Velvet Thunder (11 page)

Heath smiled, his cool blue eyes frigid as a glacier. “Damn! He's got you trained better than a lapdog,” he exclaimed softly. The look in Whitey's eyes told him he had just made a deadly enemy. What the hell? One more didn't matter.

The judge, ringed by Sims, Carlos Garcia, and Bear Jacobson, stood at the bar. They occupied their usual positions, with their feet firmly planted; Bear on the right of the judge—glar—ing at Blue—Garcia on the left, just like last night. It was almost as if they had those particular spots reserved. Heath wondered if Jack slept sandwiched between those two thick slices of garbage.

Slowly, Jack ran his fingers across one end of his mustache, then the other. Heath supposed that his deliberate movements were designed to intimidate. One would think after last night he would be reluctant to challenge Heath so soon, but some men never learned.

Tension thrummed in the air. With a jerk of his head the judge summoned Whitey. Before leaving the saloon with his entourage in tow, Jack shot Bear Jacobson a glance.

Bear remained behind, glaring at Blue through the deep folds of flesh surrounding his eyes. He approached Heath's table, never taking his hostile gaze from the frightened woman.

“Hadn't you better run along, Jacobson?” Heath derided Bear.

“She's mine,” Bear hissed.

Heath winked at Blue. “Now, that's a revolting thought, isn't it, sugar?”

Heath appeared relaxed, good-natured, almost cordial. In truth, he found Jacobson nauseating. He could hear every breath the slob drew. It was a liquid sound, squeezing upward through mounds of flesh. His ponderous gut hung over his belt, completely covering the buckle. He bore a remarkable resemblance to a hippopotamus Heath had seen at a circus in Europe, though Jacobson wasn't as clean or sweet-smelling as the animal.

But most of all Heath didn't like what he saw in the man's eyes as he stared at Blue. And he didn't like the fact that the girl was trembling with fear. “Do you mean to accept my invitation, Mr. Jacobson?”

“I'll play.” Bear dropped heavily into a groaning chair and pulled a wad of bills from his vest pocket.

“Oh, we're not playing for money, my fat friend.” Heath's deadly soft words halted the brigand's progress.

“What're we playin' for?”

“Blue.”

“Name your game. Poker, whist, or brag?” Heath asked.

“Huh?”

Heath bit back a grin. “What game do you fancy? Poker, whist, or brag?” Bear didn't strike Heath as an intellectual giant. He suspected the man would be taxing his brain to get through a good hand of blackjack. But he couldn't resist taunting him.

Jacobson regarded Heath with a blank stare. “Poker,” he grunted finally.

“Very good.” Lucky, the gentleman gambler, nodded his head politely. “Five-card stud.”

Expertly, Heath shuffled the deck of cards that were a constant companion of Lucky Diamond's. He handled them as if they were an extension of his fingers, moving smoothly, faster than the eye could see.

It would be easy for a man with Heath's talent to cheat at cards, but he didn't. He was so good, he didn't have to. The man sitting across from him was another matter; he would need watching. Men like Bear would sell their own mothers for a profit. If men like Jacobson had mothers. . .

The game and the challenge were over almost as soon as they began. Heath drew four aces, Bear, a pair of threes.

“I'll deal with you later,” Bear leaned across the table and growled at Blue.

Lucky surged to his feet. He grabbed Jacobson's shirt, cutting off his breath. “If you so much as harm one hair on Blue's head, I'll make you wish you hadn't.”

Frightened, Bear nodded. When Heath shoved him back in his chair, he lugged his tonnage to his feet and lumbered across the room. Pridgen was wrong: Jacobson wasn't fast. But Heath suspected that he was ruthless.

Without saying a word, Blue and Heath followed Bear to the door. Heath expected to find him preparing an ambush reminiscent of the night before. Instead, Jacobson entered the saloon across the way, without a backward glance.

Two things happened next . . . simultaneously. Blue threw her arms around Heath's heck and planted a grateful kiss on his mouth. While his back was turned, Stevie Johns surged through the door, the note she had sent him earlier—stained with Winter's blood—clutched in her hand.

