Velvet Thunder (9 page)

“Well, Pa isn't exactly in a position to argue with me,” Stevie said dryly. “And we both know that Judge Jack put him in that condition.”

Pilar raised an imperious brow. “Are you sure, Stevie? Yesterday you accused
Sen
or
Diamond of shooting Sandy.”

Stevie winced. She had been wrong about the gambler, she allowed. But she wasn't wrong about Judge Jack.

When she said as much to Pilar, the older woman pulled her into the parlor. Seating her on the brushed velvet settee fronting the fireplace, she tried to reason with Stevie. “It would be all right to ask
Sen
or
Diamond to look into your problems. But not to do murder.”

“It wouldn't be murder.”

“I won't debate that with you.”

Sighing heavily, Stevie conceded. “All right. You think he'll check around if I ask him?” She fingered the locket around her neck. “I don't think he likes me very much.”

It always amazed Pilar how naive Stevie was, how unaware she was of her effect on men. She simply had no idea how lovely she was. Once when Pilar had tried to point this out to her, she said that most white men wanted only her body, that they thought she was just another Indian slut.

Pilar knew nothing could be further from the truth. There were many men in Adobe Wells—young, handsome, up-and-coming ranchers—who would have been proud to call Stevie their wife. But Stevie wouldn't believe it. She had a blind spot where white men were concerned. And the tragedy of it all was that it might well rob her of any future happiness.

A surge of motherly love washed over Pilar. She reached over and gently wiped a smudge of dirt off Stevie's cheek. Cradling her chin, she said softy, “I think if you comb your hair and wash your face, you can persuade him.” She smiled, mischief twinkling in eyes as dark and lovely as Stevie's. “If you put on a dress, you could probably convince him to do just about anything.”

“Not you too?” Stevie scoffed. “I don't even own a dress, as you well know.” She paused, frowning. “S'pose I could wash my face though.”

“Well, don't get carried away.” Pilar teased, patting Stevie's cheek. “We wouldn't want him to think you're running after him.”

Stevie decided to have money in hand, just in case Pilar was wrong and Lucky Diamond's gun was for hire.

The sun was high overhead as she pushed through the door to the Adobe Wells Bank, where her pa kept his rapidly dwindling bank account. Having helped Sandy with his bookkeeping, she knew they had five hundred thirty-two dollars and seventy-three cents in their account. Five hundred, her father insisted, was for her dowry. The remaining thirty-two dollars and seventy-three cents was earmarked for running the Rocking J.

If Stevie had a nickel for every time she told Sandy she wouldn't need a dowry, they would own the Adobe Wells Bank. But her pa was as stubborn as his daughter. No matter what she said to the contrary or how many times she said it—he insisted the five hundred dollars belonged to her.

Well, today she would avail herself of it. Lifting her head high, she strode past the gawking patrons, stepped up to a teller's cage, slapped her short black gloves against her palm to gain the fastidious banker's attention, and informed him that she wished to withdraw five hundred dollars from her father's account.

“I'm sorry, Miss Johns. But I must have your father's authorization to release such a large sum.”

“Somebody bushwhacked my pa yesterday. And he ain't in much shape to be authorizin' nothin'. I'm the head of the Rocking J now. And I need five hundred dollars.” She took a small step backward, placing her hand on the gun riding her slim hips for emphasis.

The teller gulped, reddened, but held his ground. “I'm sorry, Miss Johns. But I cannot release the funds.”

A peg-legged rowdy leaning in the corner had been watching the transaction with interest. He hobbled up to the cage,.palmed his gun, shoved it against the teller's left nostril, and growled, “Give the little lady her money.”

“Whatever you say,” was the banker's nasal reply. With trembling hands he counted out five hundred dollars. Instead of handing the money to Stevie, however, he thrust it at her unlikely knight in dusty buckskins.

Leathering his gun, he accepted the funds on Stevie's behalf, presented it to her with a flourish, and bowed at the waist.

“Thanks, mister,” Stevie murmured. She squared her slender shoulders and addressed the teller again. “Please deduct that amount from my father's account.”

“Yes, Miss Johns.”

