Amy closed her eyes, recalling her many battles with Henry Masters and the degradation she had felt. There had been no way for her to win. He had held all the aces. Slowly but surely she had lost her dignity, and her pride.
She would never forget. She knew that there must be other women and children suffering like treatment. Maybe one day the Peters of the world would grow into men and remember the injustices done to them. Perhaps, through them, the laws could be changed. But for now there was little recourse.
With a sigh Amy pushed up from the bed, took a step, and froze. Swift stood in the bedroom doorway, his shoulder braced against the frame, his gaze riveted to the bandages wrapped so tightly around Peter’s chest. A muscle rippled along his jaw. Recovering her composure, Amy closed the distance between them. He eased into the hall so she could follow and close the door.
“How bad is he?”
Still shaken by her thoughts of Henry, Amy couldn’t bring herself to deal with the ugliness immediately. “It’s the middle of the day.” She glanced at his dusty pant legs. “I thought you were at the mine.”
“I was. Indigo paid us a visit.”
Amy swept past him and went to the kitchen. Pouring fresh water from the jug, she filled the coffeepot and ladled in several scoops of beans she had ground that morning. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a nice hot cup.”
Swift leaned a hip against the stove, watching her. “You look like you could use a whiskey or two. I asked you a question, Amy. How badly is Peter hurt?”
“I, um, think he has two broken ribs.”
“Jesus!”
Losing the war, Amy felt tears brimming over in her eyes, trailing in hot rivulets down her cheeks. Tears of frustration and anger and pain that ran far deeper than simple empathy for Peter. Swift swore under his breath and crooked a hand around her neck, pulling her against his chest.
“Don’t cry, honey. What good will that do?”
Amy pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder, drawing comfort from his smell, a blend of masculine sweat, sun-dried denim, pine, and fresh mountain air. She yearned to wrap her arms around him and never let go, to weep until she had no more tears. “I have to send him back there. Again. It just isn’t fair.”
Swift bent his head to hers, encircling her waist with his other arm. “I think it’s high time somebody had a talk with Abe Crenton. And I’ve got a sudden urge for a drink.”
Amy stiffened. “No! You mustn’t interfere, Swift. It’ll only make things worse. I learned that the hard way.”
Swift ran his hand up her back. She could almost hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. “Amy, love, when you interfered, you did it the proper way. I think he’ll understand my language a little better.”
“You’ll get yourself into trouble. The first thing you know, you’ll be in jail.”
“For talking?”
“Talking won’t change Abe’s ways, and you know it.”
He pressed his lips to her ear, sending tendrils of sensation threading down her spine. “It’s all in what words you say. Trust me, Amy. Someone has to do something. If he isn’t stopped, he’s gonna go too far one of these times and do hurt that’s beyond repair.”
Amy made fists in his shirt, knowing that he spoke the truth. “I don’t want you getting into trouble.”
“I didn’t ride two thousand miles looking for it, believe me.” He grasped her shoulders and set her away from him. “But sometimes trouble comes. And a man can’t turn his back on it. This is one of those times. Do you think I could sleep nights, knowing about this and doing nothing?”
“No,” she admitted in a forlorn voice. “Indigo should have known better than to tell you and Hunter. It’s like laying tinder and striking a match to it.”
“Indigo did exactly right,” Swift replied, arching one eyebrow. “She trusts her father and me to have good enough sense not to do anything that can come back on us.”
“She’s also very young and idealistic,” Amy countered. “And she doesn’t know you two like I do.”
Swift’s eyes filled with warmth. “Trust me, Amy. I’m an old hand at trouble, believe me. When Peter wakes up, take him on home. There won’t be any more beatings going on there, I guarantee you, not without hell to pay.”
Amy touched his shoulder. “Swift . . . you could end up in that cell again. I know how you hate being confined.”
“Hate doesn’t say it by half.” He paused at the doorway of the sitting room. “Which means I’ll walk a mile to avoid it. But if it happens, it happens. A few days won’t kill me.” A grin slanted across his mouth. “Will you bring me an apple pie every evening?”
