Rachel Donnelly (9 page)

“Oh that was nothing. Flossie’s got to make a living. I can’t fault her for that. Keeping men company at the saloon is her job. I just wish she’d be a little more choosy, that’s all.”

Keeping men company? Was that what they were calling it now? Leigh liked to believe she was so naïve she had no inkling about what went on above the saloon. But she was twenty-three — hardly a child. She’d heard enough of the whispered tittle-tattle about town to realize Delia’s girls weren’t having tea parties with the gentlemen they escorted upstairs.

She made no attempt to keep the dryness from her tone, “Perhaps it’s not her choice of customer, but her choice of profession that’s the problem.”

“I don’t blame Flossie.” Leigh’s voice turned to a squeal. “Why, even if she tried, she couldn’t resist him. He has that look about him women like. He doesn’t need to say a word and they’re all over him like a wet blanket. She’s too weak-minded to resist a man like Nat Randall.”

Christie missed a step, almost tripping over the hem of her peach organdie gown. Then she recovered herself, putting a hand to the curls she’d so painstakingly arranged atop her head. She should have known. Flossie had been fairly undressing him with her eyes during the poker game last night.

And apparently he hadn’t been as indifferent as he appeared. Not that it mattered. What did she care? He was just a bounty hunter — a no-account drifter. Nothing to her!

In fact, she hoped she never laid eyes on him again. He could have Flossie — he could have a hundred Flossies for all she cared.

“She’s from Carson City,” she said off-handedly. “Perhaps they’re old acquaintances. He may have wanted to question her about the Everetts.”

“Oh, yah, he was going to question her alright, inside and … ”

Christie flashed Leigh a scandalized look.

He rolled his eyes at the fading red sky. “Are you that green? When are you going to grow up — face facts? It’s high time you … ”

“High time I what?” She stopped in her tracks, folding her arms under her bosom. This should be good. Words of wisdom from Leigh — charmer and bamboozler extraordinaire. He was full of a lot of things, but wisdom wasn’t one of them.

“Now don’t get all huffy on me.” He held up one hand. “I’m just looking out for your best interest. Men in these parts aren’t like the gentlemen you’re used to. When it comes right down to it, they’re not gentlemen at all.”

“Are you including yourself in this description?”

“What I’m trying to say is you’re a real looker. I know you think I’m buttering you up — laying it on thick, but it’s the honest to God’s truth.”

Christie lifted a skeptical brow. Leigh usually brought God into the discussion right before he uttered some outrageous lie.

He puffed his chest out, before uttering with stern importance, “And I feel it is my duty as your cousin, to warn you to be careful before you get overly friendly with the wrong sort of fella.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” It was difficult to keep a straight face. “But you needn’t worry, as I won’t be here long enough to form an attachment to anyone.”

“You just remember that when Mathew Sutton starts sparking you tonight.”

Leigh took her arm and they continued on their way.

Christie didn’t bother to suppress her smile. Leigh was full of contradictions. One minute, he was cheating and lying to maneuver the last piece of gold out of a stranger’s pocket — the next, he was declaring to defend her honor. Hopefully, tonight he wouldn’t have to. She doubted his sentiments would last to pass the test.

When they arrived at the dance, the band had just started to warm up. Two fiddlers accompanied by Juan, the livery boy, on his Spanish guitar stood on a makeshift stage at the far end of the barn.

That was all it took to bring the entire town of Murdock to its feet. When they began to play their first song, ‘Old Kentucky Home’, gentlemen swung their ladies onto the dance floor while bystanders clapped their hands and tapped their feet.

The merriment was infectious. Christie forgot her annoyance and began to enjoy herself. Soon she was humming along and tapping her toe.

Leigh left her with the other women by the blue gingham-covered buffet table, then strode off in search of Flossie.

“What a lovely gown,” Mrs. Poole exclaimed. “The color suits your complexion.”

“Thank you.” Christie’s cheeks drew heat at the compliment since Mrs. Poole was the only dressmaker in town. “I’m afraid I had little choice. I didn’t pack many evening gowns. I never imagined I’d have the chance to wear them.”

“Well, I hope you’re ready to kick up your heels.” Mrs. McDermott nodded her head in the direction of the dance floor with a sly smile.

