The Gunfighter and the Heiress (3 page)

Van clamped his sagging jaw shut as he stared down at the crown of her shiny auburn head. Despite his vast and
varied experience, he couldn't recall a single instance in his life when he had been struck speechless.

“So…this is your mysterious fiancée,” Bart murmured, his green eyes dancing with amusement. “Excellent choice, my friend. You have my stamp of approval.”

N
ow that Natalie had thwarted the gunfight and had gained everyone's undivided attention, she pasted on a smile and pivoted to study Donovan Crow. At six foot two, he towered over the crowd. He was two hundred pounds of brawn and muscle and he had a rugged, earthy appeal Natalie found intriguing.

Crow was dressed in dark breeches, a dark shirt and scuffed black boots. The thick, dark stubble on his face indicated he hadn't been near a razor for at least a week. His eyes were an intriguing shade of blue that appeared silver in the flickering light. His shaggy raven hair could use a clipping, she noted. He was nothing like the cocky men who strutted around her social circle in New Orleans. Thank God!

She decided Donovan Crow would suit her purpose perfectly. His formidable reputation warned sensible men to take a wide berth around him—with the exception of the young cowboy too drunk to realize how foolish he was. According to the circulating legend, Crow was as good with his fists as he was with pistols and daggers. You did
not tangle with the man hailed as one of the fastest—if not
the
fastest—gunfighters west of the Mississippi.

Not unless you had a death wish.

Or you desperately needed Crow's expertise to protect you from the two conniving bastards who would breathe down your neck and do bodily harm if you didn't watch out.

While she still had a captive audience in the saloon—and more specifically the attention of the man she'd spent the day trying to track down—she pushed up on tiptoe and looped her arm around his broad shoulders. Then she kissed him right smack-dab on his chiseled lips. He stood like stone and stared her down with those eyes that were the color of blue ice.

She dropped down on her heels and stepped back to flash him a blinding smile. “I've missed you like crazy, my love,” she said with her exaggerated Southern drawl.

Turning her back on his frosty stare—and she could still feel it boring into her spine—she passed her most dazzling smile around the saloon. “Drinks are on me, gentlemen.”

Natalie placed money on the scarred bar, then glanced at Crow, who was still watching her like a hawk. His stare was unnerving, she did admit, but she marshaled her courage and slipped her hand into his.

“I expected you to meet me at the train depot, darling.”

“I'll just bet you did,
sweetheart.
”

The endearment he growled in her ear sounded more like a curse. She was pretty sure that's the way he meant it. But she was a woman on a mission and she wasn't about to let something as insignificant as a curse deter her.

Clutching his hand, she tugged him toward the door. The patrons parted like the Red Sea when she zigzagged around the tables. “Sorry for the interruption, gentlemen,”
she called out to the slack-jawed customers. “But I haven't seen my fiancé for such a long time and we have arrangements to make.”

She was surprised the legendary gunfighter allowed her to tow him outside. Thankfully, he waited until they were standing on the boardwalk before he wheeled her around to face his dark scowl.

“Who the hell are you and what was that melodramatic little scene about?”

“You're welcome for me saving your life,” she countered nonchalantly, hooking her arm around his elbow and guiding him across the street.

He expelled a snort. “You didn't save my life, sunshine.”

To her surprise, he didn't yank her to a halt in the middle of the street and commence raking her over live coals.

“You saved that drunken
kid
who picked a fight with me,” he muttered.

She nodded and smiled approvingly, despite his unsettling glare. “Confidence. I like that in a man.”

“Now what's this nonsense about a wedding that
isn't
going to take place day after tomorrow?” He eyed her warily. “And why did you send the telegram from Fort Worth, claiming you're my fiancée? Which you are not.” He gave her that hard, bone-chilling stare again. “Whatever game you're playing, you need to know that you picked the wrong groom.”

Natalie disagreed. When it came to selecting the perfect husband, Donovan Crow met her specific requirements. Her brilliant scheme would teach those sneaky bastards not to plan her marriage or her life. By damned, she was in charge of her own destiny. She would never,
ever,
be a man's pawn again. This was her Independence Day.
Nothing, not even a surly, reluctant groom, was going to stop her now.

