Gaffney, Patricia (19 page)

When it subsided, he gently unrolled her, beguiled by the pink
flush on her cheeks and her chest, the way her damp hair stuck to her throat.
She looked ravished. And when she opened her eyes there wasn't much to see—they
were still vacant, still back there in the mindless pleasure. "Your
freckles are standing out," he said tenderly. Maybe not the most romantic thing
he'd ever told a woman, but it made Cady laugh.

"I wouldn't be surprised." She pressed a soft, dreamy
kiss to his shoulder. "My God, Jesse, how did you do that?"

"It's a secret." He didn't have the faintest idea.

She sighed. She smothered a yawn.

He couldn't keep his hands off her. He ought to let her rest, get
her second wind, but if he didn't have her soon—no, now—he was going to
explode.

Murmuring to her, calling her baby, whispering to her to come on,
honey, come on, he nudged her onto her back again. She smiled and opened her
legs for him, and he thanked her and told her that's right, that's it, hovering
over her and using his hand to push himself into her slowly, slowly, ready to
die from the way she felt, so tight and hot around him. Knees bent, feet flat
on the bed, she set that deep, rolling rhythm that drove him out of his mind.
He lost all finesse. He forgot to be gentle, forgot everything except how it
felt to be inside Cady. And she was with him all the way. And then slowly,
imperceptibly at first, she began to stiffen under him, arch her back and grit
her teeth. She was coming. She was so beautiful, and he wanted to savor her
fierce, silent climax, but it was impossible. Gathering her close, he let
himself go, pumping, driving into her with strong, powerful thrusts, not silent
at all—he heard his own groaning huffs in amazement. In the middle of it he
halfway blacked out, it was just so damn intense.

He rolled away, and they fell against each other. She looked as
done in as he felt—more so; she didn't even have the strength to return his
grateful kisses. He picked her hand up and dropped it, to see what would
happen; it fell on his chest in a boneless heap. "Cady?"

"Mmm."

"Cady?"

"What."

"Do you want me to go?"

"Go?" She opened one bleary eye.

"To my room." He gave her a little shake. "Honey,
do you want me to leave now?"

"Leave now?" She yawned on his chest, a big, wet,
wide-mouthed yawn, graceless and endearing. "Oh, no, I want you to
staaaay. Stay all night." She went limp. Almost immediately a soft snore
woke her up, and she twisted around, away from him. She stuck her hand up,
twitched her fingers. Bemused, he took it, and she pulled his arm around her,
tucking his hand inside both of hers. She fell instantly asleep.

Across the room, the oil lamp sputtered and went out. Good timing.
The perfect end to a perfect day. Maybe the best day of his life. He buried his
face in Cady's dark, wild hair. His Cady girl. He fell asleep like that, trying
to remember if he'd felt this happy before..

****

In the morning, he was coming back from Cady's outhouse—not the
one Rogue customers used but her own neat, clean, private one, down the path
from her back door, hidden from casual view by the blue-blossom bushes—when he
heard voices coming from her room. Hers and somebody else's. He halted, listening.
Then he relaxed—the second voice was Ham's. He ambled on up the steps and
through the door, catching the tail end of a story Ham was telling.

"They only got till Tuesday mornin' to git shut o' the sto',
Poppy say. Don't even got two weeks. Got till Tuesday mornin' on account o'
that the first o' the month." He saw Jesse and grinned. "Hey, Mr.
Gault."

"Hey, Mr. Washington." As was his habit, he grabbed Ham
around the waist and turned him upside down. A lot of hollering and laughing
ensued, but Jesse noticed Cady didn't join in. She rested her back against the
bedpost and hugged herself, rubbing her arms in the loose sleeves of her
paisley robe. A sure sign she was worried about something.

"Anything wrong?" He righted Ham and sat down on the
edge of the bed.

"It's Wylie. Who else?" She gave a chilly laugh.
"He's called in a note he owns on Luther Digby's general store. Luther
can't pay it. It's so
damned
unfair." She kicked the post with her
bare foot, wincing.

