Intimate Strangers (Eclipse Heat Book 2) (34 page)

Naomi watched the McCallisters cross the street to a tiny building with a sign declaring it the biggest bank around. Charlie Wolf waited with the horses while the other two went inside. In a short time they returned and stood on the sidewalk counting currency.

They’re
dividing their blood money up, offering bait to outlaws stupid enough to try to steal from them.
Naomi frowned at them grimly. Sam mounted his horse and handed Charlie Wolf a wad of greenbacks.

“Give you any trouble?” Charlie asked, stuffing the bills in his saddlebag.

“Figured on making us cool our heels until the U.S. Marshal wired his approval. We discussed the situation and the banker changed his mind.” Deacon spoke mildly as he settled into his saddle.

When they started down the street toward Wallace’s stock barn, Naomi paced on the boardwalk parallel to them. She hoped they would ask what she wanted, saving her the need to approach them. But they ignored her, more interested in their destination. Their conversation floated to her as they led the string of horses to the stable.

“I think we’ll get a pretty penny for that roan and the buckskin, maybe a couple more,” Sam predicted.

Naomi marked the two in the string he’d identified. Most of the horses they led appeared to be old, sway-backed or lame. As the men traveled, the street was eerily quiet, as though the entire town strained to hear the bounty hunters’ plans.

“You’d think outlaws would be smart enough to get themselves a good getaway mount,” Sam observed loudly.

“I don’t believe intelligence and criminals fit together naturally, brother,” Deacon answered.

Seemingly oblivious to the talk between his companions, Charlie Wolf rode behind the other two, checking the street, store tops, and shadowed recesses for danger. From beneath the broad-brimmed hat, black hair fell below his shoulders.

He is named well—Wolf—feral as though he’s a wild beast in human clothes.
Naomi swallowed nervously as she gazed at the man. Strong legs hugging the sides of his mount were encased in deerskin leggings. His body swayed as though part of the horse, one animal flowing into another.

When they reached the stable, he dismounted facing the street, removing his hat to beat the dust from his pants before he settled it back in place. He turned his dark gaze on her and she stopped. When he said nothing and resumed his progress toward the barn, she stepped into an alley and stood in the shadows berating herself for not approaching him.

Chapter Two

If Charlie Wolf assigned flavors to places, he’d name Flat Rock a bitter brew. The people of the town didn’t like Indians and that made a half-Kiowa bounty hunter less than a mongrel dog as far as they were concerned.

Bath, food, women?
He’d followed behind the others, listening to even the prisoners anticipate the end of the hunt and a night in Flat Rock. Charlie didn’t.
I reckon I’ll be spending the night in Wallace’s barn.
 

Charlie’s horse, Old Mossy, didn’t like this place either. The big animal had sidestepped, snorting in alarm when they’d approached the alley next to the sheriff’s office. A woman had been standing between two buildings, peering at his cousins as they’d passed. 

He’d waited for her to speak to Deak or Sam, but it had been him she’d kept staring at. As near as he could tell, she was a respectable woman, which made Charlie question her purpose even more, since white women tended to shy away from knowing him.

He’d given her a chance to say what she wanted more than once, but each time she’d remained mute. It puzzled him the way she’d tagged along, paralleling their progress as they’d ridden toward the barn. Once there, he’d expected her to state her business but she’d maintained her silence though he’d felt her gaze on his back when he entered the stable.

Wonder if she’s outlaw kin.
It was possible. Most of the men they brought in didn’t have anyone who’d waste a bullet on revenge, but there was always a first. He dismissed that idea, considering her appearance. She was a tall, spare woman dressed like a lady with no buttons or bows to adorn her apparel. The dress had been soiled, something that didn’t go with the rest of her look.

“I’m gonna find a woman and ride her all night long,” Sam called out what was on all their minds.

Regretfully Charlie thought about the trade he had been negotiating for a Kiowa female to make his squaw. He’d almost worked out the bargain. It did no good now though, as Sam’s words stirred want in his loins. 

