Sweet Savage Love

by Rosemary Rogers

  Turning away from the mirror, Ginny walked impulsively to the window and pulled the drapes aside so that she could look down into the street. It had been getting dark when they had arrived here last night, and under the hot sun, everything looked different.

  The heat, reflected off the small balcony just outside the window, seemed to assault her senses.

  It must be just past noon, she thought, shading her eyes.

  The dusty street seemed to shimmer in the glare, and there was no breeze to cool her cheeks. She supposed that it was the intense heat that made everyone stay indoors, for there was hardly any activity to speak of. Horses, tethered to hitching posts that lined the avenue, hung their heads; a few loafers sat rolling dice or smoking on the porch of a saloon just opposite.

  The street was wide, but at this time only an occasional buckboard or a lone rider travelled its length. She had been told that wagons sometimes rolled through the streets of San Antonio, that it was a busy, bustling town. But this afternoon it seemed lazy and half-asleep—almost too quiet.

  Voices carried up to her, through the still, hot air. A good town for eavesdropping, Ginny thought wryly, but she could not help listening—perhaps because of the rather tense note in the voice that spoke first.

  “He’s in that saloon, Bart. Been drinkin’ in there with that half-breed sidekick of his since mornin’. Want me to go hurry him up, some?”

  “No.” The second voice sounded nasal and flat. “If he’s drinking, he’s scared. I can wait. He’ll come out some time.”

  Curiosity made Ginny lean out cautiously to look down. Three men stood on the sidewalk beneath her window, completely unaware of her presence. One of them was tall and rather thin, dressed like an Easterner in a black suit, his hat a fashionable derby. His two companions wore typical western clothes.

  The man they had called Bart spoke again.

  “You find out who he is?”

  “Naw. Calls hisself Whittaker, an’ he came in with that wagon train, all right. All the way from Louisiana.”

  “He sure don’t wear his gun like no scout,” the third man put in. “I asked around, Bart. No one recognizes him for sure, but I heard one man say he used to ride shotgun for Barlow & Sanderson. Kind of sidewinder that travels around a whole bunch.”

  Bart made a short, cold sound that could have been a chuckle.

  “So do I, Ed. An’ I recall seeing him before, even if the name he’s using ain’t familiar. The marshal’s office didn’t have a poster on him, but I’d swear he has a price on his head.”

  “You’ll collect it, then, Bart. You’re faster than any gunman I ever seen, and I guess he knew that. He sure stayed real quiet when you were needlin’ him yesterday, didn’t he?”

  The black-garbed man’s voice sounded suddenly sharp and dangerous.

  “Mr. Casey didn’t like the way he run them wagons through the river ahead of his herd. Lost him valuable time, he said. And me, I just don’t like the way he sets. You sure you gave him my message, Tom?”

  “Sure I did, Bart. You saw me go in there. Mebbe he slunk out the back door—mebbe he didn’t cotton to the idea of meeting you.”

  “He’s going to like it less if I come looking for him.”

  Above the men, Ginny stood motionless, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart beginning to beat faster.

  The man they were waiting for was one of the men she had heard talking last night. What a coincidence! But—these men had implied he was afraid, and it hadn’t seemed that way. She remembered the cold assurance in his voice when he’d said he’d kill Haines. That must be the man they called Bart.

  What was going to happen now? Would there be a gunfight? Ginny knew that she ought to close her window. Forget about everything she’d overheard, and run downstairs to safety. But a certain sick curiosity and excitement held her helpless. She had never watched a duel being fought before, and her father had told her that in the west, gunfights were common. I want to see what it’s like, she thought. I’m safe up here—I want to find out. Will he come out of that saloon? Has he really run away?

  Some instinct told her that the three men who waited like predatory birds were killers. They would wait, and a man would walk out from that saloon into the sunlight, and be shot down.

  I do not want to see this—she thought dazedly, staring down into the glare of the dusty street. And yet, something held her there. She had to see it all begin—and end.

  With a suddenness that startled her, Ginny saw the swinging door of the saloon across the street pushed open. Two men came outside, pausing in the shade of the porch.

  “Kill him now, Bart, while his eyes ain’t used to the sunlight yet—” one of the men below said urgently.

  But the black-clad man laughed softly and sneeringly.

  “No need for that. I want to see him draw against me—and I want it known I was faster.”

  A feeling of unreality seized hold of Ginny. She almost felt as if she might be watching a play, safely ensconced in her box at the theatre. She found her eyes fixed on the taller of the two men who had come out of the saloon. This must be the man they called Whittaker. He had walked to the edge of the porch now, while the other man who had come outside with him stepped to one side, slightly behind him. Actors, taking their places. She must cling to that illusion!

  Whittaker wore a black, flat-crowned hat pulled down over his forehead so that it shaded his eyes. He wore a short black leather vest over a burgundy red shirt, and dark blue, closely fitting breeches tucked into black, high-topped boots. His gun belt, with its tied-down holster, rode low on his right hip. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem to be afraid. He stood there on the edge of the porch, his stance almost negligent except for the hand that seemed almost to brush the butt of his revolver.