“Swift, are you positive you won’t just make matters worse? If Abe goes home and—” She licked her lips. “It looks as if he used his boots on Peter.”
He searched her gaze. “Do you trust me?”
She stared at him, considering the question. “Yes.”
“Then don’t be afraid to take Peter home.”
Chapter 18
SWIFT CUT THE POKER DECK AND TOOK A DRAG off his cigarette, smiling at Abe Crenton through a trail of smoke. The saloon owner reclaimed the deck with a skillful sleight of hand and started a new game of seven-card stud, dealing Swift and himself one card, facedown. Swift had sat in on games with some of the best fleecers in Texas. Crenton was a clumsy novice by comparison, good enough to get by in Wolf’s Landing, but not nearly smooth enough to escape a trained eye. From what Randall Hamstead said, Abe had a reputation for being a cheat, and Swift was pleased to see him living up to it. To his knowledge, there was no easier way to pick a fight than to call a man on his dealing.
“You threatening me, Lopez?” Crenton asked.
Swift slid his gaze to the surrounding tables. The two strangers, Hank and Steve Lowdry, recently returned from a buying spree at the general store to rig themselves out for prospecting, sat nearby. He had a feeling the two men were watching him, and that made him uneasy. On second thought, though, maybe two avid listeners would prove helpful later. He forced himself to relax.
“Threatening you? Why would you think that?”
Crenton flipped a second card toward Swift, his blue eyes narrowed. “Why else would you tell me a story like that?”
Swift lifted the corners of his cards. A deuce and a four. He watched as Crenton dealt a second card to himself—from the bottom of the deck. “I enjoy telling stories. Didn’t mean for you to take it personal.”
Crenton leaned back in his chair. “You tell me a story about a Comanche killin’ a wife beater and hangin’ his scalp on his gatepost, and you don’t expect me to take it personal?”
With a flick of his tongue, Swift moved his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, squinting against the smoke. “You aren’t a wife beater, are you?”
“I’m a firm disciplinarian. You got a quarrel with that?”
Remembering Peter’s pale little face against Amy’s pillow, Swift tossed a dollar into the pot. Crenton plunked out two, raising him one. “I’m not a man for quarreling, Crenton,” Swift replied, meeting the ante with another dollar. “If something’s eating me, I usually don’t do much talking.”
“Ain’t no man alive gonna tell me how to tend my family.”
Swift smiled. “You do take offense easily, don’t you? It was just a story, Crenton. Why, if I had meant it personal, I’d have just said I was going to kick your ass the next time you abused your wife and kids.”
Crenton dealt Swift another card, this one face up. A three. Once again the man dealt his own card from the bottom, turning up an ace. Swift gave the table a measuring glance. There were only four more cards coming. He’d have to make his move soon.
Crenton tossed out two more gold pieces and squared his massive shoulders. “If you was to tell me that, my answer would be that the minute you came near me, I’d sic the law on you.”
Swift snubbed out his cigarette and shifted on his chair, pushing two dollars forward to meet the bet. From
behind him, he heard May Belle’s throaty laughter. A jug clinked against glass, followed by the sound of liquor being poured. A nice, peaceful afternoon at the local watering hole, with no one suspecting that all hell was about to break loose. He hated to ruin the mood.
“Well, since we’re supposing”—he met Crenton’s gaze—“and I do stress that we’re just supposing, my reply would be that if I was to come near you, you’d never see me coming and never know what hit you. As for the law? They can’t hang a man if they can’t prove he’s guilty.”
“You are threatening me,” Crenton said with an amazed chuckle. “Seems to me you talk mighty big for a runt-of-the-litter gunslinger who ain’t totin’ his piece.”
“You’re a man who puts a lot of stock in size, aren’t you? Being built like a bull, I guess you can afford to. Me, I’ve had to compensate for my lack of bulk, so slinging a gun isn’t my only talent.” Swift watched Crenton’s beefy hands. “Fact is, if I had to choose a weapon, it’d be a knife. My slickest trick is slitting a man’s throat before he can blink. You ever seen that done, Crenton? It’s a real quiet way to settle differences. You come up from behind. It’s all in the timing and wrist movement.”
