Gunslinger
Authors: Connie Mason
ROMANTIC TIMES
RAVES FOR CONNIE MASON! WINNER OF THE
ROMANTIC TIMES
CAREER ACHIEVEMENT AWARD!
PIRATE
“Ms. Mason has written interesting characters into a twisting plot filled with humor and pathos. If you enjoy pirates and romance, you’ll enjoy
Pirate
.”
BEYOND THE HORIZON
“Connie Mason at her best! She draws readers into this fast-paced, tender and emotional historical romance that proves that love really does conquer all!”
BRAVE LAND, BRAVE LOVE
“
Brave Land, Brave Love
is an utter delight from first page to last—funny, tender, adventurous, and highly romantic!”
WILD LAND, WILD LOVE
“Connie Mason has done it again!”
BOLD LAND, BOLD LOVE
“A lovely romance and a fine historical!”
VIKING!
“This captive/captor romance proves a delicious read.”
TEMPT THE DEVIL
“A grand and glorious adventure-romp! Ms. Mason tempts the readers with…thrilling action and sizzling sensuality!”
SHEIK
“Ms. Mason has written another winner….This is a story that will certainly keep you warm on a cold winter’s night.”
A WICKED OFFER
“The wildcat has sharp claws,” Desperado remarked. “I’ll have to remember not to rile you if I stay around long enough to encounter you again.” He tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Sommers.”
“Wait! About that job…”
“I haven’t changed my mind. I don’t work for females. Never have, never will.”
Chloe bristled angrily. “Why are you so prejudiced against women? There’s nothing a man can do that I can’t.”
He gave her a slow grin, granting her a glimpse of his deliciously wicked dimple. “You’d be surprised by what a man can do that you can’t.” A predatory gleam darkened his eyes. “Then again, maybe you already know. If not, I’d be more than happy to show you.”
Gunslinger
Connie Mason
© 1999, 2012 Connie Mason. All rights reserved.
He blew into Trouble Creek on a raw April wind, beneath a sky that had a sullen, almost bruised look. The tails of his gray duster flapped behind him in the breeze like giant bat wings, revealing long, muscled legs clad in buckskin trousers mellowed to the color of butternut. A fine layer of trail dust covered his hat and coated his face, making the deeply grooved squint lines around his eyes more pronounced. The man rode tall in the saddle; one could see his tension in the set of his broad shoulders and the stiffness of his spine.
He reined his mustang down Trouble Creek’s main street, his dark eyes narrowed into wary slits. Though he looked neither right nor left, his inscrutable gaze remained watchful. Nothing escaped his notice. Not the ragtag collection of buildings he remembered from his youth nor the two new saloons that hadn’t been there eight years ago when he’d returned to make peace with his father.
A rueful smile touched his full lips when he noted that Miss Milly’s whorehouse was still the grandest place on the town’s main street. A deep dimple appeared in his right cheek with his smile. It was totally unexpected in his rough-hewn dark face, which spoke eloquently of his Indian heritage.
The rider drew rein in front of the Devil’s Den saloon, dismounted, looped his reins around the hitching post and stretched his weary muscles. His throat felt dry as a desert and he was in desperate need of something potent enough to cut the dust clogging his throat.
“Desperado Jones!”
The stranger spit out a curse. Was there nowhere in this part of the world he could travel without being recognized? But what did he expect? His reputation as a fast gun had spread throughout Texas and the West like wildfire. Few suspected that his reputation alone was usually enough to deter all but the most determined men from challenging him. His mean-as-hell reputation had kept him from being killed. His reluctance to kill in cold blood had kept him out of jail, except for minor infringements, throughout his illustrious career as a hired gun. As long as he continued to walk that thin line between legal and illegal, the law couldn’t touch him.
But every now and then, like today, a trigger-happy young fool challenged him, forcing him to defend himself. Desperado Jones had the reputation of a lightning draw, so fast, in fact, that no man had ever outdrawn him. But unlike most gunslingers, Desperado Jones rarely shot to kill.
“Desperado Jones! Turn around.”
Desperado glanced over his shoulder, sighing in resignation when he saw a cocky young cowboy standing several yards behind him, his legs splayed wide, the fingers of his right hand twitching over the butt of his gun, clearly eager to prove himself to his friends.
Desperado turned slowly, moving aside his duster to reveal a pair of twin Colt .45 six-shooters riding low on either hip and tied down gunman style around each thigh with a leather thong. “I hear you,” he answered in a low, hoarse rasp that made the onlookers gathered on the wooden sidewalks step backward.
“I know who you are and I’m gonna prove I’m a faster draw than you,” the young man boasted. “Draw whenever you’re ready.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Desperado said in a creepy whisper he’d affected to frighten his challengers.
The young man blanched but held his ground, sending Desperado a narrow-eyed look that reminded him of a shifty rattlesnake he’d once encountered. “Tate Talbot doesn’t back down.”
