Savage Thunder

by Johanna Lindsey

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You one of those rich miners’ wives from Tombstone?”

  “No, not at all. I’ve been widowed now for several years. And we’ve just come up from Mexico, though our travels originated in England.”

  “That mean you’re English?”

  “Yes.” She smiled at the way he had of chopping up the mother tongue, though she could understand him perfectly, and rather liked the slow drawl to his words. “I assume you are an American?”

  He knew the word, but he’d never heard anyone use it before. Folks usually associated themselves with the state or territory they were from, not the country. And now he recognized her accent too. Though he’d never heard a woman speak with those cultured tones before, he’d met several Englishmen touring the West. But her nationality explained why she hadn’t minded touching him. She hadn’t been in the West long enough to recognize what he was. So that wasn’t why she had stared at him for so long up on that coach, as he’d assumed. Again his body tightened with a familiar hardness.

  For half a second he considered not telling her. He’d probably never see her again anyway, so why put the distance he was accustomed to between them? Because he needed that distance. She was off limits, and this hell-cursed attraction he felt for her was dangerous. But he wasn’t used to saying it. He dressed as he did so he wouldn’t have to, so there’d be no mistakes.

  “I was born in this country, but folks got a different name for me, lady. I’m a half-breed.”

  “How interesting,” she said, aware his tone had turned bitter again, but choosing to ignore it. “It sounds like something to do with stock and crossbreeding. What does it have to do with people?”

  He stared at her for a moment as if she were crazy; then he swore under his breath before snarling, “What the hell do you think it has to do with people? It means I’m only half white.”

  His tone gave her pause, but still she asked, “And the other half?”

  Again he gave her a look that said she ought to be locked up for the safety of others. “Indian,” he bit out. “Cheyenne, in my case. And if that doesn’t set you back on your toes, it ought to.”

  “Why?”

  “Christ, woman, you ought to learn something about a country before you visit it!”

  “But I always do,” she replied, only slightly wary that he had shouted at her. “I know a good deal about this one.”

  “Then you must have missed the part about Indians and whites being sworn enemies,” he sneered. “Ask in the next town you come to. They’ll give you an earful about why you shouldn’t be standing here talking to me.”

  “If you have something against the whites, as you call them, it hasn’t anything to do with me, does it?” she replied, undaunted. “I’m not your enemy, sir. Good Lord, how could you even insinuate that I might be, when I feel nothing but gratitude for your timely assistance?”

  He shook his head at her, and then he actually chuckled. “I give up, ma’am. You’ll learn better if you stay here long enough.”

  “Does that mean we can be friends now?” At his grunt, she added, “You haven’t told me your name.”

  “Colt Thunder.”

  “Colt, as in the revolver? How unusual to be named after a gun.”

  “Well, Jessie has an unusual sense of humor.”

  “Is Jessie your father?”

  “My father’s daughter, though neither of us knew it until a few years back. Before that she was my best friend.”

  “How interesting. I take it, then, that Colt Thunder isn’t your real name? I have had to use false names myself quite frequently, though it isn’t necessary now that my nemesis has found me again.”

  He wasn’t going to ask. If it killed him, he wasn’t. The less he knew about her, the sooner he would forget her—Christ, if he could. That hair, flowing down past her waist, like hot flames licking at her hips. He was going to see that hair in his dreams for a long time to come, he knew damn well he was. And those eyes too. Damn, why did she keep looking at him like that, as if she were as attracted to him as he was to her?

  She had said something else to him, but he hadn’t heard a word, for she had stepped closer when she said it and put a hand to his arm. Her touch, deliberate, unnecessary, sent his heart pounding against his ribs. It gave him ideas he didn’t dare dwell on. Damn it to hell, she was playing with fire and didn’t even know it.

