Teresa Medeiros (4 page)

“What happened to the first two Bartholomews?” Dauber whispered. “Billy kill them, too?”

Seal elbowed him in the ribs, earning a sharp grunt.

Drew twirled one tip of his mustache, a habit he indulged only in moments of great duress. “Now, lass,” he purred in that lilting mixture of Scottish burr and western drawl that was so exclusively his. “There’s no reason to get your wee feathers all in a ruffle. I remain confident that this private quarrel between you and Mr. Darling can be settled in a civilized manner without the discharge of firearms.”

“Private quarrel?” The woman’s voice rose to a near shriek. “According to that Wanted poster out there, this man is a public menace with a price on his head. I insist that you take him in!”

Drew sputtered an ineffectual retort, but Billy’s melted-butter-and-molasses drawl cut right through it. “And just where do you propose he take me?”

Miss Fine blinked, her face going blank for a gratifying moment. “Why, the jail, I suppose.”

Billy slanted Drew a woeful look. Avoiding Miss Fine’s eyes, Drew polished his badge with his ruffled shirt sleeve. “Sorry, lass, but our jail’s not equipped to hold Mr. Darling. You’ll have to take your complaint to the U.S. marshal in Santa Fe.”

Righting his chair, Billy favored her with a rueful grin, briefly entertaining the notion that she and her sad little bonnet just might admit defeat and creep away to let him finish his poker game in peace. After all, any fellow hapless enough to be stuck with the name of Bartholomew was probably better off dead.

She dashed his hopes by swaying forward, her voice husky with menace. “If this miserable excuse for a lawman—”

“Now wait just one minute there, lass!” Drew cried, his Scottish accent deepening along with his agitation. If she got him any more riled, there would be
g
’s dropping and
r
’s rolling all over the saloon. “There’s no need to insult my—”

She turned the gun on him; his defense subsided to a sulky pout. She returned it to Billy, aiming it square at his heart.

“If this miserable excuse for a lawman won’t take you in,” she repeated firmly, “then I will. I’ll take you to Santa Fe and turn you over to the U.S. marshal myself. Why, I’ll hog-tie you to the back of a stagecoach and drag you all the way to Boston if I have to, Mr. Darling.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Billy sighed wearily. She’d left him with no choice but to call her bluff. As the smile faded from his eyes, the bartender vanished behind the bar, Drew inched his chair backward, and Dauber and Seal plugged their ears with their fingertips.

Billy rested his hands palms-down on the table, flexing his fingers with deceptive indolence. “Oh, yeah?” he drawled. “Who says?”

Little Miss Fine-and-Mighty cocked the derringer, her face going white with strain. “I’ve got one shot in this chamber that says you’re coming with me.”

The Colt .45 appeared in Billy’s hand as if by magic, accompanied by a personable grin. “And I’ve got six shots in this here Colt that say I’m not.”

Esmerelda stared dumbly at the gun in Darling’s hand. His movements hadn’t betrayed even a hint of a blur. One second his hand had been empty. The next it had been cradling an enormous black pistol. The imposing barrel dwarfed the stunted mouth of her derringer, making it look like a toy. Darling’s smile was unflinching, but all traces of green had disappeared from his eyes, leaving them ruthless chips of flint.

Esmerelda sucked in a steadying breath, cringing when it caught in a squeak. She’d spent so many sleepless nights in the past few months dreaming of the moment when she would confront her brother’s murderer. But none of the possible scenarios had included engaging him in a standoff. Billy Darling was rumored to be a crack shot, lethally accurate at thirty yards, much less four feet. What was the proper etiquette in these situations? Should she suggest they choose seconds? Step outside and draw at twenty paces? She flexed her numb fingers, choking back a hysterical giggle.

Almost as if he’d read her mind, he said, “It has occurred to me, Miss Fine, that this may very well be your first gun-fight. We have both drawn our weapons so all that remains is to determine which one of us has the guts to pull the trigger. If you’d rather not find out, then I suggest you
lay your gun on the table and back out of here. Nice and slow.”

“Now, William,” the sheriff whined. “You know you’ve never shot a woman before.”

Darling’s affable smile did not waver. “Nor has one ever given me cause to.”

“Drop your weapon, sir,” Esmerelda commanded, praying the derringer wouldn’t slip out of her sweat-dampened glove. She waited a respectable interval before adding a timid, “P-p-please.”

“I asked you first.”

Her hands were starting to shake in earnest, and there seemed to be little she could do to still them. The sight infused her with frustration and bone-deep weariness. She had sold everything she’d worked for since she was twelve years old—her beloved music school, her tidy little house with its red shutters and gardenia-filled window boxes, the precious books and sheets of music she’d bought with pennies hoarded from her own food money.

She’d forfeited all she held dear just to come to this godforsaken town and bring her brother’s killer to justice. And there he sat, smirking at her with cool aplomb, all the while knowing that he had crushed her brother’s life beneath his bootheel with no more concern than for a discarded cigar butt.

He had robbed her of everything that made her life worth living, and now he dared to threaten that life itself.

Esmerelda suddenly realized that she no longer wanted justice. She wanted vengeance. Her finger tightened on the trigger. A scalding tear trickled down her cheek, then another. She dashed them away with one hand, but fresh ones sprang into their place to blur her vision.

She did not see the sheriff rock back in his chair, grinning with relief. Billy Darling might be able to stand down
the meanest desperado in five territories or gun down a fleeing outlaw without blinking an eye, but he never could abide a woman’s tears.

