Dance With A Gunfighter (2 page)

Then he climbed down off the buckboard, and walked to the
bottom step of the porch. He looked at her a long moment and then held out his
hand. The proud beam in his eyes made her throat tighten. "My baby’s
growing into a beautiful young lady," he said softly. "Just like your
ma was."

She smiled, and clutched his hand tight as he led her to
the buckboard. Her brothers simply gaped from her to their pa. She was sure
they were trying to decide which was the more addled.

Her pa hied the horses and they were off. The anticipation
that had crackled through her and filled the morning air swelled even more. She
felt like a cat whose back had been rubbed over and over with velvet until the
fur stood on end. Tonight something special was going to happen, she just knew
it. Something new and exciting. Something like--if she was very, very
lucky--Johnny Anderson asking her to dance.

Her father had been the first to comment on her grown-up
looks, and she had been touched and even a little overwhelmed by his
compliment. Her heart had filled with love, as it always did, for the
hard-working man who had been both father and mother to her almost as long as
she could remember, and who always knew the right word to say.

Her pa’s words and a sense of expectation stayed with her
throughout the afternoon ceremonies dedicating Jackson City’s new town hall and
through the games and picnic afterward. She could hardly wait for the dance,
for Johnny Anderson to take notice of her. Her tumult over what was to come
grew into a full-fledged uproar as the day wore on.

Until the day of Johnny’s smile, no boy had ever bothered
to take notice of her unless his horse was ailing. The whole town knew she had
the touch with horses and often came to her for help. She hadn’t cared if the
boys were mindful of her or not. That is, not until Johnny noticed her that
day.

Would Preacher Carson be angry if he were to learn she’d
prayed to dance with Johnny Anderson? How could emotions like Johnny stirred in
her be sinful when they felt so divine?

But now, as she stood alone at the dance, she wondered if
such passions had been wicked, because she surely was facing retribution. So
far, Johnny hadn’t even glanced her way.

Even worse, her pa had been the only person to ask her to
dance. Dancing with one of her brothers, Henry or Chad, was the only thing that
would have been more humiliating. Her worst enemy in school, Louisa Zilpher,
must have been as pleased by this embarrassment as a donkey with a bucket of
fresh oats.

Not that she cared a hoot what a prissy fluff like Louisa
Zilpher thought anyway.

The music ended and Johnny Anderson gripped Molly Pritchard’s
elbow as he escorted her back to her mother’s side. He was such a gentleman! He
spun on the heel of his polished boots, surprisingly free of dust despite
whirling about on the dirt dance floor. Even
dust
knew better than to
grime up Johnny Anderson.

To her astonishment, he started walking toward her.

She felt her breath rush into her lungs, but it didn’t
come back out again. Her heart hammered against her ribs and she leapfrogged
between blushing and shivering with each approaching step he took.

He was so close she could almost see the chip on his
otherwise perfect front teeth. She was sure she would keel over in a dead
faint. All the witty words and gentile mannerisms she had planned for their
meeting flew from her head. What should she do? What should she say?

"Hiya," he said, and continued right past her to
the refreshment tables behind her. There, two girls rushed to his side.

Her breath came out all at once. The crowded dance floor
shimmered and blurred. When it cleared, she saw Molly Pritchard staring at her.
Then Molly’s whole body began to shake with laughter.

Gabe’s cheeks blazed. She turned around and ran from the
dance before Molly or anyone else saw the tears that fell.

o0o

Near the dance, lit by lanterns, a proud banner stretched
across the dust of Main Street, from the peaked roof of the tobacconist to the
false-front roof of the dry goods store. "Jackson City, Arizona Territory,
September 5, 1876."

McLowry gave a snort of ridicule. He’d seen a number of
two-bit towns come and go in this barren wilderness. Mostly go. The foolish
optimism of men never ceased to amaze him.

As he neared the dance, he noticed some movement near the
livery stable. He eased from the moonlight into the darkness of a doorway, his
palm against the ivory handle of his six-shooter.

