Payton's Woman

by Marilyn Yarbrough

  EXCERPT

  He turned to Julia. “Looks like I’m your man.”

  A cold, hard glare of anger lingered on his face. She sucked in her breath at the chilling sight. She didn’t doubt he could protect her from the other men, but who would protect her from him?

  Quickly, she gathered her wits. A man’s ego could be a powerful thing. She’d boost it up so if he felt tempted to fall short of her expectation of him, he’d be in fear of crushing his own ego.

  “I can see that you’re a man of courage and honor...and decency,” she added to boost her own courage. “I know I can depend upon you to see me safely away from here.”

  The coldness vanished from his face. “Courage, yes,” he said as a warmth gathered in his eyes, “but if you want a man with honor and decency, the Devil’s Lair is the wrong place to look.”

  Her forehead crinkled with worry. “I was relying on you to help me.”

  “That I shall do,” he swore, “just as soon as we agree upon a price. And I don’t want your money.”

  As the leering crowd snickered, her anxiety grew. “What do you want as payment?” she asked, although fairly certain what he desired.

  The captain touched her hair. Slowly, he pulled a handful of the long strands over her shoulder. His fingers slid the length of it until the back of his knuckles touched the swell of her bare breast.

  A queasy feeling gripped her insides. Her heart beat so rapidly she thought it would burst from her chest. She shifted her gaze from his face and focused on a neutral object on the far side of the room in an effort to keep her body from trembling violently.

  Any hope of getting away unscathed immediately dissolved. She knew what price this pagan, savage pirate would demand from her.

  ****

  PAYTON’S WOMAN

  By

  Marilyn Yarbrough

  ****

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Payton’s Woman

  COPYRIGHT ©2013 by Marilyn Yarbrough

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: www.marilynyarbrough.com

  Cover Art: Sheri L. McGathy

  www.sherimegathy.com/sheri/book-cover-design

  Publishing History

  Marilyn Yarbrough, 2013

  Published in the United States of America

  ****

  Chapter One

  Summer 1865

  San Francisco, California

  A single gunshot shattered the tense atmosphere. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder hovered in the air as the lifeless form of Wilber Hennigan crumpled into a heap on the bed. Julia Anderson shuddered and her stomach lurched. She clamped one hand over her mouth to hold back the retches.

  His death might’ve been prevented, but it’d happened too quickly. She hated him, but she didn’t wish him dead—not yet anyway. Not until she found Lawrence Dunbar, his partner in their vile crimes.

  But Hennigan no longer considered them partners. He’d planned to keep all the money for himself and leave the country to hide from Dunbar and the authorities. And he’d wanted Julia to run away with him.

  “Go with me to Europe,” he’d pleaded. “You’re so innocent and sweet. I must have you. I’ll divorce my wife and marry you if that’s what you want.”

  “Marry you?” she’d repeated. Only his audacity surpassed his stupidity. “Just holding your hand makes my flesh crawl.”

  “But I love you.”

  “And I despise you.” All her hatred for Hennigan and Dunbar had spilled from her lips. She’d not known her soul capable of such cruelty, but the words had tumbled out as her anger exploded. “You’re responsible for my brother’s death. You may not have pulled the trigger, but Dunbar did. The two of you planned this so you could line your pockets with money—blood money.”

  His mouth agape, he’d sat quietly on the edge of the bed while she unleashed her fury.

  “My brother was a good and decent man. I’ll see both of you in Hell before I allow either of you to profit from the evil schemes that took his life.”

  Iron manacles dangled from his headboard. The taste of vomit had risen in her throat at the thought of the depravity that must have transpired in this room. She’d swallowed down her disgust, for she’d planned to use the cruel device to her advantage. She’d tried to shackle him to the bed so the authorities could arrest him in the morning, but when she’d attempted to secure the cuff around his wrist, he’d suddenly snapped out of his stupor. He’d wrestled the derringer from her, but instead of pointing the weapon at her, he’d pressed the barrel against his temple and pulled the trigger.

  In one brief moment, her efforts to receive justice for her brother’s death had vanished. Without Hennigan’s confession, no one would believe Dunbar and this dead man lying on the bed had been conspirators in piracy and treason.

  Her back stiffened. She could not be found with him. These last several months of sacrifice and planning would count for nothing if the wrong people discovered she hunted for Dunbar.

  She scrambled about the room collecting her things. A black, beaded reticule lay on the seat of the padded leather chair. Her woolen cloak sprawled over the armrest. She slipped the satin drawstrings of the little bag around her wrist and tossed the cloak over her arm.

  Silk gloves, matching her sapphire-blue gown, had been flung in the middle of the bed when she’d first entered the room. The fingertips peeked at her from beneath Wilbur Hennigan’s body. She’d have to roll him over to retrieve the gloves, but first, she’d have to pry the derringer from his hand.

  When she gripped the cool metal of the pistol, her fingers brushed against his still-warm skin. She jerked away as if burned. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t touch his lifeless body. Her gloves and weapon would stay where they were.

