Dwelling on her dream gentleman, Russia held the book and the cat a while longer before realizing her heart was back to beating normally. Giving Nehemiah a quick kiss, she rose. Dusk had fallen; she lit a lamp before taking a dress from her bag of belongings. Holding it out before her, she smiled.
It was a gorgeous gown. Crimson satin edged with frothy black lace. It rustled. She loved that sound. It shimmered. She loved that, too.
But best of all, working dress that it was, it made money for her. With dinner in mind, she began to dress and picked up a pair of embroidered panties, taking a moment to remember the kind woman who’d sewn the day of the week on them, and on six others. Brows furrowed in concentration, she read the first two letters of the word stitched on the pair she held, a T and a U, and knew those letters together meant Tuesday. She dropped the underwear back in the bag and rummaged through it again.
“Well, where the hell are my Saturday panties?” She cursed when she couldn’t find them. Irritated, she pulled out another pair and sighed when she saw the M on them. “Monday,” she murmured. “Here it is Saturday, Russia, and you’re havin’ to wear your Monday panties. I ain’t never heared o’ nothin’ so dumb in all my life.”
Still muttering, she tied the drawstring tightly about her waist, donned the rest of her underthings, then slipped into her gown, relishing the way it hugged her body. Sheer black stockings, dangling earrings, and black high-heeled shoes completed her outfit. Peering into the small, rusty mirror above the broken dresser, she arranged her thick hair so that it fell in soft waves all around her body, then crowned herself with a headband of scarlet blossoms. The silk flowers drooped over her forehead, and no amount of pushing made them sit properly.
“Whistlin’ witches and snortin’ termites, I gotta git me another flower wreath, Weeney. This one’s older’n God.” She blew the wilted blossoms off her forehead and began applying paints to her face: a touch of chocolate-brown shadow to her eyes, and smudges of rosy color to her cheeks and lips. She didn’t much like the mess, but men did.
And men were her business. Whatever they wanted, she gave. They had money, she needed it, and that was that.
She squelched a twinge of sadness and examined her assortment of essences. Choosing one, she dabbed a bit of peppermint oil behind each ear, then picked up her ring, caressing its unusual setting before putting it on. It was much too big to wear on her finger, so she wore it around her neck. Suspended from a rawhide string, it glittered between her scantily clad breasts.
Waving good-bye to Nehemiah, she stepped into the dim hall. Strains of piano music wafted to her ears. She wobbled her way to the staircase, shuddering as she looked down the steps. “Prayin’ pickles and moanin’ mittens, I wonder who the hell invented stairs. Whoever he was, I hope he failed down his own creation and breaked his damn neck. Lord only knows how many times I’ve almost busted mine.”
Legs quivering, she gripped the railing and began her descent. Hope rose when there were only four more steps to go. Hope died when her heel snagged on one.
She stumbled down the rest of them.
“Miss Russia!” several men shouted in unison. One assisted her to her feet and began the pleasant task of brushing dust from her dress. Though her skirt was the dirtiest part, he concentrated on her bodice, his hands sweeping across her lush breasts.
She slapped his hands away. “I didn’t come down here fer that. Come to sing. Tip me good, and you can stick the money into my dress. Till then, hands off.”
He laughed good-naturedly and ambled back to his seat.
Surveying the smoke-filled room, Russia saw there was a good crowd. Almost every table in the place was occupied with rowdy, card-playing men. Many of them appeared to be well on their way toward drunkenness. It was her experience that the drunker the man, the better he tipped. If enough of the men tipped her for singing, she wouldn’t have to invite any of them into her room. With that hope uppermost in her mind, she sashayed to the bar. “Y’don’t mind if I sing some, do you?” she asked the barkeep.
He slid a whiskey to a thirsty cowboy four stools down and began wiping a clean glass until it shone. His right cheek bulged with a wad of tobacco; his long mustache bobbed on his shirt collar as he chewed. “What’s a-matter? Business upstairs slow tonight?”
