by Jill Gregory
He thrust the shirtwaist into her hands and wheeled away. “Here. Put this thing on and then we’ll talk.”
Annabel felt a moment’s surprise. Something in the tautness around his mouth just before he turned away, in the rigidity of that quick, rough movement, told her something she hadn’t fully realized before: Roy Steele was attracted to her. He was distracted by her. He was not nearly as cold and remote as he would like everyone—including her—to believe.
She felt a delicious pleasure sweep through her. It was always flattering to engage a man’s admiration, but to attract the interest of a man like Roy Steele gave a special glow. He was so dangerous, so outwardly unreachable. But she had reached him, touched him.
Then her brain clicked in on another thought and all her silly pleasure fled. Brett!
Annabel flushed the color of a sunset sky.
If Roy Steele were to see her blush, she realized, he would most likely think she was embarrassed by him or by her state of near undress, but it was not so. Remorse at having forgotten her love for Brett once again, however briefly, brought shame creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.
She turned quickly away and donned the shirtwaist as swiftly as she could, even enduring the added twinges in her shoulder caused by the effort of tucking it into her skirt. She must look a mess. But she felt even worse—confused, in disarray, dusty and out of sorts.
“You stay put on that sofa and get some rest,” Steele told her when she had finished dressing. He headed toward the door. “The sooner your arm is better; the sooner we’ll be able to ride.”
He was leaving again? “Where are you going?” she demanded, knowing she should be glad to be separated from him, yet oddly reluctant to see him walk out of the cabin.
“I’m going to hunt for our dinner.”
“I thought we were going to talk.”
“Later.” He scowled at her, and she suddenly was reminded of the way he had looked when he stood over the Hart brothers in Justice. It was not a reassuring thought. “Over dinner. If you’ve had a decent rest, and behaved yourself, like a good little girl.”
Yet she was anything but a little girl, he thought grimly, unsuccessfully willing his gaze away as she settled down on the old sofa. It was warm in the cabin, even with the door and windows thrown open, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on her fair skin. She looked a bit mussed, a bit drowsy, and very delectable, like a sweet soft peach that’s been warming in the sun. But Brett’s fiancée was no overripe lump of fruit there for the picking, he reminded himself as he turned and plunged through the door. She had already proved herself to be a determined woman, one who hadn’t been deterred by his sternest warnings, who had followed him into the Mogollons with intrepid purpose, and had ridden today for hours without complaint, despite her wound. She was obviously devoted to Brett and would endure anything to help him.
His mouth tightened as he went outside into the late afternoon, reveling as always in the isolated peacefulness of this valley. If Miss Brannigan wanted information from him, well and good. He wanted some from her too and he was going to get it.
He checked his rifle and mounted Dickens. They moved away from the cabin, across the meadow, toward a thicketed gully not far from the stream. He shot a rabbit and presently returned to the cabin to skin and roast it.
She was asleep when he came in.
Something twisted in his gut as he looked at her. Exhaustion was stamped upon her face, but it only accentuated her sweet, fine-boned features, which were softened in repose. A brilliant cascade of thick, bright hair spilled about her shoulders, nearly reaching her waist as she lay curled. Her breathing was slow, calm, and even. He resisted the impulse to sit beside her and watch her as she slept.
Brett, you’re a lucky man, he thought, wondering how it would feel just once to have someone so devoted to him that she would risk her life and all creature comforts only to find him. But that would never happen. He would never let it happen.
He turned away, centering his attention on cooking the rabbit.
He could only hope that Brett McCallum turned out not to share much of Ross McCallum’s ruthless and tyrannical nature—or else on that particular wedding day when the woman sleeping on the sofa pledged her life and her heart, he would feel more than a little sorry for the brave but unsuspecting Miss Brannigan.
* * *
It was a hot, windless day in Eagle Gulch. Red Cobb took his time over a glass of whiskey in the Hot Pepper Saloon. When Lily Pardee strolled in, he stayed put in his corner and watched her.
