Midnight Cowboy

by Adrianne Lee

  No. It couldn’t be. Don’t worry, Gram, I’m going to marry Tim—not some brute of a cowboy-actor who isn’t even certain what his name is. She thanked Red Yager for the meal that he insisted was his treat, and stood. “I can’t think of an evening I’ve enjoyed more, gentlemen, but I like to work first thing in the morning, so I’m going to call it a night.”

  Except for Gene Mott, the men all stood this time, their “good-nights” colliding.

  Andy had just reached the door when Jack caught up to her. He had found his Stetson and was now wearing it. “Mind if I walk with you?”

  Wishing her pulse would quit its crazy jig, she peered up into his sage green eyes. What she saw there only perplexed her more. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear, beneath his disturbing interest, he was concerned about her welfare. But that was too absurd to be true; there was nothing for her to fear in Alder Gulch. “I wouldn’t want to take you out of your way.”

  “You won’t. I’m staying at the Motherlode, too.”

  “Oh, really.”

  Jack looked sheepish. “Guess I should have mentioned it earlier.”

  But Andy knew why he hadn’t. After their interview he’d made it clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. She followed him outside onto the boardwalk. What had changed his mind? Why was he all of a sudden offering her an escort to her cabin as if she were in dire need of a protector? Andy curled the fingers of her right hand over her left wrist and fought off the disquiet winding through her.

  Main Street was deserted, shops and businesses closed for the night, tourists retired. The noise and music of the restaurant had lost the lively, inviting bounce of earlier. She fell in step with Jack. Except for the unsettling sensuality, she had to admit, she did feel safe in his company. It was as if he were a safe harbor in stormy seas, but Andy wasn’t sailing through stormy seas, and wondered at the analogy.

  Of course, she couldn’t deny that since she’d arrived in town, one or two things had unsettled her, like calling a cat she’d never before laid eyes on “Boots,” and that weird sense of déjà vu. As though it were painted in glow-in-the-dark lettering the hotel’s sign drew her attention. She stopped.

  “What is it?” Jack asked softly.

  “Nothing.” Andy shook herself and forced a smile. “I just forgot to ask Mr. Yager how the hotel came to be called the Golden Broom.”

  Jack shoved his hat off his forehead. The lazy smile was back, along with the seductive gleam in his eyes. “I probably won’t relate it as colorfully as Red, but I can give you the highlights.”

  Andy stared at his mouth. “Please do.”

  “Okay. In the early 1900s, Alder Gulch was a thriving community.” Jack caught her arm and they started moving again. “The Conrey Placer Mining Company set up base in the area and remained here until the end of the dredging days, about 1923.”

  Andy considered digging her tablet out of her purse and writing this down. It could certainly be used in her new novel. She glanced up at Jack, liking the way the evening lights reflected off the deep planes of his handsome face as he spoke. If she left the tablet where it was, she’d be able to ask him to repeat this story for her later. The thought brought a warm heat to her face.

  “The largest dredge boat in the world at that time, Conrey’s number four, worked this area between 1911 and 1922, and it’s said they took twenty-two tons of gold out of the gulch.”

  “Whew.” But Andy said nothing more; instead, she listened, liking the deep baritone of Jack’s voice.

  “The old mining camp grew from a cluster of cabins to a prosperous town when the dredges came in, and declined just as fast when they went out. But in the early days, when the town was booming, the sweeping of a saloon was offered for sale to the highest bidder. The story goes that once the chore was bid in for twelve dollars and netted the sweeper sixty-four dollars in gold dust. That was a lot of money in those days.”

  “Ooh. What a wonderful story.” Andy laughed softly. “It’s perfect for my novel.”

  “And it really happened.” Jack liked the gentle way her laugh stroked his nerve endings, liked the feeling a lot. The urge to kiss her swept him again. Again he shoved it away. He must not allow himself to be distracted by her. His business in this town was too serious.

  They’d reached the last shop at the end of the boardwalk. Andy’s gaze drifted to the display window and once again she stopped and stared. It was full of sepia photographs like the one she’d found in her grandmother’s sewing box.

