After Eden

by Joyce Brandon

  The gringos were still making a fool of him. When he did not make a fool of himself. Shame flushed though him at memory of his last encounter with Rita. He did not know who had stabbed him and left him like a dog to die in the gutter. Probably her latest lover. Rita did well to hide herself. His one mistake was that he had not killed her twenty-five years ago before Andrea was born. The other men had killed the women they took in the raid on that wagon train. Only he had played the fool! The greatest fool. For when he’d learned that she was great with his child, he had gone to her and forced her to marry him.

  How many times would he allow himself to be cuckolded? All because Rita had resisted and fought him to the end and won his grudging admiration. He could still see her as she had been that first time: so ripe and golden, so bursting with life, that to look at her was to feel more alive, more male. From the provocative tumble of her tawny gold mane to the shapely turn of her ankles, she was woman. And she had been his woman until…In truth, he did not even know if she had ever been his woman.

  His mind flashed picture after picture of ways to kill Rita. Mateo controlled himself only with effort. At last the flush of energy stopped, and he almost sagged, his weakness as tangible and intense as the rage that had swept through him.

  He could not continue to live like this. He imagined Rita, then, the following instant, Teresa. Rita, Teresa, Rita, Teresa. Then it came to him. Rita was fiercely protective of her cubs, as protective as any lioness ever born. He would kidnap Teresa, make her his woman, and then let Rita know what he had done. Rita would die with agony knowing that her husband had taken her bastard. Such devastation would surely assuage his wounds.

  A feeling of power flushed into him. Mateo sighed with relief. If Rita stayed away from him, she could live. He could take joy in knowing Rita knew and felt great pain and humiliation that her baby was now his mistress.

  It was good that he had decided on his retribution. He had held off too long. It was not like him. Remembering Esteban, who waited patiently, he forced his mind back to the present.

  “General,” Esteban pleaded, “are you unwell?” The boy’s face looked white.

  Mateo wiped his forehead with his arm. “It is nothing. The weakness still flares over me from my injury. It will pass. Tell me your good news, Esteban. I could use words of encouragement, even if they do not come from a real priest.”

  The young man stiffened and pulled himself up proudly. “You insult me, General. I studied for the priesthood since I was twelve.”

  “A thousand pardons,” Mateo said solemnly. “I was only remembering the small matter of the Wanted posters and the men who will hang you on sight if you should be recognized. I meant no offense.”

  Esteban Amparo shrugged. “A technicality…”

  “I am also the victim of a technicality, but enough of this. Tell me your news.”

  “The gringo pigs who own the mine known as the Tough Nut have decided not to entrust their silver to Wells Fargo again. By themselves, they are moving one hundred and sixty thousand dollars in silver bars two days from now.”

  “To where?”

  “To Silver City. By mule train. The Texas and Pacific Railroad has reached there. Word came only this morning.”

  “What route?”

  “Through the Animas Valley.”

  “By Devil’s Kitchen?” Lorca frowned. “Why would they use a smuggler’s route?”

  Esteban grinned widely. “Perhaps they think there is honor among thieves, and that if they pretend to be smugglers, the real smugglers will leave them alone.”

  “How many men?”

  “Twenty men and ten pack mules.”

  “Ten? For how many bars of silver?”

  “Four bars, General.”

  “Why the other six pack mules?” Mateo demanded.

  “It is part of their disguise.”

  “Are they also going to pretend to be Mexicans?”

  “Sí, but of course.”

  “Who will be in charge?”

  “A pompous gringo who makes no secret of his contempt for our people.”

  “And his name,” Mateo prompted.

  “Señor Russel Sloan, a muy self-important gringo who shows his wealth at every opportunity. He is building a house that will be almost as splendid as he thinks he is,” Esteban said bitterly.

  Mateo smiled, and now there was real warmth in his heart. He could see how this would work. “Thank you, my little cousin. Vaya con Dios.”

  “Vaya con Dios, General,” Esteban said solemnly, blushing at the honor his general had paid him, “little cousin.”

  Mateo turned away and then paused. “I would ask one more favor, Esteban.”

  “Sí, anything, General,” Esteban said quickly.

  “There is a girl in town I want you to follow.”

