Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  Brawlers forgotten, Pridgen’s lips moved as he read the banner silently.

  Adobe Wells Welcomes Governor Ned Casson

  August 10

  “I’ll be damned!”

  Ted Reno poked his head out the door with a cup of coffee pressed to his forehead. “Morning, Mr. Pridgen.” His western drawl was husky, slightly slurred.

  Pridgen swung his gaze in Ted’s direction. The man was tall, redheaded, freckle-faced, looked as though he should have a frog in his pocket rather than a six-shooter on his hip.

  Squirming under Pridgen’s perusal, the marshal surveyed his town with a nervous glance. The brawl that had gained Pridgen’s attention was winding down, another one begun just as quickly. Ted hoped the paralyzing fear he experienced at seeing the violence didn’t show on his face. “I’m surprised to see how much the town has changed in the few days I’ve been away . . . on business.” His bloodshot eyes and trembling hands hinted at the nature of his business.

  Pridgen tried to keep his voice light. “What kind of business?”

  “Went to Santa Fe to see Sheriff Todd. Stopped off at Delgado’s.” Ted’s lips curved in a boyish grin. “Got in a little fishing.”

  Pridgen couldn’t help but return his smile. Marshal Ted Reno was a kid, pure and simple. Unfortunately, he was all that stood between the residents of Adobe Wells and Judge Jack. The town was in serious trouble. “Yep, things changed while you were gone. And not for the better.”

  Reno shifted from foot to foot. “So I see.” He paused, searching for courage that was nowhere to be found. “Guess I better check in at the office,” he said with little enthusiasm.

  “Be careful, son,” Pridgen advised.

  He liked Ted Reno even though Judge Jack appointed him sheriff. The boy was honest as the day is long. If only he were a little more mature, a bit more accomplished with a gun, he mused. Damn. He would rest easier when Lucky and Stevie got back to town. The old man frowned harshly, wondering what was taking those two so long. Sandy was fit to be tied, understandably so.

  Ted strolled across the plaza toward his office. His body tense, his eyes darted nervously about the town. Silently, he scolded himself for being fearful. Adobe Wells needed a brave lawman. Not a snot-nosed kid scared to walk the streets of his own town in broad daylight. Mentally shaking himself, he squared his shoulders. A shot exploded behind him and he almost lost control of his bodily functions.

  A quick look told him that the blast had come from a couple of kids shooting off fireworks. “Chicken! Damn coward,” he berated himself, his self-esteem a foot lower than a snake’s belly.

  Engrossed in self-chastisement, Ted failed to see a covered carriage stop in front of the courthouse. The driver jumped down from the box, quickly opened the door, and helped a brilliantly dressed female alight. How on earth could he have overlooked this woman? Ted would ask himself later. From the top of her fire-engine-red coiffure to the tips of her magenta leather slippers, she was a study of harsh color. She wore no soothing pastels as most ladies did, but brash, vibrant colors, the kind usually reserved for decorating high-priced bordellos.

  Ted accidentally bumped into her as she made her way across the boardwalk. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he apologized, clutching her forearm in an attempt to steady her. “Guess I was daydreaming and didn’t see you.” He blessed her with his boyish grin.

  “Damn idiot!” She rapped his knuckles with her parasol. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  The marshal was clearly taken aback, as was the disheveled miner watching the scene from the shadowy alley between the courthouse and the jail.

  “I’m sorry I bumped into you, ma’am.” Ted’s voice cracked, whether from youth or embarrassment, the emerald-eyed miner couldn’t tell. “But that don’t give you no call to cuss me.” Ted drew himself up with false pride. “I’m the law hereabouts.”

  Rachel drew back her hand and slapped him soundly across the face.

  He cupped his stinging cheek. “You can’t do that.”

  Just to prove that she could, she slapped him again on the other cheek. “If you’re the law in this town, I pity the people who live here.”

  Ted’s jaw fell open in shock and embarrassment. When he stared into her face, a flicker of recognition flashed in his eyes.

  Rachel suddenly stiffened.

  “Reno!” A loud voice boomed from the doorway of the courthouse.