Christie glanced over to find Mathew Sutton weaving his way toward them through the crowd. He was dressed in his Sunday best, blonde hair combed back neatly, boots polished as shiny as a new saddle.

His face flushed pink by the time he reached her, no doubt from the whispers and twittering of the older women, who seemed to relish the idea of a budding romance between them.

She admired his courage.

“Good evening Miss Wallace.” He sounded gentle, yet determined, “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

“I’d be delighted.”

The hum of voices increased as he led her away.

Christie found herself smiling, more from the speculative gabber behind them than the prospect of dancing with Mathew. Not that she was completely immune to his charms. He was a handsome young man with a shy school-boy smile and hazel eyes that changed from blue to green whenever he spoke. It would be difficult not to feel complimented.

Better still, there was nothing threatening about him, making it easy for her to relax as he whirled her around in his arms.

“How do you like living in Murdock?”

“It’s very interesting.” She smiled, thinking of how different the barn dance was from the balls she attended in Boston. “I’m enjoying it.” At least, she had been, right up until the robbery.

He offered an awkward smile. “I guess it’s not as fancy as you’re used to.”

“I don’t mind simple,” she surprised herself by saying, realizing that it wasn’t the trappings of wealth she missed, but her family. And perhaps the big slipper tub. She’d always been partial to a good long soak. But she would hardly expire without it. “Simple is good sometimes.”

Mathew gazed down at her intently, almost hopefully. “Then you’re happy you came.”

He sounded so earnest and sincere; she couldn’t help but smile. “Very happy.” His grip tightened, causing her to fear she’d encouraged his attentions more than she intended. After all, they had nothing in common. But, what did it matter? It wasn’t as though she was making any promises. She liked Mathew. It might be good to have someone else to talk to — share her company during her exile. Besides, how could she be content with Robby, or any other man if she had no one to compare them to?

Just then she caught sight of Nat Randall across the room.

Their eyes locked.

Her heart skipped a beat.

It wasn’t him, she told herself as she looked away, just the shock of seeing him that made her insides flutter. It took a moment for her pulse to slow. She wasn’t about to let him ruin her evening. He was just a bounty hunter — a creature of the lowest regard. Why, he probably couldn’t even dance.

Still, she couldn’t resist her gaze straying in his direction once again.

He leaned against one of the bark-covered beams jutting up from the floor, to converse with the sheriff. The crisp white shirt under his fringed buckskin coat accentuated his dark golden tan, making his thick hair appear as shiny as black satin.

Even dressed as he was, with no frock coat or cravat, he appeared infuriatingly handsome. Her flesh grew hot, realizing hers weren’t the only pair of female eyes studying his insolent profile from across the room.

She abruptly turned away.

The best thing to do was to ignore him, which shouldn’t be difficult, since he seemed just as determined to do the same.

• • •

“I didn’t figure you for a dancing man.”

Nat sent the sheriff a wry smile as he shifted his position against the beam. “I can dance if I have to. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“I don’t blame you.” The Sheriff gave a nod. “She’s a fine looking woman.”

Nat followed the direction of the sheriff’s gaze.

Christie Wallace stood beside the buffet table visiting with a group of women dressed in bright printed gowns. He recognized one woman in a blue one, from the day the post office was held up. Her toe tapped to the fiddle music faster than a telegraph button. The elegant simplicity of Christie’s pale peach gown made her appear like an orchid in a field of wild flowers.

A tall strapping young man came to lead her onto the dance floor for a second time.

Nat’s jaw tightened.

She smiled radiantly up into the man’s face.

Something twisted in Nat’s gut.

He dragged his gaze back to the sheriff. “I don’t think she’s the bounty hunter type.”

“Then again, you’re not a regular bounty hunter, are you, son?” The sheriff gave him an exaggerated wink. “Oh, you put on a good show, but there are times when you slip up. You don’t talk like any bounty hunter I’ve ever met. Hell! You don’t even smell like one.”

Nat kept his tone bland. “I can clean up when I have to.”

“Well, if you’re not here for the ladies,” the Sheriff grinned, “it must be the punch.”

“No, I just drew the short straw. Holt rode back to Virginia City to keep an eye on the boarding house in the likelihood the Everetts should return for Hank sooner than we expect. Word is, they’ll be gone at least a week, so that gives me plenty of time to meet up with Holt.”

