The Bond Unbroken

by Bond unbroken (NCP) (lit)

  Turning back to the agitated bartender, Katlin removed her hat and shook her waist length mane of fiery red tresses free. The action bringing several gasps and expelled whistles from behind her. "Who said I was a lady?" she asked the bartender calmly. She rarely left her hair loose, preferring instead a neat braid or pony tail, yet this morning in an idiotic fit of feminine vanity she had merely twisted it up and covered it with her hat.

  Curious as to how Katlin would handle the situation, Mitch had been watching her by play with the bartender, with no small amount of amusement. He had known Tom for years, and they'd been through some mighty tight situations together. Until now, he would have bet his last dollar that Tom was unshakable. Mitch was secretly pleased to note that he wasn't the only male Katlin could rattle with a mere gaze. Deciding it was time to take pity on his old friend, he moved to join Katlin at the bar.

  "But . . . ," Tom began, his intent was to refuse to serve Katlin again, then expelled a sigh of relief when Mitch sidled up to the bar. "Welcome back, Mitch. I was just trying to explain to the lady here . . . ."

  "So I heard," Mitch interrupted with a chuckle. Katlin was pleased to note that the old Mitch appeared to be back. "Make it two, Tom," he instructed.

  "If you say so, but the boss ain't gonna like it." Tom put his hands up in defeat as he moved down the bar to get their drinks.

  "I'll say this much for you, Kat, you do make one hell of an entrance."

  Waiting until her drink was placed on the bar in front of her, she picked up her glass and let her gaze survey the room. "That wasn't my intention, but you should be glad I didn't listen to you. Stay here? Did you honestly think I would . . . ."

  "Do as I suggested?" Mitch completed for her.

  "You didn't suggest. You ordered, and I don't . . . ."

  "You're right. I apologize. My only excuse is, I'm not used to dealing with independent, pistol packin females from the future," he whispered in her ear. Although it was barely detectable, there was a reluctant smile twitching at the corner of her lips. He picked up his drink and tossed it back in one fiery gulp. Mitch knew she wasn't going to appreciate the warning he was about to give, but it was one she needed to hear nonetheless.

  Signaling Tom for another drink, he began hesitantly, "Kat, don't underestimate the men were up against. They're desperate enough to put a price on my head, and you've cheated them not once but twice. They're sure to hear about it. I'm afraid to save my worthless hide you've made an enemy who doesn't play by the rules."

  Katlin surprised him by rewarding his concern with a smile instead of the annoyance he'd expected. "Where I come from, Mitch, there are no rules. Thugs like we're up against here are a dime a dozen. Trust me, I can take care of myself," she reassured him, silently hoping she was right. "Furthermore, let me decide who's worthless hide I feel deserves saving."

  Looking toward Tom, who was approaching with Mitch's second drink, Katlin signaled with her empty glass that she'd have another also. She'd never admit it, but the shooting had shaken her to the core. During her years with the department, she had never been forced to shoot anyone, and, even though she had seen dead bodies, she had always come on the scene after the fact. It didn't help that she had done what she had to do, or, that she hadn't been the one who killed the man. No one deserved to die that way. What really got to her was the knowledge that before this whole thing was over, she might be forced to actually kill someone. Although it was something she had always thought she would be prepared for, now she wasn't so sure.

  "So, what do you make of the telegram?" she asked in an effort to get her mind off the unsettling possibilities.

  "Probably what you've already figured out. The "R" who was on their way, obviously stands for Ranger. The "R" who sent the telegram, God only knows, but it's a lead." Mitch picked up the drink Tom placed on the bar in front of him and took a sip. "It also makes sense to assume the men who want me dead and the men I'm after are one and the same. And they are right here in Abilene."

  "That's pretty much the way I see it too." Unlike Mitch who was sipping at his drink, Katlin picked up her second one and tossed it back in one throat scorching gulp. Noting that Mitch's eyebrow had arched disapprovingly at her action, Katlin caught the bartender's eye and signaled for another.

  She had no idea what she hoped to accomplish, but, at the moment, she didn't much care. Men often felt the need to get rip roaring drunk, and, after all she'd been through, why shouldn't she?

