Head in the Clouds (19 page)

“I’ll bring in as many men from the pasture as I can spare,” Gideon said, “and use them as guards around the house and on the roadways. They’ll take shifts throughout the night, as well. First thing tomorrow, I’ll ride into Menardville and ask some of the local proprietors to keep their eyes open for Petchey.”

“Can you trust them?” James asked.

“They are pillars of the community. They won’t be swayed by the viscount or his money. They certainly weren’t impressed with my title when I purchased the ranch. I’ve had to prove myself and earn their respect. They’ll follow through. If anyone sees or hears anything about Petchey, they’ll get a message to me.”

“Good. What about Fort McKavett?”

“The people there are hurting economically from the fort’s closing, so they might be more susceptible to a bribe.” Gideon frowned. “There’s no telling how many men we might be up against.”

James rose to his feet and crossed to where Gideon stood. “I’ll stay as long as you need me,” he vowed, gripping Gideon’s shoulder. “Everyone will pitch in. You know they will. Your men are loyal, and the household staff will help, too. From what you’ve told me about Miss Proctor, I have no doubt she’ll guard Isabella like a mother bear watching over her cub.”

It was true. Adelaide already loved the girl with a mother’s devotion. She would likely give her life for Bella. But that was part of the problem. How could he adequately protect those he loved from a threat he wouldn’t be able to see until it was upon them?

“God help us, James.”

“He will, Gid. He will.”

Chapter 23

When Reginald Petchey entered the dingy saloon on the outskirts of Fort McKvett, a hush fell over the dozen or so patróns who graced the establishment.
Graced
being a charitable description. The ragtag bunch looked as filthy as he did after two days in the saddle, only they seemed comfortable with the condition while he silently counted the minutes until his man secured a bathing tub in some rustic chamber so he might remove the grime from his person.

Curious stares followed him as he made his way to the bar. One grizzled fellow with a bulging cheek glared at him from where he stood with his boot propped against the bar’s foot rail. Without a word, he let fly a stream of brown juice that missed Reginald’s trouser leg by the barest of margins.

“Yer blockin’ the spittoon, gent.”

Reginald raised a single brow and looked down his nose at the offender. For a brief moment he indulged himself with the image of stuffing the abhorrent wad of goo in the man’s jowls down his throat, yet he resisted the impulse. He was there for a reason.! Alienating these men wouldn’t serve his purpose, no matter how much pleasure it might afford him at the moment.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Reginald bowed to the man, swiping the black bowler from his head with a flourish. “May I offer you the use of my hat?”

The unshaven man didn’t hesitate. With a disdainful gleam in his eye and a well-practiced squeeze of his cheek, he spat a second stream directly into the bowler’s crown.

The card players seated at the nearest table guffawed. Reginald joined in, playing up the role of merry old Englishman.

“I say! The chap’s got marvelous aim.”

“Yeah, Jeb can hit a dime at twenty paces,” one of the gamblers boasted.

Reginald offered a buffoonish grin and slid into a vacant seat at the card table. “What a remarkable skill. Is he equally talented with a pistol?”

“Was,” Jeb answered for himself, “until a renegade Comanche plugged my shoulder full o’ lead back in ’78.” He tossed the soiled hat onto the floor near Reginald’s chair and demonstrated his expectoration prowess by launching another round of spittle across the five feet or so separating the bar from the table. It splatted dead center once again.

The mention of Comanche renegades inspired a round of stories, each bloodier than the last as the men recounted the glory days of Indian wars on the plains. Reginald feigned horrified interest as he deftly shuffled the deck of cards that was passed to him and dealt himself into the game.

Careful to lose frequently enough to preserve the good spirits of the group, he gently probed for information about marksmen in the area who might not have qualms about getting their hands dirty if the price were right.

Thirty minutes later, he hadn’t made much progress. His pockets were about twenty dollars heavier, but he was still light on names. He had just drawn a pair of queens when a swarthy Mexican stumbled into the saloon.

“José’s back,” the man seated across from Reginald observed. A collective moan rose up from the group.

“If you ain’t got coin, I ain’t servin’ you, José.” The barkeep called out the warning, but the Mexican continued on.

