by Jeanne Rose
But she was too outraged to be frightened. "Get out of here this instant! Guns aren't allowed!"
Which finally attracted his interest. "Who says so?" His mustache bristled. "You?" He took hold of her and shook her.
Now she was frightened. "Adolfo!" she yelled.
"Shut up, I hate mouthy women!" The man back-handed her hard across the face.
Little pinpoints of light danced before her eyes. Slumping backward, Frances was caught by bartender Jack Smith.
"Hit a lady? What kind of man are you!" he shouted.
"You're gonna be a dead one if you say anything else." The man laughed unpleasantly. "Maybe I'll kill you anyways and the big-mouthed woman to boot."
The entire crowd was held at bay by the pistol and the big man's bullying strength. Frances saw them through swirling vision. Faces came forward, then retreated again.
In the middle of everything, Chaco Jones walked in.
Chaco Jones?
He gazed directly at her, then swung out hard and fast to the side, hitting the mustached man in the chest. The man roared like an injured bull but dropped the pistol. Chaco grabbed it, then slammed the weapon into the man's face. Blood spurted, not a pretty sight, but, at this point, Frances could care less.
The troublemaker fell to the floor and lay there groaning.
"Get out of here," ordered Chaco, nudging the big man none too gently with his boot. "If anybody's going to be killed tonight, Ugly, it's going to be you." He waved the pistol and looked around. "Anybody else want to pick a fight?"
"Hell, man, we were just watching," said someone, who was moving back like everyone else. The threatened trooper had already disappeared.
"Go about your business or get out," Chaco told the crowd, his cold hard voice carrying over the bilingual muttering and the stamping. Then he approached Frances, who was shaky but had managed to regain her feet.
"Why don't you take her upstairs?" Jack suggested. "She could stand some looking to."
Frances shook her head. "There's nobody else – " But she moaned as pain shot through her jaw and the room spun.
"Adolfo's back from wherever the hell he went to." The bartender pointed. "He'll take care of things."
Obviously aware there'd been trouble, the Mexican was patrolling the casino like a feisty little rooster, his eyes glittering, his curly hair seeming to stand on end.
Jack added, "And I'll also go over to the Gentlemen's Club and fetch those other two men."
Before Frances could object again, Chaco scooped her up in his arms and headed for the nearest stairway. He carried her effortlessly, the crowd parting before him.
"Where's your room?" he asked when they reached the second floor.
She motioned and managed to extract the key from her pocket. Chaco turned the lock, carried her inside and laid her on the four-poster. Then he went over to the washstand and poured water into the basin. Cradled by the soft feather-bed, Frances watched, amazed. She would never have believed the gunfighter would be acting as her savior. She reminded herself that she hated the man and should turn him out immediately.
But if Chaco hadn't appeared when he had tonight, both she and the bartender might have been killed.
"Got anything to use as a cloth?"
Reluctantly, she motioned, then gingerly touched her mouth. Her hand came away with a smear of blood.
Chaco tried the second drawer of her clothing chest rather than the top one. He came up with a satin corset and silk bloomers, more items from the Chicago shopping spree. Frances didn't have the energy to be embarrassed. Besides, he threw the underwear aside impatiently and opened the top drawer, finally pulling out a cotton handkerchief. He wadded that, dipped it into the basin, and brought it back to the bed.
Wiping off the blood, he touched her face carefully. "Looks bad but it's only a split lip and a big bruise."
She winced, though his touch was far more gentle than she would expect of a man of violence. And he didn't seem as cold and removed as usual. She gazed up at the intense face above hers, admiring the strong nose and high cheekbones, the startling paleness of the gray eyes in contrast with his bronze complexion and black hair.
"This is going to swell up a bit. You're going to be black and blue."
"Umm, hmm." Her entire head ached, as did the arm he was now examining.
"Can you move your fingers?"
She did so.
