Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (16 page)

When
Prophet and Sergei had made plans
to
reconnoiter at Gay’s hacienda later that night, after dark, Prophet
returned to his room and, in spite of the stale heat and droning
flies, slept some of the trail weariness from his bones. He woke
around six, took a whore’s bath, and headed down to the small,
square dining room for supper.

The
countess and Sergei were already there, looking rested, as well,
and Prophet joined them for steak and all the surroundings washed
down with hot, black coffee and followed up with an after-dinner
whiskey. To the countess’s displeasure, the Gay Inn did not have
cognac.

Prophet was about
to excuse himself and go looking for a bath and then a card game —
even if they were crooked, it was something to do while waiting
around for good dark — when Sergei nonchalantly stubbed out his
cheroot and asked Prophet if he would look after the countess for a
few hours. He had some business to tend.

“Business?” Prophet asked.

The
Cossack flushed slightly but remained otherwise composed. “Yes. I
thought I would try out the gambling tables.”

“Remember, they’re rigged,” Prophet reminded him.

“Yes,
but it will give me a chance to appraise the town — with only the
countess’s best interest in mind, of course. We Cossacks like to be
prepared for anything.”

“Oh,
of course,” Prophet said, chewing back a grin. He was more than
happy to spend the evening with the countess but tried not to look
too eager as the big Cossack donned his slouch hat, asked the
countess if she needed anything before he left, and exited the
dining room.

The countess
chuckled huskily, covering her mouth and looking in the direction
Sergei had disappeared.

“What’s so funny?” Prophet said. “You ain’t buyin’ his
excuse?”

“Not
in the least.”

“I
reckon it’s about time for him to get his ashes hauled again,”
Prophet speculated.

When
he explained the old expression, she tipped her head back, clapped
her hands together once, and said, “He is so formal about it and
rather shy and awkward. Like a little Cossack boy.”

“And a
terrible liar.”

“Yes.
I heard some soiled doves, as you call them, calling up to him as
he stood on his balcony earlier, smoking.”

“Ah,
the call of the wild,” Prophet quipped. “He might find a couple to
his liking.” He smiled across the table at the countess, who looked
more ravishing than he’d ever seen her. She wore a pearl necklace
with a pearl headband holding her chestnut hair in coils atop her
head. “I might even find a pretty little lass to my own liking this
evenin’.”

She
regarded him bashfully. “Do you mean me?”

“Of
course I mean you.”

“Do
you find me attractive, Lou?”

“You
bet I do.” Prophet smiled.

She
reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “I know I am
not, but I thank you for saying so, anyway.”

“Natasha,” Prophet said, gazing directly into her eyes, “when
you loosen up and smile, you’re one of the prettiest women I’ve
ever known. And, not to brag, but I’ve known a few.”

She
sank back in her chair, her slanted eyes flashing. “Yes, I imagine
you have, Lou Prophet. With your charm, I think you could have any
woman you desire.” Lowering her voice, she added seductively, “And
tonight you will, indeed, have me.” She smiled and reached across
the table again. “But first, show me around the town a
little?”

“It
would be my pleasure,” Prophet said, standing and pulling out her
chair.

She
waited in the lobby while he paid for the meal. Outside, he offered
the countess
his arm, and they strolled east
down the street, which had settled down a little since supper. But
the ore wagons continued their endless stream. The saloons were
busier than ever, and Prophet speculated they’d get busier by the
hour, for the sun hadn’t even sunk yet. A pretty, coppery light
spilled down from the mountains, and purple shadows drew out from
the buildings along the street.

The cooling air
was velvety and smelled faintly of desert blossoms.

Fleeing the dust
kicked up by the ore wagons. Prophet led the countess off down a
side street, toward the ravine that cut around the town.

“I am
so happy you found Marya,” the countess said as they turned around
a tangle of greasewood in their path.

“Now,
we don’t know it’s Marya, Countess. Like I said, this might be a
long shot.”

“Call
me Natasha, Lou, and kiss me.” She’d stopped and smiled up at
him.

When
he turned to her, she threw her arms around his neck, rose up on
her tiptoes, and kissed him hungrily on the lips. He returned the
kiss, having wanted to kiss her ever since their first tryst in the
stage. The countess was many things — arrogant, irritating,
demanding, to name only a few — but she was also bewitching and
tender and a superb lover. Prophet didn’t mind being her whipping
boy nearly as much as he had at the start of their journey. In
fact, his feelings for her had grown rather complicated.

“You
are some kind of woman — you know that?” Prophet asked her now,
staring down into her eyes which the fading desert light rendered
an iridescent vermilion.

“And
you are some kind of man. Thank you very much.”

“Are
we back on Marya again?”

“Of
course. You have found her. I know it. I know such things when they
are in my heart.” Her smile broadened. “And you will bring her back
to me and my family. I know you will.”

