Savage Thunder (25 page)

T
he Gold Nugget Brewery hadn’t sounded that crowded from the outside, but it was. Jocelyn didn’t go very far into the room. She wondered if today might be a holiday of some sort, to account for so many people being there in the middle of the afternoon. But then she noticed most of the men up at the bar had plates of food in front of them, and realized it was still the lunch hour—and that she was hungry herself.

“You didn’t tell me it was also a restaurant,” she whispered when she felt Colt at her back.

“Who you talkin’ to, kid?”

She glanced around with widened eyes to find an old-timer in pants almost as baggy as hers, wearing nothing but long johns and suspenders with them. He was scratching a full gray beard as he eyed the bar rather than her, to her relief.

“I beg your pardon, I was—”

“You beg my…”

He cackled before he finished. Jocelyn grimaced and looked over his shoulder to see what had happened to Colt. He wasn’t there. And the old-timer was squinting at her now.

“You wouldn’t happen to have an extra nickel on you that you wouldn’t mind partin’ company with,
would you, sonny? Food’s free as long as you buy a drink with it.”

She dug into her coat pocket where she had stuffed a few coins earlier and handed him one. She realized her mistake at once when his eyes bulged and he nearly broke her fingers getting the twenty-dollar gold piece out of her hand before she changed her mind.

“You must be fresh in from the gold fields, kid. Come on and I’ll buy
you
a drink. Hell, I’m rich now.”

He headed off toward the bar, cackling again. Jocelyn wasn’t about to follow him. She had started for the exit, in fact, when she was swung back around to see a very disgusted Colt, who’d been standing behind her the whole while.

“I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

“He thought I was a boy,” she explained quickly. “We didn’t consider that. If I can pass for a boy, mightn’t we stay long enough to have some lunch?”

“No, we
mightn’t
,” he gritted out irritably. “Have you seen enough?”

“I haven’t seen anything yet, actually, but…”

Her voice trailed off and her eyes rounded on what she saw just then, a long gilt-framed picture hanging over the mirror behind the bar, of a woman reclining on a sofa, without a single stitch of clothes on. Colt’s chuckle made her realize she was blushing—and staring.

“Come on, the view’s better from over here. Five minutes, Dutch, and we’re out of here.”

She nodded and followed him to the bar. It was a long affair, made of carved walnut, with towels
draped from it at about eight-foot intervals, so the patrons who were eating could wipe their hands, she supposed. Bootheels were hooked on a brass foot rail which ran along the base of the bar, with cuspidors on the floor by it, placed one to about every four customers. Sawdust surrounded the spittoons, and it was her misfortune to see why as one fellow spat a wad of chewing tobacco toward one, but missed the thing.

When she reached the bar, the man behind it came over to wipe the space in front of her that had some remains of the free lunch on it, and asked, “What’ll you have, boy?”

“A brandy, if you please.”

“Make that two whiskeys,” Colt nearly growled next to her and tossed a dime on the counter.

His scowl was worth a thousand words, making her realize she’d made another mistake. Brandy, very possibly, wasn’t even heard of in these parts, much less stocked.

“Sorry,” she offered in a small voice.

All he said was, “Hold it, don’t drink it,” when the shot of whiskey was set before her.

She took the small glass in hand, turned around, and leaned one arm back on the bar as she saw another fellow doing. Colt remained facing forward, but the mirror behind the bar was there and he could see the whole room in that mirror. Jocelyn preferred to view it firsthand.

It wasn’t a very large saloon, about the size of the smaller parlor at Fleming Hall. Besides that lewd picture that she refused to look at again, there were other
interesting things hanging on the walls: a deer’s head, the bleached skull of some large animal, old weapons, the butt end of a buffalo—she blinked twice at that one.

There were a few gambling tables, a faro layout, a roulette wheel, a monte bank, but nothing to take away from the room’s main business, which was drinking. In the space of a few minutes she heard such things as Snake Poison, Coffin Varnish, Red Dynamite, Tarantula Juice, and Panther Piss, all being requested of the bartender, and guessed them to be different names for whiskey. She was almost tempted to take a sip of her own drink just to see why it warranted such colorful descriptions. A glance at Colt, who was still watching things through the mirror, convinced her not to.

