Dance With A Gunfighter

by JoMarie Lodge

  As he waited for her to calm down, he noticed how snugly her wet shirt clung to her, the material almost transparent against her breasts. Irritation heated him--irritation that she wasn’t doing a damn thing to cover herself from the stares of the miners and cowhands. Why he would care, he had no idea. He grabbed her arm, pulling her close to shield her from the others, and realized how dangerously cognizant he was of the woman’s body against his own.

  She scowled. Water dripped onto her face from strands of her short, wet hair. He raked his fingers through it, pushing it back. As he did, her face tilted upward, her lips full and parted, but she averted her eyes, her long lashes glistening with drops of water as shadows from those lashes fell across her cheeks. A tightening, deep in his belly, sharpened.

  Her breasts rose and fell as she took heavy breaths, and he could feel her shaking with unvented anger. When she lifted her gaze to his, her eyes smoldered. His body’s reaction to hers hit as fast as the bite of a rattler.

  She put her hands against his chest and pushed him away from her. "Let me go! I’m not a child!"

  He tucked his fingertips into his pockets and sucked in his breath. Glancing again at her shirtfront, he arched an eyebrow. "So I see," he replied.

  She followed his gaze, then blanched. "Oh, hell!"

  He grinned. "Guess you are still a smart-mouth." Then he picked up her hat, plopped it on her head and draped his arm over her shoulders, pressing her against his side. "Let’s get out of here." She gave herself over to him; her eyes downcast to shut out the people who had laughed at her. She held one hand lightly against his chest, the other to his back, as he guided her to her hotel room.

  He pushed open the door. She hurried inside, away from him, stopping at the foot of her bed. She threw her hat on the mattress, her head hanging.

  His fingers closed tight against the doorjamb, watching her, wanting her, and not trusting himself to walk into her room.

  "I’m sorry, Jess." She kept her back to him, her voice choked. "Damn it all! I didn’t mean to embarrass you, or involve you in this. I’m sorry."

  "It doesn’t matter, Gabe."

  "They wouldn’t tell me anything. The marshal wouldn’t, then when I tried to ask some men in the saloon, they wouldn’t answer me. I saw their reactions when I mentioned Will Tanner, though. I’m sure they know something. Maybe even his whereabouts. But when I asked them, pleaded with them to tell me anything about where he might be, they just laughed."

  He didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly he was standing behind her. "It made me so angry," she whispered.

  "You did what you had to." His voice was husky.

  "No. I didn’t do nearly enough. Once again, I haven’t done enough."

  She faced him then, her eyes wide and innocent. That was the problem. She was innocent, and he was quite the opposite. And now, she was far too close to him.

  He walked away from her to the window and looked down to the street.

  The room fell silent.

  "I guess I’d better get this filthy water off me," she said finally, her voice unsteady.

  He nodded, not facing her as he listened to her every step, imagined her every movement as she walked about to gather up towels, soap and a change of clothes for her bath.

  He felt her gaze fall upon him, and when he looked up, her eyes were confused and questioning, yet with an openness and vulnerability that tugged at him.

  Then she turned and left the room.

  It seemed empty without her. He glanced at her saddlebags, at her comb, her hat. He stroked the smooth felt of the hat, then picked it up, holding it by the brim. It was a funny, floppy hat--youthful, like Gabe. He wondered if he had ever been so youthful. Or so innocent.

  He had been little more than a boy when he traveled west with the band of Confederate ex-soldiers who had lost everything and everyone they loved in the War. They were tough and bitter, and gave ground to no one.

  McLowry had one skill that had set him apart from the others. He was fast with a gun. As word of his ability spread, he was hired to protect men and money. He learned how to kill. Not for home, land or honor as he had during the War, but for greed and petty feuds. Disgusted by the side of men’s characters he saw then, he taught himself not to value life--not that of others, and not his own. His reputation grew until he found he had to kill for no reason other than some men wanting to see if they could best him at the draw.

