The Bond Unbroken

by Bond unbroken (NCP) (lit)

  His lips knew the taste of her, his nose knew the rose scent of her, and his hands knew the texture of her smooth skin. His ears had recognized that purring little whimper she made deep in her throat in the throes of passion. And, God help him, he knew the heat of her flesh as it clutched at him when he was buried deeply within her. How or why, he couldn't explain, but he also knew the woman of his dreams was none other than Katlin McKinnen.

  Without realizing he'd done so, he had removed his vest and shirt and was in the process of releasing his belt buckle when Bart's warning growl caught his ear and his attention.

  Mitch looked down, and, once again assuming the role of hell hound, Bart had planted himself firmly in Mitch's path, his growl warning him to go no further.

  Closing his eyes, Mitch took several deep breaths as he struggled for control. He looked once more toward the water to see Kat's wet, naked body appearing to glow in the moonlight as she began wading toward the bank.

  As he quickly made his way back to his to his bedroll, Mitch muttered under his breath, "A damn dog and a Kat are going to drive me loco." Randi's bawdy house in Abilene was beginning to feel more and more like an oasis in the desert for a man dying of thirst.

  Chapter Four

  They were still hours out of Abilene when they began seeing grazing cattle dotting the landscape, increasing in numbers the closer they got until Katlin saw more cattle than land. In all the romantic stories she had heard and read, they had neglected to mention that Abilene had its own form of pollution. Noise pollution created by the thousands of Texas Longhorns grazing on the sun drenched prairie grass outside of Abilene as well as those penned in the sprawling stockyards on the east end of town, bordering the Kansas Pacific tracks. But the noise was the least of it.

  The stench and choking dust they created was so bad that in order to breathe, Mitch and Katlin had been forced to pull bandannas up over their noses, emulating the cowboys riding herd on the stomping, bawling creatures.

  It was early evening by the time they reached the outskirts of town. Mitch reined his mount to a halt. "We'll just mosey into town quiet like and try not to draw attention to ourselves until I can set things up to meet with Ben," Mitch said going over the plan they had discussed at length on the trail. "Behave yourself, and, once I get us rooms, I'll arrange to have a hot bath sent up to you while I go to the Bull's Head to talk to Ben."

  Katlin didn't know what Mitch was concerned about. At the moment, there was nothing she wanted more than a hot bath and clean clothes. "Stop worrying, Mitch. Everything will go exactly as we planned."

  "Stop worrying, she says," Mitch muttered looking heavenward. "I'm riding into Abilene with a new partner, who just happens to be a lady cop from the future. Now why should I expect there to be trouble?"

  Katlin had to chuckle at the consternation marring his handsome features. "Lighten up, partner. This might be fun."

  "I can think of a lot of other things I'd rather be doing for entertainment," Mitch quipped back. One of the first things on his list he intended to indulge in was located just outside the city limits at the other side of town. First, he would get Kat settled into a hotel room. He'd pay Ben a quick visit, and then he was headed for Randi's place. Sharing his hot bath with that lusty wench held real appeal at the moment.

  As they rode side by side down the center of Texas Street, Katlin couldn't help thinking the recreated street in her own time was a much more quaint, if less realistic, version. Both sides of the street were lined with false front, framed buildings, most of them unpainted and graying. The rutted, mud packed street was packed with farm wagons, buckboards, and men on horseback.

  On the plank board sidewalk she saw everything from men in elegant frock coats to men in buckskins, stiff-necked farmers to drunken drovers who were clearly getting an early start toward the evening's entertainment.

  Not to be outdone, the feminine contingency was also represented. There were prim and proper ladies in simple calico creations and bonnets, to soiled doves, as they were sometimes called, in gaudy satin and lace. It didn't take Katlin long to spot a couple of the upright matrons, Mitch had referred to, emerging from the mercantile. Dressed in what she suspected was the finest fashions the Goody's Ladies Book of the day had to offer, they stuck their noses in the air and walked stiffly down the sidewalk. Katlin noted they were careful not to look at nor to touch anyone, as if fearing they would be contaminated by the riffraff if they acknowledged their presence.

