Cherished (25 page)

“W-Will,” she whispered in a low voice choked
with fear.

“That’s right. Will. Now he’s a fine boy. All
of nine, ain’t he?” Sheriff Dane grinned at Juliana, listening in
horror. “We sure wouldn’t want no harm to come to him. So now you
just go on back to the hotel, go on about your cooking, and leave
the complicated thinking to me. Sound about right, Henny?”

The woman nodded wordlessly, her face pinched
and white. She was shaking from her narrow shoulders down to her
tiny feet. She threw one terrified glance at Juliana, trapped like
a pale, lovely bird in a cage, and then scurried toward the door
without a sound. As she passed him Dane jerked his foot sideways
and tripped her. Henny hit the floor with a cry of pain.

“Why, Henny, don’t be so clumsy.” Chuckling,
Dane pulled her to her feet, none too gently. “Can’t abide a clumsy
woman,” he said as she backed away from him. “Women should be
pretty and graceful, like that one there.” He waved a hand toward
Juliana. “Yessirree, women should be light on their feet and flat
on their backs. That’s how I like ‘em.”

He threw back his head and laughed at his own
joke.

When the door thudded shut behind Henny, Dane
turned to Juliana with a broad smile. “Hungry, missy? Henny’s a
good cook. You’ll enjoy your dinner.”

I’d enjoy seeing you locked up in the
cell next door, or better yet, a dungeon, where no one would find
you for a thousand years
, she thought, eyeing him in disgust.
Not only was he cruel, he was abhorrently filthy as well. He had
gravy down the front of his shirt, and dark crumbs still clung to
his scruffy mustache. His bandanna had a greasy smear blurring the
dark red color.

Juliana swallowed back her revulsion and
tried to speak in a level tone. “Did you really kill that woman’s
son?” she asked. He merely grinned at her. “And just who is this
McCray?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. First, why
don’t you tell me about the Montgomery gang. Those boys are damned
hard to find.”

“I know that, Sheriff. I’ve been trying to
locate them myself—or I was—until Mr. Rawdon showed up.”

“Just where was you headin’? You got a notion
where they air?”

My, he was eager. The lust for information
shone all over his face.

Juliana pretended to waver. “Nevada,” she
said at last, in a quiet, resigned tone. “That’s what a bartender
in Cedar Gulch told me.”

He eyed her suspiciously. With small steps he
approached the bars. “Nevada’s a mighty big place, missy.
Whereabouts, exactly?”

Juliana bestowed on him a sweet and hopeful
smile. “If I tell you, will you write to the judge in Denver on my
behalf?”

“Mebbe.”

She pouted, then brightened. “Will you at
least let me out of here while I eat my supper? I ... I don’t think
I can tolerate a bite of food behind bars. Besides, there’s a rat
in my cell.”

Suspicion still clouded his gaze, but she
looked so pretty, and she was so dainty and fragile-looking, like a
porcelain statue, that he knew she couldn’t possibly be any danger
to him. Besides, he had a feeling that she’d be fairly easy to
trick into thinking that he was working in her best interest. If
she thought he’d help her go free, she’d be real cooperative later
on, when he cornered her in her cell tonight. Then, in the morning,
he’d let Jackson and the boys at her and see if she was really
telling the truth. She was giving in too easily about those
Montgomerys, but that was Mr. M’s problem, not his. His was
lonesomeness, and this prime little filly could solve that real
fast.

“All right,” he said, reaching into his
pocket for the keys. “Spill it and I’ll open these here doors.”

Juliana looked at him from beneath her
lashes. Where in Nevada? Her mind searched desperately for a
name.

“Pueblo,” she pronounced. And held her
breath.

His eyes narrowed. He paused directly before
her, keys dangling. “That’s in Colorado.”

“No, is it? Goodness me, there must be
another one then. Unless that bartender
meant
Colorado ...
oh, dear.”

She shrugged delicately. “All I know is what
the bartender told me. Pueblo, Nevada, he said.”

He fit the key into the lock, lips twisting.
“That there Montgomery gang has caused an awful lot of trouble,
missy. Stubborn, fire-eatin’ rascals, that’s what they are. But
their days are numbered. Mr. M can’t have thievin’, murderin’
troublemakers in these parts no more. No, sir, he’s going to see to
it that Plattsville grows into a real fine, civilized town.”