Desperado pegged Tate Talbot for a smart-ass young fool who thought himself invincible. He needed a lesson and Desperado decided he was just the man to give it to him.
“Go ahead, Talbot, draw,” Desperado rasped as he assumed the stance of a seasoned gunfighter. Immediately a dozen or more people flattened themselves against the weatherbeaten businesses lining the street.
Talbot looked uncertain for a moment, then his fingers unflexed and dove for his gun. He was fast, but Desperado was faster. His six-shooter appeared in his hand as if by magic, already belching smoke before Talbot’s gun had cleared his holster. The shot reverberated loudly in the unnatural silence, followed by a scream as Talbot’s gun flew out of his hand.
“You broke my hand!” Talbot cried, cradling his injured hand against his chest. “That’s my gun hand. You’ll pay for this, Desperado Jones. Mark my words.”
Desperado watched dispassionately as Talbot’s friends led him away, presumably to the doctor’s office. He shook his head in disgust. It was times like this that made him regret taking up the profession that had earned him the reputation of a fast gun. To Desperado’s knowledge, he
was
the fastest gun in Texas, and maybe in the entire West. Most of the time his reputation alone made the jobs he undertook simple. But squaring off for a shootout every time some overzealous kid with a fast gun and a mean streak challenged him was becoming monotonous. There were too many saddle bums and would-be gunmen out there hoping to make a name for themselves by outdrawing Desperado Jones.
Desperado started toward the saloon, needing that drink more than ever after the gunplay just now. He shouldn’t have come to Trouble Creek in the first place, he grumbled to himself. He hadn’t been back in eight years and had no reason to return now. When a twist of fate had brought him close to Trouble Creek, he’d decided to satisfy his curiosity and visit the town he hadn’t seen since he’d returned to make peace with his father and attended his funeral instead. Cursing his damn curiosity, Desperado vowed that this was the last time he’d ever set foot in Trouble Creek.
“Mr. Desperado Jones?”
Tired of messing around with young fools bent on making a name for themselves, Desperado crouched low and whipped around, his gun appearing in his hand faster than a snake can strike. The breath went out of him in a loud whoosh and he slapped his gun back in his holster when he realized his name had come from the lips of a female.
And what a female! She was tall, blonde and slim; her long legs were encased in skin-tight Levi’s that cupped her bottom like loving hands. Her Stetson wasn’t nearly as battered as his and did little to hide her startling green eyes and flawless complexion.
His eyes settled on her unfettered breasts, their fullness clearly visible beneath her buckskin jacket and silk shirt. His eyes narrowed in surprise when he noted that she was packing guns and looked as if she knew how to use them. He heard her take in a noisy breath, then expel it with a loud sigh, and he suspected he had frightened her. It would serve her right, he thought. She shouldn’t have come up on him like that without warning. She could have gotten herself killed.
“Yeah, I’m Desperado Jones. What can I do for you?” He knew what he’d like to do and wondered if the lady would object. He knew instinctively that she would. Half-breed Apache Indians weren’t all that popular in these parts.
“I wondered if you knew you’d just made an enemy,” the woman said. “The man you just shot is Tate Talbot. His father is Calvin Talbot, a land speculator and mayor of Trouble Creek. He’s also a land-grabbing, money-hungry scoundrel who uses underhanded, often illegal, methods to purchase valuable land holdings from unsuspecting ranchers. And his son,” she said bitterly, “is a despicable bas…Well, let’s just leave it at that.”
“You don’t say,” Desperado muttered, more interested in the woman’s attributes than her words. “Why are you telling me this, Miss…”
“Sommers, Chloe Sommers. I own the Ralston spread north of town.”
Desperado went still. His face took on a hard-edged remoteness and his dark eyes glittered dangerously. Those were the only outward signs that he recognized the name. His mind went back in time to the day his widowed father brought home a new wife. Norie Sommers had hated twelve-year-old Logan Ralston on sight. Not only did she despise his dark skin but she hated it that he was Ted Ralston’s son from his union with Dancing Star, an Apache woman Ted had married despite the disapproval of his friends and neighbors.
Desperado remembered his mother as a gentle, loving woman who adored her husband and lavished special attention upon her son. Her death had been a terrible blow to both young Logan and his father. For a time they had managed alone, until Ted Ralston grew lonely and began courting a widow visiting from another city. They had married after a brief courtship.
Young Logan had always known his stepmother didn’t want him around. But it wasn’t until Norie became pregnant that he learned the depth of her hatred.