  Everyone had their pet peeves, and one of Katlin's was sanctimonious snobs who felt they had the right to sit in judgment against those they considered beneath them.

  Spotting something out of the corner of her eye which was suddenly endearingly familiar, Katlin couldn't resist guiding her mare to the left and stopping at the hitching rail in front of the Bull's Head Saloon. The ringing echo of gunfire could already be heard from several locations throughout the town as Mitch reined in beside her. His left eyebrow arched slightly in obvious annoyance at her deviation from their plan.

  Katlin looked up at the outrageous sign hanging above the swinging, batwing entry doors, and, in spite of herself, she had to laugh. Emblazoned upon the wood was a picture of a big red bull, though not surprising considering the saloon's name. What made this particular advertisement unique, was the animal's most important attribute, shockingly visible, grossly exaggerated, and in an obvious state of arousal.

  "That sign will get Ben in more trouble than he knows."

  "How so?" Mitch asked. Despite his desire to get Katlin settled in a hotel room as quickly as possible, he was also curious. He tipped his hat back with his thumb, so the brim didn't obstruct his view. "Ben told me he's had polite requests to take it down, cause it shocks the sensibilities of the upright citizens. Sure gets your attention though, don't it?"

  "Oh, it will become more than polite requests." Figuring this was one bit of information that was unlikely to alter future events she explained, "In the very near future, the illustrious Marshal, Wild Bill Hickok, will stand beneath that sign with a sawed off shotgun while Ben's friend up there is castrated with a paintbrush."

  "Ben won't take kindly to that."

  "Whether he likes it or not, it will happen." Remembering where she'd last seen the sign hanging, she added, "If it makes him feel any better, I'll tell him that very sign will one day hang on the wall in his great, great grandson's office at police headquarters. Paint removed and fully restored in all its glory. Not your typical family heirloom, but one of Uncle Ben's most prized possessions."

  A shot rang out from within the Bull's Head. The saloon's batwing doors flew open as a man was literally tossed through, landing on the wooden sidewalk in front of them. The obviously drunken cowboy rolled to his feet, shook his head as if to clear it, then roared back through the still swinging doors. If the sounds erupting from within the infamous establishment were anything go by, things were already getting rowdy in Old Abilene.

  "Damn," Mitch hissed as he vaulted from his horse. "Stay here," he ordered. He looped the reins of his horse over the hitching rail, pulled his pistol, and walked cautiously through the doors.

  "Stay here?" Katlin muttered under her breath. "Not bloody well likely." She dismounted, followed Mitch's example of securing her mare and the pack horse to the rail, then said to Bart, "Stay. Don't let anyone near the horses." There were too many things on the pack horse she couldn't risk someone finding and asking questions about. She pulled her revolver and walked slowly toward the doors.

  Katlin followed Mitch into the saloon's dimly lit interior, redolent with the scents of stale beer, cigars, unwashed bodies, and cheap perfume. It took her eyes a moment to focus through the gray, smoky haze to spot her new partner. Katlin moved cautiously to her left along the back wall as she took in the scene. Mitch was in the middle of the melee of swinging fists, shouted curses, and flying bodies as he attempted to break up the brawl. The less intrepid souls had taken cover beneath the tables, using the opportunity to cop a feel if t
hey were lucky enough to share the space with one of the saloon girls.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Katlin spotted the man she had suspected of being the leader of the bushwhackers who had tried to kill Mitch. He was moving stealthily along the west wall, his pistol drawn and aimed directly at Mitch's unprotected back.

  A shot rang out. The bushwhacker let out a bellowed roar of pain as he grabbed his wrist, and his pistol clattered harmlessly to the sawdust covered floor.

  There was an immediate, almost deafening silence as all eyes were turned to the injured man, then toward the shooter who was standing at the back of the saloon, holding an unusual looking pistol on the now unarmed man. She was wearing figure hugging black britches tucked into knee high leather boots, topped with a black silk blouse over which she wore a cream colored, doe skin vest. Although her hair was concealed and her face shadowed by the brim of the hat she wore, there was no doubt in anyone's mind the shooter was most definitely female.