The sound of a booted foot, alternating with the dull thud of a wooden peg, faded away. Stevie stuffed her money into a beaded bag and rushed outside. But Peg-Leg Smith had disappeared.

 

 

Pilar led Heath into the kitchen, where Stevie awaited him. Even though the weight of the money in her reticule was reassuring, Stevie was as nervous as a cat. Just being in the same room with the gambler unnerved her.

At first she refused to look at him. When she did, she wished that she hadn't. The word that came to mind was
beautiful.
But how could a man so masculine, so physically overpowering, be beautiful? If Preacher Black could be believed, Lucky Diamond was a violent man—a man who ate innocents like her for breakfast.

“
Sen
or
Diamond. . .” Pilar began. “You remember
Señorita
Stephanie Johns.” She widened her eyes in mock innocence.

Heath smiled down at Stevie. She just stood there, looking up at him, resembling a wide-eyed, frozen goddess. He reached for the small bare hand fisted at her side. He pulled it forward, pumped it up and down as one would work a reluctant well handle.

He couldn't bring himself to release her immediately. He cradled her hand in both his own. Dropping his gaze, he noticed that her delicate skin was as golden brown as his own. But hers was satiny smooth, not callused like his.

She curled her fingers, making their contact more intimate. He was mesmerized, his eyes riveted to the small hand he held.

She was inherently dark, due to her Indian ancestry. How could he have failed to detect her Comanche heritage at their first meeting? Easily. She was so lovely, she befuddled a man's mind. Her distinctly Indian features softened by her platinum hair made her quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He wondered then if she craved a pale alabaster complexion like other women of his acquaintance. It would be a sacrilege if she did. The striking contrast of her caramel-colored flesh with that gorgeous hair of hers—as light and shiny as the silk of ripe corn—was breathtaking. It did things to a man's insides that didn't bear revealing, things that were physically hard to hide.

His expression didn't betray his lusty thoughts as he mentally shook himself and bowed formally over her outstretched hand, acting the perfect gentleman. When he smoothed her fist and kissed her palm lightly, he was gratified by her sharp intake of breath.

Straightening, he released her. He produced a bowie knife and presented it to her with mocking gallantry. “I believe this is yours.” He elevated a single ebony brow.

Stevie tried not to groan. She had forgotten about the knife. If she wanted this man's help, she had to get control of the womanly urges his nearness provoked to have the presence of mind to succeed.

She would also have to forget that he had dumped her into a tub of cold water. Actually, she didn't blame him for that. She had accused him of murder. And that only after she had taken three shots at him and thrown a knife at a very valuable area on his person. If she wanted his help, she had some fence-mending to do, a powerful lot of fence-mending.

“I want to apologize for the reception I gave you yesterday at Mustang Mesa. I thought you were one of Judge Jack's gunmen.”

He looked deep into her eyes and saw nothing but sincerity. She looked so incredibly innocent. But her pale hair was hanging loose, streaming down her back in seductive disarray. Incongruous with the sensuous image she presented, her face glowed as if she had scrubbed it for hours, giving her the clean, wholesome look of a child fresh from her Saturday night bath. He felt an uncomfortable—actually unprecedented—stirring around the region of his heart. It scared the hell out of him. His manner grew distant. “And I apologize for my ungentlemanly behavior . . . in the saloon and later.”

Stevie cast a quick look in Pilar's direction. She didn't want the woman who was like a mother to her to know that she had gone after the judge in his own saloon. And for reasons she couldn't name, she didn't want her to know that Lucky had dumped her into a tub of water, like an overflowing basket of last week's dirty laundry.

“Let's put the past in the past.” She tried for a sincere smile. “Since there was no harm done to either of us.”

“Certainly. It's forgotten.” He placed his hand beneath her elbow and led her over to the kitchen table.

A frission of heat skittered up her arm from his touch. A bit unsteady, Stevie allowed Heath to seat her. She clutched the old reticule that contained five hundred dollars in her lap.

Pilar poured coffee and joined Stevie and Heath at the table. Both women faced Heath, who sat silently across from them. Surreptitiously, Pilar nudged Stevie in the ribs.