  Judge Jack and Henry Sims stepped down onto the boardwalk. Twin scowls darkened their faces. “Is there a problem here, Rachel?” the judge asked softly.

  “This boy accosted me right here on the street. If you hadn’t come when you did, I shudder to think what he would have done.” She summoned a delicate tremor.

  Ted looked at her with genuine regret. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I wouldn’t ever hurt a lady.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No’m. I mean yes—”

  “Shut up, you stupid fool. And get out of here before I drill you right on the street,” Sims threatened.

  Ted looked from Sims to Judge Jack.

  Judge Jack sketched a curt nod. “Do like he says.”

  Eyes downcast, Ted hurried off.

  The hidden miner, having witnessed the entire episode, was disgusted. Things in Adobe Wells were worse than he thought. Somebody had to do something. But his hands were tied now that Rachel was in town. Where the hell was Heath? That was the question occupying his mind as he slipped into the courthouse, following Judge Jack and Rachel at a safe distance.

  Judge Jack escorted Rachel through the courtroom to his chambers in the back. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it. “My dear Rachel, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Ostensibly, I’m here to help prepare for the governor’s visit. In reality, I’m here to pass on vital information . . . information that will affect our deal.”

  He gestured to a rose velvet tufted sofa. “Have a seat.”

  When they were settled, she continued. “Elanzo Welch’s report created quite a stir with Governor Casson. Written on stationery from his San Francisco office, it squashed almost all skepticism about the mine. How did you convince Mr. Welch to lie?”

  “He didn’t lie.” Jack was smug. “He examined the diamonds I bought from South Africa. The genuine diamonds. He merely reported what he saw. Of course, he didn’t know that they didn’t come from the cave in Adobe Wells.” He winked. “That’s our little secret.”

  “It may not be our secret for long. August ninth, one day before the governor’s visit, a man named Layard Shackelford will arrive in Adobe Wells, requesting—on behalf of the governor—immediate access to the mine for a surprise on-the-spot inspection.”

  A muscle in Jack’s eye twitched. “Who in hell is Layard Shackelford?”

  “An engineer from the California Department of Mines. I don’t need to tell you that he could cause us a hell of a lot of trouble. But if we can convince him that the mine is genuine, nobody, including the governor, will have any further doubts.”

  Jack rose and walked over to the window.

  Unable to hear through the closed door, the miner trailing Jack and Rachel had exited the courthouse and hidden beneath the window at which Judge Jack stood. He barely had time to glue himself to the wall before the judge looked through the rain-streaked pane.

  “Does anyone in the governor’s office or in Santa Fe know Mr. Shackelford personally?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t think so. He never leaves California.”

  “Do you know his travel schedule?”

  “I’m the one who arranged it.”

  Jack turned back toward Rachel in surprise.

  She grinned like the proverbial cat who had eaten the canary. “Sometimes I help my husband by arranging travel plans for dignitaries. This time, I insisted on it.”

  “I knew I made the right decision bringing you in on this deal. You are proving to be very handy.”

  “As I recall, you didn’t have much ch
oice.” Smiling, Rachel pulled a slip of paper from her purse. She joined Jack at the window and related Shackelford’s schedule. “He’ll arrive in Santa Fe on August seventh. Spend the eighth meeting with Governor Casson and Mr. Clark. Early on the ninth, he’ll catch the stage to Adobe Wells, arriving here about noon.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  The miner beneath the window listened intently, barely breathing.

  “How are you going to stop him?” Rachel asked.

  “James Filmore, disguised as Shackelford, will survey the mine and announce that it is the most productive diamond strike ever to have been made in this country.”

  “Filmore?”

  “He’s an actor I’ve retained on occasion. He’s well educated and has all the sophistication of a San Francisco professional. And absolutely no scruples whatsoever.”

  “Dare I ask what you will do to Shackelford?”

  “I won’t do anything to him. ’Course, I can’t speak for Sims,” the judge quipped.

  Rachel laughed low in her throat. The sound was pure evil. Her eyes sparkled with menace. “There’s something else I want to tell you.” She cocked her head to the side, as if mentally flipping through files of vital, top secret information.