"Good, it's not broken. Too bad you don't have some moradilla for a poultice, though. Or some horse liniment. Might help you feel better faster."
Frances assumed moradilla was some sort of herb. "Magdalena has dried leaves...downstairs. Ask Belle."
Chaco left and she closed her eyes, allowed herself to sink into semi-consciousness. She already felt slightly better and her head had cleared when the gunfighter returned. Carrying a steaming teapot, a cup, a bowl and several other items, he placed everything on the table by the bed.
Then he sat down beside her. "Lucky for you Magdalena has something for any ailment." He poured hot water in the bowl, then crumbled a handful of leaves into it. "Yerba buena and other herbs. You can drink it and use it as a poultice, too."
She'd felt strange before when Chaco had merely been in the bedroom with her. Now he was sitting on the bed itself! And, horribly enough, she was beginning to experience those little thrills of awareness again. Her breasts seemed to swell against her bodice and warmth spread outward from her belly.
Good heavens, this was Nate's bed and she was attracted to his killer. How could she?
She inched away nervously. "I'm feeling better. I don't know as I need that now."
"You need it."
He calmly filled the cup with the steaming mixture and leaned over to let her drink. She kept her eyes lowered, refusing to look him in the face. The herbal mixture was bitter but had a minty aftertaste.
"Now we'll see if we can get that swelling to come down."
He straightened and added more leaves and some sort of clay to the water, mixing it together with a spoon. Then he took the cloth from her jaw and scooped some of the poultice onto it.
"Don't think you should be going back to work soon. Even with this, you're going to look bad."
Which wasn't very complimentary. But then, she shouldn't care what he thought about her looks.
"I only wish I didn't have to go back to work at all, at least not in the casino." And she wished Chaco Jones would get out of her bedroom. "I'm only filling in down there because my husband's floorman quit."
"That's why you were looking for a new man the other night."
At least he now understood she'd been trying to interview someone for a job. Just as she'd quickly realized he'd thought she was La Rubia. Her own interest and embarrassment had been the true reasons for her anger.
Finished with the poultice, he gently placed it on her jaw. "Hold it there awhile."
Then he rose, thank goodness. Frances took a breath of relief and stared at Chaco's broad back and trim hips. He was a fine figure of a man.
If only he weren't a killer...
To distract herself, she talked. "I don't mind doing the bookwork or ordering the supplies but I hate playing hostess to a bunch of gamblers."
"I don't blame you." He turned to gaze down at her. "That's why I've decided I'll take the job."
She blinked, startled. "What?"
"I said I'll take the job. I need another line of work and you shouldn't be dealing with rough men."
"B-but I didn't hire you!" She didn't want to work with Chaco Jones. The very thought shook her.
"That's all right," he went right on. "Jack and Adolfo can show me everything downstairs." Noticing she'd let the poultice slip, he came over to slide it back in place, his callused hand warm over hers. "If you don't hold this tight against your face, it's not going to do any good."
"But – "
"Don't worry, it'll feel better by tomorrow."
Before she could make another objection, he turned on his heel and left.
And Frances was in too much pain to go chasing after him.
Chaco Jones, the gunfighter, as the new floorman of Blue Sky Casino?
Frances thought about the situation long and hard. As Louisa had said, he owed them and they should let him do what he could. Maybe it was destiny that Chaco should pay in part for Nate's death by seeing to his widow's interests.
She only hoped she could keep those interests in hand.
SHE HAD BEEN FORCED to come to terms with her hatred. Humming a half-remembered chant, she spread assorted treasures on the hearth before the fire -- several long hairs, the yellowed fang of a snake, a vial of the sugary powder that was one of her specialties.
Holding up the hairs, she straightened them, then began plaiting them together. Several were her own but most were his.
"You belong to me," she whispered, quickly binding, tying, intertwining. "You desire me more than water or safety or rest!"
When she had finished, she stuffed the tiny braid into a small leather pouch and added the snake's fang.
