Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2)

by GP Hutchinson

  What the—? He found his heart rate picking up, his entire being responding to her amorous embrace. Well, all right then…

  It was a long kiss.

  When they came up for air, she whispered, “You said to do what comes natural.” A grin spread across her lips, and she kissed him again, lightly this time.

  He glanced over his shoulder, torn between wanting to throw a blanket on the ground beneath one of the jack oaks there in the ravine and wanting to resume what they’d ridden out of town for. He closed his eyes and found her mouth again, delighting in its sweetness. At last, he said, “It is sorta natural, isn’t it?”

  Her smile lit up her eyes.

  He chuckled. “Well, at least you’re relaxed for this little exercise.”

  “It’s just that this is the first time we’ve been alone together away from absolutely everyone else in the whole world.”

  Emmett thought about it. In hotel rooms there were people right on the other side of the wall. The same applied at the Galvez household. This was as alone as he and Li had ever been. His gaze drifted from her enchanting brown eyes to her lips. But he and Li weren’t that far from San Antonio. If he were to let go of his inhibitions and give in to his desire for his wife right now, right here under one of those oaks…just his luck some farmer—or worse yet, some farmer’s kid—would come upon them in a compromised position and turn the whole beautiful moment into a huge embarrassment. Maybe even a scandal. Neither one of them needed that just now.

  He ran his thumb softly along her bottom lip. “We need to wait,” he whispered.

  She swallowed and brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear. With a sparkle in her eyes, she tilted her head and said, “I know.”

  Swatting her rump softly, he said, “Let’s go practice something else.”

  She giggled lightly.

  Tarnation, but he loved her! It was with considerable effort that he forced his brain to shift from how good she looked in those trim-fitting range clothes to watching her body for natural movements that he could help her transfer from the familiar act of throwing her sharpened chopsticks to the unfamiliar skill of drawing and shooting a revolver.

  She took up a stance facing the bottles across the gully. Clearing her throat, she snatched a glance over her shoulder at him. “I’m ready now.”

  “Let ’em fly,” he said.

  After blowing out a soft stream of air, Li plucked the steel throwing sticks from her cuffs one at a time and in fluid motion released them to hiss through the air and plink against the row of bottles, knocking them over in succession—six out of eight. And the other two didn’t miss by much.

  Emmett gave a low whistle between his teeth.

  She pivoted, hands on her hips, and said, “I’m out of practice. I should have gotten all eight.”

  After several more exchanges of retrieving and throwing the sticks, Emmett said, “I notice when you draw the sticks from your right-hand cuff, you still hold ’em in your left hand and throw with your right.”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “It’s perfect. Drawing that six-gun across your body is going to be a whole lot like drawing those throwing sticks—whether from the cuff or from your left hand. This oughta be very natural for you.”

  They spent the next hour going through the mechanics of effectively shooting a double-action six-gun. Over and over again, Emmett had Li assume a natural shooting stance, draw her revolver with the cylinder empty, squeeze the trigger, let the mechanism fully rest, and then—only then—squeeze again.

  “More’n one cowboy’s honked on one of these too fast and ended up with a busted gun,” he said.

  “That wouldn’t do me any good.”

  “That’s why we’re working on this the way we are.”

  Next, she fired more than fifty bullets, just standing comfortably, without drawing.

  Once she hit five bottles in a row from a single reload, Emmett said, “Now comes the dangerous part—you’re gonna put two and two together. You’re gonna draw your pistol—loaded—and fire. Slowly first, then faster and faster.”

  Li took a few deep breaths. “I’m ready,” she said, wiping beads of perspiration from her brow.

  Emmett winked. “I know you are. You’re a natural.”

  “Not like you are.”

  “You’re comin’ along just fi—”

  She caught him off guard, spinning, drawing, and firing, shattering a brown glass bottle with a single shot from about fifteen yards.

