by Brenda Joyce
He didn't answer. Her back touched the door and her hand closed over the knob. "Well?"
"Your money always buy you everything?"
She blanched. "I'm not buying anything, I'm just—"
"Forget it," he said, with one bitter laugh.
Gladly, she did. Between him and the question, she was thoroughly unnerved. "Can you leave tonight? Tomorrow?"
After a long pause, he said, "I can leave."
Relief swept her. Warm, wonderful relief. "Good!" she cried, smiling brilliantly. "Good! Then—" she laughed nervously "—good-bye!"
His gaze was pale gray and enigmatic. She turned the knob, flung open the door, and fled. In the corridor she had to remind herself to walk, not run. She had done it. She had chased that bastard out of town.
Chapter 10
He paced the room, from the double French doors overlooking the wrought-iron balcony to the canopied bed with thick velvetine drapes. Still clenched in his fist was the crumpled bank draft.
"Brat!"
He couldn't really remember when he had ever been so angry. He was having lovely visions of wringing Lucy Bragg's lovely neck.
Did she think she could pay him off? Run him out of town with a few lousy dollars? He smiled. She had another thing coming.
However, he did have business to attend to and he was going to leave town as soon as he could transact it, and not because she'd commanded him to. He'd have to think up a proper farewell for her.
He unfolded the draft. He'd been so mad when she'd first handed it to him, mad and disappointed, thinking she was trying to get what she wanted and show him he was inferior by paying him like a prostitute. He'd jumped the gun—why did she make him particularly edgy? Why did he seem to dislike her even more than all the others? His thoughts bothered him, and he tried to dismiss them.
Still, this payoff was no less insulting than the other one. What did she think he was, some kind of total bastard who enjoyed violating virgins and then ruining their reputations? Did he really come off as such a heel? He had to admit that once or twice he had felt a bit bad, a bit guilty, for being so nasty to her. She seemed to bring out the worst in him, and he didn't know why.
She was going to contribute to a revolution, he decided wryly. Then he changed his mind. It was too noble for him, much less for her. She'd contribute to something far better, a gift for Carmen, something French and black and wicked. The idea gave him immense satisfaction.
But of course, he would not do it. He could not keep the money, much less spend it on Carmen; as soon as it was convenient, he would return the check.
He threw on a new shirt he'd bought yesterday, a soft blue cotton. Soon after, he was trotting down the stairs. The clerk called out to him before he'd taken a foot off the final step.
"Mr. Cooper," he said. "We have just gotten your telegram."
Shoz came forward eagerly. His expression went bleak, however, as he skimmed the reply he had been awaiting. His buyer had been delayed in Cuba—and a new buyer would not be able to meet him for several weeks.
Shoz crumpled the telegram. He could not leave the guns, even buried as they were, for a few weeks. Government agents had been attempting to break their operation for the past six months, and Shoz was well aware of it. So far, he had eluded them, but he could not count on his trail being entirely cold. He had had a very close call with the last shipment he'd sent to the Cuban rebels from Corpus Christi. Federal agents had staked out the docks and tried to prevent the ship with its cargo from leaving. Fortunately, they hadn't arrived earlier—to prevent the steamer from being loaded. A gun battle had ensued. Shoz had lost one man, with three casualties. They'd inflicted as much damage as they'd received, however, which wasn't particularly good. Shoz's criminal record was becoming too damn long. It was one thing to be wrongly imprisoned for a theft he hadn't committed and to escape successfully; it was a helluvanother to have a gunfight with the federal government. Things could not have gotten worse. Until, maybe, now.
He had to stay close to the guns so he could check on them periodically. He couldn't afford to have them stolen from him, or uncovered by the Feds. Which meant he wasn't going very far.
Sometimes, like now, he got the uneasy feeling he was digging himself deeper and deeper into a grave—one with his tombstone at the head.
But he was tough and he was smart and he was real close to the border. Fate just hadn't smiled kindly upon him. But he could play the hand being dealt—and win.
Which meant he could hang around Paradise—and if he dared to face it, he wasn't exactly in a rush to leave.
