by Sharon Sala
An odd sensation of dread settled in the pit of her stomach as he rambled through his monologue, with a reason for calling that she didn’t believe. He was still talking when she walked out the door, locking it behind her. As she drove away, she had the strangest sensation of having made an escape, then told herself she was being silly. Griff wasn’t the man she should be worrying about. He wasn’t the one who’d been showing up in all the wrong places.
After a long, enjoyable day in Broken Bow, Rachel entered the city limits of Razor Bend. It was fifteen minutes to four, and school was letting out. A line of yellow buses was at a stoplight, waiting for it to turn green, while teenagers barely old enough to drive were cruising the streets in their cars, honking and waving as if they hadn’t seen one another in weeks, when they’d just spent the day together in class.
She turned off the main thoroughfare and pulled up to the self-serve pump outside Jimmy’s Place. He sold diesel and gas and the greasiest made-to-order burgers in town. Saturday nights, when the town all but died, Jimmy’s Place was usually packed. The draw? A well-worn pool table in a small back room, four video games, of which only three worked, and the only place in town that fixed flats. She didn’t need a flat fixed, but she could use a tank of gas. It was the perfect excuse to get off the streets until the worst of the traffic had passed.
Rachel put her car in park and killed the engine, then glanced over her shoulder to the sacks of groceries sitting in the back seat. There was nothing inside that warranted refrigeration, so they should be fine. Shopping in Broken Bow had netted her more than a week’s worth of groceries, plus a couple of rental movies she’d been wanting to see. She got out with a smile on her lips, thinking about solitude, popcorn and Patrick Swayze in drag as she unscrewed the gas cap and set it aside.
But when she turned toward the pump, she stifled a gasp. A weasel of a man with a brown, shaggy beard was blocking her path. He grinned, then winked, adding a slow, appreciative whistle to the leer he was wearing.
“Well, hello, now...” Snake said.
His audacity took Rachel by surprise, and then, to her dismay, she realized where she’d seen him before. He was one of the trio of men who’d ogled her and Griff from the street in front of the Adam’s Rib Café.
She refused to be bullied. She would not be afraid. She lifted her chin, her eyes glittering with anger as she waited for him to give way.
“Excuse me, but you’re in my way.”
Snake Martin grinned. “Now...there ain’t no need to be actin’ that way. I see you’re needin’ you some gas. How ‘bout lettin’ old Snake do that for you, honey? You don’t want to be gettin’ your pretty self all dirty doin’ man’s work, do you?”
Her stare was unwavering, and her words were cool and clipped. “I don’t need any help,” she said, and tried to step around him to get to the pump.
But Snake wasn’t through playing. He moved with her, once again positioning himself between her and the gas. When he saw her pupils widen, he took advantage of her panic and grabbed her by the arm.
The contact was so sudden, so abhorrent, that Rachel, panicked and tried to yank herself free.
“Let me go!” she cried.
But Snake still wasn’t done. He knew who she was. He made it his business to know things about beautiful women. He also knew she was no longer anyone’s property. The way he heard it, the banker had himself another girlfriend, which, to Snake’s way of thinking, made this one free game. “Now, now, you need to take it easy, sugar,” Snake whispered.
“A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be alone. You need a man... a man like me. I’d take real good care of—Ouch! Ow ... ow...Damn it, Boone, let me go.”
Rachel jerked, then looked over her shoulder to the man who’d come up behind her...and to the rage on his face.
Now she was afraid.
Boone’s hand tightened around Snake’s bony wrist until he was forced to turn Rachel loose.
“What the hell are you doing?” Boone asked, and if Snake had had the good sense he’d been born with, he would have known to be scared.
“Mind your own damned business,” Snake said, then doubled up his free fist and took a wild swing.
Boone didn’t bother to duck. At the moment of Snake’s swing, he turned him loose and stepped aside. With nothing to check the forward momentum of his own body, Snake fell to the ground.
