Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  His brows drawn together in an angry scowl, he watched for the irritating Miss Johns. Shortly after he was served his second drink, he saw her pass down the street—dryer and more subdued, yet even more beautiful than when he’d last seen her. She made her way to Dr. Sullivan’s house. Though he was loath to admit it, that was what he had been waiting for.

  He marveled that this tomboyish child-woman who wanted his gizzard for supper had the uncanny ability to captivate his interest when he should be thinking of nothing but his job. If he hoped to remain among the living and retain his unblemished reputation as a lawman, he had better get hold of himself, he scolded vehemently, tossing off a shot of whiskey.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t dismiss her from his mind, nor could he extinguish the fire she set in his loins, not with all the whiskey in Adobe Wells.

  He was truly bewildered by his fascination with her and even more so by her resistance to him. He and all the Turner men had a way with women. Everyone said so, he thought defensively.

  Chap’s wife, Kinsey—the infamous Rebel spy known as the Vixen in Gray during the war—said it was in their genes. They passed their unprecedented success with women from generation to generation. She said it was their cross to bear, much to their chosen ladies’ delight.

  So why didn’t Stevie Johns recognize this incontrovertible fact of nature and behave like other women? Why wasn’t she as attracted to him as he was to her? Perhaps it was her resistance to him that had him obsessed. A wry, bemused glint appeared in his eye. Heath Turner, obsessed with a woman? He was usually the object of obsession, not the one obsessed. Of course, Stevie was not an average woman.

  She brought out the worst in him. Given a chance, she might bring out the best.

  One fact was certain—nothing he said or did around her was true to his nature. Groaning silently, he recalled dumping her into a tub of icy water. Harrington Heath Turner—a sophisticated northern gentleman, a charming man-about-town who had never even raised his voice to a member of the fairer sex let alone thrown one across his shoulder like a sack of feed and carried her out of a saloon—had behaved like a beast. Still, one didn’t usually encounter gently reared ladies in saloons, he weakly justified his heinous actions.

  Rising out of his chair like an explosive, he uttered, “To hell with it.”

  A flash of silver outside the window caught his eye. The prickling sense of impending danger raised short hairs on the back of his neck. Growing unnaturally calm, his breathing slow and shallow, his heartbeat swift but steady, he approached the barkeep. “Is there a back way out of here?”

  “Si, Senor.”He pointed to Heath’s left with a damp towel. “Through the storeroom in the back.”

  “Thanks.” Flipping the barkeep a four-bit piece, Heath made his way through the storeroom, stepping into the night. The barren alley smelled of dirt and decay. Twinkling stars illumined the velvet sky overhead as he stood silent, still, allowing his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness.

  Approaching the side of the building he saw a man standing in the shadows, watching the front entrance of the saloon. His long-blade knife was poised to do some unsuspecting soul mortal harm. Heath recognized him as one of Judge Jack’s men, the brigand who had tried to sneak up on Stevie.

  Quietly, Heath moved up behind him and locked an arm around his neck, effectively cutting off his air supply. The man put up a fierce struggle, but he was no match for Heath’s strength. When he lost consciousness, Heath pulled him deeper into the alley, tied him securely with a length of rawhide, and gagged him with the silk scarf he wore around his neck.

  Moving on silent feet, he checked the other side of the building and found another man crouching in the shadows. Heath leaned slightly away from the wall. Glancing across the street, he saw Judge Jack perched on a bench in front of the Silver Dollar, surrounded by his hoard of cutthroats. He had a front-row seat to witness Heath’s ambush.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, old man,” Heath uttered.

  He returned to the saloon through the back door. Retrieving the bottle from his table, he pushed through the batwings and turned right, heading in the direction of Dr. Sullivan’s office. When he approached the edge of the building, the man waiting in the shadows jumped out, swinging his knife in an arc toward Heath’s throat.

  Before the knife found its mark, Heath smashed the bottle against the side of his assailant’s head. The shattering glass reduced the man’s face to a bloody pulp. He sank to the boardwalk, lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood.

