At the front steps Justine paused. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “It’ll be nice having you close—” The words had slipped out unbidden and her face flushed with color. “Nice seeing you every—Well, nice,” she finished.
And dangerous, Rhys thought.
Chapter 16
The heat of the day had settled in, that hot dry air that wavered ever a step ahead. Most about town had headed for the coolest spots they knew. Rhys had felt as if he were in a furnace as he sat at a low-stakes game in the Brass Bell, a place he’d decided was best left to Lucien. Finally the heat had gotten the best of him, and seeing that it was near the dinner hour he’d thrown in his hand and left.
He wondered if he would ever get used to the heat. He lifted the new hat he’d bought only minutes before. Running his fingers through his hair to let a little air reach his scalp, he thought about and pitied Mae Sprayberry and Justine Blalock, who worked near hot ovens all day. Even so, his mouth watered for a slice of the fresh bread he expected to find on the table at dinner.
He hadn’t yet gotten accustomed to the food he’d been served in America. His palate, he supposed, had gotten used to the rich sauces and delicacies of his native country. But American cuisine, if not as appetizing as that he preferred, was hearty and sustaining. He was beginning to grow accustomed to the flavors. And he was ready for some of it. His hunger was all the more for having passed up lunch for Teddy’s benefit.
So with the next meal uppermost in his thoughts he moved along the quiet street. He had reached a point where the walkway narrowed because of a storeroom that had been built out over part of the boardwalk. He noticed the quickening sound of footsteps behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder, assuming that anyone in such a hurry would want to pass. He never suspected that wasn’t the case. Not until another person stepped from an alley—directly into his path.
“Pardon,” he began, stopping when he saw that a kerchief obscured the lower part of the man’s face.
Realizing he was in trouble, Rhys spun back slamming his elbow into the chest of a second man who had come up behind him. That man, knocked off balance, gave an angry grunt.
“I’ll give you trouble, if that’s what you want.” Clutching his chest, the man growled out a curse, drew his gun and raised it at Rhys as if to shoot. “Now hold still!”
“Don’t shoot him!” the other man hastily shouted at his partner.
Rhys had but a moment to celebrate the second man’s cooler head. He used the moment to advantage, as he whirled away from the man with the weapon, then lunged back and drew from beneath his coat the small four-shot revolver he carried. But he was not to get off a shot. The second man had drawn, too, and with the butt of his gun clenched in his fist brought it down broadside on the back of Rhys’s head.
The blow would have split his skull except for the cushioning of the hat he wore. As it was, the impact knocked him off his feet and left him so stunned he couldn’t see clearly. He was aware of the two men standing over him. Both had kept their faces covered.
The man he had elbowed pulled the hammer back on his gun. “You’re in the wrong town, mister,” he said.
Expecting to feel a bullet rip through his flesh at any moment, Rhys was only vaguely conscious that the voice was familiar, that both of them were.
“Dammit! Don’t kill him I said!” A third voice, coming from inside the alley, from someone he could not see at all, was the one that broke through the webs in his mind and made him aware he’d met all these men before.
Struggling to get up, he tried to put faces with the voices. But he had met so many new people, and heard so many new voices lately, he couldn’t make a match. He pushed up on his knees, saw his gun in the dust a few feet away. He tried to gauge his chance of lunging for it and firing at one or more of his attackers. His fuzzy calculations fell apart when the man he had hit picked up the weapon.
“I ought to shoot him with this little palm-squeezer.” The man got a firing grip on the black pearl handle of Rhys’s derringer but instead of shooting eased it into a pocket, doubled over and groaned. “Think he cracked my rib.”
“I’ll see if I can return the favor and let him know he ain’t wanted here,” the other man said. A swift kick with the hard toe of a boot followed. Rhys groaned and clutched his rib cage. The man who had injured him laughed. “I advise you to get out of town, stranger. We don’t need no fancy gamblin’ Frenchmen in Wishbone.”
