The Devil You Know (42 page)

This last news seemed infinitely more important to Willa and Israel than anything about Jesse Snow, but after congratulatory sentiments and embraces were exchanged, the conversation returned to Mr. Snow.

Quill said, “I had to lasso him. His horse, a fine black gelding, ran right out from under him and the snow didn't cushion his fall much. He was no problem after that. We tied him up and put him back on his horse and escorted him to the sheriff's office. Brandywine hadn't been through the pile of wanted notices he had jammed in his desk for a long time, but because Calico insisted, he thumbed through them all. Twice. He found Jesse Snow the second time thanks to Calico's recollection that when he was working riverboats, he called himself—”

“Samuel Easterbrook,” Willa and Israel said the name simultaneously.

“Mm-hmm.” Quill turned over his hand, gesturing for Calico to finish.

“Jesse Snow is wanted for his part in a mail train robbery three years past in Cheyenne. I suppose he thought it was long enough ago and that he was far enough away from that branch of the U.P. that he could use his name around here. It's only because I was familiar with the poster that I knew about his thieving on the Mississippi. It was all petty crimes, pickpocketing, cutting purses from female patrons on the showboats, lifting jewelry. He was Easterbrook then; that might even be his real name. The connection between his river crimes and his railroad crimes probably came about because an accomplice who did not fare as well struck a deal.”

Israel said, “So he really did know me from the riverboats.”

“He probably observed you playing cards any number of times,” said Willa. “And he's surely the one who tied you with that bowline.”

“If I'd known about that,” said Quill, “I would have dragged him for a piece behind my horse.”

Willa asked Israel, “So do you think Jesse was running away?”

“Sounds right. Who do you suppose the third person was with Eli and Jesse on the ridge?”

“Buster,” said Happy, reentering the kitchen. By way of explanation, he said, “I was lurking. Eli's still breathing, if anyone's interested. How's my coffee?” He went straight to the stove and sniffed the pot. “Damn near to burning, that's how it is.” He pointed to the china cupboard and gestured to Quill to get him a cup. “It's just my gut telling me it was Buster, but unless Eli or Jesse says something, I don't expect we'll ever know the full story.” He poured coffee into the cup Quill handed him and put the pot on the table. “I forgot about you, Israel. You could solve this. You remember anything now?”

“No. Except for knowing what happened to the pot of money I won, I don't care about the details.”

“I expect Eli can be persuaded to help with that,” said Happy. “If the money's not tucked away on the ranch somewhere, which I suspect it is not, then he can make a withdrawal on the Big Bar's account at the bank. Murderer or not, he's his father's heir.”

“Do you have plans for the money, Israel?” asked Calico. “Quill thinks you do. In fact, he thinks he knows what you're going to do with it.”

The smile Israel exchanged with his brother was appreciative on both ends. “I would not be at all surprised if he does.” He looked at Willa, who was already watching, her dark eyes full of pride and her splendid mouth provocatively slanted as she smiled up at him. He took her hand. “You know?” he asked.

“Of course I know. You're my heart. Go on. You can say it out loud because we are going to make it happen.”

“Those winnings . . .” Willa squeezed his hand and he
was able to move his voice past the constriction in his throat. “Those winnings are going to be distributed among every tent church congregation I stole from. It's not enough to pay them back in full, but it is a good beginning. That's what I have now. A good beginning.”

It was five days before Eli could be moved from the bunkhouse to a jail cell, and another three days before he was persuaded to transfer the stolen poker winnings from the Big Bar account to one Israel and Willa set up specifically for reparations. Eli had lots of reasons why he did not want to do it, but at Israel's suggestion, Sheriff Brandywine threatened to put him in the same cell with Jesse Snow, and that decided him.

Calico and Quill left for Temptation and their Eden Ranch the next day. Willa and Calico had stood off to the side, watching the brothers say good-bye, and attempting to blink back tears with only marginal success. Looking on at the same exchange, and then at his daughter and Calico, Happy had grimaced. Everyone pretended not to notice that his eyes were damp.

