Just This Once

by Jill Gregory

  Ethan raised his brows at the little man, who was now dabbing with a handkerchief at beads of perspiration that had popped out along his temples.

  “I’ll await you at the bar, my lord.”

  “Go to hell.”

  He swung his gaze back from the Englishman to his cards, but the numbers blurred for a moment before his eyes. Must be the whiskey, he told himself, though he’d drunk only two glasses so far tonight.

  Long practice enabled him to hide his emotions, to keep all he was feeling, or not feeling, concealed beneath a surly mask, but at the man’s clipped words some of the color had drained from Ethan’s swarthy cheeks, and his eyes glinted with a strange intentness.

  Damn it all to hell, he thought, trying hard to concentrate. But he lost the hand.

  He moved a huge pile of chips in front of the cowboy and stood.

  “Back in a minute. Play this one without me.”

  Ethan strode to the bar. The Englishman wasn’t drinking. He was sitting there quietly, watching all that went on through the hazy smoke permeating the crowded, raucous saloon.

  “My lord...”

  “Don’t call me that. I’m Ethan Savage. Clear?”

  The other man coughed. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately, sir?”

  Ethan glanced over at the poker table. He wasn’t about to cash in his chips, leave the game, and take this damned nuisance in a bowler hat over to his hotel room for a chat. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  “Hey, you.” He rounded on Stickley, the owner of the Golden Pistol, busily strutting around the premises, keeping an eye on all the saloon girls, the piano player, the roulette dealers.

  “You got a room where my friend and I can have a private chat?”

  He saw the instant calculation in the man’s eyes and almost sneered. Ethan had been in town only a few days, but he’d already spent an exorbitant amount of money on liquor, had gambled extensively, and had kept the saloon packed with those who enjoyed watching him play. He was a cool gambler, with a hawk’s eyes and a smooth deal, and Stickley was eager to oblige him.

  “Upstairs, my friend. I have an office at the end of the hall. Last door on the right.”

  Nodding his thanks, Ethan turned and started toward the back stairs the saloon owner had indicated. He heard the Englishman following, but didn’t bother to turn around to look.

  Up a narrow flight of stairs they went, and down a thinly carpeted, poorly lit hall. As they approached one of the doors on the left, the one marked 202, it opened part way and a woman’s voice floated clearly out into the hall.

  “Jo, Stickley’s mad as hell that you didn’t dance tonight. He doesn’t believe that you’re sick. Says he’s going to fire you in the morning. But I think he’s really upset because he suspects what you did for Penny.”

  “Believe me, Rose, Stickley is the least of my problems.”

  Ethan halted at the sweet musical tones of the second woman’s voice. It was her. That thief who’d tried to snatch his wallet today.

  So. She was a dance hall girl.

  He’d halted so abruptly outside the door that the Englishman very nearly plowed right into him but, at the last instant, managed to stop in time.

  Ethan ignored him, and cocked his head to one side as he listened.

  “What are you going to do, Jo?” the first woman asked, sounding nervous and upset.

  “Get out of town on the morning train. And Rose, if anyone asks for me, anyone at all, don’t tell them where I’ve gone. Please, just lie and say—”

  “Don’t worry about me, Jo. I’d never give you away. But where will you go, what will you do? I hate to think of you in trouble. Maybe me and the other girls can help—the way you helped Penny.”

  “The kind of trouble I’m in, no one can help.”

  Ethan stepped forward until he reached the doorway. Through the partial opening, he glanced into the room. And there was the girl, the thief with the incredible violet eyes. His mouth tightened as he took in her changed appearance. Though still wearing the gingham gown, she’d loosed her hair from its restrictive coil, and now it swirled down past her shoulders in a sensuous riot of rich mahogany curls. She was leaning over a valise, folding some item of clothing, and didn’t see him. But the other woman did.

  The dancing girl, still in her pink satin costume, gave a small gasp and pursed her lips. Quickly, she pushed the door shut.

  Ethan continued down the hall. It was nothing to him what became of that sneaky little thief. If she was in trouble, she no doubt deserved it. Probably had the law breathing down her neck.

