Comanche Cowboy (The Durango Family)

by Georgina Gentry

  But the whore came back to the window, looking down through the torn lace curtain. “Miss Innocent keeps lookin’ over here like she’s seen us, like she might be thinking of coming in the saloon.”

  He shook his head, set his glass down, and began rebuttoning the shirt he’d been taking off at the moment he’d seen the flame-haired beauty from the window. “Naw. That kind don’t come in saloons.”

  He watched the girl march over to the old storekeeper. “Feisty as a fox terrier,” he muttered, liking the way her fiery hair bounced on her neck as she walked. The slim teacher paused again, looked his direction. Her eyes were probably green like her dress. No, green like new spring pasture, like shimmering dragonfly wings . . .

  Molly said something and he started. He had forgotten she was even in the room. But one thing was certain: He’d completely lost his appetite for the pretty whore.

  Molly sauntered over to her mirror, checking her dark hair as she always did. “Do I look older to you, Maverick?” She searched, found one gray hair, and pulled it.

  “No, Molly,” he said automatically, because he knew what she wanted to hear although he knew she lied about her age. She did have a magnificent mane of ebony hair, he thought. But truth was, her mileage was starting to show. In another five years her wrinkles would deepen until her face looked like a rutted country road. “You’re pretty, just like always. Quit lookin’ for gray hairs.”

  “You didn’t say nothin’ about my new combs.” She preened before the cracked mirror, readjusting the pearl combs in her dark locks. “I got an admirer who’s sweet on me, wants to marry me. He had these sent all the way from St. Joe.”

  “Uh huh.” He wasn’t really listening or looking at her. Feisty as a fox terrier. The redhead walked through his mind. “I think I better get back to my crew.” Maverick buttoned most of his shirt before his hand reached for reassurance to his holster and the loop of rawhide hung on his gun belt. “Keep the money,” he said. “There’s other men downstairs waitin’ for you to show ’em a good time.”

  “Well, I got to make a livin’,” she huffed, rearranging her dress and buttoning it. “There’s only been one other man besides you I’d have left this life for, but that was almost twenty-five years ago when I was as young and innocent as that redhead. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and then she glared at him. “But the fact I’m loco over you don’t mean nothin’ to you. No woman means nothin’ to you. Someday, Maverick, some woman’s gonna cause you heartache. I hope I live to see it.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” he snapped. Some woman already had. But not in the way Molly thought. Maverick frowned and shook his head, the old guilt coming back. It never quite left him, really, always burning like a slow fire in his soul.

  She adjusted her corset and looked at him thoughtfully. “I wish I knew what makes you tick, handsome. What the key is to your dark, brooding heart.”

  He winked at her, laughing a little too lightly. “They say I never forget a friend and I never, never forgive an enemy.”

  The whore shook her head. “It’s the Injun in you, I reckon. Jesus! I hope you never get a grudge against me! I bet if you was after a man, you’d keep lookin’ no matter what.” She brushed wisps of hair back and caught them up with the fine combs.

  How had she stumbled on that bit of truth?

  “You’ll never know how right you are, Molly,” he muttered, thinking about Joe McBride. More than ten years. But he’d keep looking if it took a lifetime.

  A frown crossed his rugged, dark face. Someday he would find that man. Maverick intended to kill him slowly, painfully. Very slowly and painfully as only a man raised by the Comanche knew how. The Kentuckian would beg for the mercy of death before the trail boss finished with him.

  Molly gave him a long look. “You’re a hard man, Maverick Durango. I almost feel sorry for the poor devil, whoever he is.”

  “Don’t,” he shrugged, reaching for the doorknob. “He was mean, low-down—”

  “Naw, I knew the meanest, rottenest man in the world-Bill Slade.”

  Maverick frowned. “But if you knew what this bastard did—”

  “Must have been over a woman.” She sauntered over to the bureau, picked up her drink, and sipped it.

  He kept his face a cold, hard mask. “What makes you think so?”

  Molly smiled knowingly. “No man hates another that passionately over money or cattle. Naw, it had to be a woman. Was she pretty?”