  Flinging her cloak around her shoulders, she dashed out into the night. The cool, damp fog swirled around her as she hurried down the street. After several blocks, she stopped running and leaned her shoulder against the side of a building to catch her breath.

  Disorientated by the dense fog, she peered through the misty darkness to regain her bearings. Nothing looked familiar, but a shiver of terror crept through her. Anyone living in California had heard the stories about a certain section of San Francisco where decent women dared not venture. In her haste to flee, she’d run in the wrong direction and now stood in the worst place she could be—the hellhole of the Barbary Coast.

  Despite the labored breathing roaring in her ears, she heard footsteps behind her on the boarded walk. Her heart hammered wildly as morbid thoughts whirled inside her mind of what could happen if someone accosted her. She pushed away from the building and resumed her rapid pace down the street.

  Thankfully, the thick fog helped conceal her presence, but her mind fogged also. Only one clear thought remained. She had to get away from here. But how?

  She possessed money—a little anyway. If luck accompanied her, she could hire someone as an escort to her hotel.

  A shiver rippled through her. So far tonight, all her luck had been bad.

  At this late hour, no carriage was available for hire. The few men loitering nearby were probably drunk, or up to no good. She guessed the man following her fell into one, if not both those categories.

  A sudden burst of laughter and raucous voices startled her, but she hurried in the direction of the noise. The voice
s continued to reverberate through the heavy mist, drawing her down an alleyway until she discovered a dingy-looking tavern.

  Light filtered through the windows, but the filthy glass panes blocked any view of the inside. She feared what she might find. The stories related to her about this lawless area included tales of murderers, whoremongers, and drunkards. One decent person must be among them, although finding him may prove an impossible task.

  Julia clutched at her skirt and stepped over the body obstructing the tavern entrance. She reassured herself he wasn’t dead, just passed out from too much drink, for she’d seen enough death for the night.

  Cautiously, she pushed open the door and peered inside at the inhabitants. If it didn’t look any safer than being outside, she wanted to slip out unnoticed. She’d rather take her chances with one man instead of half a dozen, and that’s about how many converged inside the tavern.

  They all gathered in the middle, their backs to her so she couldn’t see their faces. No one noticed when she entered the room. A haze of smoke hovered in the air, but that wasn’t what prevented them from seeing her. Their attention seemed riveted on the tallest in the midst of their group.

  After taking another few steps into the room, she spotted the knife the tall man held. The long, wide blade glinted with reflected light as he tossed it into the air. The knife turned end-over-end before he caught it again.

  The crowd hushed when he grasped the blade firmly in his hand. He drew it slowly over his shoulder. With a hard, swift motion, he threw the lethal weapon. It cut through the air with a whirling sound before landing dead center on a target at the far end of the room.

  Roars of triumph and dismay mingled in the tavern. The men clapped each other on the back and exchanged money, although the knife thrower appeared to collect the largest share. He dropped the coins into a leather pouch and shoved it inside his shirt.

  His head turned. He looked at Julia. His forehead wrinkled; his smile faded. His gaze never swerved as he elbowed his way past the other men. One-by-one they turned to see what lured the knife thrower from them until all eyes focused on her.

  A cold chill crept up her spine. She wanted to flee, but her body froze at the sight of him. He looked like a bloodthirsty pirate straight out of her childhood nightmares.

  A black leather patch shielded one eye. A white shirt, unbuttoned to the waist, covered his broad shoulders. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing a winged serpent tattooed on his left forearm. The wicked looking knife he’d just hurled through the air seemed equal to a cutlass, at least in her mind. A gold earring would complete his resemblance to the dreaded pirate in her terrifying dreams.

  His stride unhurried, he approached as if a wild animal stalking his wounded prey. He stopped so close, his formidable frame occupied her entire scope of vision. He also seemed to take up the very air she breathed.

  Her eyes opened wide.

  This fearsome-looking pirate wasn’t an illusion from any nightmare. Flesh and blood formed this creature. Black, shoulder length hair swept back from his face, but his short beard and moustache appeared reddish in the lamplight. Dark, curly hair swirled across his muscular chest. His naked skin stretched taunt over the rippled muscles of his flat belly.

  His gaze settled on her face. “A woman like you deserves to be looked at with two eyes.” He grasped the patch that covered his eye and pulled it from his head.

  Julia envisioned the horror about to be revealed. She clasped her hand to her throat as a scream built there, but instead of a hideous, empty eye socket, a brilliant blue eye that matched his other, stared back.

  He pushed the hood of the cloak gently from her head. “What’s an angel like you doing in the Devil’s Lair?” His voice rumbled low and husky.

  In her mind she reasoned the patch existed merely as a device to prove his knife-throwing ability, since both eyes scanned her body as though searching out her every secret. She pulled the cloak together to stop his perusal.

  Her throat had gone dry. She swallowed hard before speaking. “I’m in need of assistance.”

  His lips curved into a smile. “Then you came to the right man, Angel. I’d be more than happy to assist you.” He paused to look at the men gathered around them. His smile turned more devilish. “In fact, I’d like to assist you all night long.”

