Riding With the Devil's Mistress (Lou Prophet Western #3) (22 page)

She thought of the kitchen
where she
’d
worked each day, helping her mother prepare meals. She thought of
the old, chipped percolator she’d never given much thought to when
she was still on the farm. She thought of the lilacs that grew
thick by the cellar their father had dug, and how they’d perfumed
the whole barnyard for one wonderful week every June.

She thought of their windmill
and corral and the place by the spring where Elsie had seen the
snake. She thought of the hills and the river and the deer that
came out at twilight to forage the creek banks for bluestem and
grama. How soft and ethereal they
’d looked, with the rosy sun on their
coats and on the tawny weeds around them.

She thought of her bed and
heirlooms she
’d brought from their old place in Vermont, and of the way
Donna would grin big whenever she talked about the neighbor boys,
the Thompsons, over on Buffalo Head Creek, not far from
town.

She thought of the chickens and
the pigs and the two milch cows and her father
’s old work wagon that kept
falling apart and of how in the summer his big arms were always
nearly black from the sun but above his sleeves they were powder
white, and so was the line above his forehead covered by his
hat.

Her father. . . Kyle
Bonaventure. She
’d loved him. She’d loved her mother. She’d loved her
sisters, though they’d often made her so angry she’d screamed.
She’d loved her brother in spite of his teasing her about Buck
Thompson, and she’d always secretly wished she’d been a boy like
James—a boy all the girls liked and followed around at church
picnics by the creek.

Rushing in like a haze over all
the memories was the smoke from the fire the Red River Gang had
set, and the sounds of the screams, her father yelling,
‘No! No! No!’ while
the gang members laughed and chased her mother and her sisters ...
like it was all just a game ... a playground game ... and all the
while James lay dead in the yard, his head scarlet with blood...
clubbed down and trampled and shot like a dog in his own
yard....

And then Donna was carried
kicking and screaming ... No! ... into the weeds where
they
’d
played when they were smaller... down by the creek ... where two
days later, when Louisa had come out from hiding, she’d found
her...

‘
No!
No! No!’

Louisa lifted her head and
looked around the stable, half expecting to find herself in the
weeds behind the house, where she
’d hidden when, returning from selling
eggs at the Miller farm, she’d seen the riders attacking her
family, burning the house and barn and shooting their
livestock.

She looked around now,
realizing she
’d been lying on her side in the stable, her knees to her
chest, arms over her head, tears washing over her face as she’d
fought the memories like Indians screaming down a hill. The Morgan
watched her, frightened and pricking his ears. He kicked the
partition, jarring Louisa to her senses.

Her muscles relaxed, and she crawled to her
knees, feeling foolish, washed-out and weak.

She hadn
’t cried since it had happened.
She’d felt little emotion whatever, only a deep, muted anger, like
a coal vein smoldering deep within the earth.

And a quiet resolve for vengeance.

But never outright sadness. The
emotion frightened her, for it was the one thing that could sap her
strength and derail her plans. She had to be as tough and as
fearless
as
Handsome Dave Duvall. Only then could she have the strength to hunt
him to the very ends of the earth if she had to.

Feeling self-conscious, she stood and looked
around, wiping the tears from her cheeks with her hands. She was
alone in the barn, but she heard two men talking and laughing near
the open paddock doors. Distant wagons squawked. Men called, and
dogs barked.

Louisa looked around the barn
once more, seeing only thickening shadows and stabled riding stock,
several buggies lining the outer walls, tack hanging from joists.
Several nearby horses had craned their necks to watch her with a
caution similar to the Morgan
’s.

‘
Don’t
worry,’ she said softly. ‘It was just a little tumble I took
there.’ She chuckled and looked at the hay at her feet. ‘Must’ve
... must’ve stepped in some dung and lost my footing.’

She patted the Morgan and whispered
reassuringly in his ear. The horse sniffed her suspiciously, then,
encouraged, lowered its head and went back to work on the oats.

Knowing she
couldn
’t
stay here alone in this darkening barn, Louisa brushed the hay from
her hair, donned her floppy hat, and headed for the front doors.
She felt doubt rear its ugly head again, however, when she wondered
where she’d go or what she’d do.

She needed to eat, but where?
She didn
’t
know the town, and it was getting dark. Not that she was afraid,
but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by having to shoot
someone bent on assailing a young lady all alone in a perdition
like Fargo.

Then she remembered Prophet,
and she felt heartened. The big, rangy bounty hunter with the
self-assured twinkle in his eyes and that sapsucker grin on his
face was really the only thing she had by the way of a friend. In
spite of her distrust of people in general and men in
particular,
she found herself looking forward to seeing him
again.

Besides, they had a common goal. Working
together to reach that goal made sense.

He
’d be here soon. She had to watch for
him....

WITH HERQUEST for Prophet in mind, Louisa
stepped through the door and looked up and down the dark street lit
here and there by saloon lights. Piano music clattered tinnily in
both directions, and an approaching train gave a deafening
hoot.

Louisa turned to the stableman
in the paddock. He was hammering a shoe on a
horse
’s hoof
by lantern light, a quirley jutting from between his lips. A stout
man in a muddy duck coat watched, a tin cup in his hand. They were
talking softly.

‘
Excuse me?’ she hailed the men, clearing the frog from her
throat. ‘By which route would a man coming from Luther Falls enter
Fargo?’

The stableman looked at his friend
conspiratorially, then at Louisa. Something in his manner was
different from before, and then she saw the whiskey bottle standing
on a bench.