  “One of our people?”

  “One of my people. Her name is Teresa Garcia-Lorca.” In his disguise, Mateo had ambled into each hotel and read the registry until he’d found her. His request of Esteban was simplified and made less shamefully revealing by the fact that she had not adopted her new father’s surname.

  “Ahhh! Tía!” Esteban bristled with obvious pride and recognition. And well he should. Esteban was one of the few people in the world who knew everything about El Gato Negro’s family. Even Andrea did not know as much as Esteban Amparo.

  “She is registered at the Occidental. Keep an eye on her. I want to know where she goes.” Mateo knew Bill Burkhart must have died by now. Perhaps that was what had brought Teresa to Tombstone. She would go to claim the promised ranch, and when she did he would follow her.

  “Sí, General.”

  Chapter Nine

  Steve Burkhart waited until the dealer had picked up his hand before he reached for the five cards in front of him. Slowly he spread the cards, noted the three queens and two threes, and thanked his lucky stars he had not been the one to deal himself such a pat hand. His luck was almost too good to believe today.

  “How many cards?” Russ Sloan asked as he paused, a card poised in his right hand.

  “I’ll play these,” Steve said, watching Morgan Todd’s face cloud momentarily as he considered his own cards. Todd’s shrewd hazel eyes narrowed as he leaned back and pursed his lips. Todd had a gambler’s cold nerve and a successful man’s easy arrogance; he was not foolish.

  “I’m out,” Todd said. “I think he’s bluffing again, but I’m tired of paying to find out.”

  Sitting next to Todd, Jack Martin leaned back and stretched noisily. “Some men always bluff, others never. Steve only does it when he needs to or when he thinks he can get away with it. Since he don’t rightly need to, he probably ain’t bluffing.”

  “So are you in or out?” Sloan demanded.

  “I’m out. I’m about bust, anyway,” Martin said, pushing his cards to the center of the table. “Go get ’em, Ace.”

  “Thanks, easy money,” Steve said, grinning.

  “Don’t rub it in, pal. Our friendship ain’t guaranteed unconditional like them Wells Fargo shipments they been losing so regular like,” Martin retorted.

  Morgan Todd snorted in disgust. “Those bastards! Leastways we don’t have to stand the loses, but the prices they’re charging to ship! It’s damned hard to tell whether it’s Curley Bill robbin’ us or Wells Fargo and Company doing it in Curley Bill’s name. Hell, maybe Wells Fargo hired Curley Bill and the Clantons to rob their stages so they could charge us ten times what it’s worth to carry our silver,” he ended caustically.

  Russ Sloan leaned back and surveyed Burkhart, Todd, and Martin with a condescending smile. “Funny you should mention it, but there just happens to be a man who does more than just grumble and complain. I happen to know a man who isn’t willing to sit still for the kinds of prices Fargo is charging to do a simple transportation chore.”

  Morgan Todd expelled a disgusted breath. Tired of hearing Russ Sloan talk about himself as if he were two people, each fortunate to know the other, Todd raised his ha
nds in exasperation. The only thing Sloan did that was noticeable was to talk too loud, too long, and too often. Russ Sloan was an egotistical bastard. If it weren’t for the fact that he owned part interest in a couple of the richest mines in the territory, people wouldn’t give him the time of day.

  “What are you going to do?” Steve asked, more out of curiosity than to bait him. They were all feeling the pinch. Wells Fargo was charging far too much for what should have been a cut-and-dried service—if they could find and keep reliable guards.

  A self-important smile on his ruddy face, Sloan leaned forward. With his ripple-waved hair and hard eyes, he could have been a politician.

  “I’ve outfitted a mule train. I’m going to take my silver to the rail head…cut out the middle man,” he said proudly.

  “That sounds risky,” Steve said.

  “Not the way I’m doing it.” Sloan folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve even figured out a way to make the trip pay for itself.”

  Morgan lifted his eyebrows skeptically. “How the hell can you do that?”

  “Easy! I bought a whole mule train from Don Miguel,” he said in a low voice, looking from face to face with an expectant expression. Seeing their blank looks, he shook his head in disgust. “Don’t you know who Don Miguel is?”

