Nevada Heat (10 page)

But in the vision he saw, the woman had soft brown hair.

Chapter 6

"He wasn't a bad youngster, Lord." Ezra Banks stood at the head of the freshly dug grave, staring up at the heavens. Storm Clouds scuttled threateningly over the wide, desert sky, and the distant rumble of thunder grew closer with every passing moment.

A sharp, cold wind snapped around the small group of mourners, snatching at hats and moaning deep in the red rock canyons. The afternoon sun had dipped beneath the edge of the cliff face, leaving the small, quiet group in deep shadows.

"He didn't lie to his friends… didn't never cheat at cards… and was always plumb helpful when it come time for work." Ezra's voice grew louder as he competed with the thunder.

Miranda glanced up in time to see Jesse shift his gaze from her hastily. His face pale, his features strained, he looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but here. She looked away from him and let her eyes move from one disgruntled, sulking face to the next. Miranda knew that none of the men relished a burial.

It was always too clear a reminder of what could happen to any of them.

One last time she glanced at Jesse Hogan. One day it would be him lying at the bottom of a hole carved out of the earth. Shot or hanged, Jesse would end his days like all other men who lived outside the law. She had to remember that. She had to keep telling herself that he was no different from the others.

Deliberately she turned her gaze back to Ezra as he finished his prayer.

“I can't tell ya what to do o' course, Lord, but I'm thinkin' ya ought to let the boy warm hisself at your fire. Ya won't be sorry." The older man lowered his gaze to the blanket-wrapped figure lying at the bottom of the grave. “Amen."

“Amen." A chorus of half-whispered, uneasy responses answered him. The dozen or so bandits in attendance shifted from foot to foot, clearly anxious to be away from the graveyard. Their eyes moved constantly, almost as if the men were afraid to focus for too long on the weather-beaten crosses and the rock lined graves.

Ezra, however, was the first to turn from the dark hole in the rocky ground. His pale blue eyes, red rimmed and watery, skittered over his companions as he led the way to Big Pete's saloon.

Shelly tugged on Miranda's arm, anxious to leave the graveyard behind them. But Miranda looked at her friend, forced a half smile, and shook her head. “No. I'll stay until it's finished. You go on ahead. I'll see you at Big Pete's in a little while."

Reluctantly Shelly moved off, holding her skirt down when the rampaging wind teased at the hem. Miranda watched and noticed that Dave Black was only a step or two behind the woman. She also noted that Shelly was deliberately ignoring the outlaw.

Miranda turned back to the two men standing on either side of the open grave, shovels in hand. Birdwell and Jesse stared at each other grimly. Miranda shook her head, disgusted. Of all the men in town, why had these two been the ones to choose the short straws? Why not Dave and Ezra? Or even the Sullys? She looked down at the body of Bobby Sawyer. Poor Bobby. He won't even have any peace when they lay him to rest.

“You don't have to stay, y'know." Even though Jesse'd shouted at her, she barely heard him. The wind carried his voice away as quickly as he spoke.

“Yes, I do," she called back. No matter how hard it was to remain in the little cemetery, staying was the least she could do for Bobby.

“Leave her be," Birdwell shouted.

Jesse didn't answer the other man, but Miranda saw his fingers tighten around the shovel's handle. “Birdwell, please!" Miranda yelled to the older man, and grabbed at her black scarf. She was too late. The wind plucked it from her head, sailed it across the graveyard, and wrapped it around one of the crosses. Miranda walked toward it, the wind at her back, pushing her… prodding her.

She stumbled and fell, landing on one of the white rocks she'd used to outline the edges of the graves. A sharp pain shot through her knee and tears filled her eyes. She plopped down, yanked her scarf free, and used it to brush away the dirt and pebbles embedded in her palms. Her stinging flesh gave her the excuse she'd needed to let her tears fall. Surrounded by the dead, Miranda felt the first stirrings of her need to get away. Away from the place of so much death.

