Wild Is the Night

by Colleen Quinn

  With a grin, Haskwell closed the door and locked it behind him. Pocketing the key, he strode down the hall, whistling a tune, and wondering where he’d heard it before.

  The answer occurred to him a few minutes later, when he’d reached the street. It was the song Honey had sung just the other night.

  Damn, he would miss that girl.

  Amanda dismounted from the wagon and pulled her bonnet more closely around her face. The morning sun blazed, but did nothing to warm her nor to lift her spirits. He was gone—as surely as the harsh cold winter followed summer, taking all of the lush green grass and crimson flowers with it. The baby moved within her, and she cradled it with her hand. She had been tempted to tell Luke the truth, but her wonderful mind stopped her. No, if Luke Parker didn’t want her, then she and the baby would have to survive alone. She didn’t want him out of pity or a sense of duty.

  “It will be all right, senora.” Pedro smiled brightly, trying to reassure her. “Senor Parker will come home. These things happen in a marriage.”

  He will never come back. Amanda knew that for certain. The slight curve of her mouth faded as she recalled the expression on Luke’s face. She’d never seen him so angry, not in any of the fights they’d had. Her book had hurt him in ways she’d never anticipated, and worse, she could do nothing about now.

  As if somehow her mind had formed his image, Luke walked out of the Lone Star Hotel, shading his eyes from the sun. He carried his hat, and the sunlight played on his hair, making it appear as glossy and black as a raven’s wing. Clad in buckskins, a rough white shirt, and a thick leather vest, he looked like the symbol of the frontier: rugged, handsome, and enduring. He felt her eyes on him, glanced in her direction, then put on his hat and crossed the street to the saloon as if he’d never seen her.

  The hand Amanda had waved froze in the air. Luke, how can I explain? I wrote about us not to hurt you or to make a fool of you. Falling in love with you was simply the most important event in my life. Why can’t you see that? But the saloon doors swung shut, leaving Amanda alone on the street with her thoughts.

  “Come.” Pedro saw the exchange and placed a kind hand on her arm. “We will buy the food for the evening meal. I will make you good tacos, si? And some warm enchiladas. You should not stay out in the sun for too long.”

  Amanda obeyed, but her heart was breaking. How could Luke just walk away from her like that? Could she have meant so little to him that he could turn his back on her completely?

  Mrs. Meade strode down the street toward the dress shop, her arms laden with packages. Amanda smiled in greeting, but the stout woman gave her one swift glacial glance, then hiked up her skirts and crossed to the other side of the street. Elvira followed, fanning herself as if she would faint right then and there. Mrs. Mitchell, who was congregating outside the shop with several friends, whispered something to another woman, then the two of them broke out into laughter. Hurt, Amanda stepped up to the porch of the general store, glad to be away from them and enveloped in the cool dark shade.

  The whittlers stopped their activity on the porch, their knives gleaming, watching her with baleful eyes. Amanda had to step over their legs to the door. None of them moved or offered the briefest courtesy due a lady. As she closed the door behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief, but the men inside stopped talking, then one by one turned to stare at her as if she was some oddity thrown into their midst. Several looked her up and down with appraising eyes, while one of the bolder men chuckled.

  “Isn’t that Fess Tyson? Hey honey, you can write about me any time. What do you say we go home and create chapter thirteen?”

  “Senor, I must ask you to stop that,” Pedro protested. “Mrs. Parker is a lady, and should not have to listen to that kind of talk.”

  “Why not, she writes it? What do you say, Frank?”

  The storekeeper glanced up from bagging an order, and gave Amanda an evil smirk. “I say she deserves everything that’s coming to her. If it wasn’t for Jake, she’d be run out of town.”

  The other men chuckled, then began to exchange more remarks. Mortified, Amanda whirled around and headed back outside. Her pregnancy made her feel weak and emotional, and with her heart breaking over Luke, she couldn’t even respond to the townspeople’s taunts.

  “Where are you going, Fess Tyson?” one of the whittlers called. “Don’t like your reception?”

