Kid Calhoun (3 page)

When she had turned around, Wolf was gone. He had disappeared as though he were never there. It
was something every Apache learned from birth, as hunted beasts do, because moving quickly and silently meant the difference between life and death. Wolf had taught Anabeth how it was done, though she was not nearly so good at it as he was.

As she loosened the breechclout and let it fall to the stone beneath her, she felt a sense of frustration, of things left unfinished. She pulled on long johns, socks, shirt, jeans, and boots, all the while remembering the look on Wolf’s face before he had left her. The hardness and the determination had been very unsettling.

She stuffed the wet buckskins into a hidden crevice in the rocks by the pond where her uncle wouldn’t find them. Later, when Booth was not around, she would come back and lay them out to dry. She was frowning when she headed for the entrance to the valley. If she hadn’t known Wolf, trusted him as she did, she might even have been afraid of him after what had just happened.

Above all, she was left with the feeling of having failed somehow as a woman. She had been tempted to speak to Booth about the problem, but there was no way she could do so without bringing Wolf into the conversation. She could not betray the Apache’s existence without endangering his life.

Anabeth had done her best to ignore what had happened, or rather,
not
happened, between her and Wolf. Maybe she wasn’t a whole woman. That didn’t keep her from wanting the silk taffeta dress in the next window, even though she could never wear it so long as she remained Kid Calhoun.

Anabeth turned her feet in the direction of the hotel and continued down the boardwalk. She kept her eyes straight ahead, aware of the way men and women both avoided her. The law in Santa Fe kept an eye on Booth’s gang, but none of them had ever been
arrested. So far, no victim of any of the robberies had ever positively identified anyone in the Calhoun Gang.

Anabeth intended to keep it that way. Which was why she had to talk Booth out of the robbery he had planned for the end of the week near Old Horse Springs.

She knocked before she entered Booth’s hotel room. She had learned from experience that she might find Booth in an awkward situation. At least it was awkward for her. Neither Booth nor Sierra ever seemed to mind being seen in bed together.

“Come in.”

She entered and wasn’t surprised to discover Sierra Starr in the hotel room with Booth.

“I was just leaving,” Sierra said. She was pulling on a pair of black kid gloves that completed an ensemble that could have come straight from
Harper’s Bazar
. Sierra wore a plume-trimmed bonnet that did little to subdue her glorious head of naturally red curls.

In the green silk Polonaise gown, with its pristine white ruffle at the neck, the Soiled Dove from the Town House Saloon looked more a lady than most ladies Anabeth had seen in Santa Fe. Anabeth envied her because she was also a desirable—and desired—woman.

Not even Sierra knew the truth about the Kid being female. Booth had said, “It’s best not to trust anybody.” It was clear from the way Sierra teased Anabeth that, despite their bed-play, Booth had kept her secret from the other woman.

Sierra rubbed a gloved hand across Anabeth’s baby-smooth cheek and said, “I have a lovely new girl who might interest you, Kid. Why don’t you come by the saloon next time you’re in town?”

Anabeth flushed scarlet. “I—I—”

Sierra laughed, a light, friendly sound that bubbled up from inside her. The look in her green eyes was kind, if teasing. “Her name is Bonnie. Tell her I said you should look her up.”

Sierra turned from a flustered Anabeth and crossed back to the four-poster bed where Booth was stretched out fully dressed on top of the quilt with a sketch pad in hand. She leaned over him to see what he had drawn, and found herself looking every bit as ravishing on paper as she was in real life.

Sierra put her hands on either side of Booth’s face and leaned down to kiss him tenderly on the mouth. “Take care of yourself.”

Booth grinned. “I could say the same.”

“Good-bye, Booth.” Sierra said it as though she would never see him again. There was always the chance she wouldn’t.

As many times as Anabeth had seen Booth and Sierra bid each other farewell, it still moved her to realize how much they seemed to care for each other. But Booth would never agree to live on what Sierra earned from her half of the Town House Saloon. And Sierra could never give up the security she had sacrificed so much to earn, only to be an outlaw’s bride. They often met and made love, but they apparently were not destined to spend their lives together.

