Wild Is the Night (8 page)

But tonight, she was escaping hers.

The bar down the street was exactly as she’d pictured. Gaslights gleamed from the ceiling, the light scarcely penetrating the smoke-filled interior of the Applejack saloon. Women dressed in bright shades of scarlet, gold, and sapphire, with black plumes in their hair and gay white boots on their feet, sat boldly on the laps of the cowboys. Amanda gaped as more than one woman giggled appreciatively as a randy cowboy slipped his hands inside her low cut dress, greedily caressing her ripe round breasts framed in black lace. Gamblers sat at the felt-covered tables, studying cards and the faces of the other players with a surprising intensity. Businessmen gathered in the corner, sipping whiskey and tucking important papers inside their eastern styled suits, while the barkeep struggled to keep their glasses filled and their spittoons empty. It was raunchy, dirty, sweaty, and smoky. It was also full of life, passion, risk, and excitement.

Amanda was mesmerized.

Taking a seat at one of the small round tables, she scrambled for her bag and retrieved a thick notebook. Her hand didn’t seem to move fast enough as she scribbled her impression of everything. God, this was so great. Taking a deep breath, she recorded the musty, smoky scent of the room, the smell of sweat, the odor of cattle, the excitement that was almost tangible. She had written so many bar scenes just like this one, and to actually be in one was like walking inside one of her novels. The point broke on her pencil and she frowned in frustration. Amanda tossed it back inside the open carpetbag beside her and fished around for another. When her head popped up from beneath the table, she was surprised to see she was not alone.

“Excuse me, ma’am. But are you lost or something?”

Amanda glanced up, surprised to see the bartender staring at her oddly. She shook her head. “No, I’m in the saloon. I’m not lost in the least.” She returned to her scribbling, ignoring him.

The barkeep scratched his head. “Ma’am, we’re not accustomed to ladies coming in here, if you know what I mean. There’s a restaurant next door, if you want something to drink.”

“Oh, I’m not thirsty. And I’m very sorry, but you’re wrong. There are ladies here.” She gestured to a buxom blonde saloon girl, who giggled from a cowboy’s lap.

The barkeep coughed, then continued delicately. “Ma’am, that’s real generous of you, but they ain’t ladies. You’d best leave. There could be trouble.” He glanced at the nearby tables where the interested cowboys and businessmen listened to the exchange in amusement.

“What sort of trouble?” Amanda leaned on her elbows, fascinated with the prospect.

“Well, um. Men can’t let loose and have fun with real ladies around. It puts a damper on things. And some of these cowboys haven’t had a woman in a long time. They get pretty rough when they’re full of whiskey. I’m sure you’ll be much more comfortable next door.”

“Thank you, you are so kind, but I am perfectly comfortable here,” Amanda continued. “And I find your argument very faulty. With all the saloon women around, why would my presence incite a cowboy when there is a ready receptacle for his passion at hand? And I fail to see how my presence can have any effect on their activity, since I do not wish to prevent it, partake of it, or comment on it. I only wish to observe.”

“Out!” The barkeep fought to keep his temper under control as the men nearby chuckled. “Madame, I must ask you to leave.”

“I’ll have to refuse,” Amanda said bluntly. “This is a public place, and I wish to remain.”

“Damn you!” The barkeep’s eyes hardened, as if trying to decide whether to physically toss her out or to drag her across the floor. “Who’s here with you? You got a husband or a brother?”

Before Amanda could respond, a cowhand interrupted. “She showed up in town this morning with a hired gun. Luke’s his name, as I recall.”

“Luke?” The cowhand spoke up. “There’s a fellow named Luke playing poker in the back. Big, with dark hair. Looks like a gun.”

“Fetch him.” The sheriff waited until the cowhand left, then leaned closer to Amanda. “Now you’d better come peaceably ma’am. This ain’t no place for a lady…”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t yet. I’ve not finished my work.”

“This him?” The cowhand indicated a tall man behind him, and Amanda’s eyes widened as Luke strode forth, looking anything but pleased to see her.

“It’s me. I’ll handle this. Amanda, come with me.”

Amanda’s smile vanished as Luke glared at her. He was angry. She could see the set of his jaw, the glittering tension in his eyes, and his gritted teeth. Shrugging, Amanda shook her head in calm rebuttal.

“As I’ve already explained, I see no reason why I cannot remain. I’m a writer. I need to see this, to experience life. As Emerson said—”

“Amanda.” Luke cut her off before he killed her. He stared at her thoughtfully, while the cowboys and the barkeep waited to see this lean, dangerous man put the woman in her place. Amanda stared up at him innocently, completely unaware of the position she’d put him into. Her hair tumbled from its knot, her eyes were wide and unblinking like that damned owl, and a bird feather clung to her breast. There was something incredibly naive about her, like a child wanting desperately to overindulge in sweets, and who cannot understand why a parent forbids it.

Luke turned to the barkeep. “If I’m responsible for her, can she remain?”

The cowboys murmured in surprise, but no one protested. The bartender eyed Luke’s gun, the worn grip just clearing his holster. His gaze went back to Amanda, who was smiling in excitement.

“I don’t like it.” The bartender wiped his nose with his sleeve. “A woman means nothing but trouble.”