As Crenton started to deal himself another card from the bottom of the deck, Swift whipped his knife from its scabbard, threw it, and pinned the card in question to the table with the blade tip. Crenton froze, his blue gaze riveted to the vibrating knife handle.
“You damn near got my hand, you crazy bastard!”
Swift lunged from his chair and braced his arms on the table. In a booming voice, which he meant to carry, he said, “I’m calling you a card cheat, Crenton.”
Crenton drew himself up, the picture of affronted dignity. “You’re calling me a what?”
“A cheat! No wonder so many miners lose their paychecks to you in this saloon!”
The Lowdry brothers rose from their chairs, taking their glasses and bottle to another table a safe distance away.
Crenton turned angry red. “Ain’t nobody calls me a cheat and gets away with it.”
Swift met his gaze. “I don’t think I slurred my words.”
“You got no call to make such an accusation.”
“No call? I saw you dealing from the bottom.” With that, Swift overturned Crenton’s two cards in the hole, which gave the man three aces showing. Jerking the knife free, he revealed the fourth ace. “Every man in here is my witness. This deck is stacked agains—”
Crenton’s fist cut the declaration short, catching Swift along the jaw. Dropping the knife, he reeled from the blow, landing back first on another table, which skidded across the plank floor under his weight. Giving his head a shake, Swift angled an elbow under himself to get up, but before he could, Crenton leaped on him.
“Whoo-ee!” someone yelled.
May Belle cried, “Take it outside, you damn fools!”
The two men rolled onto the floor, their combined weights hitting a chair on the way down. Swift’s ribs took the brunt. Holding his middle with one arm, still dazed from the first punch, he staggered to his feet, fighting for breath.
Crenton jumped up. “Wanna call me a cheat again, you no-good son of a bitch! I’ll teach you some manners, by Gawd!”
The threat was punctuated by Crenton’s boot, which caught Swift square on the chin. With a feeling of detachment, Swift felt himself staggering backward. Then his body hit the wall, making a sound very like a big ball of unbaked bread dough hitting the floor. He blinked, trying to see. In the back of his mind, it occurred to him that letting the other guy take the first punch was a hell of a way to start a fight. And an even worse way to lose one.
After that, he didn’t have much time to think. Crenton came at him like a charging bull, head lowered to butt him in the stomach, arms spread, powerful legs thrusting to give his massive weight impetus. Swift blinked again and, at the last second, recovered the presence of mind to shift sideways. Crenton hit the log wall headfirst and crashed to his knees. To Swift’s surprise, the saloon owner didn’t crumple to the floor unconscious. Instead, he just shook his head and stood back up.
“Well, Lopez. Your mouth got you into this. Now let’s see you finish it,” someone said with a laugh.
Swift ran his sleeve across his bleeding chin as he gave Crenton a measuring glance. His intention had been to goad the saloon owner into starting a fight so he could teach him a lesson. He hadn’t counted on Crenton throwing such a powerful first punch or following through so quickly.
Swift gave his head another shake and leaned forward, arms slightly raised, elbows out. As Crenton came toward him, he circled, playing for time so his head could clear. Swift had done enough scrapping to know that fast footwork and precision with his fists proved good equalizers when he faced a larger man. The problem was, Crenton’s first punch had been a solid one, followed by a boot to the jaw. Swift couldn’t think clearly, let alone be quick on his feet and precise. If he wasn’t careful, he might end up feeling like a mudhole Crenton was stomping dry.
“What’sa matter, Lopez? You yellow?”
The room spun around Swift, then lurched to a stop, making him weave. He blinked and shook his head again. Focusing on Crenton, he tried to imagine being in Peter’s or Alice Crenton’s shoes, facing this man when he was mean drunk, night after night, with no hope of it ever ending. Those pictures and the knowledge that Amy had trusted him to handle this gave him added incentive. It was high time Crenton got a taste of his own medicine, and he was going to give it to him, or die trying.
“I’m here, Crenton,” Swift said in a low voice, beckoning the man forward. “Come and get me.”