  The batwing doors opened, admitting several men into the saloon. The first two men approached them at the bar. The other three men, who had obviously been sent to collect the

  body for the undertaker, set about their gruesome task.

  The first two men Katlin would recognize anywhere. Wearing black trousers, black jacket, brocade vest, and a string tie, typical attire of a professional gambler, Ben Thompson, could have been her own uncle at the same age. He had the same thick, dark hair. The same coffee brown eyes. He even wore his mustache close cropped and shaped exactly like her uncle's. Except for the pistols riding low on each hip and tied down with leather thongs that immediately identified him as a gunfighter, the resemblance was uncanny.

  The younger, good looking, great great grandfather of her beloved Uncle Ben stepped up to the bar beside Mitch. With a negative shake of his head toward Mitch indicating that he hadn't been successful in catching up with the shooter, he then signaled for the bartender to bring him a drink.

  The second man was none other than James Butler Hickok, a.k.a. Wild Bill Hickok. From beneath a low crowned, wide black hat, his auburn hair hung in ringlets to his shoulders. His long thin mustache ran from lips that were set in a forbidding frown all the way to his beard free chin. He wore a long frock coat, and his ivory hilt pistols had been thrust, butts out, into an embroidered sash instead of holsters. His reputation not withstanding, Katlin found the marshal to be more flamboyant than impressive. Considering that the jail was across the street, Katlin couldn't help wondering what had taken him so long to arrive.

  "Ranger," the marshal began, not attempting to disguise the obvious dislike in his voice. "I don't like Texas Rangers coming into my town, stirring up trouble. You got no jurisdiction here."

  Katlin watched as Mitch stared thoughtfully into the amber liquid in his glass before responding. Mitch was not a happy camper. His eyebrow arched, and his eyes rose to meet the marshal's flinty gaze.

  "Tell you what, Marshal," he said, the term Marshal bordering on sarcastic. "I don't aim to cause you no trouble, but I do intend to find out who was responsible for my father's murder. I have reason to believe the men I'm after are in or near Abilene. Now, if you want to do your job and work with me, I'd be much obliged. If not, you stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours."

  "Another romantic legend bites the dust," Katlin thought to herself. She didn't like Marshal Wild Bill Hickok or his attitude. After what was it, three drinks? Katlin was feeling no pain, but she did still have her wits about her, and she figured someone needed to defuse the obvious antagonism simmering between the two men.

  She stepped around Mitch and faced the marshal with a smile that anyone who didn't know her well would have perceived as genuine. "Marshal Hickok," she said sweetly, offering him her hand. "I must say that stories of your exploits have always fascinated me. It's a real pleasure to meet you." It was all Katlin could do not to laugh when the man appeared to puff up like a damned rooster ready to strut his stuff to impress all the hens in the coop.

  "The pleasure is all mine, ma'am," the marshal responded gallantly. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "What brings you to Abilene?"

  "Actually, I'm in town for a short visit with my Uncle Ben." Poor Ben. Katlin had been acutely aware of his confusion. At her bold announcement, the drink in his hand had frozen for a brief instant, half way between the smooth surface of the bar and his lips.

  "Isn't that right, Uncle Ben?" Katlin asked, then walked over to link her arm through his.

 
; Katlin didn't miss the amusement in the gunfighter's eyes as he smiled down at her. He improvised beautifully, continuing with her story.

  "That's right, darlin'," Ben agreed. Then for the marshal's benefit, continued, "Since Mitch was on his way here, he agreed to see that my niece arrived safely."

  The marshal eyed Katlin and Ben, clearly not believing the story and wondering what they were up to. "Hmm, she doesn't look to be much younger than you are."

  "I'm not actually. My mother is Ben's older sister, Abigail. We grew up more like cousins than uncle and niece." It was possible. Katlin knew several people who had aunts or uncles their own age or even younger. It stood to reason in a time without birth control, when women married young and continued to have children until late in life, the situation should be even more common.

  "Well, young lady, welcome to Abilene. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other during your visit," the marshal told Katlin as he prepared to take his leave.

  "I'll look forward to it, Marshal," Katlin responded warmly.

  "Call me, Bill."

  "Bill," she repeated.