  The shot took his hat off, bringing him out of the mesmerizing spell she had cast. He whirled and fired without thought, two rounds that both struck home. One of the two men who had been racing hell-bent toward them hit the dirt but didn’t stay there, his foot caught in the stirrup. The other had dropped his gun when the bullet struck his right shoulder, and was now whipping his horse around to head back the way he had come. Colt let him go. He didn’t shoot men in the back, didn’t shoot to kill either—most times.

  The riderless horse still came on. The easiest way to stop him was to mount him as he passed, which Colt did.

  Jocelyn had seen it all, but she still didn’t believe it, especially how fast that gun had come out of Colt Thunder’s holster and fired. Nor had she ever witnessed anything as incredible as someone mounting a racing horse. The odds on his not falling flat on his face in the attempt were astronomical, yet he did it by simply twisting a hand in the animal’s mane and leaping on.

  Bemused, she answered Vanessa’s worried inquiry that she was all right, and hurried toward the horse that had already been brought under control only a few yards away. She got there just as Colt ground-tied the animal and moved to release the man’s foot from the stirrup. He then bent down to check on the man’s condition, and she was treated to another one of his colorful swear words. She could see for herself the man was dead of a broken neck, though Colt’s bullet had grazed his temple, so he was likely unconscious when it happened.

  “The bastard ducked,” Colt said in disgust as he rose to his feet.

  “You were aiming at something in particular?”

  “The right shoulder bone. Easiest way to disarm a man who’s coming right at you. You know him?”

  He looked directly at her then, treating her to the full force of his eyes. Without the shadow cast by his hat, she could now see that his eyes weren’t light or dark, but the clearest, purest blue, so very startling in such a deeply bronzed face. They quite literally took her breath away, forcing her to lower her own eyes before she could answer him with any degree of normal intelligence.

  “No, I’ve never seen this man before, nor the other. But I have little doubt that they were both John Longnose’s hirelings. It’s his habit to employ the natives of whatever country we’re in at the time to do his dirty work. It looks like your assistance now includes saving my life.”

  “Lady, no man in his right mind would want to kill you. There’s many things I could think of that a man would want to do to you, but killing isn’t one of them.”

  He had turned away to say the last of that as he moved to retrieve his hat, but she had heard him anyway and blushed pleasurably. Not many men found her attractive with her wild coloring, but she could usually tell when one did. Not so with this man. He had glowered at her, shouted at her, couldn’t wait to ride off and never see her again. So it was a distinct surprise to find that he might, just might, be as aware of her as she was of him—that was, if she could construe those comments as complimentary.

  She quickly followed behind him again to try to explain. “It’s only been this last year that he’s been trying to kill me, you know. Before that his purpose was just to return me to England. Mine was to avoid that at all costs. It’s rather a long story, but the gist of it is that I have been running from that man for three years now, and quite frankly I’m tired of it.”

  He dusted his hat off by hitting it against his leg, then set it back on his head with the brim tilted forward rather rakishly. “It’s none of my business, ma’am.”

  “No, of course it isn’t. Indeed not. And I wouldn’t d
ream of embroiling you in my problems, especially after all you’ve done for me already.”

  He gave her a level look after so many words when a simple nod of agreement would have covered. “Glad to hear it,” he replied dryly.

  “I wasn’t exactly finished, Mr. Thunder.”

  “Look, don’t tack any ‘mister’ on my name. Call me either Colt or Thunder. I answer to both.”

  “As you wish. But as I was saying, I couldn’t help noticing how superbly adept you are with that revolver you carry.”

  “Superbly adept?” He grinned. “Lady, you sure have a fancy way of calling the kettle black.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind. So what about it?”

  “What about—oh, yes. So are you by any chance for hire?”

  “You want Longnose killed?”

  That disturbed her, how easily he said it, without the least bit of emotion, but she tamped down the feeling. “No, just apprehend him and turn him over to whatever law officials there are in this territory. He’s wanted in New York for the murder of my solicitor.”

  “Your what?”

  “My American lawyer.”

  “Why’d he kill your lawyer?”