  Jack knew she was playing with him, wanting him to hang on her every word. He merely crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

  She tried to hide her exasperation at his nonchalance. The information would get a rise out of him even if her dramatics didn’t. “Governor Casson has persuaded a group of investors to buy out your interest in the mine, that is, if Shackelford gives a positive report of the mine.” She smiled and watched Jack calculate the revenue his sale might bring.

  “Casson thinks this diamond strike will bring the territory of New Mexico to statehood. But he doesn’t want you to process the diamonds. He’s afraid you don’t have enough capital to follow through.”

  “I knew the pompous windbag was greedy.”

  “That he is. He’s bringing the other investors with him on the tenth. They plan to form a ten-million-dollar corporation. The San Francisco and New York Mining and Commercial Company. The plan’s to offer you two million dollars for your interest in the mine.”

  It would have been hard to say who was more pleased, Rachel or Judge Jack. Their plot was coming to an end more quickly and more successfully than they had anticipated. For a while they were silent, each contemplating what the future might bring.

  Finally, they began speculating verbally on what they would do with their share of the money. They would go to New York. Rachel planned to buy a boutique, specializing in the latest fashions from Paris. She would change her name, dress like a queen, and move among the upper echelons of society. Jay Hampton would never find her there, she added silently.

  Jack would belong to an exclusive men’s club and become a well-known collector of fine guns and blooded horse flesh. His silent declaration was that he would seduce the kind of women who were not available to him now. Not sluts like Rachel, but ladies like the upstanding widow, Pilar Manchez, and the illusive Miss Stevie Johns. When he tired of them, he would reveal to the world what they were. He would prove that all women were whores at heart . . . a truism his prostitute mother had taught him all too well.

  “There’s only one other thing that would make this a perfect day for me,” Rachel said.

  “And what is that?”

  “Kill the marshal.” She spoke so dispassionately, she might have been asking him to step on a roach.

  Jack’s smile faded. “Reno’s only a boy. Why do you want him dead? Surely not for that little altercation outside.”

  “I think he recognized me.”

  “How?”

  “After you left Chicago, I embezzled two thousand dollars from that bank and got my face on a wanted poster.” She didn’t have to tell him about the other wanted posters on Rachel Jackson or the blond, green-eyed marshal who was hunting her as if she were a mad dog on the loose.

  Jack shook his head. “I never kill lawmen unless I have to. It tends to encourage other lawmen to snoop around. And Reno’s such a coward. He’s just what I need here. As long as he’s on the job, no competent lawman can come in and spoil my plans.”

  Rachel leaned against the sill, her hands knotted in her lap. “I’ll go along with whatever you think’s best. But if he blows the whistle on me, we could have U.S. marshals swarming all over the place.”

  Jack ran his fingers slowly along both sides of his mustache. Finally, he met her eye, his expression calm. “Don’t worry about Reno. I’ll have Sims and Jacobson give him a good scare. He’ll be drunk for six months when they get through with him. By the time he sobers up, we’ll be gone.”

  Rachel nodded. Fortunately, Elias Colt Jack was not her only ally in Adobe Wells. She would see Reno dead; she had come too far to let some tinhorn send her back to prison, much too far.

  Unaware of her dire musings, the eavesdropper beneath the window heaved a sigh of relief, thinking at least the local law was safe. But Layard Shackelford was another matter. The geologist’s life was in his hands.

  If only he could reach him in time . . .

  Ted entered his office. It was just as he had left it several days before. Donn Pedro was a good caretaker. He smiled at the thought.

  The office was actually quite plain, furnished with a decrepit wooden desk and swivel chair. A splintered bench was pushed up against the front wall. The single crumbling jail cell was hidden in the back, behind a scarred door, an iron cot and porcelain slop jar in the corner of the cell.

  Reno flopped into his chair and drummed his fingers across the desk, thinking. Donn Pedro came through the door.

