by Gem Sivad
“She said she was thinkin’ of going into the trade and wanted me to fix her up with a customer.” Beauregard’s drawl deepened. “I was all set to talk her out of it when you showed up. I figured if a round with you didn’t change her mind, nothing would.” The kid walked to the door and opened it as if he was leaving.
“Where are you going? I’m not finished.” Deacon wasn’t any closer to knowing how to find the woman. Worse than that, Beauregard knew her and could influence her. His jaw clenched at the thought.
“I am. I’ve got work to do seeing’s how my big catch just got thieved from me. Mind your back trail, preacher man.” Beauregard left.
“Dammit.” Deacon stood in the door watching Beauregard’s hasty retreat. He didn’t know the kid much better than when he’d first set eyes on him almost two years before.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Deacon had been accompanied by his partners—his brother Sam and cousin Charlie Wolf—and he hadn’t been interested in anything but picking up the latest dead-or-alive posters from the Abilene sheriff’s office for the next hunt.
Usually when the McCallisters arrived, the townsfolk scurried inside and peered from cloaked windows. He didn’t know if they were remembering what he’d been—Reverend Robert McCallister preaching the gospel in the First Baptist Church every Sunday. It was just as likely they whispered about what he’d become—part of a trio of bounty hunters feared by anyone with sense.
On the day Deacon met Beauregard though, the street hadn’t been silent. Deacon had tracked the catcalls and loud insults to a spot in front of the Chester Saloon.
“Boy, I’m talking to you. Don’t ignore me.” The heckler had been a sawed-off cowboy carrying a bottle of whisky and staggering from too much drink though the day hadn’t seen high noon yet.
The lanky figure being targeted had worn buckskins, leather moccasins laced to his knees and a knife sheathed and tied to his thigh. A drooping belt wrapped around his baggy shirt and he’d sported a short-barreled shotgun in an attached holster. As if that wasn’t enough protection for ten men, the kid had worn a coiled bullwhip, carrying it looped over one shoulder and hanging to his waist.
Remembering the moment, Deacon still grimaced in disgust at the whip. It had been the favored weapon of his grandfather and all three McCallisters wore scars from the old man’s brutal use of it. On the kid it had been particularly ludicrous for both its size and the skill necessary to wield such a thing. Only an expert whipster could unleash the monster and use it effectively, and that sure as hell wasn’t the half-grown whelp currently wearing it.
An undeniable aura of dumb, young and vulnerable had shrouded the figure under siege. Apparently the local cowboys hadn’t been able to resist the lure. Three in particular had decided to humiliate their selected victim. Four less aggressive friends had lounged in front of the store, egging on the trio.
Deacon had turned his horse and stopped to monitor the escalating street ruckus. He’d raked the hell-raisers with his glance, checking faces to see if he held paper on any of them and marking their features to remember.
All the while, the stripling fumbled in his saddlebags, his back turned to the men, ignoring them. Deacon couldn’t see the kid’s face, but his arsenal of weapons and rough clothes had apparently attracted the hecklers.
Young or not, his attitude added heat to the simmering discord and it seemed clear that shortly the bastards intended to deliver a severe beating to the kid. But the youth had stalwartly ignored the threat.
“There’s not much muscle to him but he’s not short on grit.” Sam had reined to a halt, fanning himself with his hat as he looked with interest at the scene. “Kid might surprise us if he can use even half those weapons he’s totin’.”
“Doubtful,” Deacon had grunted.
“Fool’s gonna get his ass kicked but two bits says he takes a couple of yahoos down with him,” Sam had observed unsympathetically.
Charlie Wolf had watched the coming entertainment with interest. Finally he’d turned to Sam and flashed an unexpected grin. “A dollar says the kid wins.”
“He’ll get thumped and you know it.”
Deacon remembered how he’d scowled at his partners and tightened his grip on his carbine, ready to draw down on the cowboys if necessary.
“If he survives today, his best hope is to shed most of the gear and learn to use one weapon well. A young squirt armed to the teeth offers a challenge and that’s the only invitation fools need to pick a fight.”
