Adams’s dark eyes widened. “You’re lying.”
“I swear.” Blalock squeezed the tiny shot glass inside his fist, then fearing that in his anguish he would break it, set it aside. “He told me himself. He won them off Zack in a card game over in London. Then Zack up and died before he could cash in with him. He’s here to collect the money from Teddy.”
The news was too good to be believed and Adams’s skepticism slow to leave. “You’re sure about this?”
“As sure as I’m wearing this badge.” Blalock’s weathered hand brushed over the silver star pinned to his vest. “Don’t reckon he’d be too particular about who bought back those shares.”
Adams had started to pace the carpeted floor, his mind playing out scenarios of just how gratifying it would be to announce to Teddy that he was her newest partner. Seeing her face when he told her, watching her squirm when she knew she was licked, would be worth any price he had to pay. That the Frenchman was, at this very minute, upstairs in his saloon seemed a confirmation that this was meant to be. But then he’d always been lucky.
Adams’s pleasure over the prospect of getting exactly what he wanted did not dim his wits. The Frenchman had been in the Diamond for hours, which meant the sheriff had found out about the shares early in the morning. He smiled cruelly. “I suppose there’s a reason you took your time telling me about this.”
The sheriff nodded nervously. He sometimes suspected Adams could read his mind. And if he could he would know that the main reason he hadn’t come at once was that Adams made him feel like a two-bit errand boy. And because, in a sense, that’s what he was. “H-had to wrestle a couple of drunks out of the Brass Bell,” he stammered. “Then Jus—”
“Never mind,” Adams interrupted. “Unless Honor is more talented than I think she is, that Frenchman will be through with her by now.” He laughed, and smoothing his slicked-down hair, started out of the office through the back and private door. “I reckon he’ll be feeling real agreeable, too.”
He took the steep steps briskly with Blalock struggling to keep up. Honor’s gleaming red door was the only one closed. It was three rooms down from the stairwell.
Adams didn’t bother to knock.
“Get out! Oh—” Honor, who had been flopped back on the pillows of her tousled bed enjoying the sumptuous lunch Rhys had ordered, jumped to her feet when she saw who had thrown open the door to her room. “Sorry, Mr. Adams,” she mumbled, anxiously patting down her rumpled skirt as she twisted about, looking for the shoes she had kicked off.
“Where’s the Frenchman?” Adams demanded.
“He left.”
Adams shot an accusing glance at Len Blalock, who had hoped to have the pleasure of introducing Adams to the Frenchman. “I can see that.” His anger showed in every step, as Adams strode into the room. “How long has he been gone?”
Honor, using a toe to drag a high-heeled slipper out from under the bed, kept her eyes cast down. “A quarter hour. Maybe not that long,” came her weak reply as she nervously brushed a breadcrumb off one of the ribbons adorning her corselet. Adams didn’t tolerate the girls lingering upstairs after an “appointment”. “He—Somebody came for him.”
“Who?”
“That Teddy Gamble,” Honor said, deciding to take the role of a spurned woman. “Poked her head in the window and crooked her finger and he went off with her.” She worked one stocking-clad foot into the slipper she had managed to retrieve, giving her a decidedly unbalanced stance. “I made him pay for his time, mind you.” Feeling bolder at last, she lifted her head and thrust her hands on her uneven hips. “But it made me danged mad anyway, I can tell you.”
Adams, whose sour expression hadn’t changed since he’d entered the girl’s room, spotted the tattered corner of a dime novel protruding from beneath the nest of pillows where Honor had been reclining. On one side of the bed was a nearly empty luncheon tray. Her missing shoe was across the room against the washstand. She had obviously kicked it off when she crawled onto her bed.
“I can tell you’ve been suffering.” Adams turned his back. Not seeing his harsh face only made Honor’s fear of him stronger. “Might make you feel better to get downstairs and do what you’re paid for,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” She hobbled across to the washstand and retrieved her other shoe and hastily put it on. She tried to speak up, to offer an apology to Adams for all the wrongs he’d made her feel, but the words died on her lips and, dry-mouthed, she hurried out hoping there would be no retribution.