  “Watch what you say around her,” his wrinkled companion said, “or you’re liable to be in the next book. Anyone who prints how her old man screws would write anything.”

  Scarlet splashed her cheeks and Amanda got into the wagon, hearing their laughter, wanting to be a thousand miles from here. The Fess Tyson had gone from being the town heroine to the villain. And all it had taken was one little book.

  The ride home felt like it took an eternity. Numb, Amanda sat in the wagon, her hands folded together, her skin thick with goosebumps. She had never been so openly rejected before, not even as a schoolgirl when she’d been the laughingstock of her family. She wanted Aesop, wanted her ink and her papers, wanted her books—

  Wanted Luke.

  The pain inside of her was so overwhelming, she could hardly hear Pedro’s soft consolation.

  “It will be all right, senora. The townspeople are just angry and surprised. It will die down and be forgotten. You will see.”

  Amanda nodded, though she had no confidence in any such prediction. “I know. I think I’ll go upstairs now. You have this evening off, isn’t that right?”

  “Sí, every Thursday.” Pedro smiled, then the light in his eyes dimmed. “But I think I should stay with you tonight. I do not wish for you to be alone.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Amanda reassured him. “I’ll be fine. To tell you the truth, I’d rather be alone. I have a lot of thinking to do, and its always best to think in solitude. Someone said that, I just can’t remember who.”

  Pedro watched her walk inside the house, her shoulders square, her head held high. Amanda Parker was a remarkable woman. Her just hoped her very uniqueness wouldn’t cost her happiness.

  The pearl-handled pistol gleamed from the table, promising relief and an end to this existence she’d been forced to endure for far too long. Honey stared at the gun, hugging her thin body, wondering if it wouldn’t be better after all.

  She’d done everything else she could think of to try and get away from this man. But somehow Sam always managed to be one step ahead of her. Like a spider, plotting endlessly, he seemed to delight in outwitting her, in torturing her not just sexually but emotionally. Drained of everything except the desire to escape, Honey picked up the gun and held it to her head.

  The metal felt cool and quiet. It was so easy, so easy. All she had to do was pull the trigger. Her mother, a riverboat showgirl, had died from yellow fever long ago, and her father she’d never known. She wanted to be with her mother again, to feel safe and secure and sheltered from this monster of a man who’d made her life a holy hell.

  Honey clamped her eyes closed and squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked emptily. Nothing happened. There was no loud explosion, no vast emptiness before the warmth, no death colored in her own red blood.

  Mystified, she opened the chamber, peered inside, and saw that there was but one bullet. Apparently Sam intended for her to put the gun to her head and pull the trigger, not knowing whether or not the chamber was filled. She envisioned herself dead—the explosion, the blood she would never see—and then worse, the feeling that would result if the gun didn’t go off. Horror sprang up inside of her, coupled with a new wash of hatred.

  This man didn’t deserve to live. He should die, not her. He was after another woman now, this Fess Tyson she’d heard him talk about. For a second, Honey experienced pleasure that it was another woman that frightened Sam so much, another woman who’d actually published something about him that could see him hanged. Fess Tyson, whoever that was, wasn’t afraid. And Fess Tyson wouldn’t take her own life.

  Rising from the
bed, Honey put the gun in her pocket and then walked toward the door. She reached for the doorknob and turned the shiny brass fixture. As she suspected, it was locked. Her strength long since gone, she contemplated the objects in the room, then her smile widened as she saw Sam’s walking stick.

  Using it as a knocker, she pounded on the door. At first, there was no response, then gradually, she heard foot steps in the hall.

  “Yes, I am coming…”

  “Please,” Honey forced herself to call out. “I have locked myself in the room. Isn’t that silly? Could you open the door, please?”

  The bellboy, young and inexperienced, did not hesitate. He took a skeleton key from his pocket, then fitted it inside the lock of room number seven. The door sprung open and an emaciated woman burst forth like a corpse released from a grave.