The focus of his concern had suddenly spun around, emitting a sharp whistle that called a snarling, slavering beast from the alley. At the same time the kid’s hand snaked down faster than lightning, retrieving his knife and throwing it, pinning one miscreant to the mercantile wall.
Then, with an almost delicate flick of his wrist, the stripling unfurled the whip, wrapping the end around the neck of the second bully. The third man sprawled on the ground with a wolf growling in his face. In a moment, the kid had changed the odds from one against three to what in hell happened.
“Ya’ll have a problem?” the youth had drawled, at the same time surveying seven sets of stunned eyes. Showing Deacon that he had enough sense to recognize help at hand, the kid had dismissed possible threat from the three bounty hunters, focusing instead on the rowdies he’d quelled.
“Why you damn hillbilly. Think you can pull that shit in this town? I’ll—” The knife-pinned fellow jerked the blade free and reached for his sidearm.
By reflex, Deacon had levered a round in his rifle’s chamber, the sound making a statement in the otherwise silent tableau. The cowboy had turned, facing the threat coming from the McCallisters, and the kid’s shotgun blast had peppered the drunken sod’s hip instead of his groin. Yowls of pain had ended the disagreement.
“Brother,” Sam said, “I think you just saved that guy’s nuts.”
Deacon had kept his rifle steady on the other men while one ran to alert the doctor. The rest carried their buddy up the street to have the pellets picked out.
“That fella on the ground looks a mite green around the gills,” Sam had murmured.
Indifferent to his former prey, the beast had stood and shook the dust from his fur. The mauled heckler had staggered to his feet and wiped sweat and animal spit from his face, all the time staring at the animal in horror.
“Who the hell is that kid?” Sam had asked.
“I don’t know. But when he gets done growing he’ll be someone to reckon with.” Deacon had looked back to where the boy had been standing. The pinto gelding had remained tied to the hitching post, flicking flies from its ears and patiently waiting. When they’d reached the sheriff’s office, the wolf sat in front of it eyeing them as they stopped at the hitching rail.
Deacon had gazed at the hulking brute purposefully blocking the entrance. Balefully, the enormous beast had glared back.
“Figured the kid for smarter than that. It won’t do him much good to lodge a complaint, ’cause those jackasses work for Henley,” Sam had drawled. Because Henley ran the area according to his set of rules—the first being that he and his were always right—it didn’t pay to get in an argument with the rancher.
“The kid’ll be lucky if the sheriff doesn’t arrest him.” At that thought, Deacon had swung down from his horse, again ready to save the youngster’s neck. The wolf had flashed fangs along with a low growl, letting Deacon know he wasn’t getting into the office.
“Two bits says Deak can take the lobo. You in, Charlie?” Smooth as silk, Sam had transferred his former bet to the new event.
Deacon had ignored his partners and stepped onto the planking, meeting the wolf’s stare. He’d curled his lip and growled back, his hand hovering over his gun. He hadn’t wanted to shoot the damn beast, but if push came to shove, he would have.
The animal had stood, stretched as though indifferent to Deacon’s presence and lifted his hind leg, urinating on the wall. Then he’d turned, facing the bounty hunters again.
“I’m going in, so get the hell out of the way.” Deacon’s temper, which had been simmering below the surface, spilled out, challenging the wolf to a fight if need be. He’d prepared himself to argue with the sheriff over the kid, Henley and anything else Johnson brought up. The old lobo had cocked his head sideways as if considering Deacon’s words. Then he’d turned aside and flopped down on his belly, resting his head on his paws. He’d closed his eyes as if to say “You’re not worth my effort”.
Prepared to save the kid, Deacon had walked into the sheriff’s office and stalled in the doorway, dumbstruck. The kid had been sitting on the edge of the desk, rolling a cigarette, watching the lawman stack wanted posters.
”Beau here’s just gettin’ started in this area and I thought I’d show him some hospitality. I gave him his choice of handbills this time.” Ed Johnson had glowered at Deacon and spoken defensively.
