Wild Is the Night (19 page)

“You don’t remember anything else?” Butch questioned slowly.

The man glanced from one of the outlaws to the other. Butch stared back at him, his scar curling as his expression changed from annoyance to suspicion. The counterman shrugged, and his face turned a shade whiter even as he kept his businesslike demeanor.

“All I can tell you is what’s written here. You’ll have to check with the sheriff if you want more information.” He closed the book abruptly, then turned to the shelves behind the counter, as if intending to go back to work.

Butch and Damien exchanged a glance, then Butch softly pulled his gun. When the counterman turned around, he found himself looking into the barrel of a Colt .45.

“Look, friend. I have no desire to play games. I want to know where they are, and I want to know now. Do you understand?”

The man nodded quickly, sweat beading on his forehead as Butch cocked the gun. “I think I remember something. They did mention meeting a wagon train this morning.”

“That’s more like it.” Butch nodded in satisfaction. “Let’s see what else I can help you remember.” Without warning, the gun exploded. The counterman snatched at his arm, gasping in shock as a bright red stream of blood ran warm and wet down the sleeve of his white shirt.

“Please don’t kill me.” He choked in pain as Butch re-cocked the gun.

“I’m getting awfully tired of this, and I’ve got better things to do than to waste time jawing with you. Where are they headed?”

“Texas.” The man answered immediately, ignoring Damien’s chuckle. Fresh blood flowed from his wound, but the gun did not waver. A dizziness rang in his ears and he braced himself against the counter. “I heard they were taking the Chisholm trail, straight through to Texas. Hooked up with a Reverend Weaver and his followers.”

“Ain’t that fittin’.” Damien laughed. “Just think, Butch, they’ll have their own little minister there. They can even have a Christian burial.”

“Please…” The counterman gasped as Butch leveled the gun. Panic set in, coupled with pain and weakness, and the room began to spin. Slowly, everything went dark, and the man slid to the floor in a crumpled heap.

“Will you look at that.” Damien grinned, leaning over the counter and peering inquisitively at the unconscious figure on the other side. “Looks like he up and fainted.”

“Save me the trouble of killing him.” Butch shrugged. He started to replace his gun, then noticed that the cock had already been pulled back. “I hate to waste good lead. I think our friend here has told us everything he knows anyway.”

Butch pointed the gun at the bloody man passed out on the floor and pulled the trigger.

Damien laughed, put on his hat, and followed Butch out the door. He hated to waste good lead, too.

Chapter
  
12
  

He was trying to make her life miserable.

Amanda Edison stared at the heap of clothing lying at her feet, waiting to be sewn. As Luke’s wife, she was expected to perform all the tasks for him that the other wives did for their husbands. She had to do his wash, serve his meals, prepare his bedding. For someone like Amanda who’d been fiercely independent, playing this role was unbearable.

At least he didn’t sleep with her. Yet. Since the beginning of the journey, he’d kept night watch, sleeping early, then rising when the moon was high and very full, to watch for any signs of Indians, desperadoes or cattle thieves. At such times, Amanda could see him from the interior of the wagon, his face thoughtful and oranged by the firelight, his muscular body tense and still. She wondered what went through his mind as he sat there, staring into the flames, drinking the bitter black brew that passed for coffee, and quietly smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

It was at these times she wanted him. The feeling nearly overpowered her, and she fought to keep from rising, putting her arms around him as a real wife would, and sharing the warmth of her body and the comfort of her company.

But Amanda didn’t dare. She couldn’t forget what had happened between them, nor that he sought refuge with the first available female when they had disagreed. He was a southerner, a killer, an educated man who had spurned everything for the life of a drifter.

She picked up an article of clothing, and saw it was his buckskins. The knee was torn out, probably from the previous day when he’d lassoed a bolting cow and had fallen from his horse. He’d hurt himself, she realized, observing the blood stain on his pants. Yet he had grinned, handed her the clothes, then chucked her under the chin and reminded her that a good wife would have them ready as quickly as possible.

Her cheeks burned. He was taunting her all right, trying to evoke some kind of emotional outburst. Angrily, she had bitten her lip, staring at the trousers, longing to fling them into his face and tell him the deal was off. She couldn’t, though, and he knew it. She needed him until they got to Texas, much as she hated to admit it.

Aesop rustled in his cage and stared back at her with blinking amber eyes. Amanda smiled, suddenly remembering who and what she was. She was not one of these religious women, quiet and placid and obedient. She had a mind— a good mind—and if it couldn’t be used now, then shame on her.

“Amanda?” Aileen stared across the fire at her as Amanda picked up the buckskins and began to shred them. “For the love of God, what are you doing?”

Amanda smiled, her strange eyes lighting with intensity. She had been surprisingly pleased when she discovered that the woman who’d helped her in the hotel room with her hair and dress was traveling with them, as the new Mrs. Jake Fontaine. They had married that very morning, with only the justice of the peace as a witness. Jake had insisted, especially when he realized that the wagon train would separate them permanently, and Aileen—he decided after one incredible night—would make a perfect wife.

