The Stealth Commandos Trilogy (16 page)

Annie walked to the front door and threw it open, staring out through the darkness at the road that had taken him away. She didn’t want to delve too deeply into her realizations at that moment. They were too new, too fragile. And yet they’d come upon her so forcefully, she wanted to think they’d been inspired by divine guidance. It seemed the insights in themselves were a sign. She’d been seeking an answer, and she’d been given it.

If she was right—and with every breath she felt more confident that she was—then what she had to do now was find a way to explain all this to Chase. She had to help him understand what she herself was just beginning to understand.

“You got yourself a case of the Wyoming flu, partner?”

Chase gave the bartender a nod that succinctly communicated his state of mind. Yes, he did have himself a case of the Wyoming flu—which was also called a hangover in these parts; he needed some hundred-proof care, and he wanted to be left alone while he drank it.

“Looks like you could use some t’rantula juice,” the bartender said, chuckling. “Shame I ain’t got any.”

Chase glared at the man, who quickly poured him a double Jack Daniel’s and pushed it across the counter. The whiskey seared a path down Chase’s throat like a blowtorch and ignited a fiery furnace in his gut. A moment later the alcohol’s blue heat had numbed his throbbing forehead, and even thawed his icy heart a little.

An auburn-haired barmaid sidled up next to him, resting her chin on her palm and wrinkling her nose. If that was meant to be a smile, she needed some practice, Chase thought. But he did nothing to encourage her. He’d come to the Prairie Oyster to escape women and their interfering ways.

Chase downed the rest of his drink and pushed the empty shot glass back to the bartender for a refill. Women. They messed with men’s cars and froo-frooed up their houses. They invaded a man’s privacy, disordered his thinking, and stole away his dog’s affections. A woman couldn’t leave life the way she found it. She had to screw around with the natural balance of things.

“Women are creating a new endangered species,” he said, directing his damning prediction toward the barmaid. “Men.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Chase concentrated on his fresh drink, ignoring both the woman and the commotion that had just broken out near the entrance of the bar.

“Would you just look at that,” the barmaid murmured, indicating the fracas Chase was trying to ignore. “Shame on them bullies, picking on that cute young fella. I’ll bet he doesn’t have himself such a jackass attitude about women.”

Chase swung around to look, more to get the barmaid off his case then because he was interested. The commotion had moved to the center of the room, where a half-dozen cowpunchers down from one of the local ranches had encircled the newcomer. Chase eyed the young man in question, noting his outsized Stetson and denim jacket. He was a skinny kid with dirt smeared all over his beardless face and a jawful of chewing tobacco.

“You old enough to be in a bar, junior?” one of the cowpunchers asked, tapping the kid’s Stetson.

The kid nodded, chewed hard on his tobacco, and spit out a wad of bug juice. The brown stuff landed with an impressive splat on the sawdust-strewn floor. A murmur of approval rippled through the room. And the kid kept chewing, vigorously.

“Damn poor velocity, kid,” a second cowhand challenged. “Hock it up big, if you can, and let that there wad fly.”

The kid nodded again and made a disgusting noise, screwing up his face and spitting hard. This time the juice went wide, but it still managed to clear the first shot by a foot. There was another murmur of approval, and someone at the bar even suggested getting the kid a beer. But the cowpunchers weren’t satisfied.

“Not bad for a drip-nose runt,” one of them sneered. “But the kid’s got no aim a’tall.”

The barmaid sashayed toward the circle of men, batting her drugstore eyelashes at the kid. “Bet you can shoot straight when you want to,” she said, giving him the once-over. “That right, cowboy?”

The kid swallowed, and went slightly pale.

“You didn’t answer the lady’s question, boy,” the cowpuncher said, flashing his cohorts an evil grin. “Damn if this Twinkie ain’t impolite too.”

“I’ll bet I can throw him furthern he can spit,” bragged another one. “Let’s shag his skinny ass out of here.”

The cowhands began to close in on the kid when someone at the bar yelled out, “Hold it, boys! First, ask the kid if he’s a boy or a girl.”

