Promises Kept (7 page)

In the midst of his internal dialogue, it registered that Bartholomew was scrambling back in the buckboard to leave. He placed a staying hand on the old man’s arm. There was no help for it, it had to be said. “Bartholomew, I’m afraid I have bad news for you and Miss Eastman.”

“No bad news today, Colt. This is a day to celebrate. You know Chet will expect you to stay for the wedding.”

“There will be no wedding,” Colt said, looking directly into Victoria’s eyes.

Victoria’s mouth fell open, but not a sound came out. She couldn’t imagine why Mr. McBride thought he had a right to interfere. As intimidating as he was, she wasn’t about to let him dictate her future. Granted, when she mistakenly thought Bartholomew was Chet Barlow, she’d nearly hiked her skirts and run all the way back to St. Louis. Her nerves were at the breaking point, plus she was tired, hungry, and thirsty. She couldn’t take much more today, and she wasn’t at all certain she could handle a man like the daunting Colt McBride, but she was going to give it her best effort. Finding her tongue along with her backbone, she said in the haughtiest voice she could muster, “Mr. McBride, what business is this of yours?”

Jerking his Stetson from his head again, Colt smacked it against his thigh in frustration.
Aw hell
. He absently raked his hand through his hair, gave a loud sigh, and blurted out, “Chet’s dead.”
Well, I could have gone about that better
.

Bartholomew staggered back against the buckboard as if the life had drained from his skinny body. “What? What do you mean, dead? Of course he ain’t dead, he just went to look at that piece of land . . .” His words trailed off when he saw Colt’s haunted expression. “What happened to him?”

Colt cursed himself for being the biggest kind of fool for spitting the words out like he did. He took Bartholomew by the arm and assisted him to the porch. “I’m sorry, Bartholomew. It looks like Chet had a heart attack. A couple of my men found him a few hours ago, some distance from here. I don’t know what he was doing out there.”

Bartholomew could hardly believe Chet was gone. He thought he would be the first to go, and he’d never have to face the day that he would bury his best friend. “Was he up on that grassy knoll overlooking the river?”

“Yes.” Colt was surprised he knew the exact spot where his men had found Chet.

“A few days ago he told me he decided on that spot to build Miss Victoria a new home. Said the old place wasn’t good enough for a lady like her. I guess he went back up there to start making plans,” Bartholomew said sadly.

Colt glanced back at Victoria to see her reaction to what Bartholomew revealed. Her face turned a pasty white, and her body started to fold like every bit of starch had left her spine. He reached her just as she fell over in a dead faint. Sweeping her up in his arms before she hit the ground, he carried her inside the house. The thought occurred to him that if not for a twist of fate it could have been Chet carrying his bride over that threshold this very night.

Chapter Seven

For a woman with considerable heft to maneuver, L. B. Ditty deftly skirted the tables of the saloon, making her way to one of the gambling tables at the back of the room. Hearing the commotion across the room, she automatically knew who was causing the ruckus. Seeing Hoyt Nelson’s streak of bad luck at poker, she’d kept a watchful eye on that table, expecting trouble. She reached the table just as Hoyt jumped to his feet, ready to draw down on Slim Hicks, the man who had been taking his money for the better part of the evening. She wrapped her strong fingers around Hoyt’s forearm. “Cowboy, why don’t you take a break? Go on to the bar and have a drink on the house.”

Hoyt shrugged off her hand. “I didn’t know you allowed cheating in your establishment.”

“Slim wasn’t cheating, it’s just his night to be lucky, that’s all,” L. B. responded in her take-charge tone.

Hoyt’s hand hovered over his revolver. “I’d say his luck just ran out.”

The other men around the table threw their cards down. Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as they quickly moved away, leaving Slim and Hoyt in a face-off. Silence filled the room as everyone turned from the bar to watch the action. Sam, the bartender, reached for the shotgun he kept under the bar for just such occasions.

Slim remained seated and turned his palms faceup. “I wasn’t cheating, Hoyt. As L. B. said, I just got lucky tonight. You’ll make it up next time.” He’d seen Hoyt in action with his fast draw, and he wanted to be alive to spend his money tomorrow.

“Get up!” Hoyt demanded.

