Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings (3 page)

Blade smiled, walking toward the guard and the horses. “Sioux,” he said briefly. “My mother is Oglala. She's gone now, but I still miss the family. I go back whenever I can. There's nothing like a good scalping raid to get the juices flowing, you know?”

He stepped past the man, placed one hand on the lead horse's nose and one on the harness. He whispered softly to the horse. “Easy.…”

With a simple pull, the animal was up. The other horses followed suit, one screaming with pain. Blade walked around to the animal, running his hand over the sweating flank.

“Broken,” he told the guard. “You're going to have to put this one down, and reharness the others.”

By that time, Shorty—with the elite Mrs. Dylan's help—had tied up the Apaches. Blade was surprised they hadn't just shot the Indians. The white men seemed to find the Apaches and Comanches the most savage of the Plains Indians—well, along with Paiutes, maybe, since they believed in human sacrifice, with or without white men around. Many white people didn't think that they were shooting people, they just acted as though they were putting down animals—just the way they were going to have to put down the horse.

But Shorty didn't seem to be that kind. He was still grinning. Blade might have given the stage guard a turn with his talk about scalping parties, but he could see that Shorty knew it had just been talk. Shorty seemed to know that whether or not Blade was dressed like a white man, he had no intention of ever pretending to be anything but what he was—a half-breed, one damned proud of the breed part of the term. Blade admired his mother's people, loved his grandfather and loved their way of life—the hunting, the fishing, the warmth in the tepee in the cold of the night.…

But he couldn't go back right now. He had lived in the white man's world with his father, and had seen too much. He had seen his father killed, along with the others. His Sioux grandfather would understand, as other men might not, that there were things he had to do. Or he could
never
go back.

“It's going to take some time to get this harness back in shape,” Shorty said, scratching his head. He looked at Blade. “Think you could take Mrs. Dylan on in for us, sir?”

Blade smiled, lowering his head, conscious of the fact that Shorty was an all right old fellow. “I—”

“I don't mind waiting,” Mrs. Dylan said flatly, chin high. She was oblivious to the trail dust on her cheeks and gown and unaware of the elegant mantle her hair created, streaming down her back. “There's a rock over there—”

“And every Indian in the territory might be out in two minutes, once they see the gleam of your hair,” Blade warned her coolly. “They're enterprising fellows. Even if they're not interested themselves, they do a lot of trading with the Comancheros. White slavery. It's a booming business.”

She gritted her teeth and flashed him a heated gaze. “I've come this far—”

“Mrs. Dylan, ma'am, it would be a fine favor to both Sam and myself if you would be so good as to ride on into town with this gentleman,” Shorty said.

“This gentleman?” she inquired sweetly, staring at Blade.

Blade grinned, staring in turn. “Renegade, half-breed. Do them the favor, Mrs. Dylan. You're dangerous. You're going to get these nice old men killed.”

She inhaled, blinking briefly, then she turned to Shorty. “I'll ride on in with—” she broke off, arching a brow at Blade. “With—?”

“McKenna, Mrs. Dylan,” Blade chimed in. “My name is McKenna.”

Her brow remained arched, as if she wasn't convinced he could really have a name like McKenna. “I'll ride in with Mr. McKenna,” she told Shorty.

“We'll have your things in just as soon as can be, Mrs. Dylan,” Shorty assured her. “Just go on into the Jackson Prairie boardinghouse. Mrs. Peabody will see to your needs. And we'll be there mighty soon, I swear it.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said. She turned to Blade. He strode over to his bay and waited for her to join him. She hesitated at the horse. He wondered if she wouldn't leap right up, but if she was going to do so, she was certainly taking her time. Without further ado, he set his hands on her waist and hiked her up on his bay.

It felt good to hold her so, Blade thought. Good to feel her beneath his touch. She was elegantly slim, but he could feel the curves of her hips and the heat that burned through her.… He leapt up behind her, arms encircling her as he took the reins.

Her back went very stiff against his chest. She could feel him, too. He was damned sure of it. She was so very much aware of him behind her, touching her.

“Is this a long ride, McKenna?” she demanded.

“You want it to be a short one, is that it, Mrs. Dylan?”

“Well, it seems that the sooner we are out of one another's company—”

“What happened to ‘thank you'?”

“What?”