Rhys’s brain was beginning to work normally again by then. He swung out at the leg that had kicked him, catching a black boot as it swung in for a second strike. Giving a violent twist, Rhys managed to throw the attacker to the ground. Shouting, hoping to draw the attention of someone who might aid him, he flung himself on the downed man, growling a threat as he drew back a fist. Before he’d carried through on the swing, he felt himself jerked upright and then had his arms pinned behind his back. The man he’d brought down came scrambling up, cursing, his big fists flying and pummeling Rhys in the belly, striking his already bruised rib cage half a dozen times then finishing the assault with several ringing blows to his jaw.
“Enough!” the faceless voice from the alleyway pronounced as Rhys’s head slumped to his chest.
Rhys moaned. A trickle of blood ran from his lip. He sank to his knees when he was let go, and hung there a few seconds until a solidly planted boot shoved him into the ground. He lay swallowing dust, getting grit in his eyes, as hands roughly groped in his pockets. He tried lamely to defend himself and his property but had the feeling his wild blows were merely striking air.
He was still flat on his face, beneath a hitching rail on the deserted street, long after his attackers had finished with him and hurried off. Too weak to get to his feet, he rolled over on his back and eased an arm over his eyes to shade them from the burning sun. He was waiting for the pain to diminish enough that he could hoist himself up. Eventually enough strength returned for him to catch hold of the hitching rail and pull himself upright.
He wasn’t far from Sprayberry’s and he dragged himself there. Slow steps carried him through the gate and up the steps to the front door where he collapsed.
Hearing a ruckus, Mae and Justine peeked out a window and saw Mae’s newest boarder prostrate on the front porch. Knowing he hadn’t had time to get falling down drunk since he had left, Mae forgot caution and hurried out to aid him. An anguished Justine followed in her wake.
“I’m telling you, Justine, even if your father is the sheriff, this town is getting worse than Tombstone ever was. A stage robbery every week, citizens beaten senseless on the street.”
Mae was a big woman but she needed Justine’s help to haul Rhys into the house and to heave him on the bed in the room she’d let to him.
Breathing hard, Justine defended her father. “Papa does his best,” she said. “But he’s one man.”
Mae swung Rhys’s long legs up on the bed. “Get his boots off,” she ordered. “No sense having my quilt ruined too.” She gave the woebegone Justine a sympathetic look. “I know your papa does his best but—Oh! For pity’s sake, look what they’ve done to his face.” Gently lifting Rhys’s head she placed a fat feather pillow beneath it. “Get some cool water and some cloths, Justine. I’ll get his shirt off.”
As she stripped off his soiled coat and vest, Mae noted with concern the many bruises starting to darken on the man’s face. With gentle fingers she unbuttoned his shirt and eased it from his back and arms. He’d been badly beaten but was beginning to come around.
“Here’s the basin and—” Justine sucked in her breath at the sight of the shirtless Rhys Delmar. Once or twice she’d seen the rangy torso of a cowboy splashing himself clean at a water trough. But even with the bruises and scrapes, Rhys’s broad and muscled chest, with the sprinkling of dark hair, was much more impressive. She could not take her eyes off him, not until Mae spoke to her.
“Stop lollygagging and bring them over here,” she demanded. “Cool compresses ought t
o stop some of that bruising.” She grabbed the basin from Justine and placed it on the bedside table. “I swear I wish I knew who did this to such a fine young man.” Making a clucking sound, she hastily soaked a cloth, squeezed it out and laid it on his swollen cheek. “No sense in it. Nobody safe on the streets,” she mumbled as she worked.
Justine, once over her shock, joined in placing soaked cloths wherever she saw any sign of an injury. “Will he be all right?” she asked anxiously.
“Right as rain,” Mae assured her. “He’s not soft as he looks in those fancy duds of his.” Mae had seen her share of undressed men, having buried two husbands and raised three sons who got in an occasional scrape. “I’d say the worst thing that happened to him was a bump on the head.” Gingerly she ran her fingers over his skull. Almost directly centered on the back of it she found a telltale lump. “Uh-huh,” she said. “There it is. Big as a hen’s egg.”