  Looking pointedly in the judge’s direction, Heath saw that Jack was now standing. Sims and the Mexican were shaking their fists. They were content, however, to remain where they were, safe at the judge’s side.

  Heath’s eyes sought the judge’s. In a battle of will, Judge Jack was the first to look away. Heath suppressed the urge to preen.

  Tonight, at least, he had won the battle. But the war had just begun, a war that would be waged in the little kingdom Judge Jack had erected for himself. Undoubtedly, there would be bloodshed, perhaps even Heath’s.

  Oh, well, that’s what the United States government paid him for.

  Tipping his hat to Judge Jack and his men, he turned his back on them, inordinately vulnerable, blatantly unafraid. This simple act of bravado impressed and intimidated them as little else could. Bold as brass, he sauntered down the street. Adding insult to injury, he threw back his head and whistled an airy tune.

  His feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they followed the invisible path Stevie had taken through town. He didn’t question his motives for following her. In fact, he concentrated on the stars overhead so he wouldn’t think of her at all.

  Goose bumps covered Stevie’s skin like snow dusting the open plains. She had the distinct feeling that she was being watched.

  “Is it too cool in here?” Sully asked.

  “Feels fine to me,” Pilar murmured from her chair beside Sandy’s bed.

  “Guess it’s just me.” Stevie chafed her skin to warm herself. She must have caught a chill when that horrible man threw her in the tub. Which was just one more reason for her to hate him. So, if she hated him so much, why did she keep wondering where he was? More to the point, why did she keep wondering what he was doing and with whom he was doing it?

  As if it mattered to her . . .

  Pilar noted the strained look on Stevie’s lovely visage. “Stevie, you’re done in. If you don’t get some rest, you’ll make yourself sick. Why don’t you run back to the house and get a few hours sleep? Sully and I will be here with Sandy. We’ll call you if there’s any change.”

  Stevie shook her head no. Still feeling odd, she stared out the window quietly.

  Pilar used her most effective argument to get Stevie to do what was best for her. “Don’t you think Winter would sleep better at my place?”

  Stevie glanced at the sleeping child. Sighing, she nodded. Pilar was right; Winter would rest better snugly tucked in bed at the boardinghouse. And she needed to let Sweetums in the house for the night. “You promise you’ll come for me if there’s any change?”

  “Promise,” Pilar said.

  Gently, Stevie lifted Winter into her arms. At the door she whispered, “I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time, lass,” said Sully.

  After checking his horse at the livery, Heath made his way back to the boardinghouse. Pridgen was sitting at the portal, a bottle of whiskey resting on a small table next to his chair.

  “Heard you disabled two of Judge Jack’s men outside the Golden Nugget.”

  Heath never ceased to be amazed at how fast news traveled in small western towns. “Guess you could say that.”

  “Was it that bastard Sims?”

  “I didn’t have time for a formal introduction, but no, it wasn’t Sims.” Heath sat down beside Pridgen. He leaned his chair back on two legs and propped his feet on the railing of the portal. “Sims, a fat guy, and a Mexican watched the show with Judge Jack from across the
street.”

  “Damn cowards! ” The old man poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and pushed it toward Heath. “The fat man is Bear Jacobson. He got his name by killing a bear when he was just a boy. Looks like he would move with the speed of thick molasses in January. But don’t let his appearance fool you; he’s fast as lightning. The Mexican is Carlos Garcia, one of the most ruthless gunslingers I’ve ever known. He always has that damn grin on his face.” Pridgen shivered involuntarily. “Turns my blood cold.”

  Heath cast him a quizzical glance. The old codger sounded almost civil. Where was the irate citizen who had challenged him at the dinner table? he wondered.

  Pridgen had obviously drunk a great deal of whiskey and was in a talkative mood. Any other time Heath would have seized the opportunity, interrogated him carefully, compiling information that might help him with his case. But he was so damn weary. Silently, he declared that he was off duty for the remainder of the night.

  He removed his hat and leaned his head against the wall. Every muscle in his body relaxed, Heath’s mind wandered. Pridgen’s soft chatter lulled him into a state of half wakefulness.

