The Rogue was jumping. Chico was banging out "Sugar in the Gourd" as fast as he could, and Floyd and Oscar were trying to dance to it. Cady laughed along with everybody else watching the two old fools. "I never knew what a shadow he cast," she confided to Levi as he plunked down the last overflowing mug on her tray.
He nodded; he knew who she meant. "It's like that fairy tale."
"What fairy tale?"
"Them three little pigs. How they celebrate when the big bad wolf gets what's comin' to him."
"Ha. Yeah." It was like that. Merle Wylie had been like a dark shadow over Paradise for ages, and today the sun had come out. Grown men were cavorting like children. Innocence was back and freedom was in the air, as intoxicating as Cady's best bourbon whiskey.
She served drinks to Curly Boggs and his gang, and took orders for more from Leonard and Jim and Jersey Stan. She had so many customers, she barely had time to flirt, an oversight many of them pointed out to her. But she always knew where Jesse was; it was as if she had antennae hidden in her hair. Right now he was at the head of a bunch of tables the boys had shoved together, like the guest of honor at a rowdy banquet. She sent him a secret smile as she sidled past him en route to the bar—and let out a squeal when he grabbed her and hauled her onto his lap, empty tray and all.
"I can't sit, I've got—" A kiss shut her up. Boy, was he an expert at that. Jesse laughing, Jesse's arms around her, Jesse trying to steal another kiss while his pals whistled and whooped— This is it, Cady gloated. I'm really in paradise.
Jacques Tournier stood up and offered her his chair, and Jesse said he'd let her up if she'd sit in it and quit flying around like a barmaid. "I am a barmaid"—she laughed, but she took the chair—"just for a minute," and even took a swig of Jesse's beer when he gave it to her.
Toasting him was the order of the day. She sat through half a dozen tributes to his bravery, his coolness under pressure, his amazing accuracy, his general wonderfulness—all of which he responded to with modest smiles and deprecating mumbles. "Speech!" somebody yelled. "Speech!" Others took up the chant, and after a while Jesse got up, amid thunderous foot-stomping and table-walloping.
"I don't have much to say," he began in a voice so low-key and quiet, the whole saloon shut up to hear him. "I appreciate everybody's good wishes, and it's nice to know you're glad I didn't get shot today. I'm glad, too, but... the truth is, I'm not proud of what I did. Killing's a thing no man in his right mind enjoys."
"Yeah" and "Well, that's right," a few men agreed in hushed voices.
"Sometimes there's no way out, though, and then all you can do is try to face up to it fair and square. That's all I did, and I'm grateful it worked out in my favor. But I swear I got no pleasure from that man's dying, and—I hope to God I'll never have to kill again."
He sat down, not to more cheering but to a thoughtful, nearly sober silence. Cady found herself blinking hard to keep tears out of her eyes. Stunned, grateful tears—Jesse was giving up gunfighting! It was the answer to a prayer she'd never even prayed, never dared to hope for. She had so many questions—why had he lied and told her he wasn't Gault? why had he pretended he couldn't shoot?—but they could wait. All she wanted to do now was look at him. Touch him, listen to him laugh. Be with him.
Luther Digby was no drinking man, so she was surprised to see him zigzagging through the crowd, making his way toward Jesse's table. What surprised her even more was that his wife was right behind him. Respectable women never set foot in Rogue's Tavern, and Sara Digby was about as respectable as they came. But Cady had an idea why the Digbys were here, and the first words out of Luther's mouth confirmed it.
"Mr. Gault, my wife and I want to thank you for what you did for us."
Jesse scratched his chin and tried to look perplexed. "What might that be?"
Luther looked down, a little embarrassed. Maybe, Cady thought, Jesse's charitable gesture didn't sit too well with his pride. "I'll be paying you back as soon as I can. It may take a while, but you'll get every penny, and that's a promise."
"Luther, I don't have the least idea what you're talking about."
Sara spoke up. "Louise Sullivan wanted to come by and pay her respects, too. One of her kids took sick, though, so she couldn't leave home. She says to tell you you'll be in her prayers for the rest of her life."
"Well, that's mighty kind," Jesse said gruffly, "but you tell her for me she'll be praying for the wrong man."