Once Sierra was gone Anabeth crossed and settled herself at the foot of the four-poster bed. She took out the makings from her vest pocket and concentrated on rolling a cigarette.

“I don’t think we should do this job,” she said.

“Why not?” Booth asked.

“Just a feeling I have.”

“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to change my mind.”

Anabeth stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth. She raked a match across her jeans and
squinted her eyes against the smoke as she took the first drag. “In the past you’ve always taken your time getting to know all about a man before you let him join the gang. What do you know about this new fellow, Wat Rankin?”

“He came to me with information about a rancher who’ll be carrying more gold than any of us have ever seen at one time.”

“Doesn’t that sound the least bit suspicious to you? Why did Rankin share his information with us? Why not just steal the gold himself?”

Booth shrugged. “There’s safety in numbers, I suppose.”

Frustrated, Anabeth blew out a stream of smoke. “I don’t like Rankin,” she said flatly. “And I don’t trust him. How do we know his information about this Sam Chandler being on the stage isn’t just a ploy to set us up for the law?”

“I checked. Chandler is a rancher from around Old Horse Springs who recently drove a herd of cattle to Colorado for sale. According to Rankin, Chandler is returning on the stage, and he’s carrying the gold on him.”

“What else do you know about Rankin?”

“I admit I don’t have much information on him. He doesn’t seem to have many friends,” Booth conceded.

“Doesn’t that prove something?”

“Most outlaws don’t,” Booth pointed out reasonably.

Anabeth threw her cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the toe of her boot. “Dammit, Booth! I’m scared!”

Booth scooted down the bed and put an arm around Anabeth’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be fine, Kid. I’ve got this holdup planned down to the last detail. If you don’t feel comfortable, why don’t you sit this one out?”

“I’d feel even worse not knowing what was going on,” Anabeth confessed. “Please, Booth. Let’s not do this job.”

Booth’s voice hardened. “Look, Kid. It’s not just me who needs the money. There are six other men to think about.”

“They’ll listen to you,” Anabeth cajoled. “If you tell them not to do it, they won’t.”

Booth shook his head. “It isn’t that simple, Kid.”

“Why the hell not?”

Booth stared down at strong hands that should have been callused from hard work—but weren’t. “Rankin has been talking to the rest of the gang.” He hesitated, then said, “And they’re listening.

“You know how little the take has been this past year. Rankin told them that I was too chickenhearted to go after the really big money. Said I was too yellow-bellied to kill a man if I had to. Rankin even insinuated that the gang might be better off with someone besides me making decisions. I can’t very well suggest that we don’t pull this job.”

“Dammit, Booth, it’s
your
gang! Get rid of Rankin. Don’t wait. Do it now!”

“I can’t,” Booth said. “My mind is made up, Kid. If you don’t want to come, don’t. It’s up to you. I’ve got to leave now to get to the rendezvous on time.” He visibly reined his temper. “You can always go back to the valley and wait for me.”

“If you’re going, I’m going!” Anabeth retorted. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”

Booth’s lip curled in a charming smile meant to appease her worry and cool her ire. “I knew I could count on you, Kid. I can’t say I’ll be sorry to have someone I trust at my back.”

As Anabeth rode out of Santa Fe with Booth she had the feeling they were being watched. She looked
over her shoulder but couldn’t find anything—or anyone—who looked suspicious.

Maybe this job would turn out to be a blessing in disguise. If Sam Chandler was carrying as much gold as Rankin had implied, Booth’s share might be enough to buy that ranch in Colorado. She hoped like hell this was the last time she would be riding the trail as Kid Calhoun.

Booth and Anabeth arrived around noon at the line shack near Old Horse Springs that was their rendezvous site. The windows were broken out of the weatherbeaten wooden shack, and the porch sagged to one side like a horse canted on three legs. The rest of the gang was already there—except for Wat Rankin. The absence of the newest member of the Calhoun Gang made Anabeth even more uneasy about Rankin’s intentions.

