by Jill Gregory
Juliana bestowed on him a sweet and hopeful smile. “If I tell you, will you write to the judge in Denver on my behalf?”
“Mebbe.”
She pouted, then brightened. “Will you at least let me out of here while I eat my supper? I ... I don’t think I can tolerate a bite of food behind bars. Besides, there’s a rat in my cell.”
Suspicion still clouded his gaze, but she looked so pretty, and she was so dainty and fragile-looking, like a porcelain statue, that he knew she couldn’t possibly be any danger to him. Besides, he had a feeling that she’d be fairly easy to trick into thinking that he was working in her best interest. If she thought he’d help her go free, she’d be real cooperative later on, when he cornered her in her cell tonight. Then, in the morning, he’d let Jackson and the boys at her and see if she was really telling the truth. She was giving in too easily about those Montgomerys, but that was Mr. M’s problem, not his. His was lonesomeness, and this prime little filly could solve that real fast.
“All right,” he said, reaching into his pocket for the keys. “Spill it and I’ll open these here doors.”
Juliana looked at him from beneath her lashes. Where in Nevada? Her mind searched desperately for a name.
“Pueblo,” she pronounced. And held her breath.
His eyes narrowed. He paused directly before her, keys dangling. “That’s in Colorado.”
“No, is it? Goodness me, there must be another one then. Unless that bartender meant Colorado ... oh, dear.”
She shrugged delicately. “All I know is what the bartender told me. Pueblo, Nevada, he said.”
He fit the key into the lock, lips twisting. “That there Montgomery gang has caused an awful lot of trouble, missy. Stubborn, fire-eatin’ rascals, that’s what they are. But their days are numbered. Mr. M can’t have thievin’, murderin’ troublemakers in these parts no more. No, sir, he’s going to see to it that Plattsville grows into a real fine, civilized town.”
His guffaw defied his words and sent an icy shiver down Juliana’s spine.
She stepped out of the cell as he swung the door wide.
Darkness was falling like a black cloud over Plattsville, and with it came the first rumblings of the storm. Rain pattered steadily against the windows. Lightning ripped across the open sky. The sounds of horses and wagon wheels and voices had all died away. Faint piano music floated on the breeze, drifting in from a saloon. For a moment it reminded Juliana of when she had first stepped off the train in Denver, and had heard similar music from the Gold Dust Saloon—just before she met Cole Rawdon.
Cole Rawdon. Where was he now? she wondered with a bitter aching in her heart.
Probably riding far away from here, planning what he’d do with all that reward money. Part of her hated him. And part of her wished he’d come crashing through that door right now and take her away from this dreadful place.
But she didn’t need him, she reminded herself as she steeled her nerves for whatever might happen in the next few minutes. She could escape all by herself. She had made it this far, all the way from Denver, despite everything, hadn’t she? She still had her money pouch, her wits, and her determination. If that couldn’t get her to Cooper Creek, nothing could.
Nothing but a little luck.
“Don’t try nothin’, now. I’d get mighty angry if you was to pull anythin’.”
“Sheriff, I’m only interested in my supper.”
And in getting my hands on your gun.
15
Royal flush! Whoopee! Drinks are on me, boys!”
Cole scarcely glanced at the ecstatic cowboy scooping his poker winnings into his hat. He needed answers and he needed them fast. He hoped to get them here in the Ten Gallon Saloon.
This whole business about Hank Rivers stank, especially since, if Cole was any judge of men, Lucius Dane was as crooked as they came. Cole ordered a whiskey from his corner table, then engaged the sloe-eyed saloon girl who brought it in private conversation.
She wore a purple-and-red-striped dress that revealed a narrow body beneath breasts that were small and round. She kept dipping down as he spoke to her, enabling him to see inside her dress. It was almost as fascinating as what she had to say.
Within a short time he knew that Line McCray was up to his old tricks again, taking over yet another town. This time it was Plattsville. He pictured the iron-eyed McCray with his gray suits and string tie, and scowled. Poor Rivers—he hadn’t stood a chance.