“So you stayed behind to stand guard over your prisoner, did you?” The sheriff drawled.

Nat couldn’t tell if he was insulted or suspicious. “It wouldn’t be the first time an angry mob tried to storm a jail, especially after a gathering like this. People start discussing their losses, building it up in their minds, until the insult gets too much. Pretty soon everybody’s blood is running high.”

“The people in Murdock are generally peaceable folk.”

“Until somebody steals all their money.”

The sheriff gave a snort. “You’ve been spending too much time in the barber’s chair.”

“In my experience, it’s a good place to hear what’s going on.”

“Idle gossip, that’s all it is,” The Sheriff blustered. “There’s not going to be any lynching.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just stick around and make sure you’re right.”

“Suit yourself.” The sheriff tipped his hat then strode off in the direction of the punch table.

A tinkle of laughter drew Nat’s gaze to the dance floor. Christie Wallace and her blonde Adonis whirled so close, if Nat reached out he could have run his fingers through her hair. Her cheeks were pink from too many dances. She smiled up into the young man’s face as though they were enjoying some private joke. Every time he saw her glide by, she appeared to be giving equal attention to a different man. Damn little tease. What she needed was a good fucking.

But then, charm was a well-worn tool in that family. Her cousin Leigh certainly had his share of it. He was as slippery as they come. Tonight he was exceptionally obnoxious, laughing loudly and back-slapping every man in the place.

Right now he was waltzing Flossie around the room while she hung off him like a second skin.

Flossie was a sweet girl, but she didn’t have much upstairs. When questioned, she admitted to entertaining Billy Everett on several occasions at Rosie’s saloon in Carson. The trouble was, she didn’t remember much past the size of his hat, and that he liked to try on her stockings.

It seemed the girls at Rosie’s liked to theorize on how the size of a man’s hat related to the size of his other parts. A big hat meant a man was compensating for his shortcomings. According to Flossie, Billy Everett wore a very small hat.

Not exactly the kind of information Nat was looking for. He got the feeling Flossie could have talked about hats all day, if he’d had the time to chat. She’d eyed the one in his hand with a sensual smile, sending meaningful glances toward the brass bed the whole time he questioned her.

He might have been tempted to prove her theory right if he hadn’t just spent a pleasurable hour with Giselle, who seemed to know every sensitive part of the body. Her hands and tongue could make a man forget his own name.

A nudge from behind drew Nat’s attention from the dance floor. Mr. Brooker stood behind him holding out a jug.

Nat shook his head to decline. Apparently, not everyone was here for the punch.

The evening wore on with no sign of trouble.

From time to time a concerned citizen wandered over to politely inquire after his health. The livery owner filled him in on every detail of the construction of the barn. Doc Richard came to tell him Hank Everett’s arm was healing nicely and he’d be fit to travel in a few days. The postmaster thanked Nat again for his part in capturing one of the outlaws who held up the post office, going on to explain the town council’s plan to purchase a proper vault.

Nat was about to tell him he didn’t give a Goddamn what they did, but decided it wasn’t necessary they knew what a selfish bastard he really was. He wasn’t here to protect their town, or recover their money. He was here for the Everetts. Money came and went. Maybe they’d take better care of their earnings from now on — open a proper bank instead of stashing it in strongboxes in the post office where it could be easily carried out.

Nat’s gaze strayed to the punch table, then back to the dance floor. Christie and her golden boy were conspicuously absent. Probably nestled in the haymow, or strolling the sidewalk under the stars.

All of a sudden the fiddle music seemed too loud — the air too close. Nat had had all of the well-wishing and thanks he could stomach. Or perhaps guilt was beginning to peck at his conscience in spite of his jaded thoughts. At any rate, he needed to stretch his legs.

Deputy Carter could probably use a bit of company about now. He’d volunteered to guard the prisoner tonight so the sheriff could relax and rub elbows with his flock — a true sacrifice, considering Hank was on the mend, roaring and hollering threats whenever anyone opened the door to poke their head in to check on him. The sheriff had warned Carter not to get too close to the prisoner, as one of his ham-sized fists could crush the life out of a man in seconds. But Nat had no fears of Carter putting himself in harm’s way. The way Hank smelled — no one could get within arm’s length of him.