Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  He waited another thirty minutes. Still, she failed to appear. He had expended all the curses he knew in English long ago. He was well into the long list of French oaths his year abroad had taught him.

  Actually, when he analyzed it, he didn’t know why her failure to show irritated him so. He only wanted to tell her that he was sorry about her father and that he thought Miss Smelter was an idiot. If things went well, he had planned to caution her about taking the law into her own hands.

  But apparently she didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. She probably would’ve shot him for his well-meaning advice at any cost. Shoving his hands through his hair, he cursed some more. He’d waited long enough for a hellion who was obviously not coming down.

  Turning on his heel sharply, he made for the front door. He almost ran over Mrs. Pridgen.

  “You goin’ out, Mr. Diamond?” she asked, jumping back out of his way.

  He clenched his jaw. “Yes, ma’am. Thought I would take a short walk before turning in.”

  “Would you mind taking this to Stevie?” She handed a boy’s lightweight jacket to him. “She left in such a hurry she forgot it.”

  A muscle twitched in Heath’s jaw though his expression remained perfectly pleasant. “I wasn’t aware that Stevie had left the house. If you’ll tell me where I can find her, I’ll be glad to see that she gets it.”

  She’ll get it! A piece of my mind, she’ll get. How dare she just walk out and leave him waiting! Heath was entirely unused to being treated so shabbily by a woman. Actually no one—if you didn’t count Rebels—had ever treated him with as little regard as that feisty, exasperating, irritating, infuriating tomboy.

  Mrs. Pridgen was concerned at the high color in Heath’s face. “Dear me. Are you unwell, Mr. Diamond?”

  “I’m quite all right. Thank you for your concern, ma’am.” Heath bowed chivalrously, placed his hat firmly on his head, grasped Stevie’s coat in his white-knuckled fist, and after receiving directions to Dr. Sullivan’s home, left the house. With every stride, his anger grew. Until he was in a rage.

  Knowing it would be unwise to confront Stevie in his present frame of mind, he decided to have a drink first. If nothing else, the respite would allow his blood pressure to return to normal and his irritation with the blond Indian beauty to subside.

  He preferred a nest of cold-blooded killers over an irascible woman any day. But he wasn’t in town to deal with a woman—irascible or no. He was in Adobe Wells on government business.

  Pushing through the batwings of the Silver Dollar Saloon, he became the efficient U.S. marshal he had been since the war. Tonight wouldn’t be a complete waste if he could learn more about the infamous Judge Jack.

  The Silver Dollar Saloon was in full swing. In addition to a bar and gambling tables in front, the back half of the establishment contained a dance hall where painted ladies displayed for a hungry clientele more than their good dispositions.

  He spotted an empty table in the rear of the long, narrow room and made his way to it. Years of self-preservation had taught him to cover his back. He sat down, facing the door.

  “What will you have, Senor?” the Mexican barkeep shouted over the continual hum of voices, the rattle of dice, the swishing of cards, and the scraping of chairs.

  “Whiskey.” Heath’s voice barely carried over the din.

  The barkeep filled a shot glass and brought it to him. Heath tossed it off in a single gulp, savoring the burning liquid as it slid down his throat. It warmed him from the inside out. He tossed a gold piece on the table. “Now bring me a bottle of the good stuff.” He would need more than Tabasco-flavored rotgut to restore his customary good humor.

  “Sí, Senor.”

  Heath nursed his second drink slowly, studying every man in the room while appearing to lounge lazily in his chair. Some of his irritation oozed away, though he was still mentally alert.

  He lowered his lids halfway, withdrawing a deck of cards from his frock coat pocket. With deft fingers he fanned them absently, restacked them, then fanned them again, with the sure, smooth movements of a professional gambler.

  Suddenly, the batwings swung open with a bang, magically quieting the saloon. A distinguished middle-aged gentleman with blond hair flowing from under his black bowler entered the saloon, a sense of authority blatantly tangible in his stride. He was accompanied by two gunslicks and a Mexican bandito wearing artillery low on their hips.