  Hell, it was no concern of his.

  As he reached the end of the hall his thoughts jerked back to his own situation. Frowning, he entered Stickley’s office and paced to the window as the Englishman quietly closed the door.

  The room smelled of cigars. It was cramped and over-furnished, filled with a cluttered oak desk, a bureau, bottles of whiskey lining several shelves, a deeply worn ruby velvet chair and settee, and a patterned rug on the floor. The red-flocked walls were covered by elaborate gold-framed paintings—nudes, painted in bold and vibrant detail.

  It was warm and stuffy inside, and Ethan resisted the urge to loosen his shirt collar as he swung back to face the Englishman.

  “Out with it,” he ordered curtly, his eyes sharp on the other man. “How the hell did you find me, and what in damnation does my father want with me after all these years?”

  “If you please, sir, I had best start at the beginning. This is not going to be an easy interview and perhaps if you would care to sit down—”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Latherby, sir. Lucas Latherby. I am a junior partner in the office of your father’s solicitor, Mr. Edmund Grismore.”

  Grismore. He remembered Grismore—unpleasant, supercilious son of a bitch, the perfect lackey to work for his father. “Go on.”

  Ethan’s hard gaze was pinned to Latherby’s face as the smaller man gave a short nod and continued.

  “I bring you, I fear, unfortunate tidings. Your father, the late Earl of Stonecliff, is dead.”

  Ethan’s knuckles tightened on the back of the chair. His expression, however, remained unchanged.

  When he accepted the news with stoic silence, Latherby cleared his throat and went on.

  “It was ill health, I’m afraid, a steadily weakening condition which was worsened by his catching a chill and coming down with a fever. He suffered in the throes of it for a week, and then, alas, succumbed.”

  “So?”

  Latherby’s eyebrows shot up, then hastily down. He spoke again, more hurriedly. “So, I have been dispatched by Mr. Grismore to find you, sir—and may I say, it has been quite a feat to do so—to impart to you certain information which I believe you will find most interesting, and perhaps, not unwelcome.”

  Ethan walked to the shelf upon which Stickley had several gleaming crystal goblets set out beside a decanter of brandy. He splashed the dark liquor into a glass, then shot a questioning glance at Latherby, who shook his head in refusal.

  “Tell me that you’re almost finished and you’re going to leave and let me return to my poker game—that’s what I’d find welcome,” Ethan rasped.

  “No, sir, it is a bit more... complicated than that. According to your father’s will, and assuming that certain conditions will be met, it is my duty to inform you that, well, that...” He swallowed, his gaze taking in the striking appearance of the man before him, his tall, hard-muscled form, the cold blue steel of the guns resting against his powerful thighs, the harsh line of his mouth, his very American way of tough direct speech.

  “Out with it, you sniveling weasel!” Ethan commanded, and downed the brandy in one gulp.

  “You are next in line to inherit your father’s title and estates and his position as the Earl of Stonecliff,” Latherby announced and bowed his head. “My lord,” he added respectfully, and clasped his hands before him.

  Thunderstruck,
Ethan stared at him for several seconds, then gave a short bark of laughter. “The hell I am.”

  Four

  I’m no more in line to be the next Earl of Stonecliff than you are, Latherby.” Ethan’s sneer widened. “My esteemed brother, Hugh, has the honor of that particular headache. What the hell have you and Grismore been drinking, man? You’re on a fool’s errand. I am the youngest son of the late Earl of Stonecliff, and as my father and brother repeatedly told me over the years, before I left dear old England, it is as well that I am, for if Stonecliff were to fall into my disreputable hands, all of our ancestors would no doubt rise up in horror from their graves.”

  “Then I’m afraid there will be a bit of milling about in the family graveyard at Stonecliff Park, my lord, for you are indeed in line to become the next earl, to inherit all of your father’s properties and lands. The grievous news is that your brother, Hugh, was killed some six months ago—thrown from his horse while hunting—a most regrettable incident. That makes you the only living son of the late earl. I regret the necessity of carrying to you two pieces of such sobering news.”