Cobb was a cocky twenty years old, a handsome, square-jawed young man just short of six feet tall. He had a stocky frame beneath his gray silk shirt and black trousers, and a pleasing, though somewhat arrogant smile, when he chose to bestow it. His piercing crystal blue eyes, the color of a Montana lake, were his most striking feature. He’d come by his name due in part to the curly, dark red hair and mustache that were so striking against his bronzed skin, but also because he always wore a red silk bandana knotted loosely around his neck. But in his own mind, the red stood for the blood he spilled—lots of it. More than any other pastime, Red enjoyed spilling other men’s blood.
He had been a nobody, a dirt-poor farmer’s son from Kansas just outside of Abilene, until he’d discovered when he was fifteen that he was prodigiously quick and sharp with his gun. He’d demonstrated this at a shooting exhibition one Fourth of July, and then, amazingly, a miracle had happened. Everyone for miles about—even the town bullies, the Abilene boys who had chased and taunted him over the years because they were bigger or stronger or richer or older—took notice and showed respect. This had made Red practice even more. He liked impressing people. He liked to hear his father brag about his prowess, and to hear people murmur in admiration of his skills. He saved his money and bought a pearl-handled Colt .45, a thing of beauty. He loved that gun and cleaned and polished it daily. He honed his skills with it.
By the time Red left Kansas a year later to make a name for himself in the West, he knew he was faster than most of the seasoned men with big names and even bigger reputations. He just had to prove it.
So he started picking fights in saloons of mining and cattle towns, killing men, building his reputation. It felt good, real good. He was finally somebody. Kids pointed at him in the street, women whispered behind their hands, men crossed the street to avoid him lest they draw his ire. And the saloon women swarmed to him, he found, attracted by the fact that he was young and handsome and dangerous—and fast becoming famous. They brought him free liquor and sat on his lap, and eagerly invited him into their beds.
And the offers of employment rolled in. Other men were willing to pay big money to Red Cobb, yessiree. They hired his gun for protection, sometimes, or to rid themselves of an enemy. He didn’t care what they wanted him to do, so long as they had the money to pay. But one thing bothered Red Cobb as the days and months went by and it began to bother him more and more as he reached his twentieth birthday.
He still wasn’t considered the best. Other names were always mentioned along with his, especially here in the Arizona territory and down New Mexico way. People still debated who was quicker, who more deadly, who more feared. It was disrespectful. In particular, the name of Roy Steele kept cropping up, and this had the power to wipe the smile from his face and make him itch to kill someone. Preferably he would like to kill Roy Steele himself, who was probably almost thirty by now and getting too old to be any damned good, but since he hadn’t crossed paths with Steele but once, and that was three years ago when he was only setting out on his career and not yet ready to face the son of a bitch in a gunfight, he’d been biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity.
Now it seemed that Steele was interfering with his latest job. And Cobb sensed it was finally time. His feelings of enmity were growing deeper by the day. He’d lost Brett McCallum’s trail somehow—and he felt certain it was Lily Pardee’s fault. Lily had been the one to give him his last lead here in Eagle Gulch
a while back, a lead which had turned out to be a dead end. And Bartholomew, nosing around before he headed back to report to Johnson, had found out that Lily was rumored to be sweet on Steele. So Cobb had retraced his steps and come back to get even with her for making a fool out of him. He’d teach her to lie to him—and he’d find out where McCallum—and presumably Steele—were really headed. For Bartholomew had also discovered, through some quick side trips to various small towns in the vicinity, that Steele was definitely looking for Brett McCallum every bit as seriously as he and Cobb were.
Cobb had no idea why, but he’d be damned if he’d let Steele kill the kid before he could goad the stupid rich boy into a fight himself. Johnson wouldn’t pay him a penny if someone else killed McCallum first—and Red had worked too hard and long at tracking the damned easterner to let Roy Steele get in his way now. Besides, when he was finished with McCallum, he’d go after Steele. It was time—time to finish that son of a bitch off once and for all and let everyone know who was really the best.