Her sharp gasp drew both Heath and Blue's attention. The look on Stevie's face was one of pure outrage. Reckoning it was due to jealousy, Heath grinned infuriatingly.

“My dear Miss Johns.” He bowed chivalrously, unmindful that his arm was still around Blue's crimson-encased waist. “I'm honored that you would seek me out two nights in a row.”

Stevie wanted to slap the supercilious smirk off Heath's face, but she'd be danged if she'd allow him to make a fool of her again. Somehow, she managed to keep her voice steady. “You rotten, no good.” She gritted her teeth. “You're nothing but a . . . a man!”

He released Blue and stepped closer to Stevie. “I'm glad you noticed.”

Blue smiled when she noticed the pink glow on Stevie's cheeks at Lucky's nearness. She had seen Jeff's sister only at a distance until then. Stevie was as pretty as Jeff said she was. And as feisty, if the venomous look she was giving Lucky was an indication.

In the dark of night, when Blue lay alone in her bed upstairs after the hoards of rutting, filthy, profane men left the saloon, and she had scrubbed as much of the shame from her body as she could, she dreamed of being a decent woman, of having a best friend like Stevie Johns. It was a dream that would never come true now that Jeff was dead.

“Answer me one question if you will.” Stevie's tone was caustic enough to strip paint from the barn wall. “Were you cavorting with that woman while my son was being beaten up?” She shook the bloodstained note in front of his face.

Blue didn't take offense. She recognized a smitten woman when she saw one. If she had found Jeff kissing another woman, she would have said far worse.

The question of how someone as young as Stevie could have a child Winter's age, especially without benefit of a husband, flickered through his mind. It was immediately burnt away in the face of righteous indignation on Blue's behalf. “You leave Blue out of this. She hasn't done anything to you.” He glanced at the note and grew even angrier. “So, you're the fool who sent that child in here.”

Stevie was more than embarrassed; she was ashamed of herself. He was right on both accounts. Blue had never done anything to her. And she never should have sent Winter into the saloon. She had been a fool . . . about many things.

“I apologize, miss,” Stevie said sincerely to Blue, then left as quickly as she'd come.

“Well, don't just stand there like a simpleton. Go after her,” Blue ordered Heath with more life than she'd shown in a long time.

Heath kissed her cheek. “Sounds like good advice to me. You sure you'll be all right?”

“I hardly think Bear Jacobson will bother me tonight after the warning you gave him.” More than a little hero-worship lit her eyes.

Heath was oblivious of it. All he could think of was Stevie. “Okay. I'll check on you in the morning.” With a smile as big as the state of Texas on his face, he hurried from the saloon.

 

 

He almost tripped over Stevie where she sat on Pilar's stoop in the darkness, her hands fisted together, pressed between her updrawn knees.

“Sorry, I didn't see you.”

She remained silent.

“Mind if I sit?”

She scooted over to make room for his large frame. The note she had sent to the saloon fluttered to the ground.

Heath retrieved the missive. “May I?”

“It's for you.”

He was intrigued. “Me?” Striking a match on his boot heel, he held it up to the paper and read: “Mr. Diamond, I'm going out to the ranch tomorrow to look around. You can tag along if you want. Stevie Johns.”

Heath hid a smile. Short and sweet, just like the woman who'd written it. He had certainly received more eloquent pleas for help. But it was exactly what he would expect from a woman like the one beside him—the one who was trying to act as if she couldn't care less about his reaction to her note. He carefully folded the paper and placed it into his waistcoat pocket. “Why the change of heart?”

“I've learned that some of the judge's men have moved out to our land and are digging around in my hiding place.”

“Your hiding place?”

Stevie had not meant to refer to the cave in that way. Not wanting to explain the significance of her terminology, she hurried on. “I'm good with a gun, Mr. Diamond, but I'm no match for a dozen or more hired guns.”

He blessed her with a devastating smile. “It's always important to recognize your limitations.”

“This may be a joke to you.”

“I'm sorry . . .” he began.

“But my home and family are being threatened. Frankly, I have a hard time laughing about that. Now, are you going to ride with me or not? If not, I have to try to find someone else. Considering the stranglehold the judge has on this town and the fact that I'm part Indian, that might be a bit difficult.”

