Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  “You touch him and I’ll kill you,” she snarled. “He would rather die than accept help from one of Judge Jack’s henchmen. Especially the sidewinder who shot him!”

  A muscle in Heath’s jaw twitched, evincing the tenuous hold he had on his rising temper. “You blind fool! I’m not Judge Jack’s henchman. And I sure as hell am no murderer. So get that notion out of your demented head. I’m a simple gambler who has had the misfortune of running into you twice in one day. Now, if you want your pa to live, you’ll let me help you. When the kid gets back, I’ll put the old man in the wagon, and you can take him into town. Beyond that, you can go to blazes as far as I’m concerned.”

  Carefully, she laid her father out on the soft stand of grass and rose to her feet.

  Heath never took his eyes off her, a thread of tension running the length of him. Years of living by his wits made him wary of her. He wasn’t particularly surprised when she whipped a benign-looking snub-nosed derringer from inside her vest pocket. “I guess this means you don’t want my help,” he surmised.

  In answer, she cocked the small but very lethal gun. “If my pa dies, I’ll hunt you down and put a bullet through your black heart.” Stevie had never killed a man, but there was always a first time. “I might do it anyway. Just for the pleasure.”

  She was deadly serious, and Heath was wise enough to realize it. Standing, slowly so as not to startle her, he dropped his gaze to the injured man at his feet. The head wound was superficial, just a crease, and the bleeding had stopped.

  Satisfied that he could do no more, he doffed his Stetson and sketched a chivalrous bow. “It’s been an experience meeting you, my lady. Not particularly pleasant, but an experience nonetheless.” His voice was frosty as Christmas morn. “I leave you to see after your own.”

  And he did, without noticing the gaping hole in Sandy Johns’s chest.

  Four

  An hour before sundown Heath rode into town. With thoughts of his job occupying his attention, he had put the day’s unpleasantness out of his mind.

  Thick red dust rose with every clop of his horse’s hooves. Heath raised his neckerchief over his nose to filter the dust, and scanned the streets, instinctively noting the avenues of escape and the areas suitable for ambush—the places a yellow-bellied brigand bent on shooting an unsuspecting marshal could hide.

  Adobe Wells was a typical western town. The buildings were one and two story flat-top adobes with portals. Two streets, one running north-south, the other east-west, intersected at the center of town, forming a dirt plaza. On either side of the plaza were adobe-framed wells. A few trees, mostly cottonwood, offered the mingling inhabitants little shade from the late afternoon sun.

  Not surprising, there were three saloons in town. In addition, there were two hotels, a jail, a general store, a respectable looking eatery, a livery stable, a hardware, and a few other nondescript establishments, along with five or six private residences.

  On the north side of town a number of miners’ shacks had been haphazardly constructed from makeshift materials. The temporary city looked like a sea of cast-off lumber and tin, swarming with sooty, bearded lifesize ants. Men wearing overalls or heavy trousers held up by suspenders busied themselves with evening chores. Some of them were tending to stock animals, mostly burros; others were busy cooking the night’s fare over open fires. The distinctive smell of onions and fried beans caused Heath’s nostrils to twitch, his stomach to rumble.

  He had not expected to see miners in Adobe Wells. No precious metals or minerals of any sort had ever been found in this area. There was, of course, gold in California, silver in Nevada, and copper in Arizona. But as far as he knew, this area was good for grazing cattle and little else.

  Except producing beautiful angels with positively diabolical dispositions. Smiling at the memory, he removed his neckerchief and stopped at a stately home on the edge of town. A wooden sign reading MANCHEZ’S BOARDINGHOUSE swayed and creaked in the afternoon breeze. Sliding from the saddle, he secured Warrior’s reins to the white picket fence circling the front yard, shouldered his saddlebags, and pushed through the gate.

  A burst of energy infused him now that his long trip had come to an end. Taking the front steps two at a time, he rapped gently on the frosted pane of the front door.

  An attractive Mexican woman in her mid-forties opened the door and invited Heath inside out of the summer sun. Her clean, crisp, lemon-yellow calico gown was in striking contrast to her soft, dusky complexion. Masses of shiny black hair were imprisoned in a demure bun at the back of her head. Her apron, starched stiff, was as white as the first snow in winter. Her smile was open, friendly.

