Lassiter Tough (11 page)

Lassiter said, “Oh, I figured Sanlee might be right behind you.”

“Come in, Lassiter.” She stood aside. “And please put up the gun. I'd rather you didn't shoot me.” He could see her white teeth in the gloom of the hallway. Her laughter was soft.

She stood aside while he debated. Then with a shrug, he stepped in and she closed the door. He stuck Herrera's gun in the belt of his trousers. She
took his hand in warm fingers and led him toward a flight of stairs.

“Where's Sanlee?” he asked as he started to climb.

“Home, I expect.”

“You left together. So I was told.”

“He was in a frightful mood.”

“I can imagine. He's the kind that hates to lose.”

“And you presumed you'd find him here.” They were at the top of the stairs. “You presume a lot, Mr. Lassiter.”

“I only add up what I see with my eyes.”

“Then your vision is faulty,” she said lightly.

He was led to a spacious bedroom where she pushed him gently down on a bed with rumpled covers. The bed was warm from her body.

Then she knelt before him, tugging at one of his boots, and looked up into his swollen face. “With us, there's no preamble, Lassiter,” she said. “No coyness of courtship.”

She got one of his boots off. It thumped to the floor.

Her voice tightened when she said, “Today you were magnificent. No Roman princess in ancient times ever longed for her gladiator as I longed for you today.”

“You speak right out, don't you?”

“The academy for young ladies which I attended tried to teach us that we had an equal place in the world of men, and not to bury our desires.” The second boot was off.

“Your parents didn't care about what you were learning?” he asked her smiling face.

“My father. Mother was gone long before him. Had he known, however, he would have yanked me out of that school by the hair of my head.”

As she spoke of her school and the progressive headmistress, she was tugging at his clothing. And when at last he lay back on the bed, she touched him, saying in awe, “You're everything I imagined.”

Part of the enjoyment of the night, he supposed, was the fact that he was driving a spike into Sanlee's pride. He didn't believe for a minute what she'd implied about him having an overactive imagination where she and the Diamond Eight owner were concerned.

“My horse,” he said, rolling aside finally in sheer exhaustion.

“Stay where you are. I'll put it away for you.”

Before he could protest, she was gone. His eyes closed and he was breathing heavily.

It seemed hours later that he felt her creep back into bed. He fell asleep again with her hand resting on him.

When he awoke again the experience was even more rewarding than before.

It was getting to be daylight and he could look down into her face and see lips faintly parted, the green eyes awash with contentment.

“I feel completely shattered,” she said softly. “You're the best thing that has happened to me . . . ever.”

Although she begged him to stay, he said it was impossible. For one thing, her clerks would soon be reporting for work, he pointed out, and it wouldn't be right to possibly expose her to gossip. Although he sensed there was probably already much of that where Sanlee was concerned.

“What would you have done if you'd found Brad last night?” she asked curiously as he was ready to leave. She was sitting up in bed, her arms wrapped
around her knees, her long, pale hair loose at bare shoulders.

“Tried my best to kill him,” Lassiter said shortly.

“That was a cruel trick he played on you.”

“And you knew about it.” He reminded her of their brief conversation prior to the fight.

“Brad told me he planned something—a drinking contest between the two of you was what I gathered. Well, I couldn't see any real harm in that, although I wanted to warn you to be on your guard. Brad can be tricky.”

“Yeah. Good night, Isobel.”

She laughed gaily. “Good morning, you mean. The most wonderful bright morning of my life. When will I see you again?”

“I'll be in.” He kissed her and left.

By not being available last night, Brad Sanlee's life had quite possibly been spared—or Lassiter's spared, if Sanlee had proved to be faster on the draw. Lassiter thought about it as he rode home in the clear dawn light. Birds chirped in cottonwoods and huisache blossoms scented the air.

His experience with Isobel Hartney had cleared his mind, restored his body—at least to an extent. He found that he liked Isobel. At first he had considered her haughty, but she wasn't at all. In certain situations she was a tigress with velvet claws.

