Gaffney, Patricia (14 page)

"Okay."

"Okay. Good night." He jammed his hat on and walked away
again. This time he kept going.

Cady dropped down on the stoop. "Boo?" she called plaintively.
The cat ignored her, didn't come out to comfort her. She could've used some
comforting. She replayed the scene with Jesse in her mind a few times, giving
it different endings. They got more and more daring, the endings; more and more
injurious to her solid gold reputation.

She stayed outside until the moon went down, brooding and sighing,
mulling and sulking. When her rear end got sore, she went in and got undressed
for bed. "Oh, forget it," she muttered to herself, settling the
covers around her. "Just go to sleep and forget it." She was giving
herself the same advice at dawn.

Jesse came into Jacques' restaurant the next day while Cady was
eating her lunch. Unthinkingly, out of nothing but habit, she smiled, even
started to reach for her glass and the salt shaker—move them out of the way so
he could sit down with her. She stopped herself when he touched his hat and
walked on by, heading for an empty table in the corner.

She froze, then went hot all over. Men didn't snub her very often.
Women did, but not men.
You deserve it,
an unwelcome little voice
informed her—the voice of her conscience.
Do not,
she argued, rattling
the newspaper, drawing her conscience's attention to it. If anything justified
her decision to stay away from Jesse Gault, installment two of Will Shorter's
interview with him did. And Jesse could try all he liked to make himself sound
like a cross between Robin Hood and Sir Galahad, but nothing got around the
fact that he'd killed so many men he'd lost track of the number. "Ten or
twelve," Will quoted him as saying. "Or maybe it's fifteen by
now."

Of course, they were all asking for it. They all drew first, every
one of them, and they were all rotten hombres or low-down card cheats or
thieves or degenerates who deserved what they got. And Gault was an avenging
angel, a victim, a reluctant hero, an innocent bystander. A righter of wrongs
with two smoking six-guns. Funny how his image kept changing. Interesting how
he kept reinventing himself. She remembered when he was a cold-blooded hired
killer who'd just as soon shoot you as look at you. When was that, a week ago?
Now he rolled in the dirt with children, when he wasn't mugging and preening
for photographs with awestruck townsfolk. Or charming the pantaloons off jaded
lady saloonkeepers...

She snuck a glance at him over her coffee cup. He looked away
fast—he'd been staring at
her.
He looked back, nodded to her with a
quick smile that didn't reach his eyes, and started to read the menu. Since he
ate here every day, and since Jacques' menu hadn't changed since 1878, she knew
he was pretending.

Well, this was stupid. Last night they'd kissed, and today they
couldn't even talk to each other.

Jacques' daughter came over to take Jesse's order. Michele was a
plain, full-hipped, big-bosomed girl with a sweet, shy manner. She leaned
toward Jesse. He said something that made her throw her head back and laugh.
Cady's mouth dropped open. She hardly ever got so much as a smile out of
Michele, the girl was so bashful. Well, it ought not to surprise her.
Glendoline got sillier by the day over Gault, and now Willagail was starting.
Maggie McGurke, the girl Cady employed to change linens and clean the guest
rooms, came down every afternoon with new stories about what he'd said to her,
the joke he'd told her, the wonderful way he'd flirted with her. And just this
morning Enid Duff, the postmistress, an old maid if there ever was one, had
tried to pry information about him out of Cady. "Is he married?" she
had actually asked.

But the last straw was Lia Chang, the laundry-man's daughter, the
girl Levi was trying to court by reading books about Buddha. "He belly
handsome man," she'd confided to Cady behind her father's counter, handing
over Cady's clean, folded laundry. "Belly kind man."

"Kind? Lia, he's a
killer."

"Oh, no." She smiled calmly, beatifically. "He not
kirrer."

"But he
says
he is. He
admits
it."

Her lovely, moon-shaped face stayed placid and serene. She said no
more, and Cady got the distinct feeling she was humoring her.

It was all so ridiculous. How could grown women throw away every
bit of their common sense just because a man was good-looking? A little
mysterious? And funny. Sexy as hell.

