Gaffney, Patricia

by Outlaw in Paradise

  "Hey," she said, and for a few more seconds they just beamed at each other. He had on black, as usual—black denim trousers and soft leather boots, a faded black shirt of worn linen. He still had traces of dust on his pants, from rolling in the street with Ham—a spectacle she wouldn't have believed if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes. "What'd you say to Merle?" she broke off grinning at him to ask. "He looked like he swallowed a can of fishhooks."

  "Told him to deal me out of his business proposition." He leaned over and pulled the chair next to him out from under the table, offering it to her.

  "Which was?"

  "Big bucks for a little fire."

  "A little fire. Where?"

  He surveyed the room with a lazy eye. "Up that wall, maybe. Behind the bar, definitely. All that booze would make some real pretty fireworks."

  She ought not to be shocked, but she was. Wylie hated her enough to do almost anything—she'd known that for months. She'd known it since the day, in his saloon, when she'd pulled out her gun and told him to keep away from her or she'd plug him. A stupid move, in retrospect, but it was his fault. He'd provoked her.

  "Well," she said, feeling a little weak. "I guess I should thank you."

  "Sit down, why don't you?" He gestured again at the chair, and this time she came around it and sat. "Want a drink?"

  "You've got on your eyepatch again," she observed.

  He touched it with his fingertips, as if he'd forgotten it. "I can take it off now." He did so, whipping off his hat first, then the leather strap that tied in a knot in back. Immediately he covered up his exposed right eye with his cupped palm. "Always smarts for a little while at first." After a few seconds he took his hand away, blinking rapidly, squinting. "I still don't see too well. But it's a whole lot better than nothing."

  It ought not to make such a difference—his right eye looked just like his left eye; she wasn't seeing anything she hadn't seen before. But she had the same reaction to him now as she'd had on the street this afternoon, when she'd first seen him without the patch. He was gorgeous.

  "I thought you'd have a scar," she said inanely. "I do. Can't you see it?"

  "I'm a little nearsighted." But even when she leaned close, even when her head was no more than seven inches from his, she couldn't see any scar. Just a beautiful, slightly slanted gray eye surrounded by long black lashes, and a straight, sleek, very masculine eyebrow cocked over it.

  "It's faded a lot over the years. But I can still make it out. It's right here." He ran his finger along the bone of his eye socket.

  She still couldn't see anything. "You're more sensitive to it," she guessed, and he said that was probably right.

  "Care for a drink?" he asked again, signaling to Levi, who was shaking his head at something Doc Mobius was telling him at the bar.

  "Anything wrong?" she asked him when he came over, drying his hands on his apron.

  "Yeah, real bad news, Cady. Doc jus' tol' me that Mr. Forrest Sullivan done shot hisself to death."

  "No. Oh, no."

  "Maybe a accident, but maybe not—Doc ain't sayin'. Happen in Mr. Sullivan's barn; oldes' chile found him there this afternoon."

  "Oh, Levi. Oh, my God, all those children." And Mrs. Sullivan, who nodded to Cady in church sometimes. Whatever would they do now?

  "Want another drink, Mr. Gault?" Levi asked somberly.

  "Yeah. Thanks. Cady, you want something?" The way he said it, soft and gentle, felt like a light touch on her hand or her shoulder.

  "No. Yes." Such indecision. "Levi," she said boldly, "I'll have a beer."

  "Make it two."

  Levi grunted and turned away.

  "Forrest Sullivan," Jesse mused after a minute. "Isn't he the one... didn't you tell me the bank foreclosed on his sheep ranch?"

  "Yes. Now Merle will get it. It's what he's been wanting. Damn him." She could've said a lot worse. But she already had, and Jesse had heard her. She felt a little embarrassed about that. Merle Wylie had a way of bringing out the worst in her. "I liked Forrest," she said quietly. "He didn't come here often— didn't drink much, and I don't ever remember seeing him gamble. But he didn't care if other people did, you know? Even though he didn't frequent saloons himself, he didn't call them dens of iniquity. He didn't judge." Jesse nodded. "Mrs. Sullivan's like that, too. I wish there was something I could do. But... I don't really know her." Louise Sullivan sang in the church choir, taught Sunday school, served on the Town Ladies Committee. She was respectable. She might nod to Cady every once in a while, but that didn't mean she'd welcome her sympathies. Definitely not in a visit. Maybe not even in a note.