  “Hey!” he shouted. What she had done was dangerous—drawing and firing at full speed without working up to it slowly. He was about to unleash a spray of hard words when he caught himself. “What you just did,” he said, “by any chance, was that like that kiss a little while ago? Just seemed like the natural thing to do?”

  “Yep.” She grinned tentatively.

  He let his glower melt. “Well, all right then. It’s time to go talk to Jack VanDorn.”

  “Let me try just once more before we go.”

  “The fast draw?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. You’ve still got two bottles standing. Call your shot—the green one or the clear one?”

  “The green one.”

  He tossed a nod toward the glass containers. “Give it your best.”

  This time, Li pivoted slowly, paused, and then yanked her Lightning from its holster. The air cracked, and Li nearly dropped the revolver. The shot—extremely low—whined off the rock beneath the bottles.

  Emmett hurried to Li’s side. She stuffed the pistol into its holster and the tip of her thumb into her mouth. When she drew it out, she hissed in pain.

  “Let me see,” Emmett said.

  Li’s face reddened. “I tried to fire it like a single-action this time—thumbed back the hammer to see if I might do even better.”

  Emmett frowned. He didn’t know whether he was angrier at Li or at himself. Instead of scolding her, he simply said, “We tried to do too much in one day.”

  She shook her head. “I just did something wrong. I didn’t get the hammer all the way back before it slipped and the gun went off.”

  “That’s just it—too much for one day. Are you gonna be OK?”

  She nodded. “Doesn’t look like I’m ready for real life-or-death shooting yet, though.”

  Emmett’s stomach knotted. She needed to be ready, even if it never came down to such.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Three-Finger” Ned Cage wasn’t just any old assassin. He was proud of his gun work. And that pride wouldn’t allow him to hole up all safe and dry, wait for his target to pass by, and take a potshot without his victim ever knowing what hit him. He wanted to see his opponents’ eyes when he killed them. He’d rather they were heeled and that they knew what they were in for. Wanted them to have a fair chance at trying to beat him. Letting them try—that was Ned Cage’s way.

  His way was easier in some towns than others. In a small, out-of-the-way burg, he could get the deed done just about anywhere and then simply ride away without even looking back. In other towns, he might have to provoke a man to throw down. Maybe over cards, maybe over words. Might have some explaining to do, but witnesses would generally call it a fair fight when his opponent went for his weapon first.

  Here in San Antonio—big town that it was—Cage was pretty sure he’d have to needle his target, aggravate Strong into fighting.

  Cage paused in front of a tobacco shop, reached into his coat pocket, and, finding that he still had three smokes, turned and resumed walking. Lucian McIntosh’s men, Lum and Jarvis, drifted along on either side of him, rarely speaking. That was fine with him.

  They said Strong was good. Probably true. According to McIntosh, Strong carried himself well, didn’t make a lot of empty threats, and most telling of all, if push came to shove, he supposedly took care of business
. Cage liked that. It made this job interesting.

  Sometimes he wondered whether he’d ever face a man who was better than himself. Unlikely. Eventually, when age began to slow him down, he planned to retire, take a new name, and sit back in saloons and gambling houses round about, just listening to folks talking about how, back in the day, there never was anybody could beat old “Three-Finger” Ned Cage.

  Well, that day sure as hell hadn’t come yet. I’m in my prime, he thought, a seasoned professional.

  As he ambled through town, somewhere between Alamo Plaza and Travis Square, he tried to decide what kind of place would gain the patronage of a man like Emmett Strong. The fact that Strong was a Texas Ranger didn’t mean much by itself. Lawmen came in all stripes and colors, from the straight and narrow to murderers with badges. From what Cage gathered, though, this star-toter was straight as a wagon tongue.

  Yep, taking on Strong would be a challenge. Ned Cage liked a challenge. Never ran away from a challenge. At the same time, Ned Cage wasn’t stupid. If he didn’t like the odds, he’d bide his time. One thing he didn’t need to do was go scaring up a whole company of the famed Texas Rangers when his contract only required that he beef two of them—there was the Mexican brother-in-law, too.