“I pay.” He slapped a silver coin onto the bar and downed his shot of whiskey the instant it was poured.

Reginald eyed the man speculatively. “Why so uncharitable to the hapless fellow? I thought it was a code of the West to buy a man a drink if he is short on funds.”

“We did the first time or two.” The man seated to his right pushed a pair of cards at the dealer. The dealer replaced them with new ones, and the man arranged them in his hand as he answered. “But we got tired of him going on and on every night ’bout how some fancy English sheep rancher ruined his life over an uptight señorita.”

In the midst of exchanging two of his own cards, Reginald nearly dropped the queen of spades the dealer handed him. English sheep rancher? From what information Farnsworth had been able to unearth, Reginald was almost certain that Westcott ran sheep.

“How dreadful.” Reginald spoke loud enough to ensure that José overheard. “I’d hate to think a countryman of mine was responsible for this man’s misfortune.”

In an instant, the dark man appeared at his side waving a wicked-looking blade under Reginald’s nose. Chair legs scraped against the hardwood floor as the men at the table separated themselves from the altercation.

“You sound like him. Maybe you bleed like him, too—eh,
hombre
?”

“Settle down, José.” The card player closest to Reginald held his hands out, trying to placate the Mexican. Yet it did no good. José jabbed his knife at the man and then turned his attention back to Reginald.

“Any friend to Westcott is enemy to me.”

The knife slashed within an inch of Reginald’s cheek, but he didn’t flinch. In fact, the corners of his lips twitched as he fought a grin. Too elated to be afraid, he stared at his opponent and sized up his potential. Not only had he found a man willing to use violence to get his way—he had found one who already held a grudge against Westcott. A perfect combination.

Three revolvers cocked simultaneously from across the table. All barrels pointed at José’s chest. Gone were the jovial old men who had spun yarns to pass the time. In their place were men with flinty eyes and steady hands. Perhaps their tales of adventure held more truth than Reginald had originally believed.

“Unless you want that whiskey you just threw back to be your last, I suggest you put the knife away,” the barkeep called out, brandishing a shotgun of his own.

José’s eyes hopped from man to man around the room, and he tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade. Reginald needed to take matters into his own hands before someone did something stupid and put a hole in his new henchman.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. There’s no cause for such a show of weaponry. No harm has been done. The man is simply venting some frustration.”

Reginald turned to address José directly. “I’ll make you a deal, sir. You put the knife away, and I’ll buy you a bottle of whatever liquor you choose. We can share a drink while you explain what happened between you and the English rancher. I know of this Westcott fellow, though I’ve never met him personally, and if he has wronged you, I believe I can help set things right.”

The Mexican wavered, his brow furrowed. “You let me keep the whiskey?”

“Of course, lad.”

Finally the man nodded and sheathed his blade. The room released its breath as pistols were uncocked and returned to their holsters. Conversations picked up where they had left off, and the card players scooted their chairs back up to the table.

Reginald nodded to his gambling compatriots. “Thank you for allowing me to join your game this evening, gentlemen. Perhaps I’ll be able to continue this another time.” He hated abandoning three perfectly good queens, but holding on to José was worth more than a piddling poker pot.

After purchasing a bottle and removing to a back table, Reginald poured two fingers of whiskey for himself and his prospective business partner. He saluted with his glass and dumped the cheap booze down his throat. The liquor tasted like brimstone and felt as if it were burning a hole in his gullet. Reginald forced it down and refilled both glasses before passing the bottle to his companion. Once José tucked a few more shots under his belt, Reginald ventured his first question.

“What did Westcott do to bring you so low, my friend?”

José caressed the neck of the brown bottle with his hand. “Huh?”

Reginald bit back an oath. “Westcott. What did he do to you?”

“What he do?” José turned his head and spat upon the floor. “I was champion shearer of my village.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “The crew bosses, they pay me top wage to work for them. I shear a hundred sheep a day and always win prize for most fleeces.”

He poured another drink, sloshing some of the liquid onto the table. His eyes narrowed and his mouth grew taut as he lifted the glass to his lips. With a jerk, he downed the contents. “Now no crew hire José. El capitán, he listen to the gringo and believe his lies. He say I attack the woman, but her eyes asked me to come.”