Sara just smiled. She looked frail, but Cady had seen her lift grain sacks almost as heavy as she was. "If that's how you want it, Mr. Gault, that's your business. But I know who I saw at my door that night. I should've come forward before now, but to tell you the truth, I was scared." Impulsively, she reached for his hands with both of hers. "Thank you," Cady heard her whisper. "Thank you for saving us."
Jesse blushed purple.
Chico started in on "For He's the Jolly Good Fellow." Cady assumed it was for Jesse, but just then he held up his hand and waved at somebody in a white hat coming through the doors—Sheriff Leaver. Everybody in the saloon joined in the song, and it was a treat to watch Tommy's serious face break into a shy, delighted grin. Glen found him and grabbed his arm, pressing against him like she'd never let go. She turned her face up, practically begging him to kiss her. But Tom kept his dignity and only patted her arm. Cady guessed it was only vulgar people like her and Jesse who couldn't keep their hands off each other in public.
Tom came over and sat down at their table. Cady sent Glendoline a meaningful look; it said, Would you please get back to work? Either Glen didn't see it or she pretended not to. Resigned, Cady started to get up herself, but Tom said, "Wylie won't talk," and she sat back down, too interested to leave. "He says he wants a lawyer, so I wired for one from Jacksonville. That's his right—I didn't have any choice."
Nestor Yeakes commenced to swear. "Won't that beat all if the son of a bitch gets off?"
"He won't. How could he," Will Shorter, Jr., asked, "when half the town heard that gunman's dying words?"
"Still. Ain't no telling what some slick, smarty-pants lawyer might pull to get him off."
Tom said, "Oh, I don't think we'll have to worry about Merle getting off."
"How come?"
He cleared his throat and stroked his goatee. Cady had an idea Tommy was enjoying his time in the limelight—and why not? Today he'd shown what he was made of. Nobody in this town was ever going to call him Lily Leaver again. "Warren Turley left town this afternoon. Which isn't as—"
"Damn," Cady interrupted. She finally remembered to tell him—"He's got my money!"
Tom turned to her, frowning. "What's that?"
"Sometime between last night and this afternoon, somebody snuck in my room and stole two thousand dollars." Everybody stared at her. "My life savings." She still couldn't get over how philosophically she was taking this calamity. Reaching over, she squeezed Jesse's thigh under the table. It was a matter of priorities, she guessed, and Jesse, not money, was at the top of hers.
"Well, if it was Turley," the sheriff was saying, "things might not be as bad as you think. Because Turley took off, but Clyde didn't, and we just had a real interesting conversation, Clyde and me. He told me where Turley's probably headed—his brother's place over in Kerbyville—and I've already telegraphed the sheriff there to pick him up."
"Hot damn." Sam Blankenship slapped him on the back. "Nice going, Tom. Now let's hope they get him before he spends all o' Cady's money."
She joined in a fervent chorus of Yeahs.
Tom cleared his throat again. "That's not all Clyde had to say. I can't get into it all now, it wouldn't be proper. But I'll tell you this: If Merle Wylie gets out of jail anytime in the next ten or twelve years, it'll have to be for his own funeral."
A spontaneous cheer went up. Cady joined in, hoping not too many beer mugs got broken by men thunking them on the tables.
"And, Cady," the sheriff continued when he could be heard, "if you were ever going to get your life savin
gs stolen, now would be a real good time for it to happen. Because it's looking like you're going to be a very rich lady."
All she could say was, "I am?"
"According to Clyde, Wylie's been stealing gold— nuggets, not just dust—out of the Seven Dollar since February."
"I knew it."
"His men found a pay streak and traced it back to your mine, and they've been smuggling high-grade ore out for the last four or five months. It might take a while to get it all straightened out, but when everything settles—according to Clyde, who sure seems to know what he's talking about—you'll be about the richest saloonkeeper in Josephine County."
Cady sat back limply, too shocked to respond to the jokes and toasts and good wishes going on around her. A jubilant Jesse gave her a smacking kiss and a rib-cracking hug. "Can I pick 'em?" he kept saying, laughing like a kid. "Can't I just about pick 'em?"
But when the noise abated a little and everybody's attention wasn't on them, he took her hand and leaned across her to say to Sam Blankenship, "Sam, you're still handling the sale of the old Russell place, aren't you?" Cady's heart leaped in her chest.