  “Buenos tardes, Señor.”

  “Señorita.”Heath greeted her with the instinctive charm that never failed to give the fairer sex a moment of rapid heart palpitation.

  It had its usual effect. “Senora Pilar Manchez,” she said, wishing that she were ten years younger.

  His face hinted at disappointment before he bowed over her hand. “A tragic loss, Señora. I wonder, are all beautiful women married?”

  Pilar’s cheeks flamed at the offhand flattery despite her years of maturity. “Surely not. I myself am a widow.” She paused respectfully. Clearing her throat, she continued. “Now, how may I help you?”

  “I need a room for an undetermined length of time.”

  “I have one available on the second floor. A large cottonwood tree shades it in the daytime, Senor. I think you will find it comfortable.”

  After being shrieked at for most of the afternoon, Heath found Pilar’s gentle spirit, lilting accent, and serene smile soothing. “Gracias.”

  A man in his line of work had to be wary of strangers, but he had a feeling it would be difficult to remain aloof around the woman regarding him with open friendliness. He liked her instantly. She reminded him of Rad’s wife, Ginny. Calm, gentle, tranquil.

  He followed Pilar to a room that was typically western in decor except for a tap over a zinc basin. Indoor running water was unusual for this part of the country, and Heath was suitably impressed. He complimented Pilar on her home.

  “Gracias, Senor . . .”

  “Diamond. Lucky Diamond. Please call me Lucky.” He watched his hostess warily, hoping she wouldn’t ask him to leave. Most respectable women shied away from professional gamblers. And with a name like Lucky Diamond, there could be no doubt in Pilar’s mind of his profession.

  Not one to be predictable, Pilar caught Heath off guard. “You plan to try your hand at gambling in our town, Lucky?” She might have been discussing the weather for all the emotion in her voice.

  More than surprised, Heath was relieved. He was far too tired to go room-hunting today. And he did like Pilar. “Yes. But first I would sell my soul for some good home cooking and a hot bath.”

  Pilar laughed. “It will be my pleasure to pamper you. Much as your own mother would.”

  “If only all the ladies in this area were as gracious as you. . .”

  “You have found our ladies otherwise?” she expressed her surprise.

  “Only one.” Leaning against the bedpost, he tried to hide his apparent interest. “I was waylaid by a young girl about seven miles east of town. She took several shots at me from the cliffs in front of Mustang Mesa.”

  Pilar clutched her throat. “Oh, dear. Stevie!”

  “Stevie? No. I don’t think so. I didn’t catch her name, but this very definitely was a girl. I got close enough to determine that delightful fact.”

  “Yes. Our Stevie is very much a girl. No matter how hard she tries to be the son her father needs. But you mustn’t hold her”—she paused, searching for the right words—“unorthodox behavior against her, Lucky. She’s understandably upset. It was recently declared that her father doesn’t hold clear title to his ranch and Sandy and Stevie are to be evicted any day. She probably thought you were one of Judge Jack’s hired guns, sent to throw them into the streets.”

  Almost as an afterthought, she mused, “I’m
surprised that you got by her so easily.”

  Heath grinned. “Who said it was easy?”

  Pilar assessed Heath, taking in his long, muscled six-foot-four-inch frame, the rakish twinkle in his eye, his shiny black hair, and engaging grin. She couldn’t imagine him having trouble with any woman. “The sentiment of most men regarding Stevie,” Pilar said cryptically.

  Heath felt a twinge in his gut that was too damn close to jealousy for his peace of mind. To his knowledge, he had never suffered from the petty emotion. Jealousy was for the ranks of the insecure. And he possessed more than his share of confidence; some uncharitably called it arrogance. But things had always come easy for him—money, friends, women, success. Who wouldn’t be confident?

  “Miss Pilar, Cook needs you in the kitchen,” a small Mexican girl interrupted, staring shyly at the gringo.

  “Please tell her I’ll be right down, Maria.” Pilar turned to Heath. “You’ll want to have your bath before supper. My guests use the shed out back. I’ll have Will Eagle fill the tub. Supper will be served in the dining room in an hour.”

  “Thank you, Senora Manchez.”