  Katlin looked toward Mitch. He had one drunken cowboy by the collar, and his eyes were turned heavenward, muttering under his breath as if he were praying for divine intervention.

  So much for the quiet, subtle entry they had planned!

  With a resigned sigh and a deep breath, the man Katlin had grown so fond of in the past couple of days seemed to transform before her eyes. As he turned to face the man she'd just shot, his features appeared so hard and unyielding they could have been carved in granite, his eyes cold and emotionless. It was the look commonly used to describe the ruthless gunslingers of the Wild West. Katlin made a quick mental note that it might be unwise to push Mitch too far. She may have sometimes acted a bit rash, but she wasn't stupid, and she suddenly realized she wouldn't want to be on the receiving end when Mitch was as pissed off as he was at this moment.

  Nevertheless, Katlin had her own plans on how best to deal with the back shooting bushwhacker. Outlaws knew what to expect from dedicated lawmen like Mitch. She, on the other hand, was an unknown, and that gave her the advantage toward getting the information they needed. There was just something about facing the business end of a pistol, especially if a female was on the other end, that put the fear of God into a man. Before Mitch had time to react, Katlin began moving with slow deliberation toward the man she had shot.

  Never taking his eyes from the approaching female, the man quickly bent to retrieve his pistol from the floor with his left hand.

  Keeping her revolver aimed at the center of his chest, Katlin ordered in a cold authoritative voice that brooked no resistance, "Leave it."

  Straightening as she had commanded, he shot her a venomous glare and spat a stream of tobacco juice at her feet. "I'll get you for this, bitch, " he hissed through clenched teeth.

  Her icy stare met his, and she felt him instinctively withdraw. "You can try. But I wouldn't advise it. Next time, I shoot to kill, or worse," she added, lowering the barrel of her revolver toward his groin. Katlin had received so many threats in her law enforcement career they no longer had the power to worry her, they just ticked her off. Feeling like a female version of Clint Eastwood, Katlin was tempted to say, "Come on, make my day." Of one thing she was certain, in her own time, she would never be able to get away with what she had planned.

  "You ever heard of an eunuch?" she asked, spacing her words evenly for the most emphasis. Not caring whether he had or not, Katlin proceeded to enlighten him. "They're men without balls. Exactly what I think of back shooting bushwhackers."

  "Piss." First the man said it, then did it, as an obvious wet area could clearly be seen spreading across the front of his britches.

  "Now, unless you want to find yourself minus what I suspect is a less than impressive part of your anatomy, I suggest you start talking and tell me why you're so anxious to see Ranger Cameron dead."

  The man visibly began to tremble, then stutter, "There's bbbbig money on his head ffffor anyone who bbbbrings him ddddown."

  "Very good," Katlin responded sarcastically. "Now, tell me who is putting up the money, and you might just be able to walk over to the jail house on your own two feet."

  "I ccccan't . . . tttthey'll . . . ." A shot exploded behind Katlin, the responding sound becoming an echo within the closed confines of the room. The man who Katlin was sure would have told her everything she wanted to know was thrown back against the wall by the impact of a bullet to his chest.

  Katlin whirled around to see Mitch and another man already half way up the stairs in pursuit of the person who had fired the shot. She turned back to the man who had been shot before he could identify the men behind the hit on Mitch. Red was spreading across the front of his shirt as he slid to the floor at Katlin's feet. Katlin holstered her revolver then went to her knees and checked for a pulse which she already knew wouldn't be there. She then began searching through the man's pockets.

  Removing a piece of paper from his vest pocket, Katlin unfolded it and began to read. It was a telegram sent from Abilene on June 20th.

  R HEADED THIS WAY. STOP MUST BE STOPPED. STOP PAYMENT UPON DELIVERY. STOP R. STOP

  Katlin was grabbed by the shoulders, hauled to her feet, and turned around to face a furiously angry Mitch. "What in the hell did you think you were doing?"