  “Please, you’ve got to help me,” Honey breathed, trying not to pass out. She gave the boy a quavery smile that lurched into more of a grimace. “I need to get outside.”

  “Aren’t you the lady who sang for us?” the boy asked shyly.

  Honey nodded quickly. “Yes. Will you help me?”

  “Sure.” The young boy took her arm, amazed at how fragile she seemed. Up close, Honey looked more like a starved fledgling than a lovely songbird. Her wrist was as thin as the spoke of a wagon wheel, but she was still beautiful. Stunned, the boy wrapped his fingers protectively over hers and took her across the street.

  Honey sighed, the gun banging against her thigh. Perhaps the God she prayed to for so long was finally listening.

  Luke waited until Amanda had left town before returning to the hotel. Fury engulfed him, coupled by a pain he never thought he’d ever feel because of her.

  Damn her! And damn that book! Luke had drunk a full pint of whiskey just that morning, and even that couldn’t drown the emotions that raged inside of him. How the hell could she do such a thing?

  He winced as he thought of the other men chuckling behind his back, though none of them dared make a remark. One look at his gunman’s stance and the weapon in his belt prevented that. Yet he knew what they were thinking, and to tell the truth, he didn’t blame them.

  It was Amanda who had done all this. Amanda, whom he’d let crawl inside of his skin, become a part of him, who then betrayed his innermost thoughts and feelings for all the world to see. It was ironic that he, who should value things like a reputation and respect, should find himself the target of scorn because of his wife.

  He wanted to kill her. Yet he also missed her with an intensity that he never would have guessed. He glanced around his immaculate hotel room, and found no owl droppings, no scrawled copies of the latest scientific theories, no open books in every room, enticing the eye with thoughts and dreams that no one but Amanda could share. It was infuriating, but at the same time revealing. He still loved her, in spite of himself.

  But he wasn’t able to get past the rage he felt. Tossing his hat down in disgust, he turned around and headed back to the lobby, passing a young bellboy and a lovely woman who looked vaguely familiar. Pausing on the step, Luke watched them hurry outside.

  Something nagged at the back of his mind, something important, but he was too preoccupied to make sense of it all.

  Chapter

  27

  The house was quiet when Amanda finally came downstairs, carrying Aesop in his cage. The little owl became very active at night, and although sometimes his nocturnal movements were annoying, this evening they provided comfort. Amanda sat the cage beside her in the parlor and smiled at the sight of the tray Pedro had left for her.

  She lifted one of the silver dish covers, her stomach revolting at the sight of food. She was too distraught to eat, but the servant’s thoughtfulness warmed her. She experienced so little kindness in the last day that even this small gesture touched her.

  Aesop rustled uneasily and Amanda opened the cage, allowing the little bird to step out of the gold wires. Fluttering awkwardly, he perched on the mantle nearby, returning her stare, communicating the way he always had.

  “Aesop, why do I have brains for everything except what’s important?”

  The owl blinked, reassuring her, but even Aesop’s unqualified friendship didn’t help much tonight. Amanda felt drained, tired and lonely, and the ache inside of her couldn’t be easily appeased.

  The curtain fluttered, and the shutter banged against the house. That’s odd, she thought, rising to fasten it closed. Pedro always checks the windows and doors, especially before his day off. Shrugging, she reached outside through the light film of lace, then stifled a scream as a hand clamped over her mouth.

  “That’s right, we don’t want any shoutin’. You are alone anyway, aren’t you darlin’?”

  The Irish brogue meant nothing to her, nor did the appearance of the man as he dragged her back into the parlor. Amanda saw his dark, handsome looks, his polished white shirt, his winning smile. But his eyes frightened her more than even the gun he openly displayed. They were blank, soulless, without warmth, feeling, or emotion. They were the eyes of a goat, and it was horrifying to see them in a man.

  “You don’t know me, darlin’, but I know you. You’re a writer—Fess Tyson they tell me, I remember you from a long time ago, when I shot that fool Haines. Too bad you took it in your head to write all about it and get the damned thing printed.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—” Amanda started.

