Velvet Thunder (4 page)

The thought of shooting human beings for no reason at all save the accident of their birth made Heath's blood run cold. He tightened his grip on the reins and stiffened in the saddle, lifting his eyes toward the horizon.

The haunting beauty of the Plains Indians' ancestral home soothed him. He could almost feel their spirit surrounding him; he was humbled by the sensation.

When the Justice Department had approached Jay and him about being special agents to see that justice was dispensed in the West, they assured them there would be equal justice for all, Indian and white. That was the only reason the twosome had accepted the job.

But the assurance was a lie. Despite the intervention of men like Jay's brother-in-law, Chase Tarleton, the Comanches had been rounded up and herded onto a reservation in Oklahoma. Just like Chase's Cherokee family had been herded up and marched from Georgia to the wilds of Oklahoma Territory, along the infamous Trail of Tears.

Heath had an appreciation of the Indian that went beyond lip service. He truly ached for their dismal plight. But optimistic by nature, he pushed the painful thoughts aside and considered the black-eyed beauty with hair the color of a palomino, the brazen angel he'd met on Mustang Mesa.

Granted, she was beautiful. She gave rise to feelings that weren't totally physical in nature, however. He was inexplicably drawn to her.

And there was something familiar about her, as if he had known her before. During their few moments together—despite the combative nature of the encounter—he hadn't felt as if they were meeting for the first time. It was more like they were becoming reacquainted, worse, that he had been searching for her all his life. It was almost enough to make a skeptical man believe in fate. Almost.

He felt unaccountably restless, inordinately lonely, ever since he'd visited his family in New York. His two brothers, Chap and Rad, were happily married. Their older sister, Emily, was widowed. His youngest sister, Ann, remained unwed, though at last account she was engaged. So that left him as the only Turner progeny who had never experienced true love, the only sibling who had never pledged himself exclusively to another.

He would never admit it aloud, but there were times lately when he wanted someone special to love so badly, his gut ached. Not just someone to share his body with, but someone to entrust with his heart, his hopes, his dreams, his future.

A man could easily find physical release. All he had to do was locate the nearest honkytonk, drop a few coins, and lie between the plump thighs of the woman of his choice. But these biological encounters—as he and Jay labeled them—often left him more frustrated than satisfied.

But the angel of Mustang Mesa's shy, inexperienced response to his kiss held more satisfaction than a promised night of debauchery with the highest paid whore the Wild West had to offer.

As the vision of her face grew more vivid, his strange yearning for her expanded. Just as quickly it vanished, snatched by a gun shot splitting the heavy afternoon air. The shot came from beyond the next rise. Heath kicked his horse into a gallop as another shot rang out.

His heart pounded against his ribs. Surely his feisty shootist was not firing at another unwary passerby. Worse yet, was someone firing at her?

He palmed his gun and thundered over the hill. Relief and dread filled him in equal measures when he saw that the victim was not the girl but a tired-looking old man, lying unconscious beside a mesquite bush, all alone, his head cradled in a spreading pool of his own blood.

Heath cast a quick glance around. The man's assailant was nowhere in sight. He pulled rein and slid out of the saddle before Warrior had fully stopped. Still holding his gun, he approached the injured man.

 

 

Stevie shrieked as she topped the rise, “Get away from him, you rotten bastard.” Falling down at her father's side, she pulled his head into her lap. He was unnaturally pale, frighteningly still.

“Oh, Pa,” she cried softly, holding him, rocking him. There was so much blood. She wondered if anyone could lose so much blood and live.

“Why?” She raised stricken eyes to Heath. “Why did you have to shoot him? Why couldn't you just leave us alone? Why can't you all just leave us alone?”

The strain of the past several months and the thought of losing her pa overwhelmed her. She buried her face in Sandy's hair and clutched him protectively to her chest. If she lost him, she and Winter, her child, would have no one left, no one at all.

Heath cursed beneath his breath, disturbed by the girl's distress. She looked so helpless, kneeling at his feet. Somehow he knew that moments of weakness were few and far between for this girl. He hated seeing her beaten, subdued. Idiot that he was, he would rather have her taking shots at him.

“Pia,
mother.” A shrill voice drew Heath's attention. Riding up to them, his face taut with fear, an Indian child slid from a painted pony. “Grandfather Sandy, he is dead?” Winter asked in Comanche.

“No,” Heath answered for Stevie. “But if we don't get him to a doctor, he soon will be.”

In her distress, Stevie failed to notice that Heath understood Comanche. She raised tear-filled eyes to him. “Are you sure he's not dead?”

He nodded. “Just stunned.”

Stevie closed her eyes, whispering a prayer of thanksgiving to her father's Christian God and to the Great Spirit of the Comanches. She tilted her chin up and wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve.

Heath chose to ignore the accusation in their moist depths. “Do you have a wagon?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, sir,” Winter offered.

Heath took the six-year-old child's measure. He looked quite capable, and he could certainly ride a horse well. “Good. Go get it, son.” As an afterthought he added, “Is there someone to help you with the harness?”