When Stevie raised her head and looked him full in the face, the thought that at the ripe old age of twenty she was ready to become a woman crossed her mind. And Lucky Diamond, the handsome devil, could be the man to make her a woman. Silence reined in the kitchen. In Stevie's mind, two words rang out.
His woman.

“Sen
ora
Manchez said you wished to speak with me,” he prodded, uncomfortable at the look she was giving him.

She spoke in a rush, trying to hide her intense feelings. “Yes. I wanted to apologize for running out on you last night. I know I said I would meet you in the parlor, but I was worried about my pa. Eager to get back to Sully's, I forgot. It really wasn't intentional. I mean I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings or anything.”

Heath raised his hands. “Whoa.” He chuckled indulgently, deciding she was a poor liar, but cute when she was flustered. “Apology accepted.”

Silence reigned again. Still uncomfortable, Stevie grasped the first thought that came to mind. “I was amazed at how well you handled yourself yesterday when you sidestepped my knife.” Her cheeks flamed. “And I'm truly glad you did.”

He looked skeptical.

“Honest, Mr. Diamond. I didn't really want to hurt you. I just lose my temper sometimes. And I do things that I regret later.” She shrugged, uncertain why she was being so candid with him.

Heath quelled the urge to grin at her formal tone. After rolling around on the ground with him last night, the least she could do was call him by his first name. “Please call me Lucky.”

“If you'll call me Stevie,” she felt obligated to say.

“I'd prefer Steph.” He smiled broadly. “I can't imagine calling such a pretty lady by a boy's name.”

Pilar watched as Stevie and Lucky engaged in small talk. To say that Lucky turned on the charm would be incorrect. He didn't have to turn it on; he was charm incarnate. Yet, she noticed, he held a part of himself aloof.

Even at half power he was overwhelming, if Stevie's unease was any indication. Pilar sympathized with the girl; to withstand a man like Lucky would be slightly more difficult than keeping the tide from coming in.

“I overheard Preacher Black mention that you bested two of the judge's men. And that you killed Barnes Elder,” Stevie blurted out, gaining Pilar's attention.

He shrugged dismissively. “I wouldn't make too much of idle gossip.”

She smiled genuinely for the first time since he'd entered the room. “I bet Judge Jack's mad as hell. What I don't understand is how you got away with it.” She wrinkled her brow, truly perplexed. “If anybody else had done it, he'd have been given a necktie party by now.”

Heath laughed. “Maybe Judge Jack realizes that I pose no threat to him. After all, I'm known for minding my own business. I've learned that a person lives longer that way.”

Stevie stiffened. “You're welcome to your own opinion.” Her tone said the opposite. “But Judge Jack and his gunslingers shot my pa, they likely killed my brother, and have driven us off our ranch. He's nothing but a penny-ante crook, and I intend to stop him.” She paused, fortifying herself for what came next. “Pilar thinks that I could maybe use some help.”

Heath bit back a chuckle at the hesitancy in Stevie's voice. It was abundantly clear that she was unused to asking anybody for anything. His admiration for her grew several degrees. He had never known a lady like her.

Most of the women he knew had no aversion whatsoever to wheedling what they wanted out of a man. It was what women did, and they did it well. He didn't think less of them for it. In a pragmatic way, he considered them quite clever. They were the weaker sex—physically—so they used their God-given assets to their best advantage, naturally. And that meant unleashing their sex appeal, manipulating the stronger sex into slaying their dragons for them.

Apparently, Miss Stephanie Johns wanted to slay her own dragons. Unfortunately, the heinous creatures threatening her world were too many, too powerful, and much too vicious for an untried innocent such as herself.

He knew that she wouldn't appreciate hearing that, however. So instead, always the chivalrous gentleman—unless he was tossing a beautiful hellion on her pretty little rear into a tub of water—he decided to make it easy on her. “Perhaps I could be of assistance.” It didn't occur to either of them that his offer of help was at odds with his just-expressed philosophy that he usually minded his own business.

Her relief was visible. “Pa and I would appreciate it.” And she hadn't even had to offer him money. Things were definitely looking up.