Gaffney, Patricia

by Outlaw in Paradise

  Cady had told him Wylie had an orchestra for music, not just one lone piano player. No band was in evidence today, though. Which was just as well. The scattered customers looked a little rocky, a little on the edge; loud music might tip them right over.

  Jesse headed for the bar. What little conversation there had been stopped, and he listened to the sinister jangle of spurs and clomp of boot heels in that old familiar, frightened hush. He used to enjoy it. He hadn't heard it at the Rogue in quite a while. Funny; he didn't miss it.

  Wylie's bartender was the reverse of Levi Washington. He was white, not black; fat, not skinny; ugly, not handsome. Looking at him, Jesse had an idea that he might not be the kind of fellow who read books about Buddha to impress his girlfriend.

  "What'll it be?"

  "Wylie. Where is he?"

  A war waged in the bartender's piggy face. He wanted to say, Who wants to know? in the worst way. But he already knew who wanted to know, and he was scared of him. "Upstairs," he finally mumbled through thick lips.

  "Get him." The bartender stared at him. Jesse leaned over the bar and said, "Get. Him."

  Pig Face sneered and left the room.

  Jesse sighed. Time to get nasty. He grabbed a bottle off the bar and carried it to a center table, currently occupied by two silent, morose cowboys nursing beers. "I like this table," he whispered.

  They left.

  He took a skinny black cigarette out of his pocket and fired it up. Leaning back with the bottle, he stuck his feet up on the table. Took a drag. Took a drink.

  Bleck. Gag. Whiskey and cigarettes on an empty stomach. Cady had been so het up about the general store, she hadn't even let him get a cup of coffee first. Jesse wasn't in a good mood.

  Luckily, Wylie didn't keep him waiting. He came down a mahogany staircase looking fit and rested, fully dressed in frock coat, striped trousers, and bow tie. Probably on his way to church. It was a good act: he looked prosperous and respectable, a veritable city father. A gentleman. But Jesse knew a disguise when he saw one. Besides, Cady had told him what Wylie did to women, and what he'd done to Glendoline in particular. That helped make it personal.

  What she hadn't told him was what, if anything, she and Wylie used to be to each other. They hated each other now, that was obvious, but Jesse suspected they'd been friends in the past. More than friends. That burned him. And it gave him an even better reason, the best reason, to hate him. Because Cady was his now. Exclusively. Whatever was going to happen between him and Wylie, he wanted it over with fast, so he could get back to her. He missed her. He hadn't seen her in ten minutes.

  "Ah, Mr. Gault." Considering the tone of their last meeting, Wylie's face was remarkably pleasant, almost welcoming. "You've gotten tired of slumming, I see. Have you decided to come and work for me after all? Why don't we go up to my office and discuss it in private."

  A little late, it occurred to Jesse that he didn't have a plan, and a smart man didn't play it by ear with Wylie. What was he supposed to say now, "Give Luther Digby his store back or I'll kill you"? The foreclosure was legal, he assumed. Digby wasn't the real issue anyway. Wylie wanted everything, the whole damn town, and somehow Jesse was supposed to stop him. With what? All he had was a bluff. And Wylie was the only man who had never bought it, not completely. Staring at his fleshy face, the thick pelt of dark red hair, the ruby glinting on his finger, Jesse had to admit Wylie scared him. There was a look in his bulging eyes, a combination of intelligence and ruthlessness. No, more than ruthlessness—it was what Cady had said: "It's just cruel."

  "Where are your two thugs?" he asked, deciding to get it over with quick. If Gault was the only weapon he had, he might as well use both barrels on him and get out.

  Wylie paused in the act of sitting down. "What?"

  "Turley and Clyde, your bodyguards. They in church?"

  Somebody behind him started to snicker, but broke off when Wylie turned his pop-eyes on him. He sat down carefully, folding his small hands on the edge of the table. "What did you come here for?" he inquired. His face wasn't pleasant or welcoming anymore.

  "I came to tell you I don't like you."

  Chairs scraped. Jesse didn't look, but out of the corner of his eye he saw two, maybe three men scuttle toward the door and duck out.

  Wylie pretended to laugh. "And this is supposed to interest me?" His voice shook slightly—but with anger, not fear.