  “We have only been able to determine that the unfortunate man discovered him in his office, in the process of stealing the will I had just had executed that same day. It was the only thing missing from his office, according to his partner. And there were several witnesses whom he asked for directions to the lawyers’ office. They all swear it was an Englishman who questioned them. And besides, it’s not the first will I have made that has turned up missing.”

  “Sounds to me like all you need is a bounty hunter, ma’am, and that I’m not. Or better yet, just report what happened here to the town marshal over in Tombstone when you have the body turned in. All that’s needed is this fellow’s name and a description.”

  “But I don’t know his name or what he looks like.” At his frown, she quickly added, “John Longnose is just what we call him. All I know about him is that he’s as English as I am.”

  “Well, chances are there’s not another Englishman within a hundred miles of here, but you never know. I’ve seen others passing through, so it’d be easy enough to make a mistake. Your best bet, then, is to entrench and let him come to you. You did say you have guards?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you don’t need another gun.”

  Before it registered that he was refusing her offer, his gun was out again and going off. Jocelyn turned to see a long snake now minus its head, though the body was still wiggling, and she shuddered at how close it was behind her. She hadn’t heard it or sensed the danger. She didn’t need another gun? He had just proved that statement false.

  Colt glanced at her sideways after he tossed the snake away from them. He had to hand it to her. She’d been shot at, near snake-bit, and that was after her coach had crashed. And no telling what had happened before then. Yet she hadn’t made a fuss about any of it. Of course, that snake had managed to shut her up. She was the talkingest woman he’d ever met. Not that he minded. That accent of hers was real soft on the ears.

  He turned to stare at the dust cloud making its way toward them. Her people, he hoped, considering the size of that cloud indicated quite a few riders. He replaced the rounds in his gun just in case.

  He glanced at her again and saw that she had produced a small lacy square of cloth from somewhere and was dabbing it at her forehead. That sweet scent of hers drifted more strongly to him, stirring his blood again. Damn, but she was dangerous. Each time he looked at her, she somehow got prettier and definitely more desirable. And each time she looked at him with those beautiful green eyes, he had to fight down old instincts. If he had come across her six years ago, he would have simply ridden off with her and made her his. But he was “civilized” now and so couldn’t follow his natural inclinations anymore.

  But those instincts were strong, too strong, the reason that he didn’t dare stick around to help her out with her troubles. It’d be different if she didn’t already have help, more than enough help from the look of it. Then he would have no choice, because he damn well didn’t like the idea of someone wanting to hurt her. She might not belong out here, but she was here, and she had crossed his path. He was going to worry about her now until she was safe. Just what he needed.

  “Those your people riding in?”

  Jocelyn started at his question, barely heard through the ringing in her ears from the gunshots. She had been trying to think of some way to change his mind about working for her. She didn’t want him to just ride off to where she might never see him again. That was imperative, though she had yet to wonder why.

  She saw the riders now, and recognized Sir Parker Grahame out in front. “Yes, my escort, and quite a few of the servants, by the look of it.”

  “I’ll be taking off, then. Your men can find your team staked out at the river, less than a mile east of here—that is, if someone hasn’t come along and stolen them by now.”

  The unspoken words were implicit in his tone. If her horses were gone, so would be his gear.

  “Thank you. I’m sure they will be easily recovered. But are you certain you won’t change your mind and—”

  “Ma’am, that’s a small army you have bearing down on us. You don’t need me.”

  “We will need a guide, however.”

  “You can find one in Tombstone.”

  Jocelyn gritted her teeth as she followed him to his horse and watched him mount. He obviously wasn’t for hire, for any reason.

  “Where is this town you mentioned?”

  “About six miles or so directly across the San Pedro. It’s big enough that you can’t miss it.”

  “Do you live there, by any chance?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “But will I see you there, do you think?”

  “I doubt it.”