  Ethan felt a chill rock him. Hugh dead. And his father. He braced himself to reveal no outward reaction, but his legs felt shaky in a way they never had before, not when he’d faced down Billy Laredo in a gun duel, not when he’d been ambushed by a war party of Cheyenne in the desert with his horse lame and no water left in his canteen.

  He turned away from Latherby, mechanically poured himself more brandy, and drank it without tasting a drop. Then he paced back to the window and stared down into the shadow-darkened street.

  The crowds were gone. Night was falling like a gray shawl over the prairie and dusk softened the harsh outlines of Abilene. The men and women and children had gone home to their kitchens and parlors, chatting of the day’s events, of the work to be done tomorrow, of the thousand little details of their lives and families.

  And here he stood in a stranger’s office above a saloon, discovering that the two people most closely related to him were both departed from this earth.

  Good riddance.

  He closed his eyes, knowing he should be ashamed of the thought, and in truth, he was. Half ashamed. There had never been any love lost between him and his father and brother. The Earl of Stonecliff had been a pillar of respectability in English society—he moved in the best circles, knew all the best people, attended all the best parties. And his heir—the thin, imperious, proper Hugh, who had so closely resembled the tall earl in his starchily elegant good looks, from his thin dark hair to his patrician nose and elegant hands—had always been his favorite.

  In truth, Ethan had scarcely known his father or his brother, who was six years his senior. He’d spent the early part of his life with housekeepers and tutors and groomsmen, rambling around the country estate, Stonecliff Park, knowing almost complete freedom when his father and brother were at one of the other family homes or in London. And when they were ensconced at Stonecliff Park, with guests to be entertained, Ethan was always kept abovestairs, too young to mingle with company, and of no importance to anyone but his own good friend, Ham, the groom who’d taught him all he knew of horses, of riding, of the wondrous outdoors.

  And when he was older...

  Ethan grimaced and stopped the flood of memories. When he was older, old enough to no longer be hidden away in the country, the younger, unimportant son of a great man, matters between himself and the earl had gone from bad to worse.

  Oh, yes, he ought to be sorry about his father, and about Hugh. But he wasn’t.

  And as for Stonecliff Park...

  “I don’t want it. You’ve wasted your time, Latherby. Nothing would tempt me to set foot on British soil again.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “Call me Mr. Savage. I’m no English lord.”

  “But you will be, you must. You have only to marry and the title is yours.”

  “Marry!”

  “Sir, I implore you. The lands and estates are in need of an heir. Think of the tenants, the servants, all those employed by your lordship. There are many to whom you are responsible, not the least of whom is yourself and your forebears.”

  “To hell with my forebears. And to hell with you. I don’t want it—not an inch of it. Not a farthing, or a blade of grass on Stonecliff Park land, not a single lamp or rug or chair from that damned house—from any of the houses. And I damn well don’t want to get married! Seems to me I’ve got a cousin, name of Winthrop. He’d be glad enough of the place. Give it to him. You savvy, Latherby?”

  And he stalked past the openmouthed solicitor without a backward glance and pounded down the stairs.

  Ethan’s mind churned with emotions he didn’t want to feel, with thoughts he didn’t want to consider. He hurled himself back into the main room of the saloon, nearly knocking down one of the saloon girls. He grabbed her in time, muttered an apology, and headed for the table.

  A poker hand was just finishing up.

  “Deal me in,” he barked, and claimed his seat in his former chair.

  Everyone at the table observed his dark face, the almost feverish glint in his eyes. They all sat up a little straighter, held their cards a little tighter, not knowing what had happened to so dangerously irk the tall stranger, but sensing, down to a man, that they’d best tread carefully with him from this point forward.

  Ethan Savage was in a dangerous mood.

  * * *

  Two hours later, he was losing heavily. And he was drunk. Drunker than he’d been in years, since he’d been a schoolboy at Eton who’d engaged in a drinking contest with five others and had won. In those days he’d never been able to refuse a contest, or a dare. It was only one of the things that had made his austere father and brother so despise him.