“Well,
first we have to get her away from Leamon Gay.”

“That
shouldn’t be too hard. Marya has never been able to keep a man
interested in her for long. She is — what is the word?
Strong-headed?”

“Huh,”
Prophet chuffed with playful mockery. “Imagine that, with such a
wallflower like you for a sister!”

The
countess frowned beautifully, fine lines etching above the bridge
of her nose, full lips parting. She knew she was being
teased but not exactly how.
“What is the ‘wall flower’?”

Prophet told her,
and she laughed. She took his arm again, and they continued along
the path, chatting quietly, silently observing how the dying light
turned the desert lime green, then blue and then slowly purple.
Tiny birds chatted in the grease-wood and mesquite growing along
the bone-dry ravine.

“Have
you ever been in love, Lou?” the countess asked after a long
pause.

Prophet thought about it for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes.”

“But
you never married.”

“Nope.
Don’t intend to, neither.”

“Why
not?”

“Don’t
want to be tied down.”

“That
is because you have never met anyone you would want to ‘tie you
down,’ as you say.”

Prophet shrugged. “I can’t imagine anyone like that. I like
Mean and Ugly too much. Him and me have quite a time ridin’ here
and there, chasin’ owlhoots and laughin’ with the girls. Why, if it
wasn’t for that, I never would’ve met you, now would I?”

“You
have a point,” the countess said with a husky chuckle. “But someday
you will want to settle down and have children, to continue after
you are gone.”

“I
don’t think so, Natasha.”

She
looked up at him as they strolled, and he noticed that a sad
curiosity had seeped into her eyes. “You are a troubled man, Lou
Prophet.”

“Troubled?” he said, incredulous. “Hell, I ain’t troubled.
Now, a wife and kids — they’d trouble me.”

“You
can say what you want, but you are an unhappy man deep down inside.
In your soul. I can see it now. I have seen it often when I have
watched you secretly.”

“Now,
that ain’t nice — spyin’ on a man,” he admonished her,
teasing.

“What
happened? Was it the war in your country, between the
States?”

He
glanced at her again, then continued walking in silence, pondering
her question. “I reckon if there is any trouble in me — and I’m not
sayin’ there is, but I guess it’s possible — it’s no doubt because
of the War.”

“Did
you have to kill?”

“Oh,
yes.”

“And
you saw your friends killed?”

“Sure.” He stopped suddenly and looked down at her. He had no
idea what he was going to say before he’d started in.

“I had
to kill one of them, too, one of my friends. Only he wasn’t only a
friend — he was a cousin of mine from Tunnel Hill, Georgia, two
years younger. We were in a skirmish down near Dalton, just after
Chickamauga. We were on a ridge, and this Yankee runnin’ up the
ridge shot Andy with a musket he’d loaded with buck an’ ball. That
means he’d poured two cartridge loads of black powder down the
barrel — then a double charge on top of the powder. That’s
twenty-four buckshots — damn near a mortar round — with a
sixty-caliber ball rammed down on top of it. And —”

Prophet stopped, suddenly realizing he’d been chewing the rag
and she didn’t understand any of it, not a word. He could see that
in her eyes staring up at him, filled with woe. But she was
listening, so he decided just to go ahead and spill the rest of it,
get the gall and wormwood out of his blood.

For
he’d never told this to anyone before. Had never even really told
it to himself. . . .

“Well,
that ball with all that mean powder behind it blew poor Andy’s
insides clear to Kingdom Come, but Andy lingered. He begged me to
shoot him, to end his pain, and he handed me his gun.” Prophet took
a deep breath and let his eyes wander off.

“So I
did it,” he said, very softly. “Only I couldn’t see very well
through the tears in my eyes, and I ended up blowing half his jaw
away with the first shot. I finally killed him with the second
shot, while those eyes were starin’ up at me, filled with more
misery and pain and torture than I knew even existed before that
day.”

Prophet’s voice broke on the last of this, and he turned away,
clearing his throat. She put a hand on his shoulder and just stood
there, massaging his shoulder gently while he thought it all
through, then sleeved the tears from his eyes.

Finally he said, “Sorry. Listen to me rattle, would
you.”

“I am
glad you told me,” she said, putting her arms around his back and
pressing her cheek to his chest.

Prophet found his
humor again as they headed back toward the hotel, and they were
both laughing as they walked down the main street, squinting
against the dust still kicked up by the ore wagons.

In the
Gay Inn’s lobby, Prophet ordered a tub and hot water for the
countess’s room, giving the countess a furtive wink. When the tub
had been brought up and filled by one of the errand boys, Prophet
crept out of the countess’s closet, where he’d hidden from the
errand boy.

He
disrobed the countess, then himself, and they made a night of it,
making love in the tub and then in the bed, stopping only to sip
his whiskey and to smoke before continuing again, teasing and
laughing and making love like it was the last night of the
world.