“Get over here, Lily,” he called out suddenly, slamming his glass down on the table so loudly that everyone froze. The card players, the cowboys at the roulette wheel, the bartender, and the other saloon women seemed glued in place, all except for Lily, who cast him a quick, cool glance and then turned away.
“I don’t care for your tone, mister,” she threw over her shoulder. She was making for the back corridor, slow and haughty, when he lunged out of his chair and crossed the saloon to grab her by the arm.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he began, but she whirled on him, and out of nowhere produced a silver-handled derringer. She pointed it at his chest.
“Back off.”
Cobb started to grin. “Stupid idea, Lily. You’re asking for trouble.”
“No, I’m kicking it out of my place. Get moving. And don’t come back.”
“You lied to me,” Cobb said softly, his crystal blue eyes glittering. “About Brett McCallum. Remember? I’m not going anywhere until you’ve told me where he is. And if you come sit down with me in the corner right now and talk and apologize real pretty, maybe I’ll leave without shooting up your place so bad it won’t be fit for customers till ...”
“Go to hell.”
Cobb’s mouth thinned into an ugly hard line. He was breathing faster now, the red-hot anger flaring in him, because everyone was watching, everyone had heard this whore curse at him and treat him like a piece of buffalo dung. He had no choice.
He moved like lightning, and twisted the derringer from her hand before she could get off a shot. He tossed it down the length of the bar and then tightened his grip on her arm. Then, with quiet satisfaction he backhanded her, enjoying the sharp crack of his knuckles across her face.
“Let’s go upstairs, Lily,” he said in a low, pleasant tone, “and finish this in private. I don’t reckon anyone down here has any objections ...”
“Wrong, mister. I do. Let the lady go.”
It was a kid who spoke out of nowhere. Not the bartender, or one of the old-time cowboys, or anyone else in the saloon, which was now silent as a tomb, and crackling with deadly tension, but a freckle-faced kid, a boy no more than seventeen or eighteen, who looked to be a new hand, probably at one of the ranches along the river valley.
Cobb sneered at him, “Stay out of this, boy, if you know what’s good for you. This is between me and Lily ...”
“N-no. Let her go.”
Cobb saw the fear in the kid’s eyes, sensed the apprehension quivering through his thin shoulder blades, and smiled. But the fool boy’s misgivings obviously weren’t enough to stop him from sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
Cobb itched to teach him a lesson. His eyes narrowed, and he gave a low, ugly laugh, but before he could call the kid out, Lily spoke suddenly, imploringly.
“It’s all right,” she gasped, holding a hand up toward the boy, waving him off, her ruby ring sparkling in the tobacco-thick air. “I’ll ... talk to him. Go back to your whiskey, cowboy, and don’t worry ... about me. Order another drink on the house and ...”
“I’m not going to let him hurt you,” the boy flung out. “My ma didn’t raise me that way ...”
“Well, maybe your ma raised you to die before your time,” Cobb growled. “Because if you don’t back off, kid, I’m going to splatter your brains from here to Tucson!”
“I’ll back off—when you let her go!” the kid exclaimed gamely.
Cobb lost his temper and his patience all at the same time. The deathly stillness in the saloon invited him to show off. And to get this kid out of his hair once and for all.
“Suit yourself,” he muttered, a fierce gleam entering his eyes. And with that he thrust Lily violently across the floor, and went for his gun.
The kid tried to draw, but he never quite got his six-shooter from its holster before Cobb’s bullets pierced his chest, neck, and forehead. The young cowboy toppled over in a river of blood.
The saloon girls screamed. No one else said a word.
“It was a fair fight—he asked for it. You all saw,” Cobb announced, holstering his gun without even glancing at the body. “Anyone else got a problem with my talking to Miss Lily Pardee?”
Only silence echoed back from the taut, ashen faces circling him. The only sound was a horse whickering outside in the street.
Cobb grinned. “Good. Now Miss Lily and me are going upstairs.”
Her eyes glazed, Lily made no protest as he grabbed her arm and pulled her up off the floor and toward the back corridor, but at the doorway she stared back in mute sorrow at the young man sprawled on the saloon floor in his own sticky blood.