"They got a baby," Ham said shyly, wary of Cady's anger.
"Poppy say what they gonna do with a new baby an' all this trouble."

"Luther saved and saved to buy that store, and then he worked
like a dog to make enough so he and Sara could marry. It's cruel, that's what
it is. It's just cruel."

"How come Wylie's got the note?" Jesse had been in
Digby's store once, to buy black handkerchiefs. He remembered the woman who had
waited on him, a pretty, thin-faced girl with wheat-colored hair. She spoke to
him softly and pointed, smiling, to a sleeping infant in a basket on the
counter.

"He must've bought Luther's mortgage from the bank. That's
how he got the Sullivan ranch. Until Lyndon Cherney disappeared—you didn't know
him, Jess, but he was one of the vice presidents at the Mercantile—before he
disappeared, he and Wylie were thick as thieves." Ham was leaning against
her, looking up at her face worriedly. She put her hands over his ears and said
a bad word. "Who else's mortgage does he own? Who'll be next? Isn't there
some way to stop him?"

"You could fix it, Mr. Gault," Ham said confidently.
"You could make him quit."

"How would I do that?"

"Go down there with your guns an' shoot 'im!"

"Ham," Cady said sternly. "Go on out now so I can
dress." The boy said, "Aww," inching toward the office door.
"Go on, and maybe later we'll go out for a ride."

That brightened him up. "Okay!" he agreed, and slammed
the door behind him.

Watching Cady, Jesse could see his plans for a long, lazy morning
in bed going up in smoke. She couldn't sit still, and when he reached for her
hand, she pulled away, prickly as a thistle. "Well,
couldn't
you do
something?" she finally burst out.

He'd been expecting it. "Go down there with my guns and shoot
'im? Sure."

She waved her hand impatiently. "Of course not. Couldn't you
talk to him? Jesse, there's nobody else. Wylie's killing our town, and the
sheriff can't stop it. Couldn't you do
something?"

That was how he found himself slouching down Main Street on Sunday
morning, church bells clanging in the distance. He looked as mean as it was
possible for a man to look, with his black Stetson pulled low over his
eyepatch, spurs jingling, sun glinting on the pearl handles of his six-guns.

Unlike Cady's saloon, Wylie's was open on the Sabbath, and doing a
moderate business. The sweet, nauseating stench of stale smoke hung over the
place, reminding Jesse of every hangover he'd ever had. Wylie favored a lot of
brass and purple plush; there was dark red paper on the walls, and a red
carpet, stained with booze and cigarette burns and God knew what else, on the
floor. The joint was bigger and fancier than the Rogue. Also darker and uglier,
and a whole lot more vulgar.

Cady had told him Wylie had an orchestra for music, not just one
lone piano player. No band was in evidence today, though. Which was just as
well. The scattered customers looked a little rocky, a little on the edge; loud
music might tip them right over.

Jesse headed for the bar. What little conversation there had been
stopped, and he listened to the sinister jangle of spurs and clomp of boot
heels in that old familiar, frightened hush. He used to enjoy it. He hadn't
heard it at the Rogue in quite a while. Funny; he didn't miss it.

Wylie's bartender was the reverse of Levi Washington. He was
white, not black; fat, not skinny; ugly, not handsome. Looking at him, Jesse
had an idea that he might not be the kind of fellow who read books about Buddha
to impress his girlfriend.

"What'll it be?"

"Wylie. Where is he?"

A
war waged in the bartender's piggy face. He wanted to say,
Who
wants to know?
in the worst way. But he already knew who wanted to know,
and he was scared of him. "Upstairs," he finally mumbled through thick
lips.

"Get him." The bartender stared at him. Jesse leaned
over the bar and said, "Get. Him."

Pig Face sneered and left the room.

Jesse sighed. Time to get nasty. He grabbed a bottle off the bar
and carried it to a center table, currently occupied by two silent, morose
cowboys nursing beers. "I like this table," he whispered.

They left.

He took a skinny black cigarette out of his pocket and fired it
up. Leaning back with the bottle, he stuck his feet up on the table. Took a
drag. Took a drink.

