Levi folded his big, bony-knuckled hands on the edge of the bar and looked at him. Jesse stared back, a little unnerved by the bland, half-smiling peace-fulness in his face. He looked like he had a secret, something really good, and he might tell you about it or he might not. "Everybody suffers," he said slowly, his voice soft and deep, rumbling. "Suffering doubles when we resist it. You push against something hard enough, your hand hurt. Put your hand gentle on a wall or a door, you got no pain. Resisting and wanting—that's where all our suffering come from." He smiled with his whole face, all the straight lines and sharp angles turning up, and Jesse couldn't help smiling back.
"Is that right?"
"Yup."
"Where'd you learn that?"
"From the buddha."
"Bartender!" some drunk called out across the way. "Gimme a whiskey! Move your sorry ass!"
Levi lifted his calm, dark gaze. His smile stayed on, but it looked a little pained. "And sometime," he said even softer, "you want to push your hand real hard on somebody head, and fuck suffering."
Jesse chuckled. "Wait," he called, and Levi stopped partway to the drunk, bottle in hand, looking at him questioningly. "Is Miss McGill here tonight?"
"She here. She gettin' ready."
"Where is she? She have an office here or something? I'd like to have a word with her."
"Bartender!"
Levi served the drunk, then came back over. "Why you want to see her for?" No smiling now, no bland good humor; he looked like a suspicious father, interrogating some questionable suitor for his daughter's hand. Jesse thought about the time he'd seen Levi standing guard on the stairs while Cady knocked on Gault's door. He'd been scared, but he hadn't budged from his spot.
"It's personal. I just want to tell her one thing." That she was right and he was wrong, he should never have let Ham play with his gun. Just then it occurred to him that he probably owed Ham's father an apology, too. Things were getting too damn complicated. Anyway, gunfighters didn't apologize. Not in public, anyway.
Levi studied him, then came to a decision. "She in her room. Through that do' over there, keep going. Knock on the office do' first—that's the little room before you get to her room. She hear you, she might decide you can come in."
"Thanks."
Levi nodded once, narrowing his eyes in a serious warning. I'd hate to come after you, because you'd surely kill me, the look said. But I will if I have to. You had to respect a man for that.
Edging through the gradually thickening crowd of drinkers and gamblers, Jesse accidentally bumped into a man on his blind side. "Sorry, didn't see you." God damn this eyepatch. The man threw up his hands and said, "It's okay," about twenty times, backing out of his way.
A dark doorway he hadn't noticed before opened in the corner behind the bar. He went through, noting an open door to his left, full of boxes and furniture and miscellaneous junk, and a closed one to his right, probably full of booze. The hallway ended at another door, closed. Miss Cady's office.
Jesse knocked. Nobody answered. He opened it and stuck his head in.
Office? This hidey-hole was more of a closet, and a pretty small one at that. As far as he could see in the windowless dark, she had a desk, a chair, a half-assed file cabinet, and that was it. Somebody's picture in a frame sat on the desk. He picked it up, held it toward the trickle of light from the hallway. Nice old guy, chubby-cheeked, with a full beard. Her father? If so, he didn't look a thing like her.
A voice sounded from the only other door, the one that must lead to her room. A man's voice.
"Shit," Jesse swore out loud, softly, taken unawares by a sinking feeling in his stomach. A man. In broad daylight, too. If she was going to carry on like that, the least she could do was wait till dark.
He was silently pivoting when the man's voice suddenly barked out something loud and angry. Jesse halted. Cady's voice next, saying something he couldn't hear. She gave a yelp. "You goddamn polecat," he distinctly heard her say. "Quit it!"
Racing across the small room, Jesse shoved the door open so hard, it sounded like a gunshot when it hit the wall.
Bedroom. Striped wallpaper, red rug, big, sexy brass bed—he registered the details in the instant before his eyes locked on Cady and two men.
He knew them. Clyde, the reasonable one, he'd thought, had her arms hooked through his behind her back. He was holding her still so Warren, the little sawed-off peckerhead who'd wanted to shoot him this morning, could reach inside her paisley dressing gown and touch her—gingerly, his hips cocked back to avoid a kick in the groin from one of her bare, flashing legs.