  "All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword." He had learned that Bible lesson from his mother, and he’d learned from life that it was true.

  His life had been wasted, and he wasn’t proud of it. It seemed that, since the War, the only decent thing he had done was to try to help this girl. And he had stood in her hotel room and looked upon her with lust. What kind of low life was he?

  He brushed some of the street dust off her hat with his shirtsleeve and then held it up near the window to see if he had missed a spot.

  He wondered if he would be able to talk her out of her revenge. It seemed clear the law wouldn’t help her. No one would, unless he did. But if he went with her and she found those men, if she found Tanner, he’d be the one who would have to kill him...

  Could he walk away from her? She was only trying to do what was right by her family. But he knew how vengeance could ruin her life. He had seen it happen to others close to him. He couldn’t stop them, but maybe with Gabe...

  Could he do it? He remembered the face of every man he had ever killed. Every Yankee. Every gunfighter.

  And always, at the back of his consciousness, every waking moment, was the vision of a little blond-haired boy in Mesa Verde.

  Gabe didn’t deserve his kind of nightmares.

  As soon as she would let him, he’d take her home to Jackson City, to all those young men who had been too blind to see her beauty or her passion. They would see it one day. One day, if there were any justice in this life, she would be able to smile again. Not just the turning up of the corners of her lips, but a full smile from deep in her heart, filling her eyes. One day, she would have again all the joy and warmth and passion he saw at a moonlit dance on the desert so long ago. To see her smile again....

  The words his mother spoke in his dream of two nights ago came back to him. "With you, I know she’ll be safe."

  He placed Gabe’s hat in the middle of her bed and left the room.

  Chapter 7

  That evening, Gabe heard a knock on her door and opened it. McLowry’s blue eyes gazed at her with concern.

  "How about coming with me to the Gold Dragon for supper?" he asked.

  She shook her head. The laughter of the townspeople still rang in her ears.

  "It’s got good down-home cooking--sort of--served with rice, tea and even chopsticks, if you want to try them."

  "I’m not hungry, Jess."

  "You’ve got to eat, Gabe. And if you hide here in your hotel room, how do you expect to find those men you’re all fired up over?"

  She pondered his words a moment. "All right."

  Two doors past the hotel stood the Chinese restaurant run by three brothers named Ying who split their time between working in the mines and running their restaurant. The walls were painted red. On one wall, black-lacquered frames held pictures of mountains that seemed to float over clouds, and women dressed in colorful long gowns with high wooden sandals and paper parasols. The back wall was covered with a gold dragon with bulging black eyes fiercely staring down at the customers. Colorful lanterns hung from the ceiling.

  No women were in the restaurant. The men were seated on black-lacquered chairs at square black tables, each decorated with a red paper poppy in a glass. One by one, heads turned toward Gabe and stared.

  As McLowry led her to a table, a couple of cowboys snickered. McLowry half-turned their way, his face hard. A friend of the cowboys leaned toward them and whispered. Gabe watched the cowboys cast a glimpse at Jess, pale, then get up and hurry from the restaurant.

  The other customers hunch
ed so low over their rice bowls they could have counted the grains.

  McLowry held a chair out for Gabe. His gaze flickered over the other diners, as if daring them to say a word or make a move he didn’t like. The restaurant was so still not even the horseflies circled because no one dared shoo them away after they had landed.

  Gabe sat stiffly, her face aflame, while McLowry pulled out his own chair and sat. Only then did others begin to relax. Eventually, normal conversation filled the dining room.

  They ordered a platter of pork cutlets, collard greens, and biscuits with honey. Steamed rice came with the supper, as did a pot of green tea.

  The waiter poured some tea into their Chinese-style handleless cups. Gabe tried to relax, but she didn’t want McLowry fighting her fights, or intimidating people into leaving her alone. At times, though, such as when they entered the restaurant, his presence was akin to a force of nature and others, herself included, simply gave way.

  He sat now with his back to the wall, facing the door. He had left his hat on, as did other men in the restaurant. As he ate, he wasted no motion, and Gabe knew he kept aware of everything happening around him.

