Bleeding Texas (6 page)

After Lauralee patched up the wound in Bo's side, Scratch stayed close to his old friend as they returned to the schoolhouse for the rest of the social. If anybody else made an attempt on Bo's life, Scratch intended to be there to stop it.

Now that the fight was over, the dancing continued. Bo wasn't really up to it, but he insisted that Scratch and Lauralee get out there on the floor.

Scratch knew Lauralee wouldn't have any trouble finding dance partners, but he took her in his arms and led off in the waltz the musicians were playing. He said, “Since we're spinnin' around, we can take turns keepin' an eye on Bo.”

“Do you think he needs someone to keep an eye on him?”

“He's come too blasted close to gettin' killed a couple of times lately. I don't see any of the Fontaine bunch around anymore, but I ain't takin' no chances. If I see anything that looks fishy, I'm gonna take a hand in a hurry.”

“Yes, I agree with you,” Lauralee said. “He won't like having people watching out for him, though. He always thinks he can take care of himself.”

“And most of the time he can. I got a bad feelin' about the things goin' on around here these days, though.”

“I can't argue with that. The Fontaines are really on the prod. Of course, Danny always is.”

Scratch grunted. He and Bo had had a run-in with Danny Fontaine the same day they'd returned to Bear Creek several months earlier, and things hadn't really changed since then.

Somebody tapped on Scratch's shoulder. He looked around to see one of Bo's nephews standing there with a grin on his face. Scratch couldn't recall the kid's name right offhand. There were too many of them.

“I'm cuttin' in,” the youngster said.

Scratch thought about telling the kid to go climb a stump, then thought better of it. Could be that Lauralee would enjoy dancing with somebody closer to her own age.

“All right,” he said as he stepped back. “As long as the lady don't object, that is.”

“That's fine,” Lauralee said with a smile. Her new partner took hold of her hands, and they spun away in the crowd of dancers.

Scratch figured he would go and sit with Bo, but as he turned he found his path blocked by an attractive, yet formidable, barrier.

“You never came and had tea with me, Mr. Morton,” Mrs. Emmaline Ashley said with an accusing frown. “I thought we had agreed on that.”

“Well, I, uh, that is . . .”

This was a different sort of threat than the ones Scratch was accustomed to facing, and he didn't quite know what to do.

When in doubt, he told himself, fall back on the truth.

“After what happened, I mean with me rushin' outta the store like that, I didn't figure you still wanted to have tea with me, ma'am,” he said.

“Don't you think you should have let me make that decision?”

“Well, I reckon maybe I should have.”

“Never assume you know what a woman wants, Mr. Morton. There's a good chance you'll be wrong.”

“Oh yes, ma'am, I figured that out a long time ago.”

She raised an eyebrow at that, and Scratch thought maybe he should've kept his mouth shut, but Mrs. Ashley said, “If you're really repentant, you can make it up to me by dancing with me. At least, that will be a start.”

“Yes, ma'am. I think I can do that.”

Scratch took her in his arms.

Emmaline—she insisted that he call her that—proved to be a fine dancer.

“I know I'm not as young and gorgeous as Lauralee Parker, of course, but I hope you enjoy dancing with me, Scratch,” she said. “Is she a particular ladyfriend of yours?”

“What, you mean Lauralee? Shoot, no. I mean, she's a lady and she's a good friend, no doubt about that, but I've known her ever since she was a scabby-kneed little kid runnin' around Bear Creek.”

“So has your friend Mr. Creel, but that hasn't stopped him from taking an interest in her.”

“What Bo does is his own business.” When nobody was trying to kill him, that is, Scratch corrected himself mentally. “I'd say the interest is more the other way around, though.”

“Really? Miss Parker has been pursuing a man old enough to be her father?”

“The feelin's in a person's heart don't have to make sense to anybody but the one feelin' 'em, I reckon.”

Emmaline laughed and said, “Why, Scratch, that's positively profound.”

“Better'n profane.”

Somehow while they were dancing and talking, she had managed to get closer to him. In fact, he was holding her pretty doggoned close now, and the music had slowed down so that he could feel her soft warmth moving with him.

“Scratch . . .” she said softly.

“Yes, ma'am?” he asked, his voice sounding a mite huskier than he expected it to.

“What
is
your real name? Surely your mother didn't name you . . . Scratch.”

“It's been so long since anybody called me anything else, I sort of disremember,” he lied.

“I'm acquainted with your sister, you know. I could always ask her.”

“Maybe you should do that,” he told her, knowing good and well that she wouldn't get anything out of Dorothy. “Then if she tells you, you can tell me and we'll both know!”

Emmaline laughed and moved even closer, close enough to rest her head on his chest.