  The child was lame, just one more of life’s throwaways. Reno had found him fighting stray dogs for scraps in the trash dump behind the town eatery. Knowing what it meant to have your pride insulted, Ted didn’t offer the boy charity. Instead, he had gotten him a job at the stage office and allowed him to sleep in the jail in exchange for running errands. Reno was the only family the boy had. And Donn Pedro was completely devoted to him. The rest of the town might laugh at him, but he was Donn Pedro’s hero.

  “Buenos dias, Señor Reno.”

  “Buenos dias, Pedro.”

  The child’s eyes sparkled when Reno spoke to him. He was clutching a packet of mail in his dirty fist.

  When Ted looked into Pedro’s worshipful gaze, his chest expanded with a measure of pride. Smiling, he took the mail. “Gracias, Pedro.” He mussed the child’s hair, studying him with feigned solemnity. “You look like a man who could use a licorice whip.” He handed him a penny.

  “Gracias, Señor Marshal.” As fast as he was able, the child shuffled out the door, heading for Dowling’s General Store.

  Reno opened the packet and found a stack of wanted posters. Casually, as he thumbed through them, he leaned his chair against the wall, thoughts of Rachel teasing his mind. He almost tipped over when Rachel’s likeness stared up at him from the third placard from the top.

  “Rachel Baker,” he read silently. “Wanted. Dead or alive. For embezzling $2,000 from the First State Bank of Chicago.” He whistled through his teeth, then continued. “Aka Rachel Jackson. Wanted for murdering two guards during an escape from Arkansas Territorial Prison. Reward $1,000.” He slammed the poster down on his desk. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  The long day behind him, Ted carefully placed the wanted poster of Rachel in his desk drawer and headed back to the boardinghouse. As he passed the Golden Nugget, a harsh voice ordered him to halt.

  On the boardwalk, Sims planted his feet and glared down at Reno. His hand blurred; his gun spat fire. A barrage of bullets plunged into the mud surrounding Ted’s feet. Reno danced and screamed in alarm, expecting to feel the burning pain of hot lead.

  “You damn sissy cur,” Sims spat out, sending more gunfire in Ted’s direction.

  Ted’s bladder emptied itself involuntarily, saturating his clothes with warm liquid. When he raised his h
ead, his tearful gaze collided with Pedro’s. “Don’t,” Reno shouted.

  But it was too late. The child dove for Sims’s legs. The brigand backhanded him, sending his small, broken body into the sucking mud.

  Laughing harshly, Sims returned to the saloon.

  Tears blurred his vision, but slipping and stumbling, Ted made his way to Donn Pedro. Kneeling, he gathered the boy against his chest. When he reached his office, he threw open the door, fell on the floor, and, still holding the child, sobbed quietly until he was claimed by a numbing sleep.

  Pedro came awake slowly. Rising, he took a moth-eaten blanket from the back cell and reverently covered Reno’s body. Then he curled up close to the man who was and always would be his hero.

  No matter what.

  Twenty-eight

  Heath was wholly unaware of just how unique Stevie was. Among the Comanches, she was considered a healer. Whenever she touched someone who was ill, the powerful medicine would overtake her, flow through her fingers, soothing pain, spreading well-being. It was a mystical gift, wholly spiritual. She had not been with her mother’s people long enough to learn their healing ways, how to employ the curatives of plants and herbs. All she had were her hands and the power the Great Spirit had imparted to her.

  Even now, as she rubbed her flat palms over the maiden’s belly, the girl’s pain subsided. A warmth tingled inside Gentle Fawn, beginning in her stomach and spreading to her heart and mind. She breathed a Comanche prayer of thanksgiving for Stevie’s gift.

  “What’s your name?” Stevie asked in Comanche.

  “Gentle Fawn.”

  Stevie sucked in her breath. This was Black Coyote’s wife and she hadn’t recognized her. Her cousin’s wife was so frail and thin. A life of danger and depravation had ravaged the beauty she once possessed. “Gentle Fawn, it is Yo-oh-hobt Pa-pi, Yellow Hair.”

  Just then Gentle Fawn felt the cruel fingers of another contraction. When it passed, she raised black, tortured eyes to Stevie. “Please save my baby,” she whispered with her waning strength. “And raise him as your own.”