Everybody froze. Jesse said, "Well, now, look at this," in an unsmiling whisper, and the eerie, pitiless sound made his own blood run a little cooler. "You know what I hate to see, Warren? Grown men picking on a woman."
Clyde let go and stepped back. Cady jerked away, twitching her shoulders furiously, yanking the robe closed over her underwear. Her hair was down and wild, dark, long, almost to her elbows. Around the edges of the anger in her face, Jesse saw fear.
He was afraid, too, but he didn't have time to feel it. "That and whipping on a horse—those are two things that make me feel mean. You know what I do when I feel mean?"
"This ain't none o' your business," Warren, the bandy-legged needle dick, rallied to point out. "Ow! Shit!" He bent over to grab his knee—which Cady had just kicked as hard as she could with her bare foot.
"Get out of here, Turley, and don't ever come back!" She looked ready to murder him, her fists clenched, eyes flashing. "You don't have to shoot him," she told Jesse. "Not that I care, but he's not worth it. Clyde either."
"I'll take your hardware," Jesse told them softly. "Both of you."
"You ain't getting my gun." Turley—Warren— pulled his coat away from his .41, the same way he'd done this morning in the street. "Now you're really asking for it."
"Wrong. I'm not asking. I'll shoot you through the heart. You're alive now—in five seconds you'll be dead. That's a promise."
He never got over how words like that could pour out of his mouth at the absolute scariest moments. Jesus God, he was born for this life.
Holding out his hand, he whispered, "Butt first." Turley's ugly face reddened, but he obliged, cursing a blue streak. "Shhhh," Jesse warned, and he shut up. "Now you." Clyde handed over his shooter without a peep.
Cady had a goldfish bowl on top of her bureau. Turley almost jumped him when he saw what Jesse meant to do; his knees flexed and his hands started to reach out. But Jesse smiled the egging-on smile at him, like he wanted him to do it, hoped he'd make a wrong move, and Turley chickened out.
Splash. Splash. Three little orange fishies spurted out of the way just in time. Bubbles floated out of the barrels of the two six-guns, swam to the top, and popped.
"Now, get out. Come around bothering this lady again, I'll kill you both. And I'll do it slow."
Turley bared his teeth, impotent. If looks could kill, Jesse would be lying on the floor dead as a doornail, with Cady right beside him. Turley was too beaten down to swear again, though; he walked out the back door in a sullen, furious silence, and Clyde scurried after him.
Cady couldn't get over it. He never even drew his gun, she kept marveling, clutching her dressing gown, staring at Gault like he was the Second Coming. But really—Warren Turley was a mean, rotten son of a bitch, but you had to give him credit for one thing: guts. And Gault had taken his gun away. Dumped it in the fish bowl. She looked at it now as one last bubble popped out of the barrel and floated to the surface; Maude, Gracie, and Cecil swam around it, nosing it with interest.
"Thank you," she started to say. Nothing came out but the consonants and a puff of air. At the same moment, she realized her legs were shaking. "Breath of air?" she managed; it would've sounded nonchalant if it hadn't come out an octave higher than her usual register. Mr. Gault put out his arm in the most gentlemanly way, like an usher helping an old lady to her pew. Cady gave a shaky smile and waved it away, and someh
ow she made it out to her back steps and dropped down on the top one without fainting first.
"Well!" she said, while Gault stepped around her and sat down on the stair below. He had long, long legs, hard-looking under the black denim of his trousers; he bent one and threw his forearm across it, and stretched the other one straight out. "Wasn't that interesting?" Her robe touched his hip; she made a business of gathering it around her legs, tucking it in just so, going all ladylike on him while she tried to get her wits back. Her heart was still hammering. Today wasn't the first time Turley had tried to strong-arm her on Wylie's orders, but before now he'd never gone further than words. This new tactic scared her more than she wanted to admit.
"This kind of thing happen often?" Gault had taken his hat off and set it on the step beside her. The setting sun through the live oak lit up the silver in his dark brown hair.
"No." She shook her head vehemently. "Definitely not."
"They, um... they didn't hurt you, did they?"