  “I’ve taught school in this wilderness for twenty years,” Pridgen said. “Tried to make my mark in this godforsaken country, to do something worthwhile. Taught homesteaders, ranchers, and Indians side by side. I’m retired now, too old to do any more. Nellie, bless her heart, and I want to live our remaining years in peace and quiet. We thought Adobe Wells was the place for that.” Pridgen sighed heavily, sloshing himself another drink.

  A bullfrog croaked down by the creek. A host of crickets and tree toads began a discordant chorus. An owl hooted from a clump of cottonwoods, perhaps expecting a call in return. The old codger and the young lawman listened to the night creatures together, in companionable silence.

  With words slightly slurred from emotion and drink, Pridgen’s voice was as warm and smooth as the whiskey sliding down his throat. “Since Judge Jack has taken over, he’s turned this town upside down. He brought in those rough miners. They’re digging up everything for twenty miles. God only knows what they’re looking for. They have little regard for human life, and the gunmen who trail around after the judge have no regard for it at all. Damn if a body knows what to expect next.” He said this last softly, as if to himself.

  Heath placed all four legs of his chair on the floor. Bending over, he rested his forearms on his thighs. “I’m curious about the miners.” He slanted his head toward Pridgen. The abrupt movement and drinking more than he should caused his head to spin. He saw two Pridgens; he addressed the one on the right. “I didn’t know there was anything in this area worth digging for.”

  “Isn’t.”

  “So what are they doing here?”

  Pridgen hesitated briefly, then erupted like a Fourth of July pyrotechnic display. Grabbing his cane, he waved it around in a wild gesture, barely missing Heath’s head. “That’s it!” He shook the deadly scrap of wood in Heath’s face. “That’s why he took over Sandy’s place. So’s he could get to his caves.”

  Pridgen looked at Heath as if he should stand and salute his brilliant deduction. “Don’t you see? There’s something valuable in Sandy’s caves, and Judge Jack knows it. That’s probably why he came to Adobe Wells in the first place. It was Sandy’s place he wanted all along. But Sandy wouldn’t sell. The only way for Judge Jack to get the Rocking J was to run Sandy off—or kill him.”

  It occurred to Heath that this was unusually clear reasoning for a man as well into his cups as Pridgen. But then, what did he know? He was half drunk himself.

  As if to celebrate, Pridgen poured another round of whiskey. Heath groaned, just what they needed.

  As drunks were wont to do, Pridgen changed the subject abruptly. “So you were gonna talk Stevie outta shootin’ the judge.” Pridgen laughed until he lost his breath, choked, and coughed. “She’s a hellcat, that one. Whooee!”

  His amusement disappeared like the sunlight at dusk. “But what’s one girl in the face of so many? And a Comanche at that?” He jerked his head toward Heath, pinning him with a bleary glare. “Not that bein’ Indian makes one whit of difference to me.”

  He was silent for so long, Heath thought he had fallen asleep—or more likely, passed out.

  In the darkness, Pridgen’s eyes took on a wistful look. He peered off in the distance, not seeing the black outline of the mountains, but the distant past. “Swan, that was Stevie’s ma. She was a pretty little thing when Sandy found her out on the range. Half starved, more dead than alive. Never did know why she was by herself, why her own kind deserted her. Frankly, I never asked. Sandy loved her so much, nothing else mattered. And he said she was the best damn wife a man ever had.”

  His gaze hardened. “But some of the townsfolk didn’t see it that way. They wouldn’t accept her, God-fearin’ souls that they were. They all but tortured that gentle soul. Just like that hard-hearted Miss Smelter did to Stevie tonight.”

  “I’d like to slap that woman’s ugly face.” Heath’s sentiment was decidedly ungentlemanly. But he was racked with righteous indignation on Stevie’s behalf, and just drunk enough to want to take on the whole world for the fair damsel in question.

  It was a good thing Stevie wasn’t around. He would make a fool of himself good and proper otherwise. Hopefully, by tomorrow he would be sober and out of the notion of fighting her battles for her.