But when he would have come up fighting, he found himself on the underside of a very large boot, staring up into the face of a cold, angry man.
“Keeping you out of jail is my business,” Boone said softly.
Snake winced. That boot on his neck was beginning to hurt.
“Damn you, Boone. I wasn’t hurtin’ her none. Was I, lady?”
Both pairs of eyes turned to Rachel, one begging to be absolved of an intended sin, the other pinning her in place with a cold, dark stare. She had half a mind to get in her car and drive away, leaving the two toughs to fight it out on their own, but she feared her exit would be less than effective. With a gas gauge on empty and nowhere to go, she struggled to find an answer that would put an end to the entire fiasco.
A gust of warm air whipped a wayward strand of hair toward her face, bringing with it the scent of old grease from the french fries Jimmy’s Place served, as well as the gas in the pumps. But before she could answer either man’s unspoken plea, something started to change.
The awning beneath which she was standing seemed to melt in her mind. Instead of shade, she felt sun on her face and the sting of dust in her eyes. The sound of cars on the busy street behind her faded, and to her right a horse nickered, then stomped fretfully as it pulled at its tether.
Someone ran past her, shouting. She turned to look, and Razor Bend had disappeared. The paved streets had turned to dust. The busy downtown business district was nothing but an odd, ramshackle assortment of unpainted clapboard buildings and weather-worn tents, popping in the wind.
A man called out a name that made her blood run hot, then cold with fear.
“Dakota! I’m callin’ you out!”
Dakota stood in the middle of the street, his legs braced, his fingers taut and curled above the butt of the gun riding low on his hip. His voice was low, his demeanor deadly.
“For the last damn time, I did not steal your gold, ” Dakota growled.
Mercy moaned. She recognized the miner who’d called Dakota out. It was Rufus Stampler. He’d been drinking and gambling for the better part of a week. If his gold was gone, chances were he’d wagered it and lost when he was too drunk to know.
And then the miner made his move.
She screamed. “Dakota, look out!”
She could have saved her breath. Rufus had announced his intent when he went for his gun.
Dakota’s draw was as deadly as the look on his face. He’d already known that it would come to this. It always did. For him, there was no other way.
Fire spewed from the end of Dakota’s gun. The sound of the shot was still ringing in the onlookers’ ears when the miner fell. His gun had never cleared the holster.
Weak with relief, Mercy thought if a man had to die, thank God it hadn’t been hers.
The wind lifted the skirt of her red satin dress, plastering it indecently to her slim, shapely body. But Mercy Hollister had long ago given up decency for a dry bed and a full belly. And if asked, she would give those up, too, for the love of this man who lived by the gun.
She needed to touch him...to feel the heartbeat still strong in his chest. Blindly she started toward him, but someone grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking her rudely around.
Sunlight hit the tin badge pinned to the front of Ab Schuler’s shirt. Mercy’s heart sank. Ab couldn’t arrest him. It hadn’t been Dakota’s fault.
“It was a fair fight. Rufus called him out. We all saw it,” she said.
Ab Schuler frowned. He’d never known it was possible to love a woman and hate her all at the same time, but that was what he felt now, knowing that a gu
nman had replaced him in Mercy Hollister’s heart.
“What’s wrong with you?” he snarled, twisting her arm in an effort to make her see sense, but his anger turned to fear when a cold, deadly voice called his name.
He turned, still holding her arm. Dakota was standing not six feet away, with his gun drawn and aimed at Ab’s belly.
“Let her go, ” Dakota warned, and then cocked his gun.
Mercy fell free.
Rachel staggered, then covered her face with her hands. Oh, my God... Oh, my God...
Boone saw her sway, and before she could fall, he caught her close. For a heartbeat—but no longer—he knew what it felt like to hold Rachel Brant in his arms. The instant she felt steady, he let her go. When he looked back at Snake, the threat in his voice brought Snake to his feet,
“Get!” he said hoarsely.