She closed her eyes in disgust when he spat a stream of tobacco juice into a brass spittoon. “No, it ain’t, but that lumpy mattress you got up there is the punishin’est thing I ever laid myself down on. ’Sides that, my git-up-and-go has done got up and went. I’m plumb nelly weary o’ upstairs business tonight. Now, you gonna let me sing, or ain’tcha?”
He laughed, gesturing toward the piano and the man who was seated in front of it. “The girl wants to sing, Mort. Play somethin’ for her and let’s see if she’s any good.”
Russia smiled when she saw that Mort was a man no bigger than the little end of nothing whittled down to a fine point. She leaned close to him and whispered into his ear.
He nodded and began to play the bawdy ballad she’d requested. While he tinkled out the introduction, Russia performed her usual promenade through the saloon. Her hips swaying to the lively rhythm of the music, she swept past various tables, flirting outrageously with the bolder men and winking at the shyer ones. When she arrived in front of the huge, sparkling-clean window, she realized she had every man’s complete attention. Taking a deep breath, she began to sing.
The cheering men quieted immediately, many of them grimacing in pain as her sour notes jangled their ears.
“She sounds like a dyin’ nanny goat,” one burly man whispered to his fellow listeners.
“Sounds more like a cat in heat to me,” his companion muttered, cringing when Russia screeched out a particularly high note.
“Well, I don’t give a damn what she sounds like,” another man declared, digging into his pocket and pulling out a wad of bills. “With a face and body like hers, who the hell cares about her voice?” Chuckling, he rose and staggered toward the window. After smoothing out the bills, he slipped them into the plunging bodice of Russia’s gown, deliberately taking his time in doing so. His fingers lingered on the plump, white swells of her breasts; his smile grew broader.
Other men followed suit, and soon there was a long line of amorous cowboys waiting for their turn to tip Russia. As she began the last stanza, she peered down at her dress and realized she’d made enough money to see her through the next two weeks! Exhilarated, she sang louder, giving everything she had to the final line of the song.
The sound of shattering glass accompanied her final note. Mort stopped playing. Some of the men covered their ears. Stunned silence ensued. All eyes were riveted on the window.
There was no window. Other than a few shards of glass still stuck in the frame, the rest of it had crashed to the boardwalk outside.
The barkeep looked straight into Russia’s wide eyes. “Look what you done, girl.”
The expression in his narrowed eyes and the twitching muscle in his cheek told her his every thought. He looked like he was going to kill her! Swallowing, she glanced through the hole that used to be a window. “I— Gods and little fishes, them high notes is plumb nelly powerful, ain’t they?”
“Your shriekin’ broke the whole damn window! Dammit, you couldn’t carry a tune if it had a handle on it!”
Russia felt her cheeks heat. “Well…I didn’t git to warm up good. And I fergitted to bring my lemon wash down here with me. I gargle with it, y’see, and it makes my voice real—”
“Girl, you could eat a whole lemon tree, and your voice would still turn sweet milk to clabber!” With that, the barkeep marched over to her and snatched every bill from the bodice of her gown. Counting it quickly, he grunted in satisfaction. “This’ll cover the damage your screechin’ done.”
Her stomach felt emptier than ever as Russia watched him take the cash to his money box. “Blood and balls,” she whispered to the men still standing around her. “That man’s so mean, I reckon he’d c
ry over your wounds jist so’s he could git salt in ’em.”
She sighed. It was obvious now that she’d be forced to invite someone up to her room. She peered up at the man beside her.
He recognized the invitation in her eyes. “Miss Russia,” he began sheepishly, “I done tipped ya with all the money I had.”
Many of the other men echoed his explanation. Nodding, Russia waved them back to their tables and studied the room again. Surely there were a few men who hadn’t tipped her, men who still had money in their pockets.
She spied a few of them. But as she examined their attire, she realized that the reason they hadn’t tipped her was because they were too poor to do so. “Hellish hell and hangin’ hangnails,” she murmured. “There ain’t a single man in this here room who’s got money.” Her head hung low, she turned toward the staircase. She’d gone hungry before and guessed she would tonight, too.
As she reached the stairs, a flash in the dim corner caught her eye: the gleam of bullets. They were studded in thick leather straps that crisscrossed a man’s broad chest.
