Velvet Thunder (6 page)

Claws bared, Stevie launched herself at Heath's back.

“What the hell?” he yelled, hitting the ground, Stevie spread the length of him.

Gasping, he wrapped his arms around the writhing, growling termagant and rolled her onto her back. He held her tight against his chest, fighting to fill his starving lungs with air. Somehow, his sense of humor was intact. “If you wanted to finish what we started on the mesa, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.”

Enraged, she drew her arm to the side and slugged him.

“Damn you,” he grunted. “Stop it. I don't want to hurt you.”

“But I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch.”

“What is your problem, lady?”

She arched her back sharply in an attempt to dislodge him, slamming her lower body against his. The sensation was painful and pleasurable for them both.

“Oh, God.” His voice was low and husky, evincing his burgeoning desire.

Feeling his male hardness against her belly and her responding hunger rise in a heated rush, her eyes widened. She grew inert beneath him, becoming still as a corpse. “Get off me!” she yelled, her voice thick.

Instinctively, he pressed his hips to hers, striving to ease the ache rapidly uncoiling in his groin. Her body, hot and stimulating, burned his yearning flesh through their clothes. He pressed hard against her belly. A moan of passion escaping his lips, he caressed her with his eyes.

Lord, she was exquisite; moon dust brushed her face, perfectly sculpted nose, slightly curved jaw, high, regal cheekbones, and dusky skin so smooth and soft that it might have been fashioned into shell-thin porcelain from melted caramel. Her tip-tilted black eyes were shaded by half-lowered lids. Mesmerizing. She was beauty personified, her head cushioned in a halo of platinum hair.

But it was her lips that held his gaze. Full, sensual lips, slightly parted, just begging to be kissed. Drawn like a moth to a flame, he bent his head. To his delight, she met him halfway. He kissed her lightly, then lifted his face until his mouth hovered just above hers. “I want you, precious,” he breathed, exciting them both with his confession.

Groaning, he smothered her with his kiss. It was moist, easy, practiced, his lips soft and sensitive. Then he
really
kissed her. She opened her mouth with a small whimper. His tongue moved inside with strong, impelling strokes, caressing the inner walls of her mouth, familiarizing himself with the honeyed sweetness of her dark, velvet recesses.

The sweet throbbing of his lips made her shift closer to him. She clung to him, wanting the kiss to go on forever.

Time and space lost all relevance. Neither Heath nor Stevie was cognizant of anything outside the circle of their arms. They were a mass of raging passion. He slipped a muscled thigh between her legs and pressed against her warm flesh.

They were not driven by passion alone. It was as if they communicated on a spiritual plane, in a way that denied all reason, defied all logic. With the same mind they knew if they didn't become one physically, they would never be whole.

Suddenly, Stevie drew back, her startled gaze fixed, like a deer before it bolted. Acknowledging that she wanted this stranger frightened her as nothing else ever had. More than the danger Judge Jack posed, more than the prospect of losing her home. But not more than the threat of losing her father.

At the sudden thought of her father, she tensed. How could she lie beneath the man who shot Pa, her sensible self berated.

“Precious?”

She was uncertain whether he spoke or communicated the word from his mind to her own.

“Stevie?” Pilar's shocked voice stole the last vestiges of Stevie's smoldering passion. “Mr. Diamond, what do you think you're doing to that girl?”

Unfortunately, nothing, Heath complained silently. Levering himself up, he pulled Stevie to her feet. He bent at the waist and brushed grass off his immaculate trousers. It took great effort to hide his profound reaction to the events of the past few moments.

Pilar stood looking down at them, hands fisted, resting on her hips. “I demand an explanation,” she continued imperiously.

It occurred to Heath that her outrage didn't quite ring true. He distinctly heard a note of pleased amusement in her thick accent.

“I assure you,
Sen
ora
Manchez . . .” he began.

Having momentarily regained her composure, Stevie wheeled toward Heath. He turned toward her at the abrupt movement. Catching him by surprise, she swung her slender arm and slapped his face soundly.

“Stevie,” Pilar gasped. “Why on earth did you do that?”