Snake didn’t have to be told twice. What had started out as a little bit of fun had turned into a great big stinking deal He glared at Rachel as he stomped past her.
Boone turned, noting Rachel’s lack of color, as well as the odd, flat stare in her eyes. Something didn’t set right. She was a woman who dealt with life and death every day; he wouldn’t have expected her to react so emotionally to an act of sexual harassment. Punch Snake out? Yes, definitely yes! But pass out on him? No.
“Are you all right?” he asked, wishing he could take her in his arms again and make that fear on her face go away. But the man he was pretending to be could not be touching a woman like, her, It would only make things worse.
Rachel shuddered. That voice. His voice. It was so like... She looked up. Reality cheeked in with a jolt as she realized she had a name to go with the face.
Boone. Your name is Boone.
For some reason, it didn’t quite fit. There was a cold, almost cruel, expression on his face, but his eyes, those dark, fathomless eyes, had changed. If she hadn’t known better, she might have believed there was love shining there.
Boone was getting nervous. Why didn’t she answer? Was there something he was missing?
“Lady, are you all right?” he repeated.
It wouldn’t do to let him know she was scared. Her hand was shaking as she lifted it to her face, smoothing away the windblown tendrils that had escaped from her braid. Her voice was as calm as she could make it. “I’m fine, thank you. ..
Stifling an urge to continue this fruitless conversation, he walked away before he could change his mind.
Rachel stared after him, once again wondering why she kept thinking she’d seen him before. Before Razor Bend. There was something about that slow, careless walk. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who.
“Who in the world could I possibly know who would be anything like—?”
Her heart skipped a beat, and she had to steady herself by hanging on to the pump.
Dakota! Dear God, he walks like the man in my dreams.
“Hey, Rachel. Need any help?”
She turned. The owner of Jimmy’s Place was leaning out the door, waiting for her answer.
And where were you when I needed you? “No. No, I’ve got it,” she muttered, and pulled the hose from the pump.
The tank began to fill, and as it did, Rachel was forced to accept a fact that she should have acknowledged long ago.
Just now, when the world as she knew it and the one in her mind had separated, she hadn’t been dreaming. She’d been wide awake and part of an ugly confrontation. Yet in the midst of it all, reality had slipped, just as it had that night in the stream. No longer could she tell herself it was the aftermath of sleepwalking. Something was happening to her that she didn’t understand. Even worse, it was something she couldn’t control.
Denver Cherry was sprawled in his favorite easy chair, with the television remote in one hand and his third longneck of the hour in the other. He squinted at the set, watching Debbie do Dallas, as well as several other men in between, all the while wondering if his satellite dish was as steamy as the show on the screen.
Right in the middle of him wishing he had a little female company, the front door of his house flew back with a bang, rattling nearby windows and setting his teeth on edge. He turned, then glared. This was not the company he’d had in mind.
“Don’t you people ever knock?” he growled, giving Boone a hard-edged stare.
Boone pointed toward Snake, who, like his namesake, was slithering toward a chair on the opposite side of the room.
“I’ve had it,” Boone said. “Either I’m in all the way, or I’m out for good!”
Denver frowned. He didn’t like ultimatums. He was the boss. He made the decisions.
“Now you listen here....” he growled. But he never got a chance to finish what he’d been going to say.
Boone jabbed a finger in Denver’s fat belly. “No, you listen. The whole lot of you are nothing but a bunch of penny-ante thugs. You told me when I signed on that I could work my way up in this organization... that there would be something for me if I was willing to wait.” He took a deep breath, There was a lot riding on what he said next, and it had to come out just right. “But I just figured something out.”
“Like what?” Denver said.
Sarcasm colored his voice. “Like ! I think I’ve been lied to. You told me you had backing. You said there would be big money in it for me. Well, hell, Denver, except for that run the other night, all I’ve done is pick up after your two stooges.”