“I’m seeing to Luke’s trousers,” Amanda replied seriously. “Logically, this is my only alternative.”

“I don’t get it.” Aileen’s nose wrinkled as Amanda displayed the buckskins, now torn from ankles to crotch.

“Think about it,” Amanda continued. “Luke’s forced me into this ridiculous position, masquerading as his—”

“Don’t say it!” Aileen glanced toward the group of religious women, sitting a short distance away.

“He’s punishing me because he’s angry,” Amanda continued in the same cool, detached voice. “Therefore, he is getting pleasure out of forcing his will on me and making me perform domestic acts for him. The only thing I can do is either accept the situation, or convince Luke that he doesn’t want me as a wife.”

“And you’ve decided—”

Amanda came as close to giggling as she ever thought possible. “By the time I’m through, Luke Parker will wish we were wed, only so he could get a divorce.”

Aileen shivered, then went back to her own sewing. Luke Parker didn’t look like a man to trifle with.

She only hoped Amanda’s wonderful mind had taken that into account.

“I’m not believing this crap.” Sam Haskwell threw down the telegram onto the glossy cherrywood table, then ran his hand angrily through his pitch-dark hair. The hotel room above the gambling hall was richly appointed, but Sam didn’t notice the plush imported carpets, the tinkling chandeliers, or the warm blazing fire that threw shadows on the softly painted cream walls. “One girl! One damned girl! How in the hell can she do it?”

“I guess I’ll go now….”

“Sit there!” Haskwell paced the floor, barely glancing at the beautiful young showgirl named Honey. He had found her downstairs, singing in a voice that was pure heaven, wearing a sparkling beige gown that looked like little more than a veil over her naked body. Sam had taken one look at the singer, with her jet-black hair and startlingly rich brown eyes, and had ordered her sent up to his room. No one questioned Sam Haskwell. He heard that she had protested, but the sight of his weapon convinced her otherwise.

Now, as she sat on the very edge of the bed, looking like a startled doe about to dart off, Sam forced a smile.

“It’s nothing. Just another example of incompetence. It is so hard to find good men to do a job. Would you like to know more about it?”

The young girl shook her head in the negative, her eyes enormous as the killer approached her. She bit her red painted lips, then drew her legs up beneath her, nearly passing out in fright.

Sam grinned. “Ah, but I think I will tell you, nonetheless. The telegram is about a woman who crossed me. She witnessed a gunfight between myself and another man, then had the audacity to write about it.” The memory still enraged Haskwell, and his black Irish eyes glittered. “Do you know what I did then?”

“No.” Her voice came as light as a graveyard whisper.

“I ordered her killed.” Sam’s anger dissipated as he saw the genuine terror in the singer’s eyes. Slowly his hand went to the back of her dress, and he toyed with the hooks, his movements tantalizingly slow and filled with menace. “I sent two men after her, but up until now, they haven’t been able to succeed.” He slipped the gown to the girl’s waist, even more gratified to hear her indrawn breath of terror. Long, satiny hair spilled out over the girl’s shoulders, and he brushed it back, baring her round breasts to his gaze. He had been right. She was wearing nothing beneath the gown, nothing except the lovely naked charms that nature gave her.

With slow, determined movements, he ignored the terror-filled tears that slipped down the girl’s cheeks as he reached out and fondled a breast, playing with a nipple that hardened beneath his touch. The sparkling gown now lay in a puddle around her hips and he grinned, lifting her up, letting it fall even farther to the floor.

Honey blushed, standing on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing more than her stockings held up by black lace garters. Sam’s hot eyes went to the dark curly V between her white thighs, entranced by the contrast between her pale flesh and the sheer blackness of her hair and remaining undergarments.

“So, I’ll be thinking there’s one thing left for me to do,” Sam continued, brushing his knuckles down that thatch of enticing curls, watching as the girl choked and hiccoughed with fear. “I’ll have to take care of it myself.”

Honey tried to talk, but the words caught in her throat. Sam smiled, removed his own clothes, then picked her up and lowered her down onto his lap. He thrust his finally hard erection into her tight, feminine warmth.

He wasn’t losing his edge after all.

“What the hell!” Luke heard the buckskins rip as he tried to put them on, his muscular legs tearing through the tough cowhide. Furious, he stared at the torn material, then the comic appearance of his legs displayed as if in a dress. His eyes went to the tear.

It was neatly cut, from one leg to the other, as if someone had taken shears to the trousers.

Suddenly, he had a vision of Amanda that morning, sitting away from the others, her head bent over a pile of sewing. She was the picture of domestic tranquility, with Aesop at her side and a biology book in front of her. He had assumed that she’d finally accepted his presence, and maybe was beginning to admit that it wasn’t so bad being tied to a man. He had hoped that, in time, she would even admit to what he knew she felt for him, even if he had to goad her into it. He hadn’t been able to forget that slip of paper he’d found in her room, and the passion she exhibited in the privacy of her journal. He’d watched her by the campfire, scribbling in the book, longing to read what else she’d recorded, and waiting for the night she’d give in to desire and come to him….