  He hadn’t looked at her since he headed for his horse, but he did now, and had to grip his saddle horn. The disappointment was vivid in her expression, pulling at his gut with invisible cords. What the hell did she want from him? Didn’t she know she was courting trouble with that look?

  “I really wish you would reconsider,” she said in a soft, imploring voice that wrapped around him, making him groan.

  It was too much on top of everything else she made him feel. He had to get the hell out of there.

  “Forget it, lady. I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

  She didn’t know he was referring to her and not her problems. She stood there and watched him ride away, feeling guilty for trying to embroil him in what was a very dangerous situation. He was right to refuse her. He had helped her enough as it was. But blast it all, she didn’t want to see the last of him.

  Chapter Six

  Ed Schieffelin had been warned by the post commander at Fort Huachuca when he set out into the Apache-infested wilderness of southeastern Arizona that all he would find was his tombstone. The longtime prospector ignored the warning, and when he found the “strike” of his dreams, promptly named it the Tombstone. Other strikes followed in the area, but Ed’s Tombstone was the one that lent its name to the town that sprang up around it in 1877. Four years later, the town boasted some five hundred buildings, with at least a hundred having been granted licenses to sell hard liquor, and maybe half that number operating as brothels and cribs on the east end of town past 6th Street, a small number really, when you considered the town’s population had grown to more than ten thousand.

  Colt made a habit of learning about a town before he entered it, and he had found out all he needed to know about this one when he had passed through Benson, just as he had learned enough about Benson when he had passed through Tucson. Seeing it for himself now, he could understand why a seventeen-year-old boy on the run toward Mexico might linger here awhile. It was where he expected to finally find Billy Ewing. It was where he damn well better find the boy. After picking up Billy’s trail i
n St. Louis four months ago and losing it time and again, Colt was at the end of his patience and his temper. The things he did for Jessie…

  It wasn’t going to be easy, however, locating a seventeen-year-old kid in a town this size. He’d been told there were five good-sized hotels and six boardinghouses, but who was to say Billy would be using his own name? He’d also been told now was not a good time to visit, that the town was heading for an explosion of violence between the outlaw element operating in the area and the town marshal and his brothers who had been clashing and feuding for some time now.

  Colt stopped dead still in the middle of Toughnut Street, remembering that. Where had that piece of information gone hiding when he had spoken to the redhead? He had been heading for Tombstone with every intention of getting Billy out of there as quickly as possible, and yet he had steered a woman like that in the same direction. Had she shaken him up that much, or had he subconsciously wanted her going in his direction? Dumb, plain dumb. Now he’d have to see her again to tell her it’d be healthier if she didn’t remain in town for long. No, seeing her again would be even dumber. He’d send Billy with the message—once he found him.

  He urged his horse on, his expression black with self-disgust, seeing nothing of the town for several minutes until his senses returned and he realized he’d passed 3rd Street, where he’d meant to turn left. Fly’s Lodging House had been recommended to him, located on Fremont Street between 3rd and 4th, so he headed up 4th Street rather than turn around.

  The town was laid out in square blocks, with the intersecting thoroughfares being Toughnut, Allen, Fremont, and Safford streets running south to north, and 1st through 7th streets running west to east. Crossing Allen Street, he continued north up 4th, passing Hafford’s Saloon on the corner, the Can-Can Restaurant next to it, a coffee shop across the street. The variety of eating establishments was a welcome relief. Some of the smaller towns he had passed through were lucky to have even one.

  Most of the businesses along the street had vacant lots between them where he caught a glimpse of a stable he could make use of later. But he wouldn’t need it until after he was first assured of lodgings, and after he had covered all the other lodgings in town looking for Billy, so he continued on, passing a tinsmith’s, an assay office, a furniture store. Spangenburg’s Gun Shop was almost at the end of the block, then the Capital Saloon on the corner, where he turned left onto Fremont, heading back toward 3rd Street. Next to the saloon was the Tombstone Nugget, one of the town’s two newspapers, with the other, the Tombstone Epitaph, competing just across the street.