Nevada Nights

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  Cameron couldn’t tear her gaze from the man’s face. It had gone chalk white. Rusty hair, liberally sprinkled with gray, added to his pallor. With jerking movements he stumbled toward the bar, drank down two tumblers of whiskey, then leaned heavily against the bar and studied her again before lurching across the room and out the door.

  The others involved in the card game had remained seated, staring with detached interest at the scene. As Alex continued the introductions Cameron became aware of one man at the table who hadn’t moved a muscle since her arrival. Now she turned to study him, noting the obviously expensive shirt beneath a perfectly tailored black coat. One hand holding the cards rested casually on the table. The other hand was out of sight beneath the table, and she sensed, rather than saw, that it was holding a gun. Her gaze traveled slowly upward to a wide-brimmed hat that tilted rakishly low over his forehead, casting his face in shadows. But even though his features were obscured she knew him. His image was indelibly imprinted on her mind. Her heart leaped into her throat. Her mouth rounded in surprise. Although no words came out, her lips clearly formed his name. Michael. But even as she was mouthing the word, Alex was introducing him. She noted the respect in his tone.

  "And this is Colt. He’s been known to do deadly things with that widow maker he carries."

  Cameron stared helplessly at the one man whose memory she had carried in her heart for so long.

  With the tips of his cards he pushed the hat back, allowing the lamp hanging above the table to illuminate his face. His gaze raked her insolently, and then, as if dismissing her, he asked, "Mind if we finish the hand now?"

  She went deathly still. It was as if he had taken a whip to her. For long moments she stood transfixed.

  "Please, Alex," Cameron finally managed to whisper, tearing her gaze from Michael’s face. "You have to come home with me. My father has died."

  His hands gripped her upper arms so tightly she thought she would cry out from the pain.

  "He’s dead? You’re sure?"

  She nodded, feeling her throat tighten. "Ti has gone for the doctor. The servants won’t touch—his body—until you give the word. Please come home."

  She watched his eyes narrow. Slowly, a sinister smile played on his lips. He released her, throwing back his head in a roar of laughter.

  "Another bottle for this table. In fact, drinks all around. We’re going to drink one for Big John McCormick."

  One of the saloon girls sidled up to Alex and brought her arms around his waist. He seemed about to ignore her, then seeing Cameron’s look of disgust, he grinned wickedly and drew her closer to him. Planting a wet kiss on the girl’s painted mouth, he leered at Cameron.

  "My little sister spent a lifetime locked away in a convent. She’s probably never had a man kiss her. Or"—and he grunted in delight—"had any kind of fun, if you know what I mean. Take a look at her face, boys. The little lady’s scandalized." He stared meaningfully at his brother. "What a waste. Don’t you agree, Jarret?"

  Giving him a hateful look, Cameron whirled, intent on running from this evil place. In one swift motion, Jarret snaked out a hand and held her fast. She was stunned by the strength he possessed, despite his slight appearance. His bland face, so like a child’s, broke into an artless smile.

  "She’s so pretty, Alex. It doesn’t seem fair that Cameron’s never had any fun. Can I have fun with her, Alex? Can I?"

  The faces of the men around the table grew grim, watching Alex Bannion. Cameron’s heart seemed to stop for a full minute before beginning a painful hammering in her breast. He couldn’t mean this. Jarret was her stepbrother. They were family. He wouldn’t, couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. Then she stared closely at his eyes, those gray, nearly colorless eyes, and realized they were vacant. Jarret had the simple-mindedness of a child. One word from Alex, one nod of approval, and Jarret would believe he had every right to do with Cameron as he pleased. He wouldn’t even see the wrong of it. Like any child, he was selfishly interested only in his own gratification.

  The sound of Alex’s laughter brought ice to her veins. This wicked, hateful man was thoroughly enjoying her terror. And he intended to use his power over his weak-minded brother to torment her.

  Alex shrugged, then spread his hands expansively, as if he were a monarch, granting a very special favor.

  "I don’t see why not, Jarret. Might as well keep it all in the family. Cameron will probably enjoy it and be most grateful."