Ignoring Pilar, Stevie regarded Heath as if he were an insect under a piece of glass. “If I had my gun, I'd shoot him.”

Heath rubbed his cheek, a bemused expression on his handsome face. Damn her beautiful hide. She had wanted him as much as he wanted her. That's probably what made her so mad, he decided. That, and unfulfilled desire.

“You sure shootin' me's what you want to do, darlin'?” He raked her with a suggestive glare and spoke so that she alone could hear him. “It felt like you had somethin' a site more pleasurable in mind a minute ago.”

“Of course I want to shoot you,” she began sweetly. “But first I'd like to stab you and peel your worthless hide, inch by torturous inch. Then I'll shoot you. Just before I hang you.”

Heath chuckled.

By then, the Pridgens had joined Pilar, followed by the Dough twins and the disapproving Miss Smelter.

Stevie threw the spectators a heated glare collectively. Providing half of Adobe Wells with a night's entertainment was not her idea of fun.

Heath had no such qualms as he stepped closer to Stevie. “I thought you liked me?”

The twins almost fainted.

Stevie balled her hands into fists at her sides. “Like you? I loathe you. You tried to kill my pa.”

Pilar sailed off the porch.

“What's this about Sandy?” Pridgen asked before Pilar could get the words out.

“This snake shot him,” Stevie announced, pointing at Heath. “In the head and chest.”

At that, all hell broke loose. Pilar begged Stevie for more information. Where is Sandy? How is he? Heath loudly proclaimed his innocence. He had shot no one. Stevie accused him of everything short of assassinating President Lincoln. Smelter shouted that she had known the stranger was no good from the first. The twins argued that Heath was being judged unfairly.

It took a thunderous blast to gain their attention. Standing in the front yard, Pridgen held a smoking gun. “That the peashooter he used to shoot Sandy?” He pointed to Heath's Colt.

Gasping for breath, she jerked a nod.

“Well, young fella, maybe you best give me that hog leg.” He leveled his gun on Heath to add weight to his demand.

Cautiously, Heath made his way over to Pridgen, never taking his eyes off the gun that was trained on him, and handed his weapon over, pearl handle first.

Pridgen sniffed the barrel, then relaxed. “This gun ain't been fired recently, Stevie. I think you owe the dude an apology.”

The Doughs beamed.

Miss Smelter threw them a glare.

Stevie jerked her chin stubbornly. She was not yet ready to admit a mistake.

“It's not necessary,” Heath said quietly. “I'm sorry about your father, Miss Johns.” He was upset with himself for not checking Sandy more closely. For failing to notice the man's second wound might have cost him his life. “I didn't know he'd been shot in the chest. I wouldn't have left you alone with him if I'd known.”

His words were so sincere, so reassuring that Stevie felt small for her earlier accusations. Still, her only response was a slight nod.

Pilar, her eyes bright with tears, put a comforting arm around Stevie's shoulders. “Is he at Sully's?”

“Yes.”

“Nellie, will you ask Cook to get Stevie something to eat while I check on Sandy?” Pilar tried valiantly to keep her voice steady. She patted Stevie's cheek in a motherly gesture. “Why don't you freshen up, then rest some after you eat, hon? You'll want to stay in town to be close to your father. We can share my room.” Worry for Sandy sculpting her face, she turned away.

Miss Smelter pointed rudely at Stevie. “She's staying here?” Heath felt Stevie stiffen at his side. He had never slapped a woman before, but his hands itched to wipe the supercilious smirk off Miss Smelter's pockmarked face. Absently, he wondered what there was about Stevie that the spinster objected to.

Stevie's cheeks flamed. She knew that the schoolteacher looked down on her because she was Indian. Well, she didn't care what the old bitch thought, never had. But she hated to be ridiculed in front of the gambler.

“Do you have a problem with that?” Pilar asked her boarder.

“She's an Indian,” Miss Smelter hissed as if that incontrovertible fact should end the discussion.

Stevie winced as Heath stared at her intently. He was surprised to learn that she was Indian, but she read his reaction to Smelter's revelation differently.