At least he was getting back at Sanlee. In one way it was evening things up for Vince Tevis. And eventually Sanlee would get wind of it and come looking for him. Then would come the time for wiping the slate clean for Vince Tevis.

Finish Sanlee—or be finished—whichever way the cards happened to fall on that day of violence that was to come. . . .

Millie lay in the big bed, staring at moving shadows on the ceiling made by the shifting cottonwood branches in the breeze that had come up after midnight. From the yard, there still came sounds of revelry. Men who seldom got together with neighbors were reluctant to cease the flow of whiskey which was a stimulus for talk. An argument was going on concerning the merits of Sam Houston. All too familiar, for Millie had heard it often when at last, upon the death of her mother, she had been moved to the big Sanlee house. Her late father had been a staunch supporter of Houston and anyone who held a differing view of the patriot of Texas was wearing the devil's forked tail.

As she lay in the darkness, wearing her bridal nightgown, she heard the arguments taper off and she thought, thank God.

But voices soon rose again. This time the subject was General Santa Anna de Lopez who had stormed the Alamo. But there was no argument there as
everyone agreed. And the recollections became so heated that she was afraid that possibly the Anglo guests, so inflamed by alcohol and revived hatreds, would march to the bunkhouse to take out their anger on the vaqueros.

However, she was sure that Luis Herrera could handle the situation should it arise. She had known Luis since she was small, and knew him to be a generous, smiling man who could be dangerous if crossed. She felt more comfortable having him as a stable part of her new life as mistress of Box C than if he weren't on the payroll at all. She could count on him where she knew it was foolish to expect too much from Lassiter.

Vince Tevis had mentioned him several times, saying with a laugh that Lassiter could stay put just so long, then was off seeking new trails.

Ever since she had been trying to fall asleep, the name of Lassiter had periodically been rolling around inside her head. Many times during the past hours she had relived the violence of the day, always reaching the conclusion that Lassiter surely was an incredible man. He never gave up when the odds were so against him, even from the start because of Doane's great size and expertise in the business of bare-knuckle fighting. Obviously, what she had heard was true; her brother had hired Doane in the first place for his punishing fists.

Lassiter had withstood not only those fists but two thrown bottles that had certainly slowed him for a time. But on both occasions he had bounced back.

At last she heard the lurching footsteps of her new husband, singing under his breath as he cast off his clothes and climbed into bed. He mumbled something but she couldn't make out what it was.
She assumed it had something to do with now declaring his rights, as her mother used to call it with her nose in the air. Yet her mother had allowed Brad's father to treat her worse than a peon and had never fought back. Millie had secretly loathed the old man even though he had relented after her mother's death, and let her live under his roof. He had even sent her away to school, which was a mistake, he had ruefully admitted later. Because an education had put too many grand ideas into her young head, such as declaring the role of females was not ordained from birth at the direction of a father.

But by then he was old and too engrossed with other problems to exert a firm hand. As a result, she had done more or less as she pleased, to the consternation of the community.

During his lifetime, Poppa had kept Brad on a tight rein, but upon his death there was no longer a restraint. She knew that Brad planned for a cattle empire no matter how it was achieved, no matter how much blood was spilled. A tremor shot through her at the thought. She thought of Lassiter riding out this evening with such a cold look in his eye that it was frightening. She sensed he was going after Brad even though when she questioned Luis Herrera he was noncommittal.

“You cold?” her new husband asked thickly.

“No, Rep.”

“You shivered.”

“I . . . I guess I was a little cold.”

“You need warmin' up.”

She was surprised with all the whiskey he had consumed and the raw emotions stirred up that day by her brother's rash act that he seemed virile as a
young bridegroom. She did her part, hoping to please.

And when he finally collapsed, a dead weight, he mumbled, “I want us to have a son. I ain't too old, am I?” There was such a plaintive note in his voice that it tore at her.

“Of course you're not, Rep.”

He gave her a pat on the stomach, then turned awkwardly on his side because of the bad leg. Soon he was snoring.

