Natchez Flame (2 page)

He’d had enough of that already.

Brendan propped the lady against the trunk of the oak tree, noting her somber brown dress, high necked
and long-sleeved, and the tiny waist pulled tight by her corset. Clothes like that in this heat—no wonder she’d fainted. Sometimes women didn’t have the sense God gave a mule.

Shaking his head at life’s little absurdities, Brendan walked to the old stone trough where a young boy watered several horses. The animals nickered and blew, sucking in great gulps of the cool reviving liquid.

“Guess I missed all the fun,” the youth said, a boy of about fourteen. He looked down at the gun riding low on Trask’s hip, unlike the pistols of most men, who wore theirs at the waist, and noted the flap that had been cut away from the heavy leather holster for easier access.

He puffed out his chest. “Been savin’ my money for a gun of my own. Someday I’ll be able to shoot like that. Man don’t have to clean stalls and tend horses, he kin shoot like that.”

Brendan flashed him a look that made him take a step backwards and melted his cocky half-smile. “Better to be cleaning stalls than lying out there in the street. That dead man could just as well have been me—someday it probably will be. You’d best think on that, son.”

Turning away from the boy, Brendan dipped his handkerchief into the water, wrung out the excess, and returned to the base of the oak tree. He untied the woman’s bonnet strings and pressed the wet cloth against her forehead.

At the sound of a soft moan, he wet her dry lips. They were full, he noticed, and a delicate shade of pink. Her features held a trace of that same fragility:
slim, straight nose, fine chestnut eyebrows, thick dark lashes. She wasn’t really a beauty, but she was definitely attractive.

He thought of Patsy Jackson, the woman he’d spent the night with. He remembered her full ripe curves, red-painted mouth, and fun-loving warmth in bed. There was nothing frail about Patsy, nothing prim or proper. She was the kind of woman who could pleasure a man, have a rollicking good time in bed, but didn’t give you trouble in the morning.

Not like this one. This little miss would probably pass out again just thinking about what he had done to Patsy last night. Pretty as she was, she held little appeal for him. Brendan liked his women lusty.

Still, in a town where men outnumbered women a dozen to one, she’d undoubtedly be considered quite a catch. He wondered which man she belonged to—and why that man hadn’t the good sense to keep her out of trouble.

She moaned a second time, and her lids fluttered open. Warm-brown, gold-flecked eyes looked up at him in confusion. Brendan shoved his broad-brimmed hat back on his head and assessed her pale oval face. If he hadn’t spotted her from the corner of his eye, she’d probably be dead right now. The thought sent a shudder down his spine, and a bit of his anger returned.

“Lady, you are some piece of goods.” The words came out a little harsher than he had intended. “What the hell did you think you were doing? Don’t you know any better than to stroll into the middle of a gunfight?”

“Gunfight?” she repeated, looking more confused
than ever. Her pretty face paled even more. “Mr. Hennessey,” she said, sitting up straighter, “is he … is he … ?”

“Barker picked that fight, not me. I won his money fair and square, and I shot him in self-defense.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, looking ready to faint again. Her dainty pink tongue wet her lips. “I don’t feel very good. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh, no, you don’t—” Brendan pressed the cool wet cloth against her brow. “Just lean your head back and try not to think about it.”

The woman swallowed hard and closed her eyes. Eventually the color returned to her cheeks, and he noticed again how pretty she was. Catching the glitter of the sun on wisps of shiny dark hair beside her cheeks, he wondered what the heavy mass would look like freed from her wide-brimmed, coal-scuttle bonnet.

“Thank you,” she said softly, taking the cloth from his hand. “I’m feeling a little better now.”

Brendan felt a wave of relief, until an unpleasant thought occurred. “Barker wasn’t your husband, was he?” Until that moment it hadn’t crossed his mind that a man like Hennessey could have a wife. Especially such a young and tender one.

She shook her head. “No. He’s the man my fiancé sent to escort me on to his ranch.” Her bottom lip trembled. “I never met him before, but he looked like a nice enough man.”

Brendan’s face went taut. “There wasn’t a nice bone in Barker Hennessey’s body. He’d have killed me without a second thought if I hadn’t shot him first.”

