As he descended the stairs slowly, he cursed his overindulgence. If he lived through this hangover, he would never touch a drop of whiskey again. Each torturous step he took meted out his just punishment.
He sincerely hoped the wolf wasn’t about this morning. And he didn’t think he could face the tittering Doughs either, sweet as they were. When he reached the kitchen, he found Pilar standing at the sink, elbow deep in the breakfast dishes. “Morning,” he croaked.
“Buenos dias, Senor Diamond.” She turned, wiping her hands on her apron. “Madre Dios! Your eyes are red. They look terrible.”
“You should see them from this side,” he groaned, sounding as though he had been guzzling gravel.
He took a seat across from a middle-aged gentleman. As far as he remembered, the man wasn’t one of Pilar’s regulars. But the disapproving way he was regarding Heath’s bloodshot eyes didn’t sit well. If he had been able to summon the energy, he would have glared in the man’s direction. As it was, he shot him a bleary grimace.
“You’ll feel better after you eat.” Pilar patted Heath’s shoulder as she placed a dish of tortillas and beans before him.
Swallowing, he pushed the plate away. “Just coffee. My stomach’s a little chancy this morning.”
Pilar nodded understanding. The man glaring at Heath cleared his throat forcefully. Pilar spoke softly, mindful of Heath’s headache. “Where are my manners? Senor Diamond, this is the Reverend Jenkins Black. Pastor of the community church.”
Heath raised his gaze to the reverend. Black was a tall man with a bulbous red nose and a face creased with deep wrinkles. He wore a coal-black suit and tie, blinding white shirt, and god-awful yellow waistcoat—the same color as Sweetums’s eyes. His graying hair, slicked back with macassar oil, hung long, dripping onto his collar. Heath disliked and distrusted the man on sight.
“Senora Pilar tells me you’re a gambler.”
Heath nodded.
The reverend didn’t bother to hide his disapproval. He screwed his face up as if he smelled something vile. “Will you be here on the Sabbath, Mr. Diamond? I have a very strong sermon against the evils of gambling.”
Heath made no comment. He pressed his temples between his thumb and middle finger. Just what he needed, a Bible thumper. And he thought yesterday was bad. . . .
Black was insulted by Heath’s refusal to answer a direct question. He went on the offensive. “I was just informing Senora Pilar about your violent activity outside the Silver Dollar last night.”
Heath contemplated the steam rising off his coffee, paying the pious old bird no mind.
“And the fact that you have somewhat of a reputation. You did, I believe, kill Barnes Elder.” Black paused for Heath’s reaction to his accusation.
Still, Heath remained silent.
Pilar flashed Heath an apologetic look. He smiled slightly.
Stevie Johns stood just out of sight, listening to Reverend Black’s harangue with mounting interest. It occurred to her that she was turning into a regular snoop. Oh, well, half-breed spinsters get their pleasures how they may. She shrugged the uncomfortable thought away, listening more closely.
“Violence is not the answer to all of life’s difficulties, young man. Sometimes we feel we should take the law into our own hands and strike back against men like Judge Jack. But we must remember, vengeance belongeth to the Lord.”
Black crossed his arms over his chest.
As he sipped his coffee, Heath imagined tucking a lily into Black’s folded arms, knocking him on his tail, dumping him into a coffin. . . .
The reverend’s face grew mottled at Heath’s lack of verbal response. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Years ago, when my wife was taken from me, God rest her soul, I felt an urge to punish the men who killed her. Through prayer and fasting I humbled myself before God and was able to forgive my adversaries. Someday the Lord will punish them for what they did. But that will be His doing, not mine.”
Heath rose and sauntered over to the stove, pouring himself a refill.
Pilar threw a glance in his direction, then bounced it back to the preacher. In the doorway Stevie bit back a chuckle.
The reverend puffed up with righteous indignation. As if a string from the ceiling were attached to the top of his head, he rose straight up, anger emanating from his rigid body. He pointed an accusing finger at Heath. “You, young man, are a violent, hungover reprobate!”
Slowly, Heath turned. His face carefully blank, his body deceptively relaxed, he responded in a low voice, “You, Reverend Black, are right.”