Not to mention that you're a woman, Heath added silently. He heard the bitterness in her voice and regretted that one so lovely and so young had so much to be bitter about. Pushing aside the sympathy it evoked—which he was sure she didn't want—he tapped her nose lightly. “When you put it so graciously, sugar, how could I refuse?”

Her heart was banging against her ribs long after he excused himself and took the warmth of the night inside with him.

Thirteen

Heath tried his dead-level best not to gape. Truly, he did. But the sight that greeted him the next morning as he opened his bedroom door all but took his breath away.

Bending at the waist, talking to Winter and Sweetums, Stevie's backside was framed by Heath's open door. It was a vision to behold. She had exchanged her black leather outfit for one that was white. Apparently, she had bleached buckskin until the fabric was soft and snowy as cotton, then fashioned trousers and a vest that hugged her body like a lover's caress. Every curve was gently outlined, on display for every randy cowhand north of the Rio Grande.

This last thought caused Heath no little distress. When he spoke to her, his voice showed his annoyance. “I hope you don't plan to take that damn pet of yours along.”

Stevie jerked up and wheeled toward the angry lawman. As usual, she reacted to his nearness in a painful-pleasurable way. Her inability to control her reaction set fire to her temper
as
well. “Sweetums is not a pet. She's a friend.” Instinctively, she dropped her hand and ruffled her friend's fur. With a sickly-sweet smile, she purred, “But don't worry, I won't let her hurt you.”

Heath winced. Throwing his words back into his face was not the best way to get on his good side. Any more than looking like she needed to be tossed on her pretty little backside and loved long and hard, all day and into the night. “I might've known you'd name a man-eating wolf Sweetums.”

“Men aren't fit to eat.”

Not even wanting to pursue the intriguing possibilities, he threw her a falsely disinterested look. “I'll meet you out front soon as I've had my coffee. I have an errand to run before we leave town. We can take care of it on the way out.” With that, he presented her his back and sauntered down the hall.

Stevie had a strong urge to stick her tongue out at his retreating figure. She wondered what the mysterious errand was, then pushed the thought aside. She bent to Winter's level. “Pilar will take care of you until I get back. . .” she began in Comanche, sifting her fingers through his shoulder-length black hair.

When he squared his frail shoulders and jerked his chin, looking like a Comanche brave whose honor had been insulted, Stevie changed her tack. “She needs your help. With all the bad men in town, and me gone and Pa shot, she needs a brave man in her house. Will you and Sweetums take care of her while I'm gone?”

Winter jerked a nod, looking much older than his six years. His lower lip trembled before he could still it. Men didn't cry, he reminded himself, Indian men or white men, and neither would he. But his heart would hurt awful bad until his mother returned to him.

Stevie would suffer likewise. She had found Winter behind the Silver Dollar Saloon when he was less than two hours old. The woman who birthed him was a soiled dove who had expelled him from her body, then thrown him out like the contents of a slop jar. The whore was a full-blood Comanche. Stevie learned that the woman died less than a year later, shot in a barroom brawl. Stevie had been the only mother Winter had known, he, she decided, the only child she would ever have.

Like most mothers, it hurt unbearably to leave her child, if only for a few hours. But Stevie knew it would be longer than a few hours before she and Winter were reunited. She had a sixth sense, always feeling impending doom. She knew that she and Lucky would not return to Adobe Wells for some time.

Stevie lay a trembling hand alongside her son's jaw and smiled with love. Slowly, her fingers mapped his face, lightly skimming the telltale bruises inflicted by Bear Jacobson. Her heart ached at the thought. She would see that the man paid one day; he would die. For now she pushed the rage and hatred aside, allowing love and tenderness to fill her. “My fingers want to see your face so I can remember you while I'm gone.”

While she would never have a husband or children of her own, God had blessed her with Winter. He eased the ache, filled the emptiness. And she loved him for it with all her heart.

“I love you, Mother,” he whispered.

“And I love you, my precious child.” She kissed his cheek gently, then told him one more time how much she loved him. Rising unsteadily, she smiled and whispered,
“Toquet,
it is well.”

Eyes shining, he nodded bravely.
“Toquet.”