Then her hatred crept through anyway. "And may your own desire pierce your heart!"
Closing her eyes, she drew herself together.
When she was once more calm, she poured in the sugary powder, something that was both very sweet and very poisonous. The pouch already held a few shreds of the rawhide cord she'd stolen. She'd save the rest for the future.
Meanwhile, she finished her present incantation, "You will only look at me! Your loins will burn with desire! You will do as I bid!"
Then, tying the top of the pouch tightly, she pinned it beneath her skirt to keep it safe until she could place it on his person.
The time was not right for death and his strength was too much for threat.
But surely he was weak enough for sex.
If she could not yet have his life, she would at least possess his body.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHACO JONES had not only acted as Frances's savior, he'd given her two days of badly needed rest. After assessing her injuries, Belle had insisted she stay in her rooms. Except for a few visits from Magdalena, who'd brought more healing herbs, and the delivery of meals by servants, Frances had slept and rested. She'd even had the claw-footed bathtub in the adjoining room filled with heated water to ease her soreness.
For the first time since arriving in New Mexico, she'd actually had time to think. And feel. Mourning Nate, she'd cried, though she'd begun to realize she'd hardly known her husband. He'd tried to be kind but he hadn't been honest with her. She'd married him under false pretenses.
Frances also decided Chaco had paid off his debt, at least as best as anyone could who'd taken another life, accidentally or no. Though she would never forget Nate, it was time to try to forgive, to move on.
On the third day after the attack, she spent the morning catching up with her bookkeeping. With satisfaction, she noted that the Blue Sky had paid off most of their creditors, owing only the loan to a local bank. In preparation for the order of more supplies, she wrote out two lists, one each for the saloon and the casino.
Patting some of Belle's powder on her discolored jaw and taking one last look at herself in the mirror, Frances thought how much she had changed in so little time. Feeling almost a stranger to herself, she exited her rooms, went downstairs and out into the sunny placita.
Seated next to Ruby and Sophie on one of the benches, Avandera asked, "Senora Gannon, how are you feeling?"
"Much better, thank you."
"We're real happy to see you up and about again," added Ruby.
Luz and Adolfo stood talking under one of the flowering trees. He gazed up at the slim young woman worshipfully, obviously not caring that she was half a head taller.
Then the little Mexican sprang to attention. "Senora Gannon! If I had known that dog would touch you," Adolfo scowled. "I would have slit his throat."
An appalling image but Frances knew the man meant well. "Luckily, I am fine."
"Thanks to Senor Jones. He is doing a good job, you know. He watches the customers with a sharp eye."
And his reputation helped, as well, Frances was certain. He'd been a gunfighter in the area for quite some time, Magdalena had said, also adding Senor Jones had led a sad, hard life. Frances hadn't wanted to hear more about that part. The less she knew about him, the better.
"I am happy everything is working out," Frances told Adolfo. "I'd rather take care of the bookkeeping and the purchasing anyway."
"A far better task for a lady," Adolfo said, smiling. "And do not be worried about Senor Jones's honesty -- I have known him for many years."
"So I gathered." Smiling in return, Frances moved away.
In the saloon, Jack also put a word in for Chaco. "A floorman who can speak both Spanish and English can be right helpful. Some nights we have more caballeros than Anglos."
A bit tired of hearing the gunfighter's praises sung, Frances handed Jack the list she'd made out. "Check that off, will you? Let me know what I should order?"
The bartender examined the piece of paper. "Sure."
Then Frances took a deep breath and went toward the casino. She didn't look forward to seeing Chaco again but she knew she was going to have to get used to dealing with him. If he was going to remain in his job, that is, and if she was going to continue to live in peace. The night after she'd been hurt, the Army had descended on the Blue Sky again. She'd heard the ruckus from upstairs and, no matter that Belle claimed the attack on her had been unusual, she was glad she lay safely in her bed.