“So?” Pilar broke through the tension cloaking the assemblage.

“Indians shouldn't reside with decent people.”

“Miss Smelter, that's not very Christian of you,” Bitsy intoned.

“Not very Christian of you at all,” Itsy agreed.

If Heath hadn't been so enraged with the woman standing at their side, he would have kissed the portly sisters. He agreed with them wholeheartedly.

Miss Smelter drew herself up in a huff. “I will not remain in a home that houses savages.”

“Good,” retorted Pilar. “That'll leave plenty of room for Stevie and her son. I suggest you leave immediately, Miss Smelter. And do not bother to return.”

“I'll do just that.” When she looked like she would say something further, Heath's glare sent her packing. Stevie's gaze was trained on the hazy outline of the mountains in the distance, so she missed the exchange between Heath and Miss Smelter.

“Honey, I'm sorry.”

Stevie waved away Pilar's apology. She was used to the kind of treatment she had just received. Still, she wondered if it would always hurt. “I'll walk back to Sully's with you.” She hoped her voice didn't sound as husky to the others as it did to her.

“Miss Johns, I'd like to have a word with you first. Then I'll escort you over to the doc's when you're ready.” Heath's request was extremely respectful.

More respectful than she deserved, after all she had done and said to him since they met, Stevie allowed. The least she could do was hear him out. “Very well.”

Her pa would be fine with Pilar. If Sandy woke up, it's likely that he would want to see Pilar anyway. Sandy Johns was a healthy man whose needs Pilar met on a regular basis. Even though Stevie pretended ignorance, she knew that the two were in love; more to the point, her father's two nights a week in town were spent in Pilar's bed. She wondered what the high-and-mighty Gertrude Smelter would think of that.

Smiling, she preceded Heath into the house.

“Damn flighty female!”

Heath had been cooling his heels in Pilar's parlor for an hour now, waiting for Miss Johns to finish freshening up and spare him a moment of her time. Surely a woman who dressed like a man could finish her toilette in less than an hour.

He waited another thirty minutes. Still, she failed to appear. He had expended all the curses he knew in English long ago. He was well into the long list of French oaths his year abroad had taught him.

Actually, when he analyzed it, he didn't know why her failure to show irritated him so. He only wanted to tell her that he was sorry about her father and that he thought Miss Smelter was an idiot. If things went well, he had planned to caution her about taking the law into her own hands.

But apparently she didn't want to hear anything he had to say. She probably would've shot him for his well-meaning advice at any cost. Shoving his hands through his hair, he cursed some more. He'd waited long enough for a hellion who was obviously not coming down.

Turning on his heel sharply, he made for the front door. He almost ran over Mrs. Pridgen.

“You goin' out, Mr. Diamond?” she asked, jumping back out of his way.

He clenched his jaw. “Yes, ma'am. Thought I would take a short walk before turning in.”

“Would you mind taking this to Stevie?” She handed a boy's lightweight jacket to him. “She left in such a hurry she forgot it.”

A muscle twitched in Heath's jaw though his expression remained perfectly pleasant. “I wasn't aware that Stevie had left the house. If you'll tell me where I can find her, I'll be glad to see that she gets it.”

She'll get it! A piece of my mind, she'll get. How dare she just walk out and leave him waiting! Heath was entirely unused to being treated so shabbily by a woman. Actually no one—if you didn't count Rebels—had ever treated him with as little regard as that feisty, exasperating, irritating, infuriating tomboy.

Mrs. Pridgen was concerned at the high color in Heath's face. “Dear me. Are you unwell, Mr. Diamond?”

“I'm quite all right. Thank you for your concern, ma'am.” Heath bowed chivalrously, placed his hat firmly on his head, grasped Stevie's coat in his white-knuckled fist, and after receiving directions to Dr. Sullivan's home, left the house. With every stride, his anger grew. Until he was in a rage.

Knowing it would be unwise to confront Stevie in his present frame of mind, he decided to have a drink first. If nothing else, the respite would allow his blood pressure to return to normal and his irritation with the blond Indian beauty to subside.