  Although nothing had happened yet, a kind of stillness seemed to hang in the air. The loafers on the porch scuttled out of the way, and a small group of men farther up the street, who had been talking casually among themselves turned to watch.

  The man called Bart took a forward step out into the street where Ginny could see him clearly, without needing to crane her neck downward. He was a tall, rather thin man, his shoulders hunched under his black jacket.

  His slightly nasal voice sounded cold, thin-edged with contempt.

  “Took your time comin’ out here, Whittaker, if that’s your name. I was beginning to think I’d have to come in after you.”

  The lithe, dark-featured man with Whittaker smiled as if he had heard something to amuse him, his teeth flashing whitely under his thin mustache. He leaned back against the saloon wall, and began to roll a cigarette.

  “Hurry back, amigo. Don’t forget you have a drink to finish.”

  One of the men who had been talking to Haines laughed nervously, but Whittaker himself merely shrugged and stepped off the porch. He began to walk slowly towards the man who stood waiting for him, his boot heels making small puffs of dust at each step. He wasted neither motion nor words, and Ginny could not help being aware of an almost catlike grace in the way he walked and carried his lean body. Surely, he would have to pause soon? Surely he would have something to say? There was something menacing about the way he kept coming, so indolently, and so silently, and the other man seemed to sense it and grow tense.

  “Damn you! What do you think—”

  “Haines, I’m walking. You said you had business with me. You make the move.”

  Whittaker’s voice was soft and almost disinterested, as if he didn’t care one way or another, but he neither paused nor hesitated, and the distance between the two men narrowed.

  Where before Ginny had been positive that the man called Bart was the more dangerous of the two, now she felt differently. Whittaker reminded her of an animal stalking its prey. In spite of his casual, unconcerned manner she could sense something infinitely dangerous about this man, and it was obvious that Haines felt it too.

  With a muffled, unintelligible oath, Haines made his move; stepping back and sideways as
his hand seemed to blur downward for his gun.

  Ginny supposed afterwards that Whittaker must have moved too. When horrified realization hit her, he had a gun in his hand and he was standing with his knees slightly bent, firing. There were three shots at least that seemed to merge into one rolling explosion. Haines’ gun dropped before he could bring it up—the man seemed to have been picked up and flung backward by the murderous force of the bullets that pounded into his body.

  Ginny leaned against the window frame, her nostrils stinging from the smell of burned powder, her eyes fixed with a sick, frightened fascination on the broken body that lay sprawled like an ungainly puppet in the dust, blood seeping from holes in the black coat.

  She was hardly aware of the voices that floated upward, of the footsteps of men who came running.

  “My God—Haines never even got a chance to shoot!”

  “Never seen anyone draw so fast in my born days…”

  “Somebody better get the Marshal, I guess. But Haines was asking for it.”

  “If the Marshall wants to talk to me, I’ll be in the saloon, finishing my drink.”

  How could any man who had just killed another sound so coolly unconcerned? Duels had always seemed so romantic, so dramatic, but there had been nothing so very dramatic or noble about this one—and even when she closed her eyes, Ginny could see the broken, bleeding body, just lying there.

  Half-sick with revulsion, she stumbled away from the window and found herself sitting on her bed, fighting to control the waves of nausea.

  7

  Senator Brandon had reserved a private dining room that night so that his family and guests might eat in privacy. The hotel they were staying at boasted a French chef and the fine wines that accompanied their meal that night also came from France.

  Tonight it was easy to imagine that they were dining in a fine Eastern restaurant. The large table was adorned with a snowy linen tablecloth, set with heavy china and silverware—the waiters were well-trained and unobtrusive.

  It was amazing, Ginny thought, what could be achieved with enough money and influence—creating a civilized oasis in an uncivilized world was just one of the smaller things. I shouldn’t think that way, she thought guiltily. Why, I’ve been told that San Francisco, for instance, can hold its own with any of the larger European cities. And yet, it was almost unbelievable to imagine that she was still in San Antonio, Texas, where outside on a street that was an unpaved expanse of red dust, a man had been shot dead in front of witnesses.

  Ginny took a sip of her wine, willing herself to forget about the early afternoon and the scene she had watched. A man had died violently—she must get used to it. She was fully aware that she might watch worse things happen on the long journey by wagon to California.

  “My dear child,” her father had warned her, “I do not want you to imagine that this journey you have undertaken is without risk. There might be hostile Indians—some white men who are as bad or even worse, because they have turned renegade.” His voice had been serious, she knew that he was worried and perhaps a little uneasy about the prospect of his wife and daughter travelling alone to California. And yet, he was a practical man too. He had admitted quite honestly that it would prove a tremendous political advantage to him—the fact that like so many other emigrants to the golden state, his wife and daughter had undertaken the long and arduous journey by wagon train. There was also another factor to be considered, and that was the safety of the gold, the importance of their mission. No one would suspect that William Brandon would send help to the French in Mexico, or that two women would be entrusted with a mission of such critical importance. If Brandon’s motives were suspect in any circles (and he had also admitted that there were some who had these suspicions) they would never imagine that he would take his wife and daughter into his confidence. Westerners put “good” women on a pedestal—Sonya and Ginny would be much admired for their courage in undertaking such a long and hazardous journey without the Senator’s immediate protection, and the gold and arms could be delivered into the right hands without suspicion being aroused in the wrong quarters.