His guffaw defied his words and sent an icy
shiver down Juliana’s spine.

She stepped out of the cell as he swung the
door wide.

Darkness was falling like a black cloud over
Plattsville, and with it came the first rumblings of the storm.
Rain pattered steadily against the windows. Lightning ripped across
the open sky. The sounds of horses and wagon wheels and voices had
all died away. Faint piano music floated on the breeze, drifting in
from a saloon. For a moment it reminded Juliana of when she had
first stepped off the train in Denver, and had heard similar music
from the Gold Dust Saloon—just before she met Cole Rawdon.

Cole Rawdon. Where was he now? she wondered
with a bitter aching in her heart.

Probably riding far away from here, planning
what he’d do with all that reward money. Part of her hated him. And
part of her wished he’d come crashing through that door right now
and take her away from this dreadful place.

But she didn’t need him, she reminded herself
as she steeled her nerves for whatever might happen in the next few
minutes. She could escape all by herself. She had made it this far,
all the way from Denver, despite everything, hadn’t she? She still
had her money pouch, her wits, and her determination. If that
couldn’t get her to Cooper Creek, nothing could.

Nothing but a little luck.

“Don’t try nothin’, now. I’d get mighty angry
if you was to pull anythin’.”

“Sheriff, I’m only interested in my
supper.”

And in getting my hands on your
gun.

Royal flush! Whoopee! Drinks are on me,
boys!”

Cole scarcely glanced at the ecstatic cowboy
scooping his poker winnings into his hat. He needed answers and he
needed them fast. He hoped to get them here in the Ten Gallon
Saloon.

This whole business about Hank Rivers stank,
especially since, if Cole was any judge of men, Lucius Dane was as
crooked as they came. Cole ordered a whiskey from his corner table,
then engaged the sloe-eyed saloon girl who brought it in private
conversation.

She wore a purple-and-red-striped dress that
revealed a narrow body beneath breasts that were small and round.
She kept dipping down as he spoke to her, enabling him to see
inside her dress. It was almost as fascinating as what she had to
say.

Within a short time he knew that Line McCray
was up to his old tricks again, taking over yet another town. This
time it was Plattsville. He pictured the iron-eyed McCray with his
gray suits and string tie, and scowled. Poor Rivers—he hadn’t stood
a chance.

Cole took a slug of his whiskey and set the
glass down. While the liquor ran down his throat like wildfire, the
girl wrapped her skinny arms about his neck.

Cole pictured McCray ensconced at Fire Mesa.
Slow, hot rage licked through him. Not this time. Not Fire Mesa.
McCray would just have to find out you don’t get everything you
want.

Cole was only vaguely aware of the girl’s
oversweet perfume assailing his nostrils. The bright light of the
chandelier as it glittered and swung overhead hurt his eyes. He
stared at the scarred table, thinking of how he had left Juliana
Montgomery alone across the street with that slimy old coot
Dane.

Until he had this figured out, she was safer
there than out in the open with him. There was one more thing he
needed to know before he could think about going back and getting
her out. The name of the men in the posse who’d been with Rivers
when he was shot, particularly the one who’d claimed Wade
Montgomery did the killing.

Cole looked up, his face tightening. The
bartender was frowning at the girl, probably annoyed that she was
spending so much time with him and not seeing to the other
customers. She caught his look, and quickly picked up Cole’s glass
and brought it coaxingly to his lips.

“Here, drink up, honey, and let me bring you
another. Or Fred will holler at me til his face turns blue, and
take back half my pay.”

Cole took the glass from her, took another
swallow, and set it down.

Grasping her wrist in a light but firm hold,
he asked her about the names of the men who were with Hank Rivers
when he died.

“I don’t know nothing about that. C’mon, you
finish your drink. Maybe we can have some fun later.”

Cole stared up at her as she hovered beside
him in the noisy, crowded saloon. She looked funny. Skin ashen
beneath all the cheap paint, eyes glassy and bright. Scared? he
wondered. Of me, or of Fred?

He glanced over at the bartender once again,
remembering his low, coarse laugh, his habit of smacking the girls
who worked for him on the fanny whenever one passed by. Just now he
was pouring whiskey for a hunched-over miner at the bar. Fred had
been pouring drinks at the Ten Gallon for as long as Cole could
remember. Maybe he would know who had been with Rivers that
day.

