This Gun for Hire

by Jo Goodman

  “I thought I was a scoundrel.”

  “That, too. Now where are those newspapers you brought me?”

  “On the chest on top of the ones I brought you a week ago.”

  She looked past the foot of the bed. “So they are.” She refused his offer to retrieve them. The sling was a nuisance as she attempted to crawl to the end of the bed, and feeling as graceless as a three-legged cat, she pulled her arm out of it.

  “I saw that.”

  Calico ignored him, grabbed the entire stack of dailies, and scooted back to the head of the bed. She made herself comfortable and arranged the sling so it lay like a scarf around her neck and shoulders. She stretched her arm experimentally, which she did off and on throughout the day, although never in front of Quill. When she glanced over at him, he was staring at his work, but there was the narrowest of smiles on his lips.

  Because she had nothing substantial to toss at his head, she proceeded to sift through the newspapers, looking for a story that she had started to read some time ago and never finished. Her eyes skimmed the pages for some mention of the Palace Variety Theatre and Gambling Parlor. Bat Masterson’s new establishment was engaging vaudeville acts from the East, and Calico thought she might like to read what the fuss was about.

  It was on her way to finding that article that her eyes fell on another. She had purposely avoided reading the crime report column, which dutifully logged the names of those arrested for drunkenness, depravity, and dealing from the bottom of a deck. She especially did not want to see the name of someone she had taken in appear again as the perpetrator of a new crime. That did not happen often, but when it did, she blamed the lawyers. It seemed to her that on those occasions they had sense for the law and little for justice. The juries were hopelessly confused.

  But none of that was what pulled her attention this time.

  “Mercy,” she whispered, rattling the Rocky in her hands. “Lord have mercy.” She held the newspaper closer as she reread the offending column. “If this does not move me off this mountain, I must truly be in love.” Behind the paper, Calico shook her head slowly. “Huh. I did not expect to come to that realization in this manner.”

  “Imagine my surprise,” came the wry reply.

  Calico lowered the newspaper until she could see Quill over the top. His head was bent as he continued to study his lists. “Maybe I didn’t mean I was in love with you.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “I do not understand it, but I find your confidence to be one of your most attractive qualities.” He looked up then and dazzled her with a cocky grin. “But I will never get used to that.”

  Still grinning, Quill dropped his work on the floor. The papers scattered. He stepped over them to get to the bed. She was already moving over to make room for him when he reached her. He sat down, removed his shoes and his jacket, and then positioned himself so he was against the headboard beside her.

  He leaned over, careful not to jostle her arm, and kissed her proffered cheek. “Now show me what prompted you to make that rather extraordinary declaration.”

  “Was it extraordinary? I couldn’t tell.”

  “Calico.” He flicked at one corner of the paper she was still holding. “The Rocky?”

  “What? Oh. Yes, of course.” She passed the broadsheet-style paper to him and pointed out the story. “I imagine you are waiting for a similar bolt of lightning to strike you, although I think it would be good of you to tell me if you hear any thunder in the distance. Having said it aloud, it feels a little like I am wearing my undergarments on the outside. It’s not precisely uncomfortable, but it’s the kind of thing that’s bound to attract notice.”

  “Hmm. Let me read this, and then I will be happy to report on the weather.”

  She poked him in the arm with her elbow, which made her wince and him regard her with a raised eyebrow and no sympathy. After that, she rested her head on his shoulder and let him be.

  “Damn,” he said under his breath. “Damn and damn. How does this happen? How does our friend Nick Whitfield break out of jail? I would have thought he’d find it difficult to break an egg.”

  “Read on.”

  Quill did. A moment later, he said, “Of course. Chick Tatters.” His eyes darted down the page. “I don’t see Amos Bennett’s name here. I thought the three of them worked together.”

  “So did I, but I don’t think Amos and Whit were longtime associates. Do you remember Joe Pepper telling us that Amos might have been the one who gave Whit’s name to the law after he—Whitfield—robbed that bank in Bailey?”

  “I’m recalling that now.”

  “Whit was the only one I escorted to the Bailey jail. I never saw a notice for the other two. I figure Whit never turned on Chick Tatters because he was counting on him to get him out. Whether Amos helped or not probably doesn’t matter any longer. It’s hard to believe that Whit wouldn’t have killed him by now.” She pointed out the paper’s publication date. “This paper was days old when you gave it to me. Now it’s been almost a month. Amos Bennett is dead.”

  Quill did not disagree. He read through the article again and then folded the paper. He used it to indicate all the other newspapers fanned out across the blankets and Calico’s lap. “I think we need to look through all of these. Whit might have already been caught.”

  She sighed. “I am not hopeful, especially since there is no mention of a reward, but you are right, we have to look.” She quickly ordered the papers chronologically, putting the oldest on the top. She handed it to him and took the next one for herself. They both began to read.

  They were four papers down when Quill came across the notice of Amos Bennett’s demise. The authorities suspected the hapless Amos had drowned trying to cross the rapidly rising waters of Bessemer Creek. There was no reason given as to why they suspected that, but since two of Joe Pepper’s deputies were involved with the retrieval and identification of the body, Quill and Calico reasoned they believed Amos had been trying to flee Whit and Tatters.