  The crowd chuckled and snorted, but she kept her gaze directed on the man in front of her. “I’m willing to compensate you for any inconvenience.”

  “Inconvenience?” One dark eyebrow arched as his grin broadened to reveal a dimple in his cheek. “It will be my pleasure. Your pleasure also,” he added, and that remark brought another round of chortling.

  Julia knew what his suggestive remarks implied but sensed his lewd comments were more for the amusement of his companions. Something in those brilliant blue eyes staring at her offered a spark of hope. “I can pay you. I have a few dollars.”

  A short, stout man elbowed the person next to him before he spoke in a loud voice. “Looks like the Cap’n’s reputation has grown so much that women are willing to pay him.”

  She glanced around as the group broke into uproarious laughter. This drunken, slobbering lot would probably slit each other’s throat for the last drink of rum. Her only chance for help seemed to lay with the man standing before her. But he frightened her the most.

  “I already have money.” He patted the front of his shirt where he’d stuffed his winnings. “Quite a bit.”

  He grasped the edge of the dark-blue cloak that covered her body and pried it carefully from her clenched fingers. “What else do you have to offer?” He tossed the edge of the cloak over her shoulder.

  The sapphire-blue evening gown she wore plunged low in the front, causing the swell of her bare breasts to spill over the bodice edge. The hot stares from every man in the tavern seemed to scorch her skin, but she fought the urge to cover her bosom with her hands. Any show of modesty would undoubtedly bring more scoffs and jeers.

  Her body shuddered as she imagined her fate at the hands of these filthy, lecherous beasts. She wanted to turn and run but feared they’d never let her reach the tavern door. Her screams for help would go unanswered.

  Instead, she clenched her hands into fists to steel her resolve. She lifted her chin a faint degree to search for some sign of compassion in the lusting pirate standing before her. “A small amount of money is all I have. I pray you won’t ask for more than I can give.”

  A leering drunk with rotted, yellow teeth grabbed the other side of her cloak. He pulled at the cloak to expose the swell of her other breast. “Looks like you’ve got enough to give to all of us.”

  The stench of his foul breath made her stomach churn. Her body shook, and her knees buckled. She almost collapsed onto the floor in a hysterical mass of quivering flesh but managed to gather the remnants of her courage. She glared at the putrid smelling man and clutched at her cloak in an effort to pull it free from his grasp.

  “Let go,” she demanded. Her voice shook with outrage, but she tried to squelch the tremor of fear.

  With a show of ultimate possessiveness, the dark-haired pirate grabbed the man’s wrist. She heard bones grate beneath his grip as he pulled the offending hand from her cloak. He released the man by flinging him backward onto the dirty, wooden floor. He gave the rest of the men a chilling look. “Any man who touches her will have to fight me.”

  For the first time, she grasped at the faint hope of finding someone willing to assist her.

  “Will you help me?” she begged, the desperation obvious in her voice.

  Before he answered, someone near the door spoke. “I’ll help you, miss.”

  Footsteps scurried around her as the crowd shifted to look at the stranger. His appearance didn’t seem much different from the other drunks in the tavern. He looked just as grubby and leering, but she recognized him.

  Immediately, she stepped closer to the blue-eyed pirate. She gripped his arm as though he’d already consented to be her protector, but she ke
pt her gaze on the newcomer. “You’re the man who’s been following me,” she accused.

  “I was just watching after you to make sure you didn’t come to no harm,” he said, but the sneer on his face belied his sincerity. He beckoned to her with one hand while his other moved closer to the revolver strapped at his waist. “Come with me. I’ll take good care of you.”

  The man whose arm Julia held shrugged free of her grasp. He pushed her behind his body. “She already has someone taking care of her.”

  The challenge in his voice caused the crowd to stagger back a few steps, except for the short, stout one. He handed him the knife he’d retrieved from the target.

  “You might be needing this, Cap’n Ty.”

  “Captain Ty?” The stranger’s eyes widened as he looked at the large knife and the man holding it. “Captain Payton Tyler?” he asked, although the recognition of him, or at least his reputation, seemed obvious.

  This man they called captain stared at the stranger without speaking. The only sound Julia heard was the slapping of the wide blade against the palm of his other hand.

  Several tense moments passed before the stranger moved his hand from the revolver. He edged backward a few steps. “I guess you can look after her all right.”

  “I’m so glad you approve.” The captain nodded in a mocking gesture.

  In the man’s attempt to escape, he bumped into the door. He reached behind him and fumbled for the handle. After pulling the door open, he dashed out into the night.

  Howls of laughter followed him out the tavern. The men once more approached the captain and clapped him on his back.

  He turned to Julia. “Looks like I’m your man.”

  A cold, hard glare of anger lingered on his face. She sucked in her breath at the chilling sight. She didn’t doubt he could protect her from the other men, but who would protect her from him?

  Quickly, she gathered her wits. A man’s ego could be a powerful thing. She’d boost it up so if he felt tempted to fall short of her expectation of him, he’d be in fear of crushing his own ego.