  Then, besides Strong and the Mexican, he’d have to take care of the Englishman and the China girl. Damn if this job wasn’t going to be fun—one he’d remember for a good, long while for the sheer color of it. He couldn’t stifle a smirk.

  Cage eyed all the folks—men and women, rich and poor, Mexican and American—coming and going from the various business establishments along each side of the street. Big town, San Antonio, he thought. Let’s see if I’ve still got the knack for findin’ what I want, pronto.

  Slipping his hand into his vest pocket, he located the preserved trigger finger of Arizona Jack Jamison and began to roll it between his own digits. His gaze drifted along the street side until a particular sign caught his attention. The town marshal’s office. He halted in the middle of the road and scrutinized the rest of the block.

  There it was—the saloon nearest to the marshal’s office.

  He tapped the arm of each of the McIntosh men and, with a toss of his head, led them into the watering hole.

  The place was packed, smoke-filled, and noisy. It wasn’t a gaming house—just a saloon. Over the din of a couple dozen conversations floated the tinkling of a poorly tuned piano.

  Cage met Lum’s gaze, then Jarvis’s, and said, “You’re on your own for a while. Use your ears a lot and your mouths sparingly. Let me know if you hear anything interesting.”

  Lum grasped the lapels of his vest, cocked his head, and stared at Cage for a brief moment. “We got good sense. You might wanna show us a little trust. Who knows? You might find we’re more helpful than you figured.”

  When Cage chose not to respond, Lum wheeled and led Jarvis into the crowd.

  Cage watched them squeeze between tables, scoffed, and then headed for a foot-wide gap in the line of patrons at the bar. For lack of space, he had to stand side-up to the counter.

  Two bartenders worked the counter. He mused that the nearer of the two was the spitting image of Vice President Chester A. Arthur—at least as far as he could recall from last year’s election campaign posters. The vice president approached, dragging a dishtowel down the bar with him. “What’ll you have?”

  “Whiskey. Your best.”

  Vice President Arthur nodded, slung the dishtowel over his forearm, and went for a yellow-labeled bottle, its contents a deep-honey color. As he poured for Cage, he said, “A man of refined tastes.”

  “Only the best.” Cage took a swig. He nodded. “It’s good.”

  The vice president gave a slight grin. “Four times as good?”

  “At least.”

  With a chuckle the vice president said, “I’ll only charge you double what the house whiskey goes for.”

  “Obliged.” Cage emptied the shot glass and pushed it across the bar for a refill.

  “Want me to leave the bottle?

  Cage held up a hand. “Two’s my limit. Quality over quantity.”

  “Admirable policy. Excuse me.” Vice President Arthur slid down the bar to open another bottle for a pair of red-eyed muleskinner types.

  When he returned, Cage asked, “Do people often tell you that you—”

  “Look a lot like the vice president? Yes.” The barkeep wiped a wet ring from the bar surface.

  “Talk a lot of politics with you, do they?”

  Chester Arthur nodded.

  “So let me ask you, then,” Cage said. “What do you think about the Chinese problem?”

  The vice president pulled in his chin. “Now that’s a new one.”

  “Humor me. I’m from California.”

  The barkeep chuckled again. After glancing back and forth, he said, “Ain’t the Chinese that’s the problem down here in Texas. Ask me about Mexicans and darkies, and I could go on all day.”

  “Ever seen a Chinese?” Cage asked over his shot glass.

  Eyes squinched, the vice president lifted his gaze and said, “Nope. Can’t say I have.”

  The fellow standing behind Cage spoke up. “I seen one.”

  Cage pivoted and studied the whiskered old-timer whose slack, in-drawn lips suggested he probably had no teeth.

  “Sorry to be a nosey Parker,” the old-timer said, “but I couldn’t help overhearin’ your conversation.”

  “It’s all right,” Cage said. “You been out to California? Arizona?”