“What happened to ‘thank you'?” Blade repeated. “I did just save your life. Or, at the very least, your freedom and virtue. The last doesn't seem to mean a great deal to you, but surely the first of those does!”

She twisted in the saddle. For a moment he saw the green fire in her eyes. She was itching to slap him. Hard. Gouge into his eyes, probably.

“Don't even think about it,” he warned her softly, and leaned very close to her earlobe, breathing in the sweet scent of her, feeling again the miraculous warmth of her. “You want a fast ride, Mrs. Dylan? You've got one!”

And he spurred his bay.

The fine, faithful horse took off in a staggering leap, and the three of them began to race against the plain, against the dying day, for Jackson Prairie.

Chapter Three

B
lade's horse barely slowed its gait as they came into Jackson Prairie, racing through the roads on the outskirts, slowing to a trot only when they reached the one big street that slashed through the town—Main Street by name. Most everything was right there. There was a bank—the First Savings and Loan of Jackson Prairie—and there were numerous shops, including Harvey's Barber and Mercantile Shop, and Mrs. Havover's Domestications. There was a dentist's shop, Dr. Weatherly Dayton, M.D., a tailor, a cooper, and more. There were two blacksmiths, and there was plenty of trade for both of them, and their shops were in either direction off Main Street, one being on South Street, and one being on North Street.

Mrs. Peabody's boardinghouse was dead center on Main Street, directly across from the Jackson Prairie Bar and Saloon. Blade reined in on Mallory, his big bay, right in front of the boardinghouse, slipping off the horse's back quickly and reaching up for Mrs. Dylan.

Her hair was exquisitely windblown, completely freed from its dignified knot, a wild mane of fire and gold all around her. Her eyes seemed brighter still against it, furious with the recklessness of his wild ride, he imagined, and yet meeting his eyes with that challenge that never faltered. He had his hands around her waist so there was little she could do but set hers upon his shoulders as he lifted her down. She was close, so close, sliding against the length of his body. His jaw locked and then his whole damned body seemed to lock. And since she wasn't wearing more than one thin petticoat, she must have felt the rock hardness of his body, just as he felt each sweet curve and nuance of hers. He suddenly wanted to throw her from him—simply because he was so very loath to let her go.

She opened her mouth as if she were about to say something to him, but just then the door to the establishment, which was up two steps to the wooden sidewalk, suddenly opened, and they swung around together.

Mrs. Peabody stood there, surely having heard them ride up. She was a portly lady with very round blue eyes and silver hair and a quick, easy smile. “Good evening,” she told them pleasantly, looking them both up and down. “Why, it's Mr. McKenna,” she murmured, smiling.

Blade didn't come into many towns, and he didn't give his name out often. But if there was any place he'd managed to feel that he belonged in the last few harsh years, it had been here. It was the closest thing he'd known to home—since his own had been burned to the ground. There were few people he really liked, fewer still he really trusted. Mrs. Peabody was one of the even fewer still that he liked
and
trusted.

“Evening, ma'am,” he told her, then realized that he was still holding the golden-haired Mrs. Dylan by the waist.

And Mrs. Dylan was still holding him by the shoulders.

Her hands snatched suddenly free from him.

“Is this Mrs. McKenna, sir?” Mrs. Peabody asked. “Will there be one room needed for the night, or two?”

“Two!” Mrs. Dylan said swiftly, smoothing down her crumpled blouse, then the wild mane of her hair. She took two steps away from Blade, meeting Mrs. Peabody's kindly gaze. “I'm Jessica Dylan, Mrs. Peabody. I'll be staying a few days, if you've got room.”

“Why of course, Miss Dylan—”

“Mrs. Dylan,” Blade corrected politely. He decided to enlighten Mrs. Peabody. “There was some trouble with Mrs. Dylan's stage.”

“Apaches!” Mrs. Peabody exclaimed, holding her heart.

“Yes, but it turned out all right.”

“Mr. McKenna is very resourceful,” Jessica Dylan said, and it sounded as though she were trying to speak while grating her teeth all the while.

“Mrs. Dylan isn't bad herself—with her fists or a rifle,” Blade said pleasantly.