She took the opportunity to stare at him while he spread butter on
a piece of cornbread. She liked the way his hair grew. It was too long, but it
always looked neat anyway. Shiny black-and-silver hair that flowed through your
fingers like... the silk tassels on her paisley shawl. She liked the way he
carried himself, too; he could slouch and keep his nice broad shoulders
straight at the same time. He had one long leg crossed over the other, and she
couldn't take her eyes off the tight pull of worn black denim seam down the
length of his thigh. "He sleeps buck naked," Maggie McGurke had
informed her and Willagail this morning.
How do you know?
Cady had
started to ask, but stopped herself. She didn't want to know.

Now he had his elbows on the table, hands steepled, tapping his
fingertips together while he stared off into space. He looked—oh, this was
silly, and yet—he really did look... a little lonely. But pretending not to be.
That's what got her. He adjusted his silverware, lined it up just so, picked up
his empty glass and studied the manufacturer's mark on the bottom, set it
carefully back down. Folded his hands on the edge of the table and frowned into
the distance, as if thinking deep thoughts.

She thought about his apology last night. "Didn't mean that
last part. Forget I said it, okay?" What he'd said
had
hurt. But
he'd regretted it. He hadn't wanted her to be in pain for longer than about
thirty seconds.

She stood up. The swiftness with which he looked over told her
he'd been aware of her the whole time, not thinking deep thoughts at all. A few
heads turned as she made her way to his table. What was she going to say? She
didn't know until she said it.

"I didn't explain myself very well last night." He
shoved his chair back and stood up—a courtesy she wasn't used to. "In
fact," she added nervously, "I didn't explain myself at all."

"It doesn't matter," he said with an airy wave. But his
gray eyes pierced her.

She was still holding the newspaper. "I've been reading about
you. The life you've led. All the men you've..." Saying the word seemed
rude, so she let that sentence dangle.

He grinned at her. "Pretty exciting, huh?"

"No, it's barbaric." His face fell. "Even allowing
for bragging and exaggeration—"

"Hey, I wasn't bragging," he interrupted, offended.
"And I never exaggerate."

"Then that makes it even worse. A woman would have to be out
of her mind to want anything to do with Jesse Gault." She laid the
folded-up newspaper on the table and tapped on it with her knuckles.
This
Jesse
Gault, she meant.

"Wait now, you know you can't believe everything you read in
the papers."

"Well, make up your mind! Is this stuff true or isn't
it?"

He dipped his head, rubbing the back of his neck while he peered
at her through his eyelashes. "Well, yeah. Sure, it's true, I told you.
But still."

"Still?"

"Still. Couldn't you get around it? Overlook it?"

"Jesse—" She glanced around, lowered her voice.
"Jesse, you
kill
people."

"Well, right, yeah, but..." He stuck his fingers in his
hair and pulled, frowning, thinking hard. "But, hell, Cady, it's not like
I'm going to kill
you."

Her jaw dropped. He cocked his head, trying a boyish grin on her,
trying to get her to smile back. "This," she said seriously, backing
up, "is the strangest conversation I have ever had."

"Wait. Maybe I could reform. Hey, Cady? Wait a sec, let's
talk about it!"

But she hurried back to her table, put money on it for Michele,
and bustled out of Jacques' without turning around or saying good-bye. She
needed fresh air, the dusty street under her feet,
reality.

He was too good-looking—that had to be it. Because for half a
second, "It's not like I'm going to kill
you"
had actually
sounded reasonable to her. Oh, she had to stay away from Jesse Gault! Compared
to him, a loaded gun was as safe as a puppy!

****

The next day she was still thinking about him. She sat at her desk
in her tiny office, gazing into space instead of updating her inventory lists
and reconciling her bankbook, two Saturday chores she always got out of the way
before lunchtime. But today the columns of numbers danced out of focus every
time she tried to stare them down. She'd given up; with Boo purring on her lap,
she'd abandoned herself to full-time daydreaming.

"Miz Cady?"

She looked up and smiled at Ham, happy for any diversion. His
wide-eyed, clean-scrubbed face was very dear to her; in two years, she'd come
to adore Levi's little boy. "What? Come on in. What are you up to?"

"Poppy say come back an' tell you." He sidled up to her,
leaning against her shoulder so he could see what she was doing. "You
payin' bills?" His enormous brown eyes warmed sympathetically; he knew how
she hated this job.

