Quicksilver Passion (35 page)

No,” Willie protested,
I’m younger than you, you old coot, and in better shape, too! I’ll be the one to go.”

Neither of you have as good a chance as I do of making it,” Cherokee argued.

But she needs someone who knows what he’s doing,” they said almost in unison.

Cherokee,” Willie said, scratching his straggly beard with his misshapen hand,
why don’t you doctor the girl and we’ll both go for help.”

No, I can’t let you do that. You might not even make it to town. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you two!”

And can you live with yourself if we stay here where it’s warm and safe, and Miss Silver dies?” Bill asked.

What a decision to make.
Cherokee looked at him helplessly, unable to deny the logic of his partner’s words. What good would it do if Cherokee left her in their clumsy, inept care, and she died while he was bringing back Doc? In that case, Cherokee didn’t even think he’d care if that short-tempered watchdog of hers came looking for him with a shotgun.

Al went to the window at the Nugget, stared out a long moment, then checked his watch. The streets of Buckskin Joe were deserted in the bluster of a cold late afternoon. He shouldn’t worry so much. Any moment now, Silver would come riding up, and he would scold her for her wild, reckless impulse. He never should have let her go in the first place.

As if he could stop her. No one stopped Silver from doing what she wanted to do. His belly began to hurt again and he took a big swallow of the tonic. The laudanum and the alcohol helped dull the pain that was almost constant now.
Two years at the outside,
the sawbones in Chicago had said. How old was he? Forty-one. He wouldn’t live to reach the half-century mark.

It was the day the doctor told him the news that Al made the decision to betray his boss and help Silver. A man ought to do at least one good thing in his life and Al had never regretted his decision. That day had been a little more than a year ago.

Right now, Al didn’t feel like he’d make it the full two years. He felt sweat bead on his forehead at the agony and he almost doubled over as he stumbled to a chair and took another big drink of the tonic.

He’d never told Silver he was dying. His every waking thought these days was occupied by hiding his pain while he tried to make plans to protect her. She would be so alone when he was gone. If only he could find the right man who, like Al, would be content to adore her from a distance, protect and cherish her.

The problem was, every man who saw her wanted to get between her legs, not understanding her terror at a man’s touch. Like that big half-breed who had drifted in the other night. Al snorted and wiped his brow. He’d never seen such lust and hunger in a man’s eyes. That Cherokee was big enough to protect her, all right, but he was a horse of a man. If he ever got the chance, that Cherokee would ride her like a stallion topping a mare, not caring about anything but satisfying his animal instincts.

Al saw a sudden image in his mind of the two naked together, the big dark body pinning her fragile pale one against a bed. Cherokee would be built big all over, and she was no match for him. With dismay, Al imagined the half-breed covering Silver, meshing his body with hers, ramming deep inside, impaling her against a bed while she beat on his chest and scratched helplessly at his face. Then he would bend his head and put his mouth on Silver’s full, ripe breasts....

The image upset him so, he shook his head to clear it, then stared out the window at the snow flurries.

Snow. It had been snowing the first time Al had ever seen Silver, that winter afternoon in Chicago. . . .

Jake Dallinger, the army scout, had found her wandering the streets and brought her to the elegant Victorian mansion. It looked so respectable, but the business inside wasn’t.

Brett. Bart Brett. The handsome, black sheep son of a wealthy family owned this place. Al remembered standing in the background in Brett’s office, watching the scene.

Jake was the kind of guy who’d steal milk from an orphan’s cup, a big, bearded redneck who carried a bull whip coiled on his belt. He kept his hat pulled low to hide the fact that he was half-scalped from a run-in with Indians in his past.

Jake said,
Brett, this here little lady doesn’t seem to have anyplace to go, and I knew you was looking for a cleaning girl.”