Scratch resisted the temptation to reach up and tug at his shirt collar. Maybe it would be a good idea if this dance went ahead and got itself over with, he thought.

 

 

After a while, the musicians played “Goodnight, Ladies,” and folks started to drift toward the doors. Some of the families had long wagon rides ahead of them before they got home. The kids would sleep in the back, the wives would doze against their husbands' shoulders, and the men would try not to nod off over the reins as they kept their teams moving.

Most of the cowboys would head for the saloons to get drunk and then sleep it off before making miserable, hungover rides back to their home ranches in the morning.

Bo had tried to convince Lauralee to dance the final dance with Scratch, but she had refused to budge from where she was sitting by his side.

Instead Scratch was out on the floor with a nice-looking woman Lauralee identified as Mrs. Emmaline Ashley, a widow who lived here in Bear Creek. Bo had noticed them dancing several times earlier.

“Looks like Mrs. Ashley has her cap set for ol' Scratch,” Bo commented with a smile.

“She's nice enough, I suppose,” Lauralee said. “She's wasting her time, though, if she's looking for another husband. The chances of Scratch ever settling down are pretty slim.”

Bo had to chuckle at that. He said, “I reckon you're right.”

“How about you, Bo? You ever give any thought to putting down roots again?”

His smile went away as he said, “That didn't work out too well the first time.”

Lauralee knew his history, knew about the family he had lost so many years ago when he was a young man. She said quietly, “Just because something bad happened once, that doesn't mean it will again.”

“Doesn't mean it won't,” Bo said without looking at her.

“No, I suppose not.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Whenever you find something worthwhile in life that comes with an iron-clad guarantee, you be sure and tell me about it, Bo. Because I've never run across anything like that, myself.”

He knew he had annoyed her, which was a damned shame. But there wasn't anything he could do about it. She was a young, vital woman who deserved a home and a family and happiness. She didn't need to get herself tied down to an old codger like him who couldn't give her any of those things.

Someday, if he was lucky, she would realize that he was just trying to look out for her, the same way he always had.

As people began to leave, Scratch came over and said, “I, uh, told Miz Ashley I'd walk her home. She sort of insisted. But I can tell her I got to ride back out to the Star C with you if you want, Bo.”

“I don't want that,” Bo said without hesitation. “You go ahead and see the lady to her door, Scratch. I'll be fine. I'll walk Lauralee back to the Southern Belle and then head for the ranch myself.”

“You'll do no such thing,” Lauralee said. “Your family is getting ready to leave now, Bo. You go with them. I can get back to the saloon just fine on my own.”

He frowned and said, “I don't much like that idea.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” Lauralee insisted. She slipped a hand in a pocket of the blue dress and brought it out with a two-shot derringer lying on the palm, holding the weapon discreetly so that nobody except Bo and Scratch could see it.

Scratch grinned.

“There's a rule against bringin' guns to a social,” he said.

“Yes, well, for some reason Jonas's deputies didn't search me when I came in.”

“I would've liked to see 'em try,” Scratch said with a chuckle.

To Bo, Lauralee said, “So you can see you don't have to worry about me. You go on with your pa and the rest of the family. Whoever tried to kill you earlier wouldn't dare make another attempt while you're with them.”

“Probably not,” Bo admitted. “All right, if you're sure.”

She leaned over and brushed her lips against his cheek.

“I'm sure.”

They joined the flow of people out of the schoolhouse and went their separate ways. As Bo joined his family, Riley suggested, “Maybe you better ride in the wagon, Bo, seeing as you got stabbed and all. Sitting a saddle might not be good for that wound.”

“I can ride just fine,” Bo said, aware that he was being stubborn but not in the mood to do anything about it.

“Suit yourself,” Riley said with a shrug. “You open up that cut again, it's Lauralee you'll have to answer to, not me.”

He had a point. Bo didn't want to undo Lauralee's work in patching up the wound. He said grudgingly, “I reckon I can tie my horse on behind Hank's wagon, if that's all right with him.”

“You know it is,” Hank said.

A few minutes later the large group, split about equally between wagons and horseback, started out of Bear Creek, heading south toward the Star C. Hank's wife was riding in the back of their wagon with some of the grandkids already asleep around her and in her lap, so Bo rode on the seat next to his youngest brother.

Bo saw a faint flicker of lightning, far in the distance, which was nothing unusual. Little squalls moved in frequently from the Gulf.

Hank saw it, too, and commented quietly, “Looks like a storm comin'. You think it'll get here or die out before it does, Bo?”

“No telling,” Bo said. “I reckon it'll do whatever it wants.”

Events around here seemed to be the same way, he thought grimly. If trouble was moving in, they had about as much chance of stopping it as they did that distant thunderstorm . . .