  Since that night, he had imbibed sparingly. But now as he sat at the poker table in a haze of cigar smoke mixing with the saloon women’s cheap perfume, while laughter and raucous talk rang out all around him, while the heat in the room made him perspire and itch to jump in a cool lake, he downed glass after glass of Stickley’s whiskey and played hand after losing hand.

  The father and brother who had ignored and deplored him his entire life were dead. Dead and buried. And buried with them, he told himself, were the ugly deeds they had perpetrated trying to keep him in line.

  It was over now.

  Yet the irony that the black sheep son, the one who had dared to befriend the lowly and the vulgar, the one who had been a disgrace because he’d refused to settle down and marry respectably and live the elegantly proper life they’d chosen for him, the one who’d sought out the wildest life imaginable in the American West, he was the one who had survived, the one who stood to inherit the vast and burdensome fortune of Stonecliff Park.

  “Whiskey!” Ethan roared, and slammed the empty bottle on the table. The cards swayed in a dizzying blur before his eyes. The other men at the table were starting to rise.

  “Game’s over, Savage. That was the last hand, remember?” the cowboy reminded him with a grin. His words were slurred, his balance shaky. He was none too sober himself, though the miner’s eyes were still bright as fool’s gold. “You owe me, uh... one hunert and ten dollars.” The cowboy belched, then grinned wider. “Ye-ep. Time to settle up and go home.”

  Home. Hell, Ethan thought with bitter self-mockery. He had no home. Never had. Just a saddle, a horse, a blanket, and the star-filled sky.

  “One hundred and ten dollars, fair and square,” he muttered, and dug into his shirt pocket. But the bills he’d stashed there earlier were gone—blearily he remembered he’d already spent them on his bath, his meal, whiskey, and poker chips for tonight’s game. Grimacing, he reached into his vest pocket for his wallet.

  Empty air met his groping fingers.

  What the hell?

  It wasn’t there. Not in any of his pockets, not under the table. It was gone.

  And the rest of the three-hundred-dollar pot he had won last night was gone too.

 
; “That dirty, no-good lying little bitch!” he shouted to no one in particular, and all eyes in the saloon swung toward him. There was silence. The tall cowboy frowned through the blear of his own vision.

  “You goin’ to pay me or not?” he queried in a tremulous voice.

  “No! Not until I get my hands on that thief.” Ethan spun about and reeled toward the back stairs, dimly remembering where he had last seen the creature whose death, in his opinion, was now imminent. “Be right back.”

  “The hell you will,” the cowboy bellowed, and caught him by the arm. “How do I know you won’t—”

  He never got any further. Ethan Savage’s fist connected with the cowboy’s chin in a punishing blow that sent the man skittering backward into the roulette table. Three men leapt aside just in time.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, mister?” the largest of them shouted, glaring from beneath ferocious red brows.

  Stickley started forward, but it was too late. Ethan, veering toward the stairs once more, was intercepted by the cowboy, who had staggered up from the floor. The cowboy launched himself in a flying leap at the gunslinger.

  Ethan spun on reflex and delivered another punch. Then, for good measure, he hit the man next to the cowboy as well, who had stepped forward and tried to seize his arm.

  This stocky, mustachioed man was none other than Sheriff Mills. He went crashing into a group of townsmen playing faro.

  As if a stick of dynamite had been ignited, the saloon exploded in a whirl of flying fists, upended chairs, shattering glass, thuds, grunts, and shouts. Sheriff Mills shouted for order and fired his revolver into the air. Someone hurled a chair at someone who ducked, and the chair smashed the long, gilded mirror behind the bar. The piano player ran for cover, the bartender began snatching glasses off the bar, the saloon girls dashed for the stairs. Two other men, locked in furious struggle, crashed right through the Golden Pistol’s front windows and out into the hot, dark street.

  “Enough! Enough!” Mills boomed, but his voice was drowned out by the thunder of fists and boots and the incessant tinkling of glass.