The Devil You Know (45 page)

She raised her right hand and delivered a hard blow to the crown of his head with the derringer still in her palm. He collapsed, arms and legs splayed, pinning his friend under him. She entertained the fleeting thought that she was fortunate the pistol did not discharge because then she would have no defense against the revolver Amos was trying to draw. He fumbled with the strap in the same manner he had fumbled with the knots.

“Leave it,” she said. “Leave it or I will shoot.”

Amos's fingers stopped twitching. He blinked rapidly; water dripped from his eyes like tears. When he could see clearly, he stared at the derringer and put his hands out.
“Easy now. Go easy. Just tryin' to do a friend a favor. You mind if I look after Chick? You clobbered him pretty hard.”

“He's fine.”

“Maybe I could just pull him off Whit.”

“You can try.”

Amos started to reach for Chick's legs and then stopped abruptly. He straightened.

She smiled. “Uh-huh. I'll shoot.”

“You ain't right. In the head, I mean. Even for a whore, you ain't right.”

She declined to comment, asking instead, “Where did you and Chick leave Mrs. Fry?”

“Behind Sweeney's. We bumped into her when we was leaving the saloon. Since we was coming here anyway on account of what we heard inside, Chick decided we should escort her around back and hear what she had to say for herself. Chick's the one who knocked her around. I told him to pull his punches. You gotta know, I made him stop. We left her alive on account of that.”

“All right,” she said, believing about half of what he told her. “Take off your gun belt—carefully—put it on the floor and kick it under the bed.”

“Aw, Jeez. Don't make me give it up, I—” He stopped. “I know. You'll shoot if I don't.”

“No,” she said, surprising him. Her eyes darted to the wardrobe, where Quill McKenna was finally stepping out. “But I'm fairly certain he will.”

Amos turned his neck so sharply that vertebrae cracked. Wide-eyed, he put a hand to his nape and massaged the crick while he stared at the gun aimed squarely at his chest. “That looks like Whit's gun.”

“It should,” said Quill. “It
is
his gun.” He shook off the ruffled petticoat clinging rather comically to his shoulders, caught it before it reached the floor, and tossed it toward the chair. It spread open, fluttering like angel wings, and mostly covered the scarlet corset when it dropped. He intercepted Katie's amused glance and gave her a much less amused one in exchange.

“I have you to thank for smelling like attar of roses,” he told her. “Droopy Ribbon must wash everything she owns in the stuff.”

“You could have hidden under the bed.”

“You could have shown more caution opening the door. You did when I was doing the knocking.”

“I had reason to be suspicious then.”

“I wasn't carrying.”

“I didn't need your help. Still don't.”

“And I didn't want to give it just now. Still don't.”

“So why . . .”

“Leg cramp.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Quill sneezed. “That, and I don't like the smell of roses.”

Amos listened to this exchange, eyes darting back and forth, fascinated in spite of himself. He carefully released the gun strap, and his hand curled around the butt of the Remington. He drew the gun out slowly.

The barrel just cleared his tooled leather holster when they both shot him.

Jo Goodman
is the
USA Today
bestselling author of numerous romance novels, including
This Gun for Hire
,
In Want of a Wife
, and
True to the Law
, and is also a fan of the happily ever after. When not writing, she is a licensed professional counselor working with children and families in West Virginia's Northern Panhandle. Visit her online at jogoodman.com or
facebook.com/jogoodmanromance.

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