 

 

“What's the errand?” Stevie asked as she and Heath rode away from Pilar's.

“I have to see Blue.”

Stevie stiffened in the saddle. “You can say good-bye to your whore without my presence!”

Heath reined in, throwing her a bemused glance. “If I didn't know better, Steph, I'd swear you were jealous of Blue.”

“Not hardly! And don't call me Steph. It's Stevie. Or better yet, call me Miss Johns.”

Heath threw his head back and laughed. She was striving so hard to look intimidating and disapproving. Instead, she looked adorable. Kind of like the furry calico he had given his sister, Ann, for her seventh birthday. Perhaps with a little coaxing Miss Johns could be as affectionate as the feline had become.

He stared at her just for the joy of taking in her beauty. The breeze blew lightly, fluttering the fringe on her vest. Movement over her right shoulder caught his eye. His brow furrowed. A hangman's noose dangled from the tree, swaying in the breeze.

“What kind of town leaves a noose hanging from a tree?” he asked rhetorically. Giving no prior thought to his actions, he closed the distance and cut the rope down with one swish of his knife. He looked up in time to see two men dash into the stagecoach office on the other side of the plaza as if they expected the world to come to an end within the next three seconds.

When he returned to her side, Stevie commented, “That was a mistake.”

He regarded her with surprise. Her face was as devoid of emotion as her voice.

“Why?”

“Judge Jack said it was to be left there.”

“Maybe it's time Judge Jack learned he can't have everything his way.” There was something about Stevie's carefully controlled demeanor that struck Heath as odd. He had seen her infuriated, passionate, even amused, but never like this. “There's more to this than you're saying.”

She shrugged dismissively. “Last week Judge Jack hung an Indian who was accused of stealing his prized stallion. After the hanging, Jacobson rode into town, leading the horse behind him. He had taken the animal over to Fort Bascomb for a special kind of shoe job.” When she grasped her locket, Heath noticed the fine tremor in her hand. “Lame Wolf hadn't touched the horse. When the judge learned that he had hung an innocent man, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Tough. The stinking redskin should have stayed out of town.' ”

Heath's voice was low and intense. “What did you say the Indian's name was?”

“Lame Wolf.” Her voice was husky, sounding almost reverent.

Heath felt as if someone had hit him in the chest with a sledgehammer. Lame Wolf was a famed hero among the plains Indians. He had heard of his daring exploits while in Red Feather's camp. The Comanche were gifted storytellers, and Lame Wolf's brave deeds provided them a wealth of material. For a man who was a living legend, a source of great pride to his people, to have been executed so callously was almost more than Heath could bear. Trying to regain a measure of control, he stared at the noose in his hand.

“Don't take it so hard, Lucky.” She paused. “He was just a breed.”

Heath jerked his head toward her. Had he not seen the pain in her eyes, he would have taken her to task for her remark. “Let's go, hon.”

She rode quietly at his side, thinking that the noose looked quite like a teardrop.

 

 

Heath slid from his saddle and tossed the reins over the hitching post in front of the Silver Dollar Saloon. Reaching up, he circled Stevie's waist with his hands. “You're coming with me.”

She pushed against his shoulders. “No. I'll wait here.” She did not want to see Heath kiss Blue again. Just as she did not want to speculate on why the mere thought caused her heart to hurt.

For reasons Heath couldn't name, it was important that Stevie understand about Blue, that his interest was not romantic but humanitarian. “Come on.” Tightening his grip, he pulled her off her horse.

“Let me go.” Her objections died when their bodies made contact.

Slowly, he slid her down the length of him. If she'd had any doubt about which woman stirred his blood, the physical contact with his lower body cleared it up nicely. She dropped her gaze to a conspicuous area of his person. “Do you need two women to take care of that?” Her taunt was made through tightly clenched teeth. It was apparent that Heath wasn't the only one fighting to tamp down the raging tide of desire.

Chuckling softly, he tapped her nose affectionately, much as he had the night before. “You and Blue would constitute one and a half women, little bit. But then, I've always said the best presents come in small packages.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the saloon.