  Calico discarded another issue with no new information. “I confess I am more hopeful that Whit’s been captured knowing that Joe Pepper and his men were out looking for him.” She plucked the next paper in the stack and opened it to the arrest log and crime stories.

  Quill also chose another and skimmed the front page. “Calico? Who knows you are here?”

  “Joe Pepper knows because we talked about it when he passed your letter on. His wife knows because she helped me choose some clothes. I don’t know who they might have told. Truthfully, I don’t know why they would have told anyone, but I never asked them not to.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is it important?” She turned her head and was confronted by Quill’s patently disbelieving expression. “Oh. You think because Whit chased down Amos Bennett, he will come after me? I doubt it. First, we are only suspecting that Whit was responsible, and second, as long as there are banks to rob and whores to beat, he will always have something better to do.”

  “Are you saying that to ease my mind or your own?”

  Calico did not reply.

  Quill caught her by the chin when she would have looked away. He held her widening eyes. “Uh-huh. I thought so. Listen to me, Calico. I don’t want you pretending that the possibility doesn’t exist because you’re harboring some notion that you are protecting me. I know it’s been a long time since anyone’s looked out for you, so maybe that is why the idea of it makes you skittish, but that’s one aspect of love that you are going to have to accustom yourself to. Do you understand?”

  She blinked. Her lips parted, but she breathed in, not out. She had no words, not even one.

  “Here it is, Calico. That thunderstorm you were talking about earlier? Well, it passed over my head a long time ago. Lightning hit close enough to make me jump when you appeared on the balcony of Mrs. Fry’s cathouse. I ha
d another jolt when you gave me hell for interfering in your business—and that was when I still thought you were a brunette.”

  She frowned deeply.

  He shrugged, said matter-of-factly, “Until you, I always thought I was partial to blondes.”

  Now she had words, but he kept going before she could speak.

  “Obviously I didn’t know my own mind because there were other things I was wrong about.”

  Calico’s eyes narrowed.

  “That’s right. Your eyes. Green, not blue. And you’re tall, so the curves are kind of long and gentle, not deep. Then it turned out that you have hair like a flame and dart about as if it’s really on fire. You threatened me—several times as I recall—and you clobbered Chick Tatters without blinking an eye. You carried a derringer, you were pretending to be a whore, and you tied Nick Whitfield up like you had been roping and wrangling all of your life.”

  Quill tilted his head and studied her face. “Do you truly believe there was a moment after I left you in Falls Hollow that I was not thinking about how I was going to find you again? I was here when lightning struck, and you were nowhere around.”

  Calico cupped the hand that still held her chin and lowered it, squeezing gently. “Oh my.”

  “So now you know.”

  She nodded. She had known, of course, but she had not known. Not like this. “I suppose you will want to read the rest of the papers now.”

  Quill slid down the headboard and brought Calico with him. The Rocky Mountain News crumpled and crinkled noisily all around them as they nested. “What papers?” he asked in the moment before he bore down on her.

  They began without urgency. Their confessions made, neither had a reason to hurry. Pleasure was in the exploration of their promise to each other. It was in the touch of her fingertips across his brow and in the way his lips moved at the hollow below her ear. She unbuttoned his vest and peeled back his shirt. He removed the sling she had fashioned into a scarf and wrapped it loosely around her wrists. She stared at him, but she did not resist then or when he lifted her hands and placed them above her head. One by one, he unfastened the small buttons that closed the neckline of her nightgown. He kissed her everywhere her skin was revealed. Her flesh was warm, and it warmed him.

  She looked down, watched the crown of his head move lower. He parted her gown and took the tip of one breast in his mouth. His tongue darted across her nipple. When he sucked, her breath hitched, and she held it until he released her. At that moment she did not care if she ever breathed again. She would have gladly drowned in pleasure.

  She raised her bound arms and circled his neck. She thought about swaddling cloths, thought about swaddling him. He took her other breast, teased it with his lips and tongue and then with his hot breath. She scrabbled his hair and twisted the curling ends around her forefingers. It was like swimming in sunshine.

  He unfastened his trousers. She tugged on her gown. He moved between her legs and she prepared a cradle for him, raising her knees, hugging him with her thighs. He knew her body, the long and gentle curves. She thought about that as he came into her, about that and other things, and they all made her smile. She was a redhead everywhere, and she welcomed him into the fire.

  The tempo changed. It had to. Where there had been no urgency, now there was need and it pressed them to want more, to search for it and claim it. He rocked her with each thrust, and she met him measure for full measure. The bed groaned. The headboard banged against the wall. Neither of them heard any of it. There was their breathing first, and then there were words.

  She said, “Ah. Like that. Just like that.”

  And he said, “Hold me.”

  “Mm.” She contracted everywhere she could, but especially there.

  He moaned softly, far back in his throat where he could feel the vibration. “That’s it. You know. You always know.”