  Only when she smiled, he thought, and winced at the memory of Annie’s delicate features. Only when she smiled.

  Downstairs, the off-key piano tinkled out a new song and the melody drifted up the rickety stairs: . . . Maxwell’s braes are bonnie, where early falls the dew, and that’s where Annie Laurie gave me her promise true. . . .

  The old anguish hit Maverick, twisting his gut in real pain. His dark hand turned white as he gripped the doorknob.

  “What’s the matter, half-breed? You hurt?” Her voice sounded half curious, half sympathetic.

  “No, I—I’m all right,” he muttered, straightening his broad shoulders. He opened the door.

  She sneered, her jealous laughter carrying across the plaintive notes floating up the rickety stairs. “I hope some pretty thing does hurt you, you big stud! You think I don’t know why you changed your mind just now?” She stood, arms akimbo. “But if you think you’ll get a chance to play the stallion to that little sorrel filly, you’d best forget it! I hear she has some reason to hate Comanches. . . .”

  “Not as much as I do,” Maverick muttered, his hand going unconsciously to the jagged knife scar on his rugged cheek. “Not half as much as I do!”

  Cayenne looked again at the window and turned back to the old shopkeeper. “I guess I’ll just have to try the Red Garter.” She took a deep breath, lifted her green skirts, and marched down the dusty street, across the wooden bridge with her bustle swaying and her red hair bouncing.

  “But, ma’am, a lady can’t go in there!” Mr. Winston’s voice wailed in indignation.

  “You just watch me!” she flung back over her shoulder. “Don’t ever tell a Texan gal what she can or can’t do!”

  But in spite of her brave words, she paused by the hitching rail, listening to the loud laughter and plaintive music from inside the saloon. Never in her nineteen years had she entered a place like that. There were only two kinds of women on the western frontier and her kind stayed in their own territory of homes, schools, and church.

  A big gray stallion at the hitching rail whinnied and she reached out to pat its velvet nose, glancing at the brand on its hip. The Triple D, she thought, that big ranching empire in the Texas Hill country of Austin and San Antone, a long way east of her father’s Lazy M spread.

  “Nice boy,” she patted the silky muzzle, staring curiously at the unusual bridle. It really wasn’t a bridle at all, just a rawhide thong twisted around its lower jaw, Indian style. My stars, what is that hairy thing hanging from the bridle? No, it couldn’t be. . . . Or could it?

  She looked back at the shopkeeper. He frowned in obvious disapproval. A man sang drunkenly from inside the saloon. One of the horses tied to the rail stamped its feet, stirring up dust and a buzzing fly.

  Cayenne licked her lips nervously as she paused at the saloon doors, listening.

  . . . and that’s where Annie Laurie gave me her promise true. Gave me her promise true, that ne’er forgot will be . . .

  She smiled, thinking fondly of her father. The thought of him steeled her wavering resolve. She had to go in even though she had no idea what one paid a gunfighter. All she’d managed to save from her salary was eighteen dollars and twenty-five cents. Could she hire the kind of man she needed for that? No man would risk his life for that amount of money. What else did she have to offer?

  Cayenne quavered before the saloon doors, whistling the old folk tune softly under her breath. Mr. Winston was probably right. The kind of cutthroats and trail trash inside this place couldn’t be trusted. Eighteen dollars
and twenty-five cents. Not nearly enough. She did have one thing she could trade for help, she thought reluctantly, one thing that might tempt some rough, virile man.

  Oh, Lord, she couldn’t do it. She half turned away, not liking the images that came to mind of some tough, dirty gunfighter running his hands over her skin, his hot, wet mouth covering hers.

  Maybe the governor . . . No, don’t you remember you thought of that first? she chided herself. Your family supported the South. You can’t expect any help from a damned Yankee carpetbagger government. Besides, if what you suspect is true . . .

  It wasn’t fair that the oldest child always seemed to be the one to deal with all the problems. But life wasn’t always fair, she reminded herself. Her four little sisters couldn’t do anything, and Papa seemed to have reason not to. That left it all up to Cayenne. With a trembling hand, she pushed open the swinging doors and entered.

  Gave me her promise true, that ne’er forgot will be . . .

