A Grave for Lassiter (21 page)

That evening, the day after the fight, Melody insisted on a special supper for Lassiter. Dad Hornbeck rode out of town with a rifle and a pack mule and returned with a fine buck deer.

Lassiter sat in the sun, on a bench, a bottle of whiskey in his lap as he watched Hornbeck expertly butcher the deer. By then the old man's wound was completely healed. His wounding only another mark against Farrell, Lassiter thought grimly as the bloodied knife peeled back the deer skin.

Dad Hornbeck could look after Melody, Lassiter was musing, after the old man had left the yard. But first there was the matter of Farrell. He took another generous gulp of the whiskey Bert Oliver had provided. It slid easily down his throat and acted as balm for his numerous hurts. But he wouldn't allow the whiskey to fog his brain. If ever he needed a clear head, it was now.

Farrell wouldn't back off from another defeat at the hands of his old enemy, Lassiter. Not only had he lost money but prestige as well, when the Roman carnival turned out so badly for him. Not to mention the other times over the years they had tangled. Each time Lassiter had been fortunate enough to thwart Farrell's grand plans for sudden wealth.

But Lassiter was realist enough to know that one day the coin was going to come down tails instead of heads. That would be the day of reckoning, but he would be ready for it. He prayed only that the day could be postponed until his knuckles returned to normal size and the left side of his rib cage didn't cause him pain every time he twisted suddenly.

He took another drink. Hearing a step, he turned and saw Melody come out of the office. She joined him on the bench and leaned back against the office wall. Taking one of his swollen hands in both of hers, she drew it to her mouth and kissed it. The warmth and softness of her lips was like a jolt of lightning through his healing body. But he decided not to let it show. Now was not the time for a deeper involvement.

So intent was he on ways to try and get Melody to look on him less romantically, that he didn't realize he was being observed from a stand of pines some fifty feet across the yard.

Chapter Twenty-one

A pair of fierce black eyes in the shadowed trees took in the scene on the bench in front of the Northguard Freight Company office.
Her
Lassiter, sharing a bench with that honey-headed girl. Oh, the girl was pretty enough, Roma supposed. But she hated her with all the passion of her Romany heritage.

At her elbow, Rex said softly, “Well, now you know. So let's get back to town and be on our way to new fields.”

Roma mounted her horse and spurred it in the direction of Bluegate, her hair streaming out behind like black silk. Only when she finally slowed the sweated mount was Rex able to catch up to her.

“I warned you long ago not to let your affections for that Lassiter get to the boiling point,” Rex said, mopping his aristocratic features with a handkerchief.

“It is why he came back here. Because of that female. It is why he refused to let me come with him. Because of her. I see it all now.”

“Doc says we might work our way East. Possibly clear to the big river. It will do you good to get away from memories of Lassiter. Perhaps at long last you might look on me with favor.” He gave a wry smile and she laughed outright. He looked hurt.

When they finally arrived back in town, she told Doc that she was staying behind. He and Rex would have to go ahead without her. Both men were surprised and disappointed. But she was adamant.

She was remembering the handsome man with dark red hair who had told her in so many words that he was Lassiter's sworn enemy.

“Two sworn enemies are better than one.”

Rex looked at her in surprise and Doc, who was smoking a cheroot beside the wagon, said, “What did you say about sworn enemies?”

“It's from an old gypsy poem,” Roma snapped, not wishing to discuss the matter. Her emotions were too obvious; she had spoken of enemies without even realizing it.

Well, Lassiter would one day soon learn that he couldn't put his bootheel in Roma's face and not expect her to show her claws. She smiled into the darkness. The town was quieting down after the big day. Many wagons were still rumbling out of town.

Farrell also often thought of the girl he had seen in the crowd at the warehouse on the day of the fight.

He remembered standing by one of the warehouse walls, his mouth dry as he saw Lassiter riding out of town, sharing a horse with Melody Vanderson. How he longed to put a bullet into that insufferable black-haired bastard and knock him out of the saddle. Do the job that Blackshear and Marsh had bungled. But there were too many witnesses, men shouting Lassiter's name as the black horse stepped along the road to Aspen City. A look of awe on many faces as if Lassiter might have been a Greek god. The damn fools.

