The Devil's Lair (A Lou Prophet Western #6) (17 page)

He walked around the north end
of town, then the south, pondering the situation here while keeping
a close eye on his
back trail.

He stopped by a small cabin before which an
old lady was removing wash from a line, her blue gingham dress
blowing about her heavy legs as the evening breeze kicked up. An
old man smoked a pipe on the porch while a mule cropped grass under
a nearby ash.

“
Ma’am, I’m wonderin’ if you
could point me to the Whitman home.”

The old woman stared at Prophet
dully, several ratty sheets clamped under an arm, a few clothespins
in her teeth. The corners of her mouth pinched and her eyes
narrowed, as if he
’d just asked her where he could get his ashes hauled.
Silently, she extended her free arm, indicating a white frame house
on the other side of a cabin to the west.

“
Much obliged,” he said, pinching
his hat brim to her.

The Whitman place was one of the
biggest he
’d
seen in Bitter Creek so far—a neat, two-and-a-half-story,
clapboard-and-frame house with a stone chimney abutting the east
wall. There was a large, screened porch, a buggy shed and a stable
out back, and a big yard with flowers and transplanted
trees.

All in all, it was a nice setup for a lawman
and a schoolteacher. Too nice and damn odd. Prophet wondered if
Whitman had blasted a few nuggets out of the mountains, or if there
was some other reason he could afford such digs.

A black-and-white cat slinked under the
porch as the bounty hunter walked through the rickety gate, mounted
the brick steps, opened the screen door, and stepped onto the
porch.

It was a full minute after
he
’d knocked
on the inside door before slow footsteps sounded within.

Fianna Whitman
didn
’t say
anything when she opened the door, just stood there in the dark
foyer, arching an eyebrow bemusedly, one hand on the knob. She’d
changed from the black dress she’d worn to the funeral to a long,
slitted nightgown over which she wore a blue silk
wrapper.

She was prettier than
he
’d
remembered, with big, brown eyes and a wide mouth. Her eyes were a
little glassy and boldly insinuating.

She
’d let her hair down, the auburn curls
curving over her shoulder to hang down beside her right breast, the
top of which was revealed by the low-cut gown and the wrapper
curving open at her chest.

The way she regarded Prophet, as
though she
’d
been expecting him, made him half-wonder if he’d taken a wrong turn
and found himself at a whorehouse.

“
Ma’am,” Prophet said, his hat in
his hands, uncertain what to say now that he was here.

He
’d come because he honestly felt sorry for
her, having seen how few mourners had shown up at the funeral. But
he was also hoping to find out why so few of Bitter Creek’s
citizens had seen fit to attend the ceremony. He thought it might
have something to do with the apprehension Whitman had voiced about
the town.

“
I thought I’d pay my respects. I
saw the funeral was today, and—”

“
Yes, I saw you on the hill, Mr.
Prophet. Why didn’t you join us? The more the merrier.”

She smiled wryly, stepped back,
and drew the door wide.
“Won’t you come in?”

“
Thank you.” But as he stepped
into the foyer, he saw that she was barefoot, and he suddenly felt
out of place. The lady wasn’t dressed for company. He looked at
her. “Are you sure, ma’am? Looks like you’re ready for
bed.”

A loud clock ticked somewhere. A plush
runner lay beneath his boots, the wood floor on either side of it
polished to a high, oak gloss.

“
Of course I’m sure, Mr.
Prophet.” He detected a thickness to her voice, as though she’d
been drinking. When she closed the door, she leaned a little too
far toward it. She had to steady herself against it before she
turned to him with that funny smile still quirking her lips,
lending a leer to her eyes. “I don’t get many visitors.”

Taken aback by her tipsy
boldness, he took a moment to formulate his question.
“On a day like this,
ma’am? I’d have thought...”

“
Don’t think, Mr. Prophet. That’s
rule one when working for Henry Crumb.”

“
I don’t exactly work for Crumb,”
he said, her tone having set him back on his heels. “As a matter of
fact, I was pretty much tricked into the job.”

“
Oh?” she said, as though she
didn’t believe it, making him feel even more resentful. “How much
money did he offer?”

He told her.

“
There’ll be more where that came
from.”

He was about to tell her there
would be no more money, because he
’d be on the trail out of here as soon as
Crumb returned with his new lawman, but before he could open his
mouth to respond, she said, “Join me for a drink?”

Her tone had changed, her voice
suddenly soft and velvety, the smile no longer as much leering as
coquettish. He
’d always been a sucker for whiskey and coquettes,
especially underdressed coquettes.

He glanced at her bare feet, at
the robe she did little to keep closed.
“I’d have one as long as I’m not
intrudin’. I really just stopped to pay my respects and to see if
you needed any help. I know how it must be, your pa suddenly
gone…”

She
’d started moving into the foyer’s dusky
shadows. She turned her head and looked at him, smiling again,
subtly devilish, running her gaze up and down his tall, broad
frame, making him self-conscious.

“
What I need, Mr. Prophet,” she
said, pausing, then continuing as she turned and began moving down
the foyer again, “is another drink. Come ... right this way
...”

He followed her a few feet down the hall and
into the parlor opening off to the left. No lights had been lit in
here either. She strolled to a table on which sat several bottles
and tumblers. She turned one of the tumblers right side up.

“
Bourbon or rye?”

“
What are you drinking?” He’d
seen the glass on a low table beside a damask-covered rocker. An
open cigar box sat beside it, but it didn’t look like cigars
inside.

“
Bourbon. It’s the best—a gift
from Dad’s employer last Christmas.”

Fianna
’s voice acquired a sarcastic,
flippant tone. “Dad’s taste always ran to beer or the coffin
varnish Burt Carr serves at the Mother Lode.” She smiled. “So I
drink Henry Crumb’s bourbon. Acquired quite a taste for it, in
fact,” she added with a throaty laugh.

