Staring Down the Devil (A Lou Prophet Western #5) (6 page)

As
hard as Prophet, the countess, and Sergei rode that day, they made
little better than twenty-five miles, the bounty hunter guessed. If
it hadn’t been for the plodding coach and the countess’s frequent
stops, they could have gone twice that distance.

Near
dark, they made camp in a grove of scrub oaks along a creek. While
Sergei built a fire, Prophet scouted around, making sure they were
alone, then led Mean and Ugly down to the creek. He picketed the
dun in the tall grass near the water and far enough from the bays
that Mean couldn’t pick any fights.

He was brushing
the line-back dun when he heard grass rustling and turned to see
the countess making her way toward him. She was strolling, her
hands clasped behind her back, enjoying the evening.

She
approached him slowly and stopped a few feet away, a pensive little
smile on her lips. Prophet turned back to his job, grooming Mean
with the curry brush and picking the loose hair from the bristles.
He was disgusted with this pair’s uppity airs and didn’t feel like
being friendly. If she wanted to talk, she could start the
conversation herself.

Silently the countess watched him curry the horse. He was
definitely a strange one to her. She’d been in the West only a few
weeks; still, she’d thought she’d seen every kind of man there was
to see out here — farmers, miners, Indians, cattlemen, river men,
train men, and townsmen. But she hadn’t, until the other night when
he had been unceremoniously shown through the doors of the Slap
& Tackle Saloon, laid eyes on anything like Lou
Prophet.

In his
dusty trail garb, his buckskin shirt straining across the slabbed
muscles of his chest, and his perpetual wolfish half-grin, he
reminded her of Sergei’s people. The Cossacks of southern Russia
were fierce warriors and expert horsemen, on the order of the best
of the American Indians. As honorable as they were savage, as
cunning and shrewd as they were chivalrous, they would fight to the
death any man who moved against them, or threatened their territory
or way of life, or slandered their bloodlines.

They liked
stories and strong drink, and they loved to laugh. Also, they were
the gentlest, most creative lovers on earth.

The
countess knew this from firsthand experience, though not from
Sergei, whom
she loved like a brother. But
a few years ago,
when she still owned the
innocence of youth and was traveling with her father to the remote
regions of the Caucuses, she’d been in love for three blissful days
with a stocky, sunburned farm boy named Mishenka.

Lou Prophet would
be a lover not unlike the rustic Mishenka, she thought now as he
moved toward her. Against her will, she imagined how it would feel,
running her tongue over his lips, to be wrapped in those muscular
arms, to feel those taut buttocks in her hands as he thrashed
between her legs. . . .

My god, it had
been so long since a man had shared her boudoir!

She
shook her head to clear the lust fog. Reminding herself what she
had walked over here for, she extended a worn piece of paper that
fluttered in the chill breeze. “Tell me what you think of that, Mr.
Prophet.”

He
turned to her, frowning. When he’d set the brush on the horse’s
back, he took the leaf and leaned against Mean, tilting the page to
the weak light.

It was a map of
sorts, inexpertly drawn in pencil on cheap tablet paper. Jagged
lines presumably marked mountains, serpentine lines must have been
creeks or washes, and the bold X, of course, marked some meaningful
spot.

At least, it must
have been meaningful to someone. To Prophet, it was just an X
amidst squiggly lines on cheap tablet paper.

He shrugged and
said as much to the countess.

“My
sister sent it to me.”

“Why?”

“For
safekeeping.”

“What
is it?”

“It is
a map, is it not?” the countess said, arching her brows patiently.
“Marya says it marks the location of a secret treasure her friend
had discovered in the desert.”

Prophet looked at
the paper again and nodded passively. So-called treasure maps were
a dime a dozen in the West. Most were sold by confidence men to
unsuspecting tinhorns. In the Southwest you could find them in
dozen bundles for less than a nickel.

“Where
did it come from?”

“The
postmark on the envelope was from Broken Knee, Arizona.”

“Broken Knee? Never heard of it.”

The
countess looked at him hopefully. “But you can find it, can’t
you?”

“Probably,” Prophet allowed. “Is that where your sister
is?”

“That’s where the map came from,” the countess said with a
dainty shrug. “I don’t know where else to look.”

“Wait
a minute,” Prophet said, frowning. “You mean, you don’t know for
sure?”

“Marya
didn’t tell me.” The countess stared back at Prophet. “You see,
Marya ran away, against our mother’s wishes, when she traveled
West. She has always been an adventurous girl. After reading many
books about the frontier, she decided to come here
herself.”

Prophet was baffled. “She didn’t tell you where she was
headin’?”

The
countess shook her head. “Marya knew she could confide in me — we
were close, she and I. But she also knew that our mother could get
the information out of me and probably send someone West to escort
Marya back home. So all I know are the sketchy details she included
in her letters — that she met an old prospector somewhere in
Arizona and went off with this man, looking for gold!”The
countess’s voice had risen with exasperation.

“How
old is your sister, anyway?” Prophet asked.

“Four
years younger than I — eighteen.”

“Well,
that explains a lot,” Prophet mused aloud. He was a little
surprised to learn that the countess was only twenty-two. By her
regal, haughty demeanor, he would have said she was in her
late-twenties, early thirties. But then, her skin did appear
awfully smooth and firm, he’d noticed with manly
interest.

She
continued. “Not long after this time, I received that map in the
mail. Along with the map was a brief note from Marya saying only
that she wished for me to keep the map safely for her and to not
show it to anyone. She said that if all went well, she would send
for it.”

Prophet stood beside his horse, frowning curiously. “If all
what went well?”

