The Trailrider's Fortune (7 page)

"The gals
don't know you got a scar under your shirt."

"Ain't my
scar. Just time to mosey."

"Saloon cats
givin' their payin' customers orders now, huh? You really got someone to see,
or is it a case of the French pox?"

Rafe's right hand
balled into a fist. "You'll always be the little brother, Travis. I can
still whip you, so watch your tongue."

"I know you're
never with any but rented gals. This painted cat…"

"She ain't a
whore," Rafe insisted. "She works in a saloon, I grant you, but she's
a pretty waiter gal. She had some trouble, so I…we started puttin' on like
she's my wife."

"Your
wife
?
Jesus! You got a soiled dove in the family way?" Travis visibly winced.

"I just told
you, she ain't no soiled dove. And she ain't expectin', just claimin' we're
married so she won't have to fight with the saloonkeeper about whorin'."

"Great. She's
not some pregnant harlot. Just a sneak and a liar who favors the notion of
bein' hitched to a mercenary. Sounds like a slice of pure heaven."

Rafe ignored the
sarcasm. "Screw you, Travis. All I tried to do was saddle Snatch and get
out. Don't remember invitin' your big nose into my life. But as long as we're
on the subject, the gal asked where she could get in touch with me. I told her
she could write me here. You hear from a gal named Sparkle, let Zach know. He
or Miranda usually know where to wire me, since I transfer funds to the bank
pretty regular."

"
Sparkle
?"
Travis took two steps back, shaking his head. "Why not go whole hog and
make it Golddust, for pity's sake? Ain't too bold, is she?"

Rafe glanced at his
brother. "You say one more thing like that, I'll take my whip to your
back. Ain't funnin', Travis."

Travis scowled.
"Sparkle. If she ain't a regular doxy, she must be a singer or dancer…gal
with a name like that."

"She reads
fortunes."

Travis snorted and
slapped his thighs. Rafe swung up into the saddle, frowning back. "You
won't be laughin' when she helps me find Hoffman and put a bullet through his
skull."

"Never gettin'
past that, are you? Uncle Tom rode with Slade's gang. Had to go lookin' for pie
in the sky. It ain't up there, Rafe. Most of the time, fellas lookin' for manna
from above just find trouble here below. Miranda's always frettin' you'll meet
the same end Uncle Tom did. Reckon I want to set next to her at your funeral,
after you've taken a couple slugs in the back? Been offerin' you half this
spread the past two years."

"Ain't the
kind who can stay in one place long. You know that. Winter's enough. I couldn't
do this all year round. Ain't in me to grow roots in one spot."

"Is she at
least pretty, this fortune teller you're sort of hitched to?"

Now Rafe grinned.
"The finest. Little bitty thing, doesn't even come up to my shoulder. Boss
threw her in the street right on top of my boot. She got up and gave him hell.
Then I got him to reconsider his rude actions."

"The Colt got
him to, you mean."

"Yep. She's
got these incredible eyes…aquamarine, all clear and sparkling…Guess that's why
the name. And Sparkle LaFleur
is
her real name." He winked as he
nudged the sorrel's flank. "Think I'd let some ugly hag claim she was my
wife? I got a reputation, you know."

"She knows,
too, so what the hell does she see in you? Can't be your plug-ugly face or
disposition," Travis taunted. "Told her you had a handsome younger
brother, did you?"

"Didn't tell
her spit, except your name and that you own this spread. What's she see in me?
She's a fortune teller, remember? She can see what other folks can't."

Travis watched his
brother ride off, mulling over Rafe's revelation. Then he went back to the main
house, straight to his desk, and took out a pen and paper. He settled at the
kitchen table with a mug of strong coffee to write Miranda. He knew Rafe would
be furious, but Travis felt their sister ought to know Rafe had gone loco over
some doxy. Travis would just bet she was indeed a whore, no matter what Rafe
said.

Maybe she was
everything Rafe thought she was. Maybe.