“Anybody know where Rankin is?” Anabeth asked as she stepped down from her horse at the front of the shack.

“Said he had some personal business to attend to, but he’s gonna join us in plenty of time to do his part,” Snake answered from his seat in a broken-down rocker on the porch.

Snake’s tongue darted out to wet his lips before retreating inside his mouth, much as a snake’s tongue might. It was a habit that had earned him the only name he had. The porch creaked as he kept the rocker moving with the toe of a worn-out boot. It had never ceased to amuse Anabeth that Snake’s name fit his personality so well. Snake was a shifty, skulking snake-in-the-grass.

Anabeth exchanged a speaking look with Booth, who had also dismounted and was standing nearby.
Rankin is trouble
, she said with her eyes. When she would have spoken her thoughts, he shook his head to keep her silent. Anabeth’s chin jutted mulishly, but she held her tongue.

Anabeth didn’t like the six men in Booth’s gang, and the best that could be said was that they tolerated the Kid. But until Booth had mentioned it, she hadn’t been aware of any dissatisfaction with Booth’s leadership. Now she suddenly realized she heard none of the raunchy jokes and sly talk that the gang normally exchanged when they got together just before a job. The air seemed somehow charged with tension.

Otis Grier and Clint Teague played cards on the rickety steps, blocking the way inside the shack. Grier reminded Anabeth of a grizzly. He had the size, and his frizzy brown hair and full beard made it look like he was covered with fur. If Grier looked like a bear, Teague smelled like one. To Anabeth’s knowledge the man had never bathed. His buckskins were greasy, his hands grimy, his teeth rotten. Anabeth always stayed upwind of him.

“I will take your horses for you.”

Anabeth turned to greet the one Mexican in the gang and its oldest member, Jaime Solano.
“Gracias,”
she said. “It’s been a long time, Jaime. How have you been?”

The Mexican shrugged. “The days pass.” Solano ran his hand down the neck of her dun-colored mustang. “This is a fine animal. Where did you buy him?”

“I caught him and trained him myself.” With a little help from Wolf.

The Mexican nodded approvingly. “A good horse.”

Solano was an expert on horseflesh—he had stolen more than a little of it in his day—so Anabeth took his compliment at face value. It gave her hope that she
and Booth might someday end up raising horses instead of robbing stagecoaches.

The Mexican collected the reins for Anabeth’s and Booth’s horses and headed for the lean- to not far from the shack where the rest of the horses were stabled.

Anabeth watched Solano as he hobbled away. The Mexican wore a sombrero that revealed a fringe of salt and pepper hair that matched his mustache. He had fathomless eyes the color of black coffee. Because of his age, and his noticeable limp, he reminded Anabeth of her father. Except Solano had never done anything for which he did not expect to get something in return.

Anabeth feared and hated the man lounging against a post that held up the porch roof. A jug hung over his shoulder, held there by a forefinger. Whiskey was a mean drunk, and he was rarely sober. He had once picked a fight with the Kid, and Anabeth had drawn her gun on the outlaw before Booth showed up to settle the matter.

Anabeth had several times asked Booth why he didn’t kick Whiskey out of the gang. Booth had merely said there were reasons why Whiskey drank, and pointed out that he wasn’t mean unless he was bothered. Anabeth made it a point to avoid him whenever she could.

“Hey, Kid. How you doin’?”

Anabeth smiled at the young, handsome man hanging out of the broken window of the shack. “I’m fine, Reed. Meet any new range calico in Santa Fe?”

“Found a pretty little girl with yellow hair,” Reed said with a grin. “Soft and fluffy as a goose-hair pillow. How ’bout you, Kid? Any luck?”

Anabeth managed a lopsided grin of her own. “If you’re talking cards, I did fine.” Well, that was true enough. No need to mention that the Kid had visions
of becoming a lady, not seducing one. It had taken Anabeth a long time to realize that beneath Reed’s charm lay the heart of a cold-blooded killer. She had once seen him pick a fight with a man and shoot him down without ever losing the smile on his face.