“Aw, hell, honey, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to scare you.…”

Billy was out of his seat and halfway around the table, hand outstretched, when Esmerelda Fine, who had never so much as swatted a fly without a pang of regret, closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

When a lone man emerged from Miss Mellie’s Boardinghouse for Young Ladies of Good Reputation and sauntered across the dirt road later that afternoon, the crowd gathered outside the sheriff’s office fell silent. Not one of them dared to protest. Not even when he strolled right past them and into the office just as pretty as you please, although the sheriff had threatened to blow off the head of the first man fool enough to stick it in the door.

The man found Sheriff Andrew McGuire reclining in an oak spindle chair, his feet propped on his desk. Both his boots and the tin star pinned to his satin vest had been buffed to a near-blinding shine. He had his nose buried in a book and was paying no more heed to the rumbling purr of the yellow cat napping on his chest than to the
loaded shotgun laid across his lap. The cat had been a gift from Billy Darling, the shotgun a retirement present from the governor of Texas for surviving twenty-five years as a Texas Ranger—a survival ensured by his blatant distaste for danger.

“Afternoon, Drew,” the man drawled.

The sheriff leveled a glance over the top of the book. “Afternoon”

His visitor jerked a thumb toward the door. “Quite a mob you have out there. You expecting a lynching?”

Drew rolled his eyes. “A cotillion, more likely.”

The man propped his hip on the edge of the desk and nodded toward the cat. “If Miss Kitty there is accounted for, then what might be the source of that godawful caterwauling?”

Although Drew appeared to be making a valiant effort, the sound was almost impossible to ignore. It wafted out from the corridor behind him where the back cell was located, not so much off-key as woefully shrill and set at just the right pitch to make even a long-suffering man grit his teeth in pain.

The wailing rose to a crescendo, making Drew wince. “It’s
her
. The lass has been praying and singing church hymns ever since she woke up from her swoon. She claims to be a music teacher.” When his companions eyebrows shot skyward in disbelief, he leaned forward and confided, “ ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’ seems to be a particular favorite of hers.”

The man’s jaw tightened. Drew knew damn well that every man who’d fought on the losing side in the War of Secession, or lost someone who had, despised that song above all others.

Drew chuckled. “The lass even had the audacity to ask
if I had a copy of the Good Book on hand. I offered her this volume, but she declined.”

The man plucked the book from Drew’s hands and examined the cover, cocking a skeptical eyebrow.
“The Amorous Adventures of Buxom Belle?”

Drew snatched it back. “Well, it’s a damn good book, if you ask me.”

His friend’s eyes were strangely thoughtful. “Has she shown any signs of remorse?”

The sheriff stroked the slinky curve of the cat’s back. Despite his grave tone, his own feline smirk revealed that he was enjoying himself more than was strictly proper. “She claims she’s resigned to suffering the earthly consequences for taking a man’s life, but insists the good Lord in his infinite mercy will surely pardon her for ridding the world of a heartless vermin like Billy Darling.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “The good Lord probably would. But I sure as hell won’t.”

A particularly grating note floated out from the corridor. Throwing a black scowl over his shoulder, Drew caressed the hammer of the shotgun. “One more chorus of ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’ and I’m going to have to shoot her. Or myself.”

The man reached across the desk to pluck a ring of iron keys from a hook on the wall. “Why don’t I spare you the trouble?”

Drew sprang to his feet, earning a sulky look from the displaced cat. He’d seen that wicked sparkle in his friend’s eyes before and knew it boded nothing but trouble. “Now, you wait just a minute there, lad. The woman might be prepared to meet her Maker, but she sure as hell isn’t prepared to meet you.”

The man neatly sidestepped him, the keys setting up a merry jingle as he headed for the shadowy corridor. “She
should have thought of that before she came to Calamity. I intend to find out exactly why such a prissy little peahen would come gunning for the likes of Billy Darling.”

“If the lass screams,” Drew called after him, “I’m going to come a-running.”

The man tossed a grin over his shoulder. “And if I scream?”

Drew settled back into his chair, propping his boots on the desk and raising the book to shield his smile. “You, my friend, are on your own.”

As the final note of “Onward, Christian Soldiers” faded from her lips, Esmerelda clasped her hands and turned her eyes heavenward. She had hoped for some visible sign of God’s approval—a light streaming down from heaven, perhaps, or a chorus of celestial harping. But the plaster ceiling remained, its chipped and water-stained surface making her wonder how many other condemned murderers had sat on this very bunk, gazing wistfully toward a heaven they might never reach.

Rising from her aching knees to plop down on the bunk, she chafed her arms through the thin silk faille of her basque. Although the air was warm and dry, the short jacket that flared into graceful flounces over her bustle did little to protect her from the chill that had clung to her skin since she’d first awakened in this windowless cell. An awakening made all the more cruel in contrast to the dream she’d been having. A dream where she’d been cradled against the broad chest of a man who smelled of tobacco and leather. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled his throat, feeling safe for the first time since her parents had died.

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, she warbled the first few notes of “Amazing Grace.” But she got no
further than the chorus before the melody died on a hoarse croak. It was just as she’d feared all along. She’d been singing less out of pious conviction than to drown out the voice of her conscience telling her she had done a terrible thing. A voice growing louder and more strident by the moment.

His eyes haunted her.

She couldn’t remember now if they’d been gray or green, which only made her feel worse. If you were going to take a man’s life, then you ought to at least be brave enough to look him in the eye while you did it. But she’d been the lowest sort of coward, closing her own eyes to blot out the dreadful finality of what she was doing. She supposed it wasn’t much better than shooting a man in the back.

She couldn’t remember the color of his eyes, but oddly enough, she could remember the exact texture of his eyelashes. They’d fringed his eyes like threads of gold silk, giving the dangerous planes of his face the disturbing illusion of vulnerability.

But it hadn’t been an illusion. Billy Darling had been as vulnerable as any mortal man to a woman with a gun in her hand. Now those extravagant lashes would forever rest on his pale, still cheeks.