Caress of Fire (14 page)

“Because I've been wanting to play for you alone.” His eyes took in her form. “And I'll play for no one but you.”

She smirked, then pulled her mouth into a moue of alarm when he lifted the mouthpiece toward his face. “Gil, you can't play that thing tonight.”

“Whose army says I can't?”

“Gil McLoughlin, you annoying Scotsman, it's after midnight. You'll disturb the other guests.”

“They're probably at the Lusty Lady, having a drink and chatting up the doxies.”

“I wouldn't count on that.”

Gil made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed. Despite her skepticism, despite her stewing over whether he'd blow that piped thing and awaken every roomer in this hotel, she wasn't unappreciative of her husband's beauty; she smiled at the picture he presented. He looked rather charming, sitting there in nothing but that plaid skirt.

He fiddled with the bagpipes, arranging them just so on his left shoulder.

Lisette jumped out of bed. “Don't you dare play that thing.”

“It isn't a thing. These are bagpipes.”

She grabbed the rumpled sheet and wrapped it under her arms. “Put it away. I'll listen to it tomorrow”

He blew into the mouthpiece, and the sound was so horrid, she covered her ears. The sheet dropped. She wilted into the chair she'd abandoned earlier in the evening and shook her head in dismay When he blew into that contraption again, though, she smiled. It was a beautiful tune, mournful and filled of something she couldn't explain, and she said as much.

“It's the sound of the Highlands, lass.”

Enjoying the plaintive sound and the wonder of their reunion, she whispered, “Then I think I should like to see your country for myself.”

“Someday, my darlin'. Someday”

A series of loud bangs sounded against one wall. A voice yelled through it, “Wasn't it enough, your screeching and shouting and putting those springs to bouncing? Decent folks are trying to sleep.”

Gil took the mouthpiece from his lips. Shrugging at Lisette, he said, “I guess you were right.”

“Will you play it again for me?” She winked saucily. “Tomorrow?”

“Aye, my darlin'.” His smile was as broad as her wink had been saucy. “After I rent the adjoining rooms.”

Charles Franklin Hatch, gently born and reared in the state of Georgia, sat in the Lusty Lady Saloon and swilled rotgut whiskey. Midnight had come and gone. Piano music played on.

Hatch was a little drunk, but not so inebriated he wasn't revolted. Which wasn't necessarily a result of the whore who sat on his lap and coiled her fat, grease-smelling self around his shoulders.

“Sugar,” the prostitute crooned–her breath would have offended a buzzard–“my room's not far from here, and I've got a jug of corn likker. We can have another drink, then you can stick your peckerwood in my sweet little honeypot. It'll only cost you a greenback. How about it, hmm?”

“Get up, Lucy, and get me another drink.”

“Name's Lacy. Give me a kiss and I'll get that drink.”

He pushed her away at the moment her hairy chin touched his face. “Get it now.”

The whore shrugged, then waddled over to the bar. Hatch was thankful she'd had the grace to go. All that fat had obstructed his view of the room.

Smoke curled toward the ceiling, giving the place a cloudy cast. The smells of dirty sawdust, stale beer, and rancid breath were everywhere. And the clientele... by the Bonny Blue, had a one of these twenty or so women, or the forty or so men,
ever
taken a bath?

Since the time he had spent in a Yankee prisoner-of-war camp, Charles Franklin Hatch had had a thing about cleanliness.

Again, he curled his lip at Lucy. What a swine she was, and never would he accept her lewd invitation. He liked his women clean. Fastidiousness was the reason he had been attracted to Cactus Blossom. At least his squaw kept herself washed.

He pushed aside thoughts of that Comanche's immorality; he got back to the situation at hand.

A voice at the bar, pitched high and with a northern accent, shouted, “All right, already.”

Hatch's hand tightened around his empty glass. He hated Yankees, and one in particular–the one called Gil McLoughlin. And McLoughlin was in Lampasas. Right here, earlier tonight, in the Lusty Lady.

Arrogant as ever, McLoughlin had ambled into the place and sashayed over to the clutch of men propping up the bar. Several of them had greeted him warmly.

A darkie–Hatch didn't understand why they'd let him in the establishment–smiled at McLoughlin.

“Mister Mack, let ole Dink buy ya a drink.”

“No thanks, Dinky. I'll do the buying, you do the enjoying. I've got hiring to attend to.”

A particularly ugly fellow, thin as a stick, opened his mouth of bucked teeth. “Are you Dinky's boss? If you are, I'm looking for work. Pigweed Martin at your service, mister.”

Hatch shivered, almost feeling the slobber as it dribbled from beneath that overbite. Apparently McLoughlin wasn't as selective; he accepted the drooler's bid. Then he hitched the heel of his boot on the bar rail and glanced around the room, taking no note of Hatch.

Why should he?