She stopped, wondering why she hadn’t noticed this man before. He was big. So tall she reckoned he had to bow his head when going in and out of doors. His huge hand covered his whiskey glass completely, and the only reason she knew he held one was because he brought it to his mouth and emptied it.
She stared at his massive arms, then regarded the holstered guns that lay upon his corded thighs and the long dagger that hung from a sheath tied around his thick calf. At the sight of his heavily muscled body, Russia felt an unfamiliar tremor scamper through her.
When he turned his head to look at her, she watched his midnight hair settle across his wide shoulders. As his eyes met hers, she tried to swallow, but couldn’t.
They were the darkest eyes she’d ever seen, and she wondered if they were black. Deeply set, they didn’t blink, didn’t move, just bored into her. She felt as though they touched her very soul.
Flustered, she brought her hand up to the place on her chest where she figured her soul was, then saw the jagged scar that marred the man’s left cheek. Set against his dark skin, its paleness was a startling contrast.
Taking a nervous step backward, she continued to study the scar, wishing she knew how he had gotten it. She felt a touch of pity for him before reminding herself that she hadn’t given him the scar and therefore had no need to feel guilty that he had it.
She decided he was Mexican. She’d never seen a Mexican as handsome as he was. For that matter, she couldn’t remember seeing any man as handsome as he was. His high cheekbones had deep, shadowed hollows beneath them, his jaw was strong and rugged, and his lips were generous. Oddly enough, his scar didn’t detract from his good looks. On the contrary, Russia mused, it enhanced them. His was a sinister sensuality, and despite her apprehension, she felt drawn to him in a way she couldn’t understand.
The realization astonished her. She’d known a multitude of men and had never felt a thing for any of them. But this man… This man did strange things to her.
Struggling with the mystifying emotions he evoked, she forced herself to consider his suitability as a client. Like many of the other men in the saloon, he looked to be a drifter. But he was too self-assured, too relaxed to be a down-on-his-luck wanderer. There was an air about him. One that whispered “money” instead of “broke.”
With that peculiar but not unpleasant tingle still seeping through her, Russia lifted her chin and headed for him.
Chapter Two
As the girl strolled toward him, Santiago saw the impish ascent of her dainty chin and the excitement sparkling in her big, liquid eyes. He’d never seen hair as long as hers, and watched as it rippled across her hips and thighs. Her split skirt parted as she walked, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her slender leg.
She was the most beautiful girl he’d seen in a very long time. The thought almost made him smile. If her ugly voice weren’t encased in such a gorgeous body, she’d starve trying to make a living from singing.
Living, he repeated silently. Her source of livelihood was prostitution.
Whore. As the word exploded into his mind, unbidden memories rose, filling him with hatred, sorrow, rage, and a need to vent those painful emotions. His fingers turned white around his whiskey glass.
Eyes hardening, he continued to watch her approach.
The look he gave her slowed Russia’s advance. There was a snap in his gaze. It made her think of a whip, a black, lashing whip. She stopped, feeling a shred of fear creep through her. His ebony eyes seemed to capture her own, and try as she did, she couldn’t escape their powerful pull. Their glitter both enticed and frightened her; she tried to understand what it was about the man that so unnerved her. Biting her bottom lip, she gave him a slight nod of her head, hoping he would understand her invitation.
Santiago felt a blaze of desire when he saw her nibble at her rosy lip. He needed a woman tonight. Weeks had passed since he’d last bedded one. He’d use this one well, tell her exactly what he thought of her, then refuse to pay her. Being denied money was exactly what she and all her kind deserved. And she wouldn’t object, either. He knew she wouldn’t. Just like all other whores, just like every person he encountered, she’d be too afraid of him.
He ignored the pang of torment that thought brought and slid on his black hat. Well aware that every man in the room was avoiding eye contact with him, he walked straight out of the saloon. The girl would follow, he knew. He had but to wait. As the door swung behind him, he suspected he wouldn’t have to wait long.
