Kid Calhoun (11 page)

“Have you seen anybody who looks like this?” Jake asked Eulalie.

The frau shook her head. “Can’t say that I have.”

Jake turned to show the picture to Anabeth, who quickly shoved her spectacles back up her nose. “Have you—”

“No,” Anabeth interrupted. She quickly turned back to face the counter.

Jake carefully folded up the poster and returned it to his pocket. “Any idea who Booth’s woman might be?” he asked Eulalie.

“You might try Sierra Starr,” Eulalie said.

“Any relation to the Sierra who sent Miss Anabeth Smith here to work for you?” Jake asked.

“The same. Sierra works the faro table at the Town House Saloon. From what I hear, she owns nearly half the place.”

Anabeth peeled a little faster. What if Sierra gave
her away? She would have to warn the other woman that a Texas Ranger was in town asking questions.

“Sierra Starr sounds like some special kind of woman,” Jake mused.

Eulalie pulled at the single white hair growing from a mole on her chin. “Sierra’s an unusual woman, all right. For a while she worked upstairs, but not anymore.”

“Does she make exceptions?” Jake asked with a lurid grin.

Eulalie’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “Jake, you naughty boy. Why are you asking a question like that with this girl standing right here? You got a hankering for some woman, you go ask where there are no little pitchers with big ears.”

Jake took one look at Anabeth’s pink cheeks and rose abruptly. “I didn’t mean—that is—”

Eulalie stood and patted Jake on the shoulder. “You go on, Jake. I’ll have supper waiting when you’ve taken care of business.”

There was no mistaking the kind of “business” Eulalie had in mind. A muscle in Jake’s jaw flexed as he bit down to keep from making the kind of retort that was too coarse for Anabeth Smith’s tender ears. Besides, if Sierra Starr took his fancy, he would see for himself whether she made exceptions about working upstairs. Maybe then he could forget about the surprisingly lush body of the awkward young woman peeling potatoes in Eulalie Schmidt’s kitchen.

Once Jake was gone, Anabeth felt Eulalie’s sharp eyes assessing her. If she wasn’t careful, she would give herself away to the frau. Her safety depended on her disguise. Especially now that she knew the gang, including Kid Calhoun, was being sought by the law—even if the law wasn’t officially on the job.

She turned to the older woman and said, “I’m sorry, Frau Schmidt. I’m afraid I don’t see very well.
When I’m not in a hurry, I do fine. I guess I got flustered.”

Eulalie closed her lips on the sharp setdown she had been about to give. How could she criticize the girl for something that was not her fault? “Don’t worry about it, Anabeth.” But she made up her mind to keep the girl away from her other customers. Otherwise, Anabeth Smith might singlehandedly put her out of business.

To Anabeth’s chagrin, Jake sent word to Eulalie that he wouldn’t be back for supper. After the supper dishes were washed, Anabeth excused herself to go to her room, which was near the kitchen on the lower floor. If it wasn’t already too late, she had to get a warning about Jake Kearney to Sierra.

But she couldn’t go out in the evening as Anabeth Smith. She would have to become Kid Calhoun again, which posed its own set of dangers. How many of those posters with her likeness were out there in the hands of lawmen and bounty hunters?

It was a relief for Anabeth to put on a pair of pants. She hadn’t realized how much like a fish out of water she felt in a skirt. Besides, the outfit she had been wearing was a far cry from the silk taffeta dress of her dreams. She rebraided her hair and stuffed it up under her hat, then buckled on Booth’s gunbelt, with its twin, pearl-handled revolvers.

When the house was quiet, she left her room and snuck down the hall and out the back door. She used the back streets and alleys to get from the boarding-house to Canyon Road. She could already see the lights from the Town House Saloon when she realized there was someone leaning against the building at the end of the alley that led where she wanted to go.

She had already begun her retreat when the man called out, “Somebody there?”

Anabeth remained frozen, her hands poised above her guns. She said nothing.