"Nope, not right now. Boy, you smell good. What'd you do,
take a bath?" She gave him a squeeze, even stole a kiss on his
sweet-smelling neck. He pretended to be embarrassed, but she knew he liked it.
"So what are you supposed to tell me?"

"Oh. Joe Redleaf, he come in an' want to see you."

"Joe? He's here? Now?"

"Yep. He wearing a
suit."

"Goodness." She stood up, brushing eraser crumbs from
her skirt, patting her hair into place.

"You like him?" Ham asked interestedly, watching her
hurried primping.

"Well, of course. I've always liked Joe." She chucked
Ham under the chin and didn't tack on,
Just
not as much as he's
always liked me.

"Joe!"

He was standing at the bar, talking to Levi. He turned, and his
strong, serious face broke into a rare grin. Rushing over, she gave him an
exuberant hug; but when he tried to kiss her on the mouth, she laughed and gave
him her cheek.

"Look at you! I haven't seen you since—when, Christmas? Oh,
you look
wonderful."
She held him at arm's length, sweeping him
with a long, up-and-down appraisal. He looked so much older, like a man instead
of a boy. He did have on a suit, but the coat was frayed at the cuffs and a
little threadbare around the collar. A secondhand suit, then. Somehow that made
him look even more dignified.

"You
look wonderful," he said with
feeling, and she laughed again, basking in Joe's admiration. She was used to
it, but she didn't take it for granted. She realized she'd even missed it.

"How long have you been home?" she asked, taking his
hand and leading him to an empty table. "Levi," she threw over her
shoulder, "bring Joe a beer and me a lemonade."

"Since Wednesday."

"Wednesday."

"And I have to go back on Monday."

"Oh." She made a disappointed face. "How are your
parents?"

He rolled his eyes. "The same." Which explained why he'd
been in town for three whole days without coming to see her. The Redleafs were
dirt-poor and very proud, with sky-high hopes for a son who was so brilliant
they were half afraid of him. Cady couldn't really blame them for not being
thrilled about the passion he'd developed two years ago, at the age of
eighteen, for a saloon girl. True, she owned the saloon now, but that hadn't
lifted her up one inch in the Redleafs' estimation. If anything, she'd sunk a
notch.

"Do they know you're here?" she asked. Joe shrugged,
which meant no.

Levi brought their drinks, and Cady lifted her glass in a toast.
"To you, Joe. To old friends."

"Old friends." His dark eyes devoured her; the intense
look in them would've unsettled her if she hadn't known him so well. "Tell
me what's been happening to you, Cady."

"Oh, my life's dull as dishwater. Tell me about you. Tell me
about school. Are you still making A's in all your subjects?"

He nodded, looking down, pretending it was nothing, but she knew
what his grades meant to him. He had to do well, because he was on a
scholarship at Berkeley. Someday he'd be a lawyer, and his dream was to work
for the cause of justice for poor people, Indians in particular. He only had a
fraction of Rogue Indian blood himself, a sixteenth, he'd once admitted to her,
but Joe was the most
Indian
Indian Cady had ever known.

"So do you like your courses and your professors? Why do you
have to go to school in the summer?"

He started to talk, tell her everything, and while he spoke she
watched the veneer of adulthood and student sophistication wear thinner and
thinner. In no time at all, he was her old Joe, painfully earnest and
endearing. In six months he'd gotten taller, more muscular. He had strong black
eyebrows that grew together over his hawkish nose, giving him a fierce look.
But his new haircut, short and parted in the middle, cut down on the ferocity;
between it and his steel-rimmed spectacles, he looked pretty much like what he
was: a serious young man with a purpose.

"So tell me about this Gault," he demanded, surprising
her with the sudden new topic.

"Oh, Gault." She gave an evasive laugh. "He's the
talk of the town, all right."

"He's a murderer," Joe said flatly. "I hear he's
been hanging around you night and day."

"That's not true." She clucked her tongue. "Night
and day. How ridiculous. Who told you that?"
Murderer.
It was what
she'd been insisting to everyone, especially the lovestruck females of
Paradise, that Jesse Gault was, so why did the word sound even worse on Joe's
lips? Why did she want to talk him out of it?