Preacher Black gasped, then with as much dignity as he could muster, the irate clergyman quit the room.
Heath and Pilar’s chuckles followed him out the door.
“Where is he?”
Pilar grabbed her throat. “Stevie, you scared me out of ten years of my life.”
Leaning against the pie safe in Pilar’s dining room, Stevie looked like she had spent a month on the trail. Her braids were half unraveled, her plaid shirt wrinkled as a dog’s tail, her wide, intelligent eyes were dulled, evincing her lack of sleep and worry for her father’s health. Winter clutched her shirttail in a brown fist, Sweetums stood licking the child’s dusty, bare feet.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“The dude.”
“If you mean Senor Diamond, he’s up in his room.”
“Sleepin’ it off,” she muttered. Dropping her gaze to her son, her tone gentled. “Winter, would you take Sweetums outside to play?”
The child nodded and ran from the room. The wolf nipped at his heels.
Stevie pivoted and headed purposefully toward the staircase.
Pilar raced behind her, catching her by the elbow on the second step from the bottom. “What are you up to?”
“I’m gonna hire me a gunman.”
It took Pilar a moment to catch on to what Stevie intended, another moment for the shock to subside. “Senor Diamond?”
“Do you know any other gunslicks in town? Who aren’t on the judge’s payroll, that is?”
“He isn’t a gunman. And you couldn’t hire him if he were. Sandy would lock you in the corn crib for even suggesting such an irresponsible, not to mention illegal thing as hiring a man to commit murder for you.”
“Well, Pa isn’t exactly in a position to argue with me,” Stevie said dryly. “And we both know that Judge Jack put him in that condition.”
Pilar raised an imperious brow. “Are you sure, Stevie? Yesterday you accused Senor Diamond of shooting Sandy.”
Stevie winced. She had been wrong about the gambler, she allowed. But she wasn’t wrong about Judge Jack.
When she said as much to Pilar, the older woman pulled her into the parlor. Seating her on the brushed velvet settee fronting the fireplace, she tried to reason with Stevie. “It would be all right to ask Senor Diamond to look into your problems. But not to do murder.”
“It wouldn’t be murder.”
“I won’t debate that with you.”
Sighing heavily, Stevie conceded. “All right. You think he’ll check around if I ask him?” She fingered the locket around her neck. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”
It always amazed Pilar how naive Stevie was, how unaware she was of her effect on men. She simply had no idea how lovely she was. Once when Pilar had tried to point this out to her, she said that most white men wanted only her body, that they thought she was just another Indian slut.
Pilar knew nothing could be further from the truth. There were many men in Adobe Wells—young, handsome, up-and-coming ranchers—who would have been proud to call Stevie their wife. But Stevie wouldn’t believe it. She had a blind spot where white men were concerned. And the tragedy of it all was that it might well rob her of any future happiness.
A surge of motherly love washed over Pilar. She reached over and gently wiped a smudge of dirt off Stevie’s cheek. Cradling her chin, sh
e said softy, “I think if you comb your hair and wash your face, you can persuade him.” She smiled, mischief twinkling in eyes as dark and lovely as Stevie’s. “If you put on a dress, you could probably convince him to do just about anything.”
“Not you too?” Stevie scoffed. “I don’t even own a dress, as you well know.” She paused, frowning. “S’pose I could wash my face though.”
“Well, don’t get carried away.” Pilar teased, patting Stevie’s cheek. “We wouldn’t want him to think you’re running after him.”
Ten
Stevie decided to have money in hand, just in case Pilar was wrong and Lucky Diamond’s gun was for hire.
The sun was high overhead as she pushed through the door to the Adobe Wells Bank, where her pa kept his rapidly dwindling bank account. Having helped Sandy with his bookkeeping, she knew they had five hundred thirty-two dollars and seventy-three cents in their account. Five hundred, her father insisted, was for her dowry. The remaining thirty-two dollars and seventy-three cents was earmarked for running the Rocking J.