Always before, it had been enough to dream of changing Bandit’s Canyon. Making it a real town. Now she wasn't so sure any longer. Even if that dream came true… wouldn't the spirits… the souls of the outlawed men still remain? Wouldn't there always be a sadness here? A desperation? A loneliness?

Her gaze moved to the crosses marking her father and mother's graves. Judd had done his best. Miranda knew that. But still, he'd lived his life hiding. Just as his wife had. And now they would lie together forever, hidden away from everything and everyone.

She sniffed and pulled a long strand of windblown hair out of her eyes. Wasn't this the very thing her mother'd been trying to tell her so long ago? That this kind of life was not what she wanted for her? Maybe she should do what Birdwell wanted and leave the canyon. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Birdwell and Jesse had almost finished shoveling the loose sand into Bobby Sawyer's grave.

It was so hard to believe that she'd never see the boy's reckless grin again. She'd seen too many endings in Bandit’s Canyon.

Pushing herself to her feet, Miranda leaned into the wind and walked to the fresh grave. Her long black skirt clung to her legs, pushing her back for every step she took. Desert sand flew up and pelted her face and hands with tiny pinpricks of pain. She welcomed the needle-sharp jabs and tried to concentrate on them.

While Jesse tamped the dirt down with the flat of his shovel, the first of the raindrops fell. Slowly at first, huge, cold drops danced on the dry earth, their heavy plops the only sound. A long, jagged slash of lightning lit the sky and thunder crashed overhead. In the next instant the heavens opened and rain fell as though God had upended a bucket.

Jesse stared at her. Through the gloom of the afternoon, the pouring rain, and the intermittent bursts of lightning, he felt her gaze lock with his. Only a few feet separated them, but it might as well have been miles.

All through the short, sad funeral, he'd fought to keep his eyes from her. And lost. Despite his best intentions, it was as if he was drawn to her. Walking away from her hadn't helped. Damn near killing himself on the wild horses hadn't helped. Not even a burial was enough to crush his growing need to be with her. To touch her. To hold her.

His grip tightened on the shovel. Why the hell did he have to meet her now? Why couldn't it have been two years ago? When he was still alive.

Jesse turned away and walked clumsily across the muddy ground, back to town. To the outlaws. Where he belonged.

Without a word Birdwell stepped up beside Miranda and draped one beefy arm over her shoulders. Together they went back home.

#

As if to defy death, the men were noisier than usual. They drank more, laughed louder, and fought harder.

Jesse sat in a corner of the ramshackle saloon. A bottle of whiskey and a full shot glass on the table in front of him, he looked around the busy room. The steady, pounding rain thudded against the leaky roof and, inside, fell into three widely spaced tin wash pans with plinks and splashes. A blue haze of smoke drifted lazily in the air, and in the far corner, one of the men pounded enthusiastically on a battered piano. Scarred tables and chairs, tobacco juice on the floor, and bullet holes in the walls were displayed almost proudly in the light thrown by dozens of candles and lanterns.

Big Pete, with his bushy red hair and full, gray streaked red beard, stood behind the bar, futilely trying to keep up with the demand for drinks. No sooner did he fill one glass then another empty slammed down on the plank counter.

In one corner, Bill Sully, weaving drunkenly, fought one of the others for Fat Alice's attentions. Buck Farley stood, elbow propped on the bar, talking to Birdwell. Ezra Banks was dealing a poker hand, even though his pale blue eyes flicked frequently to Jesse. Dave Black sat at another table, talking and laughing with a clearly uninterested Shelly. Jesse shook his head. He gave the man credit. Dave didn't know the meaning of the word "quit." Jesse's gaze moved on and he saw Jim Sully slip from the saloon, his arm around Wilma's thick waist. With all the women who worked for him busy, it appeared that Big Pete would be doing his own serving that night.