Annalea returned to Pancake Valley after Eli was gone and in time to meet Quill and Calico. She changed her mind about becoming a card sharp and decided she would be a bounty hunter instead. After that, she spent a great many hours trying to sneak up on John Henry. The dog was so pitiful he mostly let her.

Willa sat curled on the sofa next to Israel, resting her head on his shoulder. He was still reading, but her book was lying closed on the floor. She did not look toward the fireplace, choosing to listen to the hiss and crackle of the flames instead. Israel had taught her how to hear the music that made the fire leap and dance, and sometimes she imagined she heard it when she was away from the house, but what she always saw when that music, or any music, wandered through her mind
was Israel. She would observe him as if from a distance, sometimes at the piano or reading as he was doing now, or just as likely, sitting astride that beast Galahad as he prepared to ride out to some part of the ranch that required his attention. He drew her to him in those quiet moments, and always she heard the whisper of music in her ear.

“What do you suppose will become of Big Bar?” she asked.

Israel continued to read. “That's what you've been thinking about?”

“No. Not at all. But I'm thinking about it now.”

“I suppose what happens depends on a jury finding for Eli's guilt or innocence, and if guilty, on what the judge determines is his punishment. If Eli goes to prison, he could put the ranch in Buster's hands until his release, but that could be a very long time, if ever.”

“What if he's sentenced to hang?”

Eli closed the book, marking his place with his index finger. “What are you really concerned about?”

“I worry that he'll leave Big Bar to Annalea. I keep asking myself if he could be that cruel. There'd be talk. You know there would, and suspicion would not fall on Malcolm—I can be thankful for that, at least—but there would be speculation about Eli and me. People who knew my mother, people who can still recall that she gave birth to Annalea when she was visiting me, those people will begin to wonder and then they'll begin to whisper and eventually Annalea will get wind of it. I don't want that, Israel. She does not deserve that.”

“Neither do you.” He bent his head and kissed the top of hers. “We could buy the spread from him.”

“We don't have that kind of money.”

“Pancake Valley is your family's free and clear, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don't know a bank anywhere that wouldn't accept the valley as collateral against a loan for Big Bar. We could manage that, Willa. If Happy agrees, I'll ride in to see Eli tomorrow.” Willa's head rose and fell when he shrugged
modestly. “I think I can persuade him. Quill says I can sell wool to—”

Willa sat up, threw her arms around him, and kissed him hard on the mouth. “I know what Quill says,” she whispered against his lips. “He's mostly right.”

“Mostly?”

She repeated what she had told Calico.

Israel chuckled quietly. “Shearing sheep and selling them back their own wool. You think I'm that good?”

“No,” she said, and claimed his mouth again. When she lifted her head, there was mischief in her eyes. “I think you can be that bad.”

“Oh.”

“Mm-hmm. Bad, but in a good way. You are a man of many interesting contradictions.”

“Well, then, here's one for you. Do you recall asking what would tempt me to play a serious game of poker here?”

“Yes. And you told me there was nothing.”

“I was wrong. There
is
something.”

Willa regarded with narrowed eyes and a pucker between her eyebrows. “What is it?”

“Clothes.”

Surprise made her blink. “Clothes? I don't understand. If you need clothes, you can buy them. You don't have to play for them.”

“I'm not going to play for mine. I want to play for yours.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It does if you're playing by my rules. Every hand I win, you have to give up something you are wearing. You can start with the ribbon in your hair, if you like.”

“And what if I win?”

“I like that you're optimistic.” When she wrinkled her nose at him, he said, “I'll tell you what, when I win, you can surrender any piece of yours that you want, and if you win, you can choose the article I have to remove.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head to one side as she considered the offer. “I guess you better get those cards then, because the first thing I mean to take from you is that cocky grin.”

She did get it . . . eventually . . . but by then she was wearing only a pair of drawers and playing her cards very close to her chest. Still, it was good to see him sober when she won the hand, and even better to hear his breath catch when she tossed the cards in the air and bore him down on the bed. He had to play by her rules then, which meant forfeiting whatever item of clothing struck her fancy no matter what card she pulled from around them.