Bleck. Gag. Whiskey and cigarettes on an empty stomach. Cady had
been so het up about the general store, she hadn't even let him get a cup of
coffee first. Jesse wasn't in a good mood.

Luckily, Wylie didn't keep him waiting. He came down a mahogany
staircase looking fit and rested, fully dressed in frock coat, striped
trousers, and bow tie. Probably on his way to church. It was a good act: he
looked prosperous and respectable, a veritable city father. A gentleman. But
Jesse knew a disguise when he saw one. Besides, Cady had told him what Wylie did
to women, and what he'd done to Glendoline in particular. That helped make it
personal.

What she hadn't told him was what, if anything, she and Wylie used
to be to each other. They hated each other now, that was obvious, but Jesse
suspected they'd been friends in the past. More than friends. That burned him.
And it gave him an even better reason, the best reason, to hate him. Because
Cady was his now. Exclusively. Whatever was going to happen between him and
Wylie, he wanted it over with fast, so he could get back to her. He missed her.
He hadn't seen her in ten minutes.

"Ah, Mr. Gault." Considering the tone of their last
meeting, Wylie's face was remarkably pleasant, almost welcoming. "You've
gotten tired of slumming, I see. Have you decided to come and work for me after
all? Why don't we go up to my office and discuss it in private."

A little late, it occurred to Jesse that he didn't have a plan,
and a smart man didn't play it by ear with Wylie. What was he supposed to say now,
"Give Luther Digby his store back or I'll kill you"? The foreclosure
was legal, he assumed. Digby wasn't the real issue anyway. Wylie wanted
everything, the whole damn town, and somehow Jesse was supposed to stop him.
With what? All he had was a bluff. And Wylie was the only man who had never
bought it, not completely. Staring at his fleshy face, the thick pelt of dark
red hair, the ruby glinting on his finger, Jesse had to admit Wylie scared him.
There was a look in his bulging eyes, a combination of intelligence and
ruthlessness. No, more than ruthlessness—it was what Cady had said: "It's
just
cruel."

"Where are your two thugs?" he asked, deciding to get it
over with quick. If Gault was the only weapon he had, he might as well use both
barrels on him and get out.

Wylie paused in the act of sitting down. "What?"

"Turley and Clyde, your bodyguards. They in church?"

Somebody behind him started to snicker, but broke off when Wylie
turned his pop-eyes on him. He sat down carefully, folding his small hands on
the edge of the table. "What did you come here for?" he inquired. His
face wasn't pleasant or welcoming anymore.

"I came to tell you I don't like you."

Chairs scraped. Jesse didn't look, but out of the corner of his
eye he saw two, maybe three men scuttle toward the door and duck out.

Wylie pretended to laugh. "And this is supposed to interest
me?" His voice shook slightly—but with anger, not fear.

"I don't like how you operate. I don't like it that you
burned Logan's livery to the ground."

"That's not true. Who told you that? You weren't even here
then. I'll sue you for sl—"

"I don't like it that you turned Forrest Sullivan off his
sheep ranch. You ruined him out of greed, and it's nobody's fault but yours
that he killed himself."

Wylie jerked back in his chair and stood up. "Get out."

"I don't like it that you're trying to ruin Luther Digby,"
he went on without moving.

"That's none of your—"

"And if you go through with it, you'll be sorry."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Yeah. Here's another threat, so pay attention. If you or any
of your hoodlums go near Rogue's Tavern or Cady McGill, I swear you
won't
be
sorry, because you won't live long enough." He tossed his lit cigarette on
the stained carpet and got to his feet. "Got that, Merle? Anything unclear
to you? Anything you want me to repeat?"

Wylie was quivering, white-lipped, ready to go off. He was livid,
literally, but Jesse couldn't tell if he'd scared him or not. "Get
out," he repeated. "Go back to your whore." He was spitting
again, flecks of foam collecting in the corners of his lips. "Oh, yes. I
know about you and Cady. Did she tell you she was old man Shlegel's whore
before she was yours? Why do you think he gave her the saloon? She earned it on
her back, that's why."