“Don’t worry none about him,” Cobb advised as he dragged her up the stairs. “Worry about what’s going to happen to you if you’re not straight with me pronto. I want to know where Brett McCallum has gone and I want to know now. Or else,” he told her as he yanked her viciously toward her room, “you’ll be envying that kid down there because he’s dead and out of misery. What’ll happen to you will hurt far worse.”
“Steele is going to kill you, Cobb,” Lily whispered as he shoved her inside and slammed the door.
“The hell he will. I’m going to kill him first—soon as I’ve finished off Brett McCallum,” he bragged. “Steele may have been good in his prime, but he’s not as fast as I am, not anymore. His days are numbered, Lily, and so are yours, unless you tell me exactly what I want to know. So start talking.”
Chapter 11
Annabel felt better after supper. When she’d taken the last bite of roasted rabbit meat and drained the final drops of delicious black coffee from her mug, she gave a little sigh of satisfaction. There was something about the cabin that inspired peacefulness. The setting was idyllic, and the little frame building made of rough-hewn mesquite logs was sturdy and snug. Glancing around, she imagined how delightfully homey the place could be with a little care and imagination—perhaps with crisp white and yellow gingham curtains, and a big colorfully woven rug on the floor. If I lived here, I’d arrange some nice plump embroidered cushions on the sofa and perhaps set some flowers in a pretty vase on the mantel and I’d have books and china dishes, and maybe some watercolors or handsome lithographs on the wall ...
She wondered how Roy Steele had found this place, and who it really belonged to. But Steele didn’t seem to be in the mood for any questions, so as they worked side by side cleaning up the dishes and wiping the table till it shone, she was silent, though she did steal several glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.
He was being remarkably kind to her. Not in what he said—oh, no—he had barely spoken to her during the meal, either—but in what he did. He was helping her with the clean-up chores—something she’d never seen any man do back at the house on Maplegrove Street or at Mrs. Stoller’s boardinghouse, and she knew he wanted to make sure she didn’t do anything to aggravate her wound. He glanced her way now and then, and she suspected he was trying to see if her shoulder was hurting. Than
kfully, it was better, and she had a feeling that by tomorrow she would be able to ride more easily.
Sunset was fast approaching as in silence Annabel set the last of the utensils in the rough cupboard near the stove, then paused to gaze in wonder at the brilliant scene beyond the window.
Silken ribbons of color—magnificent pinks and oranges and golds—twirled across the sky, but the colors were slowly changing to lavender and peach and a rich pale amber that glowed from butte to foothill to distant prairie. Shadows were deepening over the mountaintops beyond the valley as hazy purple dusk drew inexorably near.
The beauty of the scene touched her and she turned impulsively toward Steele. “You’ve obviously been here many times before. How did you come to know about this lovely place?”
“I built it.”
“You did?” She glanced around with fresh curiosity, noting again how well made and sturdy were the walls and the roof, how smoothly carved even the pine table was. “All of it?”
He met her astonished look with a sudden grin. “Except the sofa and the stove,” he drawled. He hesitated, then held his hand out to her. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
She slipped her hand in his and let him lead her outside. Her fingers curled inside his warm, strong hand, feeling oddly comfortable there. But what was going on inside of her was not comfortable in the least. Her heart had begun to drum madly in her chest. She felt suddenly warm and flushed, and little agitated quivers darted through her stomach and down into the lower recesses of her belly.
But it wasn’t a sick feeling, she acknowledged, as they strolled across the thick wild grass toward a rise a short distance away. It was a tingly, excited feeling. A feeling she’d never experienced before, but which came entirely from the solid pressure of Roy Steele’s large, powerful hand around hers.
Together they climbed the gentle slope of the rise, and Annabel caught her breath at the view. Below, and as far as the eye could see, the pretty winding brook gleamed like polished silver. Rising up as if to guard the picturesque charm of the valley, were gray cliff peaks, and jutting red mesas, forbidding yet magnificent against the glowing sunset sky. Antelope and deer moved among the rocks, and eagles cried harshly as they spread their wings wide and circled overhead.