But saloon gals
were known to judge a man by the gold in his pockets. If she had the smarts
Rafe credited her for, she could figure out he must have reward money piling
up. Travis prayed this Sparkle genuinely cared for Rafe. Because Rafe had never
been sweet enough on a gal to ride three acres to see her, let alone three
hundred miles. Rafe had to have it bad for this gal in Wichita, whoever she
truly was.

And Lordy, she'd
better be someone mighty special. If not, Travis warned Miranda in his letter,
their brother might just turn into quarry stone. If Sparkle La-Dee-Da was just
another calculating saloon slut, Rafe was headed for a world of misery.

* * *

Rafe strolled into
the Scarlet Lady, his hands and lips chapped, his lower body stiff from riding
nearly two days straight without stopping for more than an hour at a time. He'd
been on the trail for two weeks. One of the red dresses he recognized from his
previous visit detached herself from the little clump of employees hovering
near the bar and sashayed over.

She had curly light
hair and big doe eyes. The same dress that made Sparkle look trim had this gal
resembling an overstuffed pillow ready to bust its seams. "Howdy,
y'all," the girl muttered, offering a weak smile. "Sparkle ain't back
yet. Won't be, till day after tomorra. My name's Brenda. Sparkle and I are
friends."

Rafe interpreted
that to mean she knew where Sparkle was. "She gone home to visit her
brother?"

"Well, of
course, silly. She took the train to Kansas City last Monday. How come you
don't know where your own wife is? Out playin' Goldilocks, testin' other
beds?"

Rafe vehemently
shook his head. "Been workin' in Colorado. Got here sooner than I figured.
Recollect she wanted to go home for a spell," he lied. He'd only been
guessing.

"Frazer
wouldn't let her go for Christmas, even though it was so slow round here, we
damned near had to start givin' the faro dealers free rides upstairs, just to
keep in practice." She wet her lower lip and gave Rafe a different sort of
smile. "She didn't get to spend the holidays with you, neither."

"I work all
over. Can't always make it back when I want."

"Saw the ring
you bought her. Funny, she's never talked about how y'all happened to get
hitched or nothin'. Not that she tells me everything…like how she enjoyed her
weddin' night."

Rafe caught the key
significance of that comment. The doe eyes were fastened on the crotch of his jeans,
making him mentally squirm. He hadn't been with a woman in…shit, he realized it
had to be several months. Any other time, he'd have been halfway up the stairs
with this one. He wasn't a man to disregard an open invitation. But he also
wasn't about to risk dippin' his ladle in this particular well. Frazer would
make sure Sparkle heard about it before the doors stopped swingin' behind her
bustle.

Rafe tipped his
hat. "Got other business hereabouts. Tell Sparkle I'll be lookin' for
her."

He headed down for
Sadie's and had a drink while sitting in on a few games of faro. Gambling
usually kept his mind off women. He took it seriously, almost as seriously as
his business contracts. Luck wasn't with him today, though. The house changed
dealers, a buxom female taking over shortly after he'd begun a brief winning
streak.

Her eyes kept going
back to him and holding his a second or so before drifting toward the other
players. An hour later, the male she'd relieved for his meal break returned.
She pocketed her tips and invited Rafe to have a drink. Four sips later, she
led him upstairs. He entered a room nicer than the one Sparkle had across town.

He watched the
woman strip down and spread herself across the bed, parting her thighs to give
him a view of her wares. She was one fleshy meal, with remarkably abundant
breasts. Her nipples were the size of half-dollars. Rafe imagined they'd
tighten up to look like twin bullets once he started sucking on them. He'd take
his time with this one.

"Got to put
your gunbelt over there, Sugar," the whore pointed. Rafe shook his head.

"I'll put it
on the floor here beside my boots and spurs, unless you'd like me to wear
'em." He gave her a randy grin, then reached for the buttons of his fly.
She watched with interest until he removed his shirt. Then her expression
dimmed.

"That sure is
nasty. You get burned with lamp oil or somethin'?"

"Accident some
years back. Don't worry, it won't rub off on you."

"But you'll be
rubbin' it all over me." They could have been talking about a dead rat
from her tone of voice.