Cole took a slug of his whiskey and set the glass down. While the liquor ran down his throat like wildfire, the girl wrapped her skinny arms about his neck.
Cole pictured McCray ensconced at Fire Mesa. Slow, hot rage licked through him. Not this time. Not Fire Mesa. McCray would just have to find out you don’t get everything you want.
Cole was only vaguely aware of the girl’s oversweet perfume assailing his nostrils. The bright light of the chandelier as it glittered and swung overhead hurt his eyes. He stared at the scarred table, thinking of how he had left Juliana Montgomery alone across the street with that slimy old coot Dane.
Until he had this figured out, she was safer there than out in the open with him. There was one more thing he needed to know before he could think about going back and getting her out. The name of the men in the posse who’d been with Rivers when he was shot, particularly the one who’d claimed Wade Montgomery did the killing.
Cole looked up, his face tightening. The bartender was frowning at the girl, probably annoyed that she was spending so much time with him and not seeing to the other customers. She caught his look, and quickly picked up Cole’s glass and brought it coaxingly to his lips.
“Here, drink up, honey, and let me bring you another. Or Fred will holler at me til his face turns blue, and take back half my pay.”
Cole took the glass from her, took another swallow, and set it down.
Grasping her wrist in a light but firm hold, he asked her about the names of the men who were with Hank Rivers when he died.
“I don’t know nothing about that. C’mon, you finish your drink. Maybe we can have some fun later.”
Cole stared up at her as she hovered beside him in the noisy, crowded saloon. She looked funny. Skin ashen beneath all the cheap paint, eyes glassy and bright. Scared? he wondered. Of me, or of Fred?
He glanced over at the bartender once again, remembering his low, coarse laugh, his habit of smacking the girls who worked for him on the fanny whenever one passed by. Just now he was pouring whiskey for a hunched-over miner at the bar. Fred had been pouring drinks at the Ten Gallon for as long as Cole could remember. Maybe he would know who had been with Rivers that day.
“Thanks, beautiful.”
Cole pressed several greenbacks into the girl’s palm. He pushed back his chair, surprised by a sudden surge of light-headedness. He must be hungrier than he’d thought. Liquor on an empty stomach was no good. He’d better stay away from it. Had to get Juliana safe away from Plattsville. Couldn’t leave her with Dane. Didn’t want her mixed up with McCray. Had to find out if that member of the posse had lied about Wade Montgomery.
He had a hunch that McCray—
Cole’s legs buckled as he reached the bar. He collapsed against the smooth wooden surface, clinging to it for support. Fred grinned at him, and set down a glass already full of amber liquid.
“On the house, Mr. Rawdon. You’ve always been a good customer.”
“Don’t want a drink.” Why was it so difficult to talk? His tongue was as thick and greasy as a lump of rags. Cole felt icy cold, then hot. Damn. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Who ... who was with Hank Rivers when ...”
Cole was sweating. As he looked into Fred’s broad, smiling face, the bartender’s features grew blurred.
“He wants to know, Fred, who was with Sheriff Rivers when he died?” the saloon girl said beside him. She was speaking in a low, honeyed tone, so low, Cole could hardly hear. But he heard the edge in her voice.
Turning his
head to look at her would take too much effort. He stared straight at Fred, but Fred’s features were wavy and indistinct, as if he were seeing them underwater.
“Oh,” Fred said, leaning toward him, his voice as quiet and soothing as the girl’s. “That’s easy.” He placed both hands on the bar. “I was there. I saw the whole thing.”
Cole heard him chuckle, and through the fog of dizziness that ensnared him like a lariat, he realized too late what was wrong with him.
Juliana. He had to get to Juliana.
Desperation seized him. His eyes burned with it.
The girl’s hand was on his arm. Cole shook her off, sending her stumbling backward into a thin gambler in black. Fred came around the bar and caught him under the shoulders. “Wal, now, too much to drink, eh, Mr. Rawdon? I’ll fix you right up. Come along.”
He half carried, half dragged Cole into a back room. Cole was too weak to resist. His muscles had all turned to water.
When the door was closed, Fred pushed him up against a wall and made a fist. Cole tried to fend off the blow, but the room spun and ice-cold nausea gripped him.