  Heath would bet half his father’s fortune that he was looking at Judge Jack and his gun-slinging entourage. Jack was a big man with what some would call a handsome face. A pirate’s patch covered his left eye, lending him an ominous air. He was dressed in a stark black suit, smartly accessorized by a gold chain running from one vest pocket to the other. A slight bulge suggested that the chain was attached to a watch fob, or a snub-nosed derringer.

  The judge and his men ordered drinks at the bar, oblivious of Heath’s presence. They drank and conversed in soft tones.

  Heath was unable to make out their words. But he watched them closely, cataloguing their moves, demeanor, and weapons.

  Knowing one’s enemy was important to a lawman if he wanted to stay alive. This tried and true philosophy had saved him before, even when squaring off against men who were faster, more ruthless, but, thankfully, not as cautious and prepared as he.

  One of the judge’s men noticed Heath, the smallest, meanest-looking of the gunslicks. He finished his drink and slammed his glass down on the bar with more force than necessary. Drawing himself up in a transparent show of self-importance, he headed Heath’s way. His hands were soft and white, undoubtedly unused to the labor of a workingman. Crow’s-feet ringing his close-set, beady eyes falsely bespoke character. In keeping with the rest of him, his lips were thin, cruel.

  Every haughty move he made was an obvious attempt to compensate for his small stature. Heath knew only too well that his kind could be deadly. He had often said that a calico could be more vicious than a mountain lion, if only to prove his prowess.

  Miss Johns was living, breathing, spitting, hissing proof of that. Dismissing the thought, he braced himself for the upcoming confrontation. Preoccupation with desirable women had been the downfall of more than one western male. Heath enjoyed staying alive too much to fall into that trap.

  “I’m Henry Sims and I represent Judge Elias Colt Jack,” the gunman announced smugly when he reached Heath’s table.

  “How nice for you.” Heath nodded cordially. His words were mockingly insincere.

  The answer brought a scowl to Sims’s face. “You wanta tell me what brought you to Adobe Wells?”

  Heath almost said “My horse,” but he didn’t think Sims would appreciate his cowboy humor. “Not particularly.” His tone was silky and deceptively friendly.

  Sims was taken aback. He had hoped to get a rise out of the fancily dressed newcomer. “Judge Jack don’t take kindly to strangers comin’ to town without checkin’ with him first. So either tell me what your business is. Or move on. Now!”

  The judge walked up to Heath’s table and stood with Sims, arms akimbo, feet firmly planted. His remaining companions took their places on either side of him, like large, disreputable bookends. One was a corpulent man with unkempt black hair. The other was a squatty Mexican wearing a large embroidered sombrero. Twin bandoleers crisscrossed over his chest. His mendacious grin was topped by the largest and ugliest mustache Heath had ever seen. It was a foot long if it was an inch.

  “Most folks stand up in Judge Jack’s company,” Sims spat out.

  Heath took another sip of his drink, his charming smile still firmly in place. “Guess I’m not most folks.”

  Sims’s face mottled with fury. He moved his hand closer to his gun. “Get up, damn you, or I’ll blow a hole in you big enough to drive a train through.”

  Without taking his eyes off Judge Jack, Heath retorted in a not-unpleasant whisper, “You’re welcome to try, friend. You won’t be the first.” Slowly, almost lazily, Heath ros
e to his feet, slanting his eyes at the brigand. “And I promise that you won’t be the last.”

  The hair rose on the back of Sims’s neck. He threw Judge Jack an imploring look, a look that shouted, “Get me out of this.”

  The judge nodded almost imperceptibly. His smile didn’t reach his cold, fathomless eyes. “I don’t think there’s any need for violence, gentlemen.” He dismissed his entourage and turned back to Heath. “If I may have a word with you?”

  “Certainly.” Heath dropped into his seat again and pushed an empty chair out from the table with the toe of his boot.

  In the time it took Jack to take his seat, Heath decided that he would have to investigate this lawless band from outside. A more disreputable hoard of cutthroats he had never seen. He could never infiltrate a gang that consisted of scum like Sims and company. He would stand out like a sore thumb; he was, after all, human. He wasn’t so certain about them.