“Ain’t no use in the Indian going over to Jake’s Saloon. He don’t serve ’em,” Wallace, the owner of the barn, imparted his knowledge to the white McCallisters as though Charlie Wolf were deaf and invisible. “Redskins, I mean. Jake lost a brother and sister to the ’72 Comanche raids. He holds on to his hate tight.”

“I’ll expect that trough over there half-filled with hot water when I get back,” Charlie said, standing in front of the old bastard, forcing him to meet his gaze. Old eyes blinked rapidly before the stable owner answered.

“You’re a half-breed—can tell from your light eyes. I ’spect I can wait on the American part of you. But it’ll cost ya. That trough holds a lot of water.” Wallace grabbed a bucket and headed toward the pump.

Satisfied that at least he’d have a hot bath waiting upon his return, Charlie followed his cousins out of the barn. As the three McCallisters walked down the street, he scanned the area, looking for the woman. She’d returned to her original spot, loitering in the alley between the law office and saloon. Her continued presence intrigued him even more since he could see from her clothes she wasn’t a whore.

He caught her gaze, considering asking her what she wanted, but she shrank back into the shadows. 

To hell with it.
He shrugged away his curiosity, entering the saloon with his cousins, more than ready to have a drink before they hit the trail again in the morning.

“I don’t serve Injuns,” Jake said as soon as Deak, Sam and Charlie bellied up to the counter. Since the beefy man not only acted as bartender but also owned the place, Wallace seemed right about Charlie’s chances of getting served.

“Now you do.” Charlie peeled some bills from the wad of cash he carried, grabbed the bottle off the counter, and threw the money at Jake. His challenge sent stools scooting away as those in the room anticipated a brawl.

Sam laughed, Deacon scowled and the three bounty hunters made themselves comfortable at a back table with a good view of the ins-and-outs of the place. The original big room of the saloon had been divided. A set of steps separated the area into kitchen and bar. A side door accessed both rooms. Charlie gazed at the area opening up above.

At the top of the steps, the saloon owner had built a narrow walkway fronting three openings. He’d rigged a bell above each doorless space. Bell pulls led from the back of the bar to the rooms, enabling Jake to ring the bell when he deemed the customer had enjoyed enough time with the prostitute.

Jake’s rough wood counter stopped just short of the alcove under the stairs where he’d stacked cases of liquor and supplies. It wasn’t a fancy layout, but it was efficient.

“Food first,” Charlie told the other two, his stomach rumbling as the smell of fried eggs reached them from the kitchen.

“Yep,” Deacon said and walked to the kitchen area. In a loud voice, he ordered. “Fix three plates. We want steak, eggs over-easy, fried potatoes, and stacks of toast.”

“Told you I don’t serve redskins,” Jake yelled, wiping the counter with the dirty cloth he held.

“I’m extra hungry,” Deak answered, returning to the table. His words, though spoken softly, carried to the suddenly quiet room.

Charlie’s lips twitched and he held back his laugh when Jake scowled, turning away to yank on one of the bells above.

“Hell, I just got started on her,” a male voice bellowed.

“Finish up fast or it’ll cost you more,” Jake yelled back.

Charlie figured Jake needed to bully someone and finding the McCallisters too scary to challenge, he vented his wrath on the poor bastard trying to buy a fuck upstairs. When the side door opened, Charlie’s attention returned to the kitchen area.

Well I’ll be damned.
His female stalker edged into the room and disappeared in the kitchen. He stared at the access door under the steps. Within moments, it opened. The little mouse ducked in, parking her skinny frame, and peering out from a hidey-hole between boxes.

“Get your ass moving, Molly. I don’t pay you to sit around,” Jake snarled at a saloon girl who’d eased onto one of the high barstools. It seemed plain that the owner vented his anger on the girl for lack of courage in following through on his
we don’t serve redskin
declaration. But that didn’t help the whore any.

“Bring one of those crates over to me.” The fat bastard pointed at the boxes of whiskey under the steps.

“Molly, come here,” Charlie called, deliberately goading Jake in order to distract the saloon owner from the spy’s hiding place.