  Jarret’s grip on her arm tightened. With his free hand, he caught at the pins that held her hair in a neat chignon. Waves of amber cornsilk drifted about her face and shoulders. Several men at the table caught their breath at the sight of her. With his fingers entwined in the thick mass of hair, Jarret pulled her head back with a rough jerk.

  "So pretty," he muttered. "Cameron, you’re so pretty."

  She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Swallowing, she whispered, "Please, Jarret. Don’t do this. Let me go home."

  "It’ll be fun, little sister. You’ll see. I know all about men and women. Alex takes me to Rose’s every week or so. I know all kinds of things to show you."

  Shame washed over her, and she fought down a rising panic as his fingers fumbled with the pearl buttons which ran from her throat to her waist.

  "Stop this, Jarret." Through clenched teeth, she appealed to the others. "Won’t any of you stop him?"

  One of the men, a big, burly miner, squirmed in agitation. "I stay out of family fights, ma’am. It just ain’t my concern."

  Feeling Michael’s dark gaze riveted on her, she flushed and hung her head as the bodice of her dress was pulled open by work-roughened hands to reveal the swell of her breasts.

  Laughing, Alex sat down at the table, yanking the saloon girl to his lap. With his face buried in her hair, he said, "If you’d like a little privacy, Jarret, Charley can give you a room upstairs."

  "Good." Dragging Cameron along by the wrist, Jarret began walking toward the bar.

  Before he had taken three steps, Michael’s voice stopped him in his tracks. His tone was so cold, Cameron barely recognized it.

  "Just a minute. We haven’t finished our hand yet. Besides, I might like some of that action myself."

  Several men at the other tables looked up at the commanding tone. A quiet murmur of excitement rippled through the crowded saloon.

  Alex scowled. He hadn’t counted on this.

  Jarret returned to the table, hauling Cameron behind him.

  "Now listen, Colt—"

  "No. You listen. The hand was dealt. Each of you drew your cards." He nodded toward the pile of chips in the center of the table. "Now, unless you want to forfeit a whole lot of money to me, you’re going to finish out the game." He flashed a malicious smile in Jarret’s direction. "And just to sweeten the pot, I think we ought to add the lady to the stakes. That should make the game even more interesting."

  Jarret appealed to Alex. "You promised, Alex. You said I could have her. Don’t let him get away with this." His voice whined like a pouting child.

  "Shut up." Alex roughly thrust the saloon girl from him and studied the man who sat so calmly, one hand holding the cards, the other hand still out of sight beneath the table.

  Like a mongrel, the saloon girl crept up behind Michael and began running her hand along his shoulder.

  "Why fight over a skinny thing like her? Let him have her, Colt. You can have me instead."

  One menacing look from him sent her scurrying away to join the others near the bar.

  "What if we say no?" Alex began to rise from his chair.

  The man they called Colt gave an icy smile, and Cameron felt her heart stop. How could she have ever believed this man was a hero? She had deluded herself into believing that he was a wealthy, cultured gentleman. Now she saw him for what he really was. The expensive saddle, the flashy clothes. He was a gunfighter, a card shark, and infinitely more dangerous than any of the others at this table. Their fear of him was obvious in their downcast eyes.<
br />
  "You have no say in this. I’ve already decided." At the chilling words, Alex slumped back down in his chair. No one moved.

  "Pick up your cards." Not once did Michael glance in Cameron’s direction.

  Each man around the table nervously picked up the hand that had been dealt.

  Cameron, still held fast by Jarret, watched in horror as he reached for his cards, spread each one carefully with his thumb, then set them back down. She didn’t understand the game.

  Alex grinned at her, obviously pleased with the hand he had been dealt. "This is draw poker, little sister."

  Every person in the room had crowded around to watch the outcome of the game. The piano player climbed on the piano stool for a better view. The room grew so silent, Cameron was afraid they could all hear the pounding of her heart.

  "Let’s see them." Cameron was only dimly aware of Michael’s clipped words.