When Captain Hatch of the Fourth Georgia Regiment had escaped Yankee imprisonment, his hair and beard were long and scraggly, and he had been thin and pale and as ugly as the one named Pigweed Martin. By the time he'd reached Georgia and had the misfortune to encounter Major Gil McLoughlin and the other firestarters aligned with William Tecumseh Sherman, Charles Franklin Hatch had been in worse shape.

That was no longer the case.

Bile rose in his throat as he thought of Georgia. The Morgan plantation, owned by his mother but his by rights, was no more. And Mother and Mary Joan had disgraced themselves in the minds of the community. Enough of that. Better keep his thoughts free of the charges against them that had brought shame on the Morgan and Hatch names, and had forced him to–

Again he stared at McLoughlin, who was scanning the barroom and saying, “I'm looking for drovers. Any of you men interested?”

Not a soul stepped forward. Apparently they were more discriminating than Martin.

The pint-sized darkie spoke up. “Mister Mack's chuck wagon, why, it be fit for a king. Take six big-feeted horses to pull it.” Several pairs of eyes turned to the speaker, who rubbed his stomach and smacked his lips. “And, lawdy, the victuals be good. Mmm, mmm!”

A bear of a man, wearing buckskins and sporting a beard to the middle of his chest, put down his jug. Addressing McLoughlin, he asked, “You've got a good, dependable cook?”

“I do.”

“I hired on with a commission outfit,” commented a man in baggy britches. “They near starved us to death.”

“You won't go hungry in the Four Aces camp.” McLoughlin smiled with pride. “My wife's in charge of the chuck wagon. And she's the world's best cook.”

“Ain't so,” protested Baggy Pants. “My ma be the best cook in the world.”

“Since I'm not acquainted with the fine lady's skills, I won't argue,” McLoughlin replied. “But I can guarantee you'll find the best eating on the trail in the Four Aces outfit.”

Several men clambered to McLoughlin, ready to accept his offer.

Using a forefinger, Hatch drew a line down his jaw. As he had suspected, the britches-clad woman he'd seen at the courthouse had been passing as McLoughlin's wife. Lisa, or whatever her name was, had looked as if she would clean up to a more than acceptable level.

But what happened to the real Mrs. McLoughlin? Now
there
had been a clean one–clean and wicked. Hatch had caught her in the slave quarters at Charlwood, spreading her thighs for his former overseer. Her big green eyes had watched Hatch the entire time Elmo Whittle had been pumping her. After sending Elmo on his way and bathing between her legs, she offered Hatch seconds. He had declined. Never would he be hard up enough to consort with a Yankee.

Hatch picked up his glass and emptied his thoughts of that green-eyed tart. He watched the goings-on in the Lusty Lady Saloon. McLoughlin appeared pleased at hiring several drovers. When the lot of them receded to swill the drinks their new employer had purchased, McLoughlin made another scan of the room. His eyes settled on Hatch. Again, there wasn't a flicker of recognition.

Hatch pushed to his feet and ambled over to the bar. Careful not to touch the sticky bar top, he said, “Quite a successful night, I take it.”

“I've seen better.” McLoughlin turned his flat, cold stare to Hatch. “Are you looking for work, pahdner?”

“I might be.” That was a lie, but why not bait the Yankee dog? “Though you should be able to tell I'm a gentleman, not a drover.”

“I meant no insult, fellow.”

“None taken.” An ash floated from a patron's cigarillo and landed on the sleeve of Hatch's white frock coat; he flicked the particle in the Yankee's direction. “Tell me more about your cattle drive. On your way to Kansas, are you?”

“Right.”

“Funny, I'm on my way there myself.”

Kansas had never entered his mind, but that changed and a plan formed. Hatch would find out
why
McLoughlin didn't remember Charlwood, and his strategy didn't include quick revenge. It would take consorting with his enemy, on a full-time basis.

Naturally, it would be dirty on the cowpath. Hatch had been dirty before. He could handle it again, since he aimed to make McLoughlin pay for his transgressions.

“Perhaps I could give you a hand, sir.”

“It's no job for a dandy.”

“True, true. But I find”–he forced a sheepish look–“I'm a bit low on funds. It might behoove me to accept your offer.”

McLoughlin shrugged a shoulder. “It's up to you. The pay is good, the food exceptional. And I could use the help.”

“Then we're in agreement.”

“Have you got a name, fellow?” McLoughlin asked.

“Of course. It's Hatch. Charles Franklin Hatch. Some folks back home in Atlanta call me Frank.”

The Yankee major still didn't place him. Why should he? The name Morgan, not Hatch, was attached to Charlwood, and Frank Hatch decided this could work in his favor.

That interchange had happened hours ago.

Now, as Charles Franklin Hatch clutched his empty glass, he scowled. How could a man, even a disciple of that son-of-a-bitch Abraham Lincoln, ruin another man's life, and recall neither his victim's face nor his name?