Len Blalock fared less well. Left alone with Adams he felt much as the girl had.
“I cannot abide anyone in my employ not doing what is expected of them.” Adams strolled around Honor’s room, poking at various items, lifting a silk scarf on the dresser, looking into the plain pine armoire, at the girl’s meager belongings.
“I didn’t know he’d tied up with Teddy,” Blalock offered. “I’d have come right to you but I had to take in those drunks—” Not acknowledging the sheriff, Adams strolled out of the room with the man following. “Teddy couldn’t have the money to buy back those shares,” erupted from Blalock, too fast and too desperately to gain the redemption he sought. “She’s near broke, I heard.”
The lamp had gone out above the narrow back stairs. Blalock heard the steady click of Adams’s steps as the man descended ahead of him. He heard, too, the echoing whine in his voice and was sickened by it, but, try as he might, couldn’t find within him the nerve to tell Parrish Adams he could no longer do his bidding. Instead he followed like a dog trained to heel at his master’s feet, wondering how many detestable things he would have to do before Adams was satisfied.
“You get that Frenchman in an agreeable state of mind and you get him to me,” Adams said. “Use Pete and Boyd if you need them.”
In the dimly lit back hall, with the shadows playing strangely on his lean face, Adams hardly looked human. Blalock, compelled to face him as he stepped off the last tread, felt a hard twist in his gut, a realization that he hadn’t been merely trading favors with Adams. He had sold out to the devil and there was no way to reverse what he had done. He understood now why the girl Honor had been so afraid. Adams was a man without mercy, the sort who took revenge on those who failed him.
Chapter 14
“You know Strong Bill and Rope. This fellow is Bullet Lamar. He looks after the stock.”
Teddy had assembled the main crew of the Gamble Line for Rhys to meet. She wanted him to know about each man’s duties and to understand just what it took to keep a stage line running. All the way from the Diamond to the Gamble office, which was across the street from the stable, she had been telling him about the various runs and schedules. She had also told him that the Gamble Line began with her father’s dream to build a premier stage line out of Wishbone. And she spoke of her desire to keep her father’s dream alive.
“Bullet,” Rhys shook the man’s hand, thinking “bull” would have been more descriptive of the stocky fellow. About Rhys’s height, Bullet had twice his bulk. His massive arms were as large as many a man’s thigh. He looked more Indian than white. He wore his straight black hair long, and it was held close to his head by a beaded leather band tied around his forehead. Like Teddy he wore a heavy silver bracelet set with turquoise stones. At his waist was a silver concha belt threaded onto a thick strip of tanned leather. The inevitable gun belt rode low beneath it. Bullet’s tooled holster was anchored by a strap to his heavy thigh.
Bullet’s eyes were black as a night sky and seemed never to blink. He seemed ageless. His stoic face was as impassive as one of the high canyon walls found throughout Arizona.
He was a man of few words and he didn’t spare any of them for Rhys, merely nodding when Teddy told his name. She took it upon herself to reveal a little about Bullet as they walked through the dusty street to the stable for a look at the stock and equipment Rhys now owned in part—or would own. “He keeps the horses healthy and he trains them to pull as a team,” she explained.
Her stride found the same cadence as Rhys’s as they entered wide doors of the stable. “We call him Bullet because he’s got three slugs in him no doctor could dig out.” Bullet, listening to but not looking at Teddy, moved away from the others and slipped into a stall where he began rubbing down a dappled mare whose bulging belly indicated she was soon to deliver a foal. “Fifteen years ago my father found Bullet out on the desert all shot up. He hauled him in to the ranch, looked after him until he got him well, and,” she paused, “we haven’t been able to get rid of him since.” Smiling mischievously she looked at the half-breed who had made himself busy feeling the mare’s legs from shoulders to fetlocks. “Isn’t that right?”
Bullet, crouched beside the mare, spoke without looking away from the animal. His voice was nearly as overpoweringly big as the man himself, but Rhys thought he detected affection in the gravelly tone. “Tell it your way, Little Bit,” he said.