  Ignorant of Heath’s unflattering assessment, Judge Jack sat down. “I appreciate the opportunity to speak with you . . .” he began.

  He had noticed the look of steel in Heath’s eyes when he had faced Sims down. He could use a man like that. All he needed to learn was his price. Everyone had a price was Jack’s unspoken philosophy.

  Heath shocked Judge Jack by speaking first. “Were you or any of your men out at Sandy Johns’s spread today?”

  Judge Jack stiffened straight as a ramrod. His gaze sought Heath’s. He wondered if the gambler was as tough as he acted, or if he was just tired of living.

  He would not have the opportunity to question him on the matter, however. And Heath would never learn the answer to the taunting question he presented to the judge. For Stevie Johns chose that moment to burst through the batwings, a curse on her lips, the fires of hell burning in her eyes. This time, at least, she wasn’t after Heath.

  “I’ve been looking for you, you no good, lying son of a bitch,” she snarled at Judge Jack, crossing the saloon floor like a whirling dervish.

  “What the hell?” Judge Jack bellowed, jumping up, overturning his chair.

  “I’ll kill her myself,” Heath muttered beneath his breath, keeping track of the judge’s entourage as they rushed to their boss’s side. “If they don’t do it for me.”

  “Miss Johns.” Having regained his composure, Judge Jack bowed elegantly. “What brings you to my saloon this time of night?”

  Heath groaned. Attacking the judge was one thing, doing it in his own den was something else altogether. One was foolhardy, the other suicide. The girl had no more sense than a bessy bug rolling ten pounds of dung up a hill.

  The scene that followed was like something out of a Wild West show—vicious outlaws squaring off against a virginal young girl protecting hearth and home. Naturally, Heath painted himself in the picture as the invincible hero.

  But the threatening look in the naive heroine’s eyes didn’t fit the picture. When she swung her gaze to the sign over the bar reading INDIANS NOT ALLOWED, her expression grew absolutely vicious. She raised her gun, centering Judge Jack in her sights.

  Her hand was steady, her nerves rock solid. It would be so easy to pull the trigger, to kill the murderous snake responsible for the ambush on her pa. She wanted to so damn much, she could taste it.

  When the judge went unnaturally pale, Heath silently applauded Stevie’s courage in the face of overwhelming odds. He hoped to hell she would be satisfied with scaring the man and leave it at that.

  Just then another of the judge’s men circled around behind Stevie with his gun in hand. Heath went as pale as the judge. He had to neutralize the situation—now.

  Gambler that he was, he decided to bluff their way out. “Well, sugar, if you wanted me, all you had to do was send for me.” He skirted Judge Jack and his men, hurrying to Stevie’s side, wrapping his arms around her securely.

  “Let go of me.” She squirmed against him.

  He cut her off with a passionate kiss, the likes of which had every red-blooded male in the saloon hooting and clapping. She writhed in his embrace, struggling to get her knee in position to do him mortal damage. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he growled against her lips.

  Stilling her legs by cradling them with his thighs, he renewed his assault. He kissed her breathless. When they came up for air, she was no longer in possession of her thoughts, nor was she in possession of her gun. It was tucked in the waistband of Heath’s trousers, reminiscent of their confrontation at Mustang Mesa.

  She was momentarily stunned by his passionate ministrations, then a hot flow of color flooded her face. “You bastard” —she hissed—“I knew you were in cahoots with him. Give me back my gun.”

  Heath pushed her face into his neck, trying unsuccessfully to muffle her threats. “Whatrya gonna do?” He shrugged at their audience, looking quite put upon. “Women. Can’t live with ‘em and can’t live without ’em.”

  “I’m going to blow both of you to hell,” she vowed against his bare neck.

  When she bit him dangerously close to his jugular vein, Heath decided it was time to get her out of there. Women had bitten him in moments of passion, but this was ridiculous, he mused wryly, hefting her up on his shoulder, one arm across her hips, one over her thrashing legs. “Good night, Judge. I’m certain we’ll meet again.” He sketched an awkward bow, almost dropping Stevie in the process. A wide hand to her derriere, he pushed her back into place.