The saloon came alive with whistles and catcalls. Being called a girl was the ultimate insult to a macho cowboy. Now there was sure to be a fight, thought Chase, getting interested. He recognized the cowpuncher who was leading he fray as the man he’d caught “mending” fences. And the heavyset, mustached man at the bar was the foreman at the McAffrey ranch. He was drinking a glass of blue chalky stuff, and some of it had tipped his mustache white. But Chase was far more interested in the kid, who was also beginning to look strangely familiar to him.

Chase swung all the way around and rested the back of his elbows on the bar, studying the scene. The kid worked his mouth ferociously, readying himself like a pitcher on the mound. Finally he dragged up a hock from hell and blew a blackish projectile that looked as though it were going out of the ballpark. Trouble was, there was an obstacle in its path. The foul wet wad caught the “fence mender” at close range, hitting his mail-order shirt with a sickening splash. Tobacco juice flew every which way, splattering several of the other men in the circle.

“Why, you little lizard turd,” said the befouled man, grabbing the kid by the lapel of his jacket.

A second man reached into his boot for a weapon, but before he could get the knife free, there was an earsplitting crack of sound, and the blade went flying out of his hand. The disarmed man spun around, astonished. And at the same time, the entire bar turned to look at Chase Beaudine. He was drawing back the rawhide thong of his bullwhip, a look of hellish calm and deliberation in his eyes.

“Now that we’ve settled that matter,” he said, addressing the cowpunchers, “I’d appreciate it if you boys were to back off. I’d like to deal with this ‘Twinkie’ in my own way.”

“What’s this got to do with you, Beaudine?” one of the cowhands said, a cigarette dangling from his fleshy lower lip.

The whip flashed out, an underhand throw that cut the man’s cigarette cleanly in half not an inch from his mouth. “I’ve got a score to settle with the kid,” Chase said. “Any problem with that?”

The room went silent as Chase yanked the whip back and wielded it one last time, wrapping it around the kid’s waist. The kid looked greenish at the gills, and completely stunned. He dug in his heels, not going anywhere if he could help it, which nobody would have blamed him for in this case. But Beaudine had other ideas. He tugged the kid forward with a hard jerk.

Chase made no attempt to be gentle as he reeled in the reluctant fish he’d hooked. As soon as the kid was close enough, Chase caught hold of his jacket and dragged him close, letting the whip uncoil and fall away. “I hope you’ve got a damn good reason for pulling this stunt, Missy,” he said under his breath. “Because I’m not pleased.”

Annie’s mouth was so stuffed with chewing tobacco, her voice was little more than a gurgle. “I can s’plain,” she managed.

“Damn right you can,” Chase said, glancing around the room and gauging his chances of getting out of the place without a fight. “But not here.” The saloon’s back door was the nearest exit, and it opened onto an alley. “That way,” he said, gathering up the whip as he pushed Annie toward the door.

Every bloodshot eye in the bar watched them make their exit. The foreman from the McAffrey ranch seemed particularly interested in Annie. “I swear I’ve seen that kid before,” he said, “in Vern Sweetwater’s drugstore. If that’s a man, then I’m the queen of Sheba.”

The barmaid threw in her two cents. “Well, just no wonder Chase Beaudine can’t be bothered with red-blooded, double-breasted females. He likes funkier stuff.”

“Come on,” Chase said to Annie, once they were in the alley. “The car’s around front, parked on the street.”

“Can I get rid of this chewing tobacco?” Annie called after him, tugged along in his wake as they jogged through the alley. “My stomach’s getting queasy.”

“Your stomach ought to be queasy after that fiasco,” he said in a tone so low it was little more than a growl. “Spit out the wad and keep moving,” he ordered. “I want you out of here before that bunch of yahoos decide to make you their mascot.”

Annie took his advice to heart, promising herself that she would brush her teeth and rinse out her mouth about a hundred times starting the minute she got back to the cabin. For now she intended to follow Chase’s orders to the letter. He was probably mad enough to murder her himself, but at the moment he seemed preoccupied with saving them both from embarrassment. And she wanted to keep it that way.

“But I rode into town on Fire,” she told Chase, both of them breathing hard as they reached the Bronco. “I tied her up down by the feed store.”

Chase unlocked the car door and waved Annie into the passenger seat. “That’s okay, it’s Tom O’Malley’s store. He’ll take care of her until I can get back into town to get her.”