  My father is an intelligent man, Ginny thought proudly. She looked up and met his approving glance as it rested on her for just an instant.

  Tonight, in honor of the Senator’s guests, both Ginny and Sonya had worn evening gowns purchased in Paris, but it was apparent, soon after they had descended the staircase, that the latest styles had not come this far west as yet. There were five other women present—wives of the wealthy cattle ranchers who were Brandon’s guests, and their hoop-skirted gowns in dark shades of brown or maroon were uncompromisingly highnecked in spite of the almost oppressive heat.

  Ginny could feel the disapproving glances of these older, dowdy women rest on her from time to time, and although she was stubbornly determined to show no embarrassment, it was hard to feel exactly comfortable! She was glad that she had been seated next to Carl Hoskins, her father’s young foreman; and gladder still to learn that Mr. Hoskins would be accompanying them to California.

  Carl Hoskins was an extremely handsome young man, with blond hair that gleamed in the candlelight, and a small, carefully trimmed mustache that enhanced his good looks. He was, Ginny learned, the younger son of a recently impoverished plantation owner, and had been a captain in the Confederate army. Now, he intended to make his fortune in California.

  “I mean to learn all I can about the cattle business,” he confided to Ginny, made slightly dizzy and reckless by the combination of her beauty and the wine that flowed so plentifully. “I’m not going to waste my time searching for gold—there are bigger and more stable fortunes to be made by ranching, so I’ve heard. Someday, when I’ve saved up enough money, I’ll buy a ranch of my own; build up herds of Hereford cattle for beef and Jerseys or Guernseys for dairy products—” he broke off, embarrassed at the effect his own ill-timed enthusiasm might have on this dazzling, sophisticated young woman beside him.

  “Go on,” Ginny said softly, her emerald eyes seeming to glow. “I’m not at all bored, if that’s what you are afraid of. I want to learn all I can about California, and the way people live there.”

  Her green velvet gown matched her eyes, and when she leaned towards him as she was doing now, Carl was almost uncomfortably aware of the slight, rounded curve of her breasts, revealed by the extremely low décolletage of her dress. Her shoulders were bare and gleamed like ivory—matching green rosettes held her gown together at the shoulders, and she wore long gloves that reached to her elbows. I can tell these old biddies don’t like her gown, Carl thought bemusedly, trying to keep his attention on her conversation, but I sure do. If that’s the latest style—it suits her, and she’s sure got the figure to carry it off! Suddenly, he found himself looking forward to the long journey to California, even though, at first, he had not been exactly enthusiastic about the fact that they were to have two women along.

  Born a Southern gentleman, Carl Hoskins possessed both charm and good manners, in spite of the fact that he had not thought it necessary to avail himself of more than a formal, cursory kind of education. Books and foreign languages had never interested him; he had had other things to occupy his time and his mind. And when he had returned home from the wars to find his father’s acres seized by a carpetbagger government for non-payment of taxes, Carl had been philosophic enough and angry enough to be able to turn his back on it all and head west. It helped when his father wrote to William Brandon, who had been an early acquaintance of his. And Brandon trusted him—Brandon had plans that would include Carl in the adventure as well as the profit.

  Not usually at a loss for words or compliments where women were concerned, Carl found himself shy and almost tongue-tied around Ginny Brandon. He had never met a woman exactly like her before—combining the graceful charm of a young girl and the intelligence and sophistication of a woman. And she was flirting with him—he didn’t know quite how to react to it.

  What Carl did not realize, because she hid it
so well, was that Ginny was bored. And when she was bored, she talked more than usual, her conversation light and frivolous.

  Did the men here have nothing to talk about but raising cattle and selling them? Had the women no other interests but their homes and their children? But then, in this vast and half-empty land, what else was there?

  They were well into their third course now, and Ginny allowed her glass to be refilled, smiling when she caught Sonya’s eye. She had already noticed that most of the other women did not drink any wine at all, or merely took small, polite sips. It was another thing that she felt they must disapprove of, and she didn’t care. No doubt they would go home tonight and gossip among themselves that the Senator’s daughter drank too much wine and was fast. The thought made her smile again, and Carl, who thought her smiles were all for him, felt his heart beat faster.

  Her father was talking to Mr. Black, on his right, and because he was wearing a small frown on his face, which was unusual, Ginny found herself paying attention to his words.

  “Do you know anything about a man who calls himself Whittaker? I was talking to your town marshal today, asking him if he could recommend a good scout for my wagon train, and he told me this man knows every trail between Texas and California. But it’s strange I hadn’t heard his name before.”