The saloon doors banged open and a sorry-looking so-and-so stomped inside. “Where's McLoughlin?” he bellowed, obviously in his cups.

The piano player's fingers stilled on the keys. The din of whores and their prey settled to whispers. The bartender, wiping a filthy rag across the countertop, answered, “He left hours ago.”

The drunk mumbled something to himself.

Hatch called to him, “Do you have a problem, sir?”

The ruffian weaved over to him. Hatch got a good look at the scar gouging the hard-eyed face and the evidence of a recently broken nose, and it was all he could do not to curl his lip at the menace as well as the filth.

Bending closer and exhaling an ale-fortified gust of air, the sot inquired, “Do ya know McLoughlin?”

“I do.”

“Where's he at?”

It didn't take a genius to figure out that retaliation for something was written on the scarred crags of this face, and Hatch asked, “Did McLoughlin do that to your nose?”

“Damned right. And he stolt my gun. I'm gonna get him for it.”

“Who could blame you for wanting to get even?” Hatch almost felt a kinship with the sufferer. Almost. “Why, I feel it's my duty as a gentleman to take you to him.” He got to his feet and patted his britches pocket. “Follow me, my friend.”

The fool did as he suggested, stumbling in his drunken state and mumbling something about, “I warned ‘im Blade Sharp would come after 'im.”

“Where are you going, sugar?” the whore asked, lumbering after her quarry.

Hatch pitched her a dollar; she, thank the Bonny Blue, abandoned interest.

There were several men loitering on the street; he led the ruffian in a westward direction, toward the darkened seclusion of the edge of town. As they neared a shack–Hatch knew it was deserted–situated between town and the cowpath, the drunk asked, “How much further, mister?”

“Why, we're here already. You'll find him in that house.”

“Whuz he doin' there?”

“Sleeping, I should imagine–with his pretty blond wife.”

“Near abouts had me a piece o' that.” Blade Sharp scratched his behind. “Where'd ya say she's at?”

“Right here. In this house.” Hatch motioned toward the shack's pitiful excuse for a door, then slipped his hand into his pocket. “Go on. Go, go. Go get your revenge.”

Idiot that he was, the dirty drunk fell for the trick. Letting the cur get a trio of paces ahead of him, Hatch pulled his hand out of his pocket, poised the knife, and let it fly. A garbled noise, not too loud, emitted from Sharp before he pitched face forward onto the ground.

While he divested his victim of a handful of coins, then dragged the corpse into the shack, Hatch gave mental thanks his squaw had schooled him in the art of the knife.

Breaking a kerosene lamp, he poured fuel over the dead man's body. At the door, he tossed a lit match into the interior. He wiped his hands and pitched the handkerchief into the inferno. Yet he lingered, watching the flames lick the weathered boards of the house and hearing the crackle and pop of it all. Hatch drew great satisfaction from his deed. No one would get revenge against the damnyankee–no one but the beleaguered son of Charlwood.

Once in his newly rented boardinghouse quarters, he shucked his clothing, hung them in the armoire, and scrubbed away any traces of Lucy and that ruffian.

Pulling back the crisp sheets, he chuckled.

“Vengeance will be mine. I will be the one to go after McLoughlin. First, I'll gain his trust, then I'll undermine him. I'll wreak havoc on his livelihood. When I'm certain he has suffered greatly, he'll know my name and face, and why he must pay for putting the torch to Charlwood Plantation. Then I'll kill him... just as I did you, Mister Blade Sharp.”

 

 

As the Four Aces outfit prepared to pull out of Lampasas three days after arrival, Lisette, radiantly happy and contented, packed the chuck box and noted the buzz of activity around her. A full accompaniment of drovers and supplies were assembled.

She'd added a lot to those supplies. A wealth of goods both edible and not, including several bonnets and the makings for more, had been purchased. She felt somewhat guilty that Gil was obliged to purchase a hoodlum wagon to haul all the supplementaries plus a pair of oxen to pull it. Pigweed Martin, deemed the least robust of the crew, had been assigned to the extra wagon.

There were more additions to the crew. Attitude Powell, a bearded Tennessee mountaineer come west after the war. A polite young man from Virginia, Jackson Bell. Toad Face Walker, who spat tobacco juice wherever he went. A couple of Mexican men, one tagged simply Ochoa and the other a guitar picker named Cencero Leal, had appeared this morning to ask for a job. Already, Cencero Leal had advised her on the making of a fiery stew dish called chili.

One man, from New Hampshire, appeared to be a loner. Deep Eddy Roland kept to himself.

The final addition surprised Lisette. Mister Hatch of Georgia had hired on.

The seasoned members of the Four Aces outfit took their places in the herd, Dinky Peele, Johns Clark, Preacher Wilson, and Wink Tannington at forward flank. Sadie Lou whipped around the herd's fringe.