Denver glared, first at Boone, then at Snake. Something had happened to precipitate this explosion. He would bet money on it. And it was forcing an issue he wasn’t ready to face, namely bringing an outsider into the fold. Yes, Boone had made an unplanned delivery for him with no hitches. But he was an unknown. Until six weeks ago, Denver hadn’t known the man existed, and now he wanted in. Well, he didn’t think so. He’d known Snake Martin and Tommy Joe Smith nearly all their lives. Granted, they were stupid, but they followed orders and kept their mouths shut.
Denver glared at Snake. “What the hell did you do?”
“Not a damned—”
“Shut up!” Boone muttered.
Snake did as he was told. Boone started to pace in a jumpy, nervous manner, as if he expected the cops to burst in on them at any moment. To add to the drama, static from the police scanner broke the momentary silence in the room as a dispatcher’s voice came in loud and clear behind them.
“See the woman at 1022 Main about a disturbance.”
Boone relaxed. That wasn’t the address of Jimmy’s Place, but it very well could have been. He pointed at Snake, but his comments were directed to Denver.
“He accosted a very unwilling woman in a very public place. I’d venture to say any number of people saw what he was doing. I yanked his ass away before he wound up back in jail, and left the woman standing by the gas pumps at Jimmy’s Place. For all I know, she still might press charges.”
Denver’s face turned a mottled purple. He stared at Snake, wondering, if he killed him right now, how he could dispose of the body without being caught.
“You fool!” His voice was shaking with rage. The boss was already on his ass about the messes Snake was making. “Do you ever think?”
Snake glared, although he was starting to realize the implications of what he’d just done.
“I didn’t hurt her none,” he muttered.
Denver stalked toward Snake, who was scrambling to his feet and looking for the quickest way out. He grabbed him by the throat and slammed him up against the wall, stopping Snake’s exit.
“She better not have been someone’s wife.”
Snake slapped at Denver’s hand, trying unsuccessfully to free himself from the angry man’s grasp.
“Hell, no,” he grumbled. “She’s free and legal. She ain’t married, and she ain’t nobody’s girl. I know that for a fact.”
“You’re lying,” Boone said softly. “You know as well as I do that she belongs to that banker. We all saw him kiss her at the EMS headquarters where she works.�
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Denver’s face paled. He gawked at Snake, as if seeing him for the reptile he really was. There was only one banker who counted in Razor Bend, and only one female EMT. Boone had to be talking about Griffin Ross and Rachel Brant.
“Is Boone telling the truth? Did you mess with Griffin Ross’s woman?”
When Snake looked away, Denver exploded.
“You idiot! You fool! You stepped out of your league, and I will not put my neck on the line for you with the boss this time. He’s already on your case for offing that guard. If he finds out about this, too, you’re gone! Get that?”
“That guard wasn’t supposed to be there,” Snake whined. “It’s not my fault. He pulled a gun on me first.”
Boone froze. Snake had killed a guard? What guard? Every lawman’s instinct he had said he should arrest them now and forget the boss, whoever the hell he was. And yet he stood without moving, aware that he couldn’t say a thing. He’d just witnessed a confession to murder and was unable to act upon it.
“That does it,” Boone muttered, and spun on his heel. “I’m outa here. I’ve done time, and I’ll probably do some more before I die, but I don’t plan on lethal injection as my method of passing. You people are out of my league. I don’t hire on with killers.”
Denver paled. He couldn’t lose Snake and Boone. There was no way he and Tommy Joe could handle the business alone. The boss had too many irons in the fire already.
“Wait!” Denver shouted.
Boone turned.
“You’re in.”
Whatever elation Boone should have been feeling was masked by a slow-burning rage. “In how?”
Denver didn’t like to be put on the spot. He shrugged. “You haul, just like Snake and Tommy Joe. You get paid when I get paid.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
Denver sighed. “We take care of our own. If you get caught, you’ll be bailed out.”
“Who do I call if that happens? You?”
“No! If it happens, just bide your time. The boss handles that.”
“But how will he know?”