“Thanks, beautiful.”

Cole pressed several greenbacks into the
girl’s palm. He pushed back his chair, surprised by a sudden surge
of light-headedness. He must be hungrier than he’d thought. Liquor
on an empty stomach was no good. He’d better stay away from it. Had
to get Juliana safe away from Plattsville. Couldn’t leave her with
Dane. Didn’t want her mixed up with McCray. Had to find out if that
member of the posse had lied about Wade Montgomery.

He had a hunch that McCray—

Cole’s legs buckled as he reached the bar. He
collapsed against the smooth wooden surface, clinging to it for
support. Fred grinned at him, and set down a glass already full of
amber liquid.

“On the house, Mr. Rawdon. You’ve always been
a good customer.”

“Don’t want a drink.” Why was it so difficult
to talk? His tongue was as thick and greasy as a lump of rags. Cole
felt icy cold, then hot. Damn. What the hell was wrong with
him?

“Who ... who was with Hank Rivers when
...”

Cole was sweating. As he looked into Fred’s
broad, smiling face, the bartender’s features grew blurred.

“He wants to know, Fred, who was with Sheriff
Rivers when he died?” the saloon girl said beside him. She was
speaking in a low, honeyed tone, so low, Cole could hardly hear.
But he heard the edge in her voice.

Turning his head to look at her would take
too much effort. He stared straight at Fred, but Fred’s features
were wavy and indistinct, as if he were seeing them underwater.

“Oh,” Fred said, leaning toward him, his
voice as quiet and soothing as the girl’s. “That’s easy.” He placed
both hands on the bar. “I was there. I saw the whole thing.”

Cole heard him chuckle, and through the fog
of dizziness that ensnared him like a lariat, he realized too late
what was wrong with him.

Juliana. He had to get to Juliana.

Desperation seized him. His eyes burned with
it.

The girl’s hand was on his arm. Cole shook
her off, sending her stumbling backward into a thin gambler in
black. Fred came around the bar and caught him under the shoulders.
“Wal, now, too much to drink, eh, Mr. Rawdon? I’ll fix you right
up. Come along.”

He half carried, half dragged Cole into a
back room. Cole was too weak to resist. His muscles had all turned
to water.

When the door was closed, Fred pushed him up
against a wall and made a fist. Cole tried to fend off the blow,
but the room spun and ice-cold nausea gripped him.

The bartender’s blow struck him square on the
jaw. Cole went down hard. Fred kicked him in the back. Then in the
face.

Cole swallowed his own blood.

Agony ripped through him. He was blinded by
pain and dizziness. Like that day at Fire Mesa ...

He was going to pass out.

Juliana. He had to get to ...

“When Knife and the boys are finished
questioning the girl, they’ll be back for you. Don’t go nowheres
now.”

Knife. Juliana. He had to ...

Fred kicked him again.

The last sound he heard was the bartender’s
coarse, guttural laugh echoing through the room like a black
vulture circling for the kill.

* * *

Juliana forced herself to eat several bites
of food while Dane stood over her at his desk. Seated in his chair,
she chewed slowly and thought desperately. The only weapon she
could see was the one Dane wore in his gun-belt. She had an idea
how she could get it, but it wasn’t a plan she relished. Still, if
it worked ...

Perhaps Henny’s cooking was good, but
everything tasted like paste. If she tried and failed, Dane would
be furious. Remembering his callousness with Henny, the way he’d
tripped the poor woman for no reason, made her wonder what he would
do if she gave him cause for brutality. Cole Rawdon, for all his
strength, had never actually hurt her. This mean little man would
hurt her without a qualm if she crossed him.

But she had to cross him.

“Would you like some, Sheriff? I’m not as
hungry as I thought.”

“I’ve got a different type of appetite,
missy.” Again, he laughed at his own humor, and Juliana forced
herself to join him. She tilted her head back provocatively, and
leaned toward him with a tantalizing smile.

She saw his eyes glint. He tensed, took a
step toward her, stopped.

“Maybe you’ve got the same kind of hunger as
me,” he suggested softly, watching every plane, and angle of her
oval face.