He preferred a nest of cold-blooded killers over an irascible woman any day. But he wasn't in town to deal with a woman—irascible or no. He was in Adobe Wells on government business.

Pushing through the batwings of the Silver Dollar Saloon, he became the efficient U.S. marshal he had been since the war. Tonight wouldn't be a complete waste if he could learn more about the infamous Judge Jack.

The Silver Dollar Saloon was in full swing. In addition to a bar and gambling tables in front, the back half of the establishment contained a dance hall where painted ladies displayed for a hungry clientele more than their good dispositions.

He spotted an empty table in the rear of the long, narrow room and made his way to it. Years of self-preservation had taught him to cover his back. He sat down, facing the door.

“What will you have,
Sen
or?
” the Mexican barkeep shouted over the continual hum of voices, the rattle of dice, the swishing of cards, and the scraping of chairs.

“Whiskey.” Heath's voice barely carried over the din.

The barkeep filled a shot glass and brought it to him. Heath tossed it off in a single gulp, savoring the burning liquid as it slid down his throat. It warmed him from the inside out. He tossed a gold piece on the table. “Now bring me a bottle of the good stuff.” He would need more than Tabasco-flavored rotgut to restore his customary good humor.

“Sí, Sen
or.
”

Heath nursed his second drink slowly, studying every man in the room while appearing to lounge lazily in his chair. Some of his irritation oozed away, though he was still mentally alert.

He lowered his lids halfway, withdrawing a deck of cards from his frock coat pocket. With deft fingers he fanned them absently, restacked them, then fanned them again, with the sure, smooth movements of a professional gambler.

Suddenly, the batwings swung open with a bang, magically quieting the saloon. A distinguished middle-aged gentleman with blond hair flowing from under his black bowler entered the saloon, a sense of authority blatantly tangible in his stride. He was accompanied by two gunslicks and a Mexican bandito wearing artillery low on their hips.

Heath would bet half his father's fortune that he was looking at Judge Jack and his gun-slinging entourage. Jack was a big man with what some would call a handsome face. A pirate's patch covered his left eye, lending him an ominous air. He was dressed in a stark black suit, smartly accessorized by a gold chain running from one vest pocket to the other. A slight bulge suggested that the chain was attached to a watch fob, or a snub-nosed derringer.

The judge and his men ordered drinks at the bar, oblivious of Heath's presence. They drank and conversed in soft tones.

Heath was unable to make out their words. But he watched them closely, cataloguing their moves, demeanor, and weapons.

Knowing one's enemy was important to a lawman if he wanted to stay alive. This tried and true philosophy had saved him before, even when squaring off against men who were faster, more ruthless, but, thankfully, not as cautious and prepared as he.

One of the judge's men noticed Heath, the smallest, meanest-looking of the gunslicks. He finished his drink and slammed his glass down on the bar with more force than necessary. Drawing himself up in a transparent show of self-importance, he headed Heath's way. His hands were soft and white, undoubtedly unused to the labor of a workingman. Crow's-feet ringing his close-set, beady eyes falsely bespoke character. In keeping with the rest of him, his lips were thin, cruel.

Every haughty move he made was an obvious attempt to compensate for his small stature. Heath knew only too well that his kind could be deadly. He had often said that a calico could be more vicious than a mountain lion, if only to prove his prowess.

Miss Johns was living, breathing, spitting, hissing proof of that. Dismissing the thought, he braced himself for the upcoming confrontation. Preoccupation with desirable women had been the downfall of more than one western male. Heath enjoyed staying alive too much to fall into that trap.

“I'm Henry Sims and I represent Judge Elias Colt Jack,” the gunman announced smugly when he reached Heath's table.

“How nice for you.” Heath nodded cordially. His words were mockingly insincere.

The answer brought a scowl to Sims's face. “You wanta tell me what brought you to Adobe Wells?”

Heath almost said “My horse,” but he didn't think Sims would appreciate his cowboy humor. “Not particularly.” His tone was silky and deceptively friendly.

Sims was taken aback. He had hoped to get a rise out of the fancily dressed newcomer. “Judge Jack don't take kindly to strangers comin' to town without checkin' with him first. So either tell me what your business is. Or move on. Now!”