“Thankee, Sheriff. Aw ’preciate it.” The kid’s accent marked him as being from somewhere southeast of Texas. He’d made quick work of claiming the posters he wanted, tucking them inside his loose shirt before he’d uncoiled his considerable length, towering half a head above the older man.
The young bounty hunter had shambled across the room to the door and stopped when Deacon blocked his path. The foray outside had whet his interest in what the kid looked like up close.
Though the younger bounty hunter topped most men in height, Deacon was bigger. For some reason he’d wanted the youth to understand that. When Beauregard pulled his hat low, clearly intending to sidle past without words, Deacon remained in his way.
“You’ll pay hell if you hang around here. That was one of Henley’s riders you peppered with buckshot,” he advised.
“Salt,” Beauregard had corrected him. “Rock salt that burns like all get-out. I ’spect he won’t set a horse easy for a time. But he’ll be punchin’ cows for Henley come dawn tomorrow.”
Deacon had had to clench his jaw to keep his mouth from falling open. Silently he’d stepped aside for Beauregard to leave.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Swamped with memories of the kid, Deacon stood alone in Hiram’s office. He’d bungled his negotiations for the woman’s name. His leverage, the counterfeiter, was in Sam’s hands. The only restriction Deacon had put on his brother was a request to keep Ned alive until Beauregard could question him.
Deacon scribbled a note telling the sheriff to watch out for Lydia Lynch, set the coffeepot off the stove, emptied his cup and placed it on the sheriff’s desk before he started for the door. He stopped, his gaze turning to the fancy suit Beauregard had left behind.
Maybe the kid left a note or name. Deacon searched the pockets and found nothing. He inspected the ruffled shirt, comparing it to the one worn by his bed companion. He fingered it thoughtfully, picturing the way it had fit over her lush breasts. His cock stirred and his breath caught in his lungs.
None of the pearl buttons on this shirt were missing, unlike the button he’d severed using his razor. He set the shirt aside, ready to assume that it was standard wear by Pleasure Dome employees. And then he took it back up. He’d been at the house long enough to see several of Lydia’s security patrol during business hours and they’d worn suits, but not ruffled shirts.
Why was Deacon’s bed companion wearing a ruffled shirt, the costume a butler like Calvin—Beauregard in disguise—might wear?
Did Beauregard, playing Calvin and wearing this suit, take off his shirt and loan it to her? Deacon scratched his head. It didn’t make any sense.
He stared at the buttons on the shirt then at the needle and white thread sitting on Hiram’s desk next to his coffee mug.
The butler had on that shirt. The woman I bedded wore that shirt. Now Beauregard is wearing my shirt and my shirt was last seen on the woman I…
“It’s not possible.”
It surprised Deacon that his hand was steady as he locked the outer door to the jail. His thoughts could only be described as pure chaos. What he’d begun to suspect couldn’t be true, but nothing else made sense. After he left the keys with the hotel desk clerk, Deacon headed for the stable at the end of the street.
The kid’s horse and wolf were missing but they couldn’t be too long gone. He questioned the stable owner who obliged Deacon by telling him in which direction Beauregard had ridden.
“I figured if a round with you didn’t change her mind, nothing would.” Deacon was reminded all over again he’d bedded a virgin. He was filled with guilt thinking about a young innocent woman losing her maidenhead to his lust—until he considered the possibility that Beauregard was the young woman pretending to be a young man.
After reconsidering the body he’d enjoyed so thoroughly, he could assure himself that Miri, if that was her real name, was indeed a woman.
Stepping judiciously to the next point, Deacon decided that if Miri was in fact Beauregard, the hellion had engineered her own deflowering—a consideration that tempered his feelings of guilt but in no way lowered his determination to…
That was the problem. For a man who’d been navigating life with tepid disinterest, his emotions were in an unmanageable tangle. He was mumbling considerations and arguments of what he should do and riding at a fast clip out of town when Sheriff Potter haled him from the doorway of the jail.
“Hold up there, McCallister.”
Deacon changed course to where the sheriff leaned on the doorframe drinking a cup of coffee and frowning.