It wasn’t until they were on the road and heading out of town that Chase unleashed the questions he’d obviously been holding in check. “Fill me in, Red,” he said, his voice low and dangerously controlled. “I’m real curious about your reasons for crashing my private party.”

Now didn’t seem the moment to tell him that she understood all his crazy behavior, and that he was actually madly in love with her, so she offered a couple other reasons instead, which she realized were true the moment she uttered them. “I was worried about you, and ... and I wanted to apologize for letting you think that we had made lo—”

“Don’t remind me,” he said abruptly. He glanced over at her, his eyes narrowing in pained disbelief as he took in her appearance. “What are you supposed to be, for God’s sake?” His lips twitched as he asked the question, but his words sounded like snarls.

“I thought—I was hoping to be taken for a drifter. But I guess not, huh?” She removed the Stetson and shook her hair free. “Listen, I’m sure most of those people didn’t pick up on that comment about my being a boy or a girl. And even if they did, it would only confuse them.”

“Confuse them? You jump-started their batteries. They’re probably taking odds right now on whether Chase Beaudine prefers cross-dressers or teenage boys.”

Chase spiked the gas pedal and pulled out around a horse trailer. The burst of speed reminded him how seriously ticked he was with her. Ticked enough to wreak some havoc, he thought, which meant he had better take a deep breath and bring it down. The possibility of being married to her was bad enough. He didn’t want to do hard time for wringing her skinny neck.

As he roared down the road, he was tempted to continue the third degree. He was burning to ask her some questions, such as where she got the brass to do the things she did. And who the hell had taught her to chew tobacco. But what he really wanted to do was put the fear of God in Annie Wells. He wanted to see some bona fide contrition for all the grief she’d caused him, and he wanted it complete with tearful admissions of guilt and pleas for forgiveness. It would have given him the blackest, but greatest, pleasure to have her begging for mercy at that moment. And with that kind of fire burning inside him, he didn’t trust himself to keep a level head if she gave him a wrong answer. Just one. That was all it would take.

Keep driving, cowboy, he told himself.

Annie absorbed Chase’s taut silence uneasily. She was loath to initiate any conversation, but she was also profoundly curious to know what he was thinking—and if he had something dreadful in mind, like retribution. His stormy anger made her think of Sister Maria Innocentia’s discourses on self-denial, mortification, and penance. Annie had never fully understood how mortification figured into the religious experience, but she was beginning to understand it where men and women were concerned. She and Chase seemed destined to mortify and humble each other.

“What are you planning to do?” she asked, making it a point not to look at him.

“About you? I don’t know yet. And until I get it figured out, I’d suggest you don’t give me any ideas. I’m half tempted to tie you up and lock you in the barn to keep you out of trouble. No, I’m
real
tempted.”

Annie sucked in a breath and held it, not allowing herself to move as her heart started up with a painful jerk. “No, you won’t,” she said, her voice barely audible. She knew Chase was staring at her, but she didn’t give a damn. She’d been through all the abuse she ever intended to go through in prison. She wouldn’t let him, or anyone, tie her up, or lock her up, anywhere. Ever.

When she finally found the courage to speak, her voice was taut and trembling. “If I’ve done anything wrong, at least it was for the right reasons. I never meant to hurt you, only to help. And I never meant to make you angry. I was hoping to improve the condition of your life a little, to promote some happiness.”

Chase had returned his focus to the road ahead, as though he didn’t want to see, or be affected by, her emotions. “Well, do me a favor,” he said, a hint of entreaty in his harsh voice. “Stop promoting my happiness. You’re making me miserable.”

The CB erupted in static, giving Annie a terrible start.

“Flying Nun?” a man’s voice called. “You there, gal? This is Hopalong, your favorite road warrior.”

Chase glanced at the microphone, confused.

“I think that’s for me,” Annie said. She reached for the microphone, but Chase beat her to it. His huge hand covered the mike as he stared at Annie. He looked for all the world like a man who’d just been diagnosed with a terminal illness—the disease being her.

Hopalong’s voice shattered the ominous silence. “You still burning up the asphalt, baby?” he said.

Chase picked up the mike and stared at it, his jaw flexing as if he meant to eat the thing. Finally he hit the button and spoke into the unit. “The Flying Nun has had her wings clipped. Permanently.”