Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  The onlookers roared in expectation. Judge Jack allowed several minutes for an ensuing celebration before attempting to quiet the mob again. Finally, he motioned Shackelford forward.

  Heath’s sapphire eyes were as cold and hard as a blue diamond when Shackelford replaced Judge Jack at the front of the wagon bed. He could hardly wait to arrest the impostor—the man who was a co-conspirator in fraud, murder, and God only knew what else.

  But he would have to bide his time.

  Thirty-nine

  The actor turned geologist held a large crystallike stone high in the air, quieting the assemblage. “This is the largest diamond I’ve ever seen.” He gestured to the arched opening in the hillside. “I cut it out of a wall in that mine. I’ve never seen a more spectacular or productive mine in all my life. There are diamonds on the floor, diamonds in the walls, and diamonds in the ceiling.” He spread his arms expansively. “This is the greatest geological discovery in recorded history.”

  The crowd was mesmerized. Stock-still, they breathed as one. Out of the corner of his eye Heath caught a slight movement. It was Sandy Johns pushing his way through the crowd. His intent was obvious. He was going to reveal that Jack and his cohorts were lying crooks. The fool would be torn apart. Heath jumped atop Warrior and headed in Sandy’s direction.

  At just that moment the crowd went wild, stamping, shouting, firing their weapons into the air. Stevie ran along behind her father, yelling for him to stop. Sandy couldn’t hear her, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. He was determined to expose the man who had stolen his home, and the devil take the hindmost.

  When a drunken miner swung his elbow and accidentally knocked Stevie to the ground, Heath’s heart felt as if it would explode. He feared she would be trampled to death. “Stevie,” he cried. The word was snatched from his lips, lost in the deafening roar. He slapped Warrior’s flanks with the tips of his reins, spurring him along. But it was slow going through the thick crowd. It seemed an eternity before he reached her.

  He sailed from the saddle and dropped down on one knee. She was lying unconscious, being kicked and jostled by the shifting rabble. He cleared a ring around her. Kneeling again, he gathered her to him. Her head dropped back on his arm, a fall of platinum tresses pooled on the ground like melted snow.

  “Sweetheart,” he uttered, pushing wisps of hair from her face with a gentle hand. The drop of blood glistening beside her swollen lip, the telltale bruise forming on her high cheekbone, caused rage to tighten his chest. The thought of Stevie experiencing pain, the real possibility that she could have been killed, was almost his undoing. He pulled her unconscious form to him and held her close. Then he whistled for Warrior, rose to his feet, and mounted, never jostling his precious burden.

  High above the others, he searched absently for Sandy. He sighed relief when he saw Pridgen and Sully leading Sandy toward town. Stevie’s pa was shaking his fist and cursing to beat the band, but he was in one piece. Apparently, he had been unable to reach the judge and his entourage before they rode away.

  Heath wanted to throttle Sandy Johns. Didn’t the man know that his foolish outburst would put his daughter in harm’s way? Didn’t he know that Stevie would follow him . . . to protect him from Judge Jack?

  He gritted his back teeth and pulled her closer to his chest. The warmth of her body pressing against his heart calmed him and allowed him to think more clearly. Sandy had lost his son, his home, even his dignity to Judge Jack. And Heath knew the man loved his daughter. So he allowed him one lapse in judgment. “But just one,” he muttered.

  By the time he arrived at Pilar’s, Heath knew Stevie was all right. Her breathing was slow and even, the pulse in the hollow of her throat regular. He halted Warrior by the dismounting block. Dipping his head, he placed gentle kisses on Stevie’s eyelids. “Baby,” he murmured against her smooth skin.

  She was semiconscious now. When she burrowed against him, he traced her lower lip with his tongue. Instinctively, she parted her lips, inviting him inside.

  He kissed her gently at first. She returned his kiss with surprising hunger. He deepened the caress, employing lips, teeth, and tongue. He swallowed the moan that began low in her throat, shared his life’s breath with her. She shifted against him, unwittingly massaging the aching hardness between his thighs. He groaned more loudly than he intended, awakening her fully.