The silhouette of a dress came into view. A woman, out
here alone. She stood at the entrance to the stables. He mused as to whether
she had come out here to meet someone. Stables made great trysting places. He
had known a few rolls in the hay himself. Or maybe the woman was just hoping a
stranger might come along....

Gabe stood outside the stable door. She wasn’t hiding from
the revelers at the dance. Not at all. She was simply anxious to go home. The
dance had bored her, that was all. No big surprise, there. The past two weeks
she had been fooling herself with childish high hopes and bewildering
anticipation about tonight. Hah! She would know better next time--if there’d
ever be a next time. Her pa and brothers would show up here at the family’s
buckboard eventually, and she could go back to the ranch where she belonged. At
least her pa’s horses wouldn’t laugh at her, even though everyone else seemed
to.

Absent-mindedly, she reached for the pocket where she
always carried a few oats for the horses at the ranch, but stopped herself when
she felt the thin, cotton material of her dress. When she wore trousers, shirts
and vests like her brothers, she could carry all the things she needed. She
despised this dress and she hated herself for bothering to get gussied up like
one of those town girls with all their lady-like airs. She felt like a
roadrunner sporting eagle feathers.

Tears stung her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. The
thought of how she had run, crying, from the dance made her mad enough to spit.
She would never demean herself that way again. Never!

She yanked the yellow ribbon from her hair and threw it on
the ground, then ran her fingers through her short, curly strands, letting them
loose to cap her head the way they usually did. She didn’t care if her hair was
ugly--or if she was ugly. She didn’t care at all.

She blinked hard. She would
not
let herself cry any
more. Still, she couldn’t help but remember how time and again Louisa Zilpher’s
mother, among other busy-bodies, had told her pa to make her grow her hair
long, to force her to wear dresses like a "proper" young lady, to
stop swearing like her brothers and to stop running wild like some tomboy. Just
because her mother was dead, the town biddies thought her pa needed their
advice in raising her. They didn’t consider it ladylike for her to doctor
horses either, although they surely hotfooted it to her door for help when all
else failed.

She had nearly burst with pride, love and gratitude the
day she overheard her pa telling Mrs. Zilpher he would find Gabe proper even if
she were bald and dressed in sackcloth. Battle-ax Zilpher left in a snit.

Her older brother Henry’s interest in Louisa Zilpher was
nothing less than the worst sort of familial betrayal.

With a loud sigh, Gabe leaned against the outside wall of
the stable. The scrap of yellow ribbon she had thrown away lay at her feet and
beside it was a cigarette. It looked like someone had rolled it, taken a puff
or two, and then tamped it out before going into the stable.

Proper ladies never smoked. Mrs. Zilpher turned green at
the mere smell of tobacco. Gabe picked up the cigarette and tore off the
charred tip. Just holding it made her think of Preacher Carson’s warnings about
the road to damnation.

She should toss it away. Her pa and Henry smoked every
evening after supper. She would clear the table and make coffee, then they’d
all go out and sit on the porch. Her pa would lean back in his rocking chair
and look at the stars while talking to her and her brothers about all kinds of
things, but particularly about the ranch and his plans for building the few
head of cattle they owned into a thriving business. To sit on the porch on warm
evenings, watching brilliant desert sunsets, listening to the security and
promise of her pa’s voice, were the happiest minutes of her day.

She had always wondered, though, watching her pa and older
brother’s obvious pleasure, how a cigarette would taste. Louisa Zilpher didn’t
know and never would. The same for Molly Pritchard. Maybe not even Johnny
Anderson....

Just the thought of him made her heart ache once more.

Inside the door of the stable a tin match holder hung on
the wall. She plucked out one of the matches and hurried clear of the building.
Shoving her skirt to one side, she balanced on one foot and struck the match
against the bottom of her shoe, nearly toppling over as she did.

The match burst into flame. Holding the cigarette to her
lips, she slowly brought the match closer. As it touched the tip, she sucked on
the cigarette as if it were a straw. A hot, ragged, burning sensation filled
her mouth and lungs.

