Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  “Come on, sweetie,” he cajoled.

  Her jaw was set at a mutinous angle. He brushed a kiss against that stubborn jaw. She stiffened in his arms. In a blur he released her and retrieved the rope hanging around his saddle horn. Turning back, he wrapped it around her arms and body. She kicked and screamed and cursed, but in the end he succeeded in tying her to the post.

  Just as she would damn his soul to everlasting hell, he covered her mouth with his own, pressing his body flush with hers. He kissed and caressed his fiery love until she went limp against him. Lifting his head, he smiled triumphantly down into her face.

  “Damn you, Heath,” she spat out through her teeth when the sensuous haze cleared.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But I don’t have time to argue.” He looked at Donn Pedro squarely. “Stay with her and keep her safe. But don’t untie her unless the house catches on fire.”

  “Si, Señor.”

  Heath chuckled at the venomous look Stevie shot Pedro. “Don’t look at the boy like that, doll. You’ll scare him.” Heath kissed her thoroughly again, but quickly. “You’ll thank me for this after we’re married.” As he headed toward town, Stevie’s curses floated in his wake. The last thing he heard her say was “Be careful, damn you.”

  He smiled and waved without turning around. When he reached the plaza, he saw Henry Sims on his left, standing in front of the courthouse. The porch lantern and the lights inside the saloon washed over him, revealing his smug smile. Bear Jacobson stood across the street in front of the Silver Dollar Saloon. Both men were set to draw. Their accomplice, a gunslick Heath knew as Shorty, was crouched in the alley on the far side of the Gold Nugget, sporting a long gun, probably a rifle, making the picture even more dismal.

  Sims fired his rifle into the air, supposedly to rattle his opposition.

  Heath didn’t flinch. He stood stock-still for a full five minutes. Then, drawing a deep breath through his nose, he edged toward the Gold Nugget Saloon. The thick white posts of the portal blocked him from Sims’s view, which was his intention.

  He spoke first to Jacobson. “All right, fat man. You’ve spent your life bullying people weaker than you; let’s see what you can do with me.”

  Bear glanced at Sims and saw him hold up his hand but failed to recognize the signal as a warning that Sims didn’t have a clear shot. Thinking the two of them could take Heath, Jacobson edged his hand toward his 1848 Dragoon Colt and made his move. Heath fired before Bear could clear leather. The bullet hit the fat man in the belly, throwing him backward onto the boardwalk. Dust flew a foot high and boards cracked and splintered as he broke through the walkway.

  Heath ducked and took a hopping step back. He expected Shorty to shoot any minute. But Shorty never raised his gun.

  Mortally wounded but not yet dead, Bear rolled over and emptied his gun in Heath’s direction. The shots went wild. Heath took aim, put another bullet into Bear, shattering his skull. The big man’s body convulsed as he performed the final lethargic dance of death.

  Heath reloaded and holstered his Navy. Then he stepped out into the street and faced Sims.

  “Hey, Shorty,” Heath shouted. “I’m going to kill Sims first, then I’ll get to you. So hold on and don’t go gettin’ impatient.” He paused for emphasis. “ ’Course, if you want to live, you can throw down your gun and move out here, where I can see you. It doesn’t really matter a whole hell of a lot to me either way.”

  “Now, Marshal Turner, that doesn’t sound very professional.”

  The soft southern drawl drew reaction all around.

  “Marshal?” Sims croaked, his eyes darting to every shadow and crevice, trying desperately to discover who had spoken.

  Shorty made to turn toward the voice, but a gun barrel was shoved in his back.

  Heath just smiled. “You’re a day early. Must’ve known I’d need you.”

  “I was camped on the edge of town, just bedded down for the night, when I heard that rifle shot. Somehow I knew you’d be knee-deep in whatever was goin’ on. But it looks like you got things pretty well under control, to me,” Jay complimented, a smile in his voice. “Sorry I left that nice warm bedroll now.”

  Heath chuckled, never taking his eyes off Sims.

  “I quit, Marshal,” Shorty interjected. “You remember that when this is over. Okay?”

  Heath nodded toward Shorty when he stepped out into the street from the shadows of the alley. “Smart man.”