  “What, where . . .” she began.

  “Feel okay, sugar?” His voice was husky.

  Sooty lashes fluttered up to reveal passion-glazed midnight-black eyes trying to focus on the concerned face above her. “Heath?” she whispered vaguely.

  “Of course it’s me. Who else kisses you awake and lets you wiggle on his lap?”

  She smiled slightly, then gasped. “Pa,” she rasped, jerking up. “Ohh,” she groaned, and fell back against him as the world spun before her. “Pa, he was . . .”

  “Your pa’s fine.”

  “That he is. And wondering why you’re holding his daughter like that, Mr. Diamond,” Sandy Johns said from the shade of the portal.

  Despite Heath’s best efforts, he couldn’t meet Sandy’s eye. Nor did he respond to his pointed remark. Uncomfortably, he wondered how long the man had been standing there. And if he recognized the aroused state he was in. And if he planned to shoot him because of it.

  A strange notion entered Heath’s mind at that point: What would he do to a man who held Summer—after she was grown—like he was holding Stevie? The answer was immediate and unexpected; he’d shoot first and ask questions later.

  Unaware that Heath’s thoughts had gone far afield and unmoved by the censure in her pa’s voice, Stevie smiled up into Heath’s face. “Why are you carrying me?”

  Gently, Heath caressed her bruised cheek. “You were hurt.” She winced at his touch, and he felt her pain sharply.

  Seeing the compassion in his eyes, she smiled. “I’d better put some ice on my face. I don’t want to go to the governor’s dance tonight looking like I’ve been in a barroom brawl.”

  Neither Heath nor Stevie were aware that Sandy continued to watch them with a bemused expression on his face. Shrugging, he decided the smitten couple couldn’t get into too much trouble on the back of a horse in broad daylight. Besides, he reminded himself, it was past time the girl got herself a husband. And Lord knows she was taken with the gambler. He was all she ever talked about anymore. A hopeful papa, he slipped unnoticed into the house.

  “You still feel up to going to the dance tonight?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Stevie said.

  “Save me a dance?”

  “Just one?”

  Heath dropped a kiss on her lips. “All of them.”

  She dimpled sweetly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Are you flirting with me, Stephanie Johns?”

  “If you have to ask . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head from side to side. “I thought you were such a charmer that you’d written the book on flirting.”

  “I didn’t write it, sweetheart. But you can believe I read it,” he growled, nuzzling her neck.

  Her laughter was like dove feathers stroking his heated skin. He swooped down on her again.

  But with surprising energy she eluded him, slid from his lap, and landed on the dismounting block solidly. Despite the incessant pounding in her brain, she hopped to the ground. Once on the portal, she turned to face him. “See ya tonight.” She smiled, wiggled her fingers in his direction, and sailed through the front door.

  “Little imp.” His smile remained in place all the way through town. “You idiot,” he murmured to himself. It was unwise for his love for Stevie to become common knowledge. He had made some dangerous enemies, and they wouldn’t hesitate to use Stevie to get to him.

  Well, it was too late now. Half the town had seen him rescue her, not to mention the passionate scene in front of the boardinghouse. He would have to watch her more closely now. The prospect pleased him more than it should have.

  The streets were fu
ll of buggies and saddle horses again. With no room on the boardwalks, people poured out into the streets. Heath’s going was slow as he strove to avoid trampling the pedestrians beneath Warrior’s hooves.

  Lanterns hung at the entranceways to all the shops and stores, inviting trade. If Heath had not known these people were being set up for a fall, he would have enjoyed the carnival atmosphere. But he did know. Accordingly, it was incumbent upon him to keep his eyes open and watch out for their interest. He must remember that he was a marshal on duty for his country.

  And he was supposed to be undercover as a gambler. With this in mind, he headed toward the Raw Hide Saloon. It wouldn’t hurt to be seen around the disreputable watering hole. He might even play a few hands of Jacks or Better, just in case anyone was sober enough to wonder why a professional gambler had scarcely touched a deck of cards since he hit town.