"Yep," said Sam, his eyes lighting up. "You interested?"
"How about if Cady and I come see you about it in the morning?"
"Why, that'll be fine, just fine."
"You wouldn't try to gouge us on the price, would you?"
"Hell, no." Then he laughed, realizing it was a joke. "Then again, Cady's gonna be so damn rich, you probably wouldn't notice if I did."
She was still in a daze. Jesse's friends dragged him away to drink with them, but not before he kissed her and whispered in her ear, "When can we go somewhere alone?"
An hour flew by. Once a flurry of gunshots rang out in the street in front of the saloon. But it was just the Witter ranch boys, drunk and happy. The sheriff unwound Glen's arm from around his neck and stood up. "I'll handle this," he announced, squaring his shoulders. He marched outside, and a minute later the shooting stopped.
"Abraham, does your daddy know you're still up at this hour?"
"Yeah." Ham giggled at Cady's pretend-outrage, and stood patiently still while she gave him a hug. "He say I can stay up if I help out an' don't get underfoot, 'cause this a special occasion."
"It sure is that."
"Cady?"
"What." She was refilling a glass pitcher with beer from the keg herself, because Levi needed a minute to go to the privy.
"Are you really gonna marry Mr. Gault?"
"I expect I am."
He grinned. "Good."
She smoothed her hand over his wiry head, and gave the back of his spindly neck a squeeze. "Yeah," she agreed. "Good."
Jesse reached out and snagged her as she passed behind him on her way to a table to take more orders. He was slouched against the bar, completely at ease, surrounded by men who liked and trusted and admired him, and in its way that was as astonishing a turn of events as Tommy Leaver's transformation into a hero. Miracles happened—here was proof. As soon as she came back to earth, Cady would have to rearrange her thinking on a whole slew of things.
"Say, Jess," Will Shorter said familiarly, bumping shoulders. Behind his glasses, his mild eyes swam a little, but he wasn't completely drunk, Cady gauged—and she was an expert on these things. "How 'bout an interview? Your perspective on the gunfight. Helluva story, my God. At your convenience, o' course, but if we did it now, we could get it in a special Sunday late edition."
"Figured you'd be asking about that, Will. I've been thinking. Got a favor to ask you."
"Anything. Name it."
"Don't run the story."
"Say what?" Conversations around them tapered off; people leaned in to hear. "Don't run it? You serious? Why the hell not?"
"Well, it's like this." Jesse pushed his hat to the back of his head. "I like this town," he said quietly. "Folks here have been decent to me from the start." He took Cady's hand. "I figure there's worse places for a man like me to hang up his guns and settle down."
Will grinned from ear to ear. Stony and Shrimp, Nestor and Gunther, Sam, Tommy, Leonard, Stan, and Jacques—everybody started patting Jesse on the back and trying to shake his hand. "Welcome to Paradise, Mr. Gault!"
"Well, that's the thing." Jesse's earnestness quieted them down again. "See, if I'm going to make a life here, I can't be squaring off for a shoot-out every time some half-cocked saddle bum with a fast gun and a mean streak comes riding through. Cady and me, we want a little peace and quiet."
"You mean..."
"I mean it's time to lay Gault to rest."
The reporter scratched his head. "But—"
"Listen, Will. What if you were to write a story about how Gault and a stranger fought it out on Main Street today, and when the smoke cleared Gault was dead. The stranger got on his horse and rode away, and no one knows what became of him. Nobody even knew his name."
Confounded silence.
Finally Shrimp said, "Yeah, but then—who would you be?"
"Nobody. Jesse something." He stroked his jaw, looking thoughtful. "How about Vaughn? Vaughn's a good name."
Men started nodding, humming, stroking their own jaws thoughtfully.
"Course, the trick would be making sure the truth never got out of Paradise."
Sheriff Leaver said, "I reckon that's the least this town could do for you in return for what you did for us."
"Hear, hear."
"Damn right."
"We could start getting the word out right away. I can talk to Reverend Cross," Tom promised, "get him to say something in church tomorrow."
"We'll all spread the word," Sam vowed, and the others seconded him. Sam lifted his glass, and pretty soon every man in the bar lifted his, too. "Welcome to Paradise—Mr. Jesse Vaughn!"