Rafe put his
clothes back on and picked up his gunbelt. "On second thought, don't
reckon I will." He tossed a half-dollar at her. It landed between her
pendulous globes. "There. Now you got three of 'em. Thanks for
nothin'."

He silently berated
himself as he wandered back out into the street. He shouldn't have let the
bitch get to him. He ought to be used to women gapin' and the distaste on their
faces. What had he expected, that things would have changed just because…He
stopped and wiped his coat sleeve across his face, the cold stinging his
cheeks.

Christ, Rafe,
you can't let a stupid slut get you to thinkin' you ain't a man. Can't let
Sparkle's reaction get your hopes up that other gals will see you any
different. They don't.

Suddenly the
craving to see Sparkle became unbearable. He'd thought about her almost
constantly back at Crockhead Rest, until he'd been driven to pack up and come
back here. He'd give anything to see her face, talk with her. She'd laugh in
that titter that warmed his insides, remind him that everyone had scars. She
wouldn't make him feel worthless.

Not that Rafe
didn't believe Sparkle LaFleur could flay the hide right off a man if she put
her mind to it, but flayin' a man wasn't her way. Oh, she put on that tough
act, but he sensed she'd sooner hurt herself than somebody else. She had a big
soft spot inside. That's what the act was protecting.

An hour later,
after a hot meal and a tall bourbon at the Cowcatcher Saloon, he aimlessly
prowled the town, reminding himself there was one sure way to get past what had
happened. Work. That always made him feel better. Few people understood why
he'd chosen to earn his pay as a freelance gun. Few understood what the
profession could offer.

Hiring out was much
like what everybody assumed:  perilous, intermittent, intense, difficult at
either extreme—long hours of waiting, brief split-seconds of life and death.
But goddamned satisfying. And it paid incredibly well. Rafe could buy most
anything he wanted, but his needs were simple. He helped Travis out with money
for stock and supplies for Crockhead Rest. He drank and gambled some. He wired
the bulk of his earnings to his brother-in-law Zach, an Omaha banker who
managed Rafe's investment portfolio.

But folks didn't
understand the years he'd devoted to perfecting his skills. He'd learned
tracking and hunting from his father and uncle, learned to shoot a rifle, then
a Colt peacemaker, learned to use a bullwhip. When he began hiring out, he had
his Colt's action smoothed and grip honed to fit his right hand perfectly.
Other gunmen favored the shorter barrel, but Rafe liked the classic Colt model.
He'd had the trigger removed years ago and spent hours thumbing the hammer.
Firing the gun was a reflexive action now, so he could draw and hit in the
literal blink of an eye. His right hand was virtually wired straight to his
eyes. No precious seconds wasted on morality debates.

Rafe gave every man
a fair chance to let things go down easy, but if the fella didn't opt to take
that chance, Rafe took him down hard.

He realized someday
his reflexes would be too slow, his quarry too fast. That's why he had Zach
putting money away and making it grow. Someday Rafe would have to find another
way to occupy his time. He didn't like pondering that, for he suspected there
wouldn't be anything more lucrative or satisfying. Most people followed their
instincts for self preservation. Rafe deliberately taunted death, faced it,
conquered it. Every time he prevailed, he proved his mettle and earned more than
money.

Work had given him
the scar, but it was also the answer for the darkness in his soul the scar
inspired. There had to be someone in a cow town worth a bounty. Rafe began to
hunt.

He spent the night
in a cheap hotel and was up early the following day, scouting Wichita. He
checked with Art Thompson and pored over Wanted posters. He familiarized
himself with the descriptions of every lawbreaker suspected of being in Kansas
or Nebraska, visited the saloons, barber shop, general store, and pharmacy—where
he was disgusted to find the irritating dandy working.

The next day his
diligence paid off in a lucky coincidence. Bowlegs Barker and the Poe twins
came sneaking around the side of the livery. One of the twins had Snatch's
reins in his fist. In the countless times Rafe had gone after outlaws, this was
the first and only time he'd caught them stealing from him.