The man slowly stood and turned toward her, blocking what little light was coming into the alley. “Booth?” The voice was frankly disbelieving. “Booth, is that you?”

Anabeth remained silent. She realized that whoever it was must have recognized Booth’s pearl-handled revolvers. She slowly, quietly, backed completely out of the light.

“You’re dead,” the man said. “We killed you.”

At last Anabeth recognized the voice. Otis Grier. “You’re a backstabbing coward,” Anabeth said in a voice keyed like Booth’s, an octave lower than her own. “I ought to shoot you where you stand.”

Grier pulled his gun, and Anabeth realized he intended to shoot. She hadn’t expected to be confronted with one of the gang so suddenly, or in such a deadly situation. In the seconds before Grier fired, she thought of Booth, of her vow of vengeance. Suddenly, it was as though someone else was standing there. Anabeth felt a tightening in her belly, a lump in her throat.

Then there wasn’t time for thinking—or feeling.

Grier began firing blindly into the alley. Anabeth dropped to the ground as she pulled Booth’s right hand gun and fired once at the man silhouetted in the light.

Grier let out a howl and dropped his gun.

Anabeth’s finger was on the trigger. All she had to do was shoot again and one of her uncle’s murderers would be dead. But her hand was shaking so badly she had trouble keeping it steady enough to aim.

Suddenly there was a commotion at Grier’s end of the alley. She couldn’t take a chance on being caught. Her face was on a
WANTED
poster now. She holstered the Colt and, flattening herself against the walls of the
alley, quickly made her escape. She headed for the next alley and soon found herself in back of the Town House Saloon.

She stuffed her hands in her pants because she couldn’t get them to stop shaking. It was one thing to vow vengeance. It was quite something else to shoot another human being. Anabeth took a deep breath and let it whoosh out. She leaned against the slatted wall of the saloon and let her head fall back against the wood.

I should have killed him. He shot Booth in the knee without a second thought. He’s a treacherous murderer. He deserves to die
.

Then why didn’t you finish him off? a voice asked.

Because I lost my nerve
.

Then you better find it. Or move on to Colorado.

It’ll be easier next time
.

You’re lucky to have a next time. You’d better shoot first—and shoot to kill—from now on.

Anabeth took another deep breath and let it out. This was no game she was playing. The men she had set out to kill were killers themselves. If they caught her, they would show no mercy. If she wanted to survive, neither could she.

Anabeth straightened her head on her shoulders. She would do what had to be done. Next time she would shoot to kill.

Anabeth stepped inside the back door of the Town House Saloon but stayed in the shadows beyond the patchy lantern light. It was noisy and smoky, and she did nothing to draw attention to herself. She was as silent, as invisible, as any Apache in the wilderness. Only her eyes moved as she surveyed those present in the saloon.

The one person in the bar she recognized was Jake Kearney. Without her spectacles she could see Jake
clearly for the first time. The sight of him took her breath away.

His features were hard-chiseled, a strong jaw, a sharp blade of nose, blunt cheekbones, and thick-lashed, wide-set eyes framed by dark brows. A small scar slashed through his mouth, drawing it down on one side. She felt a shiver of awareness and realized that her body was responding merely to the sight of him.

Anabeth let out a soft, soughing breath.
So this was desire
. She hadn’t expected it to be so powerful. Or so indiscriminate. She didn’t particularly like Jake Kearney. So why was she physically attracted to him? Anabeth felt confused and a bit overwhelmed. She was aware of strange stirrings in her body. She slowly, imperceptibly moved to lay a hand on her belly, but that didn’t seem to help.

Anabeth’s lips twisted at the irony of the situation. Finally, she had found a man for whom she felt the first stirrings of desire. Only she was an outlaw, and Jake Kearney was a Texas Ranger. Even worse, he knew her only as stumbling, bumbling Anabeth Smith. He hadn’t been able to get away from her fast enough. This was not exactly a match made in heaven.