Little Bit. Rhys tried to find the rationale for the term Bullet had used to refer to Teddy. Though not petite, she was a small woman, so little he understood. Bit he did not. A bit was the metal bar which fitted into a horse’s mouth. He didn’t get a chance to ask what unknown meaning the words also had or how they related to Teddy. The restless mare had begun to snort and whinny and had drawn his attention. The animal was fidgeting in the stall, complaining of her burden to the man who gently stroked her underbelly. A brood mare who acted that way could have a difficult delivery when her time came. He knew more than he had ever wanted to about horses, since he’d spent his early years as a stable hand, tending the hundred head on the French estate where his mother had worked.
A dalliance with the master’s youngest daughter had sent him packing before he was sixteen. For the next five years he served as a groom elsewhere. Finally he had gotten proficient enough with cards and other games of chance to decide he could make a better and easier living at the gaming tables. He had been right. His skill and his good looks had brought him out of the stable and into the parlors of the class he had once served.
He nearly laughed aloud as he considered that somehow life had brought him back to the stables. Given the route he’d taken, he was not sure he was any better off than he had been ten years before when he had eagerly departed them.
“Another thing about Bullet,” Teddy said, walking toward a row of empty nail kegs that did duty as stools. “He won’t talk your ears off, not unless maybe you’re a horse.” She sat on one of the kegs. “Besides looking after the horses we have, he’s the man responsible for buying new stock. He also rides the line and sees that the animals get rotated properly from station to station so no one horse is overworked. Watching how the animals are used saves the horses and saves us money,” she said. “Strong Bill—”
The rangy shotgun man, who had propped against a hay bin, spoke up. “I’m chief messenger—” Seeing the confusion on Rhys’s face he tried again. “Guard,” he said. “I hire and train the men who ride as guards. It’s my job to decide when a shipment merits more protection than our usual single man on a run. Until lately the reputation of our marksmen kept us trouble free.” He shrugged uneasily. “We haven’t lost a payload yet, but we’ve sure had our share of trouble lately. You’ve seen some of it.” Pausing, he cocked his head to one side and took a long, studied look at Rhys. “You any good with a rifle?”
“I’ve had more experience with a pistol, but I can usually hit where I aim,” Rhys said.
Strong Bill laughed, remembering how accurate Rhys had been aiming a rock at the fleeing holdup man. “Your aim is sharp enough,” he said. “I could give you some lessons with my Winchester if you like.”
“Whether he likes it or not,” Teddy volunteered. “Anybody who’s part of the Gamble Line has to be a good shot. If we have to double up on guards we’ll need every man we’ve got.”
“Your pardon,” Rhys said, rebelling at Teddy’s assumption. Since she had decided to give some credence to his claim, she expected him to follow her orders. “I do not need instruction to shoot a rifle. While I am happy to have been of service when required, I have no intention of becoming a stage messenger.” He nodded politely to Strong Bill. “Or of tending horses.” He nodded to Bullet. “I’m sure these men are excellent at what they do and as they have managed without me in the past will not need me in the future.” He turned a steady gaze on Teddy. “I have a way to pass the time until the verification comes from London.”
Teddy jumped up. “Do you mean dealing cards or bedding chippies?”
Eyes fiery, face flushed, she looked like a cat ready to pounce. Rhys smiled at her, that maddening half smile that drove Teddy closer to the brink of fury. “Both,” he said.
Her flushed face darkened. She turned her wrath on him. “I should have known a no-count dandy wouldn’t want to throw his lot in with real men.”
With a small bow, Rhys tipped his hat to Teddy, intensifying her anger. “Well, now, if you had said ‘real women’ we might have had a point of contention.”
He felt a little ashamed at the pleasure he got setting her off, but she never spared the nettle when she spoke to him, and she was terribly pretty when her temper soared. He grinned and gazed into her fiery eyes, wondering if Teddy’s other passions would be as intense. How very interesting it could be to find out.