Priscilla chewed on that for a while and took a long assessing look at the man who squatted with easy grace on the stiff salt grass beside her. His hair was as dark as hers, but a richer, warmer shade of brown, and he wore it longer than he should have. Several day’s growth of beard roughened a rugged jawline, but his mouth curved nicely and his eyes, a light shade of blue, watched her with a look of concern that melted away the fear she should have felt.

How could that be? she wondered. He’d just killed a man—a man whose help she desperately needed. He was a gambler and a gunman, yet there was an honesty about him, a sense of compassion—and something else she couldn’t quite name. Something that told her the words he spoke were true.

“Does that mean the sheriff won’t arrest you?”

“Not as long as he learns the truth,” he said with sincerity.

Priscilla had always had a knack for judging people. Since she was a girl, she could size a person up in only a meeting or two. On making a new acquaintance, Aunt Maddie often asked her opinion, though she never admitted Priscilla’s assessment actually mattered.

And this man
had
saved her life—probably at considerable risk to his own.

He took her hand and helped her climb shakily to her feet. Priscilla clutched his arm to steady herself and felt the flex of muscle beneath his shirt. Though she stood taller than the average woman, Trask towered above her, his wide shoulders blocking the hot yellow rays of the sun. Hard-edged, unkempt, and rugged though he appeared, even in his worn home
spun shirt and frayed blue twill breeches he was handsome.

When he discovered her watching him, Priscilla flushed and glanced away. “I … I can’t believe Stuart would have sent the kind of man you describe here to meet me. We would be traveling together and I don’t think—”

“This is rough country, Miss … ?”

She swung her gaze to his. “Wills. Priscilla Mae Wills, and I believe your name is Trask.”

He nodded. “Where did you say you were headed?”

“Rancho Reina del Robles—the Triple R. Stuart Egan is my fiancé.”

Trask’s hard features closed up. There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “That explains Hennessey—he’s Egan’s right-hand man.”

“Then you know Stuart?”

He shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard of him. Most folks ’round these parts know who he is. Why didn’t Egan come for you himself?”

“Apparently he was short-handed. The ranch is quite large, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” Something flickered in his light blue eyes. “I’ll have someone get word to him and he can fetch you home.”

Priscilla’s dark brows shot up. “But that would take weeks! I can’t stay here—”

She felt his hand on her arm, halting her protest and urging her back toward the hotel.

Priscilla let him lead her, trying to gather her thoughts. From what Stuart had written, the ranch was still quite some distance away. It would take
weeks for a letter to reach it and just as much time for Stuart to come, or send someone to get her. In the meantime she’d be alone in this wild Texas town. A place where people got shot in the streets! She had only enough money for a few days lodging and food—what would she do after that?

As they approached the hotel, Priscilla surveyed the porch in dread, expecting to see Barker Hennessey’s lifeless body sprawled on the boardwalk among a crowd of onlookers. Instead only a handful of men lounged beside the door of the saloon. The plinkity plink of a cheap piano and the high-pitched sound of women’s laughter seemed almost sacrilegious in light of what had just happened.

The scraping of a chair drew her attention.

“Where’d you get the new gal, Trask?” one of the rough-looking men called out. “Looks like a real little lady—you always did have a way with the women.” The other two men guffawed, obviously well into their cups though the day was still quite early.

Trask ignored them, but his grip on her arm grew tighter.

Another man stepped through the swinging double doors. “Didn’t think ya liked your women so proper, Brendan.” The red-haired man swept her with a glance so raw it left no doubt as to what he was thinking. “This little gal’s so gussied up it’ll take half the day just to get her clothes off.” Priscilla’s face grew hot and her feet refused to move another step.

“Leave her be, Jennings,” Trask warned. “And that goes for the rest of you men, too.” He urged her on, and Priscilla forced her feet to move ahead.

She’d come by steamboat down the Ohio, down the Mississippi all the way to New Orleans. She’d traveled to Galveston by steamship, her stomach tied in knots and hating every moment on the sea. She’d sold everything she owned to come west, to marry a man she had never even seen. But nowhere had she encountered men like these.

“Deputy’s expectin’ you in his office,” the one called Jennings said. He grinned and cocked his head toward the hotel. “Better not take too long.”