Crenton grabbed a chair. “I’m comin’, you slimy little greaser.” He charged, bringing the chair down as he ran.
Swift crouched and sidestepped, sticking out a foot as the saloon owner passed. Crenton tripped and fell, hitting belly first on the chair. Swift didn’t give him time to get up. Diving, he grabbed the man by the shoulders, wrenched him backward onto his feet, and then planted his fist in his mouth. Crenton toppled, rolled, and leaped back up. Grabbing another chair, he made a wild throw, which Swift dodged easily. The chair crashed through the saloon window onto the boardwalk. A woman outside screeched and started calling, “Marshal Hilton! Marshal Hilton! A fight! A fight! Come quick!”
His head growing clearer by the second, Swift became aware that the ruckus had drawn a crowd. Years of training enabled him to ignore everything but his opponent. He circled, fingers flexing, body tensed and ready. Crenton grunted and swung, missing his mark. He caught his balance and swung again. Swift shifted and tipped his head, avoiding the blow. Crenton snarled, bent at the waist, and charged again. Swift jumped out of his path, letting the man land on the table where they had been playing poker.
When Crenton stood back up, he held Swift’s knife.
Amy, drawn by the commotion, arrived outside the saloon just as Crenton seized the weapon. She elbowed her way through the crowd, rising on tiptoe, trying to see, her heart slamming with fear. Marshal Hilton came up the street at a dead run, one hand clamped over his head to keep his hat on.
“Crenton’s got a knife, Marshal!” a man in the crowd yelled.
Amy shoved her way to the front so she could see through the broken window. Swift circled Crenton, leaping back to avoid the slashing knife. Her stomach lurched. When Marshal Hilton made his way to the boardwalk, she ran over to him.
“You have to do something!” she cried. “Crenton’s going to kill him!”
Hilton took measure of the situation, one eye narrowed. “Now, Miss Amy! Lopez can handle his own.”
“Crenton’s got a knife!” As she spoke, Amy threw a frightened glance inside the saloon just in time to see Swift kick the knife from Crenton’s grasp.
Hilton folded his arms across his chest and grinned. “Now we’re gonna see some fancy footwork.”
Amy threw him a horrified glance. “You’re not going to just stand here, are you?”
“What
do you expect me to do? I learned a long time ago that it’s easier to stop a fight once the new wears off.” He winced and shook his head, leaning forward to see better through the window. “Abe’s been needing a set-down for a long while.”
The marshal no sooner spoke than he grabbed Amy and shoved her to one side of the window. The next instant Swift and Crenton came hurtling out, bringing the remaining shards of glass with them. They crashed onto the boardwalk, then rolled into the street. Spectators retreated to a safe distance, forming a half-circle around the combatants, the women screeching.
Crenton jumped up and aimed a lethal kick at Swift’s head. Amy gasped and closed her eyes, unable to watch. She heard a fist impact with flesh, a grunt, then a series of quick whops.
“All right, Lopez!” Hilton called. “Now, don’t back off!”
Amy opened her eyes to see Swift on top of Crenton, pummeling his face viciously. She wanted to close her eyes again but couldn’t. Swift’s murderous expression frightened her. He released Crenton and stood up, heaving for breath, staggering slightly before he righted himself.
“Get up,” he snarled. “Come on, Crenton! We’re just getting started! Or don’t you like fighting when you’re up against someone close to your own size?”
Crenton rolled onto his stomach and pushed to his knees. Swift circled, waiting until the man gained his feet. The moment the saloon owner did, Swift buried a boot in his belly. Crenton crashed to his knees, moaning and holding his middle.
“That one’s for Peter,” Swift snarled. “What’s the matter? Doesn’t it feel good?”
The saloon owner weaved to his feet again and charged, roaring like an enraged beast. Swift sidestepped, turned, and gave Crenton a kick on the rump to help him on his way into a nosedive that buried his bleeding face in the dirt. Amy hugged her waist, feeling sick, wanting it to stop. Since her abduction by the comanchero, violence of any kind nauseated her. As she had discovered the day of the social, even so commonplace a thing as chicken killing made her queasy.
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