  A sound she was unfamiliar with bubbled to her lips. He bent his head and it tickled his ear. She said, “I love you.” The whisper made his heart stutter and tripped his pulse. There was a rush like an avalanche in his head and he cried out as he came deeply into her.

  He lay still, moved slowly, and slipped a hand between their bodies. The touch was precisely what he thought it would be. Electric. Her body jerked, froze, and then jerked again. He could almost feel her falling away from him. He let her go, waiting until the last possible moment to seize her in his arms and hold her close.

  They were comforted by their silence, by the crackle of the fire and the rustling of papers. The covers were in disarray, tangled and bunched. One of the pillows was now at the foot of the bed. There were copies of the Rocky Mountain News on the floor and under their feet. The bedside table was several more inches from the bed than it had been. The oil lamp on top of the table was precariously close to the edge. Quill was wearing the green calico like a neckerchief, and one of Calico’s sutures had broken.

  They noticed these things gradually. He pointed out one, she another. They laughed with very little sound. It was in his smile, in her eyes. He stretched large and wide; she stretched with feline grace that captivated him.

  “What is that around your ankle?” he asked, squinting to get a better look at it before she tucked it under the quilt.

  She shrugged. “It’s just . . . something.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “I am not moving. You’ll have to.”

  He was too curious to let it go, so he sat up and swept back the quilt. She raised her leg and made a circle with her nicely turned ankle to show off what she was wearing around it. It was a narrow braid, and at first, because of the pale color, he thought it might be made from a lock of his hair. “That’s not mine, is—” He broke off, patting the back of his head in a search for cropped locks.

  “No, it’s not yours. It’s not hair.” She regarded his halo of golden highlights with interest. “But now that you—”

  “Not amusing,” he said. He caught her under the knee and drew it back until he could grasp her ankle. He ran his thumb along the braid. “This is string. You made a braid of string. Why would you do that?”

  She reached up and tugged on the calico neckerchief that she had been inspired to tie around his throat. It came away easily and she smoothed and folded the fabric. When she was done, she looked at him and waited patiently for him to understand.

  When it came to him, he looked from her to the calico she was holding and simply shook his head. He lowered her leg and drew the quilt over it. “I even asked you why you were saving the package string.”

  “And I told you I might need it.”

  “Did you know what you were going to do with it then?”

  She nodded faintly. “I saved the brown paper wrapper, too.”

  “Calico.”

  “What you did, Quill. It’s precious to me. Every bit of it.”

  Quill lay back and offered his shoulder. She put her head down and then lifted it long enough to slip the folded fabric under her cheek. He said dryly, “It has so many uses.”

  “Be quiet,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

  * * *

  When Calico awoke, it was not yet dawn. The oil lamp was still lit and resting on the bedside table, but the table was no longer at her bedside. Quill had moved it beside the armchair, where he was now sitting. She could see him clearly in three-quarter profile as he bent over his reading. His concentration was all for his task. Twin vertical creases had appeared between his eyebrows; his lips were rolled inward and pressed together in a flat line. He knuckled the stubble on his jaw as he read. Occasionally his mouth would pull to one side.

  She lay as she was, not moving, content to watch him from beneath lowered lashes and sleep-swollen eyelids. Looking on him now, Calico realized that she had become accustomed to his smile, his laughter, and the tilt of his head, which was somehow wry and curious at the same time. She tried to r
ecall if she had ever seen him long in this particular pose, serious, intent, sober. His face was also transformed by this manner, but differently, and she saw the man who was deeply attentive, intelligent, not only clever, and naturally thoughtful in his outlook.

  Lord, how she loved him. It occurred to her that she would be changed by it, that it could hardly be helped, but she did not dwell on it. If she allowed herself to wander down that path for very long, she would confront an entire thorn patch of problems that she would rather avoid for the present. She was happy to let her mind drift.

  She realized she must have done something to give herself away, a contented sigh perhaps or a change in her breathing, because Quill looked up from his reading and caught her watching him. She stretched and smiled sleepily. It was no good pretending that she was not replete in the aftermath of their lovemaking when she most certainly was.

  “How long have you been working?” she asked, raising herself on an elbow.

  “I don’t know. Awhile.”

  “You didn’t sleep?”

  “I did.”

  “What’s wrong?” She glimpsed one corner of the bright calico under her arm. If she were not already alert to Quill’s mood, it would have made her smile. She tucked it beneath her pillow, out of sight. “Quill?”

  “I’ve read through all the papers,” he said. “I went downstairs to Ramsey’s study and found a couple of issues we didn’t have. He also had a few recent issues of the Denver Post so I read through those as well.”

  “And?”

  “Those deputies who accompanied you and Whitfield to the Bailey jail?”

  Calico felt a stirring of alarm. It kept her still. “Yes. Christopher Byers and Buster Applegate. What about them?”

  “The Post reported that Applegate was grievously wounded during a shootout in Royal Canyon. Byers—they refer to him as Kit in the account—was killed. Joe Pepper was heading the posse. He was also wounded, but the reporter indicates he is expected to survive. No one else was hurt, and the posse turned back to Falls Hollow without making a capture.”