There were all manner of men present, in all manner of dress: prospectors, gamblers, businessmen, cowboys, drifters. It was almost a surprise when she finally noticed the women sitting at some of the tables.

Hurty-gurty gals, she’d heard they were called. Actually, she’d heard them mentioned by a few other names as well, though not so nice. They were apparently available for more than a drink or a dance, but the only things Jocelyn could see different about them from the women of the town were that they weren’t wearing plain frocks or calico and were wearing face paint.

They were, in fact, dressed in the height of French fashion. She recognized one of those styles herself from her fashion plates, though she didn’t remember
the bodice being quite so low. It was when one of the women stood up that she saw where the resemblance to current fashion ended. Her dress had no skirt, or what skirt it had ended only halfway down her thighs, not her calves but her thighs, revealing long legs encased in gaudy silk striped stockings.

Jocelyn caught herself staring, mouth open, and snapped it shut. Well, she’d asked to be shocked, she really had, by coming in here. And if these women dressed so scantily, good Lord, what did the women in brothels wear? No wonder Colt had been so appalled at her wish to visit a brothel.

“You got a problem, mister?”

Now she groaned. Colt had warned her not to stare at anyone, and the bearlike man who was looking in their direction appeared mighty disgruntled for some reason. But she couldn’t recall staring at him. She didn’t even recall seeing him until just then. Perhaps he hadn’t been talking to her.

“I asked you a question, mister.”

He wasn’t talking to her, she realized then, he was talking to Colt. And glancing at Colt, she saw that he was watching the man through the mirror, that he was doing the staring he’d warned her not to do, and the bear, who could also see him clearly in the mirror, definitely didn’t like it.

But Colt didn’t turn around to answer the man, didn’t answer him at all. He had gone still, however, deathly still. Not a muscle moved throughout his whole body.

“Shit, you’re a breed, ain’t you?” Jocelyn heard
next and stiffened herself. “Who the hell let you in here?”

She waited for Colt to turn now, to tell that obnoxious creature where to get off. Why
did
he have to wear those braids along with the buckskin shirt
and
moccasins? One thing alone wouldn’t have mattered. There were other men right there in the room who had hair longer than Colt’s. There was another man in buckskin. There weren’t any others wearing moccasins, but still, all three things together were like wearing a hand-painted sign in large letters anyone could read. It was just
asking
for trouble. So why didn’t he turn and meet it?

“I’m talking to you, breed.”

The fellow stood up as he said that. He really was a big man. He really did resemble a bear too, with a wild, shaggy mane of brown hair and a face full of beard and mustache. He wasn’t wearing a gun and didn’t seem to care that Colt was. He did have a coiled whip attached to his belt, however, proclaiming him as some kind of animal driver. A freighter probably, who had to push his animals up the mountain trails. Jocelyn pitied those animals, for the man looked not only mean but rather cruel.

And Colt still hadn’t answered him.

“Maybe you need something to get your attention,” the bear suggested.

Jocelyn gasped then as that whip unwound onto the floor. The man wouldn’t dare! And yet everyone standing at the bar must have thought otherwise, for they scattered, moving far back against the walls. The tables nearest the bar cleared too. Someone even
grabbed a fistful of her coat to yank her out of the way. And Colt
still
didn’t turn around.

By the time Jocelyn jerked loose of her would-be protector, the whip had cracked. And she could see the dark imprint across Colt’s back where it had struck, crushing the nap of the buckskin. Her horror was indescribable. That beast had actually done it, lashed Colt to get his attention. But he didn’t get it. To her amazement, and to everyone else’s surprise, Colt did nothing. He didn’t move, didn’t show by the slightest inflection that he’d been hurt. And that blow had to have hurt. The crack had been as loud as a gunshot.

The bear was also surprised that he’d gotten no reaction from his victim, but only for a moment. His eyes narrowed on Colt’s back, moved to the mirror where he could see his face, then narrowed even more.

“You look mighty familiar, breed. Did you give me trouble before, maybe when I was too liquored up to remember?” And then he shouted, “Answer me, you bastard!” and let that whip slice through the air again.

“No,” Jocelyn gasped when it struck Colt again, and she started forward, only to be held back by a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Stay out of it, boy. He’s only a breed.”