Rhys was stirring by then, his half-closed eyes flickered and sprung open. Giving a shout, he tried to fling himself off the bed.
Mae put a hand on his chest and gently held him down. “Settle back,” she said. “Looks like you’ve had a high time of it and ought to rest now.”
Quickly taking in his surroundings and seeing no one more threatening than a pretty girl and a sensible woman, Rhys did as ordered. “A low time, madame,” he said raggedly. “And I confess I gave a poor accounting of myself.” He breathed heavily, then winced as he realized even that natural act gave pain. “I was waylaid by two men. No. Three,” he said, remembering the third who had been hidden in the alley.
“Robbed?” Justine touched him gently on the cheek that wasn’t bruised.
Rhys patted his trouser pockets, and discovered, to his dismay, that the majority of his winnings had been removed. “Yes,” he said. All he had was a few dollars that he had transferred to an inner pocket. From the feel of it that inner pocket still held a small amount of money, and Zack Gamble’s marks.
His sigh turned to a moan as Mae lifted his arm and ran her hand over his battered side. Justine reached across him to touch in the same place but Mae slapped her hand away. “No you don’t,” the older woman said, snaring the edge of a sheet and pulling it over his bare chest. “You stick to doin’ what you can for that handsome face.”
Justine’s own face turned crimson but she dutifully placed a fresh compress on his cheek.
Rhys closed his eyes. That, at least, didn’t hurt. Though everything else did, and he swore he could see stars inside his head. Damned if he wasn’t having the worst luck of his life. Money-wise he was nearly as bad off as he had been before he’d sat down to gamble in the Diamond. If he counted the injuries he’d received, which felt limitless, he was worse off. He supposed he should be grateful he’d already paid a week’s room and board, but had a feeling he’d have no appetite for tonight’s much-anticipated meal.
Someone hadn’t wanted him to get comfortable in Wishbone, someone who had been watching his movements and waiting for him when he had left Mae’s. He started trying to think who might be responsible, beginning with anyone who might know how much money he had won and want it badly enough to attack him. Somehow he couldn’t picture any of the men he’d played cards with as desperate enough to resort to robbery.
Come to think of it, the attackers hadn’t talked as if robbery was what they really had on their minds. He’d been warned to get out of town. He reflected on that warning. Why would anyone after his poker winnings want him out of town? Wouldn’t it make more sense for him to stay around and win more for them to steal?
Why, indeed, would anyone want him to leave town? Except Teddy. Damn her. Could she be behind this? He didn’t like thinking that she was, but he had to consider that she could be. And he had to find out if she was so desperate to be rid of him that she would hire thugs to drive him off.
“I have to go out.” He threw the sheet off and started to get up.
Justine gasped. Mae pushed him back down and covered him. “Not tonight, sonny,” the older woman said. “You’ve done all the gallivanting you’re going to do before tomorrow.”
Rhys conceded and slumped into the soft mattress. The way his head was spinning he wouldn’t last two minutes on his feet.
***
“That suit you, Sheriff?” Boyd Smith’s cackling laughter was the only sound in the dusty silence behind Wishbone’s jail. “That Frenchman didn’t look near so cocky as the other day when we pulled him off a stage.”
“Shut up, Boyd.” Len Blalock was sickened by what he had just participated in. Beating a man for no reason went against the grain. Adams had a reason though. He wanted the Frenchman softened up—put in an agreeable mood so the only thing he’d have on his mind was getting quick cash in his pocket and getting out of Wishbone. “You were rougher than you needed to be,” he said to Boyd.
“Rougher? Hell!” Pete coughed then winced at the tight pain in his side. Angered by his injury, he stiff-armed his brother, knocking Boyd back a step. “You never should have let him get a lick in on me.”