No, he couldn't risk a bullet in the face of such idolatry. In his present mood, every nerve raw, he might by mistake hit the girl.

When he let a long-held breath slowly out of his lungs, he realized a girl standing nearby was also shouting Lassiter's name. But in a different way than the others, who were cheering him. She seemed almost anguished in an attempt to get him to notice her.

When Lassiter failed to respond, he recalled the anger in her black eyes, the way the attractive mouth tightened and her back arched. Even then he had thought her pretty and seeing her later, his assessment deepened. She was truly beautiful, with a proud carriage that revealed every swell and dip of her splendid figure. She wore a pair of boy's Levis and a shirt, the ends knotted about her slim waist, the material so tight across her breasts he could see the nipples. Sight of her stirred a volcanic heat that soon encompassed every centimeter of his body.

He decided to be blunt, so he caught up with her and said, “You dislike him.”

Her head snapped around and she peered up with those incredible black eyes. “What did you say?”

Her voice rang cool and clear. Somehow it stirred him even more. “Lassiter, I mean. You hate him.”

“How do you know that?”

“There's enough fire in your eyes to singe a mountain.”

“Hah! Real fire you have not seen.”

“Burn him! Maybe the two of us . . .”

But she turned on her heel and lost herself on the crowded walk. He saw her later, her walk stately, the long black hair hanging below her waist and swaying at each step. The march of her hips in the blue canvas skin of the Levis prodded his heartbeat.

In her he sensed a spark that could lead to a conflageration.

Sight of the brawny Shanagan on the walk stirred up other emotions in him. He stalked over to where the saloonman was talking with Loland of the Mercantile and Bishop of the saddle shop.

The two merchants, facing Farrell, saw the fury on his face and backed away. Shanagan turned to see who was coming and the merchants lost themselves in the crowd.

Farrell said, “I thought you claimed Blackshear and Marsh were top men.”

“It was you picked 'em, Farrell,” Shanagan said levelly.

The response caught Farrell by surprise. He had expected the saloonman to fawn and make excuses. Don't go off half-cocked, he warned himself, just because of today's disaster.

Somehow he forced a smile. “Well, I guess it was a time of mistakes all around.”

“Lassiter's been jumped by more'n one man before today. He knows how to take on a pair of roughnecks.”

“So it would seem,” Farrell said.

“I didn't like you tryin' to lay the blame on me.”

Careful, Farrell warned himself again when he wiped the moist palm of his right hand across a vest and let his fingers slide toward the gun worn under his coat. He stilled the hand, withdrew it. Shanagan wore a tight smile, as if guessing.

And right there Farrell vowed that one day soon there would be a new sign above the saloon door, his name instead of Shanagan's.

Shanagan watched him lift both hands to his hat as if it seemed suddenly important to have it set straight on his head. He made the adjustment, then lowered his arms. The danger point was past. Farrell had himself under control once again.

Later, Farrell saw the mystery girl again. She was talking to an English-looking dude and an older man. The two men walked toward the center of town, leaving her alone at a small camp.

Farrell walked over. Removing his hat, he introduced himself. “May I buy a bottle of that elixir?” He pointed at a box of bottles.

“Doc isn't here,” she said, turning to study him.

“You can sell me one,” he said with an easy smile.

“It's mostly whiskey. It'll make you feel good and forget whatever is troubling you.”

“Nothing troubles me . . . except the burr in my blanket in the person of a man known as Lassiter.”

He saw with satisfaction that mention of the name caused her to jump as if he had jabbed her with a pin. He thought that perhaps she was over her anger. But not so.

“What about Lassiter?” she demanded. Her voice was softly accented, but for the life of him he couldn't decide what her primary language might be.

“He's my enemy. As he seems to be yours.”

“You a mind reader? How do you know so much?”