“I do
not know. But she has not sent for the map, and we have heard
nothing from her since she sent it. A couple of weeks ago, when my
worry got the best of me, I decided to come to Arizona to look for
Marya. And, if possible,” the countess added with a sigh, “bring
her home.”

“What
did your mother say about that?”

“She
did not like it, but in the end she agreed that I should go,
accompanied by Sergei. I have always been the most responsible
child in the family. Besides, Mother, too, is very concerned about
Marya.”

“Why
didn’t you tell me this before?”

The
countess looked demurely down at her shoes. “Because I didn’t think
you would help us, after hearing such a crazy story.”

“I got
to admit, it does sound a little loco.”

The
countess clutched her shoulders and
turned
away, looking back toward the coach.
It was
nearly dark. Stars sparked to life in the violet sky above the
black, spindly branches of the oaks.

Sergei
was gathering wood for a fire. Birds
chattered. To the north and west, the mantled peaks of the San
Juans turned salmon.

“Marya
is a ... a black goat, is how I believe you say it in
English.”

“I
believe that’s ‘sheep,’ “ Prophet corrected with an inward
smile.

“Yes,
sheep,” the countess agreed. “She always sought adventure, even
before our father was killed and we came to this
country.”

Prophet’s frown lines deepened in his forehead. “How was your
father killed?”

“He
was a nobleman and an officer in the Russian army. He had a very
prestigious position. Many others were jealous.” The countess
shrugged her shoulders, lifting her hands and dropping them. “So he
was killed — shot while crossing the street to his favorite bakery.
That happens in our country.”

“What
brought the family here?”

“We
were afraid that the men who had killed my father would try to kill
us, as well. That is also a danger in my country. People disappear,
you see. Whole families. So Sergei — who had fought with father
against the Tartars and had become Father’s personal secretary —
escorted us to Boston. Sergei lives with us. We have an apartment.
It is a quiet life — much too quiet for Marya.” Prophet heard the
smile in the woman’s voice.

Prophet allowed a contemplative silence to seep in around
them. Finally he turned, grabbed the brush off Mean’s back, and
tossed it in the air, catching it and staring thoughtfully into the
darkness. “So your sister’s in Arizona . . . somewhere.”

“Yes,”
the countess said, turning around to face his back. “Will you
please help us find her, Mr. Prophet?”

Slowly
Prophet nodded. “I already agreed to that, didn’t I?”

“But I
thought after you had heard how crazy she is, and wild — and about
the treasure map — you might have decided that we were all too
crazy to —”

“Listen, Countess,” Prophet interrupted, turning to face her.
“I done took the job. It ain’t my way to back out halfway in. Or
even a third in. True, I would have appreciated knowin’ all the
details up front.” He squinted one eye at her. “I just hope there’s
nothing else you’re holdin’ back.”

“Nothing,” the countess said, shaking her head
reassuringly.

Her
voice thinned. “I am worried about my sister, Mr. Prophet. I am
certain she is in trouble. What kind of trouble I cannot
imagine.”

Prophet nodded and sighed. “I reckon you’re right.” Any girl
alone in the West was in trouble. One that had run off with some
old desert rat after buried treasure in Apache and
bandido
country was most
likely already dead.

The
countess stepped toward Prophet and placed her hand on his arm. She
must have read his mind. “I am worried about Marya, Mr. Prophet,”
she repeated. “She is young and headstrong. I want to find her and
take her home.”

“I
think you’re all little headstrong, if you don’t mind me sayin’
so,” Prophet said with a cantankerous smile. “And that coach is
pure-dee bullshit.”

Her
chin rose. Her nostrils flared. The proud royal was back. In a taut
voice she said, “I need you, Mr. Prophet, but I am not fond of your
impertinence.”

“Tough
titty.”

Her
eyes flared, and she took one startled, angry step backward.
“What?”

“It’s
an old expression that means I don’t give a shit about how you feel
about my at
titude. The way I see it, you
loco royals have
gotten far too accustomed
to giving orders and doing things your own way, whether they make
sense or not. Now, I’m not going to run out on you, because for
some damn reason that has only a little to do with money, I feel
obligated to help you find your sister. You can keep your goddamn
coach since it means so much to you to travel in style, but from
now on no more day stops other than those to rest and water the
horses. We keep movin’. No hour-long stops for lunch and afternoon
tea. We move. Understand? The faster we’ve found this Broken Knee,
the better off we’ll be.”

The
countess’s eyes flashed. “And the sooner you’ll be rid of us,
no?”

“You
got that right.”

He
stared at her. She stared back, the skin stretched taut across her
face. The sky’s last light boiled in her slanted eyes. Suddenly she
bolted toward him, and for a moment Prophet thought she was about
to slap his face.

But then she was
in his arms, rising up on the toes of her delicate shoes and
clamping her mouth over his. Befuddled, he just stood there while
she kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her
bosom against his chest. He could feel the heat of her thighs
against his own.

He was
lifting his own hands to hold her when she stepped back as suddenly
as she’d pounced, as though she’d been jerked away by a taut
rope.

“Oh,
my god,” she said, her voice quaking, pressing a hand to her
breast. Her cheeks had flushed strawberry red. “I am
sorry!”

She turned,
grabbed her skirts in her fists, and hurried through the brush
toward the camp.

Prophet stared
after her, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, bewildered.

“Well,
I’ll be damned,” he said, shocked. He rubbed his open hand across
his mouth, then looked at the wet palm, frowning.

Sure
enough, she’d really kissed him.

Well,
I’ll be goddamned,” he said again, still unable to believe
it.

Slowly he shook
his head, stooped to pick up his rifle and saddlebags, and started
toward the fire, dazed.