Boyd shoved back. “I ain’t your ma,” he said. “Look out for yourself.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Blalock said. “And get out of town. ’Bout midnight have a horse waiting behind the livery.”
Pete laughed. One short burst brought him more pain. “You expectin’ a jailbreak, Sheriff?”
Blalock’s chest swelled and his face turned red. “I’m expectin’ a horse to be tied behind that stable. What’s to become of him ain’t your business.” He turned toward the jail’s back door. “Now get out of here. And change them clothes before you come riding back into town or that Frenchman will know you by your smell.”
When they were gone he took the ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the heavy wooden door. He locked it behind him, like he always did, though this time there wasn’t much use in it.
“Pavy? You still here?”
Pavy, the deputy, was more eager than bright but he was good at tending the office and keeping the prisoners fed.
“Waiting for you, Sheriff,” the big, raw-boned Pavy replied.
“I’m here now,” Blalock said. He sifted through the papers on his desk, though he knew he’d given them a thorough going over early in the morning. “Get on home to that new wife of yours. She’ll like having her man home for supper for a change.”
“I reckon she’ll thank you for letting me have a night free.” Pavy’s wide face reddened. “Luther’s already had his meal. He shouldn’t bother you.”
“I told you I had a toothache,” Luther called out loudly from the back. “I need to see Doc Spivey.”
With a troubled look on his face, the sheriff glanced at Luther, then at Pavy. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll see to him.”
“No seein’ to do,” Pavy said flatly. “Doc Spivey’s gone up to Phoenix and ain’t nobody else in town who’ll work on anybody in the jail. He’ll have to wait ’til the doc gets back. I told him that.”
“Go on.” Blalock ushered Pavy out the door and watched from the window as the deputy’s steps took him briskly off toward his house and bride.
At his desk, Blalock sat stiffly in his chair looking around his office at the souvenirs of his job. On the wall hung a gun he’d taken off a killer he’d backed down after the man shot dead the whole Gibson family in ’70. There was a plaque the town had presented him after ten years of service. “To the esteemed Sheriff Leonard Blalock for his trustworthy—” He couldn’t read any more, not with his conscience blinding him. Not when he wasn’t “trustworthy” anymore. Not after today.
Too tense to stay seated, he got up and paced the floor. Up until today the worst he had done was look the other way. Today he’d ordered an innocent man beaten. In a few hours he would let a guilty one go free.
“This tooth is killing me, Sheriff. I need the doc,” Luther complained from his cell.
Blalock stared at him. “You can look him up in Phoenix. You won’t be around here much longer.”
; “I need a drink. Somethin’ to dull the pain.”
“Stop bellyachin’.”
Hunched on his cot, Luther shot a murderous look at the sheriff. He might have to wait a few more hours, but he wasn’t leaving Wishbone without a drink.
Chapter 17
“Bring the port, Meigs. And a glass for Mr. Seward.” Meigs cleared the remains of Sir Avery Knox’s dinner from the table in the small dining room while his master and the guest moved to the adjoining parlor, where a fire had been laid.
Knox settled into the large upholstered chair nearest the fire, a chair which, from much use, bore indentions for every round of the big man’s contour. While he waited for Meigs to return, he leaned toward the flames and rubbed his fat hands together. In spite of the fleshy padding that overeating gave him, he felt the cold more than most.
Seward drew a lighter chair near the grate and sat as well. Seward had not been invited for dinner—a circumstance which he did not mind overmuch, thinking it likely he got better at the pub down the block. He did not refuse the offer of port. Knox kept a good cellar. He would be stingy, Seward knew, pouring a miserly portion for his guest then indulging himself once he was alone.
“I’ve got news for you,” Seward said.
“Hold it a moment,” Knox responded. Meigs had returned with a tray and glasses. He placed it on a table and started to pour. “Easy with it, Meigs,” Knox ordered. “We won’t drown ourselves in it. We need clear heads.”
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