  His blue eyes met hers then, and she dropped her gaze to her plate, suddenly flustered as she tried to stop the warm feelings that seeped through her whenever he looked her way.

  When they finished their meal, he walked her back to her room. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

  "I am, Jess. Thank you."

  "I should tell you I asked around a bit," he said, leaning against the wall by her hotel room door in a way to readily see anyone stepping into the corridor. "Seems none of the men you’re looking for are in Tombstone. You’re wasting your time here. We should head for Jackson City in the morning."

  To return to Jackson City would be tantamount to giving up. She knew it and so did he. "You go, Jess. I want to stay awhile. I’ve got to do this my way."

  He seemed to reflect on that a moment, then apparently decided it wasn’t worth arguing over. "Guess I don’t have to leave just yet, myself." He started to turn away, but at the last minute glanced at her again. "Go inside and lock your door. I’ll see you in the morning."

  Relief coursed through her that he would stay with her a little bit longer, at least. He would leave eventually; she accepted that, expected it, in fact. This wasn’t his fight. Still, her heart beat easier as she went into her room and shut and locked the door.

  About a half-hour later she heard the door to McLowry’s room open then shut. Footsteps retreated down the hall.

  Opening her door a crack, she saw his back for just an instant before he turned to go down the stairs.

  She ran to the end of the hall, then down the stairs, not far behind him.

  Instead of following him outside, in the lobby she hurried to the big glass window and cupped her hands around her eyes, pressing her nose to the glass. She watched his easy swagger down the street to the Crystal Palace Saloon, the biggest, loudest, raunchiest cowboy bar in Tombstone.

  He stepped into the bright light that spilled over and under the swinging doors of the saloon onto the boardwalk, then pushed the doors open and stepped inside.

  She dashed into the street, heading for the saloon. She wouldn’t burst in and demand answers this time, but would see what the situation was first. With Jess beside her, she should be able to talk to some of the men, and ask about Tanner’s gang. Of course she knew what went on in those saloons besides liquor and gambling. She had only guessed in Bisbee, but she had been inside the Crystal Palace long enough that afternoon to be sure about the dancehall women and the way they flaunted themselves at the customers. Suddenly, the barkeep’s statement that she wasn’t the ‘type’ woman to be in the saloon made sense to her--and made her feel more foolish and unsophisticated than ever. No wonder they all had laughed so hard.

  That didn’t matter, though. She needed to ask her questions, to see the looks on men’s faces as they answered so that she would know if they were telling the truth or not. With Jess watching, no one would dare to laugh.

  She reached the saloon’s windows and peered inside, looking for Jess. He was standing at the bar, a drink in hand. That awful woman who had laughed at her that afternoon sauntered up to him. She put an arm around his shoulder and seemed to say something. He grinned and put his arm around her waist, pulling her close. Then, in front of God and everyone, he kissed her!

  Gabe whirled herself away from the window, her mouth gaping and she felt as if she could scarcely breath.

  She ran back to the hotel.

  As she crossed the lobby to go back to her room, she caught sight of herself in a full-length, decorative wall mirror. Her baggy brown trousers and oversized, cream-colored flannel shirt were ugly.

  Grabbing the hips of her trousers, she held them out at her sides. They were old and worn and had so much space between the seam of the material and her own body, she could have fit all three Ying brothers in there with her and still have had room left over.

  Now she knew why Jess had gotten rid of her after dinner so fast it had made her feel like day-old fish. She knew why he had hurried out for the night. He was a handsome man, and apparently wanted to surround himself with beautiful women. It made sense. What did she expect him to do, spend more time with her?

  She realized he had some regard for her, and for whatever reason seemed to feel protective of her. And at times, like that afternoon, he apparently had noticed she was a woman. A little bit, at least.

  She couldn’t let herself think about him. Not now; not ever. She ran up the stairs to her room.

  o0o

  McLowry didn’t show up for breakfast.