“Tie up there at the hitching post and come inside. We need to talk.” As soon as Deacon obliged the sheriff and they were in his office, Hiram didn’t mince words. “What happened in Fort Worth?”
Deacon sketched the basic story, expunging the part where he’d indulged in a night of carnality. He wrapped up his explanation and Hiram began a calm but determined inquisition.
“Is he your prisoner or Beau’s?” Hiram asked.
“We’re working together on this one,” Deacon answered. Then he opened his mouth and his own question spilled out. “What’s any of this to you? You have a personal interest in the kid?” Deacon bristled as he considered Hiram Potter.
“That I do,” Hiram said agreeably, filling a pipe as he squinted over the bowl at Deacon. It occurred to Deacon that it was a gesture Beauregard had adopted, using cigarettes to stall.
“I like Beauregard. No, let me make it stronger.” The sheriff paused as Deacon’s frown grew into a scowl. “If Beauregard was my child, I couldn’t be any prouder than I am.”
Hiram lit his pipe and made a show of extinguishing the lucifer. “Now I’ll ask again. What happened in Fort Worth? And don’t give me that hooey about partnering unless it’s true. I’ve been worried and my mind would rest a lot easier knowing it was the two of you riding together and not just that young—”
“Woman,” Deacon finished for him. “I guess we’re skating around what we both know. Beauregard’s a woman.”
“And you would know this how?” Hiram couldn’t have looked more forbidding if he’d held a shotgun on Deacon.
* * * * *
Miri fled Eclipse, unwilling to face Deacon McCallister or entertain any more of his blasted questions. He’d never been one to mince words and from the start of their acquaintance had taken it upon himself to give her instructions.
Upon their second meeting, he’d lit into her with a rough scold. The gist of his complaint had been that the kid—Beauregard—was all set to get himself killed.
“That salt rock ammunition you’re using will swell up and explode on you if you’re not careful. Keep your gun barrel dry. Better yet, get out of this game. You’re not old enough.”
“Rock salt’s cheap, buckshot’s a mite more dear. Reckon I can make do with what I have.” She’d shrugged away Deacon’s safety tip, tucking her head low while she’d made a beeline for Possum. It didn’t matter. The older bounty hunter had walked beside her, seemingly intent on having his say.
“Mind what I said about the ammunition. Buy some buckshot for that sawed-off sh
otgun you carry and stop using rock salt.”
“Yer stickin’ yer nose in my business, McCallister. Best mind yer own or I might take a notion to poke around in your’n,” she’d answered in her best Tennessee twang, making it clear the young bounty hunter didn’t appreciate Deacon’s warning.
Playing Beau had become as easy as wearing a second skin—her disguise enabling a lucrative business. As Beau, she’d become a young, shambling country bumpkin who brought in outlaws for a living.
But McCallister had from the first made her feel uneasy. Instead of accepting the character she’d put before him and moving on as most folks did, he’d asked questions and inserted himself into her business—a thing she just couldn’t allow.
Irritating her even more had been the astonishing fact that he made her want to tear off her hat and wig and climb on him instead of Possum. There weren’t many men who got her attention unless they had a price on their head, but McCallister had been different. As soon as she’d met him, she’d known he was special. It was in Sundown, during their second meeting, that her heart had pounded like a Kiowa tom-tom when he’d started giving her orders.
“Buy some buckshot,” he’d snarled before he turned and stalked away.
Miri had studied him as he’d headed across the street to the sheriff’s office. Muscled shoulders topped the strong arms that gave her such a visceral reaction. Her womb had clenched when her glance roved lower, pausing on his rump. She couldn’t say why, but she’d liked the way it looked too. As far as Miri was concerned, that marked the beginning of her unnatural interest in the big red-haired bounty hunter.
She’d probably risked too much in having her way with him, but she didn’t care at the moment. She’d finally gotten to touch that fine backside and didn’t really think anything could ever make her regret the night before. Not even Deacon’s robbing her of her catch.
Knowing better didn’t always mean doing better. Miri had been deliberately crossing paths with Deacon since they’d met. She’d even looked forward to his complaints and scolds, though his forceful assault on her whip had caused consternation.