“Do you need my help, Van?” came a cultured voice from behind them.

Natalie glanced over her shoulder to see the studious-looking gentleman standing on the boardwalk outside Road To Ruin Saloon.

“I can say no to her by myself, Bart,” Crow said without taking his icy glare off her.

“We'll be in my room, having a discussion.” He glanced at Bart. “Bring me the bottle I just opened at the saloon.”

For a split second, unease skittered down her spine. The prospect of being shut in his room brought all sorts of unpleasant scenarios to mind. A moment of doubt tried to accost her. She didn't know Crow except by reputation. He was a hard-edged, hard-nosed gunfighter who never failed an assignment. He was relentless until he brought his missions to satisfying conclusions.

She wondered if he dealt the same way with women—especially one who made the public announcement they were getting married.

She quickly reminded herself that Crow had permitted her to tow him by the hand. She took it as a good sign since he hadn't tossed her in the dirt and stamped all over her. She inhaled a bolstering breath and shored up her floundering resolve. Short of physical abuse—and she had a two-shot derringer tucked in her pocket so she would be prepared for that—she told herself she could hold her own with the brawny gunfighter.

Natalie had spent three months diligently preparing for this moment. She wasn't backing down. She knew exactly what she wanted and needed and she planned to get it. She needed the toughest, most dangerous gun for hire she could locate and Donovan Crow was it.

After all, she reminded herself, Donovan Crow could be
bought.
That's another reason she had selected him.

 

The hotel clerk tossed Van a speculative glance while he led the bewitching female in yellow across the lobby and up the steps. Thanks to her startling announcement in the saloon, the town was abuzz with gossip and speculation. But very soon, Van would squelch the preposterous notion of an upcoming marriage and he'd get to bottom of Miss Sunshine's theatrical performance. Yet, he had to hand it to this daring chit. She had walked boldly into a saloon full of men, thrust herself into the middle of a potential showdown, then dropped the bomb that left him momentarily thunderstruck.

When the woman reached the head of the steps and veered right, he tugged her to the left and led the way to his suite.

She blinked in surprise as he ushered her inside. “You have a two-room suite. How did you rate that, Crow?”

“It's where I live when I'm not on assignment.” He made a stabbing gesture toward the settee in the sitting room. “
Sit,
sunshine.”

She didn't obey immediately, just tilted her chin stubbornly and met his hard stare. Now why wasn't he surprised?

“Fine. Stand up if you want, but I'm sitting down.” He sprawled carelessly on the sofa. “I've just returned from a long, exhausting foray. I'm tired and I'm cranky. You can either tell me what this wedding nonsense is about or leave me the hell alone. I really don't care which. But you should know there will be no wedding, no matter what you say.”

Her cautious gaze darted speculatively to the empty space beside him and then to the door. She expected him
to pounce on her and she was calculating how fast she could reach the door to escape his evil clutches.

Van swallowed a grin—and realized he didn't have reason to smile often. She was a refreshing change in his routine. And yes, he did admit that veering into the bedroom to catch up on the lack of intimate activity he'd suffered lately held tremendous appeal. But caution overrode temptation. He was curious to know what sort of plot the auburn-haired beauty was trying to embroil him in.

His thoughts scattered like a flock of geese when some-one—Bart, judging by the precise knock—rapped on the door. Sunshine nearly leaped out of her fetching yellow gown but she composed herself quickly and spun toward the door.

“It's me,” Bart called out, then burst in without awaiting invitation. He set the whiskey bottle on the table near the window, along with three glasses.

“This is Bartholomew Collier, my business manager and local lawyer,” Van introduced. “Bart, this is…” He waited for her to fill in the blank.

“Anna Jones,” she supplied smoothly as she extended her hand to Bart.

She graced Bart with a dazzling smile that all but melted him into a gooey puddle. When he collected himself, he doubled over her hand, then pressed a light kiss to her wrist.

Although Bart had taught Van white society's social nuances, he bowed to no one—man or woman.

In Indian culture, to do so was a sign of weakness.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Jones,” Bart murmured against her wrist.