  The old-timer scratched his whiskered neck and shook his head. “Seen her right here in San Antonio.”

  “Buy you a drink?” Cage offered.

  The old-timer grinned, revealing his toothless gums. “Don’t mind if you do.”

  Cage nodded to Chester A. Arthur, and the vice president poured the old-timer a shot of the good whiskey.

  “You said the Chinese you saw was a woman?” Cage asked.

  After draining his glass in one swallow, the old-timer shuddered and said, “Woo! That’s the good stuff.” He smacked his lips. “Yes, sir, a Chinese girl. Kinda pretty, too.”

  “How d’you know she was Chinese?”

  “She got them eyes.” The old-timer pulled at the outside corners of his own eyes.

  “Some Indians have eyes like that,” Cage said. “Hell, even some Mexicans. They call ’em chinos.”

  The vice president excused himself to go help another customer.

  “Yeah, I know,” the old-timer said, “but this one’s the real thing. A friend of mine told me that a friend of his told him how one of our own Texas Rangers has gone and got hisself hitched to a China girl. And I seen ’em together.” He gestured toward the doors. “Walkin’ arm in arm down the street—in broad daylight.”

  “Hmm.” Cage stroked his chin. “Right out in broad daylight, you say…”

  “That’s right.”

  “What d’you think about that?”

  The old-timer picked up his shot glass and stared at it as he turned it in his weathered fingers. “Ain’t for me to say, I reckon.”

  Cage reached across the counter, nabbed the bottle of pricey whiskey, and poured the old-timer another generous shot. “Every man’s entitled to his opinion. What’s yours?”

  The old-timer raised his glass as if for a toast, then said over it, “Like I told you—Chinese or not, she’s a looker. A fella can have his little affairs on the side. Mexican woman, Indian woman. Hell, even a colored girl. Most men just prefers to keep such things quiet.” He tossed back his head and drank.

  “But it’s a lawman that has this Chinese girl, right?”

  After drawing his sleeve across his toothless mouth, the old-timer said, “Yep, a Texas Ranger.”

  Cage shook his head. “What’s the world comin’ to?”

 
“I’ll tell you…Lotta change in these modern times.” The old-timer sighed.

  “This Ranger and his little China girl, they live right here in town?”

  The old-timer looked Cage in the eye. “This is all new, you understand. Ranger used to have a place of his own close by here some years ago. His wife died. Since then his rangerin’s taken him outta town long periods of time—like you might expect. I s’pose he’s mostly stayed in hotels when he’s come back. Friendly fella. Always has a kind ‘howdy-do’ for folks. Don’t rightly know where him and the China girl is stayin’.”

  Cage wondered whether a good drubbing might help the old codger recall having seen Strong and the Chinese girl entering some particular hotel together. Deciding that his fists probably wouldn’t draw any more from the coot than a few shots of whiskey had, he drew a few coins from his pocket and placed them on the bar. “A white man and a Chinese girl. Just don’t seem right.” He shoved off from where he’d been leaning. “Reckon I’d better be moseyin’.” He touched his hat brim. “Nice talkin’ to you.”

  “Thanks for the whiskey, neighbor,” the old-timer said.

  “Don’t mention it.” Cage headed for the door.

  Seems I’ve got the right town. Just a matter of time now till I finish the job and collect.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The four of them stood in the front room of Juanito’s parents’ comfortably appointed home.

  “This is no game, pard.” VanDorn eyed Li from beneath a furrowed brow and then returned his gaze to Emmett. “Somebody wants you behind bars for armed robbery. This could turn all sixes and sevens real fast. Ain’t no kind of situation to bring a woman into.”

  “She’s coming, Jack, and that’s final.”

  VanDorn sighed and threw up his hands. “Juanito, can you talk some sense into this brother-in-law of yours?”

  “I’m sure Emmett’s thought about it and thought about it hard.” Juanito glanced at Li, who stood there, arms folded. “If he wants to bring her with us, he’s got his reasons for it.”