  "I don't like how you operate. I don't like it that you burned Logan's livery to the ground."

  "That's not true. Who told you that? You weren't even here then. I'll sue you for sl—"

  "I don't like it that you turned Forrest Sullivan off his sheep ranch. You ruined him out of greed, and it's nobody's fault but yours that he killed himself."

  Wylie jerked back in his chair and stood up. "Get out."

  "I don't like it that you're trying to ruin Luther Digby," he went on without moving.

  "That's none of your—"

  "And if you go through with it, you'll be sorry."

  "Are you threatening me?"

  "Yeah. Here's another threat, so pay attention. If you or any of your hoodlums go near Rogue's Tavern or Cady McGill, I swear you won't be sorry, because you won't live long enough." He tossed his lit cigarette on the stained carpet and got to his feet. "Got that, Merle? Anything unclear to you? Anything you want me to repeat?"

  Wylie was quivering, white-lipped, ready to go off. He was livid, literally, but Jesse couldn't tell if he'd scared him or not. "Get out," he repeated. "Go back to your whore." He was spitting again, flecks of foam collecting in the corners of his lips. "Oh, yes. I know about you and Cady. Did she tell you she was old man Shlegel's whore before she was yours? Why do you think he gave her the saloon? She earned it on her back, that's why."

  Jesse was a mild-tempered man; he rarely got angry. But when he did, he had a habit of yelling and throwing things—not Gault's style at all. With a superhuman effort of will, he controlled his fury and managed to say in a whisper, Gault-like, "Come outside with me, Merle. Say that to me again. Out in the street at twenty paces. Come on. Bring that gun in your boot."

  They stared at each other for a year or two. Every second, Jesse was sure Wylie would do it—call his bluff and agree to a shoot-out.

  But he didn't. After eternity and then some, his bullish shoulders slumped; a fake careless look replaced the tension in his face. "I won't fight you. Not that way. Get out of my place and don't come back."

  "I'll come back whenever I feel like it. And you won't do a damn thing about it." Stop now. Go. But he ignored the voice shouting good advice; he was too riled up to play it safe. "Now apologize."

  "What did you say?"

  "Say you're sorry for calling Miss McGill a bad name."

  Somebody changed a laugh into a cough. Wylie's face turned a ruddy plum color.

  "Say it." He went closer, even though it was like walking up to a tiger's cage and putting his head through the bars. "Say it. Say 'I'm sorry.' "

  Wylie couldn't make his mouth work. "You bastard," he croaked.

  "No, that's not it. I'm sorry. Say it."

  "I'm... sorry."

  "Good. What are you sorry for?"

  Jesse could hear the coarse grind of Wylie's back teeth, see the muscles in his jaws strain and flex. "Calling her a whore," he finally gritted out. It sounded like bones scraping.

  Jesse stared into his eyes for a long, long time. Then he smiled his maniac smile. "Very good," he whispered.

  It took guts to turn his back and walk away. Slowly. He imagined a target between his shoulder blades, bull's-eye in the middle. What would a bullet feel like? Hot and burning, or just a heavy, numbing thud? He reached the double doors and pushed them open casually, not dodging or ducking or making a break. They banged shut behind him, and he controlled a violent jolt. He kept walking, cool and slow, jingle-stomp, jingle-stomp. Luckily it was a hot day. Otherwise somebody might think panic was the cause of the sweat running down his cheeks.

  Ten />
  "Why didn't Ham come with us?" Jesse asked, expertly reining the horse around a jagged rut in the road. "Not that I'm complaining."

  Cady smiled guiltily. She loved Ham, but she didn't miss him right now, either. "Levi needed him. Levi's got a special day planned, and Ham's vital to it."

  Jesse glanced over at her. "How's that?"

  She leaned closer on the buggy seat and said in a mock-secretive voice, "Today's the day Levi asks Lia Chang if she'll go for a walk with him. He thinks she'll be more apt to say yes if Ham tags along."

  "Ah, very devious. Poor girl doesn't stand a chance."

  "I hope not." She had watched Levi's slow, gentle courtship for months, and she was ready for some action. Not being a Buddhist, she was probably even more impatient for it than Levi.

  "Know why I'm glad Ham didn't come with us?"

  "Why?"