She almost didn't recognize Chaco when she saw him standing near one of the poker tables talking to a dealer. His clothing, brown trousers and a black coat worn over a white shirt and ribbon tie was far more formal than his usual dusty denim. His long hair was tied back neatly, as black and straight as an Indian's.
"May I speak with you for a moment?" she asked, angry that her heart speeded up when he looked at her.
Chaco nodded, stood silent and grave, gazing down at her with those spooky eyes. But she wasn't about to show him he made her nervous.
"I have a list to give you." She handed over the second piece of paper. "I'm ordering supplies."
"What kind of supplies?"
"For the casino. You know, cards and dice and so forth."
He glanced at the list but said nothing.
She noted his high cheekbones and the bronze cast to his skin. "If you can think of anything else, you're welcome to add it."
He nodded again.
Ordeal having been faced and overcome, she nearly turned to leave, then decided she'd try to ease future situations by being forthright. "Are you, perhaps, part Indian?"
Just as she asked it, she realized the question could be offensive, since some establishments in the city didn't allow entrance to Indians or mixed breeds. Because of that, not everyone admitted to their heritage.
But Chaco answered easily, "I'm a quarter Apache, half Spanish and some Anglo."
"Anglo?" Perhaps that's where he got his height and gray eyes. "Really?"
"One of my grandfathers was a Texan."
"An interesting mix."
"Not much different than a lot of people in Santa Fe."
"But very different from people in Boston. I was a school teacher before coming to New Mexico."
"I heard."
She wondered about the sad, hard background Magdalena had mentioned. Chaco didn't look sad. He appeared self-sufficient, tough and remote. "Does any of your family live in Santa Fe?"
"My mother died a long time ago. I didn't have anyone else."
Perhaps he'd only drifted into gunslinging because he needed to make a living. She wondered if she'd ever get to know him...or if she should want to.
"You don't talk much about yourself, do you?"
"Most people talk too much."
Did he mean her? "Conversation is the way people socialize, communicate their thoughts and feelings."
"You can usually tell what a person's thinking or feeling by watchi
ng him, paying close attention."
Perhaps he could tell what others were thinking. Maybe that's why he stared so hard with those spooky eyes. Frances only hoped he hadn't guessed what she'd been thinking and feeling when he'd sat on the side of her bed!
"So is there anything else besides cards and dice you want me to check on?"
"The other things that are on that list."
He showed her the piece of paper and pointed at the second item. "You mean this?"
"Chips? Surely we have plenty of those." Considering they took the place of both Mexican and U.S. money. "But you should check."
"And this." His finger slid to the next item.
Was he trying to trick her into reading the list aloud? She recalled a student pulling a similar stunt, a girl who was semi-illiterate. She decided to find out for certain. "Could I have that please?" She reached for the paper. "I forgot to add something else."
Placing the paper on a nearby table, she wrote, Can you read? then showed it to him.
"We might need pencils and some paper," he said slowly, obviously guessing. He didn't react to the question at all.
"Yes, we might. Oh, and I also need to add this." Once more, placing the paper on the table, she scrawled, You are a big donkey.
He didn't even raise an eyebrow when she handed the paper back.
"Any other questions?" she asked.
"No."
Obviously, she'd discouraged him, which meant he'd probably only go to someone else. Frances suddenly felt guilty. Perhaps he'd been too poor to attend school.
"Um, I need that paper again." When he looked at her measuringly, she forced herself to explain, "I wrote something bad on there."
"About me?"
"Well, it wasn't seriously bad."
His eyes were cold as stone. "You know I can't read."
She admitted, "I'm a teacher. I can tell." She added quickly, "It doesn't mean you're not intelligent."
"I need to read for this job, though."
"Not necessarily." She had struck at a vulnerability and felt very badly. Many people didn't know how to read on the frontier. "It would help, of course. And I could give you lessons, if you wanted. I have some books." Though perhaps he would feel odd about that, being a grown man.