Molly frowned. She knew Charlie. He’d fucked her in an Abilene alley. That was where and how he got most of his needs taken care of—dark corners and hidden places.

From the look on her face, Molly hadn’t forgotten his double payment either. Hesitantly, she answered Charlie’s summons, slowing her pace to a crawl, waiting for the bartender to intercede. He didn’t. When her mincing steps brought her to the table, Charlie pulled her onto his lap, fondling her breast as he fumbled one hand under her skirt.

“Who said you got first dibs?” Deacon drawled, laying his gun on the table. The room’s inhabitants were left to decide whether the gun was to deter Charlie or them. Since Deak didn’t fuck with whores, Charlie wasn’t worried.

“Why don’t we flip for it?” Sam asked, tossing a coin on the table, watching it roll around before it flopped on its side.

Flaunting his Indian ancestry always made Charlie’s blood do a war dance. For the white woman crouched under the stairs, he put on a real show. He mouthed the sweaty material of Molly’s dress, capturing the nipple underneath, and sucking hard enough to give the huckleberries in the room something to chew on. But it was the blue-eyed Peeping Tom who irritated Charlie the most.

He knew what whites saw when they looked at him. He was as tall as his cousins but his skin was copper-colored, his blue-black hair fell down his back, and his high, slanting cheekbones proclaimed him Indian. His nose, once a straight blade, had been broken too many times and was now a misshapen lump. Stitch marks bisecting his right eyebrow trailed down his cheek to his jaw. Though faded, the scar was still light against the dark bronze of his face.

Charlie dressed to please his Kiowa side, lacing his high leather moccasins from the top of his feet up to his knees, and wearing a colorful breechcloth hanging from his hips, covering deerskin pants at the groin. But clothes didn’t change facts. His white family tied him to their world. Except for his McCallister relatives though, Charlie held most paleskins in contempt.

Anger more heated than usual simmered in his chest. The regular saloon drunks witnessing his insult didn’t bother him more than normal, but the woman under the stairway gawking at Charlie infuriated him. He could have grunted out some inarticulate gibberish that would have pleased the spectators, confirming his savagery. Instead, his words were drawled in Texas tones.

“You’ll give us a good ride, won’t you, sweetheart?” Molly twisted in his grip and, tired of scandalizing his audience, Charlie released his hold. Letting the fancy woman tumble to the floor, he tossed some bills her way as she scrambled to her feet.

“Sorry, mister, I have to make a living. If it got out I let an Indian have a poke, I’d have to lower my price.” Hastily, she tucked the money in her dress and backed away. Her fearful glance at the bar owner indicated she’d have to endure more than a drop in wages if she went up the stairs with Charlie.

“My whores don’t fuck dirty Injuns. I’m telling you to leave.” From behind the counter, the bartender pulled out a shotgun, and aimed it in Charlie’s general direction.

“To hell with it,” Charlie snarled, sick of the whole game. He grabbed the whiskey from the table and stood, knocking his chair over. The bar owner chambered a round at the same time Charlie threw the bottle, hitting him in the head. Jake dropped like a stone. His shotgun sounded, blasting a hole in the side of the wall next to the McCallisters.

“One of these days, Charlie, you’re going to get your ass blown off doing something like that.” Sam righted his chair and laughed.

“Hell, Sam,” Deacon growled. “One of these days he’s going to get
our
asses shot off doing something like that.” Both men held their guns in their hands.

“Jake keeps the good stuff here.” Sam went behind the bar and reached underneath the counter. He grinned, bringing two bottles up with him.

“Pay the damages out of my share.” Charlie headed toward the saloon exit. “I’ll see you at first light,” he told his cousins.

“Here, take this to keep you company,” Deacon passed him a bottle on his way out. “I’ll eat your steak and eggs. Like I said, I’m extra hungry.”

Charlie resigned himself to beef jerky for supper and maybe coffee if Wallace had any brewing in the barn. The woman interested him more than food though.

Bet we scared the rabbit off.
A last look at the place under the saloon steps confirmed his expectation. She’d disappeared from her spyhole, leaving him wondering what she’d wanted.