  "It’s impossible to beat these." Alex tossed down his hand, revealing a king, queen, jack, ten, nine of diamonds.

  "A straight flush," he said triumphantly.

  Around the table, each man in turn spread his cards, then pushed them to one side, indicating they couldn’t even come close to Alex’s hand.

  Alex turned to his brother. "Well, now, I give her to you, Jarret, with my compliments." He bowed grandly.

  "Not so fast." Colt’s icy words brought Alex’s head around with a jerk.

  "You can’t beat ’em, Colt!"

  Casually tossing the cards in the center of the table, the gunfighter watched their faces.

  "Colt drew a straight flush, too," one of the miners said with a trace of awe. "With ace high."

  Cameron stared at the hand: ace, king, queen, jack, ten of hearts.

  The murmur of excitement grew to a fever of cursed exclamations.

  The gunman stood, scraping back his chair, and unwinding his frame with surprising, catlike grace. In his hand gleamed the Colt, reminding all of them of his claim to fame.

  "Guess we’ll be going now, gentlemen. Got some rather—pressing business to attend to. But it’s been a real pleasure."

  With a snap of his fingers he summoned the grizzled bartender, who scurried toward the table. Quickly he tallied the chips, counted out some bills, and handed them with a great show of deference to the man they called Colt.

  He pocketed the money, nodded to them, then bowed solemnly before Cameron, whose hand clutched with unspoken dignity at the front of her gown.

  "I believe you’ve just become my property, ma’am," he said.

  The crowd erupted into laughter.

  Taking her hand from Jarret’s grasp, he yanked her harshly away. The dress once again gaped open. Cameron’s face went scarlet in rage and humiliation.

  Stumbling, she finally had to resort to running to keep up with his long strides. She gasped as he shoved her ahead of him through the swinging doors of the saloon. The roar of jeering laughter trailed after them.

  He untied the black stallion, then mounted before reaching down, lifting her easily in his arms, and planting her squarely in front of him.

  She wanted to scream, to let the whole town know that she was being taken against her will. But the terror had risen like a great lump in her throat, threatening to choke her.

  Chapter Eight

  The horse’s hooves thundered along the dusty road of the town, then continued the driving pace into the hills that ringed Virginia City. Cameron held herself stiffly in the oversize leather saddle, achingly aware of every part of the body pressed tightly behind her. One hand encircled her waist, holding her firmly in place, while the other hand rested near her hip, loosely holding the reins.

  The breeze created by the movement of the horse seeped through her open bodice, thoroughly chilling her. Her body, already battered from the torturous journey of the past weeks, protested every movement she was forced to endure.

  The rich cloud of hair danced in the wind, flaying the cheeks of the man who held her against his length. Finally putting a safe distance between them and the town, he allowed his thoughts to return to her. Damn fool woman looking at him so helplessly, with her heart in her eyes! It nearly tore his guts out to watch this child-woman being pawed by that animal. It had taken every ounce of his willpower to keep from killing Jarret Bannion on the spot. His finger had actually trembled on the trigger. More than anything, he had wanted to squeeze, to watch the look of surprise on that brutish face gradually turn to horror as he realized he’d just been shot. He wanted to empty the gun into that lout until he lay lifeless on the floor for the whole town to see.

  Luckily the cards had come up the way he had planned them. Of course, if they hadn’t he had been prepared to shoot his way out of that place and take her with him.

  That knowledge rankled. The feelings that had nearly overpowered him tonight in the saloon were dangerous for a man in his position. The last thing he needed right now was to feel protective, to feel anything at all, toward one of the McCormicks.

  McCormick. Who would have ever believed her name would be Cameron McCormick? He’d have to remember that, brand it into his brain, in order to fuel the hatred. Because it was absolutely necessary that he hate her. This was war. And you didn’t take the enemy into your camp.

  She shivered, and the hand around her waist tightened its grip, drawing her even closer to him. His hand traveled upward, finding the torn, gaping bodice. He drew both arms tightly about her, hunching over her slightly to ward off the wind. His face was buried in her hair, inhaling the wonderful woman scent of her. He was drowning in the smell of her. He fought to steel himself against it.

