Claudia Dain (18 page)

For the angel
, Anne almost said.

Joel sniffed, ran his hand with businesslike authority across his nose, and trotted off down the street.

"I have room in my bed," Neil McShay said. He said it in such a way, with such an odd tone to his voice, that Sarah and Anne turned in unison to look at him.

"Thank you, Mr. McShay, but you've already done so much—"

"Not at all, Anne, happy to do my part. Won't hear a word from you that says I can't have the privilege of helping a neighbor in need."

"Well, thank you again."

"Don't require thanks," he said. "Now, Sarah, let's gather some of those articles you were talking about." He escorted her into his store by the elbow. Sarah's bustle twitched gracefully as she walked by his side. He held the door for her and she proceeded him in. Anne watched, oddly fascinated; Mr. McShay was behaving strangely. It was most peculiar.

Anne looked across the street to where Moses Webster was walking through the debris that was his home and his business; his pants and shoes were covered in black soot, his hands matching black as he turned over piles of rubble, looking for anything that might have survived the fire. Alongside him were his neighbors, her mother and her grandmother among them, ignoring the fact that they were all slowly and methodically being covered in soot as they helped him sort through what remained of his life.

The crowd around her had thinned to none. Those who weren't helping Mr. Webster at his hotel were gathering what they could to give to the victims of the fire. She had arranged for two of the guests to have beds, but there would be one guest no one would want, one guest who would not be welcomed into a home with a bed drawn down and flowers on the table.

It was a good way to get closer to him, which would force Bill to keep off. That was all she wanted, for Bill to back off a bit. That was what should happen, with Jack right under her roof. It wasn't that she wanted to be near Jack; no, it was that she needed him as a wedge against Bill. It was a good plan. It should work.

Anne smiled. All that was left was to make the offer. He had to accept; where else could he go? And her grandmother would have to allow him into her home; it was her Christian duty and who knew what that comprised better than Miss Daphne? The glory of it was, it was the right thing to do; how could anyone fault her for Christian charity?

How would he be able to resist courting her if she was so close to hand? How much easier would it be to keep Bill at arm's length when Jack was under the same roof? Anne smiled again and walked down the street to the saloon.

* * *

Jack was tipping up his glass to wash the smell and the feel of smoke and grime from his throat. A bath would have been good, but the bathhouse was under repair and the hotel was a memory. As was all his gear. He had no clothes but those he wore and they had looked better. What he did have was his guns. His revolvers were on his body, as always. His rifle was close at hand, either in the scabbard on Joe or, as now, in the buckskin sheath that hung down his back. He was always armed. Mostly empty ammunition bandoleers covered his body like strings of boils, heavy with purpose, declaring blatantly that he hunted men. He had lost all that he had carried with him into Abilene, but, with his guns, he could still earn money. And he could stay alive. Staying alive was good.

The saloon was as close to full as he had yet seen it. Everyone in town had been at that fire and everyone had helped put it out. O'Shaughnessy had spotted everyone the first round of drinks and his arm had been liberally pouring ever since. Jack downed his third beer, but it was going to take more than drink to wash away the memory of that fire. Hard, watching a man lose his home and his way to earn all at once.

"Guess you lost it all."

Jack turned his head slightly. It was the old man, the one who was always propping up the corner of the saloon with his chin on his chest. He was bearded, rumpled, dusty, and, strangely, friendly. Maybe a common calamity did that to people; maybe it was the comfort of safety that kept them hostile.

"Yeah," Jack answered, "just about."

"See your guns made it through all right."

"Only because I never take them off."

"Guess you're glad of that now."

Jack smiled and signaled that he was ready for another drink. "I've been glad of that more times than I want to remember."

The old man leaned into the bar, resting his elbows on it, watching as O'Shaughnessy filled Jack's glass. Jack twitched a finger and O'Shaughnessy filled another for the old man.

"I recognize the Colt, but that other one's a mystery," the old man said before taking a polite sip of his beer. "Who makes the one on your right hip?"

"Le Mat."

"Ain't never heard of Le Mat."

"You say that's a Le Mat?" a man asked from down the bar.

"Yeah," Jack answered quietly.