  “Should we?” Steve asked, controlling the urge to smile at Sloan’s patronizing tone.

  Sloan picked up his cards with a flourish. “Don Miguel just happens to be the leader of a band of smugglers. I bought his contraband. I can sell the goods in Silver City for three times what I paid for them here, in addition to beating Fargo’s inflated fees.”

  “Well, bully for both of you!” Morgan said. “Now let’s play cards. I want to see Steve run this bluff, and then I’ve got to see a lady about a problem.”

  They all laughed. Morgan’s problem was well known by regulars in Tombstone. Sadie’s Place on Allen Street was the headquarters for solutions.

  “I happen to know the man who dealt these cards,” Sloan said, referring to himself again. “And that means, unless he’s dead wrong, that it’s to you, Burkhart.”

  Steve winked at Morgan and pushed a stack of bills into the center of the table. “Five hundred,” he said evenly.

  Sloan choked on a sip of bourbon.

  “That’s more like it!” Morgan laughed, clearly beginning to enjoy himself. He loved to see Russ Sloan sweat.

  Sloan squinted at Burkhart. “I don’t have that much left. I’m short four hundred dollars,” he said stiffly.

  “You’re good for it,” Steve said, a deliberately challenging look in his eyes.

  “Ahem,” Sloan grunted. “Of course.” Frowning, he hesitated. He didn’t know how Steve had done it, but now he felt like he had to call him. He looked at his cards again, but they didn’t warrant a five-hundred-dollar wager. How the hell could Steve’s cards be so good? He had to be bluffing. He’d bluffed the last three hands. He was running another one.

  Sloan nodded. “Okay. I’m in. Show us what you got.”

  Steve almost felt guilty. Sloan was a good-enough man, but he had such an inflated sense of his own importance that he deserved this loss. The mansion he was having built on the outskirts of Tombstone was testimony to that, if any was needed. Austere English Tudor with all the trimmings, the house looked as if it had been moved from the green, rolling hills of Vermont.

  Grinning, Steven laid down his cards.

  “Damnation!” Sloan blustered, his ruddy face turning as red as the Bloody Mary in front of Jack Martin.

  Steve clapped Sloan on the back. “I know a man who’ll buy us all a drink,” he said, winking at Morgan.

  “I can’t,” Sloan blurted, “I’m broke.”

  “I meant me,” Steve said, joining in the laughter.

  “Oh, okay,” Sloan said, brightening. “I’ll have that drink, and then I’ll go get your money. You have a room at the hotel, don’t you?”

  “Sure. You know Judy. She shops awhile, and then runs upstairs and changes her gown and goes out to shop some more. Today we’ve got room number seven at the Occidental.”

  At the mention of Judy, Morgan Todd looked quickly away. Just the sound of her name sent threads of fire through him. He shouldn’t have played cards with Steve. Hell! What was the matter with him, anyway? He could take her or leave her. Wasn’t that why he had deliberately avoided her today? Didn’t pay to let a female like Judy Burkhart get to a man…or even think she had. He’d been going out there entirely too often. Folks were beginning to talk about marriage…

  “Drinks on me,” Steve yelled at the bartender. A whoop went up, and Steve allowed himself to be half jostled, half carried, to the bar. Standing beside Morgan Todd, he bought two rounds for the boisterous crowd. The chiming of the clock over the piano reminded him of the time.

  Between sips of whiskey, Morgan slanted a look at Steve. “What’s the matter?”

  “Damn! Judy’s waiting for me. I forgot what the hell I came to town for. I should say, if Judy is waiting for me, she’ll be mad as hell.”

  “What’d you come for?”

  “To meet a stagecoach.” He tossed down the last of his drink, the taste of it warning him that it was the first one too many, and headed for the Occidental so he could change into his riding clothes.

  “You talk like a schoolteacher,” Judy said resentfully.

  Andrea smiled across the table at her. “I was.”

  Judy made a wry face at Tía. “It figures.”

  “That was a very good meal,” Andrea said, ignoring the exchange between the two younger women.

  “You sound surprised,” Judy chided her, winking at Tía.

  “I guess I am. I didn’t expect to find a French chef in Tombstone.”