  Grinning, Jay followed less than a foot behind. “He didn’t really have much choice.”

  Sims cursed beneath his breath. He was all alone. And not facing a fancy gambler as he’d supposed, but a lethal-looking lawman.

  Heath stood in front of him, feet planted, half crouched. His eyes were cold, the promise of death in their depths. Sims knew he had to kill or be killed. He had forced the confrontation and now there was no way out.

  Suddenly, he went for his gun. He was very fast, but Heath was faster. As Sims pulled the trigger of his Army Colt, he felt hot lead sink into his neck. The impact threw his aim off slightly so that his shot grazed Heath’s left shoulder, spinning him around like a top.

  Sims fell to the ground. His heart gave several strong propulsive beats, squirting blood from his jugular; it finally stopped when he was stone cold dead.

  When Heath recovered, Shorty was standing in front of him, holding out his bandanna for a bandage.

  “Where’s Judge Jack?” Heath asked, ignoring his wound.

  “He’s dead,” Shorty explained, telling Heath and Jay what had become of the money . . . and Rachel.

  Jay cursed long and loud. “Will I ever catch that bitch?”

  “We’ll get her,” Heath said.

  “Heath,” Stevie cried, running up the street toward him.

  Heath opened his arms and caught her up in a tight hug. “I’m all right, sweetheart.”

  “I failed you, Señor. I untied her.” Donn Pedro looked so fatalistic that Heath almost smiled. The boy raised guilt-ridden eyes to Heath’s sapphire orbs. His voice held a tint of bewilderment when he shrugged and said, “She cried.”

  Heath nodded. The man had not been born who could resist this beautiful woman in tears.

  Stevie’s husky voice broke into their conversation. “Is it over?”

  “Almost, sugar.” He stroked her back. “Judge Jack and his men are dead or have surrendered. But we still have to go after Rachel and her husband.”

  “But you’re hurt. Can’t you let someone else go?”

  “She’s right, Heath. I can finish this,” Jay offered.

  Stevie’s head jerked toward the blond marshal who had spoken. She had been so concerned with Heath’s safety, she had not noticed his partner.

  “No, Jay. Adobe Wells is my assignment. I have to finish it.”

  Jay nodded. He had expected no less. “Can you use a little help?”

  “Always, partner.”

  “I’m going too.” Stevie steeled herself for Heath’s refusal.

  But he knew his time with her was growing short. And he couldn’t keep her tied up the whole time he was gone. Hell, she was so persuasive, he couldn’t keep her tied up for fifteen minutes, not as long as there was a red-blooded male in the vicinity.

  He and Jay exchanged glances. Jay nodded almost imperceptibly. Heath smiled. Together, they would keep her safe. And maybe along the way, he would convince her to be his wife. “All right,” he said softly.

  She smiled incredulously. “Honest? You mean it?”

  “Honest.”

  Jay grabbed Shorty by the arm and pushed him toward the jailhouse. “Come on, my good man. Let’s give the lovebirds a little privacy. I have a few questions for you.”

  Donn Pedro followed close on Jay’s heels. Seems there was no shortage of heroes in Adobe Wells these days.

  Forty-two

  Rachel and Judson Smyth drove the horses that pulled their private carriage with a vengeance. Granted, they had escaped with the money, Judge Jack was dead, and
the others were engaged in a gunfight. But they doubted seriously if the victors of the shootout would let them get away with two million dollars unchallenged. Whoever remained alive would be after them soon.

  Not accustomed to hardship—at least not lately—Rachel found the ride horrendous. The road was a grainy ribbon of mud ruts, gopher holes, and rocks the size of the Sangre de Cristoes. Dust particles blew through the window in heavy sheets, coating her face. She spat, sputtered, cursed, and damned every mile that passed beneath the horses’ hooves.

  The coach bounced, the stay chains rattled, the springy layers of leather thoroughbrace slings squeaked, the churning wheels clattered. Had she not been a homicidal maniac before the trip, this endless ride would have turned her into one.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t bear another moment, they arrived at a way station for the stagecoach. Solicitous as always, Judson bought coffee and sandwiches for them while Rachel stretched her legs and refreshed herself. But before long the stage arrived, they left the private carriage behind, and boarded the coach. They were its only passengers.