  After stabling his horse, Heath made his way to the shed behind the hotel. Will Eagle was an Indian of about sixty winters. His long braided hair was the color of newly fallen snow. He was dressed in faded jeans that bagged at the seat and a well-worn buckskin shirt that hung from his gaunt frame. Despite his shabby clothing, he had an exalted bearing.

  Perched smartly atop his head was a black top hat. It looked as if it had been squashed repeatedly over the years. Now it stood only half as tall as it originally did.

  To the casual observer, the headgear appeared ready for the garbage heap. But to Will Eagle it was more precious than a bank vault filled with gold. It had been presented to him by the white captive, Cynthia Ann Parker, and her Comanche husband, Wanderer. He wore it with all the defiance of the renegade bands of Comanche, who rejected the forced removal of the People to government reservations.

  Heath introduced himself to the stoic old man, extending his hand. For a long, tense moment, he met Will’s eye respectfully, something most white men neglected to do.

  Will was pleased. He shook Heath’s hand, pointed him toward the tub, and, without uttering a word, left him to his bath.

  Feeling that he had passed muster, Heath shed his dusty clothes and, sinking into the tub, gave an audible sigh of appreciation. He soaked until his sun-bronzed skin began to wrinkle like a prune.

  Still, he was reluctant to rise. The tepid water and frothy suds made his sore, aching body feel as if it had died and gone to heaven. On the trail he was afforded few opportunities to pamper himself. And even though he could rough it with the toughest hombre, his blue-blooded ancestry reared its head from time to time. This was such a time.

  Finally, the water turned cold. Leaving the tub, he dressed quickly and headed back to the house, eager for Pilar’s home cooking. The kitchen exuded the tempting scents of beefsteak, potatoes, and peas, freshly baked bread, and boiling coffee, drawing him like a siren’s song.

  While Heath made his way to Pilar’s table, Stevie kept vigil at her father’s bedside.

  Dr. Ian Sullivan fought diligently to save his friend’s life. “The shot to the head just stunned him, I’m thinking, Stevie darlin’,” Sully said in his lilting Irish brogue as he worked. “It’s the hole in his chest that could send your da to his reward. As much as it hurts to hear it, lass, you have to be prepared for the worst.” He ignored her quick intake of breath and continued. “Saints preserve us, but I’ve seen wounds like this kill younger, healthier men.”

  Stevie jerked her chin, looking stubborn as Jenny, her pa’s most obstinate mule. Blinking rapidly, she refused to cry at Sully’s dire warning. She had to be strong for Winter, the frightened child cradled in her embrace.

  She caressed the locket nestled between her breasts as if it were a talisman. The shell pink cameo held a lock of her mother’s blue-black hair. And it was Stevie’s most prized possession. It had always brought her luck before. Today would be no different. Her father would live. She told the doctor as much in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

  “I pray God you’re right, Stevie darlin’. I truly do.” Sullivan straightened beside the bed, washed his hands in the sanguine water, dried them on a scrap of muslin, then unrolled and buttoned his shirtsleeves. “I’ve patched him up the best I can. He’s in God’s hands now.”

  “Pa will get well,” she vowed again. “And I will get even.”

  Her face hardened with such hatred that Sully crossed himself. “Here now,” he sputtered: “What are you about?” He blinked like an owl, then narrowed his blue-gray eyes in patent disapproval. “Explain yourself.”

  But there was no need to explain herself to Sully, and Stevie knew it. He could see clear through to her soul, if she still had one. The judge had stolen everything else; why not her very soul?

  “Do you know who did this to your da, lass?” he asked anyway.

  Dropping her gaze, she remained stubbornly silent.

  Sully lifted her head until they were eye to eye. “I insist that you march right down that street and tell Marshal Reno who you suspect. This is men’s work, Stevie darlin’. Not that of a girl like yourself. Ted’ll see to the matter. That’s what we pay him for.”

  Stevie rolled her eyes and pulled her chin out of Sully’s grasp like a turtle drawing into its shell. “Ted Reno would pee in his pants if I asked him to go after the man who shot Pa, and you know it.”

  Sully couldn’t dispute that. Everyone knew that Sheriff Reno was yellow as a daffodil with the backbone of a jellyfish. Undoubtedly that was why Judge Jack had appointed him.