“I like this game,” she said, lying fully on top of him. “I'm still wearing my drawers, and you're wearing me, and I don't even care if you think that makes you the victor.” His devilish chuckle tickled her breasts with its vibration. “You might want to claim your winnings now.”

“You think that's important, do you?”

Her grin was a wicked complement to his chuckle. She moved sinuously over him. “It's a little bit important.”

Growling softly in her ear, Israel turned Willa over and, in pursuit of their mutual pleasure, proved that loving her was more than a little bit important.

It was everything.

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THIS GUN FOR HIRE

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Sensation!

August 1888

Falls Hollow, Colorado

He watched her pause at the head of the stairs and survey the room. Her eyes swept over him and did not return. If she noticed that she had his full attention, she gave no indication. Perhaps she considered it no more than her due. Experience must have taught her that it gave a man a savoring sort of pleasure to look at her. Her pause had been deliberate, had it not? She raised one hand in a graceful, measured arc and placed it on the banister. The gesture drew his gaze away from her face. He doubted that he was alone in following it, but he glanced neither right nor left to confirm his suspicion.

She wore no gloves, no rings. Her hands needed no adornment. Her fingers were long and slender, the nails short but buffed. There was a moment, no more than that, when he could have sworn her hand tightened on the railing, gripping it hard enough for her knuckles to appear in stark, bloodless relief. Curious, his eyes lifted to her face to search for corroborating evidence that she was not quite at her ease. Nothing in her expression gave her away, and when he regarded her hand again, her fingers were merely curved over the rail, pink and perfect, and featherlight in their touch.

Quill McKenna wondered at what price she could be bought.

He had money. He had not planned to spend any of it on a whore, true, but experience had taught him that plans could, and should, change when new facts presented themselves.
She
was a new fact, and her presentation damn near took his breath away.

He was not entirely sure why that was so. As a rule, he preferred curves. Round breasts. Rounder bottoms. Soft, warm flesh in the cup of his palms. Also, he was drawn to blondes. Strawberry. Gold. Corn silk. Honey. Ash. Wheat. He liked a woman he could tuck under his chin. There was a certain comfort there, her being just so high that she was tuckable. Blue eyes, of course, liquid, lambent, and promising. He appreciated a woman who made promises, whether or not she intended to honor them. It kept him hopeful.

The woman standing on the lip of the uppermost step had none of the physical features that he typically admired. From face to feet, he counted more angles than curves. High cheekbones and a small pointed chin that was softened by the shadowed hint of a center cleft defined her oval face. Heavily applied lip rouge the color of ripe cherries accented the wide lush line of her mouth. Her eyes were almond shaped. He could not make out their precise color, but he doubted they were blue. Her hair, hanging loose behind her back, evoked the colors of night, not noon. Nothing about this woman was as it should be, and yet he continued to stare, knowing himself to be oddly fascinated.

With the exception of the brothel's madam, who wore an emerald green silk gown and matching green slippers, the whores who worked for her appeared in various states of dress—or undress, as it were. Sleeveless, loose-fitting, white cotton shifts that dipped low at the neckline seemed to be preferred, and fallen straps artfully arranged around plump arms exposed naked shoulders. The women wore the shifts under tightly laced corsets to accentuate hourglass figures. Most of the whores sported ruffled knickers that they tugged above their knees. A few wore black stockings and black ankle boots. Some wore no stockings at all and red or silver kid slippers.

Quill had spent enough time in uniform to recognize one when he saw it. The woman at the top of the stairs wore a variation of the theme. The straps of her shift rested on her shoulders; perhaps because she had not yet resigned herself
to the languid, lounging posture of her sisters who occupied overstuffed sofas, wide armchairs, and the laps of contented cowboys and miners.

She apparently had no use for a corset, and the shift hung straight to the middle of her calves. There was no flash of ruffle to indicate that she wore knickers. It was an intriguing notion that she might be naked under the shift, and the notion was supported by the fact that not only was she without stockings, she was also without shoes. Quill had no memory that he had ever found a barefooted woman immediately desirable, and yet . . .

Judging by the stirring in the room as the woman began her descent, he was not alone in his notions.