  She sighed. "If he did shoot himself on purpose, it's Wylie's fault, just as if he'd pulled the trigger."

  Jesse said nothing, but his silence seemed sympathetic to her. When Levi brought their drinks, Jesse clinked his glass to hers, making her smile at him. The strong, yeasty beer tasted good and went down easy. Surprisingly easy, considering how long it had been since she'd drunk one. Not since last summer, as she recalled.

  "What do you know about Dr. Mobius?" Jesse asked.

  "Doc? Not much, I guess. Why?"

  "Just curious. He never talks."

  "No. He came here about two years ago, I think. Anyway, right after I came. Before that, there wasn't a doctor; if you got sick, you had to go to Jacksonville." She glanced over at the bar, where the doctor stood in his usual spot, hunched over his usual sarsaparilla. "It's true he keeps to himself, but I think he's a nice man. Mr. Shlegel—that's the man who owned this bar before me—he saw him a few times. But he was really sick, and Doc sent him to a specialist in Eugene. I know Glen went to him once for... something." Black eyes and a broken wrist. "She said he was kind to her."

  "You never went to him?"

  "Me? Oh, no. I'm never sick." It was true, and she was proud of it. She gave the wooden table a humorous rap with her knuckles, though. Just in case.

  He sipped his beer and she sipped hers, and they watched each other in a companionable silence. A house deck lay on the table. Jesse picked it up and began shuffling the cards. He had strong hands, not a gambler's hands, but long-fingered and smart. She watched him set the cards down in four identical piles, then scoop them up again, over and over.

  "High-low?" he offered, smiling at her, and she shrugged. Why not? Reaching, she turned over a ten; he beat her with a queen. "You lose."

  "What are we playing for?"

  He pulled on the side of his mustache, thinking it over. They were both smiling slight, secret smiles. We're flirting, Cady realized. "Let's play," he suggested, "the winner gets to ask the loser a question, and she has to answer it."

  "Or he."

  "Or he."

  "I'm not sure I like this game," she said. "Does the loser have to tell the truth?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Then I definitely don't like this game."

  "Too bad—you already lost. Here's your question." Glancing around first, he leaned toward her, snaring her with a steely, narrow-eyed, intense stare. "What," he said very slowly, very quietly, "is your favorite color?"

  She was so surprised, she gave out a loud, unladylike bray of laughter. When he grinned, two deep creases appeared on either side of his mouth—manly dimples. She was growing very fond of them. "My favorite color," she mulled. "It used to be blue, but now it's green."

  "Is that right? Mine, too. Except mine's always been green."

  She batted her eyes at him. "We have something in common."

  He passed the deck over; she cut again, lost again. "How old are you?"

  "Now, that's rude, you can't ask a lady that question."

  "No? Okay. How much do you weigh?"

  She laughed again, giddy and lighthearted. Was it the beer? Everything he said was funny. "I have no idea."

  "Well, I get to keep asking till you answer one." He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. "What's the most embarrassing thing you ever did?"

  Disarmed again, she dissolved into giggles. She'd bee
n sure he would ask her real questions, hard ones requiring lies or distractions for answers. Of course she was attracted to him, no sense denying that, but now he was making her like him, too. For her own good, she hoped he never found out that funny, silly Jesse was a hundred times more dangerous than humorless, flinty-eyed Gault.

  "Give me that deck," she said, "I think you're cheating." She reshuffled the cards, and they cut again. "Ha. I knew it—I win."

  He shook his head, chuckling at her. "What's your question?"

  She had a million. "When and where were you born, and were you happy growing up?"

  "That's three."

  She lifted her eyebrows in a dare.

  He stroked his eyebrow thoughtfully. "Lexington, Kentucky, 1846. Yeah, I was happy. Usually. Till the war came."