  Granted, Reno was all they had for now. But Sully had written the territorial marshal, requesting help in dealing with Judge Jack and the stranglehold he had over Adobe Wells and its law-abiding citizens. Just yesterday he had received a letter saying help was on its way. An unnamed lawman would be working undercover. For security, no one, not even Sully, would know his identity.

  The man could come disguised as Queen Victoria for all he cared, Sully declared silently. Just so long as he came, and soon. It would be all he could do to keep Stevie from getting herself shot while Sandy was laid up.

  “You’re going to give me gray hair, lass,” he muttered, settling in the chair at Sandy’s bedside, prepared for a long vigil that could well end with his best friend’s death.

  A short time later Stevie lay Winter, her child of the heart, on a mat in front of the cold fireplace and began to pace. While the boy slept peacefully, she boiled like a kettle of water over an open fire. Her emotions awakened, swirled, rolled, as if she would burst forth and overflow, scalding everything in her path.

  Sully didn’t care to be in that path. “Why don’t you run over and get Pilar? We should’ve called her before now,” he suggested.

  When she turned her darkened gaze on him, Sully sucked in his breath. He had never seen such pain.

  “I don’t want to leave him, Sully. He might—” she broke off, her lips trembling.

  Sully folded her in his embrace. For all her bravado, this courageous young woman was afraid. “Everything will be all right, Stevie darlin’,” he whispered into her hair. “I promise. It’ll take more than a couple of slugs of lead to stop a man like Sandy Johns.”

  Ignoring the fact that Sully’s reassurance was contrary to his earlier warning, she held it close to her heart.

  Five

  Sporting clean clothes, Heath looked quite the gentleman.

  He was dressed in a dark, expensive frock coat and a charcoal-gray waistcoat over an open-collared linen shirt. The sapphire silk scarf tied around his neck matched his blue eyes to perfection. The overall effect was sedate and sophisticated, as intended.

  The western contribution to his ensemble consisted of his hat and weapon. The hat—which he removed at the table—was a flat-crowned black Stetson with a wide brim, its shiny band made from beaten silve
r. His Navy Colt, a constant companion, rested in a side holster tied to his muscled thigh.

  He absolutely refused to dress in the bright clothing of a professional gambler. There was only so much he would do for his country. And that didn’t include wearing bright yellow waistcoats or crimson silk cravats, as gamesters were wont to do.

  Nodding to the other guests at the table, he took the chair beside Pilar. Studying him with an appreciative eye, she decided that he looked like a dangerous dude with whom the fainthearted shouldn’t tangle.

  “Well, what’re you waitin’ on?” the old codger across from Heath barked at Pilar.

  Not offended, Pilar smiled and passed the first dish.

  Heath glanced at the disgruntled man and his petite wife. She smiled; her husband scowled. The old couple spoke exclusively to each other throughout the meal. The fact that they failed to address him didn’t disturb Heath. He was too busy enjoying the first decent food he’d had since he couldn’t remember when.

  And of course, Pilar’s other boarders demanded his attention. In addition to the old couple, she had assembled an off assortment of nesters; Miss Smelter, Adobe Wells’s old maid schoolteacher, Joe Waters; a drummer who was just passing through, and Penelope and Gwendolyn Dough, two short spinster sisters who were twins. The twins personified their name—white, fluffy, doughy, as wide as they were tall. Premature at birth, neither had weighed over three pounds. Their mother had lovingly christened them Itsy and Bitsy, they told Heath.

  When Heath smiled and complimented their nicknames, they both tittered like girls fresh out of the schoolroom, a disconcerting fact since they were on the shady side of forty. But they were sweet ladies and he charmed them instinctively.

  Miss Smelter was a horse face of a different color, however. She found life very distasteful, quite miserable actually, and she wanted everyone to suffer along with her.

  Unfazed by Miss Smelter’s dour personality, the drummer seated to her right smiled continuously, even when he ate. He brought to Heath’s mind a jackass eating briars as he informed him that he sold notions. Not ideas, he teased, notions. Everyone—except Miss Smelter and the old codger—chuckled politely at the tradesman’s standard joke.