Gilbert Ambrose was pleasantly tired when he and his wife got back to their house after the social. It had been a good evening. Ambrose had danced not only with his wife but with several attractive, much younger women, the wives of men who had borrowed money from the bank. If his hands had strayed a bit while they were dancing—just a bit, you know, nothing too improper—none of the women said anything about it.

As was fitting since he was the banker, Ambrose's house was one of the biggest and nicest in Bear Creek. It had two stories and was set in a grove of trees.

When they went in, Judith paused at the bottom of the stairs with a hand on the banister and said, “Are you coming right up to bed, Gilbert?”

He knew the socials sometimes left her feeling amorous, one of the exceedingly rare occasions when that miracle took place. He could tell from her tone of voice that was true tonight.

Unfortunately, Ambrose didn't return the feeling anymore, so as he loosened his tie, he said, “No, I don't think so, my dear. I need to look over a few documents in my study, and I thought I'd have a little brandy while I'm doing that.”

“I could keep you company . . .” she suggested.

“No, no, that's not necessary,” Ambrose said firmly. “I know you're tired. You go on up and get some rest. Don't try to stay awake for me. I may be a while.”

Judith sighed and said, “Very well. Good night, Gilbert. It . . . it was a lovely evening.”

“Indeed it was,” he agreed.

He waited until she had ascended to the second floor, then went along the hallway from the foyer to the door of his study. They had left a lamp turned low in the parlor before they went out, and its soft glow lighted his way.

The study was dark, though, when Ambrose opened the door. The curtains were snug over the windows, so no light from the moon and stars came in from outside.

The gloom didn't matter. Gilbert Ambrose had lived in this house for years and knew every inch of it. Unerringly, he walked across the room to the desk, lifted the chimney on the lamp that sat there, and took a match from a box of them on the desk. He struck it, held the flame to the wick, and lowered the chimney. Yellow light filled the room.

As it did, it revealed the man standing in a corner with a gun in his hand.

Ambrose dropped the smoking match he had just shook out and gasped in shock and fear. His first thought was of robbery.

“I—I don't have much money here in the house,” he stammered. “But you can take what I have. Just don't hurt me or my wife.”

He hoped the thief wouldn't force him to go down to the bank and open the safe. Ambrose knew he would give in and do that to save his life, but it would ruin him.

Then the man with the gun moved closer, so that his features under his pulled-down hat brim weren't so shadowy, and Ambrose felt another shock. He knew this man pointing a Colt at him.

“Take it easy, Ambrose,” Nick Fontaine said. “I'm not here to rob you, and I don't want to hurt you.”

Ambrose's eyes blinked rapidly in astonishment. He said, “Then . . . then why . . .”

Nick slid the gun into a holster under his coat.

“I didn't want you letting out a yell when you first saw me,” he explained. “There's no need to alarm your wife. Is she the only other person in the house?”

Ambrose swallowed hard and nodded.

“That's right. What's this all about, Nick?”

He was still frightened, but he was starting to get a little angry, too.

Nick didn't answer directly. Instead he said, “There's no need for Mrs. Ambrose to know I've been here. When you hear what I have to say, I have a hunch you'll agree with me.”

Ambrose was definitely angry, now that it was obvious Nick didn't intend to murder him where he stood. With his jaw jutting out a little, he demanded, “Just what is it you have to say?”

“I thought we'd have a little talk about you and Dulcie Lamont.”

This time the shock Ambrose felt was great enough he had to put a hand down on the desk to steady himself.

“How . . . how did you know . . .”

He couldn't bring himself to go on.

A sardonic smile didn't do anything to lessen the harshness of Nick Fontaine's face. The younger man said, “How did I know you'd been paying visits to her place north of town? I keep an eye on things everywhere around here, Ambrose. Anyway, did you really think you could get away with it forever? You figured the town banker, a pillar of the community, as they say, could go see a whore once or twice a week and nobody would notice?”

That was exactly what Ambrose had thought, or to be more precise, he hadn't really given the question much thought. He'd been too caught up in what he was doing. Too enamored of the excitement he'd felt at being with a younger, attractive woman again . . .

Defensively, he said, “She's not . . . Dulcie isn't . . . what you said. She's simply an unfortunate woman who's had a run of bad luck since her, ah, husband passed away.”

“A run of bad luck, and a long line of gentleman callers—including you.”

“I—I was merely counseling the young woman—”

Nick's laugh interrupted Ambrose's faltering excuse at a rationalization.

“Yeah, I'll bet you counseled her real good. Like I said, once or twice a week.”

Ambrose sighed and gestured at the chair behind the desk as he asked, “May I sit down?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Ambrose settled into the chair and sighed again.

“What is it you want from me, Nick?”