The bartender’s blow struck him square on the jaw. Cole went down hard. Fred kicked him in the back. Then in the face.
Cole swallowed his own blood.
Agony ripped through him. He was blinded by pain and dizziness. Like that day at Fire Mesa ...
He was going to pass out.
Juliana. He had to get to ...
“When Knife and the boys are finished questioning the girl, they’ll be back for you. Don’t go nowheres now.”
Knife. Juliana. He had to ...
Fred kicked him again.
The last sound he heard was the bartender’s coarse, guttural laugh echoing through the room like a black vulture circling for the kill.
* * *
Juliana forced herself to eat several bites of food while Dane stood over her at his desk. Seated in his chair, she chewed slowly and thought desperately. The only weapon she could see was the one Dane wore in his gun-belt. She had an idea how she could get it, but it wasn’t a plan she relished. Still, if it worked ...
Perhaps Henny’s cooking was good, but everything tasted like paste. If she tried and failed, Dane would be furious. Remembering his callousness with Henny, the way he’d tripped the poor woman for no reason, made her wonder what he would do if she gave him cause for brutality. Cole Rawdon, for all his strength, had never actually hurt her. This mean little man would hurt her without a qualm if she crossed him.
But she had to cross him.
“Would you like some, Sheriff? I’m not as hungry as I thought.”
“I’ve got a different type of appetite, missy.” Again, he laughed at his own humor, and Juliana forced herself to join him. She tilted her head back provocatively, and leaned toward him with a tantalizing smile.
She saw his eyes glint. He tensed, took a step toward her, stopped.
“Maybe you’ve got the same kind of hunger as me,” he suggested softly, watching every plane, and angle of her oval face.
“Maybe I do,” Juliana managed to whisper. She moistened her lips with her tongue, nervous at this dangerous game, but her unconscious gesture served as the catalyst for the uncouth sheriff’s desire. Before she even realized it, he snatched her out of the chair and into his arms. Juliana cried out. Then he planted his lips on hers and began to kiss her, and her next cry was muffled against tobacco-reeking lips. The next instant, he grabbed her breast and squeezed hard.
Juliana bit back the scream in her throat. She forced herself to stay perfectly still. Willing herself with every ounce of her strength, she allowed that long, greedy kiss to go on and on, while Dane fondled her painfully, then ever so slowly she draped her arms about his neck, let them slide languorously downward toward his hips, and ...
Oh, how she wanted just to lunge for that gun—but she forced herself to move with sensuous deliberation. She felt wet and slimy from his kiss, and both her nipples hurt from being pinched. He was pressing her back against the desk—in another moment she’d be lying atop it, with him over her. She squirmed sideways, resisting being forced backward. She wanted to kick him as she had kicked John Breen, but first she had to get the gun....
Her hand slid lower.
“Why, Sheriff,” she whispered, to distract him, and giggled. She felt the pistol against her palm, cold and hard. What was it Cole Rawdon had said? Don’t draw a gun on a man unless you’re prepared to use it. Well, she would if she had to, but she was getting to be a better actress by the moment. She’d bluff if she could, fire if she had to, and then retch all over this damned office if need be. But Juliana was praying it wouldn’t come to killing. Though she hadn’t been able to bluff Cole Rawdon, she was sure she could convince Lucius Dane she was a trigger-happy outlaw who wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
She had it. Her hand tingled with a sudden surge of power. Suddenly, she kicked Lucius Dane, just as she had kicked John Breen. She kicked him so hard, he screamed. At the same time, she whipped the gun from his holster and jumped back. Dane shrieked twice more, and slumped to the floor, clutching at his injured anatomy.
Juliana clicked off the safety as she’d seen Cole do. Aside from the primrose color in her cheeks, she looked perfectly calm.
“I hope you can walk, Sheriff, but if you can’t, you’ll have to crawl. Quick, into the cell.”
He was gaping stupidly up at her, his face a mixture of raw pain and incredulity. “You ... sneakin’, lyin’ bitch,” he rasped. “I’ll fix you good for this ...”