  Drawing herself up, Katlin met his thunderous glare head on, neither blinking nor backing down as the majority of the men in the unnaturally quiet saloon would have done.

  "What do you think I was doing, Mitch?" Was her terse reply. "Other than keeping you from being shot in the back and trying to get information we need." Katlin intended to show Mitch Cameron that if he hoped to get anywhere with her, he had better learn real quick that cave man tactics did not receive the desired results.

  Realizing that he still had her shoulders in a punishing grip, Mitch released her abruptly and clenched his jaw, not daring to speak until he had regained some measure of control.

  He had entered the saloon to find Ben in the middle of a brawl attempting to bring it under control. The next thing he knew, Ben's pistol had cleared leather. He had turned just in time to see the bushwhacker get hit. It had taken a second for him to realize Ben hadn't fired. Then, along with everyone else in the saloon, he had turned to see who the shooter had been. Why the hell he should have been surprised was beyond him.

  By the time the realization registered that the bastard had intended to shoot him in the back, and, he had a handle on the unfolding of situation, Kat had made her move. Mitch had been wise enough not to interfere. Not because he was concerned that Kat wouldn't take kindly to his interference, but because he was smart enough to recognize that with him, the gunman's mouth would have closed up tighter than an old maid's pussy. He wouldn't have gotten a damn thing out of the man before he was gunned down. God, she was good. If he was forced to have a partner, he couldn't think or anyone else he would rather have covering his back.

  When Ben joined him, it was one of the few times he had ever seen his friend speechless. They had stood there watching her in action and listening. When the bastard pissed himself, Mitch was amazed that he had actually felt his own privates cringe in sympathy. He wouldn't have been surprised to find that every man in the place found their hands itching to cover their groin in a protective gesture.

  When the fatal shot had been fired, Mitch believed his heart had actually stopped beating in his chest, so sure was he that Kat had been the target. Once he realized she hadn't been the one hit, both he and Ben had hit the stairs at a run in an attempt to apprehend the shooter. The shooter had climbed out of a window and on to the roof by the time they reached the second floor. Ben had given chase, and Mitch had stayed behind to get back to Katlin.

  He found her on her knees, calmly going through the dead man's pockets. Knowing it could have so easily been her laying there in a pool of her own blood, Mitch wasn't sure

  if his heart had resumed beating yet. Any other woman he knew would have fainted dead away at the prospect of searching through a dead man's blood stained pockets. Mitch didn't know if
he wanted to shake Kat or to kiss her.

  Katlin left him in no doubt that his high handed behavior made her angry. Well, he was angry too. She should have had more sense than to put herself in danger the way she had. What had happened to their plan to ride quietly into town without drawing attention to themselves? Still, she stood her ground, holding his gaze without even a blink from her glittering green eyes. Knowing she wasn't going to back down, Mitch broke the eye contact by closing his eyes and taking a deep, calming breath.

  Katlin handed him a piece of paper. "What do you make of this?" she asked before she turned and walked away. Every eye in the room was on her as she brazenly walked up to the gleaming mahogany bar that ran the length of the back of the room and ordered a whiskey.

  Katlin positioned herself so her back was to the wall and not the door in case someone else in the room was predisposed toward back shooting. She hadn't forgotten that the dead man had four other men with him when they had ambushed Mitch.

  "Whiskey," she repeated to the man standing behind the bar with a towel over his shoulder.

  The bartender's eyes began darting around nervously, and he raised the towel to dab at the perspiration dotting his brow. "I'm sorry, ma'am, we don't serve women . . . ladies I mean," he all but stuttered.

  Katlin turned to survey the crowded saloon, although still unnaturally quiet, it was beginning to return to some semblance of normality. Seated at tables throughout the room were several dance hall girls. Some had drinks on the table in front of them, and several had drinks in their hand. Their overly done make up and vulgar satin gowns cut to reveal all but their nipples declared them to be anything but ladies, but they were still, most assuredly, women.