When they entered the dim interior, Heath's nostrils twitched at the smell of oiled sawdust. The room was empty except for the Mexican woman who swirled her broom, picking up a residue of tobacco juice and other waste from the floor. Heath asked her to point out Blue's room. Stevie was pleased that he had to ask.

“It's the second one on the right. Up those stairs.”

Stevie tried to pull free of Heath's grasp. “I'll wait for you down here.”

“Oh, no, you won't. I'm far too much a gentleman to leave a lady alone in a saloon.”

“If you were a gentleman, you wouldn't have dragged me into this den of iniquity in the first place.”

“You may have a point there.” Despite his words, he escorted her up the stairs. Winking down into her face, he knocked on Blue's door.

Muffled noises came from inside. Blue cracked the door, but when she saw Heath and Stevie, she slammed it in their faces. “Please go away.”

Heath was enraged at what he'd seen. “Blue, open this damn door before I knock it down.”

Stevie hit his arm. “Would you hush your bellowing? You're scaring her.”

Heath paid her no heed. He was too busy berating himself. Last night he had been so enraptured with Stevie that he failed to protect Blue. He had put her in danger, then deserted her. Some lawman he was! “Blue, do you hear me? Open this door.”

“Lucky, please, just go away.”

Reading Heath's intent, Stevie shouted, “Move back, Blue!”

Heath kicked the door in, breaking the latch.

“My God,” Stevie breathed at her first good look at Blue. She acted instinctively, moving to Blue's side and taking her hands in her own. “Are you all right?”

Blue's face was unrecognizable. It was a mass of black and purple bruises, her nose obviously broken, her lower lip cut, her left eye swollen completely shut.

Heath uttered an oath that surprised both women, it was so vile. “Who did this to you?” he gritted through clenched teeth.

“No one. I fell down the stairs last night.”

Stevie wrapped her arms around Blue's shoulders and held her. “Tell him the truth.”

Blue broke into sobs at Stevie's act of kindness. She cried into her shoulder until she was too weak to cry anymore.

Stevie smoothed Blue's blood-matted hair, soothing her as if she were an injured child. “You might as well tell him . . .” she began gently. “He's such a pain in the ass, he won't leave until you do.” This elicited a small smile from Blue and an imperiously raised brow from Heath.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” a harsh voice sounded from the doorway.

Heath turned to see Bear Jacobson standing in the doorway. His eyes were ablaze with hate and alcohol. His unkempt black hair hung down onto an oil-slicked brow. He held a wicked-looking knife in one wide hand. Blue cowered at the sight of him, leaving no doubt who had beaten her.

“You son of a bitch,” Heath growled, rushing Bear.

Bear swung the knife wildly back and forth.

With the speed of a striking diamondback rattler, Heath ducked the blade and sank his doubled fist into the folds beneath Bear's chin. Jacobson collapsed on the floor like a fallen oak, clutching his neck.

Heath stood over him, hands fisted at his sides. “Get up, you gutless slob.”

Coughing and sputtering, Bear got to his feet. Heath jerked his fist back and buried it in Bear's face, crashing him through the door. The railing splintered. Bear rolled like a giant ball of butter down the stairs. When he reached the saloon below, his body spread out like a fattening hog, wallowing in the mud.

Heath turned to Blue and noticed that she looked more frightened than before.

“Please leave. Both of you.” Her voice trembled; her eyes teared. “When Judge Jack finds out you've been here, he'll kill us all.”

Heath and Stevie spoke in unison.

“Let him try!” exclaimed Stevie.

“The hell he will!” Heath shouted.

“Please, I beg you. Leave before Bear comes back with a gun. Please!”

She turned imploring eyes on Stevie. All the pain she was suffering would be slight compared to the guilt she would experience if Jeff's sister were hurt because of her.

Stevie glared at Heath. “Are you going to go after him, or shall I?” she asked him indignantly.

Heath looked from Blue's pitiful face to Stevie's determined glare. He touched both women gently, his hand lingering on Stevie's hair a moment longer. “You stay with Blue.”

He disappeared through the door and sprinted down the stairs. Jacobson was trying to get up on his feet. When Heath reached him, he grabbed him by the hair and yanked him up, slamming him against the wall. The fat man's eyes widened with terror.