If Stevie had a nickel for every time she told Sandy she wouldn’t need a dowry, they would own the Adobe Wells Bank. But her pa was as stubborn as his daughter. No matter what she said to the contrary or how many times she said it—he insisted the five hundred dollars belonged to her.
Well, today she would avail herself of it. Lifting her head high, she strode past the gawking patrons, stepped up to a teller’s cage, slapped her short black gloves against her palm to gain the fastidious banker’s attention, and informed him that she wished to withdraw five hundred dollars from her father’s account.
“I’m sorry, Miss Johns. But I must have your father’s authorization to release such a large sum.”
“Somebody bushwhacked my pa yesterday. And he ain’t in much shape to be authorizin’ nothin’. I’m the head of the Rocking J now. And I need five hundred dollars.” She took a small step backward, placing her hand on the gun riding her slim hips for emphasis.
The teller gulped, reddened, but held his ground. “I’m sorry, Miss Johns. But I cannot release the funds.”
A peg-legged rowdy leaning in the corner had been watching the transaction with interest. He hobbled up to the cage,.palmed his gun, shoved it against the teller’s left nostril, and growled, “Give the little lady her money.”
“Whatever you say,” was the banker’s nasal reply. With trembling hands he counted out five hundred dollars. Instead of handing the money to Stevie, however, he thrust it at her unlikely knight in dusty buckskins.
Leathering his gun, he accepted the funds on Stevie’s behalf, presented it to her with a flourish, and bowed at the waist.
“Thanks, mister,” Stevie murmured. She squared her slender shoulders and addressed the teller again. “Please deduct that amount from my father’s account.”
“Yes, Miss Johns.”
The sound of a booted foot, alternating with the dull thud of a wooden peg, faded away. Stevie stuffed her money into a beaded bag and rushed outside. But Peg-Leg Smith had disappeared.
Pilar led Heath into the kitchen, where Stevie awaited him. Even though the weight of the money in her reticule was reassuring, Stevie was as nervous as a cat. Just being in the same room with the gambler unnerved her.
At first she refused to look at him. When she did, she wished that she hadn’t. The word that came to mind was beautiful. But how could a man so masculine, so physically overpowering, be beautiful? If Preacher Black could be believed, Lucky Diamond was a violent man—a man who ate innocents like her for breakfast.
“Senor Diamond. . .” Pilar began. “You remember Señorita Stephanie Johns.” She widened her eyes in mock innocence.
Heath smiled down at Stevie. She just stood there, looking up at him, resembling a wide-eyed, frozen goddess. He reached for the small bare hand fisted at her side. He pulled it forward, pumped it up and down as one would work a reluctant well handle.
He couldn’t bring himself to release her immediately. He cradled her hand in both his own. Dropping his gaze, he noticed that her delicate skin was as golden brown as his own. But hers was satiny smooth, not callused like his.
She curled her fingers, making their contact more intimate. He was mesmerized, his eyes riveted to the small hand he held.
She was inherently dark, due to her Indian ancestry. How could he have failed to detect her Comanche heritage at their first meeting? Easily. She was so lovely, she befuddled a man’s mind. Her distinctly Indian features softened by her platinum hair made her quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He wondered then if she craved a pale alabaster complexion like other women of his acquaintance. It would be a sacrilege if she did. The striking contrast of her caramel-colored flesh with that gorgeous hair of hers—as light and shiny as the silk of ripe corn—was breathtaking. It did things to a man’s insides that didn’t bear revealing, things that were physically hard to hide.
His expression didn’t betray his lusty thoughts as he mentally shook himself and bowed formally over her outstretched hand, acting the perfect gentleman. When he smoothed her fist and kissed her palm lightly, he was gratified by her sharp intake of breath.
Straightening, he released her. He produced a bowie knife and presented it to her with mocking gallantry. “I believe this is yours.” He elevated a single ebony brow.
Stevie tried not to groan. She had forgotten about the knife. If she wanted this man’s help, she had to get control of the womanly urges his nearness provoked to have the presence of mind to succeed.