  On the crest of hill overlooking the McCormick house he halted his horse and dismounted. Reaching up, he hauled her roughly from the saddle and, without releasing her, stared down into her upturned face.

  Rage glittered in her eyes, and he was reminded of the last time he tangled with her, on her island, where she attacked him. He could still recall the shock that had registered when the flying, flailing she-cat had finally been pinned beneath his body on the damp ground. She had been soft as only a woman can be.

  "This morning you killed a man in the street."

  If he was startled at her outburst it didn’t show. He remained silent.

  "I saw you. Then you calmly walked to the saloon."

  When he spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet. "Yes. He drew first. I had no choice. Kill or be killed. And the sheriff was in the saloon."

  Her eyes blazed. "And of course, being a good citizen, you wanted to be sure you made a complete report to the sheriff."

  "That’s right."

  "Take your filthy hands off me, Michael Gray."

  "Still the little wildcat, I see." His look hardened. "Lesson number one, Cameron McCormick. Don’t ever call me Michael again. Here in Virginia City, the name is Colt."

  "Michael, I—"

  He caught her roughly by the shoulders and nearly lifted her off the ground. Her hair fell forward, swirling about her cheeks.

  Through clenched teeth, he snarled, "The name is Colt. Say it."

  He watched her eyes narrow with hatred.

  "Damn it, Cameron. Say it. My name is Colt."

  He raised his hand as if to strike her. He saw her flinch. Still she kept her mouth firmly clamped shut. He recognized the tiny amber flames of defiance that leaped into her eyes.

  "Say it, Cammy, or I’ll have to hurt you."

  He watched the tears well up, then spill over, coursing down her face. He swore viciously. He wanted to kiss them away. He wanted to fold her in his arms, to murmur into a tangle of hair that he was sorry. He wanted to rock her in his arms like a child. He wiped away her tears, cursing himself with a fury that astounded him. Catching her by the shoulders, he wasn’t even aware that he had tightened his grip on her until she cried out in pain.

  She shuddered, then looked down at her feet, feeling the tension within them both about to erupt.

  "All right. Why not? Maybe Michael Gray never existe
d at all. Maybe he was just someone I made up, someone I dreamed of on long, winter nights."

  His voice softened. "That’s right. Now you keep on thinking that way." He tipped up her chin. "Say my name."

  He watched her eyes narrow. "Say it!"

  She could no longer fight the demand in his voice. "Your name is Colt." She spit each word with venom.

  "Don’t you ever forget it. If you ever slip and call me Michael . . ." He paused for emphasis. "I’ll have to kill you."

  "Why, Michael?"

  It seemed a reflex. He shook her almost violently. For one shocked moment, they simply stared at each other, too stunned to react.

  Suddenly, it was all too much for Cameron. Tears of pain and rage spilled over, staining her cheeks.

  "I can’t take any more. I can’t. Don’t you understand? My father has just died. I’ve traveled clear across the country to be with him, and he’s dead. And the family I’ve always dreamed of has become a nightmare. And now you’re not Michael anymore. You’re a—a gunfighter named Colt. Look at you, in your fancy clothes and shiny gun." She laughed contemptuously. "And I once thought you were some noble gentleman. I’ll never trust another man. Never! They let you down. They lie and cheat and take from you. Liars! All of you. Liars!"

  Without thinking, Michael let his hand drop lightly to her shoulder. "Don’t judge all men by your father. Or me, little Cammy."

  With an anguished cry, she tried to push away from him.

  "Don’t touch me. You have no right to touch me."

  "I won that right, remember ma’am?" A bleak smile curved his lips as he reached up to brush away her tears with his thumbs. The touch was gentle, a reminder of another time, another place. Both of them seemed to sense a subtle change. Suddenly afraid, aware of her vulnerability, Cameron clutched at the gaping bodice of her dress with both hands, anxious to keep a barrier between them.

  Michael caught her hands. His voice was a raw whisper. "Don’t. Please. At least let me look at you."