  Cupping her hands around her eyes, she perused the pictures of people wearing Old West garments. Hairstyles told her these were photographs of 1990s folk, but the backgrounds of the photographs were like something out of “Gunsmoke” or “Bonanza.”

  “Look like people out of your novels, do they?”

  She glanced up at Jack. “Yes.”

  “Tourists. They love this place—dressing up like their ancestors and having their pictures taken in front of a backdrop that looks like an old livery stable or saloon.”

  Or assay office. Andy’s pulse surged. Had her se cret photograph been taken in a shop like this?

  The door of the shop wrenched open and a man stepped out. “Something I can help you folks with?”

  The man had faded brown air, permed in a style reminiscent of Mike Brady of “The Brady Bunch,” and perched on his hawkish nose were John Lennon glasses that made his black eyes look even more round than nature intended.

  He, also, Jack mused, was the right age to be Nightmare Man. Reflexively, he stepped between the man and Andrea, and tipped his hat. “Just windowshopping, Mr. Cooper.”

  “Oh, Black Jack Black. I didn’t recognize you for a second there. Please, don’t be so formal. Name’s Virgil, but most call me Coop. I’ll answer to either.”

  “Sure,” Jack said. “Coop.”

  “If you’re here about your proofs, Jack, they aren’t ready yet.” Coop locked the door to the shop, then dropped the key in his pocket. “Maybe tomorrow. Been inundated with tourists, you know.”

  “I’m in no hurry for them,” Jack said.

  “You had your picture taken here?” Andy asked Jack.

  “Yep.” Jack tugged the hem of his vest, indicating

  the outfit he wore now—the same outfit from this afternoon’s performance. “For the City Players posters.”

  Coop removed his glasses and polished the lenses on a crisp hankie he’d withdrawn from an inside pocket of his jacket. He blinked at her. “You an actor, too?”

  “No, not me.” Andy decided she’d leave it at that. For now. But she intended to visit this shop tomorrow. With luck, she’d find some answers about her secret photograph, maybe even acquire a picture of Black Jack. “I’m just another tourist.”

  “Tourists are this town’s bread and butter.” Coop smiled and plunked his glasses back on his sharp nose. “Good evening to you both, then.”

  He stepped off the boardwalk and started up a side street, one of many that led to the hundred or so houses on the hillside behind town. Like teenagers on a date, Jack guided Andy across the street and down the lane that led to the motel. Wind rippled through the cottonwood trees, riffling the underbrush. Crickets chirped. The stars pressed down on them, and the air smelled rich and sweet. Andy thought it was a perfect night.

  The path narrowed and she moved ahead of Jack to walk single file. The underbrush shuddered. Andy started. Jack grasped her by the shoulders. Her breath sucked in and her heart hitched. She thought for sure there must be a rattlesnake in her path.

  But it was only a cat. Not the one with the white paws; this cat was all black. But Andy’s every concentration was on Jack, on his heart thudding against her shoulder blades, on her own heart quickening to a similar rhythm, on his hot breath fanning her neck.

  As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he pulled her around and into his arms. A second later he was kissing her, tentatively, then with a confidence she felt certain she was encouraging. Her insides ha
d melted, puddling like heated chocolate, sweet and thick and good.

  As blood rushed through his loins, creating a hard and solid ache, Jack jolted with the awareness of what he was doing, what he wanted to do. He pulled away from Andy. Only sheer strength of will kept him from kissing her inviting mouth again, but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t quit with a few kisses. “We’d better get going.”

  Andy didn’t know whether to feel ashamed for Tim’s sake that she had so enjoyed the kiss, or to feel embarrassed because Jack seemed so sorry he’d initiated it. She turned away, took a step forward, then stopped.

  Jack, shaken by the kiss and the desire still racking his body, wanted nothing more at the moment than to get her safely delivered to her cabin and go take a cold shower. He urged her on, but Andy didn’t move. “What’s the holdup?”

  “Look for yourself.” She scooted aside so he could see.