  Shouldering his way through the batwings, he disappeared into a mass of coarse, drunken miners. The mixture of foul body odor, cheap alcohol, and even cheaper tobacco assaulted his nostrils. He squinted against the thick gray fog that hovered over the room.

  The atmosphere was even less pleasing to his ears than to his eyes. A man who looked better suited behind a general-store counter than seated at a dance-hall piano was banging out a lively tune. A scantily clad dance-hall girl stood beside the meek-looking musician and tried—emphasis on tried—to sing “Sweet Betsy from Pike:”

  Oh, don’t you remember sweet Betsy from Pike,

  Who cross’d the big mountains with her lover Ike,

  With two yoke of cattle, a large yellow dog,

  A tall Shanghai rooster and one spotted hog.

  The girl may well have been calling the one spotted hog for all her musical ability. Unable to bear the entertainment and doubtful that anyone was lucid enough to notice his presence or lack of it, Heath left the saloon as quickly as he had entered.

  He untied Warrior’s reins from the post. “Come on, boy.” Humming “Sweet Betsy from Pike”—on key—he led his mount toward the livery. Just as he reached the shed, he heard someone shout “Fire!” Instantly, he turned and saw smoke pouring from the Raw Hide Saloon. He ran toward the men who were stumbling out of the smoke-filled hall. They were coughing and gasping for breath.

  He ran inside. The building was an inferno, but it was empty. Surveying the crowd of coughing, wheezing men outside, Heath tried to form a bucket brigade. But they were too drunk or too apathetic to follow his instructions. There was little to do but watch the saloon burn. The clapboard building went up like a box of matches.

  Donn Pedro approached Heath moments later. There was nothing left of the Raw Hide Saloon but smoldering ashes. “Señor.” Pedro gained his attention, handing him a telegram.

  “Thanks, son.” Heath held the missive in his hand, observing the drunk miners staggering back to their shacks and tents. August 9 would long be remembered by the men who scratched a living out of the earth—Heath suspected—as one helluva day. He shuddered to think what tomorrow would bring.

  Shaking his head at the prospect, he ripped open the telegram.

  It read:

  LUCKY. STOP. WILL ARRIVE AUGUST 10. STOP MEET ME THREE MILES EAST OF AW ONE HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE. STOP. SIGNED, MINER.

  Heath smiled. The telegram’s message was obvious: Jay would arrive tomorrow morning. And they would rendezvous outside of town an hour before sunrise. That’s when they would plan their strategy.

  Heath surmised that whatever the judge had in mind, he would wait until the governor arrived. He folded the telegram and placed it in his vest pocket. “Come on, son.” He placed a strong hand on Pedro’s shoulder.

  Pedro fell into step at his new hero’s side without a second thought.

  Forty

  The next afternoon Stevie sat on the back porch stoop, finger-combing her waist-length hair. The scent of warm lilacs rose from her damp tresses as the bright golden haze of sunlight embraced and dried each silken strand.

  Winter and Sweetums rolled about on the fragrant summer grass, cavorting with gay abandon. The child’s musical laughter blended with the wolf’s low growl, bringing a smile to Stevie’s lips.

  Abruptly, Blue dropped down beside her onto the step. “Bet I can guess what you’re smiling about.”

  “Them.” She jerked her head toward Winter and Sweetums. “What else?”

  Blue laughed warmly, placing Summer in Stevie’s outstretched arms. “I thought maybe you were thinking about a certain blue-eyed gambler.”

  Stevie settled Summer in her lap. Unconsciously, she ran her fingers through the baby’s midnight-black hair. It was so fine, so thin, so silky that it arrested her attention momentarily.

  “No comment?” There was a definite hint of laughter in Blue’s husky voice.

  Stevie frowned. She hated to think that she was so transparent. Did everyone know she was mooning over a man she could never have? “As I said, I was smiling at Winter and Sweetums.”

  Blue enjoyed teasing Stevie just as she had enjoyed teasing Jeff. As always, the memory of Jeff hurt. Pain flickered across her face.