Juliana kept the gun trained on him with one hand, copying Cole’s nonchalant pose. Her heart was thudding like a runaway train, but outwardly she schooled her expression into one of flawless composure. “My brothers—the Montgomery gang—taught me to shoot, Sheriff. I can blow your head off at fifty feet.” Her tone hardened. “At this range, I wouldn’t miss if I wanted to. And I assure you, I don’t want to. Now I’m going to count to five. If you’re not in that cell by then, you’re going to your Maker, and I hope you’re prepared to answer for the death of Henny’s boy Bob. Say your prayers, Sheriff. One ... two ...”
His face contorted with pain, the lawman half staggered, half crawled toward the cell.
“Three ... four ...”
“For cryin’ out loud, I’m doing the best I can!” he gasped, sweat breaking out on his face.
“Five,” Juliana announced as he collapsed into the cell. She swung the door shut and it clicked home. She quickly turned the key, then flung the ring to which it was attached across the room. It landed with a shrill jangle beneath the windowsill.
“You’ll swing for this, missy!” Dane called after her as she dashed toward the door. “By all that’s holy, I swear I’ll hang you by your toes!”
“You’ll have to catch me first,” Juliana retorted over her shoulder. She opened the door, began to spring out into the cool Arizona rain, then stopped short, her heart lurching into her throat.
Three men in heavy coats, silk bandannas, and Stetsons blocked her path.
“Miss Montgomery?” Knife Jackson inquired, smirking as he pushed her back inside.
“Guess we got here just in time,” his companion remarked. Despite the blood pounding in her temples, Juliana recognized him from the street that morning. The third man had been there, too, watching with dark-eyed hostility when Cole brought her into the sheriff’s office. The smallest of the three, with a scar below his right eye, he spoke next, shooting an amused glance at Lucius Dane in the cell. “The boss’ll be real sore with you, Dane. You almost let this little filly slip away.”
Terror slashed through Juliana.
Then, before she could move, Knife Jackson reached out huge fingers and grasped her by the throat.
“We’ve got some questions for you, Miss Montgomery,” he said in an amiable tone. His fingers started to squeeze.
“And if you answer them real nice and polite,” he went on, his smile widening into a grin, “we just mig
ht let you live to see the morning.”
16
The questions came at her faster than pistol shots.
“Where are the Montgomery brothers hiding out?”
“What does Rawdon want from Mr. McCray?”
“Where’d the Montgomery gang stash the gold from the Sanders mine?”
“What’s Rawdon’s interest in Fire Mesa?”
“Is Wade Montgomery planning to rob the Renshaw freight payroll?”
“Is Tommy Montgomery still in Arizona?”
“How much is Rawdon planning to bid for Fire Mesa?”
Bruises covered her arms and neck. Her lip bled, dripping down to stain the frayed bodice of her gown.
Knife Jackson’s face loomed above her like a nightmare, smirking, snarling. His eyes—tar-black, monstrously cold, savage—glittered with the pleasure of inflicting pain.
Juliana knew she’d never forget those eyes. She’d see them forever after in her nightmares. If she survived ...
The other two held her. Knife did the beating.
After a while, she couldn’t even scream. She whimpered when Knife knocked her to the floor with the back of his hand. The room crashed in on her. So much pain. Blinding lights exploded behind her eyes. A clamorous pounding slammed through her ears, ringing again and again. Juliana heard Knife’s voice as if from very far away.
“Answer me this time. If you say you don’t know again, I swear I’ll take the bowie knife to you and cut your face so that your own mother won’t recognize it. What is Rawdon after?”
Rawdon. Through the salt of her own blood and the tears on her lips, through the agony crashing through her head and body, she saw a cool, handsome face, smelled his clean pine-and-leather scent, felt his lips on hers. The hard floor faded away. The boots of the men standing over her blurred.
Rawdon.
“Yeah, Rawdon.”
Knife Jackson’s fetid breath rushed into her face as he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her to her feet. The glint of his knife shone in one hand as Juliana stared at him through pain-dazed eyes.
“What is Rawdon after, damn you?”