  Katlin hadn't looked at Mitch throughout the discourse. He had turned back to face the bar, but she suspected that he wasn't at all pleased by her show of flattery toward the marshal.

  "I'd like to have a talk with you, in my office, Cameron," the marshal said, addressing Mitch's back.

  Mitch spoke without turning around. "I'll be there. First thing tomorrow morning."

  Katlin thought the marshal was going to protest, then he must have thought better of it. With a slight nod of his head in Katlin's direction, he touched the brim of his hat. "Ma'am," Marshal Wild Bill Hickok acknowledged softly before he turned and walked out of the saloon.

  "That didn't go so badly," Katlin said to no one in particular as she turned back around to the bar. She was now standing between Mitch and Ben. She reached toward her drink on the other side of Mitch, and he passed it to her without a word.

  Again speaking to no one in particular, Katlin muttered, "It's always been my belief that men like Wild Bill Hickok have huge egos to compensate for having little cocks." Ben, who had just taken a drink, choked and began to cough. Mitch threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  "Would one of you mind telling me how I have a sister named Abigail that I didn't know I had and a niece who's name I don't even know?" Ben asked after his coughing spasms stopped.

  "It's a long story," Mitch informed him, still chuckling. "One best told in the privacy of your office, over a bottle of your best. You're going to need it."

  Ben looked down at Katlin who had just tossed back another drink. She merely shrugged and looked up at him, an innocent smile curved her lips, but her eyes were sparkling mischievously. Damned if she wasn't the most incredibly beautiful female he had ever seen. For barely an instant, compelling green eyes caught and held his, and he felt as if he was drowning in a mysterious green mist. Ben felt like something had reached out, grabbed hold of his soul, and refused to let go. He connected with the woman on some inexplicable, elemental level he had never experienced with another human being. Ben found the sensation warm and comforting and unsettling all at the same time. Just who exactly was this female, and what was her connection to him? For that matter, what was her connection to Mitch?

  "First things first, Ben," Mitch insisted because he knew once they started with Katlin's story he wouldn't be able to get a straight answer from his friend. "What about the shooter?"

  When Mitch spoke his words sounded as if they came from a great distance. It took a very strong concentrated effort on Ben's part to pull himself back from the mist his mind had wandered into. "Sorry, Mitch, the sidewinder jumped from the roof and onto a horse. I was going to take your Appaloosa and ride after him, but some loco mutt wouldn't let me get anywhere near him."

  Mitch and Katlin looked at each other and said simultaneously, "Black Bart."

  "Black Bart?" Ben asked, not sure if they were talking about the shooter or the dog. In his opinion, one was as bad as the other, both were dangerous varmints.

  "Welcome aboard, my friend. You are in for a bumpy ride," was Mitch's parting shot as he headed for the door. Pausing midpoint, he turned and walked back to the bar.

  "Kat, stay put and for God's sake don't say anything until I get back," Mitch told her. Then recognizing the warning glint in her eyes, he added, "Please. I'll be right back. I'm going to get your things from the pack horse then have one of the boys take the horses to the livery."

  "Anything you say, Mitch," Katlin responded sweetly.

  Mitch raised his eyes heavenward then spoke to Ben. "I suppose I should introduce you properly. This is Katlin McKinnen . . . your niece." Before he turned and walked out of the saloon, he tossed over his shoulder, "Don't let her have anymore to drink, she's had enough."

  Ben Thompson, ruthless gunfighter, looked from Mitch Cameron's retreating back to the feisty redhead, who, at Mitch's insistence that she be given nothing more to drink had rebelliously tossed back her drink and signaled Tom for another. She looked Ben square in the eyes and didn't say a word. She didn't have to. Ben vividly remembered how she had dealt with the hired gun who had unwisely attempted to shoot Mitch in the back. To add weight to her silent argument, the loco mutt was now inside, planted firmly beside her, and was looking up at him with none too friendly eyes. Ben Thompson hadn't stayed alive this long by being fool-hardy, and he recognized a no win situation when faced with one. He might not know who this woman was, but he damn well knew who she wasn't, and she wasn't his niece.