“Why that’s the most ridiculous—”

“Amanda.” Luke shot her a cold look that effectively silenced her, then continued. “As I said, I’ll take responsibility. Anything happens, I’ll handle it. Any objections?” He stared at the cowboys, who had already observed his gun and had drawn their own conclusions.

There were a few disgruntled mutterings, but no one openly challenged him.

The bartender shrugged. “All right then. But if there’s any trouble…”

“She goes.” Luke agreed.

The bartender shook his head and returned to the counter, while the cowboys resumed talking and drinking the full mugs of beer. Amanda’s eyes lifted and she sent Luke a grateful smile which he promptly ignored.

“I’ll deal with you later. Don’t move from that spot. If you want to experience life, I’m the last one to stop you. I’ll just give you one word of warning: ‘Be careful of what you pray for. You may get it.’ ”

Puzzled, Amanda sank back in her chair. “Who said that?”

“Me.” Luke slammed on his hat and went to the bar and ordered a whiskey.

Chapter
  
5
  

Amanda stared across the room at Luke’s back. He was enveloped in a crowd of cowboys and trailhands, drinking his whiskey, effectively ignoring her existence. The men around him did likewise, refusing to allow her presence to interfere with their fun. Leafing through her notebook, Amanda’s eyes kept returning to her handsome partner. He fit in perfectly, his dark, good looks accentuated by his rough attire and the bawdy atmosphere. He laughed at something a saloon girl said, and Amanda forced herself back to her book, amazed to feel a surge of annoyance. If he was trying to get a rise out of her, he was doing a damned good job.

Determined not to let Luke distract her, Amanda wrote furiously, absorbing herself in everything around her. Unobtrusively, she eavesdropped on nearby conversations. The cowboys, having successfully driven a herd of Longhorns to the stockyards, were flush with money and excitement. They enjoyed whatever benefits they could wring from their pay, while the town businessmen encouraged their presence.

Not so the ranchers.

Amanda glanced up as a trailman entered the saloon, wrapped his arm around the shoulders of a young, peach-fuzzed cowboy, and called for whiskey.

“Must have six hundred cattle out there,” the trail driver said enthusiastically. “Bring us all a pretty penny. McCoy’s paying fifteen dollars a head for a Longhorn. You’ll be a rich boy, Jake, if you stick with me.”

The youthful cowboy grinned, and downed the proffered whiskey. He choked on the contents, then spewed it out on the floor. The trailman guffawed, pounding his back helpfully while the other cowhands roared.

A rancher sitting quietly beside Amanda rose, his chair scraping ominously on the floor. His hat was not felt like the businessmen’s, but was made of a cheap sacking material, and his sleeves were worn through, exposing work-toughened hands. His trousers were stained from prairie grass and rough clay, but it was his face that caught Amanda’s attention. Creviced like a mountain pass and beaten from the weather, it was a face that told more about his life than any novel could attempt. He approached the trailman, and at once the laughter died.

“Fifteen dollars a head is good money,” the ranchman agreed. “Except that you’re killing our cattle. I’ve lost two more just this week.”

A murmur went through the crowd as the Texans protested, and the local ranchers nodded in approval.

The trailman tossed back his whiskey and placed the shot glass aside. “There’s no proof that the Longhorns are responsible for your cattle dying.” He stared at the rancher, his eyes an open challenge.

“The fever started within a month of the first drive,” the ranchman continued. “Spanish fever, they call it. Been raising cattle all my life. Never had trouble before. Same thing’s been happening to other ranches. Herb Wessel lost three so far this season. Bob Rutherford, five.”

“That’s a pretty grim charge.” A cowboy stood up, his hand brushing past his gun, the holster jutting forth. “You can’t just blame the Longhorns. Anything could’ve started the trouble. Cattle die every day.”

“Actually, there is proof,” Amanda interjected, fascinated by the discussion and excited that she knew something on the subject. “A veterinarian in England has discovered that splenic fever, also called Spanish fever, is carried by a tick on the Texas Longhorn. His research is well documented.”

The cowboys were silent, stunned by Amanda’s little speech. Luke cursed softly, then got up from the bar, not at all surprised to see the ranchmen getting to their feet and the Texans fumbling for their guns.

“That so?” The trailman, feeling the tension, tried to avoid the coming battle. “Then why aren’t the Longhorns killed?” He grinned, sensing a victory.

Amanda piped up confidently. “It’s obvious, of course. The Texas cattle, having been exposed to the virus for decades, are now immune. What is an annoyance to a Longhorn is deadly to the domestic breed. Just read Professor Gamgee’s treatise on the subject. It’s fascinating—”

“Southern scum.” A ranchman spat. “Go the hell back to Texas and take them filthy things with you.”

Any pretense of civility shattered as the ranchman threw the first punch. Amanda’s mouth dropped in shock as a cowboy fell across her table, scattering her notes. The gaslights shattered as guns blasted, and glass tinkled to the floor. The bargirls screamed, holding onto their plumed fans as if for protection, while the Texans fought back with obvious relish.

“Come on, dammit!” Luke grabbed Amanda, even as she bent down to scoop up her papers. She barely had time to snatch up her bag when Luke hauled her toward the door. Glancing back, Amanda gasped as another fusillade of fire shattered the whiskey bottles behind the bar, and the floor was doused with an amber rush of liquor.