“I ought to wipe that grin off your face with a pitchfork!” she shouted.
Rhys saw her reaching for the instrument she had threatened to use. But Rope stepped in and stopped her. “Simmer down, Teddy,” he said. “Ain’t you got something to do anyway?”
“No!” she retorted, set for an all-out row with Rhys and backing off only when she got a good look at Rope’s face. He didn’t get that cockeyed expression often, but when he did Teddy knew better than to buck him. “Oh, all right,” she said, though not graciously. “I’ll head back to the office and check over the schedules for next week.” She spun around, giving Rhys one last look that showed the depth of her irritation. “No use wasting any more of my breath on this tinhorn,” came over her shoulder.
Strong Bill knew Rope well enough to say he also had something to do. Bullet said nothing, but rambled off through the stable and toward the corral in back.
Rope let the dust settle behind the three of them before he spoke up again. “The Gamble Line means a heap to Teddy,” he said. “How about you and me have a drink over at the Brass Bell and I’ll tell you the reasons why Teddy left off.”
“My pleasure,” Rhys said. Any help in understanding Teddy’s volatile disposition was welcome, and he wanted to see how Lucien had fared at the Brass Bell. “She has a way of giving me need of a drink.”
Rope nodded his agreement and reached into his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch and cigarette papers. He offered to roll one for Rhys but Rhys declined. “My mama used to say a rhyme about little girls bein’ made of sugar and spice and everything nice.” As he spoke he sifted tobacco into the waiting paper and, using one hand and the skill born of much practice, quickly rolled the smoke. “Teddy’s a girl that shook out with too much spice.” Pausing on the wooden sidewalk he tucked the pouch back into his pocket, pulled out a match and drew it across the rough surface of a post that held a tin top over a portion of the walk. “But she ain’t half as mean as she acts.” Walking on, he cupped his hand over the match, lit up and took a draw off the cigarette. “Well, hell, yes she is—but there’s a reason for that too.”
Intrigued, but not wanting to look half as interested as he was, Rhys merely nodded and looked down the street where the Brass Bell’s sun-faded sign hung above the front doors. Wishbone’s other saloon was as unassuming as the Diamond was pretentious. A person might walk by its unpainted front without noticing, had there not been the merry tinkle of piano music floating out the open window and doors.
Rhys wondered why Rope preferred the Brass Bell to the better-appointed Diamond as, shoulder to shoulder the two of them, a truly odd pair, continued toward it.
Rope, in his worn denim trousers and red
suspenders looped over the shoulders of his buckskin shirt, left a wisp of smoke behind as he went. He hoped, with a few drinks and a lot of honesty, that he could mend any fences Teddy had torn down. But secretly he was worried that the nattily dressed Rhys Delmar might have been insulted one time too many, and might not care why Teddy Gamble was prickly as a cactus spine. He wasn’t sure either that he wanted to know how Teddy had gotten Delmar out of that saloon girl’s room. Lord, she was a trial to a man. He reckoned if he had a dime for every time he had wanted to take her over his knee they wouldn’t have any money trouble.
At least the Frenchman didn’t act as if he’d been propositioned by anyone other than the girl. Which was a good thing. Right now all he and Teddy had to offer the man was a promise. He wasn’t sure how that would stack up against Adams’s hard cash, especially not after how Teddy had got at the Frenchman’s throat. But maybe if he got his offer in first, there might be a chance.
Rope pushed open the Brass Bell’s doors. The place smelled of sawdust and beer and cheap whiskey, but had its share of customers. A glance confirmed what Rhys had been too preoccupied with Teddy to notice the first time he’d come in. The decor was no match for the Diamond’s. The gold, flocked paper on the walls was spattered and stained where careless cowboys had sloshed beer. The worn tables, many with names carved in their scarred tops, proved that many customers left their manners at home. But the place was lively and none of the customers looked as if they wished they were somewhere else. He hoped the same was true for Lucien, who was nowhere to be seen. His valet—former valet, he reminded himself—might have felt ill at ease in a rough-and-tumble place like the Brass Bell.
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