  Ben looked toward Tom who had been waiting for his okay before refilling the woman's glass. Ben reached down, picked up the empty glass, and extended it toward the bartender. Mitch's annoyance, he could deal with.

  "While you're at it, Tom, bring a bowl of water for the mutt here." The dog growled and Ben looked down uneasily.

  "He doesn't like being called a mutt," Katlin informed him softly. At least the term "hell hound," as Mitch often called Bart, had a little dignity. She eyed the glass in front her. How many had she had? Three? Four? Five? Damned if she knew.

  "This must be one hell of a story," Ben muttered. Her response was an involuntary chuckle, and Ben had the strangest sensation in the pit of his stomach that his life would never be the same again after hearing it.

  Once again Ben's eyes were irresistibly drawn to hers and felt as if an invisible curtain had been lifted, permitting him to see what had heretofore been hidden. Set in a youthful face of unmarred, porcelain perfection, were the eyes of someone very old and very wise. Eyes that he somehow knew had not only witnessed but had also experienced so much pain and loneliness it caused his heart to lurch painfully in his chest.

  Nearly overwhelmed by a sensation of such fierce protectiveness toward this unknown female, Ben knew without a doubt that anyone who attempted to hurt her again would have to go through him to do it.

  Chapter Five

  Half an hour later seated in a comfortable leather chair in Ben's surprisingly posh office in the rear of the Bull's Head Saloon, Katlin remained silent while Mitch related to Ben most of what had transpired during the past two days. She had to give Ben credit. He had listened to the entire story without interruption, even though Katlin had sensed several times that he'd had to struggle to contain his laughter.

  Prior to their arrival in Abilene, Mitch and Katlin had agreed the bizarre tale would carry more weight with Ben if Mitch did the telling. Now, Mitch and Katlin waited impatiently for Ben's response.

  Katlin was still amazed at how much the man seated across the polished cherry wood desk from her was like her own uncle. Not just in looks but also in mannerisms and the way he carried himself

  Leaning forward, Ben first refilled Katlin's glass, Mitch's glass, then his own. He sat quietly back in his chair and carefully observed Mitch and Katlin. Although his expression was slightly bemused, there was a glitter in his shrewd dark eyes and a tale tell twitching at his lips.

 
; Katlin's instincts, although more than a little whiskey dulled, were right on target regarding Ben's reaction to their story. The only thing that had prevented him from laughing at the absurdity of the tale was the realization that Mitch, the man he knew to be unrelentingly logical and suspicious to a fault, actually believed the woman was from the future.

  "What you been smokin', Mitch? Loco weed?" The question was the first verbal response Ben was capable of offering.

  Mitch didn't intend to dignify Ben's question with an answer. What could he say? Ben had reacted to the story far better than he had expected. Nevertheless, it was obvious he didn't believe a word of it. If the situation had been reversed, he'd probably have asked Ben the same question. Well, he had done his part. The convincing was now up to Kat and her bag of tricks from the future.

  Mitch turned to Kat who had been unnaturally silent during his recounting of the events, and, with a sigh of frustration, he picked up his glass. "He's all yours," he told her.

  "Too bad we don't have the headless horses. Now they were convincing," Katlin reminded him, then picturing the scene in her mind she began to giggle.

  Rising none to steadily to her feet, Katlin removed her revolver from her holster. First checking to be sure the safety was on, she slid it across the desk for Ben to examine while she went to the supplies Mitch had retrieved from her pack horse. From her back pack, Katlin extracted the leather case containing her A.P.D. badge and identification and her wallet.

  Without saying a word, Katlin returned to the desk, handed Ben her A.P.D. identification, then began pulling articles from her wallet and placing them in front of him; driver's license, coins, and currency. Last but not least was a color snapshot of herself and her Uncle Ben in uniform, standing beside an Abilene Police Department squad car.

  Mitch had risen to his feet and walked around the desk to stand beside Ben in order to see the items Katlin had produced. Neither man got beyond the photograph.

  "You didn't show me that," Mitch's tone was accusing as he bent for a closer look at the photograph in Ben's hand. Not only was the colored photograph of a quality that was an impossibility in 1871, but the man in the snapshot with Katlin could easily have been an older version of the man seated behind the desk. The squad car in the picture was an added bonus.