“Pepper will help,” Winter said, looking to Stevie for instruction. When she gave him leave, he jumped on his horse and made for the ranch.

Hesitantly, Heath knelt on the grass, reaching forward to check Sandy's head wound. Stevie scooted backward, attempting to pull her father away from Heath.

“Let me check him, dammit,” Heath ordered, perturbed by her mistrust. Fighting for composure, he balled his fists and rested them on bent thighs. “I just want to make sure the bleeding has stopped.”

“You touch him and I'll kill you,” she snarled. “He would rather die than accept help from one of Judge Jack's henchmen. Especially the sidewinder who shot him!”

A muscle in Heath's jaw twitched, evincing the tenuous hold he had on his rising temper. “You blind fool! I'm not Judge Jack's henchman. And I sure as hell am no murderer. So get that notion out of your demented head. I'm a simple gambler who has had the misfortune of running into you twice in one day. Now, if you want your pa to live, you'll let me help you. When the kid gets back, I'll put the old man in the wagon, and you can take him into town. Beyond that, you can go to blazes as far as I'm concerned.”

Carefully, she laid her father out on the soft stand of grass and rose to her feet.

Heath never took his eyes off her, a thread of tension running the length of him. Years of living by his wits made him wary of her. He wasn't particularly surprised when she whipped a benign-looking snub-nosed derringer from inside her vest pocket. “I guess this means you don't want my help,” he surmised.

In answer, she cocked the small but very lethal gun. “If my pa dies, I'll hunt you down and put a bullet through your black heart.” Stevie had never killed a man, but there was always a first time. “I might do it anyway. Just for the pleasure.”

She was deadly serious, and Heath was wise enough to realize it. Standing, slowly so as not to startle her, he dropped his gaze to the injured man at his feet. The head wound was superficial, just a crease, and the bleeding had stopped.

Satisfied that he could do no more, he doffed his Stetson and sketched a chivalrous bow. “It's been an experience meeting you, my lady. Not particularly pleasant, but an experience nonetheless.” His voice was frosty as Christmas morn. “I leave you to see after your own.”

And he did, without noticing the gaping hole in Sandy Johns's chest.

An hour before sundown Heath rode into town. With thoughts of his job occupying his attention, he had put the day's unpleasantness out of his mind.

Thick red dust rose with every clop of his horse's hooves. Heath raised his neckerchief over his nose to filter the dust, and scanned the streets, instinctively noting the avenues of escape and the areas suitable for ambush—the places a yellow-bellied brigand bent on shooting an unsuspecting marshal could hide.

Adobe Wells was a typical western town. The buildings were one and two story flat-top adobes with portals. Two streets, one running north-south, the other east-west, intersected at the center of town, forming a dirt plaza. On either side of the plaza were adobe-framed wells. A few trees, mostly cottonwood, offered the mingling inhabitants little shade from the late afternoon sun.

Not surprising, there were three saloons in town. In addition, there were two hotels, a jail, a general store, a respectable looking eatery, a livery stable, a hardware, and a few other nondescript establishments, along with five or six private residences.

On the north side of town a number of miners' shacks had been haphazardly constructed from makeshift materials. The temporary city looked like a sea of cast-off lumber and tin, swarming with sooty, bearded lifesize ants. Men wearing overalls or heavy trousers held up by suspenders busied themselves with evening chores. Some of them were tending to stock animals, mostly burros; others were busy cooking the night's fare over open fires. The distinctive smell of onions and fried beans caused Heath's nostrils to twitch, his stomach to rumble.

He had not expected to see miners in Adobe Wells. No precious metals or minerals of any sort had ever been found in this area. There was, of course, gold in California, silver in Nevada, and copper in Arizona. But as far as he knew, this area was good for grazing cattle and little else.

Except producing beautiful angels with positively diabolical dispositions. Smiling at the memory, he removed his neckerchief and stopped at a stately home on the edge of town. A wooden sign reading
MANCHEZ'S BOARDINGHOUSE
swayed and creaked in the afternoon breeze. Sliding from the saddle, he secured Warrior's reins to the white picket fence circling the front yard, shouldered his saddlebags, and pushed through the gate.

A burst of energy infused him now that his long trip had come to an end. Taking the front steps two at a time, he rapped gently on the frosted pane of the front door.

An attractive Mexican woman in her mid-forties opened the door and invited Heath inside out of the summer sun. Her clean, crisp, lemon-yellow calico gown was in striking contrast to her soft, dusky complexion. Masses of shiny black hair were imprisoned in a demure bun at the back of her head. Her apron, starched stiff, was as white as the first snow in winter. Her smile was open, friendly.

“
Buenos tardes, S
eñor.
”

“Señorita.”
Heath greeted her with the instinctive charm that never failed to give the fairer sex a moment of rapid heart palpitation.

It had its usual effect.
“Senora
Pilar Manchez,” she said, wishing that she were ten years younger.