Very willingly, he recalled how eager a student Lucy Bragg had been when he'd folded her hand around his stiff erection. He grew inflamed. He wouldn't mind sticking around. In fact, because she had ordered him to leave, tried to pay him to leave, he would enjoy staying.
However, he needed a cover. He couldn't just loiter in the hotel for a month. That required some serious thinking.
Despite the setback in his business affairs, his mood was suddenly, surprisingly, good, better than it had been in days. He strode out of the hotel into the sweltering heat. He was filled with the anticipation of both the hunter and the hunted, the skin prickling on the back of his neck. At the same time he had a warning instinct—that if he did stay, there was going to be trouble.
He wrote it off to the threat of government agents and his staying in one place for so long. His instincts had nothing to do with the titian-haired Bragg girl. After all, how could she be dangerous for him? He would have to remain alert and wary of any newcomers arriving in town.
Shoz pushed open the screen door of Joe's Eatery. The cafe was mostly empty as it was already midmorning. Two flannel-shirted loggers sat at one table, two teamsters at the counter. They looked like they'd been on an all-night bender. Joe, short and thin, and his nephew, Little Joe, were waiting on the customers.
As he took a seat at the counter, he was regarded by everyone, and not because he was a stranger in town. Shoz was used to it. There was no mistaking he was mostly Indian, and he'd encountered these kinds of half-curious, half-wary looks his entire life. He was used to it—but not complacent about it.
He ignored everyone, ordering steak and eggs and coffee. Yet his senses were alert. And, unfortunately, one of the drunk teamsters tried to pick a bone with him. Sometimes it happened, sometimes it didn't. Shoz had learned when he was six to be ready for a fight, always.
"Thought all the Injuns in these parts were locked up on that reservation in Tularosa," the big redhead said loudly. "Hey, Jake, ain't that so?"
"Yip," Jake said. He was even bigger than the redhead. "Maybe he's escaped."
Shoz set his whiskey down and stared at them. He knew he could kill them both, if he wanted to. But right now, killing wasn't in his plans. He didn't want the attention. "You accusing me of something?" he said, very softly.
A group of cowboys had entered, spurs clinking. Shoz's gaze swept them reflexively, lingered on the old white-haired man just for a moment, then returned to his adversaries. The red-haired one was saying, "Maybe we are. Maybe we should take you to Fort Bliss and see if there's a reward posted."
Shit, Shoz thought. Just his luck. He should be smart, he should make a humble response, soothe the redhead's ego; in other words, eat dirt and diffuse the situation. Instead, he smiled meanly. "Why don't you try?" "That an invitation?" Red asked. "No," Shoz said, "this is." He tossed his coffee all over the man's broad chest.
A shocked silence filled the cafe. Shoz was already moving. They were going to fight with him, that was inevitable. He preferred to be on the offensive. Before the redhead could recover from his astonishment, Shoz hit him with a powerful driving right in the abdomen. The teamster gasped—but only flinched.
It wouldn't be quite as easy as Shoz had thought. He hit him in the face. The redhead took a step back, then caught Shoz's arm as he was about to deliver another blow. He was very strong, and the two men were suddenly grappling, and then they went spra
wling on the floor.
Shoz felt a stunning blow to his eye and knew he'd have a helluva shiner—if he didn't lose his eye. He jammed his knee into the man's groin. The redhead collapsed. Shoz rolled on top of him. Without mercy, he threw his fist at his head. A booted kick from behind lifted him clear off the floor, and he went face-first out the screen door.
He was already on all fours and then upright, just in time to meet Jake, diving on top of him. They went flying backward into the dust of Bragg Avenue. A crowd began gathering from all the adjoining stores. Someone calmly requested the sheriff, and someone else said, "Sure thing, Derek."
With a little luck and a lot of agility, Shoz wound up on top and began pummeling Jake. The teamster went limp. With a roar, Red grabbed him from behind, locking him in a bear hug and trying to break his ribs. Shoz used his arms to break free, whirling and striking out blindly at the same time. He could barely see, there was too much blood. He connected with the man's jaw, but it only rocked him back. An instant later, Shoz received a blow in the midsection that knocked the breath right out of him and propelled him halfway across the street.