  Judy shrugged, enjoying her superior knowledge of the area. “Folks always follow money. If the silver veins peter out, Tombstone will disappear off the map. Place wasn’t even here two years ago. Nothing was, except the hills.”

  “Amazing. It looks so…”

  Judy laughed outright. “Just like a real town, huh?”

  “Why, yes, how did you guess?” Andrea admitted, playing the big-city dweller quite well, Tía thought.

  Judy smiled—a small condescending twitch of her rosy lips. “Why, Tombstone has all the luxuries: an ice-cream parlor, the Maison Dorée, which serves nothing but the best, the Bird Cage Opera, and three nice hotels. The saloons have imported bartenders who can make anything from a silver fizz to a mint julep. The bartenders in the more expensive saloons wear white starched aprons, and we have three newspapers.”

  “Amazing! Money will buy just about anything, won’t it?”

  “Except peace and quiet,” said Johnny. “Cattlemen in these parts, your father included, mostly resent a mess like this smack in the middle of their grazing land.”

  Andrea smiled at Johnny. “That makes it even more amazing.” Dabbing daintily at her lips, Andrea placed her napkin next to her plate. “Is there someplace where I can change into my riding clothes?”

  “Upstairs,” Judy replied. “Room seven. If you want to bathe…”

  “No, I’ll wait until we get to the ranch. You do have facilities there, don’t you?”

  Rolling her expressive brown eyes, Judy ignored the last question. “Good! We’ll leave as soon as you change. We need to get to the ranch before dark.”

  Number seven was easy to find. After locking the door from the inside, Andrea put her satchel on the bed and took out the fawn-colored riding skirt and blouse she had packed on top. Unbuttoning the long row of tiny fasteners in front, she stepped out of her gown, shrugged out of her thin cotton chemise, and was just about to slide it down over her hips when she heard a key scrape and turn in the lock.

  Startled, she pulled the chemise up over her bare breasts just as the door swung inward.

  “What the hell?” the man said softly, his clear blue eyes widening at sight of her bear arms and shoulders.

  Heart beating suddenly hard and fast,
Andrea nodded. “You must be Steven Burkhart,” she said, intending to introduce herself.

  Steadying himself with a hand on the doorjamb, Steve gave a low, appreciative whistle as his eyes moved boldly up and then down the woman’s slender frame. “And you must be about four hundred dollars,” he breathed, realizing Russ Sloan had had the last laugh after all. Sloan had more class than anyone had ever suspected. Maybe the bastard did deserve the high opinion he had of himself. This female was the most desirable creature he had ever seen—wide dark eyes, skin like creamy gold satin with the faintest flush of pink in her sweetly curving cheeks, and lips that would tempt a saint. Slender, graceful arms clutched a thin shift and tried unsuccessfully to hide the lush swell of thrusting breasts, tiny incurving waist, and sleek hips. Long auburn curls caught the light from behind and shimmered with an aura of iridescent gold fire.

  Russ had sent her in payment of his debt. Payment accepted. Steve almost wished he had waited until she was completely undressed, but that was not a problem. He didn’t mind finding his own treasure. She was here. For four hundred dollars she would be willing. He strode forward purposefully.

  Andrea poised herself for an explanation or a struggle, whichever seemed appropriate, but Steve Burkhart’s arms closed around her. Ordinarily she would have struggled, but his energy overwhelmed her. A swift, keen sensation of helplessness rose up in her, shading out everything except a piercing awareness of him. In that breathless span of time from first touch to first kiss she was engulfed in the heady, masculine fragrance of his skin: part salt, part clean smell of lye soap.

  His mouth claimed hers, and her feeble gasp of protest died in her throat. His terrible masculine heat stifled her will. Lost in the urgent desire of his arms, stunned by the shocking heat of his hands burning into her naked back, sliding up slowly and confidently to her shoulders, searing everywhere he touched, Andrea twined her arms about his neck.

  She tasted whiskey. Was he drunk? Was she? Was that why she did not resist? Stabbing into her mouth, forcing an opening into her body, his tongue made small, harsh movements that vibrated throughout her. Andrea’s head spun. Maybe a whiskey kiss and heat combined to form some debilitating mixture in a girl’s blood. She could feel herself dissolving around his tongue, melting into his liquid heat…