“Who was she? A servant? Westcott’s wife?” Reginald didn’t think the woman important, but one never knew for sure. Better to hedge all his bets.

“A teacher for his
niña
.”

Isabella.

Reginald leaned across the table. “Did you see the child?”

“Sí. A little mouse. She never say a word. But the woman …” He rubbed his mouth with the back of his soiled hand. “She say plenty.” José let loose with a string of rapid Spanish that Reginald could not understand. However, he had no trouble interpreting the vigorous disdain behind the barrage.

It was only José’s rediscovery of the whiskey bottle that slowed him. He hoisted it to his lips, his aim slightly off target, and downed a healthy swig. “She wanted José, but Westcott, he charged in like a bull.” José’s gaze shifted toward the wall. “His men, they hold me down while he beat me with his fists. Then he locked José up like a criminal.
No es correcto.
I do nothing wrong!”

He started to lift the bottle to his lips again, but his mouth twisted into a satisfied grin as the bottle thunked back onto the table. “Those gringos, they not smart enough to hold José. I pretend to be sick,” he said, and then proceeded to demonstrate the horrifying retches and moans he’d apparently used to great effect.

“Quite clever,” Reginald interrupted before the shearer managed to spew the contents of his whiskey-logged stomach in actuality.

“Sí. Clever.” José tapped the side of his head, missing his target the last time and nearly impaling himself in the eye. Reginald bit back a sigh. The things he had to put up with to keep his hands clean.

“The night deputy, he open the cell to check on me,” José continued, “and
bam
! I grab him and throw his head against the wall. He fall,
inconsciente.
I take a horse from the saloon and ride. The dumb gringos know nothing. They think I go back to Mexico, but they’re wrong. I been here a week, planning my
venganza
.”

José seemed far more intent on planning how to get his next drink than plotting vengence, but Reginald kept his opinion to himself.

José slurped down another gulp of whiskey and leveled a pair of bloodshot eyes on Reginald. “That gringo pig stole my work and my honor. I make him pay.” He slammed the whiskey bottle onto the table, sending a shower of droplets onto the back of Reginald’s hand.

Reginald took his handkerchief and wiped away the splatter, careful to veil his disgust for the man across from him.

“Westcott stole from me, as well,” Reginald said as José lifted the bottle again, “and I aim to exact retribution. How would you like the chance to pay him back for all the pain he’s caused you?”

José halted the bottle’s progress halfway to his lips. Anticipation rushed through Reginald’s veins as he waited for his words to sink into the man’s sotted brain. When the light finally dawned, it was a beautiful, unholy gleam. Then, all too soon, it dimmed into a glower of frustration.

“You think I not have my own plans?” The bottle fell back to the table. “I don’t need you, señor. Westcott will feel the stab of my blade in his back without you.”

Reginald stifled a groan. The fool’s pride was ridiculous. The man had done nothing since his arrival besides drink himself into a sea of self-pity. Most likely, the closest he’d come to plotting his revenge was dreaming of Westcott’s demise while he slept off his liquor. Nevertheless, Reginald had dealt with flunkies like José before. They tried his patience but were easily controlled and expendable—two keys to a successful scheme if one could assure their loyalty.

“I don’t doubt your ability for a minute, my good man. But wouldn’t you rather gain some coin for your pocket while achieving this vengeance?” Reginald reached inside his vest and extracted a double eagle. With a flip of his wrist, he pitched the twenty-dollar gold piece onto the table.

José’s jaw hung slack as the coin spun and wobbled, the spiral vibrations tapping louder and faster with each revolution. The crescendo built in speed and pitch until the coin suddenly stopped. The shearer stared at the gold piece with eyes as large as the coin itself.

“You see, I have a score to settle with Westcott. He has something that belongs to me. Therefore, I propose we join forces. I’ll pay you handsomely for your time … and devise the perfect strategy to effect our revenge. You, sir, will carry out that strategy and avenge your honor.”

José finally looked away from the coin and met Reginald’s gaze. His lips curled up in a snarl of a smile that bared both his yellowed teeth and his vengeful soul. Satisfaction flared in Reginald’s chest.

“We both get what we want,” Reginald purred, “the destruction of Gideon Westcott.”