Quill's gaze returned to her face, and he saw that her eyes—whatever the color—were no longer surveying the room but had found their target. He tracked the direction to the source and discovered a man of considerable height and heft standing in the brothel's open doorway. It occurred to Quill that he might have mistaken the reason for the earlier stir in the room. It was certainly possible the madam, her girls, and her patrons had more interest in the man crossing the threshold than they had in the barefoot whore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Quill saw the madam step away from her place beside the upright piano, where she had been turning pages for one of the girls. She came into his line of vision as she approached her new guest. Quill recalled that he had been greeted warmly when he entered the house, but not by the madam. She had smiled and nodded at him, acknowledging his presence, but she had not left her post. Instead, one of the girls—whose name he never caught—relieved him of his hat and gun belt and escorted him to his present chair. Except to fetch him a whiskey, she had not left his side.

Clearly the madam had decided this customer deserved her special attention, although whether it was because he was a favorite or because of his considerable size and the potential threat it posed, Quill had no way of knowing. It occurred to him to put the question to the girl at his side, but then he became aware that her fingers were curled like
talons around his forearm where they had only been resting lightly moments before. Posing the question seemed unnecessary. This man represented someone worth fearing.

The madam smiled brightly if a shade stiffly. She held out her hand for his hat and gun belt, neither of which he gave her. Her extended arm hung awkwardly before she withdrew it. She took a visible breath and then spoke. “We've been expecting you, Mr. Whitfield. I suppose this means you heard about our new girl, the one I found especially for you.” She tilted her head ever so slightly toward the stairs.

Quill thought the gesture was unnecessary. Mr. Whitfield's gaze had been riveted on the woman on the staircase since he entered the brothel. Quill was not convinced that Whitfield had even seen the madam's outstretched arm or been aware that she wanted to relieve him of his gun.

“By God, you did, Mrs. Fry,” he said under his breath. “I'll be damned.”

“You will get no argument from me.”

Quill suppressed a grin at the madam's cheek. Mrs. Fry had spoken softly, but she was in no danger of being heard even if she had shouted the retort. Whitfield was paying her no mind.

Whitfield lifted his hat, slicked back his hair with the palm of his hand, and then replaced the black Stetson. He sucked in his lips as he took a deep breath. He had the manner of a man calming himself, a man who did not want to appear too eager or at risk for losing control.

Quill's gaze swiveled back to the stairs. The woman was standing on the lip of the bottom step. He could see that she was not as young as she appeared from a distance. He had taken her for eighteen and no more than twenty when she appeared on the landing. He revised that notion now, adding four, maybe five years to his estimate. There was a certain maturity in her level stare, a composure that would not have been carried so easily by someone younger, or someone inexperienced. If the madam had hoped to present a virgin to Mr. Whitfield, she had very much mistaken the matter. It did not seem Mrs. Fry would have made such an obvious error. That could only mean that something else was afoot.

Quill wished he had resisted giving over his Colt. It would have been a comfort just then to have it at his side.

Whitfield's gaze did not shift to the madam when he asked, “What's her name?”

“Katie. Katie Nash.”

Whitfield's lips moved as he repeated the name but there was no accompanying sound. He nodded slightly, as though satisfied it suited her, and it struck Quill that there was something inherently reverent in the small gesture.

Mrs. Fry crooked a finger in Katie's direction. “Over here, girl, and make Mr. Whitfield's acquaintance.”

Katie took a step forward, smiled.

Whitfield put out his hand, stopping her approach. “You don't have to listen to her,” he said. “I'm paying for your time now. You listen to me, Miss Katie Nash, and you and I will do proper acquaintance-making upstairs.”

Katie Nash stayed precisely where she was.

The madam boldly cocked a painted eyebrow at Whitfield and turned over her hand, showing her empty palm. Quill thought Mrs. Fry demonstrated considerable temerity to demand payment up front from this customer, especially when it appeared she had made some effort to please him by recruiting Katie Nash for her house. Again, he was not alone in his thinking; he was aware that the girl at his side was holding her breath.