  As they continued down the dirt road, only one of them was aware of the tall man in dark clothes who followed on horseback. He kept in the shadows, well off the beaten track, as was the plan.

  The next evening they pulled into Two Forks, a small mining town in Colorado. Rachel announced that they would spend the night and continue on in the morning. “I want a hot bath and a decent meal.”

  “Do you really think we should wait for the morning stage?” Judson was inordinately nervous. “If somebody trails us here, it’ll be impossible to hide.”

  “If you’re afraid, you can go on alone. But the money stays with me.” Rachel’s harsh, matter-of-fact statement ended the discussion.

  Judson engaged a room in the town’s only hotel. While Rachel soaked in a steaming hot bath, he brought the luggage, including the money bags, up to their room. Later that evening, they dined downstairs in the hotel restaurant.

  Rachel was dressed to the teeth. It wasn’t so much the style of her clothing that drew every eye in the room, though the cuirass bodice of her gown fitting tightly over her ample hips wasn’t exactly demure. It was the color of her clothing that gave the more sedate matrons in the room pause. Her apron-fronted overskirt, puffed at the back over a giant bustle, was the brightest crimson any of them had ever seen. And her vivid pink satin underskirt was sufficient to strike them blind. Add orange-red hair fringed beneath a pink ostrich-plumed hat, and she was an arresting—if not visually painful—sight to behold.

  Judson noted that his wife’s mood was as bright as her clothing. Uncharacteristically, she laughed at everything he said, no matter how inane. When she ordered a second bottle of wine, a sense of foreboding flooded him. He suggested gently that they return to their room.

  She vetoed the suggestion. And that was that.

  After what seemed an eternity to Judson, Rachel indicated that she was ready to leave. He sighed relief and followed her upstairs.

  When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he was grabbed from behind by powerful hands. His assailant held him in a death grip. He gasped for breath, kicked and fought, but his struggles were futile against the strong arms that held him. His body convulsed in paroxysms and his eyes bulged. He wanted to scream for help, but he couldn’t.

  Fear for Rachel’s safety all but paralyzed him. He twisted frantically, hoping to communicate to her to escape while the maniac held him. That’s when he saw her, sitting in a wing chair beside the double windows, enjoying the macabre scene being played out before her.

  The impact of her perfidy hit him as if it were a physical blow. She had planned his death and tarried in the restaurant to give his murderer time to prepare for their return. Tears blurred her hateful mask before his eyes. He had loved her, loved her with all his heart, and now she sat, watching him die, with a smile of betrayal sculpting her face.

  The fight left him then. He went absolutely limp. His attacker twisted his head, breaking his neck with a loud snap. His body slid to the floor. Judson Smyth was dead.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Rachel purred, not sparing her husband’s corpse so much as a glance.

  The smile that lit Preacher Black’s face caused the hair on Rachel’s nape to rise. “You have, have you?” He bore down upon her and slapped her across the face. “Where’s the money, bitch?”

  “In the bags. There on the floor.” She was truly bewildered. “What’s wrong? Everything’s gone just as we planned.”

  Black struck her again, then hauled her to her feet. “I’ll kill you just like I killed that worthless husband of yours if you don’t stop playing games with me. Where’s the money?” He shook her like a rag doll. Her head snapped backward, loosening a torrent of fiery red hair.

  She tried to fight him, but her struggles were useless against his superior strength. When he struck her repeatedly about the face, her nose spurted blood onto his pristine white shirt. Pulling his Colt from its holster, he crammed the barrel into her mouth and cocked the hammer, breaking two of her front teeth with the force of his thrust.

  Her eyes teared from terror and pain. Instinctively, she pulled a small knife from her waist pocket and jabbed it into his neck. Blood bathed her white-gloved hand, turning it a curious pink.

  Black shoved Rachel’s body away as he fell to the floor. Screaming like a wounded animal, he jerked the knife from his neck. He withdrew a handkerchief from his waistcoat and pressed the small cloth against his wound. Immediately, the cloth was saturated with blood. The room dimmed before his eyes. His hearing wavered, but he thought he heard footsteps in the hallway growing louder.