Anna Jones?
Ha! Van inwardly scoffed. Before the evening ended, he vowed to discover the woman's real name and find out what she really wanted from him. Bart could
play all the senseless social games he wanted but Van had survived well enough for thirty-two years without bothering with the white man's social posturing and protocol.

“Thanks for the whiskey and glasses,” Van said dismissively. “We'll talk later, Bart.”

Bart glanced at the bottle and glasses Van scooped up, then stared pensively at Anna Jones—or whoever she really was. Van inclined his head toward the door, directing Bart to make himself scarce—and do it fast.

When Bart exited reluctantly, Van set a glass of whiskey in front of Miss Jones. “Drink up, sunshine.”

She sat down beside him on the settee but she didn't reach for her drink. He took her hand and wrapped it around the glass. Her dark eyes popped when he touched her and he found himself swallowing another grin. Sunshine wasn't as bold and daring as she'd let on in public. He guessed she was a tad bit afraid of him. Good. He preferred to maintain an edge with clients and antagonists.

He still wasn't sure which one Little Miss Sunshine was.

Van sipped his drink and urged her to do the same. When she didn't, he said, “In negotiations, which I figure this must be, Indians pass a peace pipe. White man's policy is to discuss the assignment over a glass of wine or whiskey.” He didn't mention that peace pipes usually contained ingredients that had the same effects of liquor. “This is the only white protocol I usually follow. I leave the hand-kissing to gentlemen, which I am not and never plan to be.”

He half turned on the couch to face her directly. “Now what is it that you really want from me, sunshine?”

“The name is Anna Jones.” She took a cautious sip and gasped to draw breath.

“No, it isn't.” Van whacked her between the shoulder
blades to prevent her from choking. When she could breathe again, he pushed the glass back to her lips, insisting she take another sip. She did, reluctantly. “My friend calls me Van,” he informed her, then chugged his drink.

“Friend?”
she questioned then took another dainty sip.

“I just have the one,” he informed her then smiled wryly. “Two, now that the whole town thinks you're my fiancée. Drink up or I'll fetch the peace pipe and we'll do it Indian-style.”

She clamped her lush lips shut defiantly when he tried to force her to take another drink. “You are not going to get me inebriated and take advantage of me, Mr. Crow.”

“Van,” he corrected. “Then start talking. Unless you want to end up on your back in the bedroom and to hell with whatever scheme you've hatched by declaring we'll soon be wed.”

That threat should get her talking, he predicted. Bold as she was, he sensed she didn't trust him. Smart woman. Van wasn't sure he trusted himself with the mysterious, alluring woman who had him entertaining all sorts of illicit fantasies.

When her gaze darted to the door again, he shook his head warningly. “You'll never make it, sunshine. Plus, screaming won't do you any good because no one would dare to venture in here. Except maybe Bart and you'd feel
just awful
if I had to kill my only friend because of you.”

She fiddled with the folds of her skirt and he noticed the outline of a derringer she had tucked in the pocket sewn into the seam of her gown. She stared at him in annoyance.

“All right. Fine,” she muttered. Then she sent him a mocking toast, grimaced and took another drink. “This stuff tastes awful. Maybe I'd prefer the peace pipe and powwow.”

“Another time perhaps.” He inclined his head toward her drink. “Trust me, sunshine, whiskey gets better with each glass. Take another sip.”

“One thing you should know, Crow,” she said, staring at him from beneath impossibly long, curly lashes.

“What's that?”

“I never trust men.”

“Neither do I. Most of them try to cheat you or kill you. Sometimes they try to do one right after the other.”

“Which is why I'm here to bargain with you, Mr. Crow.”

“As Bart is fond of saying, bargain with the devil and you end up in hell. Some folks claim that's where you are when you deal with men like me. So tell me why you're here. What sort of bargain did you have in mind, sunshine?”

He watched her inhale a deep breath. His gaze reflexively dropped to the enticing display of cleavage he'd tried—and failed miserably—not to notice several times already.

“I have decided to take complete control of my life,” she burst out hurriedly, then took another sip.