It came to her what he was thinking, what it must've looked like when he smashed the door in. "Oh, no. Not at all. They were just looking for my gun." Mainly; Turley had snuck a feel in the process, but she wasn't going to dwell on that.
"Looking for your gun?"
He looked so surprised, she smiled. "Yeah. And if I'd had it on me, I'd've plugged 'em both," she boasted. It was probably a lie, but just saying it made her feel calmer. "I keep a .22 in my... on my person," she said delicately.
"What kind?"
"Remington Elliot. Five-shot."
"With the ring trigger?" She nodded, and he pursed his lips in an approving whistle. "Guess things can get a little rough in your line of work."
Not as much as in yours. "Once in a while. But I can handle it. Anyway, Turley and Clyde were just trying to scare me."
"Why?"
She lifted her eyebrows. How strange to be explaining to him who her enemies were. Until now, she'd been pretty sure he was one of them. "Because Merle Wylie told them to," she said.
"Why?"
"Because." She rested her chin in her hands and contemplated him. His one gray eye looked harmless for a change, not evil. Interested. "He wants the Rogue," she said with a sigh. "Wants me to sell out, sell him the Rogue and the Seven Dollar. He just wants everything."
"What's the Seven Dollar?"
"A mine. It's placered out, not worth anything."
"Why does he want it, then?"
"I just told you—because he wants everything. That's what he's like, that's the kind of man he is."
He looked thoughtful. "I've been hearing a few things about Wylie," he allowed after a pause.
"I'll bet. I told you he burned down the livery."
"What?"
She touched his shoulder when he started to jump up. "The old one—Wylie's is the new one. Nestor Yeakes runs it for him."
"Oh." He relaxed, sank back against the step. "Yeah, you told me that yesterday. What the hell did he do that for?"
"Bob Logan wouldn't sell out to him. He couldn't foreclose because Logan owned it free and clear, so he burned him out."
Gault swore, as if that shocked him. "So Wylie's a banker?"
"No, but he's got one in his pocket."
"Cherney."
She blinked. "Yeah. You know him?"
"We met." For some reason, he smiled.
"Well, Cherney's his hatchet man, you could say. He's making him foreclose on Forrest Sullivan's sheep farm, pretty much just for the hell of it. The Sullivans have four kids, and the oldest is seven. I don't know what they're going to do."
Gault took a cigarette out of his pocket and started to roll it between his fingers, play with it. Cady watched him out of the corner of her eye. The more time she spent with him, the less she could figure him out. He could barely line up a match and a cigarette, and yet he was so confident of his triggerman skills, he didn't even have to draw on his enemies. Didn't even have to draw. She still couldn't get over it, the way he'd cut Warren Turley down to size— cocky, black-hearted Warren, who wasn't scared of anybody. She'd been scared herself when Gault had banged that door open, even knowing he'd come to save her. (How had she known that?) There was just something about him. He only had to squint his eye to put the fear of God in you, or whisper something, or stretch his lips in his wicked smile. But then he could say charming, downright flirtatious things when he felt like it, and he had a different kind of smile, tickled and lighthearted, for Ham. And once or twice for her.
"Paradise is a nice little town," she said offhandedly, leaning over to trace a line around her bare toes on the warm wood step. "Used to be even nicer. Since Wylie got this bug up his behind about owning everything, it's changed. People are scared now. When you rode in, most of 'em assumed he'd hired you. You say he didn't." She stole a glance. He was watching her, stroking his fingertips across his long, sexy upper lip, brushing the edges of his mustache. She looked back down at her feet.
"The thing is, people are starting to feel outnumbered. Tommy—Sheriff Leaver—he's not very..." She hunted for the right word, gave up. "He could use some help. We could all use... somebody on our side."
She came to a stop, hoping he would fill in the silence, say, "Why, I'll help you! You should've asked sooner; I had no idea you were in such a pickle." But as the pause lengthened, she understood what a foolish hope that was. He fished a match out, struck it on the step, and this time lit his thin black cigarette in one try. Slouching down, legs crossed, he stuck his elbows on the stair behind him and blew unconcerned smoke at the sky.
"Why did you come to my room anyway?" she wondered testily. "Did you want to see me about something?"