The man made his way down the bar to stand next to Jack. Jack felt suddenly crowded in and he backed off, leaving his beer on the counter.

"Don't mean no harm," the man said, doing some backing off of his own when he saw Jack's reaction. "My name's Wells. I own the hardware and tinware shop in town and I've always wanted to set my hands on a Le Mat. Heard some stories about them in the war and wished even then I'd had one to hand."

"Rebs had 'em," Jack said, slowly approaching his beer. He didn't want to offend Wells, seeing as he sold ammunition in his shop. All his extra rounds had gone up in that blaze. He was down to maybe a hundred rounds and carrying all of it.

"Yeah." Wells laughed. "That's when I wanted one the most. Is it true, it being double action?"

"Double action? Whad'ya mean?" O'Shaughnessy said.

Jack didn't have to answer, Wells took it up for him. "All you do is squeeze and there you have it, no cocking of the hammer for each round. Fires off like pouring cream, so they say. Fast."

O'Shaughnessy looked at Jack, his gaze dropping to the gun closest to the man's right hand. No cocking? How fast could a man fire when all he had to do was touch the trigger?

"And ten shots in the cylinder," Wells continued, sounding more and more like a salesman for Le Mat.

"Ten? Didn't think they made such a contraption," Isaiah said, coming down the bar to join in.

"I heard of 'em," the old man said, "heard ole J.E.B. Stuart himself had one. Served him well, they say."

"He did and it did," Jack said softly, taking another swallow of beer.

"That ain't all," Wells said, ignoring the pause Jack's comment had caused. "It's more than a pistol. It's got a sixty-caliber smoothbore alongside that fires buckshot. It's a hand cannon; formidable and reliable," he said proudly, sounding like the man who had invented it. "Hell, nothing ever goes wrong with a Le Mat."

The talk at their end of the bar stilled at that. A gun that fired ten forty-two-caliber shots without cocking while buckshot came spouting out the middle?

"Damn," Isaiah said.

That about said it.

"Still, ain't never heard of it before now," Isaiah said after a time of respectful silence.

"Most folks call it a grapeshot revolver," Jack supplied. "It's a nice little piece."

"Sure sounds sweet," the old man said.

"I don't suppose you'd let me have a look at it?" Wells said.

"When I come by to get some boxes of ammunition, I'll pull it out. Not here," Jack said.

The saloon was crowded with people he didn't recognize, all pressing against the long dark length of the bar. He wasn't going to pull his gun here unless he was going to use it.

"It'll take metallic cartridges? That's all I carry now," Wells worried.

"Yeah, this is a late model. Metallic is what I want."

"Course, I've got plenty for the Colt—'bout all anybody wants anymore—but what about your rifle? I don't recognize it."

"I do," said the old man.

Jack turned to look into the man's eyes, whiskey brown and surrounded by a crisscross of heavy lines. His brows met over his nose and spiked up, pointing to four strong lines across his forehead. His beard was brown and gray and hiding thin lips. Jack didn't recognize him.

"I saw my first one in Fort Kearney, time that Nelson Story came through with his cows," the old man said, leaving his beer on the bar, enjoying being the center of attention for that small moment in time.

"That's right," Wells said, "he drove three thousand head from Texas to Montana with Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahos dogging every step. With how many cowboys to see the job done?"

"Thirty," said Jack as he finished off his beer.

"Had thirty to start," the old man said. "By the time they got to Kearney they had one down and two wounded. Twenty-seven men for three thousand cows and five hundred of Crazy Horse's best."

"And the Remingtons," Wells put in, "those rifles counted for something."

"They counted for plenty, the way I heard it. The cattle Story let fend for themselves while he and the boys circled the wagons. Crazy Horse, he knew what he'd do, he'd just let them fire off a round and then he'd come at 'em while they hurried to reload. Only this here rifle don't need no reload, just slip in yer round and fire it off, and so tough that there's no way to blow out the breech. Nice, accurate weapon in a fight."

"So how many of Story's men made it out?" Shaughn asked.

"All of 'em. But Crazy Horse lost more than a few; counted it as bad medicine and after a couple more passes at 'em on the trail to Montana, he finally threw it in and let 'em ride on."