Whitfield stared at the madam's hand for several long moments. He had the broad shoulders and barrel chest befitting a man of his height. His chest jumped slightly as quiet laughter rumbled through him. Abruptly, it was over. He laid his large palm over Mrs. Fry's, covering hers completely. “You must be very certain of my satisfaction.” When she did not respond, he said, “In good time, Mrs. Fry. Allow me to be the judge of how well you've done.” He waited for the madam to withdraw her hand before he lowered his. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes, and no one in the parlor was comforted by it.

It was Katie Nash who eased the tension. She ignored Whitfield's earlier edict and crossed the room to stand directly in front of him. With no hesitation, she laid her palms against
his chest and raised her face. Her smile held all the warmth that his had not. “About that acquaintance making . . .”

As though mesmerized, he blinked slowly.

Katie Nash's dark, unbound hair swung softly as she tilted her head in the direction of the stairs. “I have whiskey in my room. Mrs. Fry told me what you most particularly like.”

Quill did not doubt that Miss Nash was speaking to something more than Whitfield's taste in liquor. Whitfield seemed to know it, too. Quill almost laughed as the man nodded dumbly.

Katie's palms slid across Whitfield's chest to his upper arms, and after a moment's pause, glided down to his shirt cuffs. Her long fingers were still not long enough to completely circle his wrists. She held them loosely, lifted them a fraction, and then dropped the left one in favor of taking him by the right hand. “Come with me,” she said. And when he did not move, she tugged and turned, and led him, docile as a lamb, toward the staircase.

Quill tracked them as they climbed. They were just more than three-quarters of the way up when he was seized by a sudden impulse to follow. He did not realize that he had in some way communicated that urge until he felt his companion's outstretched arm across his chest. He glanced sideways at her, saw the small shake of her head, and released the breath he had not known he was holding. He leaned back the smallest fraction necessary to encourage her to withdraw her restraining arm. When she did, he settled more deeply in his chair, the picture of self-control and containment while every one of his senses was alert to a danger he could not quite identify.

At the top of the stairs Katie Nash and Whitfield turned left and disappeared from view. The moment they were out of sight, there was a subtle, but unmistakable, shift in the mood of the girls, their patrons, and the madam herself. The whore at the piano began playing again, softly at first, and then more loudly as her confidence grew. Someone tittered. A giggle, pitched nervously north of high C, followed. That elicited a chuckle from one of the cowboys, then some deep-throated laughter from another.

Quill did not join in, although the woman beside him did. Without asking if he wanted another drink, she plucked the empty glass from his hand and went to the sideboard to refill it. She returned quickly, a little swing in her nicely rounded hips as she approached. Standing in front of him, she held out the glass. When he took it, she eased herself onto his lap.

“So what about you?” she asked, sliding one arm around Quill's neck as she fit her warm bottom comfortably against his thighs. “What is it I can do for you, Mr.—” She stopped and made a pouty face. “I do not believe you told me your name. I would remember.” She leaned in so her lips were close to his ear. Her warm breath tickled. “I remember names. I am very good at it.”

“I can't say the same right now,” he said. “I don't recall yours.”

She sat up, the pout still defining the shape of her mouth. “Honey. They call me Honey on account of my hair.” With this, she tilted her head to one side so a fall of curls cascaded over her shoulder. She fingered the tips. “See? You can touch. It feels like honey. Soft, you know. But thick, too.”

“Viscous.”

“What? Did you say vicious?”

“Viscous. Thick and sticky.”

“Oh.” Her pout disappeared in place of an uncertain smile. “I suppose.” She withdrew her fingers from her hair. A few strands clung stubbornly until she brushed them away. “I don't figure I would mind having your fingers caught in my hair.”

“Hmm.” Quill's eyes darted toward the top of the stairs.

Honey touched his chin with her fingertip and turned his attention back to her. “Forget about her. You have no cause to worry. Do you see anyone else here showing a lick of concern?”

He did not. There had been interest when she appeared, but it was Whitfield's arrival that aroused apprehension. What he felt in the room now that Whitfield was gone was collective relief.

“Quill McKenna.”

“How's that again?”

“My name. Quill McKenna.”

She smiled, tapped him on the mouth with the tip of her index finger. “I see. Finally.” She removed her finger. “Quill. It's unusual, isn't it? What sort of name is it?”