  Dawdling over eggs, grits and bacon, Gabe tried not to think of the possibilities of what might have kept him up so late last night that he couldn’t get up this morning.

  She drank her coffee, paid for the breakfast and headed for the one place in town she hoped she would be welcome and where there was always plenty of gossip--the livery stable.

  Dexter Livery and Feed Stables, situated as it was on Allen Street right across from the OK Corral, had men milling around it all day long. Since Gabe and McLowry had stabled their horses there, Gabe showed up with the excuse of wanting to spend a few minutes with her gray and McLowry’s sorrel. It also gave her a chance to pass some words with a few of the locals.

  She was giving Maggie a treat of sugar when, in the next stall, she noticed a chestnut that had been sadly neglected. Burrs and stickers matted its coat. She picked up a brush and began working on it. Neil Dexter, the owner of the stable, strode over to her, frowning angrily.

  "What’re you doing there, miss?" The man was huge--his arms ham shanks, his hands mallets, and his head and shoulders connected by a roll of thick muscle.

  "Just trying to help, Mr. Dexter. I see you’ve got your hands full here." Gabe knew that, as word of the silver found in the Tough Nut and Contention mines spread, men and their horses poured into Tombstone faster than the town could keep up with. This livery had twice the horses, feed and supplies it should have carried for its square footage.

  Dexter’s expression went from skepticism to relief as he watched her sure but gentle hand with the gelding. "Much obliged for the help," he said.

  "No problem. It gives me something to do while I’m waiting."

  Interest flickered in his squinty eyes. "What’re you waiting for?"

  "I want to meet up with some men. Will Tanner, Blackie Lane, Tack Cramer and Luke Murdock. I don’t know if they’re in town, though."

  His beefy lower lip jutted out. "I ain’t seen that gang around here, but I heard of ‘em. You don’t want to meet ’em, if you’re smart."

  "Will you let me know if you hear anything about their whereabouts?"

  Dexter nodded, although he looked at her as if she were crazy.

  Gabe spent the afternoon moving through the stalls, grooming and tending the horses. When she said good-bye to Dexter, he asked if she would like to come back the next d
ay. He offered her a dollar an hour.

  She gave a quick prayer of thanks. The job was a godsend. The money she would have to spend on hotels and restaurants in Tombstone while trying to find the four men was a worry. Gratefully, she accepted the job. The money would help her not only in Tombstone, but also wherever her revenge might lead.

  To her astonishment, Dexter handed her four dollars as her first day’s pay. She stared at the money in her hand, then up at the big man. She had almost forgotten, over the past weeks, how good some people could be.

  "Thank you," she whispered, and hurried out of the stable before she made a fool of herself.

  The first thing she did was to splurge on a bath and to send the clothes she had been wearing out to be laundered.

  She changed into clean clothes. When she looked down at them, though, she felt as deflated as yesterday’s balloon. Baggy gray trousers instead of brown ones, and a loose blue shirt instead of the cream-colored one, didn’t exactly make for a stupendous difference. Her clothing was comfortable and functional. Nothing more.

  The women she saw in Tombstone, let alone in Bisbee, wouldn’t wear her clothes to slop hogs. Even that awful dance hall girl who had laughed at her, had looked beautiful compared to her. Hell, even the barkeep looked beautiful compared to her.

  How vain and foolish she was being. As if clothes mattered!

  As thoughts of her family swept over her again, her breath came harsh and fast. She clasped her hands against her heart. I’m going to find their killers, and when I do, I will have my revenge.

  She sat on the bed, suddenly drained. On the bedside table was the money she had made at the stables that day, generous wages for a woman. For a man, too. More proof that Tombstone was a boomtown, and that the boom would go on for weeks or months longer.

  She wouldn’t be taking part in it, though. She would find her family’s killers, take her revenge--and then what? Would the law believe her, or care, if she told them she had killed for vengeance? For justice? For the guilt she felt whenever she thought of how she had stood by and done nothing while madmen murdered her family? And because the law had refused to do its job?