She held up the bottle to Prophet, gave it a
little jiggle, sloshing the liquid around. He stood just inside the
door, his hat in his hands, watching the girl with interest.

When he
’d seen her earlier, he hadn’t taken
her for a drinker. He’d thought schoolteachers, like ministers,
didn’t
imbibe. But in the soft light through the open window
behind her, he saw that only a few fingers of bourbon remained in
the bottle.

“
Since you recommend it, I’ll try
the bourbon,” he said, though his tastes ran more to beer and
rye.

He glanced around at the soft sofa against
the opposite wall, the several comfortable chairs and fancy lamps
sitting on the expensive wooden tables that must have been shipped
in from Denver or Cheyenne. To his left stood a bookcase crammed
with books.

Again, he was impressed and puzzled by the
house. It was the kind of home a well-to-do businessman might
own.

“
Nice place you have here,” he
observed when, after handing him his drink, she’d directed him to a
chair near hers.

She dropped into her own chair,
curling one leg beneath her. Her robe and nightgown parted to
reveal a long, creamy thigh and knee—too much skin to make the
revelation an accident.
“I can light a lamp if you want,” she said. “I
guess it would be proper.”

Prophet quirked a brow at the
thigh, feeling his tongue grow thick. He cleared his throat.
“Only ... only if
you want one, ma’am.”

“
No,” she said, sipping her
drink. “I like the dark. Did my neighbor, Mrs. Dane, see you? She’d
think it totally improper for me to be entertaining a man alone and
not even lighting a lamp.”

“
I reckon,” Prophet said, feeling
as out of place as a bear in a millinery shop, wishing he hadn’t
come.

She was drunk and lonely, and
her blood was running high. He had a feeling it always ran a little
high, but her father
’s death must have turned up the heat. Before he came, he’d
thought he’d drink some coffee with her, maybe cut some wood for
her, move some boxes, get some questions answered, and
leave.

But it was already a more complicated
visit—with that thigh and fully half of one breast staring at him
boldly, daring him to move in on her.

In that regard, it was like everything else
in this damn town. Complicated, bewildering, hard to refuse. It was
like quicksand, sucking you down.

He couldn
’t wait to ride Mean and Ugly along
some remote mountain trail, far away from this devil’s lair.
Towns—even normal towns—were too damn complicated.

“
Yes, it is a nice place,” she
finally responded to his remark, glancing around thoughtfully.
“You’ll have a place like it soon. You’ll need a woman to dress it
up for you. Do you have one of those yet, Mr. Prophet?”

Again, before he could draw
responsive air across his vocal cords, she said,
“Miss
Schwartzenberger perhaps?” She smiled. “She’s a very good cook,
just like her grandmother.”

Prophet
’s ears warmed again, and his chest
drew taut. He scowled. “Miss Whitman—”

“
Call me Fianna.”

“
Fianna, I’m sorry if I’m bein’
too forward, but can I ask you just what in the hell you’re talking
about?”

She smiled as though enjoying
his vexation, but asked coyly,
“What do you mean?”

“
How could a small-town lawman
possibly afford a house like this? I assume you and your father
brought money from back East, or you found gold up in the
mountains.”

As she studied him from fifteen
feet away, her playful smirk gradually faded. She threw back the
last of her drink. As she lowered the glass in her right hand, her
smile was replaced by a shrewd expression, her eyes
narrowing.
“If Mr. Crumb hasn’t told you, he will soon
enough.”

“
Are you suggesting I’d do
something illegal?”

“
I’m suggesting you’re made of
the same flesh and blood as my father.”

Her eyes hardened. Her shoulders slumped and
she exhaled a long draft of air. A sob carried on it, or what
sounded like a sob. A soft, mournful wail. She was an unexpectedly
pricked balloon. Her face crumpled, her mouth quivering. She
lowered her head, not making any sound until she lifted it again.
She inhaled and sniffed.

“
Oh, damnit!” she said and
struggled up from her seat. More unsteadily than before, letting
the wrapper flap around her long legs, she walked to the table,
tipped several more fingers of bourbon into her glass, and set the
empty bottle down hard.

She straightened, stiffened, threw her head
back, and sobbed louder this time. She grabbed her shoulders as if
chilled to the bone and lowered her chin to her chest. She stood
there, shuddering and sobbing, making soft crying sounds.

Prophet sat wondering what to
do, wondering what he should say, feeling like
he
’d just
wandered into some drama halfway through the last act.

Finally, cursing under his breath, he set
his drink down, stood, and walked over to her. He regarded the back
of her head indecisively, feeling even more awkward than before,
not sure how much of her emotion was genuine and how much was the
bourbon.

Either way,
he
’d always
had a hard time comforting distraught women. Whatever he said
always seemed to be the wrong thing.

When he placed his hands on her shoulders,
she instantly quit sobbing and melted back against him, canting her
head against his chest. Her body was warm and soft beneath the
wrapper and nightgown, and it seemed to mold to his, as if wanting
to draw his large body around her like a quilt.

She smelled of bourbon and summer rain. When
she turned her head to press her cheek against his chest, he felt
the dampness of her tears through his shirt.

“
Miss Fianna,” he said, shaking
his head and wincing, “I really just wanted—”

Prophet heard the squawk of a
floorboard a second before he saw a gun barrel glint in the
doorway. A man
’s voice rose with exasperation. “Fianna!”

With a gasp,
the girl jerked her head toward
the door.

A man stood silhouetted against
the frame, a pistol extended in his right hand. In the murky light,
Prophet couldn
’t make out his face. But he was slender and wore a cream
shirt, brown vest, and dark trousers. Garters ringed his arms just
above his elbows.