  It was dark and smoky inside and smelled of stale beer. For a long moment, as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior, Cayenne paused. Painted, brash women sat familiarly on chair arms, rubbing against cardplayers. Tough, trail-weary men leaned on the bar, one foot on the brass rail.

  . . . And for darlin’ Annie Laurie, I’d lay me doon and dee . . .

  The music stopped abruptly as the short player seemed to see her for the first time. The laughter and talk trailed off as curious people turned to look.

  Cayenne smiled to hide her nervousness. “H—hello,” she stammered.

  A bald man came around from behind the bar. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I don’t ’low no collecting for school bazaars and such. . . .”

  “That’s not why I’m here.” She twisted her hands together, looking into the sea of curious faces. A movement on the stairs caught her eye. A dark man, his shirt partially unbuttoned, had come halfway down, followed by a heavily painted woman. Cayenne blushed as she realized suddenly what they had been doing upstairs, that they might have been the eyes staring out at her.

  The tall cowboy on the stairs looked at her a long moment. He might have been in his middle twenties, but his weathered features made it hard to tell. His eyes were as gray as a summer storm and a white knife scar marred his high cheekbone. “Ma’am,” he drawled, and she recognized the accent of a fellow Texan, “you shouldn’t be in a place like this.” His low, authoritative voice sounded as if he were about to order her out of the Red Garter.

  Cayenne stiffened, bringing her chin up stubbornly. “I expect I’ll decide that,” she snapped. “You see, I’m looking for a man.”

  A couple of the men nodded understandingly and the bald man wiped his hands on his grimy apron. “Oh, I see. Now, little lady, you tell us what your daddy looks like and if he’s here havin’ a drink. . . .”

  “No,” she flared, reluctantly taking her gaze off the dark cowboy and the leering woman behind him on the stairs. “I came looking for a man.” The words tumbled out.

  A drunken buffalo hunter at the bar gestured the bartender away. “Well, honey, will I do?” He swaggered over and put his hand on her shoulder while the others laughed. He was bearded and so filthy that he stank. Even his bright red shirt was stiff with grime and encrusted blood from his kills. Dark sweat stained beneath the arms of the Turkey-red cotton. Around his dirty neck he wore a beaded Indian necklace.

  “Let go of me.” Cayenne tried to pull away. “I meant I’m trying to hire a man.”

  The bald man looked at the two of them uncertainly. “Now, Buck,” he said, “you shouldn’t—”

  “Go to hell!” The giant hunter swayed a little, looking down at her. When he spoke again, she could smell stale whiskey on his sour breath. “Honey, I’m for hire. In fact, I’d gladly go with you for nothin’!”

  The crowd laughed again as Cayenne tried to pull away.

  “Get your hands off her!” The voice rang out like a pistol shot. The others stopped laughing, looking uncertainly at the virile man on the stairs, then at each other.

  The bartender wiped sweat from his shiny head. “Buck, you better do like he says. I’d be afraid to cross Maverick if I was you. . . .”

  “No Injun’s gonna tell me what to do!” The drunk patted his holstered pistol, then pulled Cayenne into his embrace. “You wanted a man, honey. You got more man than you can handle right here!”

  She slapped him hard as she struggled to keep his wet mouth off hers. Past his shoulder, she caught a blur of movement as the big half-breed moved as fast and silent as any warrior.

  “I told you to get your hands off her! Don’t you comprende, amigo?” Maverick grabbed the man by the shoulder, spinning him around. Cayenne stumbled backward.

  The drunk went for his gun, and in that split second Maverick’s dark hand reached for the strip of rawhide on his gunbelt, looping it over the man’s head. As Cayenne watched helplessly, Maverick caught the man across the kidneys with a hard chop of his hand.

  With a scream of pain, the buffalo hunter doubled up, went to his knees, and the Indian tightened the loop around the sunburned neck.

  “By damn, I told you not to touch her, you piece of trash! That’s a lady! Don’t you know how to treat a lady? Then I’ll show you!”

  Cayenne put her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. No man attempted to interfere or even moved except for the sobbing, struggling drunk and the half-breed tightening the rawhide around his neck.

