Jacey sobered and let him know that, “One hundred’s plenty. Now, go. And keep your hands up and keep facing me until you get out in the street. Then you can put your back to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Briefly ducking his head as if showing respect, he began backing up. But then he stopped.
Jacey tensed her gun hand. “What now?”
“I’ve just thought of a way for me to know it’s you.”
Dang him. She was the one with the gun aimed at his heart, and yet he was the one playing with her. “So what is it?”
“Those sweet breasts of yours. They’re pretty nice. I feel I’d know you anywhere. But of course, you’d have to be naked—and I’ve have to have my hands on ’em.”
Jacey sucked in a breath of outrage. And squeezed the Colt’s trigger.
* * *
“Chapelo, it’s after suppertime. Where the—? Man, what the hell happened to you?”
“That gringa shot me. Help me, Blue. My arm hurts like hell. She shot me in my gun arm.”
Leaning weakly against the doorjamb, Zant raised his uninjured arm. Blue immediately draped it around his shoulders and put his other arm around Zant’s back. He kicked the door closed behind them and helped Zant to the one chair in his hotel room. “The gringa shot you? What gringa? Oh, hell, not the one who bloodied your nose?”
“The same,” Zant said, groaning as he settled himself on the chair and then gripped his right arm.
Blue put a steadying hand on Zant’s shoulder. “She shot you? What’d you do?”
Zant chuckled … painfully. “I told her she had mighty nice tits.”
“You what?” Blue then strung together a random sampling of cuss words before observing, “I’ll be taking a dead man home if you run into that woman one more time. Now, sit still. Let me look at it.”
“I lost a lot of blood. Ouch! What are you doing? I said it hurts like hell. See if she broke the bone.” Zant grimaced and gritted his teeth as he watched Blue tear open his bloodstained shirtsleeve and probe the wound. “My damned gun arm, too.”
“I can see that. Now, hold still and let me look.…” Blue’s voice trailed off as he felt around some more. Done with his examination, he snorted his estimation of the wound. “Nah, you’re fine. The bullet just grazed you. Tore out a chunk of hide, but you’re okay.” He picked up an open whiskey bottle and upended the fiery liquid over Zant’s raw wound.
Zant sucked in a huge breath, stared wide-eyed, and then catapulted out of the chair, cussing and yelling and dancing around the room. In his frenzy, he managed to kick over the chair, roll on the bed, hold his arm, and call Blue every name he could think of. But his friend remained unperturbed as he tilted the same bottle to his own lips and drank deeply.
When Zant could breathe and talk again, he was sitting on the floor with his back against the closed door. “You trying to kill me, Blue?”
Blue wiped at his lips. “No. I’m gonna let the gringa do that. You’d already be dead, if her aim was any good.”
Zant snorted his opinion of that. “She’s got a damned good aim, from where I’m sittin’, compadre. She meant to shoot me right through the heart, but I jumped out of the way.”
Blue laughed. “Not far enough, from the looks of that arm.” He then righted the bedside table and set the bottle on it. “Come over here. That rotgut ought to’ve cleaned your arm up good. Sit on the bed and let me see if I need to sear it.”
Zant stayed where he was. “You don’t need to sear it.”
“I think I do.”
“Like hell you do.”
Blue shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“I always do.”
“At least let me bandage it, Zant. Hell, you’re getting blood everywhere. Look at this mess. I gotta sleep here.”
“Well, pardon me for being shot. I’ll sleep here, and you take my room, if you’re that fussy about a little blood.”
“Like hell I’ll take your room. That little lady might come huntin’ you and, thinkin’ she has your room, haul off and shoot me. Uh-uh. I’m stayin’ right here.”
Zant shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Blue’s eyes danced with his chuckle. “I always do.”
A grimace capped Zant’s features. “You’re just having a high old time at my expense, aren’t you? Some damned woman shoots me—”
“Now that’s what I can’t figure, Zant. Why do you keep messin’ with her? There’s a whole lot more willin’ women around this town.”
“I wasn’t looking for her for anything to do with willing.”
“Yeah? Then why were you? Because she walked away from you?”
“Something like that.”