"Oh, yeah." He turned on his elbow to face her. "I wanted to tell you." He fingered one of the green paisley curves in the dangling belt of her robe; he might've been doing it unconsciously, but she was aware of every move of his fingertip. "That I'm, you know, sorry."
"For what?"
"Today." Even with the sinister patch over his eye and the smoke curling up from his cigarette, there was something boyish in the angle of his head, the way he looked up at her through his thick eyelashes, then quickly away. "I'm talking about me and the kid," he explained, mumbling. "You were right. Had no business handing over a gun to a seven-year-old. Even though it wasn't loaded."
"Yes, but you can never—"
"You can't be sure and you can't take a chance, not with children. I know that. Don't know what got into me, Cady. I won't be doing that again."
She went all soft inside when he called her Cady. She had the strangest urge to run her fingers through the lock of black-and-silver hair that fell sideways across his forehead. Push it back, and cup his ear with her palm while she was at it. "It's okay. Gault. Mr. Gault." She gave a short laugh. "Seems funny— you know my first name but I don't know yours."
He flicked his cigarette into the grass. She watched it smolder while she waited for him to speak. It died before he did. "A man in my line of work," he finally said, and stopped.
"It's okay. I understand." But she didn't, not at all, and she was really disappointed. She couldn't get over how disappointed she was.
"It's Jesse."
"What?" He'd whispered—she wasn't sure she'd heard right.
"Name's Jesse. You can call me that. I'd like it if you did."
"All right." A slow smile bloomed on her face. "But I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell anybody else."
"I won't. I promise." The thrill of conspiracy made her wind her arms around her knees and squeeze. Jesse Gault. It suited him. "Gault" was a hard word, but "Jesse"... "Jesse" could go either way.
"You sure are pretty when you smile."
"Oh..." She swatted a hank of hair over her shoulder, hoping she wasn't blushing. Thinking she could give him the exact compliment.
"You're pretty all the time, but especially when you smile. Your eyes get little and crinkly, and they twinkle. And the corners of your mouth turn up just so."
She knew she was bl
ushing. He looked like he was telling the truth, although he was smiling, too. Men said things to her all the time, ridiculous things, she didn't pay any attention. But they usually didn't go into all this... detail.
"Mr. Gault, you're flattering me," she actually said. She'd heard a girl say that to her beau once, on the church steps one Sunday morning. It had stayed with her for some reason; she'd thought it was silly but also kind of dignified—and here she was spouting it out to Jesse Gault, like some antebellum miss in a crinoline. Her cheeks got even hotter.
"Where'd you get skin like that?" He was murmuring, almost whispering, but it was nothing like that dark, scary whisper he used on men. This was more like soothing, more like a caress. "And I don't even know words for that color you turn sometimes. Like now. Like a peach. No, lighter. Miss Cady McGill, you are just about the prettiest girl I ever saw."
She put her chin on her knee; he leaned closer. Their faces were about five inches apart. He dropped his gaze from her eyes to her mouth, and she imagined the corners were probably turning up "just so" right now. They were going to kiss. Right here on her back stoop. How would it feel? He had a beautiful mouth, full and manly under his black mustache, the ends of which looked soft, not bristly. His lips were closed. She closed hers. They inched toward each other. His breath blew out through his nose, fluttering softly on her cheek. She shut her eyes.
"Miz Cady?"
Levi. Calling through the closed door of her office.
Jesse didn't move, just smiled a slow, sexy smile while she jolted up straight, plucking at the closed throat of her robe. "Yes?"
"Miz Cady, you okay?"
"Fine!"
"Boys're askin' for you. They ready to play cards. Tol' 'em you'll be right out."
"I will be. Thanks, Levi."
"Ma'am."
She heard his soft footsteps fade. "Well," she said.
"Well," Jesse said, still smiling at her.
For some reason she felt like laughing. Nerves, she guessed. She stood up. He stayed where he was, studying her bare feet for a second, then leaning back so he could see her face. She had never seen a man look so... appreciative. The heat of the day was fading, but she felt warm all over. "Well. Guess I'll get dressed."
Gaffney, Patricia Page 7
