leaned back and nodded, regarding Kit with interest as he finished explaining his situation. “The old Tuckerman place, you say? Well, I sure could use the money. I’ll accept the responsibility. Thank you kindly. I prefer farm work to town.”
Kit mused thoughtfully over his drink. After he had Velvet Grace behind bars, he could relax and enjoy his ranch, never touching another gun, never killing again. Hell, he might even find a respectable woman and settle down in the river valley, just like his uncle had wanted all those years ago.
And thinking of women, his mind turned to the pretty bordello madam. She hadn’t seemed pleased about him being the mayor’s choice for sheriff, but whatever her argument against him, she’d kept it to herself. Her reaction had spoken volumes, however. She’d looked like she’d swallowed her tongue.
Did she think he would abuse his position and give her club problems? Hardly. He’d told her before that he used to own a brothel, so why would he care what she did in her business? His shooting the thief had likely spooked her. The blacksmith had given her bullets today at his shop—he’d know that clink anywhere—which meant she kept a gun.
The idea of her being afraid put a queer knot in his throat.
There were fewer women in town than men, and Cora would probably know most of the locals by name. Perhaps she could help him narrow down the list of possible suspects if he paid her a visit. The ranch could wait another night or two without him while he slept at the Willows again.
This time though, he wouldn’t miss a minute of the delicious Cora and her services.
He pushed his unfinished whiskey aside and raked a hand through his hair, imagining what the lady’s reception of him would be.
Maybe being a sheriff wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“Good night, Abraham. We’ll see you next Saturday night.” Cora closed the front door as soon as the man stepped outside.
Beside her, Bernadette leaned against the doorframe and stifled a yawn. “He’s sweet, but he sure does like to talk.”
“He’d leave faster if you didn’t encourage him so much.” She cringed at the sour tone of her own voice.
Bernadette said nothing about Cora’s lack of patience, but her lower lip curled with petulance. All the girls had complained at some time or another about their boss’s business-as-usual attitude when it came to clients. But hell, what was she supposed to do?
Time was money, and money put food on their table.
She walked away from the door and scanned the room. All the customers were gone, leaving her alone with Bernadette and Millie, who was slumped over the piano’s keyboard playing a weary tinkling of notes.
“I know you both want to make money, but no more customers for us tonight.” She slid an arm around Millie’s shoulders and guided her to get up. “Off to bed.”
“But it’s a Saturday, our best night…” The redhead slipped from her hold, reaching for her sheet music—a recent present from Ray Thorntree, who often stopped by for a listen before going home to his wife.
“Yes, and the parlor’s empty, which means we can close.” She motioned for Bernadette to follow. “Good work tonight. We had no complaints about the wait, and every client seemed to leave happy.” After she’d given Andrea time off to rest, the remaining three women had had to work harder to keep up with the demand.
The ladies smiled at her compliment. She rarely gave praise, having learned from her mother that prostitution was no place for meaningless pleasantries. However, she’d grown to love each woman she’d taken under her wing, admiring their strengths and understanding their weaknesses.
She led the tired pair in the direction of the hall when a knock sounded at the door.
Good Lord, not another cowboy.
“I’ll get it.” Bernadette went back toward door.
“Just ignore him. Whoever it is will go away.” She had to get changed and go into town before Andrea’s attacker left the saloon. A drifter, he would no doubt get drunk before ambling off to sleep somewhere—the hotel maybe. If she hurried, she might catch him en route in one of the town’s dark alleyways.
Millie wheeled for the piano, yawning. “I know. Music for the customers.”
“No!” She hurried after Bernadette, but the woman showed no sign of stopping. Too late, her greeter turned the brass lock. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake. Tell him we’re done for the night.” When would these two ever listen?
Bernadette made a startled gasp. “Mr. Wainwright, good evening.” To her
horror, the woman moved aside, allowing the gunslinger inside.
Achingly handsome, he carried his leather satchel, ever present on his shoulder, and doffed a new black hat. His clothing was the same as she’d seen him wearing in town. The only addition being the tin star on his chest.
Her stomach fluttered as she realized she’d been staring, and her gaze slowly climbed up to meet his.
“Evening, ladies.” A sardonic grin graced his lips, and though he’d addressed all three of them, his gaze didn’t leave her face.
“Well.” Cora covered her embarrassment with a smile of her own. “I suppose we should be addressing you as Sheriff Wainwright now.”
“No. Just Kit to you three.” He turned, acknowledging the other ladies with a wink. “Did I hear a bolt unlock? You’re not closing this early, I hope.”
Cora felt the sharp stares of both ladies but ignored them. They made no attempt to hide their appreciation for Wainwright’s looks. Even now, Bernadette circled him like a hungry tigress, appraising his form from his ruffled dark hair to his boot heels.
Cora felt off-balance under the keen gaze of his blue eyes, nearly as sober as he’d been at their earlier meeting at Jupiter’s. She forced her tongue to work. “It’s been a busy night. Shouldn’t you be at the saloon celebrating your new job?”
He smirked and moved closer to her. “That’s not something I’d celebrate. Anyhow, I was there earlier, but I wasn’t about to make the same mistake as last night. I thought this time I’d walk into your room on my own two feet.”
“My room?”
He shrugged. “My new place is a half-day’s ride west. I’ll head that way eventually, but…I figured tonight I’d just sleep here again.” His hand fell to cup the side of her waist, casual yet possessive.
She laid a palm atop his and peeled his fingers off, trying not to think about the feel of his skin—warm, coarse, rousing. A wave of awareness crashed over her. She forced herself to let go, dropping his hand like hot coal. “You figured wrong. We’re a bordello, not a boarding house. Most men pay by the hour, not the night.”