L. B. made another attempt to reason with the drunken gunman. “I don’t want trouble in here.”

Hoyt shoved her aside as he took a step back from the table, his eyes never leaving Slim. “I told you to stand,” he demanded.

Before Slim could make a move, L. B. stuck a derringer into Hoyt’s side. “You don’t hear so good, cowboy. I said I don’t want trouble in my saloon.” She nudged the derringer deeper in his ribs. “This ain’t too big, but it makes a nasty hole all the same. And if it ain’t enough,” she said, inclining her head to the bartender, “Sam can give you an even bigger hole if need be.”

Hoyt looked up to see the bartender pointing a shotgun at his head. He moved his hand from his gun and turned to face L. B., hands in the air. “Okay, no trouble. I guess I’ll take you up on that offer of a free drink.”

“I’ve revoked that offer for tonight,” L. B. replied, her revolver still poking his ribs. “Now you go on out of here and sleep it off. Next time you come back maybe your luck will have changed. The whiskey will still be here.”

Hoyt gave her a mean look, wanting to argue, but Euan Wallace walked into the hushed saloon. He strolled to the bar and saw Sam with his shotgun pointed at one of his men. “Hoyt, what’s going on here?” Wallace demanded.

“Nothing, Mr. Wallace, I was just leaving,” Holt told him smoothly. He turned toward the doors, but before he walked through, he glanced at L. B. “I’ll be back.”

Once Hoyt left, the men at the tables took their seats and L. B. sauntered to the bar beside Euan Wallace. “Sam, give me a whiskey.” Sam placed two glasses on the bar and filled them with the good whiskey that Wallace preferred. L. B. tossed hers back without a grimace, just like a hard-drinking cowboy. She stared at Wallace in the mirror behind the bar. “That man is nothing but pure trouble. Why did you feel the need to hire him? It obviously wasn’t for his cowboying skills.” She already knew the answer to her question, but she just wanted to see what Wallace would say.

Wallace took a drink of his whiskey before giving her an answer. “He has other talents.”

“Yeah, I just bet he does,” L. B. retorted. “He’s going to provoke the wrong man one day. I just hope he doesn’t kill some innocent man before that day comes.”

Motioning for Sam to refill both their glasses, Wallace gave L. B. what he thought was a friendly smile and handed her the whiskey. “Why don’t you let me buy into this business and you won’t have to worry about drunken cowboys again. You could sit back and count your money without having to work.”

L. B. wasn’t fooled by his smile. She’d been around too long, and she knew the devil when she saw him. She turned to face him. “Now why would I take on a partner when I’ve run this business just fine for years?”

For a split second, Wallace thought about asking her to dinner, thinking he might find a way to ingratiate himself to get what he wanted. But then he took a good long look at her. He couldn’t tell how old she was since she wore her face all painted up like some sort of doll. Her eyes were rimmed in black kohl, her lips were painted a bright red, and her hair was almost as red as her lips. Every time she moved, her red curls bobbed up and down, reminding him of coiled springs. Her ample rear end stuck out like a shelf on a wall, and he thought several glasses of whiskey could sit atop it without spilling a drop. He slugged back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass back down on the bar. Nope. There wasn’t enough whiskey to get him that drunk. Not even for business. “You just might need more protection than you can handle from now on.”

“Is that right? Protection from what?”

Wallace was slow to respond. He watched the bartender refill his glass and he took a sip, enjoying the feel of whiskey burning its way down to his stomach. He turned to look around the smoke-filled room. “I’ve always wanted to own a saloon. I guess if I was to set up my own establishment, that might cause you some concern.”

L. B. narrowed her eyes at him. “So you’re offering me protection from you, or some other enterprising soul, from opening another saloon in this town?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

L. B. had seen his kind before, men who wanted what other people had worked for. In another town she’d let a man like Wallace run her off. It wasn’t going to happen again. Oh, Wallace concerned her, particularly since he had the sheriff doing his bidding for him, but she wasn’t going to let him know that. She looked him in the eye. “I say the more, the merrier. Another business will just make my gals work harder to keep the clientele happy.”