Shaking out the match was all she could do before she
dropped the cigarette and doubled over in a spasm of coughing. Her eyes, nose
and throat burned so badly she was sure she was dying.

A man’s laughter broke through her coughing and gasping,
and at the same time someone took hold of her arm and whacked her hard on the
back.

"Damn it!" she yelled. She tried to pull free,
groping blindly, her eyes tearing too heavily to open them.

"Smoke’s got to get out so you can breathe." The
man had a pleasant Southern accent and voice she couldn’t place. He slapped her
back a few more times. Finally, her eyes began to clear.

"Enough!" she cried.

"Are you all right?" he asked, still holding her
arm.

His words were kind, but Gabe heard the laughter in his
inflection. Now, even strangers mocked her! She was sick of being laughed at.
"Get your filthy hands off me or you’ll be sorry!"

Raising his hands in mock horror, the man backed away from
her. He shimmered in a teary-eyed haze. She coughed, blinking hard, until she
could make him out in the moonlight. He was tall, with a rangy slimness and
broad shoulders. A black, flat-crowned Stetson worn low on his brow shadowed
eyes that were no more than a hard gleam. His hair was long in back, fair in
color, and wavy as a whittler’s chips. A gold-colored mustache spanned the
width of his upper lip and curved down along-side deeply tanned cheeks.
Noticing it, she noticed, too, that he was still grinning at her discomfort.

She frowned at the cigarette, then stepped on it to put it
out. "I must have smoked it wrong."

"I would say so." He stood loose and easy
watching her, shoulders sloped, one thumb hooked on his pocket.

Her gaze followed his long, slender hand to his gun-belt
and tied-down holster. Holsters were tied down for one reason--so the guns in
them could be drawn fast.

Quickly, she raised her eyes, meeting his. "Who are
you?"

"Just someone passing though." His mouth curved
into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. A shiver touched her spine.
Instinctively, she knew he wouldn’t tell more. He was secretive, this stranger,
and had a comfort with the night that gave her pause. She studied him with
frank interest.

"Haven’t you been taught that young ladies don’t
smoke?" His accent, with the softness of the South, was mellow and
educated sounding, not the quick, nasal slur she was used to hearing around
Jackson City.

"Hell," she muttered. "I don’t give a
cayoot’s damn what young ladies do."

His grin widened. "Young ladies don’t swear
either."

She casually shrugged. "I’ve never been mistaken for
one yet."

He cocked his head. "Your mother’ll take a switch to
you if she hears you say things like that, miss, especially to a man. In a few
years, he just might mistake your meaning."

He jus’ maht mistake yoah meanin’.
She didn’t think
sassafras molasses could be any smoother. She folded her arms. "My ma’s dead,
so I don’t have to worry. And as for men, I don’t give a fig what they
think."

He laughed, but cut it short and caught her eye instead.
He seemed to study her, as she did him, but she couldn’t imagine why he
bothered. He placed a foot on the water trough and leaned forward, resting his
elbow on his thigh. With his thumb, he tilted back his hat.

For the first time she could see that his eyes were light
blue and that his face was rather pleasing...which surprised her since he
didn’t at all resemble Johnny Anderson.

"I guess," he said softly, his drawl coating his
words, "that’s why you’re out here swiping cigarettes instead of at the
dance."

A pang hit her stomach and twisted. She spun away from
him, her arms crossed, and her back stiff. "I do as I please. Not that
it’s any business of yours,
stranger
."

"Are you waiting for someone?" he asked.
"Maybe expecting a beau to come along and give you a kiss?"

Her cheeks flamed. Peering at him over her shoulder, she
frowned at him for all she was worth, hoping he would have the decency to go
away and leave her alone here at the stables with her father’s buckboard and
the ranch horses. "Like hell!" she said. "I don’t have anything
to do with the boys around here."

He lowered his foot to the ground and straightened. She
thought she saw his mouth twitch, as if he were thinking about laughing at her
again. She turned to face him square on and frowned harder. Just let him try
it.

"You fancy yourself a tough little miss, don’t
you?"

She raised her chin. "I have no fancies about
anything."

"Do you dance?"