  “My stars!” she screamed. “You’ll choke him to death! Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!”

  But she could see the bottled rage behind the gray eyes as he tightened the loop until it cut into the drunk’s flesh. “Apologize to the lady,” Maverick snarled between clenched teeth. “Apologize, or I’ll kill you!”

  Cayenne looked around in desperation. “Won’t anyone help?”

  The bartender shrugged helplessly. “Lady, you started all this!”

  A gambler leaned over to the short piano player. “I’ll give you odds he’ll twist his head completely off!”

  “What kind of animals are you all?” Cayenne scolded, and she ran over, pounding Maverick on the chest. “Don’t kill him! You hear, don’t kill him! He’s just a drunk!”

  Maverick’s eyes widened at her spirited onslaught but he didn’t turn loose, fending her off with one arm. The drunk gasped, trying vainly to get his fingers under the thong. “Lady,” Maverick said, “it’s you I was protecting! He’ll apologize or I’ll kill him!”

  The drunk rolled his eyes at Cayenne as he struggled for breath.

  “Dearie,” the woman on the stairs laughed as Cayenne flew into the half-breed again, “if you was a man, Maverick’d kill you for that!”

  But Cayenne was mad now, fighting mad. “Let him go! You hear me? Let him go!”

  Maverick held her off with one big hand. “By damn! I was tryin’ to help you, ma’am!”

  He loosened the noose a little and the drunk gasped for air. “Sorry,” he croaked, “didn’t know she belonged to you. . . . ”

  Maverick jerked the thong off suddenly, putting it back on his belt. The drunk fell sobbing on his face.

  Cayenne pulled free of Maverick’s hand and readjusted her dress. “My stars! You were going to kill him. . . .”

  “You started this, miss,” Maverick growled, pushing his hat back as he looked down at her. “A girl like you has no business coming into a saloon! Now get out of here before some other stud decides to paw you!”

  Cayenne put her hands on her hips and looked up at him. “Now just who do you think you are, bossing me around like that? I came in here to hire a man. . . .”

  Maverick took her arm and propelled her toward the swinging doors in spite of her resistance. “By damn, you are a peppery little thing, aren’t you?”

  She stopped struggling as he dragged her outside into the sunlight because it suddenly occurred to her that she’d found just the kind of man she needed for this job.

  “You’ll do.” She sized him
up and down as he let go her arm. “But I’ve only got eighteen dollars and twenty-five cents.”

  He scowled at her and she realized suddenly why men seemed afraid of him. The scar down his left cheek gave him a menacing appearance and the way he wore his gun told her he knew how to use it.

  “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss,” He patted the big stallion’s nose affectionately and it whinnied softly.

  She stared at the horse, the hairy object swinging from the bridle. “Is that . . . what I think it is?”

  He looked at her with such a cold expression that she shivered despite the June heat. “What do you think it is?” he challenged.

  Somehow she knew. Oh, God, what kind of a man was this who’d kill a man to protect the honor of a woman he didn’t even know? What kind of an uncivilized savage had a scalp tied to his bridle? The kind of man she needed for this dangerous task, she thought desperately. “Never mind. What I’m trying to tell you is I came looking for a man to hire, a man like you.”

  He shrugged, patting the horse. “Whoa, Dust Devil. Take it easy, boy.” To her he said, “Sorry, miss, old Don Durango needs me and I’m beholden to him.”

  “I’d pay more if I could,” she said, “but that’s all I’ve got.”

  He tipped his hat back, his expression a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “I told you I’m not for hire. Now you’ll just have to find another handy man, errand boy, or whatever. By this time tomorrow, I expect to be headed back down to the Triple D if I don’t end up in jail for havin’ fun tonight.” He took a deep breath. “Sugar cookies,” he said. “No”—he leaned closer to her—“not quite sugar cookies, it’s—”

  “Vanilla,” she flushed. “Papa says only hussies wear strong scent.”

  “Vanilla! I heard little country girls used it for perfume.” He leaned closer, sniffed again. “Umm. I like that.”

  For a moment she thought he would put his face right down into her hair, but then he seemed to remember and straightened up.