  "Because then I couldn't do this." He switched the reins to his other hand, put his arm around her, and gave her a sweet, smacking kiss on the mouth. Cady laughed, delighted, and he kissed her again, softer. She had to reach up to keep her hat on. "Mm, deelicious," he said against her lips, taking a little taste with his tongue. Just then the buggy hit a hole the size of Crater Lake, and Cady's teeth clacked together. "Ow," said Jesse, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I better watch the road." He winked at her.

  "Yeah, because I'd hate it if you bit your tongue off." She wriggled her eyebrows. "I mean I'd really hate it." She cackled at his expression when he got the meaning of that, and slipped her hand under his arm, leaning against him, tickled at herself. What fun it was to say things like that, wicked jokes and naughty double entendres, to the man you were... having an intimate relationship with. That's how she was trying to think of Jesse. The man she was having an intimate relationship with. Glendoline would say he was the man she was having sex with, and maybe that was even better. Blunter; coarser. And it left the emotions out completely, which was certainly safer.

  "See that stone post under the oak trees?" she said, pointing. "That's the entrance."

  He slowed the horse and made the tight turn. The weedy drive flanked a long, rolling hill, buttercup-covered, that hid the house until the last second. "What is this place?" he asked, glancing around curiously.

  A place I like to go to sometimes, she'd told him before they set out, deliberately vague. She'd never told a soul she came here, much less brought anyone with her. It was private; hers alone. If she built it up, prepared Jesse for something special, and he was disappointed—well, it would hurt. That's all, it would hurt.

  "It's called River Farm," she said offhandedly. "It's just an old place. Abandoned. I think the house is pretty. It's coming up—" She pointed again. "There."

  She cringed. Had something happened to it? A storm, vandals—? No. No, nothing had changed. It was only that she was seeing it through Jesse's eyes, the clear, unsentimental eyes of a stranger.

  What a wreck. The shutters that hadn't blown off hung at crazy angles, half their wooden slats missing. The rotting front porch looked dangerous. Only the attic windows still had unbroken glass; the rest were either cracked, shattered, or gone. One of the chimneys had subsided into a rubble of loose bricks, and the shingled roof must leak everywhere. Once-white clapboard sides had almost finished peeling down to naked gray wood.

  "Dilapidated" was too kind a word for a house that had once been called Le Coeur au Coquin.

  Jesse stopped the horse at the top of the circular carriageway, beside the crumbling, overgrown slate walk. Cady avoided his eyes. "What a dump, huh?" She patted her knees nervously. "Want to stop here? We could walk around. The orchard's pretty. I was thinking we could eat there, if you want. Or not, we can—"

  "Sure, let's get down. I love old houses. Boy, this place must've really been something." Her heart did a mad little flip. She couldn't account for it. What difference did it make what Jesse, the man with whom she was having an intimate relationship, thought about the old Russell place? None at all. None at all. Get that straight, Cady, she advised, taking his hand as she jumped down from the buggy.

  He did like old houses. He peeked in all the windows, tried all the doors—although with no more success than she'd ever had; Sam Blankenship, who was selling the house for his real estate company, had padlocked every one. Jesse knew what a parapet was, and a pilaster. He admired the sloping dormers, even though they'd lost most of their shingles, and the graceful, three-sided bay window, and the whimsical oculus window at the top of the two-story Victorian tower. He kept saying, "What a place this must've been," and Cady kept biting her tongue so she wouldn't say, "It could be a place again." But she must not have been hiding her excitement as cleverly as she thought, because when they finished exploring, Jesse put his arm around her waist and said, "You love it, don't you?"

  "It's okay." She shrugged, made a face. "Yeah, I like it. You know. It's just nice. Old."

  Why couldn't she tell him? This is my dream house. Why couldn't she say that? Well, because once she started, who knew what she might say next? She might turn coy, say something like, "Don't you have a dream house?" And he might laugh at her, and she'd hate that. But she'd deserve it.

  He unhitched the horse, the same good-tempered gray mare she always rented from Nestor, and let her graze where she would. Back in town, Jesse had said he wished he could ride Pegasus and rent Cady another horse or try her on Bellefleur, and to hell with the buggy. But yesterday's three-mile race had taken a lot out of the stallion; he needed a rest. Cady didn't care. She rode, but not well; the buggy was fine with her. She didn't think she'd ever met a man who loved horses as much as Jesse did.