  She stared at him, chin in her hand. 'Forty-six? That made him thirty-eight years old. He sure didn't look it, not at all. She thought he looked about her age: twenty-five. Twenty-seven or -eight at the most. The gray in his hair... she'd always thought it was premature, but maybe it wasn't. She liked it anyway. Pewter-colored. It was beautiful in the lamplight, that contrast of dark and light, black and silver.

  They cut again, and this time he won. "How do you like the saloon business? Does it suit you?"

  What a nice question. Except for Levi, she didn't have anybody to talk to about things like that. "Yes. And no." The interest in his face encouraged her to explain. "The thing about owning a saloon is, you have to think like a man. You might like flowers on the bar or curtains on the windows, different pictures on the walls." She flicked a glance at the naked lady oil painting over the bar. "But you can't act on any of those changes because your customers wouldn't like them. They'd hate them. So instead you have to think about spittoons and pool tables, whiskey brands and poker chips. Ash cans."

  "Think like a man."

  "Yeah. I like the business side, though. The recordkeeping, the carefulness you have to exercise. And especially," she confided with a grin, "the way the profits edge up a little bit every month when you've been smart and clever and done everything just right."

  "I'll bet."

  "It's just the saloon part I get tired of once in a while. Not that I'm complaining. But it's a man's business, the day-to-day part, and I'm always..." She didn't know how to say it. She felt as if she was constantly having to push her femininity aside, bury it, to get the job done.

  "You're always a woman."

  "Well. Yes." For some dumb reason, she blushed.

  "Want another beer?"

  "Okay. But just one more," she warned, meaning it.

  The Rogue had nearly emptied out. The handful of drinkers who were left glanced over at her and Jesse from time to time, interested, speculating. By tomorrow everybody in Paradise would know she'd spent the whole night laughing and drinking beer with the gunfighter.

  "Cut the cards," Jesse said. She turned over a five and groaned, then clapped her hands when he drew a four.

  "Tell me about your childhood."

  He sent her a crooked smile. "How come you're so interested?"

  "I just am. Do you have any brothers and sisters?"

  "No." He hesitated. Without looking at her he said, "I had a cousin, though."

  "Were you close?"

  "Yeah." Suddenly he grinned, a little mysteriously, she thought. "Real close."

  "Tell me about him. Or her?"

  "Him."

  "What was his name?"

  "Marion. Marion Gault."

  "Younger or older?"

  "Younger. Nine years younger."

  "Are you like him?"

  He smiled again. "Nope. Marion and I, we're pretty much opposites. He's... never amounted to much, to tell you the truth. When we were little he always looked up to me, tagged along after me. Thought the sun rose on my head—you know how kids are. When we all went off to war—me and my father and his father—he stayed home and tried to keep the farm going. A horse farm; they raised thoroughbreds and racers. But he couldn't do it. His daddy died at Vicksburg, and then his mama took sick and died the year after that. By the time the war ended, one army or the other had taken all the horses, and there wasn't any money to get more."

  "What did he do?"

  "Headed west. Worked odd jobs. He didn't really know what to do with himself. He was kind of... aimless."

  His quiet mood puzzled her. "Did you try to help him?" She looked down. "Sorry. This isn't any of my business."

  "I had my own life. And I was on the run from the law in Kentucky by then because—well, I expect you read about that in the paper."

  That reminded her. "Are they still after you?"

  "No, no. It happened fifteen years ago, the statute's run out. Anyway—Marion and I, we've run across each other a time or two since then. Matter of fact, I saw him not that long ago." Again he smiled the mysterious smile. "In Oakland."

  "That's where you got shot," she remembered.

  He took a sip of beer. "But this was before. My cousin was working a job busting mustangs for some rich rancher in Sonoma."

  "Well," she said uncertainly. "At least he's found work with horses."

  Jesse laughed without humor. "He hates it. Breaking horses, he can't stand that. Plus working for somebody else..." He shook his head. "It makes him crazy."

  A pause.

  "Enough," he said abruptly, shuffling the cards, coming out of his mood. "You got a hell of a lot out of me for one piddling four of clubs. Cut."