She lost her reason then. She didn’t understand any of this, the prejudice that could make a man say that, the apathy that could let the rest of them just stand there and watch instead of doing something to stop such cruelty. Most of all, she didn’t understand what
was wrong with Colt that he could remain silent and take it. She couldn’t.

She turned on the fellow gripping her shoulder and lifted his gun before he realized that was her intent. It was a long-barreled, unwieldy thing. She had to support it on her forearm, but even then she didn’t think she’d have much luck with it. Handguns were not her area of expertise.

The bear didn’t know that, however. “Strike him again, sir, and I shall have to shoot you.”

More people moved out of the way, those behind her now and those behind the bear. She’d gotten his attention, if nothing else, and it was most definitely unnerving. She spared a quick glance at Colt, but blast the man, even now that she’d interfered, he remained unmoving. Did he honestly think she could get them out of this by herself?

“Were you talkin’ to me, boy?” the bear asked her. “I hope you ain’t that stupid.”

She gave a little start when he snapped the whip back to his side. The menace of it was palpable, the message clear. If she didn’t put the gun down, he’d use it on her.

Her hands began to sweat. It took her two tries to cock the revolver. The sound of it was horribly loud in the deathly silence of the room. And all it did was get the bear angry at her, so much so that he didn’t seem to care that she had a gun aimed at him.

“You little shit,” he growled. “Back off, or I’ll slice you to ribbons!”

“Whyn’t you back off, Pratt?” someone called out. “He’s just a baby.”

“You want some too?” was the bear’s answer.

“Ain’t you showed off enough for one day, Pratt?” This from the other side of the room.

Jocelyn began to take heart, until she realized the man was becoming enraged that he didn’t have total support from the room, and he turned that rage on her. “Damn your hide, drop it or use it!”

He gave her no choice, for he was drawing back his arm in preparation of sending that lash in her direction. She pulled the trigger—then froze in utter horror. Nothing had happened. She’d confiscated a gun that wasn’t loaded!

The savage exultation on Pratt’s face told its own story. For her audacity in challenging him, she was going to bleed now, and feel excruciating pain in the process. That knowledge paralyzed her with such fear that she couldn’t even scream when she saw the coil of the whip coming at her, much less move out of the way.

The sound of the crack was worse than the bite, in fact—Jocelyn felt nothing. Her heart might have stopped beating, but she felt no pain. And then she smelled the smoke, saw Pratt crash slowly to the floor, and knew someone had saved her, that it was gunfire she’d heard, rather than the whip.

That she didn’t automatically assume Colt had come to her rescue this time was understandable, since he’d let things go so far. Yet it was his gun that was still trailing a small stream of smoke, and his eyes she met as she sagged in relief—then almost immediately began to seethe.

But her sudden anger was under perfect control.
She slowly turned and handed her useless gun back to its owner, then calmly walked out of the saloon. She was never going to speak to Colt Thunder again. For whatever diabolical reason he had refrained from doing anything until the last possible moment, and she suspected it was just to teach her a lesson, he’d allowed her to be frightened half to death, and she wouldn’t forgive him for that.

C
olt watched the duchess walk out of the saloon, but made no move to follow her. He couldn’t just then. He felt weak as a baby. His heart was still slamming against his ribs, his skin still clammy with cold sweat. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, and he wasn’t sure what did happen.

He’d noticed Ramsay Pratt looking at him in the mirror, recognized him, and felt such primitive satisfaction he nearly let out a war whoop. So many times he’d imagined coming across the man again, imagined calling him out and emptying his gun into him, not to kill him but to cripple him. He didn’t want him dead. He wanted Pratt to live with the same kind of bitterness and pain that had been a part of his own life ever since they last crossed paths.

He’d deliberately let the man get worked up by not answering him. He’d wanted him good and mad, mad enough to break out that whip of his. But when he got what he wanted and started to turn around to face the bastard, he found that he couldn’t. It was as if his body had just clicked off when he saw that whip, as if the part of his mind that controlled it had decided not to participate in another confrontation with the whip-wielder, as if he were
afraid
to go through that experience again.