"Never seen one before," Wells said, gently letting his eyes rest on the stock of the rifle Jack had slung on his back, the buckskin sheath soft and darkened with age.

"Ain't many out there, only the thirty that went with Story," the old man said.

The men in the saloon were quiet, looking at Jack. He could feel their eyes on him, feel the questions in the air all around him, questions they didn't dare ask and that he'd never answer anyway. They wanted to know what it was like to drive a herd with five hundred Sioux between you and the next water. They wanted to know what it was like to load and fire until all you smelled was powder and smoke. They wanted to know if he had really ridden with Nelson Story all those long, hot miles from Texas to Montana.

Jack said nothing. He knew, and that was enough.

Anne walked in, with Lane right behind her. The mood was broken; the noise level rose steadily and men looked into their beers, letting the memory of that drive wash away under a cap of foam. Jack was just as happy to let it go.

Women didn't come much into saloons; there was no law against their coming in, but it was a place for men, with rules men understood and talk men could understand. Having a woman in the place changed the air almost. They could feel it. Anne could feel it. The men kept their faces down in their cups. Anne hurried to do what she had come to do. Everyone wanted her to hurry up and go.

Damn if she didn't come right up him.

"Mr. Scullard?"

The place quieted like a burial ground.

"Ma'am?" He turned to face her.

It was the first time he'd seen her, really seen her, since that kiss at the depot. He'd seen her at the fire, working like the rest of Abilene, but that had been different. This was face-to-face and quiet. Real quiet. Everyone in that saloon was holding his breath to hear what Anne Ross had to say to Jack Scullard. Everyone in that room knew about that kiss.

Anne got a little red on the thin skin of her throat and coughed a bit to cover her nervousness.

"Mr. Scullard," she repeated, "Sheriff Lane and I met on the boardwalk and we have arranged for a bed for each guest of the Cattlemen's. Each guest except for you."

"That's fine, ma'am, I can make my bed up out on the prairie or even in the jail, if there's room—"

"No, I... I—" She stammered and the redness on her throat crept up to her cheeks. "There's a bed for you in my house."

O'Shaughnessy dropped a glass on the floor behind the bar. No one turned to look at the sound of it shattering.

"Now, Anne," the sheriff said, his eyes shifting uncomfortably around the room, "there's no need—"

"That's right," Jack said, taking her by the arm and steering her toward the door. She didn't have enough sense to get out of the way of a moving train, offering up an invitation like that with half, the worst half, of Abilene straining to hear every syllable of it. "I can look after myself and—"

"I'm not going to let you go without a bed, Mr. Scullard, not when everyone else has been provided for! Why, I wouldn't be doing my Christian duty, isn't that right, Sheriff?" She was letting him walk her out the door, but she wouldn't keep her mouth shut. Still, it was the first time he'd seen her show her teeth with even the hint of a growl. He couldn't honestly say he didn't like it.

"Now, Anne, I can't say I think it's proper for you to take in a man—" Charles said.

"You didn't say a word when Emma Walton took in that medicinal salesman, Sheriff," Anne argued, her cheeks flushed.

"That's different," he said, helping Jack to lead her out onto the boardwalk, away from all those listening ears. It didn't work; Jack could hear the scuffle of boots on wood as the mob of them shuffled to the door to keep up with the conversation.

"I don't see how," she said, standing between the two men.

"Now—"

"You're not going to say, 'Now, Anne,' again, are you, Sheriff?" she asked, her foot beginning to tap lightly on the boardwalk. "I can't do less than everyone else, can I? I can't ask folks to take in strangers and then not do the same myself, can I?"

She sure was cute, standing there, her face flushed and with a trace of soot on her lashes and swiped on her chin. Showing the first signs of fight he'd seen in her yet.

He wondered if she'd shown that much spark with dog-lovin' Bill and just exactly what those kisses were like that she shared with him when he was in town. Like he was right now.

That was the last thought he had before he opened his mouth.

"Thank you, ma'am, I'd be obliged to stay with you." Could hardly be a better way to keep his eye on Bill Tucker.