“Well, that's wonderful, young woman, just wonderful!” Mrs. Peabody applauded. “You come right on up here, Mrs. Dylan, and we'll get you squared away. I'll put you in the blue room and have a tub of hot water brought in right away so that you can bathe off the prairie dust and tension!” She came down the steps and slipped a matronly arm around the younger woman's shoulders, sniffing over her shoulder to Blade as if he was somehow responsible for the things that men did in general. He lowered his head, grinning, and followed as Mrs. Peabody led Jessica Dylan up the steps and into the foyer.

They entered a narrow hallway with a set of stairs that led to the second floor. The sitting room and dining room were to the left, both furnished with richly upholstered chairs and handsome settees, with pretty lamps and frill work. The men's rooms were to the right, including a library with leather armchairs and sofas and brass spittoons. Blade had spent many an evening in the library. Tapestried carpets covered the polished wooden floors, and the curtains were just right for all the windows in each room—the ladies' rooms having frilly adornments, the men's rooms having draperies of a plainer style.

They didn't pause downstairs, but hurried up the long stairway, Mrs. Peabody calling out as they did so. “Jane! Jane, get the boys moving if you will. We need the tub and lots of water up here! Quickly now!”

“Yes, Mrs. Peabody!” the maid called from below. Then the maid was yelling to someone else to get a move on.

There was a small landing at the top of the stairs, then there were hallways stretching out in both directions. Blade followed the women until they stopped before a door. Mrs. Peabody pressed it open, a firm hand on Mrs. Dylan's back pushing her on through.

She turned her stout body about like a barrier, facing Blade. “You'll have the green room, right next door, Mr. McKenna. And you just go on down and help yourself to a brandy in the library and relax a spell. I know you'll be wanting a bath before dinner, but you'll just have to wait a bit. I've got more tubs, but I haven't got more help to fill them up. If you don't mind now, the lady goes first!”

Blade smiled. “Why, that's just fine, Mrs. Peabody. I don't mind waiting in the least. And the green room is here, next door, right?”

“Right as rain.”

The door closed on Blade. He grinned, then stepped out of the way as he saw two of Mrs. Peabody's boys, one a black lad of about sixteen, his blond-haired companion a year or so younger, both strong and with clean-scrubbed faces that attested to Mrs. Peabody's insistence on cleanliness in her house.

Someone had told him once over at the saloon—some old geezer who looked as if he might have been allergic to water, both drinking it and bathing in it—that Mrs. Peabody was so insistent on danged blasted bathing that she had one tub for lady guests, one for gentlemen, and one for her hired help, and that all three had to be replaced just about once a year.

Blade nodded to the boys with their heavy load, then hurried down the stairs and outside. He slipped his saddlebags from his bay's shoulders and walked the horse around to the stables where a slim Chinese lad was brushing down one of Mrs. Peabody's carriage horses. He left Mallory with the boy and went into the house, leaving his saddlebags with his clean clothing, shaving equipment and all on the hardwood dresser with the wavery mirror in the green room, so called, of course, as it had been painted green.

He noted that there was a door against the wall near the dresser. One that must lead into the blue room.

Mrs. Peabody was an interesting lady, he mused.

And then he wondered if he was glad or dismayed about the door. Irritated, he told himself that the damned thing didn't matter either way. He'd stay tonight, and he'd spend his evening at the saloon. Maybe he'd even spend a few hours with one of the perfumed ladies there.

No. One of the whores, not ladies. It was the “lady” part he didn't like about Jessica Dylan. That and more—much, much more. The way she fascinated him. The way she was just so damned beautiful and beguiling. The way she made him forget too damned much.

He left his room, hurrying down the stairs again, to pour a brandy and sit back in one of the handsome leather chairs in the library. He closed his eyes, savoring the fine brandy as it rolled over his tongue then burned slowly down his throat.

The whiskey over at the saloon wasn't nearly as fine as Mrs. Peabody's. But nothing about the saloon was as fine as anything at Mrs. Peabody's—even though Mrs. Peabody and Henry Larkin, the saloon's owner, were very good friends. Blade had a feeling that although the two of them were running very different establishments, they both had similar, shrewd heads for business. The saloon offered everything that Mrs. Peabody's didn't, and vice versa. Mrs. Peabody's was elegant and refined—the saloon was far from it. But then, there were some damned good poker games to join over at the saloon, while there sure as hell—heck—were no poker games to join at Mrs. Peabody's.