As his meaning hit home, Priscilla’s step faltered once more. She fought to keep her eyes straight ahead, but lost the battle and glanced again at the men.
They probably eat boiled harness for breakfast
, she thought, noting the greasy canvas breeches, shaggy unkempt hair, and the scraggly growth of beard on one. How would she survive the next few weeks alone in a place like this?

Trask tugged her forward, his grip a little harder than it should have been. “Town’s full of men like these,” he said roughly. “What the hell was Egan thinking, letting you come out here alone?”

“He didn’t know I was coming alone,” Priscilla defended, beginning to get angry herself. “My aunt died rather suddenly and … well … there were expenses I hadn’t planned on. I couldn’t afford to bring a lady’s maid, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Where you from, Miss Wills?” Trask shoved open the door to the lobby, ringing the bell, and held it so she could walk past.

“I was born in Natchez, but I was raised in Cincinnati. As I told you, I was on my way to join my fiancé,
which, thanks to you, has just become an exceedingly difficult task.” Priscilla felt like crying.
Difficult
was hardly the word.

“I suppose you’d prefer I let him shoot me.”

“Maybe. Maybe I would at that.” Shoulders thrown back, Priscilla marched up to the desk where a green-visored clerk leaned over a huge leather-bound guest book.

“I’d like a room, please, and I need someone to obtain my trunks from aboard the steamship
Orleans.”

The gray-haired clerk eyed her from top to bottom. “You ain’t by yourself, are you?”

“Well, yes … I …” Priscilla lifted her chin. “My traveling companion fell ill some ways back. I was forced to continue alone.” She glanced at Trask, daring him to contradict, and found his mouth curved up in amusement.

“This is a respectable hotel, miss. You look proper enough, but … well, let’s just say if you’re plannin’ anything different, you’d best be headin’ next door.”

Priscilla flushed crimson.
Dear God, what kind of people are these?
“Surely you aren’t implying—”

“Get the lady a room,” Trask ordered, stepping closer to the desk, “and be quick about it.” The little man swallowed and shoved the guest book in her direction.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Trask. Sign here, ma’am.” Dipping the quill pen in the inkwell near her elbow, he handed it to Priscilla, and she signed her name in graceful blue letters.

“How long will you be stayin’?” the clerk asked. She studied the sign on the wall behind him and
chewed her bottom lip. Even at the modest rate posted, she couldn’t stay more than four days.

“I … I’m not really certain.” She’d expected Barker Hennessey to see to her needs until she reached the Egan ranch. She clutched her reticule tighter, wondering what in heaven she would do when her four days had ended.

“She’ll be here at least three weeks,” Brendan told the desk clerk. “It’ll take that long to get word to her people and for them to come get her.”

Priscilla swallowed hard. “That … that isn’t exactly correct,” she said. “As I said before, I’m not quite sure how long I’ll be here.” If only she could find someone to take Mr. Hennessey’s place. She could reach the Triple R as they had planned and Stuart wouldn’t have to be burdened.

Priscilla glanced at Trask, who appeared ready to argue, and felt a jolt of inspiration that seemed almost divine.

Trask! Trask could do it! He was obviously well suited for the arduous journey. He had shot Hennessey, the tough man sent to protect her, he could take Hennessey’s place. In fact, it was only fitting—Trask should be the one to take her. He owed her that much.

She flashed him the brightest smile she could muster, which under the circumstances, wasn’t all that much. “Do you think Mr. Hennessey booked passage in advance for our journey to Corpus Christi?”

“Probably. But I’m sure they’ll be happy to refund the money.”

“How far is it from there to the Triple R?”

“From what I know of it—and I’ve never been
there—I’d say a good four-day ride over some very rough country. Why?” he asked warily.

“Surely you can see, Mr. Trask, the obvious solution is for you to escort me. It could take weeks for word to reach Stuart. It would take time for him to make travel preparations and time to make the trip here. I, on the other hand, am packed and ready to leave.”

“No,” he said simply.

“Why not? Since you’re the man who … who … posed this particular problem, you are obviously the man who should solve it.”

Trask shook his head. “Not a chance, Miss Wills. You’re Egan’s problem, not mine. Besides, I’ll be leaving Galveston at dawn. I’ve got a job waiting for me on the Brazos.”