Jake followed him. An undercut caught his chin, rattling every tooth he had. He blinked at stars. The teamster grabbed his shirt, dragging him upright, fist poised. Shoz blocked the blow and kicked Jake as hard as he could in the kneecap.
Quicker than the eye, Shoz had withdrawn his knife from his boot. Red backed up, panting, Shoz stalked him, grimly. And then Jake delivered a stunning blow to the back of his head, and his world went black.
First he felt the pain.
There was the ungodly throbbing of his eye and jaw, and the back of his head seemed to be shattered. He heard voices. Lots of them, but they sounded far away and were unreal. The pain absorbed him. His head swam. He felt like throwing up.
The voices became louder and began to sound as if they belonged to a part of this earth. He became aware of the hard ground beneath him, and the hot sun beating down upon his face and body. He felt sticky wetness on his face, and when he licked his lips, he tasted blood.
"He started it, Derek," someone was saying. "The breed started it, I seen the whole thing!"
"Yeah, the Injun attacked old Red here! He's crazy, maybe he's rabid!"
"Calm down," an authoritative voice said. "Billy, Joshua, put him in the wagon."
Shoz fought to regain consciousness as he felt himself being lifted carefully. He tried to protest. He felt panic. He was helpless, and he knew what kind of justice awaited him—the color was white. He desperately tried to get a grip on his world. He struggled to open his one good eye.
"You gonna throw him in jail, boss?"
The question echoed. Shoz froze, but his gut twisted and his pulse began hammering. He would not go back to prison*. He pushed at someone as he was laid down in a wagon.
"No one's going to jail for a little fistfight," the man said. "Not when Red Ames and Jake Holt are the two worst rabble-rousers around here. I've warned them twice not to start up in Paradise, and I won't warn them again." His voice was hard, without a stitch of compromise in it. "Besides, I heard the whole thing."
"Billy!" he called sharply. "You and Joshua get these two fixed up. Then you escort them out of town. Kindly inform them their contract with the DM is terminated. Got that? They are no longer welcome in Paradise!"
"Yes, boss!" came a chorus..
Shoz did not relax. What about him? He knew better, he had learned his lesson long ago in New York. He finally opened his one good eye and found himself sprawled on his back among sacks of supplies, gazing up at the cloudless sky. The sun made him blink.
He pushed himself up on his elbows. It was no easy task.
The old white-haired man came to stand in front of him. "You okay, boy?"
Shoz smiled, a mean smile. "I'm just fine—boy."
The man froze, then held back a grin. But the many crow's-feet along his amber eyes deepened. "I'm kicking seventy-nine, boy" he said. "And in a few more days, it'll be eighty."
Shoz sat up, wiping blood from his face. "And I'm thirty-five," he said. "No one calls me boy."
This time the man laughed. "I do," he said. "And you're in no shape to fight me."
Shoz suddenly felt stupid. He'd been ready to fight with this old man, a man of eighty. He forced himself to relax. "No one calls me boy," he repeated firmly.
Derek shrugged. ' 'You want a doctor? My boys will drive you over. Your eye needs a stitch or two."
"I don't need a ride," Shoz said, levering himself off the wagon. He almost fell, but managed to stay upright by holding on, hard. He steadied himself.
"Pride's only for the young," Derek said, watching him. "And for the foolish." His smile was very engaging. "Pretty foolish to attack both Jake and Red. The two together must weigh in at over four hundred pounds—and they aren't fat."
"They wanted to fight," Shoz said, more interested in remaining on his feet than in the conversation. He didn't
know why he even bothered to answer the old man.
"That's a good reason?" He laughed again and turned away. "My offer stands. You can get a lift over to the doc's—you need it."
"I don't need a ride," Shoz gritted, releasing the wagon.
He was okay, he told himself. He took a few breaths, until the dizziness and nausea cleared. He knew they were watching him, not just the old man, but half the town. He couldn't have announced his presence in town more loudly if he'd tried. He found that he'd twisted his knee in the ruckus, as he limped toward the sign hanging a block away, bright hand-painted green letters reading, "Dr. Jones/Remedies for Everyone/Surgeon on the Premises."