Chloe Sommers tipped her head up and searched Desperado’s face, puzzled by his sudden stillness. His fierce expression and dark features betrayed his Indian heritage. His face was all sharp angles, jutting cheekbones and black, slanting eyebrows. His mouth was wide, with a generous lower lip. His face was set in cold, sardonic lines that destroyed any hint of gentleness. There was an innate pride in his bearing, handed down, she supposed, from his proud forebears, there for all to see…and to fear. But it was Desperado’s eyes that intrigued Chloe. A person could fall into those fathomless black depths and become lost. She bit her lip, wondering where that thought had come from. But Chloe wasn’t about to let this formidable gunslinger frighten her. She needed him too badly.
Desperado said something, bringing Chloe’s wandering attention back. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m not afraid of the Talbots.”
“I didn’t think you were,” Chloe said, eyeing him with renewed interest. “Would you happen to be looking for a job, Mr. Jones? I’m looking to hire a gunman. I’m taking my herd to the railhead at Dodge soon and I need a gunman to make sure my beeves arrive safely. If I fail, my ranch will be sold to pay the back taxes, leaving the way open for Calvin Talbot to gobble up my holdings, and I can’t let that happen,”
One eyebrow arched sardonically as he studied her with unabashed sexual speculation. “Are you running the ranch by yourself?”
Chloe’s chin lifted. “For the past two years, I have. My stepfather left the ranch to my mother. We ran it together until she died.” She searched his face, as if looking for something familiar. “Are you from around here, Mr. Jones?”
“Just passing through,” Desperado rasped. His next sentence came unbidden to his tongue. “Did your stepfather die without heirs?”
Chloe stared into the distance, as if trying to recall something from her memory. “There was a son, Logan Ralston, but he died a long time ago. I never knew him because I didn’t arrive at the ranch until after he’d left. All I recall is that my stepfather was sad a very long time after his death.” She blinked away the memory. “Let’s get back to the question at hand. About that job, Mr. Jones. I need your gun and I’m willing to pay for it.”
Desperado knew he had acquired the reputation of being a ruthless killer. He had worked hard to achieve that reputation; it was the way he wanted to be seen by the world. He’d been hired countless times to do exactly what Chloe Sommers had asked of him, but never by a woman. Having a woman boss didn’t appeal to him. Never had, never would.
“Sorry, Miss Sommers,” Desperado drawled. “I don’t work for women. They’re too flighty and unpredictable.”
“You’re turning me down? I can pay, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not interested in your money.”
“Why you…you gunslinging half-breed!” Chloe spit out. “I don’t need you anyway. There must be dozens of men in Trouble Creek willing to work for a woman.” With a toss of her head that nearly dislodged her hat, she whirled on her heel and strode off.
Desperado watched her walk away, his first genuine smile in a long time curving his lips. There was something deliciously tempting about the way a woman filled out a pair of Levi’s and a silk shirt, especially a tall, slim woman with swaying hips and unfettered breasts. He stared at her bottom, thinking he had never seen one he liked as much. It was narrow, high and round, exactly the way he liked women’s bottoms. He licked his lips.
As he walked to the saloon, Desperado’s thoughts turned inward, traveling back many years in time, to those days before he’d been sent away. He hadn’t known Chloe then for she hadn’t arrived to join her mother at the ranch until after his departure. But whether she knew it or not, Chloe was as much to blame as her mother for his being sent away from the only home he’d ever known and a father he loved. And all because Norie Sommers Ralston was pregnant and couldn’t abide the sight of her half-breed stepson. Norie had convinced Ted that having a savage around during her pregnancy would likely cause her to miscarry, so twelve-year-old Logan had been sent to stay with an elderly aunt in San Antonio until after Norie’s child was born.
Young as he was, Logan knew Norie hated him because his father loved him, and that she wanted him out of her life forever. He also knew that Ted wouldn’t have sent him away had he known his son would never return.
Desperado had vowed to forget the three years of banishment forced upon him by Norie, but he’d never quite succeeded. After Norie lost the child she carried, Logan waited expectantly for his father to send for him. But all he’d gotten was a visit from Ted Ralston. His father had explained that Norie had conceived again and that he had to stay with his aunt indefinitely because of his wife’s frail health.
He also explained that Norie’s small daughter from her previous marriage had arrived to live at the ranch and that Norie feared Logan would be a bad influence on the child. All this his father had told him in a sad voice that clearly expressed his grief over the situation. He’d promised Logan that his banishment wouldn’t last forever. Famous last words, Desperado thought as he pushed open the swinging doors of the saloon and stepped inside.
Conversation came to a halt as Desperado ambled through the swinging doors of the Devil’s Den. He paid little heed to the sudden quiet as he bellied up to the bar and ordered a bottle of whiskey. The bartender set a bottle and glass in front of him and scooted away, as if he expected Desperado to shoot him instead of paying him. Cocking one foot on the railing, Desperado gazed into the mirror behind the bar. It was a habit he’d established long ago. It allowed him to watch his back at all times. He either sat with his back to the wall and faced the door or stood in front of a mirror. The practice had kept him alive.