Anabeth was turning to leave when Jake noticed her. She stood frozen for a moment. Luckily his attention was distracted when Sierra sat down across from him. Anabeth watched Jake smile at the other woman. Watched him laugh and grin at something Sierra said. Then she watched as Sierra left the table and headed upstairs with Jake following after her.

At first, Anabeth was grateful to Sierra for distracting Jake’s attention from her. Then she realized it was too late to give Sierra a warning about why Jake Kearney had come to Santa Fe. Unless Anabeth
wanted to run. she had no choice except to trust Sierra not to give her away.

And Anabeth had no intention of running.

She was leaving when she saw Grier come into the bar. His arm was in a sling and a bloody bandage covered his wrist. He seemed agitated as he crossed to a table in the corner and spoke to a man whose back was to her.

Anabeth recognized the man as he turned around. It was Wat Rankin. She took a step forward to confront him, and realized she couldn’t do that with Jake Kearney upstairs. Any gunplay and the Ranger was liable to come running. After he put his pants on, Anabeth thought with a cynical smile.

In the future she would carefully choose the time and place for any confrontations. Anabeth watched Wat Rankin and Otis Grier head toward the batwing doors of the saloon. She snuck out the back way and hurried down the alley after them.

From now on she would be the hunter, and they would be the hunted.

Wat shoved his way through the batwing doors and followed Otis Grier into the night. “I’m telling you the man who shot at you couldn’t have been Booth Calhoun. Booth is dead!”

“It sounded like Booth. And you know Booth was gone when we went back to the shack to search again for the gold. I tell you it was him.”

“And I say you’re crazy,” Wat said to the big man as he stepped into the saddle. “Even assuming he could have survived getting hit by seven bullets, Booth wouldn’t be on his feet yet. Have you forgotten he was shot in both knees?”

“What about those pearl-handled Colts I saw in the alley? How do you explain that?” Grier asked as he slung his heavy weight onto his horse with surprising grace.

Wat was silent for the length of time it took them to get to the last lights of Santa Fe. “I figure the Kid came back and found Booth. He took the body and the guns. The man you met in that dark alley was the Kid. Which means he’s somewhere in Santa Fe.”

Grier grunted and scratched at his beard. “I suppose it coulda been the Kid. I didn’t get a good look at him in the shadows.”

“Where’d you leave the rest of the gang?”

“Camp’s set up a couple miles south of town. We gotta warn ’em about the Kid,” Grier said.

“Yeah, the Kid will have to be taken care of.” This newest crisis made Wat wonder if he had made a mistake manipulating the Calhoun Gang instead of simply hiring someone to murder Sam Chandler.

Then he thought of the look in Chandler’s eyes when he had recognized Will Reardon behind the outlaw’s mask, and the expression on Chandler’s face when he realized he was a dead man. No, it had been worth the risk to do the deed himself.

He had set up everything perfectly so that when he got possession of Window Rock, he would get Claire Chandler as well. Only there had been a few hurdles along the way. Booth Calhoun was one.

Booth hadn’t wanted anyone killed during the gang’s robberies, so Wat had been left with no choice except to get rid of him. The Kid was another problem altogether. The Kid would have to die, of course. But not until he had told them where Sam Chandler’s gold was hidden.

Wat didn’t mind the killing. He had gotten an early start at it, having shot his drunken father for beating him when he was only eight years old. At ten, he had stabbed to death the man who pimped for his mother. He had learned early that if he wanted something he had to get it for himself. And he had discovered that the easiest way to deal with an obstacle was to remove it.

Wat had never flinched from the dirty jobs that had to be done. Shooting Booth in the back hadn’t given him a qualm. There was, after all, no honor among thieves. But he had made a serious miscalculation by not making sure Booth had all the gold with him before he ambushed him.

And he should have made sure the scoundrel was
dead. He was
almost
positive that the ghostly specter Otis Grier had seen was the Kid. Since he was hunting the Kid anyway, he planned to hang around Santa Fe long enough to be sure, one way or the other.