Thankfully, he made it without fainting, and more thankfully, Jones was in. Shoz sat on the wooden operating table while the doctor, a chubby, friendly little man, cleaned him up, chattering nonstop.
"Could hear the hullabaloo all the way over here. Said to myself and to the wife, God rest her soul, they're at it again. Must be that wild Red Ames, saw him come to town earlier. When Red and Jake's in town together, I spend all my time fixin' people up. Now, Sarah, God bless her, she used to help. Still, I always get the feeling that she's up there, beaming down on us."
The front door opened and closed, bells jangling. Shoz winced as the doctor dabbed alcohol on his eye. "How is he?"
Shoz couldn't turn his head, but he recognized the voice of the old man who'd called him "boy" and wouldn't back down.
"Strong as a mule," Jones said cheerfully. "Reminds me of you fifty years ago. How about some laudanum before I do some fancy needlework?"
Shoz jerked when he realized Jones had abruptly changed the direction of his comments and was addressing him. "No," he said. "Just do it."
"It's your skin," Jones said cheerfully.
Shoz gritted as the doctor gave him three neat, small stitches just above his right eye while the old man watched. "There," Jones said. "You can breathe."
"Didn't stop," Shoz said. It was a blatant lie. He was sweating like a pig.
"See you, Doc," the old man said as he left. "See you, Derek," Jones called to the swinging front door. "Give my best to Miranda."
"Who was that?" Shoz demanded sharply. "Derek Bragg, who else?"
"Who else," Shoz muttered. And then he straightened, as a thought pierced him like lightning. He had the solution to his dilemma.
He needed a cover to stay in town. Derek Bragg had surprised him, proving himself to be a fair man without apparent prejudice. After all, he had sent the two teamsters packing, when Shoz had expected to be thrown in jail, if not strung up with a rope around his neck. He could not loiter in Paradise doing nothing except guarding his guns for the next month.
But he could remain in Paradise if he was working for Derek Bragg.
Chapter 11
Dr. Jones had instructed Shoz to remain in bed for a few days. Despite his aching head, eye, and jaw, Shoz had smiled. "Get me the right woman, Doc—and I'll stay in bed a week."
"I want you to rest," Jones said, unam
used. "You took a serious blow to your skull, young man, with the butt of Jake's pistol."
Shoz decided one day in bed couldn't hurt, even without a woman. The next day he felt fine, with only a slight headache that came and went. His left eye was closed completely, however, mostly black and a bit blue. It was a helluva shiner. His jaw was sore and swollen, also mottled purple, but at least he hadn't lost any teeth.
He traded in his two mules for a small bay gelding that didn't look like much but would have a lot of grit and stamina if the Arabian ancestry he saw in the horse's head and lines proved true. He reached the DM around noon.
Asking for Derek Bragg, he was directed to the main house, which was set slightly above the other buildings on a shady hill. He noticed everything. Every building was whitewashed and maintained to look fresh, clean, and new. The stock Bragg kept was excellent, especially the racing blood for sale back East. Shoz's one weakness was horses. The house itself was inviting and homey despite its size, with flowers everywhere and curtains peeking from all the windows. His gut constricted. Although the DM was much larger and more modern, it reminded him of his father's ranch in southern California—it reminded him of home.
And it had been a long time since he'd been there.
Too long, but that was his own fault, because he had put off returning again and again. Not because he didn't miss his family, but because he didn't want his parents to know the truth about his life, about him, and be so very disappointed.
Better to let Jack and Candice think he was someone else, someone better.
He dismounted, resting against his bay for a moment, and he wondered where she was. The thought was irritating, mostly because he couldn't pretend indifference even to himself, and also because right now his head hurt, his stomach was upset, he felt weak and not at all like a man. He didn't want her to see him like this.
He walked up the porch steps and used the brass knocker. Derek Bragg himself answered, his surprise brief. "I have the feeling you're looking for me," he said, his mouth almost curved into a smile.