Nevada Heat (36 page)

Chapter One

Yellow Dog, Texas, 1870

"Keep your hands up!" The gunman tightened his grip on the money bag in his left hand and motioned with his gun hand. Roughening up his voice so they wouldn't recognize it, he added, "And don't nobody try to follow me, neither!"

Quinn Hawkins backed up a step or two, his gaze constantly moving over the faces of the four people in front of him. Four people he'd known most of his life. A sharp stab of uncertainty speared through him but as his gaze locked on the paunchy, sweating face of the banker, Charles Bentley, Quinn ignored his pang of conscience.

He had no choice.

Three customers were lined up right alongside the bank president, their hands held high. Quinn's gaze swept across the familiar features of his friends and neighbors. He wasn't surprised to see that Old Man McDonough and his son Dusty looked fit to bust at being prisoners. And if given half a chance, Quinn knew that Dusty would jump him—gun or no gun. Mrs. Hightower, a middle-aged lady twice the size of most men in town and the only woman in the bank, looked as though she was about to keel over in one of her "spells."

Even as he thought it, the woman started to sway. Hell, Quinn thought. Just what he needed. If she fell over, she'd hit her head and maybe get hurt bad.

Beneath the red bandana covering the lower half of his face, Quinn frowned. "You there," he jabbed the barrel of his pistol toward the bank president. Briefly, he enjoyed the sharp look of panic that settled on Charles Bentley's overfed, doughy features. "Help her sit down 'fore she falls down."

Bentley grumbled something under his breath and Quinn bit back a smile. It was almost worth robbing a bank and risking jail or worse just to watch old fancypants Bentley staggering under the considerable bulk of Erma Hightower in one of her legendary faints.

Still, Quinn's chance of getting caught got better the longer he stayed around. He had no time to be wasting. Sheriff Bruner might get back to town early and then where would Quinn Hawkins be?

In jail, that's where.

Once Bentley had Erma safe on the floor, Quinn took another step back toward the door behind him. Then he played his last card. "My partner's watchin' this place and he won't look kindly on the first face that pokes out that door, y'hear?"

"You got no call to go threatenin' a lady, boy."

Quinn snapped Old Man McDonough a quick look. The man's gnarled fingers were curled into helpless fists over his head.

"Ain't it bad enough you takin' honest folks' hard earned money?" the older man snapped.

Honest folks.

Quinn's jaw clenched tightly. Until that morning, he too was "honest folks." The whole idea for a holdup had come on him suddenlike the night before and at the time, it had seemed like a damned fine idea. Now though, looking into that old man's eyes made Quinn Hawkins ashamed.

But there was no turning back now.

"Hush you," Erma warned the old farmer. "You want that devil to start shootin'?"

Devil? Dusty took a half step forward and Quinn moved the barrel of his pistol until it was aimed at the center of his friend's chest. He hoped to hell Dusty stood still, because if he didn't, Quinn was in trouble. There was just no way in hell he could shoot Dusty McDonough.

"No son," the farmer muttered quickly. "Money ain't worth dyin' over."

Nor killing over neither, Quinn silently added.

"You won't get away with this," the banker said in a voice strangled by the weight of Erma Hightower's huge body lying across his chest. "You'll be caught. I'll see to it."

"Maybe," Quinn acknowledged, "but for now, you just remember my partner and his rifle waitin' outside."

One by one, each of the four nodded. Mrs. Hightower clutched at Bentley's pant leg and the banker did his best to shake her free.

"You bunch stay put… and quiet in here for ten whole minutes, then you can go. Understand?"

They understood. He saw it in their faces. And all it took was a pretend partner with a rifle to get the job done.

Slick as ice, he told himself. For his first effort at being a criminal, he thought everything'd gone real well. Nothing had gone wrong. No one was hurt.

Bright sunshine lay across his back as he stepped clear of the bank onto the wide boardwalk. Just a few more steps then a quick dash to the back of the building and he'd be free and clear. Didn't matter if they raised a posse. Once on that horse of his, no one could catch him. Hadn't his gray won every race in these parts the last three years running? Another smile curved his lips and his moustache brushed against the bandana. He'd be real glad to get shut of that, too. Surprising how irritating a scarf across a body's face could be.

# # #

Winifred Matthews staggered slightly under the unwieldy weight of her overstuffed carpetbag. She should have left it at the stage stop, she supposed, but truth to tell, she'd been so excited, she hadn't even thought of it.

Shifting the carpetbag's handle from her right to her left hand, she squared her shoulders and continued down the narrow, dusty street. Imagine! She, Winifred Matthews, spinster schoolteacher from Maine, was standing in the middle of Yellow Dog, Texas.

It was just like a page out of one of her dime novels.

She stood in the middle of the one and only street or road, if she were to be completely honest. Just wide enough for two wagons to pass each other, the dusty track wandered and curved a bit as if it had been laid out by a drunk. And at either end of the town, that road stretched off into what appeared to be miles of unbroken wilderness.

Winifred smiled to herself and pulled in a deep breath of the still cool, sage-scented early morning air. Her gaze slipped over her surroundings eagerly. Stalwart, weather-beaten buildings crouched behind uneven, wooden boardwalks. Some of the buildings boasted two-story false fronts that leaned precariously toward each other as if for support. There were no sturdy, brick houses built a century ago here. Here, there was no past. Only the present—and the future.

A future Winifred Matthews would now be a part of.

"Miss Matthews!"

Winifred turned around to face the couple who'd shared her stagecoach ride.

"Supper is at six now, don’t forget!" Adelaide Simpson called out as she snatched her parasol from her husband. "A lady such as yourself shouldn't be alone on her first night in Texas."