  “I think you do,” he continued, smiling pleasantly. “I sent my men after you, but you managed to stay one step ahead of them. Nearly got you on the prairie, then that damned stampede killed one of them. You didn’t think I would just give up, did you?”

  Haskwell. Amanda’s eyes widened and she stared in helpless terror at the man who had hunted her for so long. He was exactly as she would have pictured him, and that only made the whole thing worse. Her eyes closed and she felt the baby’s light movements inside of her. If only she hadn’t upset Luke, if only he was there, and she wasn’t alone….

  “There now, I can see that you do remember. You’re a talented lady, Miss Tyson. Too bad I have to kill you. But I really don’t have any choice, now do I? With what you know, you could see me hanged. It must have tickled you to know this all these years, and to know that I couldn’t rest until we came to this. Sounds like something I would do.”

  “You’re wrong,” Amanda whispered, regaining her voice. “I never saw any gunfight. I write them from here.” She pointed to her head.

  Haskwell grinned. “Sure you do, darlin’. Sure you do. Now you can go ahead and scream your head off. No one will hear you. The cowhands are long since bedded down, and that Mex servant of yours left you alone. Even his kid is asleep for the night. Fact, you’re about as helpless as that broken winged bird.”

  Haskwell lifted his gun, his one arm still tight around Amanda, and pointed it at Aesop.

  Her scream died when the gun went off, and a solitary feather drifted down to the floor.

  Luke stared at the door, wondering why the sight of that woman kept bothering him. He’d seen her somewhere before. His mind retraced her glossy black hair, her tremulous smile, her voice, light and pretty as she talked to the bellboy….

  Her voice. It was the woman who’d sung for them at the hotel just last night. Luke hadn’t paid her much attention, he was so involved with Amanda, but he could recall her on that stage, dressed in a flimsy gown and singing with a voice that must have once been wonderful. She had appeared ill, her complexion ashen, and her manner nervous even on stage.

  Why was this nagging at him? He went over it again and again. She was the singer and that was the end of it. He’d never seen the woman before in his life, and she didn’t mean anything to him.

  Why was he so haunted by her appearance?

  Amanda screamed, then stifled her cry with her hands. Aesop lay in a pile of feathers on top of the mantle, his little body barely moving. Painfully, he crept to the corner of the mantle, alive but obviously hurt. Horrified, she glared at
the man who held her captive. Hatred began to build inside of her, and she tried to wrench away, earning only slightly more freedom as Haskwell held her tightly.

  “Why would you do such a thing? He was just a little owl, he never hurt anyone. How could you—”

  “Shut up,” Haskwell snapped, disturbed at her open defiance. “You’re going to join him, darlin’. Don’t you understand that? You made me track you from one end of the West to the other. You need to pay for that.” He grinned.

  Amanda suddenly understood him, that this was part of his motivation, the compelling helplessness of his victim. Frantically, she realized she had to think of something and quickly. This man would enjoy killing her. Somehow, she had to change that.

  “Please don’t hurt me.” Amanda tried to make her voice sound pleading. “I won’t say anything. I swear.”

  “I know you won’t.” Sam grinned, relaxing his hold on her. “You won’t because I’m not going to let you live. I’ve waited a long time for this pleasure, and I’m not denying myself any of it.” He caressed the gun, watching her expression with a smirk of pleasure. “You know, darlin’? There’s one thing that’s been bothering me all this time. Why didn’t you come forth and testify? You had to know I’d be after you either way.”

  Amanda moistened her lips, her eyes wide. What was he talking about? She remembered his accusations when he’d first grabbed her—that she had been the woman who’d witnessed his shooting of Haines…suddenly, she knew she’d been right. This Haskwell must have taken it into his head that she had actually seen a murder he committed.

  “I…didn’t want to get involved.” Amanda tried to sound terrorized while her mind worked. “I was afraid.”

  “Smart,” Haskwell said. “But not smart enough. You should have kept that little secret to yourself instead of publicizin’ it for all the world to see. As it is, you give me no choice.” He cocked the gun.