Blue shook his head. “If you don’t beat all. Now, do you think you can behave long enough for me to go get some clean bandagin’ rags from the clerk?”
Zant nodded, feeling suddenly queasy. “And ask that Nancy-boy down there to get me a bath sent up, too, and something to eat, will you?”
Zant watched Blue staring at him. With a shake of his head, Blue started across the room. “Danged nursemaid, that’s what I am. I grow up on Señor Calderon’s land, hire on as a ranch hand, end up a pistolero”—he nudged Zant with his boot’s toe, wanting him to move out of the way; Zant scooted over against the wall—“and then I become a nursemaid to the old man’s drunken, son of a—” The door closed behind him.
Zant slumped over to the floor, out cold before his head hit.
* * *
Sleepless and edgy, Jacey reflected on her day. Let’s see, she’d ridden into Tucson, gotten thrown from Knight in front of a saloon, been groped by Zant Chapelo, bloodied his nose for him—with the entire town as witnesses—then had a confrontation in the alley with first Rosie and then Chapelo, and then she’d shot him—one of the most notorious guns in the whole West—and left him for dead. And then, skittish as a colt, she’d come back here—to the very saloon, or cantina as folks here called it, where all her troubles began. But also where her only friend was.
She quirked her mouth in a self-deprecating gesture. All in all, not a bad way to keep her identity a secret—especially in a town where her life depended on not drawing any attention to herself. And a town where anyone could have a reason to hate the Lawless name. This was all she needed right now—some yahoo with a grudge to sidetrack her from her own mission here.
Jacey groaned and rolled onto her back on her narrow bed, kicking at the entangling covers over her legs. The danged sheets kept snagging on her knife sheath. Too bad, because as long as she was here, she wasn’t taking it off except to bathe. Still, she gave up on sleeping and sat up, looking all around the small, stuffy room. Moonlight shining in through the one closed window forbade the room’s shadows to come out of the corners.
With nothing but her own problems to occupy her mind, she retreated to an inventory of her room at the back of Rosie’s father’s noisy business. Let’s see, there was this bed, herself, that rough-cut table and chair, the washbasin and chipped pitcher on the table, three crucifixes, and a couple of wood hooks for her clothes. That didn’t take long. Now what could she do?
Someone knocked on the door. That was a pretty quick answer. Jacey slipped her Colt out from under her pillow, bent her knees, and rested her arms atop them with the Colt pointing at the door. “State your business.”
“My beez-ness? Señorita, my beez-ness is to be the owner of this cantina. It is I—Alberto Estrada. Rosarita’s padre. I have some news for you. About el desperado—Señor Chapelo.”
He sounded breathless, conspiratorial. The little man was getting the biggest kick out of being involved in her predicament. Jacey relaxed her arms, allowing the Colt to dangle from her fingers. “All right. Hold on a minute, Mr. Estrada.”
She hid her gun under the pillow again and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Standing up, she smoothed her chemise down and then grabbed at the bed’s top sheet. She drew it Indian-style around her shoulders. Then she crossed to the door and opened it, which
only intensified the sounds of glasses clinking, men laughing and swearing, and the scraping of chairs coming from the cantina. Yep. Just like he’d said—it was Señor Estrada, cantina owner. “Yes?”
Mr. Estrada ducked his head in greeting and smiled broadly under his mustache. “I hope I have not awakened you. No? Bien. I have just checked out in the corral, and your horse—he is fine. Not like earlier when he bit at me. And how are you, señorita? Is everything to your liking?”
Before Jacey could say a thing, he bowed low and spoke very formally. “I am honored to have a Lawless in my home. Mi casa es su casa.”
Jacey fought her urge to chuckle at his elaborate manners, especially in light of his stained shirt, dirt-shiny pants, and the bar towel slung over his shoulder. “Thank you, and yes, everything’s fine. Now, what about Chapelo? Is he dead?”
Alberto’s eyes widened. “No, no.” He crossed himself and mumbled something in Spanish, which sounded like a hasty prayer. Then, to her, he said, “No, he is only wounded—here.” He pointed to his right arm. “He rests now at La Casa Grande. Tomorrow—a pistolero such as himself—he will be fine.”