She would also have to forget that he had dumped her into a tub of cold water. Actually, she didn’t blame him for that. She had accused him of murder. And that only after she had taken three shots at him and thrown a knife at a very valuable area on his person. If she wanted his help, she had some fence-mending to do, a powerful lot of fence-mending.
“I want to apologize for the reception I gave you yesterday at Mustang Mesa. I thought you were one of Judge Jack’s gunmen.”
He looked deep into her eyes and saw nothing but sincerity. She looked so incredibly innocent. But her pale hair was hanging loose, streaming down her back in seductive disarray. Incongruous with the sensuous image she presented, her face glowed as if she had scrubbed it for hours, giving her the clean, wholesome look of a child fresh from her Saturday night bath. He felt an uncomfortable—actually unprecedented—stirring around the region of his heart. It scared the hell out of him. His manner grew distant. “And I apologize for my ungentlemanly behavior . . . in the saloon and later.”
Stevie cast a quick look in Pilar’s direction. She didn’t want the woman who was like a mother to her to know that she had gone after the judge in his own saloon. And for reasons she couldn’t name, she didn’t want her to know that Lucky had dumped her into a tub of water, like an overflowing basket of last week’s dirty laundry.
“Let’s put the past in the past.” She tried for a sincere smile. “Since there was no harm done to either of us.”
“Certainly. It’s forgotten.” He placed his hand beneath her elbow and led her over to the kitchen table.
A frission of heat skittered up her arm from his touch. A bit unsteady, Stevie allowed Heath to seat her. She clutched the old reticule that contained five hundred dollars in her lap.
Pilar poured coffee and joined Stevie and Heath at the table. Both women faced Heath, who sat silently across from them. Surreptitiously, Pilar nudged Stevie in the ribs.
When Stevie raised her head and looked him full in the face, the thought that at the ripe old age of twenty she was ready to become a woman crossed her mind. And Lucky Diamond, the handsome devil, could be the man to make her a woman. Silence reined in the kitchen. In Stevie’s mind, two words rang out. His woman.
“Senora Manchez said you wished to speak with me,” he prodded, uncomfortable at the look she was giving him.
She spoke in a rush, trying to hide her intense feelings. “Yes. I wanted to apologize for runni
ng out on you last night. I know I said I would meet you in the parlor, but I was worried about my pa. Eager to get back to Sully’s, I forgot. It really wasn’t intentional. I mean I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings or anything.”
Heath raised his hands. “Whoa.” He chuckled indulgently, deciding she was a poor liar, but cute when she was flustered. “Apology accepted.”
Silence reigned again. Still uncomfortable, Stevie grasped the first thought that came to mind. “I was amazed at how well you handled yourself yesterday when you sidestepped my knife.” Her cheeks flamed. “And I’m truly glad you did.”
He looked skeptical.
“Honest, Mr. Diamond. I didn’t really want to hurt you. I just lose my temper sometimes. And I do things that I regret later.” She shrugged, uncertain why she was being so candid with him.
Heath quelled the urge to grin at her formal tone. After rolling around on the ground with him last night, the least she could do was call him by his first name. “Please call me Lucky.”
“If you’ll call me Stevie,” she felt obligated to say.
“I’d prefer Steph.” He smiled broadly. “I can’t imagine calling such a pretty lady by a boy’s name.”
Pilar watched as Stevie and Lucky engaged in small talk. To say that Lucky turned on the charm would be incorrect. He didn’t have to turn it on; he was charm incarnate. Yet, she noticed, he held a part of himself aloof.
Even at half power he was overwhelming, if Stevie’s unease was any indication. Pilar sympathized with the girl; to withstand a man like Lucky would be slightly more difficult than keeping the tide from coming in.
“I overheard Preacher Black mention that you bested two of the judge’s men. And that you killed Barnes Elder,” Stevie blurted out, gaining Pilar’s attention.
He shrugged dismissively. “I wouldn’t make too much of idle gossip.”
She smiled genuinely for the first time since he’d entered the room. “I bet Judge Jack’s mad as hell. What I don’t understand is how you got away with it.” She wrinkled her brow, truly perplexed. “If anybody else had done it, he’d have been given a necktie party by now.”
Velvet Thunder Page 8