He reminded her of the crowd at the warehouse the day before. “I saw you call to him. I saw the way he ignored you.”

A faint flush began to spread across her high cheekbones, while the ends of her generous mouth curled, and lightning seemed to flicker in her black eyes. “You see too damn much,” she snapped.

Farrell laughed, then grew serious. “Between the two of us we might bring him down.”

She suddenly seemed indifferent, but he sensed it was just a pose. “I don't want to bring him down,” she said. “I just don't want to hear his name.”

“Not jealous of that fetching blonde?”

Roma's lip curled. “Pale women have no fire. He'll find that out soon enough.” She was staring across the flats where a team and wagon were rumbling out of town. “No doubt he has already found out.”

“May I buy you some supper?”

Her head swiveled around, the eyes narrowed. “I am not hungry.”

“But you must eat. In order to keep your health. And not lose that splendid figure.”

“You notice that I look splendid, eh? Apparently he does not.”

“He's got the blonde on his mind,” Farrell said, playing his cards carefully. Don't move too fast, he cautioned himself. “She's Melody Vanderson.”

“He's known her for . . . for how long you think?”

“Since she was a kid. That's what they say around here.”

“So he's had her all the time.” Roma thought about Farrell's proposition. “So you want to buy me supper, eh? Well, perhaps.”

“It might be upsetting if he saw us together.”

“So you
do
read minds.” A faint smile touched her lips, then was gone.

“It would be more than upsetting if he saw two of his sworn enemies enjoying themselves together. The collaboration might worry him.”

“The collab . . . ?” She broke off, staring up into his face.

“It means he'll think we've joined forces.”

“But we haven't,” she said bluntly.

And she went into a tent and lowered the flaps.

There was something about her that fired the blood and he'd be damned if he'd give up so easily. He talked with her through the wall of the tent. At first she refused to answer him, then finally she stepped outside again.

“Where has he gone with the female with the honey hair?” Roma demanded thinly.

Farrell told her about the Northguard headquarters at the foot of the mountains. “It's quite a ride.”

“How do I find this place, mister?”

“Farrell's the name. Kane Farrell.” On the cool midmorning he told her to follow the west road out of town to a junction where a sign would point to Aspen City. “When you get back, we'll have that supper after all?”

She didn't reply.

But half an hour later, he saw her ride out of town with the English-looking dude she'd been with before, heading in the general direction of Aspen City.

Chapter Twenty-two

Although he knew he should take more time to recuperate from the savage brawl earlier in the week, Lassiter was determined to pick up another load of freight for the Bitterroot Mining Company. Word had come through that another sizeable cargo had arrived at Montclair.

Lassiter got word to his crew. Some had taken on other jobs, so he had three men to replace. This was quickly done.

“I'm going with you,” Melody said firmly. But Lassiter shook his head.

“It's no place for a woman.” And the moment he opened his mouth, he realized it was the worst thing he could have said. He blamed it on the various pains still scattered throughout his body. “I'm not thinking straight,” he said quickly. “What I really meant was that you should stay here. Uncle Herm might show up at any time.”

They had both written him, urging extrication from the morass that seemed to be trapping him down in Rimrock. To come north and take his rightful place as head of Northguard Freight Company.

Lassiter forced a smile. “After all Herm's been through, he certainly deserves to be met.”

Melody's gray eyes were thoughtful as she studied his face. Then she shrugged and said, “I . . . I suppose you're right.”

Lassiter breathed easier. At least he had sidestepped that small crisis.

As before, half the inhabitants of Aspen Creek came out in the cold spring dawn to see them off.

“Good luck, Lassiter,” Dad Hornbeck called, and Lassiter lifted a hand to the old man who was staying behind to watch out for Melody.

Although she seemed sincere when saying her marriage was over, there was no telling what Vanderson might try in order to get back in her good graces. Not that he would make it, but he might resort to mischief in order to achieve his own ends. From what Lassiter had heard, no one had seen Vanderson since the day of the fight. Hornbeck suggested he might have returned to Denver. But Lassiter was dubious.