His face hinted at disappointment before he bowed over her hand. “A tragic loss,
Señ
ora.
I wonder, are all beautiful women married?”

Pilar's cheeks flamed at the offhand flattery despite her years of maturity. “Surely not. I myself am a widow.” She paused respectfully. Clearing her throat, she continued. “Now, how may I help you?”

“I need a room for an undetermined length of time.”

“I have one available on the second floor. A large cottonwood tree shades it in the daytime,
Sen
or.
I think you will find it comfortable.”

After being shrieked at for most of the afternoon, Heath found Pilar's gentle spirit, lilting accent, and serene smile soothing. “
Gracias.
”

A man in his line of work had to be wary of strangers, but he had a feeling it would be difficult to remain aloof around the woman regarding him with open friendliness. He liked her instantly. She reminded him of Rad's wife, Ginny. Calm, gentle, tranquil.

He followed Pilar to a room that was typically western in decor except for a tap over a zinc basin. Indoor running water was unusual for this part of the country, and Heath was suitably impressed. He complimented Pilar on her home.

“Diamond. Lucky Diamond. Please call me Lucky.” He watched his hostess warily, hoping she wouldn't ask him to leave. Most respectable women shied away from professional gamblers. And with a name like Lucky Diamond, there could be no doubt in Pilar's mind of his profession.

Not one to be predictable, Pilar caught Heath off guard. “You plan to try your hand at gambling in our town, Lucky?” She might have been discussing the weather for all the emotion in her voice.

More than surprised, Heath was relieved. He was far too tired to go room-hunting today. And he did like Pilar. “Yes. But first I would sell my soul for some good home cooking and a hot bath.”

Pilar laughed. “It will be my pleasure to pamper you. Much as your own mother would.”

“If only all the ladies in this area were as gracious as you. . .”

“You have found our ladies otherwise?” she expressed her surprise.

“Only one.” Leaning against the bedpost, he tried to hide his apparent interest. “I was waylaid by a young girl about seven miles east of town. She took several shots at me from the cliffs in front of Mustang Mesa.”

Pilar clutched her throat. “Oh, dear. Stevie!”

“Stevie? No. I don't think so. I didn't catch her name, but this very definitely was a girl. I got close enough to determine that delightful fact.”

“Yes. Our Stevie is very much a girl. No matter how hard she tries to be the son her father needs. But you mustn't hold her”—she paused, searching for the right words—“unorthodox behavior against her, Lucky. She's understandably upset. It was recently declared that her father doesn't hold clear title to his ranch and Sandy and Stevie are to be evicted any day. She probably thought you were one of Judge Jack's hired guns, sent to throw them into the streets.”

Almost as an afterthought, she mused, “I'm surprised that you got by her so easily.”

Heath grinned. “Who said it was easy?”

Pilar assessed Heath, taking in his long, muscled six-foot-four-inch frame, the rakish twinkle in his eye, his shiny black hair, and engaging grin. She couldn't imagine him having trouble with any woman. “The sentiment of most men regarding Stevie,” Pilar said cryptically.

Heath felt a twinge in his gut that was too damn close to jealousy for his peace of mind. To his knowledge, he had never suffered from the petty emotion. Jealousy was for the ranks of the insecure. And he possessed more than his share of confidence; some uncharitably called it arrogance. But things had always come easy for him—money, friends, women, success. Who wouldn't be confident?

“Miss Pilar, Cook needs you in the kitchen,” a small Mexican girl interrupted, staring shyly at the gringo.

“Please tell her I'll be right down, Maria.” Pilar turned to Heath. “You'll want to have your bath before supper. My guests use the shed out back. I'll have Will Eagle fill the tub. Supper will be served in the dining room in an hour.”

“Thank you,
Sen
ora
Manchez.”

After stabling his horse, Heath made his way to the shed behind the hotel. Will Eagle was an Indian of about sixty winters. His long braided hair was the color of newly fallen snow. He was dressed in faded jeans that bagged at the seat and a well-worn buckskin shirt that hung from his gaunt frame. Despite his shabby clothing, he had an exalted bearing.

Perched smartly atop his head was a black top hat. It looked as if it had been squashed repeatedly over the years. Now it stood only half as tall as it originally did.

To the casual observer, the headgear appeared ready for the garbage heap. But to Will Eagle it was more precious than a bank vault filled with gold. It had been presented to him by the white captive, Cynthia Ann Parker, and her Comanche husband, Wanderer. He wore it with all the defiance of the renegade bands of Comanche, who rejected the forced removal of the People to government reservations.

Heath introduced himself to the stoic old man, extending his hand. For a long, tense moment, he met Will's eye respectfully, something most white men neglected to do.

Will was pleased. He shook Heath's hand, pointed him toward the tub, and, without uttering a word, left him to his bath.

Feeling that he had passed muster, Heath shed his dusty clothes and, sinking into the tub, gave an audible sigh of appreciation. He soaked until his sun-bronzed skin began to wrinkle like a prune.