  A big black cat with yellow eyes and a stub tail sprawled across the narrow path. It eyed him indolently, then continued washing itself. Jack frowned, his already accelerated pulse beating faster. Could this be Karen Bradley’s cat, the unaccounted-for Outlaw? Hell, the odds against it were phenomenal, but it fit Wally Lester’s description to a T. “Outlaw?”

  Jack ignored the puzzled look Andy shot him. The cat stopped washing. He could tell it was poised for escape. “Outlaw?”

  The cat fled down the path.

  Leaving Andy staring after him, Jack chased the cat. It scooted ahead, then disappeared under the porch of the motel office. Jack knelt down. The odor of cat urine mingled with dry dirt. Wriggling his nose, he called, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

  “Which cat ya lookin’ fer?” Minna Kroft appeared from the shadows of the motel office.

  Jack started. Slowly he straightened and faced the motel owner. It occurred to him in a sudden flash that Nightmare Man might actually be a woman. After all, Leandra Woodworth was a frightened child when she’d identified her parents’ slayer. She could easily have mistaken this unfeminine creature for a man. Minna Kroft was the right age. His neck prickled. Had she heard him call the cat Outlaw? Andy was now watching him, too, waiting for an explanation of his odd behavior. He didn’t look at her. “I don’t know which cat. Black with yellow eyes, no tail. Seemed a mite skittish. I thought maybe it was ailing.”

  Jack was well aware that Andrea could call him on the lie. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t.

  Mrs. Kroft didn’t give her a chance. “Ah, Satan. Sick, ya say? I hope yer wrong. He’s purebred Manx.”

  Jack shrugged. “One cat looks pretty much like another to me.”

  “Phooey!” Mrs. Kroft gave a derisive snort. “Ya can’t mistake one cat fer another—lest yer ignorant.”

  Or used to barn cats with indiscriminate breeding habits, Jack mused. He nodded toward the porch. “Afraid I frightened him away.”

  “He won’t wander far.”

  When they were alone again, a few yards from her cabin, Andy asked Jack, “What was that all about with the cat?”

  But Jack, usually so quick on his mental feet, couldn’t find the lie when he needed it, and he could hardly say, “I thought the cat might belong to a young woman who was murdered last autumn.” He said, “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  Andy gritted her teeth. He couldn’t be more wrong. After the kiss they had shared, she wanted to know everything about Jack. Starting with his motives. As in her books, motives were everything. But if he wouldn’t tell her his, then she would find some other way of discovering them. She already had a few clues to go on.

  IN THE QUIET of his own home, Nightmare Man moved with purpose to the built-in bookcases. The mahogany shelves smelled of lemon oil, a fragrance he associated with cleanliness. But tonight he hardly noticed it. Worry held his attention.

  He depressed the button that triggered the secret panel. Since his first encounter with Jack Black two weeks ago, he’d tried figuring out why the cowboy seemed familiar. Then all of a sudden this evening, he’d had an idea. He drew the photo album out of its hiding place, carried it to his favorite chair and sat in the glow of the reedy table lamp.

  Stale paper smell rose from the book as he opened it and began flipping pages. Near the middle of the album he found what he sought: a yellowed, twentyyear-old newspaper clipping, flaunting the photograph of the reporter who’d written the story of the Woodworths’ deaths.

  Jack Starett, Sr.

  The name brought bile rushing into his throat. It tasted bitter on his tongue. Thrusting the photograph directly under the lamp, he leaned closer, studying the man’s features. He was amazed at the depth of his hatred for the man so long deceased.

  Jack Starett, Sr., should have told him the whereabouts of Lee Lee Woodworth. Instead, he’d pretended not to know, and the headache had come like a tornado, dark and uncontrollable, and when it had finally gone, Starett had lain dead at his feet. His life force pumping from the three gashes in his throat.

  He hadn’t meant to hurt Starett. He hadn’t meant to hurt any of them. But they’d all made him so angry. He massaged his temples. It was the headaches. As long as he stayed calm and didn’t get angry, he could control them.

  He gazed down at the black-and-white newspaper photograph that smelled musty with age. Fear crawled through his belly. Jack Black could be but one man: Starett’s son, his namesake, the man who’d chased like a bloodhound after Nightmare Man’s scent for the past fifteen years. Junior had never come this close before.