  The jacket he was supposed to be bringing to her forgotten on the back of his chair, he made his way across the saloon. The hard-drinking patrons’ bawdy suggestions of how he could tame his lovely bundle blended with Stevie’s shrieks of outrage. Most of the suggestions were quite risque. In fact, Heath thought some of them bore further exploration, but he was fairly certain Steyie wasn’t interested at the moment.

  She beat his back with her fists. His muscles were considerably harder than her delicate fists. “Oww,” she cried, rubbing her stinging hands.

  “Well, behave yourself and you won’t get hurt,” he spoke as if to a child.

  He carried her all the way to Pilar’s, but he didn’t enter the house. Instead, he took her to the shed he had used earlier as a bathhouse. Kicking the door open with a booted foot, he entered the dim interior.

  “Let me down, you, you—” She was so angry, she couldn’t think of anything bad enough to call him.

  “You want down?”

  She failed to recognize the cold rage in his deceptively soft words. “Yes, you stinkin’ pile of horse manure. I want down!”

  “All right, I’ll put you down.” He elbowed the door shut behind them, crossed over to the table, and lit a short taper. The tub he had used earlier was still filled with cold water, the surface clouded with a gray layer of soap scum.

  “What are you doing?” Bracing her flat palms on the middle of his back, she tried to rise up and peer around his yard-wide shoulders, with no success. “I said put me down!”

  “Delighted.” With a quick flip of his forearms he tossed her into the water, then jumped out of the way lest a surging wave splash over his freshly polished boots.

  She went underwater with a whoosh and shot out like a cannon. Knee deep in his bathwater, she exhausted her supply of English oaths and Comanche threats. The People didn’t curse, but as Heath knew all too well, Stevie did.

  Advancing on her, he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and shook her like a dog would a rabbit. “You little fool!”

  He glared down at her and tried valiantly to ignore the soaking white shirt adhered to her bare breasts. It was a losing proposition. He stared shamefully, expecting steam to rise off her chest from the heat of his gaze. The spitfire wasn’t wearing anything under her blouse. Never in his misspent youth had he known a lady who didn’t wear underwear. But then, he had never known a lady like the one before him—the one who had almost gotten them both murdered, he reminded himself.

  With a strength of will he hadn’t known he possessed, he lifted his gaze to her snapping eyes. “Are you try
ing to get yourself killed? ’Cause if you are, I’ll give you your gun back and you can shoot yourself now. I’ll watch.” He released her as if her arms were firebrands. “It should be interesting,” he raved, pacing in front of her, careful not to look at the seductive picture she presented. “I’ve never seen a suicide before. Really. I think it might be quite an experience.” He jerked her gun from his waistband and thrust it into her hands. “Go ahead. Put the barrel to your head and pull the trigger. Blow your brains out.”

  She regarded him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not? It would be no more foolhardy than taking Judge Jack on. You’d be dead either way. At least if you committed suicide, there would be no doubt who was to blame. I mean, it would be one killing in town you wouldn’t blame me for. ’Course you wouldn’t be around to blame anybody. Would you?”

  “Why do you care what I do?”

  Heath ceased his pacing. He stood there, tall and enraged, his sapphire eyes dark as thunderclouds. Rancor sharpened his voice. “Because, Miss Johns, you very nearly got both of us killed in there.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help. And I was doing just fine without you.”

  “If you believe that, you’re even dumber than I think you are.”

  She flinched as if she had received a physical blow, feeling suddenly embarrassed in the face of his repudiation.

  Her wounded look took him off guard. He had to get away from this girl. In less than twenty-four hours she had him turned inside out, wanting to bay at the moon, whip her firm little fanny, then kiss her senseless.

  He spoke in a low voice, taut with control. “You’re right about one thing, Miss Johns. Your affairs are none of my concern.” He looked at her intensely, then turned on his heel and strode out the door.

  “Well, what the hell got into him?” she wondered.

  Eight

  Both challenged and aggravated by his encounter with Stevie, Heath headed for the nearest saloon, the Golden Nugget. He slipped into a chair beside the window, in clear view of the street outside.