The prospect of possibly bearing his child gave her no joy. And she knew it was wrong to feel that way. Had she done him a disservice, after all, in agreeing to the marriage? She only did it to shut Brad up. She knew it was cowardly to be afraid of one's own kin. But Brad had maneuvered her into this trap and now she would make the best of it. As she had told Lassiter, she would be a good wife to Rep Chandler. It was the very least she could do.

It was midmorning when from a parlor window she saw Lassiter riding in. He seemed more hunched in the saddle than usual and his face, what she could see of it under the low-pulled brim of his black hat, was a mass of bruises.

She went flying out to see him. “You're all right,” she gasped when he dismounted.

He gave a crooked smile with his bruised mouth. “As well as could be expected, I reckon.”

“You didn't run into Brad?” she asked tensely.

He hesitated and looked away. Even at mid-morning, wagons of late sleepers were still rolling out of the yard. Rep had come out to shake the many hands and to wish everyone luck on the trip home.

“No, I didn't see Brad.”

She blew out her breath. “Well, that's a relief.”

He was still showing her that crooked grin which tore at her heart. And his blue eyes seemed to bore into her. Be careful, Millie, she warned herself. You're no longer fourteen and now you're a married woman.

“You look mighty well this mornin', Mrs. Chandler,” he said.

It was the first time he had called her by her new name. She liked the way he said it. “Thank you, Lassiter. I wish I could say the same about you.” They laughed together.

That afternoon he loafed around the home place. It gave her a chance to talk to him. But it became awkward when she tried to pry into his past life. He turned the subject to Vince Tevis.

“Vince said you and he were trying to find your aunt.”

“We were. Aunt Marguerite, my mother's sister. But she'd moved from Las Cruces and I was told she'd gone to Ardon. But I don't know whether she was there or not. I never had a chance to find out. Brad came . . . and well, you know the rest.”

Two days later Lassiter was in town with the Chandlers when he saw Joe Tige just crossing the street down the block. The burly Diamond Eight rider was about to enter the saddle shop when Lassiter stepped up. Tige looked surprised, then scowled.

Lassiter said, “I want my gun.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about,” Tige snarled. He started to step around him and enter the saddle shop, but Lassiter blocked him.

“The day of the wedding. You took my gun. I want it.”

Drinkers had come out of O'Leary's across the street to stare at them. It crossed Lassiter's mind that some of them might be Diamond Eight. But at the moment he didn't give much of a damn if they were.

“You're crazy as hell,” Tige blustered. “I never took no gun.”

Lassiter's eyes finally lowered to the man's holster nestled against a thick thigh. He saw a familiar gun butt with black grips protruding from the leather.

“It's a good gun,” Lassiter went on. “You must think so, too. You're wearin' it.”

Tige looked at him for a moment, then his thick lips stretched tight in a grin. “Try an' take it. . . .”

That was as far as he got. The .45 borrowed from Herrera appeared in Lassiter's hand, the hammer eared back. Tige came to his toes, a look of surprise on his brutal face.

“Don't bother to hand it over,” Lassiter said softly. “I'll just take it.”

Ramming the muzzle of the cocked .45 against Tige's side, he reached out with his left hand and retrieved the .44.

Tige, muttering under his breath, entered the saddle shop and slammed the door. The owner, who had observed the incident through the fly-specked front window, was ashen-faced.

When Lassiter walked back to the Hartney Store where he had left his horse beside the Chandler wagon, the rancher came out to the loading platform and said, “What was that all about?”

“He borrowed my gun the other day. I wanted it back.”

“When I saw you headin' for him, I kept my fingers crossed. Tige's got a hair-trigger temper. Let's
go get us a drink. The missus, she's got some stuff she wants to buy. You know how women are. Can't make up their minds.”

Chandler smiled and gave a playful tug at one end of his mustache. How easily Chandler was fitting into the role of husband, Lassiter thought. But then he'd had years of practice with his late wife.