  He felt the anger stir anew, and closed his eyes until he’d willed it to dormancy. All these years he’d moved freely in this town, in this county, without worry of condemnation. Or prosecution.

  Should he be worried now?

  No. Worry would bring on a headache. But if he stayed calm, all would be fine. There was nothing here to link him to the Woodworths’ deaths. Nothing here to link him to Nightmare Man.

  But what is Starett’s son doing in Alder Gulch, if not to find me? Despite his resolve, a tiny ache tweaked his temples.

  Chapter Four

  What’s the matter with me, Gram? Thoughts of Tim never intrude on my work. Giving up in frustration, Andy stacked the character charts for the new book in a neat pile on the desk and stood.

  All finished. Except for the hero’s chart. Every time she’d started working on his, she’d been assailed with memories of Jack’s kiss, and all the sensations that had sprung to life then had stirred anew. Again and again she set the chart aside, and when she thought she could control the wayward images and her dangerous responses to them, she’d try again.

  But the moment she looked at the hero’s name scrawled across the top of the page, Jack’s face leapt into her mind, and her lips tingled as though his mouth had just left hers.

  It was no use. Maybe later. With her sepia photograph tucked in her purse, she stepped out into the warm afternoon.

  Mrs. Kroft was watering the sparse flower beds bordering the motel office. Andy caught sight of someone walking away from her. From the back it looked like Cliff Mott. She wondered fleetingly what business Cliff would have with Mrs. Kroft, and hoped it had nothing to do with her. As he disappeared down the path, her attention returned to the motel owner. She hadn’t noticed before how tall the woman was or how much she was built like a man from the back.

  Mrs. Kroft’s feline features curled in a grin as she pivoted toward Andy, swinging the hose with her. “Ain’t you a breath o’ sunshine today.”

  Water splashed against Andy’s sandal-clad feet, shocking, yet pleasingly cool. She smoothed the cotton of her sleeveless sundress. “Thank you, Mrs. Kroft.”

  “Minna, child, Minna. It’s so much friendlier.”

  “Okay, Minna. As long as you’ll call me Andy.” She smiled, deciding she liked being on a first-name basis with another woman, not bothered by their age differences as some might have been. After all, until two months ago, Gram had been her main confidante.

  Without warning, the white-pawed cat leapt off the po
rch railing at her. Andy threw her hands in front of her face and leapt back. The cat bounded past her and scooted into the underbrush.

  “Land sakes!” Minna exclaimed, alarm etched in her amber eyes. “The cat do that?”

  Shaken, it took Andy a moment to realize Minna meant the scar on her left wrist. She lowered her hand, staring at it. “No. That happened when I was a child.”

  Minna stepped closer, her gaze riveted on the scar. Andy had the distinct impression Minna was going to grasp her wrist. Self-conscious, she turned her hand palm down and pressed it against her skirt, hiding the scar.

  Minna blinked at her. Andy was suddenly uncomfortable, and turned to leave. The offending cat darted out of the underbrush and came rushing at her again as if it were going to attack.

  “Shoo!” Minna admonished, flicking the hose water at the cat. “Quit botherin’ Andy.”

  It bolted away and Andy shot Minna a nervous smile. She couldn’t imagine why the cat seemed bothered by her, or why she was bothered by it. Her throat constricted and an ache twinged her temples. “Guess he doesn’t like me.”

  “Cats is funny.” Minna sighed. “Never know who or what they’s about.”

  Andy nodded, then turned toward the lane into town. Sort of like Jack Black. She didn’t know who or what he was about, either. Arriving at the spot where he’d kissed her the night before, she tightened her grip on her purse strap and quickened her steps. She would not waste one more second on Jack Black.

  A burst of gunfire brought her up short. The City Players were performing. Despite her best efforts to the contrary, Jack’s image filled her mind and she realized if she kept on at this pace, she might well run into him.

  But she needn’t have worried. By the time she arrived on Main Street, tourists crowded the road. The performance was over. Despite all her denials, her heart beat faster at the possibility of seeing Jack and sank a little when he was nowhere in sight.