  She lost.

  His slow, devilish grin made her stomach flutter. "Miss McGill."

  "What."

  "How'd you get that tattoo?"

  She tried to stare him down. His eyes were twinkling; hers probably were, too. "What tattoo?" What got into her? She wanted him to drop his eyes, look at her there.

  He did.

  "That one," he said softly.

  She tore her gaze away to look down innocently. In this dress, she knew it was invisible unless she leaned over. "How do you know I've got a tattoo?"

  He blew air through his nose. "I've seen it. You might say I've studied on it. What is it, some kind of bird?"

  "An eagle," she answered, taking a slow, deep breath. For his benefit. Good grief, she hadn't flirted like this with a man since—she couldn't remember when. Even with Jamie O'Doole, she'd never been this brazen. "It's a symbol of freedom. I wear it in honor of someone... someone I used to know."

  "Who?"

  "His name was James. James Doulé. He's dead now." She dropped her gaze into the depths of her beer. Contemplated the foam sadly.

  "Sorry to hear that."

  She lifted her head, tossed it bravely. "He was a mercenary soldier, an American. He fought with Garibaldi in the Red Shirt army. But then... he was shot and killed in the struggle to liberate Naples. I wear this"—she brushed her bodice with her fingertips—"in his memory."

  She waited a few mournful moments before looking up. Jesse was scowling into his own beer. He looked... he looked annoyed. She scoffed at the thought that her story had made him jealous—ridiculous; a few days ago he thought she was a prostitute, and that hadn't bothered him one bit. Still. Jealous? Why, what an intriguing idea.

  "It's late," she noticed.

  "Yeah." He looked up, and when he smiled at her her heart flipped over. "Only time for one more question." He turned the deck over to the ace of spades on the bottom. "Well, will you look at that."

  "You did that. You put it there."

  "Can't prove it."

  She sat back with a show of resignation. "Okay, hit me."

  "Tell me why you were so mad at me. You know. That day in your room."

  "I wasn't mad," she denied automatically.

  "Yes, you were."

  "No, I wasn't."

  "Yes, you were."

  "No, I wasn't."

  "Okay." He rested his forearms on the table and leaned in, hunching his shoulders. "I'm sorry for saying what I did, Cady. Thinking what I thought."

  "Really,
it doesn't matter in the least."

  "Matters to me. I got the wrong idea, and I want you to know it wasn't because of anything you did. Or said, or—looked like. It was just me being stupid."

  She stared into his gray eyes and felt herself falling, falling. Here they were in a saloon knocking back beers, she in a shameless hussy dress she could barely sit down in because the hips were so tight— and he thought mistaking her for a whore was all his fault. She'd've laughed if she hadn't felt a little more like crying.

  She didn't do either one, of course. "I told you, you don't need to apologize. It's not the first time somebody's... made a mistake about me. Probably won't be the last. But... thank you for saying that. It means a lot."

  The bar was empty; even Chico had gone home. Levi was blowing out the lanterns.

  "I'll walk you around to your back door," Jesse said. "To say good night."

  To kiss her good night—that's what he meant. She tried to think, but her mind went blank. She allowed a little pause, so he would at least think she was thinking. "Well... all right."

  Levi just said good night to them, didn't stare or look knowing or make a crack. That was just one of the things she loved about him—his live-and-let-live attitude.

  Outside, the half-moon floated behind cloud wisps, hazing the blue-black sky. Somewhere far off an owl hooted; down at the end of Noble Fir, Stony Dern's dog wouldn't stop barking. Cady and Jesse didn't make small talk as they walked around the corner. Their steps sounded too loud on the board sidewalk; She was glad when they came to the worn grass path through the blueblossom bushes that led around to her back door.

  Boo appeared out of nowhere. Ignoring Jesse, he arched his back and rubbed against Cady's skirt. "Who's this?" asked Jesse.

  She bent down to stroke Boo's head. "My worthless excuse for a cat." She opened the door, and he scurried inside.

  "You ought to keep this locked, Cady."

  "I know, I've meant to. I forgot this time."