  Assuming that she had unwittingly hurt Blue’s feelings, Stevie was quick to explain. “I didn’t mean to sound cross. This time I was smiling at Winter and Sweetums. Honest.” When Blue continued to stare at the ground beneath her feet, Stevie was chagrined. “Blue, I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Blue placed a hand on Stevie’s arm. “Don’t you think I know that, honey? You’ve been so kind to me. It’s just . . .” She trailed off. More than anything, she wanted to confess her tender feelings for Jeff. And who better to share them with than his sister? But she didn’t want to tarnish his memory. To make Stevie think less of her big brother because he had given his love to a whore? Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away.

  “Blue, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s something that happened before we met.” She cleared the emotion from her voice. “I don’t think you’d care to know.”

  Blue made to rise. Stevie stilled her with a gentle word. “Stay.”

  Blue settled in a cloud of black crepe.

  Ever since she left the saloon, she had worn nothing but black. Stevie hadn’t paid much attention to the fact, didn’t think it had any significance. But coupled with the grief on Blue’s face, it made her wonder. “You’ve lost someone you loved.” It wasn’t a question.

  Unable to speak, unwilling to meet Stevie’s questioning gaze, Blue merely nodded.

  “Your parents? A child? A husband?”

  At each of Stevie’s questions, Blue shook her head, no. She hesitated slightly when Stevie mentioned a husband.

  “A man you loved?” Stevie hazarded.

  Blue nodded, the motion releasing the tears that clung precariously to her lashes. A large wet spot appeared on the black crepe covering her lap. She topped it with her folded hands, as if she could hide the evidence of her weakness.

  Stevie flattened a dusky palm over Blue’s pale, porcelain hands and squeezed comfortingly. “If you talk about him, it might help.”

  Blue raised her eyes and found Stevie’s ebony gaze. Those deep, fathomless eyes, so like the man Blue loved, were full of compassion. Blue spoke without thinking. “It was Jeff.”

  “Jeff? My Jeff?” Shock registered on Stevie’s face and in her tone. Jeff in love with Blue? Her brother Jeff, with his devil-may-care demeanor, had fallen in love with a fallen woman. Stevie was speechless.

  Blue took her silence as censure. Grasping her skirts in both hands, she surged to her feet and ran as far and as fast as she could. She never heard Stevie calling her name, pleading for her to return.

  Stevie cursed beneath her breath. Unable to pursue Blue since she held the baby, and berating herself for hurting the woman whose only crime was to love her brother—a man who deserved to be loved—Stevie herded Winter and Sweetums inside. There was nothing to do but dress for the dance and hope that Blue returned soon, so that she could apologize for being such a mindless ninny.
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br />   When Blue returned, Pilar informed her that Cook had offered to care for the children. Blue planned to dismiss Cook for the night, as soon as the others left for the party.

  The Pridgens and Sandy joined Blue and Pilar in the foyer. The women were decked out in their party finery. The air of anticipation was contagious.

  “Stevie, if you don’t come on, we’re going to leave without you.” Sandy Johns’s threat rang false to all assembled.

  “Go ahead, Pa. I’ll catch up,” Stevie called down from her room.

  Sandy hesitated.

  Pridgen thumped him on the back. “Come on. It’s still daylight. She’ll be all right. Anybody who’d bother her is already too drunk to pay her any mind.”

  Sandy hesitated. Pilar smiled her agreement and handed him her shawl. Laughing, he lay the wispy scrap of lace across her bare shoulders. “I’ve been taking care of her so long”—he shrugged self-consciously—“old habits die hard.”

  Blue suspected that Lucky Diamond would fill that position before long, but she kept her own counsel.

  “You comin’, Blue?” Sandy queried.

  Assuring him that she would have more fun minding the babies, she bid them all good-night. She drew a deep, cleansing breath and mounted the stairs. Now was the time to face Stevie, else she would lose her courage. “Stevie.” She tapped lightly.

  The door swung open on its hinges. Stevie was bent over Summer’s cradle, a gentle breeze fluttering the curtains at her back. When she straightened, the dying sun limned her willowy frame. It appeared as if her pale hair and gown were living fire, a silver-white heart cradled in crimson hands.