“Good.” But she wasn’t sure if she meant it. “Thank you, Mister Estrada.” Then, feeling obliged, Jacey added, “I apologize for coming to you and Rosie like I did tonight. And I appreciate your letting me put up here. I just wish you’d let me pay you. Come tomorrow, I’ll get a room—”
Alberto raised a quieting hand and pulled himself up to his full and proud height—no taller than Jacey. “No. You must stay here. No money—not from you. Besides, this room is much safer for you, chica. The hotels in Tucson—?” He made a dismissive noise that adequately expressed his contempt. “They are not as nice as what I offer you.”
Jacey raised her eyebrows and then did a half-turn to stare at the bare furnishings behind her.
“Or as clean. Or as safe and as private, señorita. Private for you, and a good place to hide such a big, bad animal like that black horse of yours who repays my many kindnesses with a bite.”
Jacey made an apologetic face. “I’m sorry about Knight. I should have warned you.”
“It is nothing—only a finger or two. Eh, I have eight others.”
Jacey laughed with Rosie’s father, liking him more and more. She looked into sincere jet-black eyes, the same color as her own, and finally nodded her consent to stay. “I’m much obliged, Mr. Estrada. I’ll try to take care of my business in Tucson quickly and clear out without involving you and Rosie any more than I already have.”
He bowed slightly. “Por nada—it is nothing. Rosarita and I will help you in any way we can.”
Jacey cocked her head at a questioning angle. “Are you and your daughter always this helpful to strangers, Mr. Estrada?”
He grinned, showing gleaming white teeth against his olive complexion. “No, Señorita Lawless. But then, you are no stranger.”
Jacey narrowed her eyes. “How’s that?”
“Your papa—he is known to me.”
Something quivered in Jacey’s belly. “My papa’s known to a lot of folks in Tucson.”
“This is true. But especially to me. I am happy to say your father is my friend. Perhaps he has mentioned me?”
Jacey hated to hurt the man’s feelings, but she couldn’t recall a single instance of Papa mentioning any Estrada in Tucson. Still, she hedged, “He probably did. It’s just been so long, and he didn’t talk much about his outlaw days.”
Mr. Estrada nodded sagely. “This I can understand. But many times, as a young desperado, he slept right here in this room when he wished to hide from the world. You also hide from the world, no?”
“No. Yes.” The way these folks phrased things kept tripping her up. “Yes, I’m hiding from the world. For now.” But what he’d said was tripping her up more than the way he’d said it. Papa’d slept here—in this very room?
Jacey felt a sudden warmth spread through her. She hadn’t once thought of encountering people and things here that her father’d touched and loved. She didn’t think of Tucson that way. Not since someone from here had stolen from her—and, she supposed, from Papa. In a way. With that thought, she roused herself enough to stare somberly at Rosie’s father. She had to tell him.
She tried to get the words out, but they wouldn’t come, not on the first try. This would be the first time she’d said them out loud. She cleared her throat and willed a flat steeliness into her voice. “My father’s dead, Mr. Estrada. He was murdered.”
Alberto froze, but then his expression and his posture crumpled. “I am sorry to hear this, chica. Your father was a great man, a man of heart and soul. He helped me many times. Please tell your beautiful mother of my pain.”
Jacey swallowed hard and sniffed, raising her chin a notch. “I can’t do that. She was murdered, too.”
Alberto stared at her somberly for a long moment. When he looked as if he might hug her, Jacey stiffened and raised her chin another notch. Alberto retreated. His gaze then flicked up and down her. “And that is why you are here?”
Jacey shook her head. “Not so much. The killers are in Boston. My sister’s there taking care of that business. I’m here because some thieving scum from Papa’s old gang stole from me, stole something I hold dear. And I aim to get it back.”
“Ahh.” He considered her a moment and then spoke abruptly, as if the words came out of him at the exact moment he thought them. “You are very much like your father. I said to my Rosie earlier that there is something about you that I know. I was not wrong.”
Then, Alberto worked his mouth, twitching his drooping mustache, giving the appearance that he weighed something in his mind, something he wasn’t sure he should tell her. Finally quirking his mouth, and apparently deciding, he said, “We are not so busy tonight. Put on your clothes. I will check on Rosarita, and then I will come back and you will go with me. There is something I must show you.”