  "The river's over there, behind those trees. Can you hear it?"

  He lifted his head, listening. "I thought it was the wind."

  "No, the river. Want to go look?"

  A path of sorts led from the driveway into a thicket of shaggy, moss-hung live oaks, gnarled and lowcanopied, hiding the sun. It used to be a road, she told him; the Russells had cleared it so they could drive to the cliff edge of the river. But now it was only a track, rocky in places, completely blocked by fallen trees in others. He held her hand, helping her past obstacles she'd climbed over unassisted a dozen times before. Being with him, seeing his face, touching him whenever she liked—it was pure pleasure. Too sweet. A lot had happened since the night she told him she wouldn't go riding with him because she didn't care for his profession.

  The trees gave out. All at once the river's wild roar hit them, and it was like a blow to the chest, a genuine assault. "Sometimes you can see prospectors down there," Cady almost had to yell to be heard, pointing down the sheer rock face of the cliff. "There's not much left to pan, though. It's all been placered out."

  Jesse nodded. His light eyes looked colorless in the blinding glare of water and sky. "It's beautiful," he mouthed. The river's power had all but silenced him, she saw. He would love it, of course—its raw, raging energy would appeal to him. She loved it, too, but sometimes the Rogue was too strong, sometimes it battered at her senses and she had to get away, retreat into the sober quiet of the woods.

  For a long time they watched the mad race of the blue-green water, the explosions of white where it collided with invisible rock. You could lose yourself in the raucous sight and the thundering, deafening sound. Cady had to pull on Jesse's hand to get him to move, and she had to shout, "Aren't you hungry?" to get him interested in leaving.

  Behind the house, a crumbling stone wall separated the backyard from the orchard. Two leggy old apple trees shaded part of the wall from the overhead sun, and they decided to have their picnic there. Jesse made such a fuss over their lunch of salty ham biscuits, fried chicken, and tart cucumber salad that Jacques had packed into a pasteboard box for her this morning, she wished she'd had something to do with making it. Did she even know how to cook anymore? She used to, but that was so long ago, she doubted if she could boil water now. But she certainly wasn't going to say that to Jesse.

  Why not?
r />   "You know, I'm starting to like this sour mineral water," he told her, replacing the cap on the bottle and passing it to her.

  She nodded. "I know, it takes a while. I hated it when I first came here, but now city water tastes like dishwater to me. Too hot, and it doesn't quench your thirst." He nodded back. She loved it when they agreed with each other.

  Between bites of a radish, she listened to the rising song of a meadowlark somewhere in the orchard. Over their heads, a Douglas squirrel scampered across a branch in the apple tree. A little green lizard sunned itself twenty feet away on the wall. Bees buzzed in the clover, and the sound of crickets was a low, raspy constant. Could Jesse hear it?

  "Sometimes I forget you're deaf in one ear," she said softly, idly. He was cutting a slice of vinegar pie and didn't look up. "Jesse?"

  "Hm?"

  "I said," she said, laughing, "sometimes I forget you're deaf." How funny that he hadn't heard that.

  "Oh." He chuckled, getting the joke. "Well, I'm not totally deaf. And I can almost always hear what you say."

  "Really? Why?"

  "I've gotten used to your tone."

  "Oh." She'd been fishing for a compliment, something flowery about her voice. "How old are you, again?"

  He took a big bite of pie, and eyed her steadily across the laden, blue-and-white-checked cloth while he chewed slowly, thoroughly. He swallowed. "Thirty-eight."

  She stared at him. "Wow. I mean—not that that's old or anything." It was ancient. "You don't look it, that's all. You could be... why, you could be twenty-eight."

  "Thank you." He smiled, complimented. "It runs in my family. Both sides. We all look young." Before she could pursue that, he said, "Look what Joe gave me."

  "What?"

  He took something, a little stick, out of his shirt pocket. "It's a toothpick."

  "Oh."

  "It's made out of deer bone."

  "Nice."

  "He made it himself, and he gave it to me." He looked so pleased, as if getting a gift from a friend was something he wasn't used to. Well, how could it be? Who would give a present to a gunfighter? How could he even have friends? You might give him money so he wouldn't kill you, but not a present.