  Rachel heard someone approaching. Satisfied that Judson and Black were dead but unable to retrieve the money from beneath Black’s body, she slipped out the double windows and disappeared into the night.

  The door opened slowly. Black stirred with his ebbing strength as three people entered the room. “Please, get a doctor.”

  “I’ll go.” Before Heath could object, Stevie ran from the room.

  “Where’s Rachel?” Jay demanded of the dying man. Black’s gaze swung toward the double windows. Weapon drawn, Jay slipped through them.

  Preacher Black and Heath were left alone in the room. “Want to clear your conscience and tell me your part in all this, Reverend?”

  His voice low and thready from pain, Black began. “Rachel and I both worked for the First State Bank of Chicago when Colt Jack robbed it. We knew that sooner or later he would pull another job. So we followed him west. Rachel married Smyth about the time Colt came to Adobe Wells.”

  Black coughed up blood. With his waning strength, he pressed the cloth to his neck.

  Heath felt the quickening of sympathy. But remembering those who had died, he ignored it. “Keep talking.”

  “When Judge Jack showed up in Santa Fe, Rachel confronted him. He cut her in on his diamond scheme. Then she convinced her husband to help her steal the money from Jack.”

  Again Black coughed. His body was growing cool from the loss of blood. His teeth chattered as he continued. “I came to Adobe Wells shortly after the judge, disguised as a preacher. I trained for the ministry as a young man . . .” Black trailed off with a look that might have been contrition on his face.

  “Tell me about Ted Reno.”

  “Reno discovered that Rachel was wanted for embezzlement. I was afraid that if he called in a U.S. marshal, it would blow the scam. So I hired the men who killed him.”

  Stevie returned with the doctor. A squatty man, barely sober, he entered the room and knelt beside Preacher Black.

  Black’s eyes were fixed and glazed. He stared blankly at the ceiling and began to whisper, “Dear Jesus, forgive my sins. Jesus, sweet Jesus, please have mercy on my soul. Wash me white as snow. Receive my spirit into your heavenly bosom . . .”

  And then he was dead.

  The doctor summoned four men to remove the dead bodies of Judson Smyth and the man k
nown to Heath only as Preacher Black.

  Heath stared at the pool of blood that remained where Preacher Black had lain. It never occurred to him to rush to Jay’s aid. If his partner found Rachel, he would be able to handle her alone. Instead, he sat on the bed, sickened by the wanton killing Judge Jack’s greed had caused. Taking his hand in her own, Stevie sat quietly at his side.

  They were still sitting silently when Jay entered the room through the doorway thirty minutes later. Heath raised a questioning brow.

  His face white with rage, Jay shook his head. Once again Rachel Jackson had slipped through his fingers. Silently, he crossed the room. He knelt beside the money bags and opened them.

  So many had died—for two bags filled with newspaper clippings.

  Forty-three

  A whooshing air current as sweet as lilac perfume brought mid-morning to the sleepy little town of Adobe Wells.

  The cornflower-blue sky above was accessorized by a gold-white sun, ringed by a profusion of swanlike clouds. The sea of blue flowed over and around the land, embracing it as far as the eye could see.

  Delicate shafts of light dropped through the clouds, warming the threesome as they rode into town. Heath and Stevie rode side by side; Jay brought up the rear.

  Heath was unaware of the beauty surrounding him. He shifted nervously in the saddle, drawing Stevie’s notice. He smiled at her weakly, then quickly looked away before she saw the guilt in his eyes. The plan was to leave her safely in her father’s care. Then he and Jay would replenish their supplies and go after Rachel. Stevie, of course, was not privy to the plan. Dreading the confrontation that was sure to arise when he told her she wouldn’t be part of the posse was the source of his discomfiture. If he considered Rachel as part of the conspiracy, then so would Stevie. And she would deem it her right to bring Rachel to justice. He just had to convince her it wasn’t in her best interest. Riding into town, he turned his attention to the people milling about, anything to preoccupy his mind.