“Why, I just want you to do your job, Mr. Ambrose. You run the bank. You decide when it's all right to extend a note—or call it in and demand payment in full.”

Ambrose's watery eyes widened slightly. He was smart enough to see right away what Nick was getting at, but at the same time he was puzzled by the demand.

“You're talking about the mortgage I hold on the Star C, aren't you?”

Nick grinned and shrugged.

“How did you know about that?” Ambrose asked. “Such business arrangements are supposed to be private.”

“There are other people who work in that bank besides you,” Nick pointed out. “Some of them see paperwork that maybe they're not supposed to. And some of 'em talk in a saloon when it's late and they've had too much to drink and they're holding bad cards in a poker game.” Nick shook his head. “It really doesn't matter how I found out, does it? I know about the money John Creel owes you, and I know about your visits to Dulcie Lamont's house. Seems pretty clear to me what needs to happen next.”

“You want me to call in Creel's note,” Ambrose said in a hollow voice.

“It's coming due, isn't it? You've got every right in the world to call it in, especially if it looks like Creel won't be able to pay. In fact, I'd say it's your duty as an honest banker to do just that. You
are
an honest banker, aren't you, Mr. Ambrose?”

“There's never been a hint of scandal about my business !” Ambrose said, angry again now.

“All the more reason you don't want anybody finding out about you and Dulcie. Has the bank
loaned
her any money?”

Ambrose looked down at the desk without saying anything. He couldn't meet Nick's eyes. That was all the answer the other man needed, anyway.

After a moment, Ambrose said, “If I . . . if I call in John Creel's note . . . ?”

“Then your wife won't find out about your little whore, and neither will your friends here in town. Nobody will have any reason to suspect you've done anything improper. You'll be the same fine, upstanding citizen you've always been.”

The unwelcome visitor's mocking tone made Ambrose's face flush hotly. He wanted to stand up and give Nick Fontaine a good sound thrashing.

Of course, that was impossible. He couldn't risk angering the man. And Nick was a lot younger and in better shape. Not to mention the cruelty that lurked in his eyes and around his mouth. Ambrose knew that if he threw a punch, Nick would hurt him.

“All right,” he said in a half whisper. “I'll do whatever you say.”

“I knew you'd see it my way,” Nick said with a self-satisfied smirk. “Just remember, you're not doing anything illegal. Hell, the way the Star C has been losing stock, you might have called in that loan anyway. Pretty soon that spread's not going to be worth what Creel owes on it.”

Something occurred to Ambrose and made him lift his head. He asked, “Have you had anything to do with that?”

“Creel's rustler trouble, you mean?” Nick's eyes narrowed. “I'm going to forget you just asked me that, Mr. Ambrose. I'd advise you to do the same.”

The cold menace that Ambrose saw on Nick's face now made a fresh jolt of fear go through him.

“Of—of course,” he stammered. “I didn't mean anything by it. I don't know what got into me.”

Nick nodded, but his features remained set in hard lines.

“Since we understand each other, I'll show myself out,” he said. A humorless chuckle came from his lips. “I showed myself in, after all.”

He stepped out into the hall. Ambrose stayed where he was behind the desk while he listened to Nick Fontaine's quiet footsteps receding. The front door opened and closed.

Ambrose hoped Judith hadn't heard that upstairs. He didn't want to have to explain what was going on to her. There was no way he
could
explain. If she found out the truth, she would never forgive him. She would hate him for the rest of her life. Despite his lack of any deep feeling for her, he didn't want that. He didn't want to hurt her.

Feeling twenty years older than he had when they got home, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to the sideboard where several glasses and a decanter of brandy stood. He splashed liquor in one of the glasses, lifted it to his mouth with a trembling hand.

The brandy's warmth going down braced him a little. He poured another drink and gulped it down, as well.

Nick Fontaine's behavior was outrageous, unforgivable. Breaking into a man's home in the middle of the night! Threatening him. Blackmailing him.

On the other hand, Nick had told the truth when he said he wasn't asking Ambrose to do anything illegal. There was every chance in the world that he would have called in John Creel's note anyway. Yes, of course there was. He was a banker, after all. He had certain responsibilities. He could do what Nick wanted, and no one would ever suspect that any pressure had been involved.

It was just good business, that was all.

Ambrose started to pour yet another drink, but then he stopped himself. He put the cork back in the neck of the decanter.

One thing was certain, he told himself. He had to stop seeing Dulcie Lamont. He couldn't open himself up to anything like this ever happening again. But he would miss their times together, no doubt about that. A man needed a bit of comfort now and then, no matter who he was.

Gilbert Ambrose blew out the lamp in the study and trudged toward the staircase.

God, he hoped Judith was sound asleep when he got upstairs!