The stableman dropped the
horse
’s hoof
and straightened, turning to face her. He took the tin cup from the
other man, who was also looking in Louisa’s direction, a faint grin
stretching his mouth.

‘
You
got a man comin’, Missy?’ the stableman said. ‘I thought you was
all alone.’ He took a quick drink from the cup.

‘
I’ve
a . . . business associate on the way,’ Louisa said. ‘So I guess
no, sir, I’m technically not alone. Now would you answer my
question, please?’

She didn
’t like the smoldering gazes
directed at her. The lantern buried the men’s eyes in shadows, but
Louisa felt the stares raking her body, undressing and ogling her.
She been accustomed to such looks from men since practically her
thirteenth birthday, for she’d filled out well, and there had been
a time she’d been flattered by such attention. No longer. She knew
the dark side of it now. It was one of the reasons she’d avoided
the cesspools of humanity known as frontier towns. For there, men
lurked, waiting and watching for somewhere to poke their prods,
like these men here, their lust stirred from the sips they’d been
taking from the cup.

All men were louts and hardcases underneath,
and when they smiled at a girl or showed her sympathy, it was the
smile of a snake in the grass, intended only to weaken and disarm.
They had to be watched—all of them. None were to be trusted. Not
even her friend, Lou Prophet, she reminded herself.

The stableman sipped from his
cup again, made a rasping sound, and said,
‘A man comin’ from Luther Falls would
no doubt ride in from the east on Main. That’s the street over
yonder, paralleling the Great Northern rails.’ He stared at her
again, tipping his head slightly to the side.

‘
Just
one more question,’ she said, despite the discomfort she felt in
the presence of these two. ‘Is there a safe place to eat on Main
Street?’

‘
There
ain’t no safe place in Fargo after dark, Little Miss,’ the
stableman said while his friend stood silently
at his side, shorter and
stouter and weaving ever so slightly.

‘
You
might try the Chinaman’s,’ the other man said in a deep, thick
rasp. He pointed with one short arm. ‘It’s beside the old express
office, one block that way, and one block that way.’

‘
Much
obliged,’ Louisa said, bowing her head slightly, and walking off in
the direction the man had pointed.

Behind her, the stableman said
something she couldn
’t hear, in a humorous, conspiratorial tone. She’d be
sleeping lightly tonight, with her .45 in her hand.

Walking briskly and avoiding
the leering gazes and indecent proposals muttered by the drunken
dregs of male humanity loitering upon the boardwalks outside the
saloons, Louisa found the Chinaman
’s place, Hung Yick’s Food, beside the
boarded-up express office. She ordered the pork special with
sauerkraut and ate sitting at a corner table at the back of the
room, pleased that she was the only customer and that the Chinaman
and his pudgy son were either too ignorant of English or too busy
cleaning up for closing to engage her in conversation.

While she ate, she kept a constant eye on
the street for Prophet. Not seeing him, she finished her meal, paid
for it, and quietly left, resuming her brisk, chin-up pace back to
the livery barn.

She
’d have to wait for daylight to find
Prophet. Remnants of her bout with terror and loneliness lingered,
and she wanted very much to see the sly frontiersman with his easy
ways and humorous eyes—in spite of knowing that, as a man, he would
eventually disappoint her—but she knew now that it wasn’t to be.
He’d probably get to town late tonight and shack up with the first
whore he ran into.

Denying a vague feeling of
jealousy, she approached the barn looming darkly against the starry
sky. She opened the small door and stepped inside, smelling
the
ammonia,
and felt around for the lantern she’d seen earlier on a
post.

‘
Hello, Little Miss.’

She stopped and gave a sharp
intake of breath, startled. The voice had come from her right.
Turning that way, she saw only a vague shadow before a small,
sashed window violet with starlight. She
’d recognized the stableman’s voice,
thick with drink.

‘
Would
you light a lamp, please?’ she said. ‘It’s dark in
here.’

She could hear the man
breathing sharply through his nose. He seemed to be
hesitating.
‘You said you’d pay extra ... you know ... for housing ye
here tonight.’

Oh, cripes!

‘
Will
fifty cents do?’ she asked with disgust.

‘
I
thought we could work it out another way.’

Louisa stared through the
darkness between them, not so much frightened as revolted.
‘Are you married,
sir?’

Another pause during which she
could hear him breathe.
‘What... what’s that got to do with
it?’

She gave a caustic
chuff.
‘I’ll
give you fifty cents. Take it or leave it.’

‘
Nan,’
the man said. She heard him move closer.

‘
Stay
away from me,’ she said.

‘
Listen, Little Miss, I just want one tiny little favor,
that’s all. Then I’ll leave ye alone, see?’

‘
Stop
where you are, Mister. I’m warning you.’

He was close enough to her now that she
could smell the sharp tang of the sour mash whiskey on his
breath.

‘
Just
one little favor, Miss . ..’

Holding her ground, Louisa
reached for her six-shooter through the fold in her skirt. Raising
it and ratcheting back the hammer, she said with disgust,
‘ ‘Pears you’re in
a tolerable stampede to get to hell, sir.’

Just when she was about to
fire, a voice sounded out
side. ‘Louisa?’ Short pause. ‘Louisa
Bonny-venture— you in there?’

It was
Prophet
’s
Southern drawl. Louisa’s heart quickened.

‘
I’m
in here, Lou!’

The small door beside the large
ones opened, and for just a second, the outline of a big man in a
flat-crowned hat was silhouetted against the more luminous night
outside. He stepped to the side, instinctively avoiding targeting
himself, and said,
‘Well, why in the hell don’t you have a lamp
fired?’