  It was also fortuitous that he didn’t know Stevie was standing just inside the front door, listening to every word he and Pridgen were saying.

  “Lord knows, they never were fair to Jeff,” Pridgen droned on. “They don’t give a tinker’s damn that he might be dead at the judge’s hand.”

  The oath Pridgen hissed shocked Heath. Stevie was suitably impressed.

  “If she’s not stopped, Stevie’ll take it on herself to find the killer. And I’m afraid they’ll kill her just like they killed her brother.”

  If they killed her brother, Heath added silently. “She sure knows how to use a gun.”

  This drew a pleased smile from the eavesdropping girl.

  “And I don’t think I ever saw a woman, or a man, better with a knife.”

  She was fairly beaming now.

  “But she doesn’t stand a chance in hell against hired gunslingers,” Heath declared, trying to focus on Pridgen’s fuzzy image. “Why doesn’t your sheriff handle these gunmen?”

  Stevie suppressed a derisive snort.

  “Reno’s a good kid, but he’s too young and inexperienced to handle a man like Judge Jack. He keeps a room here at Pilar’s. But he spends most of his time fishing and drinking. He’s scared shitless of Sims and Garcia.” Those were Pridgen’s last words before he slumped back in his chair in a drunken stupor.

  “Damn!” Heath rose. After several near misses, he hefted his unlikely drinking buddy and threw him over his shoulder.

  When Stevie heard his movements, she deserted her position and scampered up the stairs.

  Below, Heath berated himself. This town and its inhabitants had unsettled him. If he didn’t watch himself, he would break his cardinal rule: Never become personally involved while working on a case.

  He couldn’t afford to care about the people in Adobe Wells; he wouldn’t be very effective if he did.

  But he feared it might already be too late. Thoughts of the pint-sized hellion who heated his blood more than all the courtesans of Paris teased his mind. His traitorous body responded predictably. Surprised at the strength of his urge, he leaned his forehead against the wall beside the front door. Pridgen rode his shoulder, snoring loudly.

  A cool night breeze soughed through the leaves of the trees. Somewhere deep in the forest a coyote gave a mournful howl. Puddles of liquid silver dotted Pilar’s green velvet lawn. Soothed by the blanket of nature, Heath straightened and pushed through the door.

  Heath left Pridgen sleeping comfortably on the sofa in the parlor. Climbing stairs that seemed never to end, he put one leaded foot in front o
f the other. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this weary. Just two more stair steps, down the hall, through the door, and he could fall into bed. He wouldn’t even bother to remove his clothes. He didn’t have the strength or the presence of mind.

  When he stepped onto the landing, the sight before his eyes sobered him. Lying in the middle of the dimly lit hall, just outside his room, was the most vicious-looking wolf he had ever seen. Its yellow eyes shot threatening beams in Heath’s direction. In a blur, he palmed his gun and cocked the weapon. The wolf growled low, threatening.

  Stevie opened the door to her room. She took in the scene with a sweeping glance.

  Heath was crouched low, gun raised. “Get back.”

  For what seemed an eternity to him, Stevie stood silent. If he didn’t know better, he would think she was trying to suppress a smile. Maybe she laughed when she was frightened. He had known people who did.

  “Just step back slowly and close your door, hon,” he whispered. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

  “Sweetums.”

  Stevie’s affectionate tone startled Heath. “What?” Smiling, she stepped back, allowed the wolf to cross the threshold into her room, and closed the door in Heath’s face.

  He straightened and leathered his gun. For a moment he had thought she meant the endearing term for him. Instead, she was speaking to a wild beast.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Nine

  The next morning Heath awoke later than usual.

  During his first few moments of half wakefulness, he marveled that he awakened at all. His alcohol-swollen brain was bursting. His head felt as if he had cradled it on jagged rocks all night.

  Certain he could feel his hair growing, he struggled to a sit. Nausea rolled over him in thirty-foot waves. He drew deep breaths into his lungs until the room stopped spinning, then gingerly, he slipped out of bed. He dressed in a gray haze, holding on to the chifforobe to remain upright.