The front door swung open, letting in a blast of cold wind and rain that threatened to extinguish the candles and lamps. Jesse turned to frown at the fool responsible and Miranda walked in. She'd changed her clothes. As she pulled her wet rain slicker off, Jesse sighed. She was back to wearing those damned trousers again. Deliberately he looked away and picked up his glass. Tilting his head back, he tossed the raw whiskey down his throat and quickly poured another. After he'd swallowed that one, he lowered his gaze to the tabletop and studied the glass as he spun it in his fingers.

He shouldn't have come to the saloon, he knew. She was bound to show up there. Hell, he told himself as he tipped a splash of amber liquid into his glass, if she was right, he probably never should have come to the canyon at all.

It had been botherin' him most of the day. That one little niggling piece of information that he hadn't thought about at the time. When Miranda was telling him the “rules," she'd mentioned one that had surprised him but hadn't struck him hard until much later.

No killers were allowed in the canyon.

Jesse gulped down the shot of whiskey and clenched his teeth against the raw bite of it. The only reason he'd come to the canyon at all was that the man he was searchin' for supposedly hid out here for a time a couple years back. Jesse'd figured that if he'd done it once, he'd do it again. But if no killers were allowed in… dammit. He rubbed at his eyes and tried to think.

The loud chatter around him faded away. And instead he heard only Miranda's voice. Big Pete said something and she laughed gently. Jesse forced himself to keep his lowered eyes fixed on the tabletop. Idly his fingers traced the deep carvings in the wood, made by some bored former customer. Miranda laughed again and Jesse’s fingers curled into a fist. His chest tightened. If he'd come to this place for nothing…

No. Jesse pushed the sound of her voice away and ordered his brain to work. If a killer wasn't welcome here, that meant one of two things. Either his information was wrong and the man he wanted had never been here… or the man had lied and no one in town knew him for the killer he really was. That seemed the most likely. After all, not every bad man in the territory was known on sight. Jesse was proof of that. Hell, he wasn't an outlaw, and they'd accepted him as one. But if he was right, it would make his search even harder. Now he would have nothing at all to go on. No one in town would know anything about the man.

Jesse let his gaze move over the men in the room. It was possible that his man was already here. But he didn't think so. A man who killed as easily and viciously as the one Jesse was looking for wouldn't be able to hide his true nature that easily. There would be some sign. Temper, edginess, an eagerness to fight… something.

This was getting him nowhere. Jesse stood up, poured himself one last drink, and tossed it down his throat. His eyes shifted to Miranda. She was leaning against the bar talking to Big Pete. One moccasined foot propped on the rail, elbows on the plank counter, her chin in her hands, she was completely unaware of him. And maybe that was best. Jesse shoved his hat on and turned to the door. He stepped outside quickly and never saw Miranda swing her head around to watch him leave.

He hadn't gone more than a few steps when a woman's voice stopped him. Jesse turned around reluctantly, but it wasn't Miranda hurrying to him. It was Shelly.

The woman dipped her head down to avoid the slashing rain. Her arms wrapped tightly about her, she came up to within a step of him before she stopped. Her dark blue dress, already near soaked, her black hair hanging in strings about her face, she looked up at him and Jesse just managed to keep from stepping back a pace. Anger fairly blazed out of her dark eyes. And he had no idea what he'd done to deserve it.

"Yes, ma'am?" he said.

“You can save your pretty manners." Shelly pushed her hair out of her eyes and glared at him. “I know your kind. And manners don't mean spit to ya!"

"Ma'am?" Jesse looked over her head toward the saloon he'd just left, hoping someone would come out and get her. She sounded feverish.

“I want you to leave Miranda alone, you hear?"

Miranda. Jesse snorted. Of course. He stared at the angry woman, hardly noticing the small slice of light behind her that came and went in an instant.

She poked a finger in his chest “I know all about your kind." He backed up and she followed, her voice getting louder to carry over the rain. "You with your soft talk and sad eyes."

What the hell… ?

"Tellin' a woman everything she wants to hear just so's you can have somethin' warm ‘sides your horse to cuddle up to for a couple of days… or weeks."

"Now, ma'am —“