“I’ll let you think about it.” He leaned closer to her ear and whispered, “You know the sheriff and I have a good arrangement. I’m sure I could convince him to make sure no one caused you problems if I was to be part owner. Things are changing around here. Folks who don’t change with them, well, I guess they’ll just be flat out of luck.” With that said, he threw some coins on the bar and left.

L. B. watched him walk away, considering what he said and what he didn’t say.

Sam moved to stand in front of her. “Want another one?”

“Yeah.” She turned her attention on Sam. “Did you hear that?”

Sam had worked with L. B. for a long time and they were good friends. He was loyal, and L. B. trusted him with her life, as he did her. They had their own private arrangement; no one knew Sam was her silent partner, sharing in the handsome profits from the business. “I heard.” He put another glass on the bar and poured one for himself.

“What do you think he’s up to?”

“That’s not hard to figure out. He wants to own the whole town, and he won’t be happy until he has it.”

“We’ve seen his ilk before,” she reminded him.

“Too many times to suit me. I’ve got a bad feeling about this one. Men like him don’t even fear God Almighty.” He drank his whiskey and gazed into her eyes. “Why don’t we just retire and get out of here? We both have plenty of money, and we’re getting old. Maybe we could go to Alaska, see something new, and try our hand at mining.” Sam had suggested the same thing several times before, but for reasons he didn’t understand, L. B. wasn’t ready to leave.

L. B. chuckled. “I think I’ve heard that a time or two out of you.”

“Maybe it’s time you gave it serious consideration,” he told her in a solemn tone.

Getting no response, he shook his head and smacked his glass on the bar with a thud before he moved away to serve a customer.

She couldn’t ignore Sam’s words; he had wanted to move on for a long time. There was no denying he was right—they were getting old. Maybe they should take off for Alaska before time got the best of them. She enjoyed Sam’s company, more than any other man she’d ever met, and he was more than a friend to her. She loved him in her own way, but always figured if they had become more involved it would have ruined their friendship. Before she’d passed her prime, he’d hinted that he wanted more, yet he never pushed her. She hated to think that one of these days he would just walk out of her life and go to Alaska without her. What was holding her back? She’d never be able to spend all the money she’d saved up. Why hang around? She knew the answer to that. She’d stayed in the same place for so long for one reason. It was something she’d never told anyone, not even Sam. But then, maybe Sam was right. Now might be the time to move on.

Chapter Eight

Under Bartholomew’s direction, Colt carried Victoria to what he assumed was Chet’s bedroom, and gently placed her on the bed. He said a few choice words under his breath, not because she had fainted, but for some inexplicable reason he didn’t want to see her in another man’s bed. The only women he’d ever put to bed he’d been right along beside them, and they didn’t have their clothes on. With that thought his eyes made a slow traverse down her body. No doubt about it, she was one beautiful woman. He didn’t know what made him think about such things under the circumstances, other than the fact that he was a man. His only justification was it had been too long . . . well . . . in all truthfulness, he couldn’t justify his bad behavior. He just needed to get control of his thoughts.

Bartholomew hurried to the kitchen to fetch some water and a damp cloth. Colt sat beside Victoria and noticed her wrist was dangling at an odd angle. He tried to untie the ribbons of the reticule at her wrist. Darned if he knew why ladies carried the little bags; they weren’t big enough to hold anything important. He remembered his mother was never without one on her arm when she went to town. His big fingers working at those tiny ribbons were a test of his patience. When the bag finally dropped into his hand, he let out a loud sigh. He looked down at the bag and studied the intricate handstitched design. Granted, he didn’t know much about women’s fashion, but even he had to appreciate the workmanship of the delicately sewn white doves and flowers. The weight also surprised him; it was heavier than he expected. Palming the bag, he realized why it was so heavy. He felt the distinct outline of a derringer. His eyes shifted from the pouch to the immobile woman next to him.
Wonder why she’s packing a gun? Definitely more to this little lady than meets the eye.
L. B. was the only woman he’d ever seen with a derringer. When he’d commented on it one time, she told him a derringer was easy to hide and it came in handy from time to time. Maddie told him most of the girls kept a gun in their rooms so they could protect themselves if a customer got too rough and they didn’t have time to wait for Sam to handle the situation. Considering their line of work, it made sense they felt the need for protection.
But why does Miss Eastman need protection
?