Alone is exactly what Winifred had been hoping for. She wanted to sit and stare and think. She wanted to enjoy the new sights and sounds around her. She wanted to become one with the Wild West.

Besides, during the last few days, Winifred had learned that Adelaide Simpson loathed the west. She had nothing but complaints about the dirt, the heat, the lack of "society." All the woman wanted to talk about was New York, Boston and the refinements of civilized living.

Everything that Winifred was trying to leave behind.

However, she'd already learned that it was nearly impossible to say "no" to Adelaide Simpson. Actually, it was nearly impossible to get any word in at all.

"Henry!" Adelaide shouted to the mousey little man at her side. Henry jumped. "Henry, you will call for Miss Matthews at a quarter of six, isn't that right?"

"Of course, my dear." It was the longest sentence Winifred had heard Adelaide's poor husband utter in the last two days of travel.

"I'll be ready," Winifred answered quickly. It was, she was sure, the only way to escape and continue her tour of Yellow Dog. Clutching the handle of her carpetbag tightly, she turned and started walking again.

"The hotel is at the other end of town," Adelaide shouted and Winifred winced.

"I just want to look around a bit before I get settled," she called back and never slowed her step.

"Well, l never!" Adelaide's voice thundered into the still morning air. "Henry! Have you ever?"

Winifred didn't wait to see if Henry had ever. She hurried her step and followed the road around a slight curve. She'd disappointed Adelaide, Winifred knew. She recognized that tone of voice. She'd heard it most of her life.

Winifred shook her head in an attempt to dislodge memories of past failures. After all, she told herself, this was the adventure she'd waited years for. And by heaven, she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

Her footsteps were muffled by the dirt road and but for the rattle of the trace chains on the stagecoach horses, the town seemed unusually quiet.

Apparently, it was too early in the morning for people to be about. Most of the stores were still closed, the shades drawn down over the locked doors. The boardwalks were nearly deserted, except, Winifred noticed, for the two men planted in chairs outside the saloon at the far end of town. Their booted feet propped up on the hitching rail in front of them, they looked comfortable enough to have spent the night there.

As she rounded the edge of a closed and shuttered barbershop though, Winifred stopped. She stared openmouthed at the man not ten feet away from her. Tucked away by the curve of the road, she hadn't seen him at all until that moment.

How exciting! And what a beginning to her new, adventurous life! Not five minutes off the stagecoach from Maine and she stumbles into an actual bank robbery!

Oh, if only her mother could see her now, Winifred thought. Wouldn't she be proud?

Quickly passing her too heavy, overstuffed carpetbag from one hand to the other, Winifred stole even closer to the man backing out of the bank. Intent on his crime, he didn't notice her approach. Eagerly, her gaze swept over him, from his worn, denim jeans to the empty holster riding his hip to the red scarf pulled over the lower half of his face.

How thrilling! she told herself as she moved in even closer. Just like the stories she'd been reading to her pupils for the last two years.

He didn't notice her as she crept up behind him. No doubt it was a serious business, being a criminal required all of one's concentration. Carefully, quietly, she stepped up behind him on the wooden boardwalk and leaned to one side to peer around him into the bank.

Four people inside. Thankfully, they appeared to be unhurt. However, they did look uncomfortable, holding their arms high over their heads. Winifred glanced at the rather large woman, her legs stretched out across the floor and her upper body propped against a welldressed, portly gentleman. The woman opened her eyes, saw Winifred and promptly moaned just before throwing herself into a faint. The back of the woman's head clipped the portly man's chin and he jerked back, slamming his head into the teller's cage behind him.

Winifred began to make mental notes for the entries she would make in her journal at the first opportunity. She noted the slash of light across the bank floor and the dust bits drifting in the sunshine. She glanced around her and observed the play of shadows on the weather-beaten buildings. She took note of the horses at the hitching rail behind her, stamping their feet with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.

But especially, she noticed him.

As close as she was to him, he was even taller than he'd appeared at first. Of course, most men of her acquaintance didn't wear boots with heels, either. With his back to her, it would have been impossible to see his face even had he not been wearing that scarf. But no matter, she told herself, her imagination could take care of that.

She would make him hard and angry looking in her journal. Perhaps with a scar that sliced across his cheek and forehead. All good villains—or heroes, for that matter, had scars.

His obviously new black hat was pulled down over sun-blond hair that lay just across the frayed collar of his white shirt. As for the rest of him, she took an instinctive step closer. He looked just as she'd expected the men in the Wild West to look.

Tall, leanly muscled and just a bit … dangerous. Well, perhaps more than a bit, considering he was holding a gun. As that thought flitted through her mind, the robber slid his gun back into its holster and took a quick step backward.

She wasn't prepared. His bootheel came down hard on the tip of her shoe and Winifred grunted.

# # #

What the hell?

Quinn jumped, lost his balance and took another step back before he could stop himself. He jammed his pistol into the holster at his hip. Something big and soft slapped against the back of his knee and he felt his leg give out beneath him.

Keeping a firm grip on the money bag, he threw his right hand back to steady himself and caught a handful of a woman's skirt. Before he could let go, he'd pulled her down on top of him and together, they fell to the boardwalk.

A sharp pain shot through his hip, and her elbow speared into his chest. His breath rushed out of his lungs, and as he gasped for air, he looked up into a contrite pair of forest green eyes.

"I beg your pardon," she managed to say as she shoved her hat back into place. "I only wanted to watch."

Dammit. A near perfect holdup spoiled because of some nosey female!