The judge walked up to Heath's table and stood with Sims, arms akimbo, feet firmly planted. His remaining companions took their places on either side of him, like large, disreputable bookends. One was a corpulent man with unkempt black hair. The other was a squatty Mexican wearing a large embroidered sombrero. Twin bandoleers crisscrossed over his chest. His mendacious grin was topped by the largest and ugliest mustache Heath had ever seen. It was a foot long if it was an inch.

“Most folks stand up in Judge Jack's company,” Sims spat out.

Heath took another sip of his drink, his charming smile still firmly in place. “Guess I'm not most folks.”

Sims's face mottled with fury. He moved his hand closer to his gun. “Get up, damn you, or I'll blow a hole in you big enough to drive a train through.”

Without taking his eyes off Judge Jack, Heath retorted in a not-unpleasant whisper, “You're welcome to try, friend. You won't be the first.” Slowly, almost lazily, Heath rose to his feet, slanting his eyes at the brigand. “And I promise that you won't be the last.”

The hair rose on the back of Sims's neck. He threw Judge Jack an imploring look, a look that shouted, “Get me out of this.”

The judge nodded almost imperceptibly. His smile didn't reach his cold, fathomless eyes. “I don't think there's any need for violence, gentlemen.” He dismissed his entourage and turned back to Heath. “If I may have a word with you?”

“Certainly.” Heath dropped into his seat again and pushed an empty chair out from the table with the toe of his boot.

In the time it took Jack to take his seat, Heath decided that he would have to investigate this lawless band from outside. A more disreputable hoard of cutthroats he had never seen. He could never infiltrate a gang that consisted of scum like Sims and company. He would stand out like a sore thumb; he was, after all, human. He wasn't so certain about them.

Ignorant of Heath's unflattering assessment, Judge Jack sat down. “I appreciate the opportunity to speak with you . . .” he began.

He had noticed the look of steel in Heath's eyes when he had faced Sims down. He could use a man like that. All he needed to learn was his price. Everyone had a price was Jack's unspoken philosophy.

Heath shocked Judge Jack by speaking first. “Were you or any of your men out at Sandy Johns's spread today?”

Judge Jack stiffened straight as a ramrod. His gaze sought Heath's. He wondered if the gambler was as tough as he acted, or if he was just tired of living.

He would not have the opportunity to question him on the matter, however. And Heath would never learn the answer to the taunting question he presented to the judge. For Stevie Johns chose that moment to burst through the batwings, a curse on her lips, the fires of hell burning in her eyes. This time, at least, she wasn't after Heath.

“I've been looking for you, you no good, lying son of a bitch,” she snarled at Judge Jack, crossing the saloon floor like a whirling dervish.

“What the hell?” Judge Jack bellowed, jumping up, overturning his chair.

“I'll kill her myself,” Heath muttered beneath his breath, keeping track of the judge's entourage as they rushed to their boss's side. “If they don't do it for me.”

“Miss Johns.” Having regained his composure, Judge Jack bowed elegantly. “What brings you to my saloon this time of night?”

Heath groaned. Attacking the judge was one thing, doing it in his own den was something else altogether. One was foolhardy, the other suicide. The girl had no more sense than a bessy bug rolling ten pounds of dung up a hill.

The scene that followed was like something out of a Wild West show—vicious outlaws squaring off against a virginal young girl protecting hearth and home. Naturally, Heath painted himself in the picture as the invincible hero.

But the threatening look in the naive heroine's eyes didn't fit the picture. When she swung her gaze to the sign over the bar reading
INDIANS NOT ALLOWED,
her expression grew absolutely vicious. She raised her gun, centering Judge Jack in her sights.

Her hand was steady, her nerves rock solid. It would be so easy to pull the trigger, to kill the murderous snake responsible for the ambush on her pa. She wanted to so damn much, she could taste it.

When the judge went unnaturally pale, Heath silently applauded Stevie's courage in the face of overwhelming odds. He hoped to hell she would be satisfied with scaring the man and leave it at that.