For no reason she could fathom, Jacey’s throat threatened to close as a cold shiver slipped over her, tensing every muscle. “Show me what?”
He shook his head and put a staying hand on her arm. “No. I must show you. I cannot just tell you. I have something … something that belonged to your father. You should have it.”
With that, he turned and left, striding quickly down the short, dark corridor and then out through the heavy wooden door that would see him back in the cantina. Jacey stood there for the longest time, just staring down the empty, musty hall at the barrier the closed door made.
She should be getting dressed, she knew, but somehow she wasn’t sure she wanted to see what Mr. Estrada had. Would it be the portrait of Ardis? Was he the one she sought? But that was silly. Mr. Estrada? Hardly. But whatever he had, it belonged to Papa. Those were his words. And the portrait was Mama’s. It belonged to her now, the only thing Mama’d ever said she wanted Jacey to have. Because she was so much like her great-grandmother. Feisty. Independent. Beautiful. No one had ever called her beautiful before. No one but Mama.
Blinking and frowning, Jacey hastily stepped back inside her room and closed the door. She drew the sheet from around her shoulders and tossed it onto the bed. Within moments she had on her split skirt and boots and blouse. Turning her nose up at the sweaty, dirty state of her attire, she tucked the blouse into her waistband and turned toward the door at the sound of knocking.
“Coming,” she called out. Hurrying to the door, with only a passing thought of her Colt still hidden under her pillow, she opened it. And froze. It wasn’t Mr. Estrada. Or Rosie. Or Zant Chapelo. It wasn’t anyone she knew. But he was big, heavily armed, and mean-looking. And his eyes had almost no color to them.
Her heart in her throat, Jacey fought to keep her voice from cracking with fright. “You got the wrong room, mister. You better clear out now.”
“I got the right room.… Miss Lawless.”
The man’s voice was a threatening drawl that stood the hair up on Jacey’s arms. She sucked in a breath through her flared nostrils. Th
e only two people in Tucson who knew her name were Alberto and Rosie Estrada. She’d been set up. She knew that as surely as she was standing there facing a big, ugly man.
Jacey’s right hand went to her hip. No Colt. She met his gaze and saw the deadly gleam in his eyes, like a snake that had cornered a meal.
Well, this dinner isn’t going down without a fight. Jacey tried, with a mighty shove, to fling the door closed, anything just to give her a second to hike her skirt and reach her knife or get to the bed and her gun.
But the big man was quicker. He shoved a hamlike hand against the door’s wood and pushed inward, sending Jacey spiraling backward into the room. Stumbling, she nearly fell but finally managed to keep her feet as she grabbed at the wooden chair behind her. The man grinned and stepped into the room. Terrified but determined, Jacey swung the chair at the man’s head. He raised his arm to block the blow. The chair caught him on his forearm and hand, and broke apart, its pieces clattering to the floor.
Jacey was left holding one end of the slatted chairback. The man held the other end. Jacey looked at his hand. Scratched and bloody knuckles. She then met his gaze. Again, he grinned at her. “What now, Miss Lawless?”
Immobilized in a frozen moment, Jacey stared at him. She instinctively knew that any movement on her part, whether it be a blink or a breath or a raised hand, would set him in motion. He indicated he was waiting for her. He was playing with her. And then he meant to kill her. Think, Jacey.
Knowing her gun was out of reach, knowing he’d never let her reach the bed, Jacey made her move. Releasing her grip on the splintered chair, she hiked up her split skirt and went for her knife.
But she never even got it out of its sheath before he flung the broken chair aside and backhanded her, sending her reeling toward the bed. She landed hard on the floor, her back hitting the hardwood bed frame and knocking the air out of her. Stunned, numb, staring straight ahead, she sat with her legs sprawled out in front of her.
Until the man stepped up and punched her in the jaw. The world receded.
* * *
When Jacey awakened, it was to the smell of cheap whiskey and the sensation of throbbing pain—in her jaw, her ear, and the side of her head. She felt like somebody’d hit her. Then it came to her. Somebody had. Remembering that, she lay perfectly still and kept her eyes closed. He might still be here.
Jacey's Reckless Heart Page 4