Jesse was moved, and he couldn't hide it. "I'm more grateful than I can say," he told his friends, shaking their hands one by one. Cady was in such a state, she was back to blinking to keep from bawling. If things didn't quit getting better and better, she might drop dead soon from sheer happiness.
"How much longer till I can kiss you without the whole town watching?"
She shivered; his breath in her ear sent a sexy thrill through her whole body. Why were they still here? Five minutes wouldn't kill anybody. Neither would ten.
"Levi, I'm going outside for some air," she called casually. "Won't be long." The bartender nodded calmly, knowingly. "Go on," he said, flapping his hand at her. Giving her his blessing.
She started weaving through tables with Jesse behind her, but every few feet somebody stopped him to talk. "Howdy, Mr. Vaughn. How's it going, Mr. Vaughn? Buy you a drink, Mr. Vaughn?"
"I'll meet you," Cady said in his ear.
"No, I'm coming," he told her, but a table later somebody else collared him. She sent him a smiling, put-upon look, and slipped outside by herself.
She wasn't the only one who had wanted some air. "Hey, Doc," she called to Doc Mobius, who stood hunched over the railing, smoking. Curly was drinking from a bottle on the step; Leonard and Jim Tannenbaum were arguing on the sidewalk. She wandered out into the street, very casual, and began to drift toward the side street that led to the alley behind the saloon.
Ah, privacy. The moon coming up behind the trees reminded her of the night she and Jesse first made love. It was a three-quarter moon that night, too. A good-luck moon for her.
Music floated on the air, soft and sad. One of Chico's dirges. "The Dying Cowboy" or "The Dying Ranger," or maybe "The Dying Californian," they all sounded the same to her. And they all had a million verses, because the main character's death was always long and lingering.
She heard a spur jingle, and hugged herself, savoring a thrill of anticipation. A tall, lean figure, darker black against the blackness behind him, approached her from the corner. She went toward him, smiling, opening her arms to him. "I can't wait to see you in red," she murmured, moving into his embrace. "Or blue or green. Yellow." They kissed.
"You mean that's all I ha
d to do to get you?" He was backing her up against the wall. "Wear colors? Wish I'd known that sooner. Think of how much time I'd've saved."
"You never had a hard time getting me."
"It felt hard."
The wall was at her back. He pressed against her, and she whispered, "Feels pretty hard right now." He laughed, and Cady's heart flew. How she loved making him laugh. She pressed kisses to his face in a soft frenzy, holding him tight. "Oh, I'm so glad you didn't get killed."
"Me, too."
"But, Jess, why didn't you tell me? That you really are Gault?"
"Gault's dead. You're marrying Jesse Vaughn."
"I know I am." And it didn't really matter why he hadn't told her—that was in the past. The future was all that counted, and theirs was perfect. "Mrs. Jesse Vaughn," she whispered, basking in the love in his eyes. "That's me."
"That's you." He kissed her lips, and she lost herself in a blur of feeling, dizzy from the tender way he touched her. "Oh, I don't want to go back inside."
"Let's not."
"I want..."
The crisp clop of a horse's hooves made her stiffen. She swiveled her head, and Jesse's lips trailed a path to her ear. "Sweetheart," he whispered—then he heard it, too.
They turned.
A man. Tall, wearing black. On a black horse. Jesse grabbed her hand and said, "Let's go," in a funny voice, but just then moonlight struck the rider's face. Cady gasped.
"Jesse!"
"Cady, let's—"
"It's him!" Shaking, aghast, she shrank back, tried to merge into the wall; stark terror was all that kept her from screaming. Slowly, surely, the gunfighter drew level, turning his awful, one-eyed glare on them. "Jesse—oh, my God—he'll get away. Do something!"
Wearing the oddest expression, a riveting combination of anxiety and mirth, Jesse pulled out one of his six-guns and pointed it at the outlaw's face. He fired—and missed!
Cady's jaw dropped. "Shoot him again."
Bang.
Missed again. Impossible—he was firing point-blank! The gunfighter didn't even flinch. No—he grinned as he shambled by, and at the corner he tipped his hat. Then, with a jaunty wave, he spurred his black horse and vanished.
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