Dumbfounded, Russia stared until she could no longer see him. As if she’d known the man forever, she felt his absence keenly. Hurrying to the gaping hole that used to be a window, she saw him cross the dusty street and stop before a small child. Just as he reached out to pat the little boy on the head, a primly dressed woman, who Russia presumed was the mother, raced into the street, gathered the lad into her arms, and rushed away with him. Though she couldn’t be sure, Russia thought she saw the gunslinger stiffen before he disappeared into the Hamlett Hotel.
“Come away from there before he sees ya starin’ after him, Miss Russia,” a man behind her counseled. “You don’t want nothin’ to do with that one.”
“Sure don’t,” another agreed. “That was Santiago Zamora.”
She turned away from the window hole, puzzled over what the men had said. “Who’s Santiago Zamora?”
“Who is he?” Mort asked. “He ain’t only the greatest mustanger who ever held reins in his hands, he’s the best bounty hunter in the land! There ain’t never been a gunman like Santiago Zamora.”
“For a damn fortune,” the first man said, “he can turn a worthless nag into the finest mount a man could ever hope to have, and he can do it quicker’n a hiccup. Some say he speaks horse. And he’s the one who brung in that murderous bastard, Uriah Oswald, last year. Got him five thousand dollars for doin’ it, too. He don’t work cheap.”
“He sure don’t,” the second man added, and took a sip of his whiskey. “I heard he charged some rich woman ten thousand for findin’ her missin’ husband a few months back. She’d already had other trackers lookin’ for the man for a year. It took Zamora a week to find him.”
“And he’s the one who brung in the Quincy gang,” another man told her. “There was eleven men in that gang, and he got ever’ damn one of ’em. There ain’t no tellin’ how much he got for doin’ it.”
Another man nodded. “He’s richer’n the dirt in a old cowpen. Keeps all his gold with him, too. He’s a walkin’ bank. Ain’t afraid to carry all that cash around on account o’ nobody in their right mind would ever try to steal it from him. Wonder what he’s doin’ here in Hamlett.”
Almost every man in the room had a tale to tell about Santiago Zamora. One even swore the gunslinger was a living legend. Russia felt confused by all the stories of heroism. “Well, if he’s so plumb nelly wonderful, why shouldn’t I want nothin’ to do with him?”
&nbs
p; “He’s dangerous, Miss Russia,” one man explained. “Got him a temper that no man with a ounce o’ brains would want to set off. I heard tell he hates bringin’ in outlaws alive. He’d rather shoot ’em dead. But if they surrender to him, beggin’ for their lives, he tortures ’em some before he brings ’em in. Mean is what he is.”
“Did ya see that scar on his face?” someone asked. “I heard tell he got it flghtin’ a mountain lion. Zamora was mad at the cat, see, ’cause the cat stole the rabbit Zamora was gonna eat fer supper. Zamora caught the lion, killed it with one blow to its jaw, then ate the whole thing for supper.”
Mort rose from his piano seat. “Well, I been told he got the scar wrestlin’ Apaches. They filched his horse, and there ain’t nothin’ in the world more dangerous than messin’ around with that black stallion of his. Zamora fought the whole damn tribe of braves and beat every one of ’em. Got him that scar for doin’ it, but he got his horse back.”
“I say the devil gave it to him,” another man speculated. “The devil was jealous, y’see. Jealous on account of Zamora’s meaner’n him. So the devil threw his pitchfork at Zamora and scarred him for life.”
“Zamora gave the scar to his own self,” the barkeep declared. “He’s so damn bloodthirsty that once when he couldn’t find anyone to kill, he slit his own face just so he could see some blood. Honest to God, he did.”
Russia didn’t believe the barkeep’s story, but shivered nonetheless. “Well, he’s prob’ly only dangerous to outlaws,” she informed the men. “He catches criminals, don’t he? He—”
She broke off abruptly. He catches criminals. As the words repeated themselves in her mind, excitement pulsed through her veins so forcefully it was a moment before she could find a shred of composure.
2a748f08-49ec-41d8-8e72-82e5bc151bc0-epub-67710b16-8d2a-4caa-be30-f5ebeb130f9c Page 2