Even when Ramsay had lashed him, he’d been unable to break out of the trancelike stupor that gripped him. Not that there was any pain to help him out of it. With so much damaged tissue and nerves, hot coals could be set on his back and he wouldn’t be likely to feel them. He didn’t know even now if Ramsay had done any damage this time. He wouldn’t know until he could see his back for himself.

But if it was fear that had paralyzed him without his conscious knowledge, it had been stark terror that he’d felt when the duchess had been threatened and he still couldn’t move; stark terror that had brought the sweat and debilitation when he thought she’d be hurt. It was only when he saw the whip actually raised against her that the rage had exploded in his head and given him back his mobility.

He watched as Pratt’s body was hauled out of the saloon. There were a few comments, but none directed at him. Most of the patrons went back to doing what they’d been doing before the violence began. It was a typical reaction when violence was more or less an everyday occurrence.

Colt felt nothing, no regret, no satisfaction, no emotion at all for the man he’d just killed. It was that look of utter contempt he’d had from the duchess just before she walked out that disturbed him. He didn’t have to wonder why he’d received it. And what was he supposed to tell her? That he’d been afraid without conscious awareness of it? That he’d wanted to keep her out of it, had tried, but just couldn’t move? Couldn’t move? She’d really buy that, wouldn’t she?

He returned to the station yard and that fancy rail
road car she’d acquired so easily. The duchess was there, but locked in the sleeping compartment. Colt debated for about a minute whether to pound on the door, then decided against it. This just might be for the best. He’d be losing a few days with her, but he had to give her up anyway, so what did that really matter?

He gathered up his gear and headed for the door. He’d buy a ticket for the passenger car and let the conductor inform the duchess where he’d be. There was no reason for them to even see each other again until they arrived in Cheyenne. But on his way out one of the mirrors caught his eye and he remembered his back. He dropped his gear and yanked off his shirt to have a quick look-see. Pratt must have lost his touch over the years, Colt decided. He couldn’t detect a single mark.

“Dear God in heaven!”

He swung around, reaching for his gun. “What?!” But he knew from the expression on her face. Pity he couldn’t take at the best of times, and from her not at all.

Jocelyn dropped the rifle out of her hand to cover her mouth. She was going to be sick. She’d seen enough violence in the past hour, but this, the result of violence, done to him—to him! She ran for the lavatory.

Colt threw his shirt to the floor with a vicious curse and ran after her, jerking her around before she reached the door. “Don’t you dare! It’s nothing, do you hear? Nothing! If you wanted to spill your guts,
you should have done it when the bullwhacker spilled his, not now!”

She swallowed the bile in her throat, shaking her head. The tears were already starting. She didn’t know why he was so angry. She couldn’t help the emotion tearing up her insides.

When he saw the tears, he snarled, “Don’t!” but her wail drowned him out as she threw her arms around his neck. He tried to break her hold, but couldn’t without hurting her. And she wasn’t letting go, was clinging so tightly she nearly choked him.

“Ah, shit,” he said after a moment and carried her to the nearest chair, where he sat down to cradle her in his lap. “You’ve got no business doing this to me, woman. What the hell are you crying for anyway? I told you it was nothing.”

“You call…that…nothing?” she sobbed into his shoulder.

“Nothing to you. It happened a long time ago. Do you think it still hurts or something? I assure you it doesn’t.”

“But it did!” she cried even louder. “You can’t tell me it didn’t! Oh, God, your poor back!”

He stiffened. He couldn’t help it. “Listen to me, Duchess, and listen well. A warrior can’t accept pity. He’d rather be dead.”

She leaned back then, somewhat surprised. “But I don’t pity you.”

“Then what’s all this crying about?”

“It’s the pain you must have felt. I—I can’t bear to think of you suffering like that.”

He shook his head at her. “You’re not looking at
it from the proper perspective, woman. It was a whipping meant to kill me. There aren’t many men who could have survived it, but I did. The scars represent triumph over my enemies. I defeated them by living.”

“If you’re proud of those scars, like you are of these”—her fingers brushed against the puckered skin over one nipple, making him jerk—“then why have you hid them from me? And you have, haven’t you?”

She recalled now the times they had both been completely without clothes while making love, and every time she had reached for his back, he had stopped her by taking her hands and holding them over her head or at her sides. She also recalled the time she had told him she ought to have him horsewhipped. Dear God, how insensitive! But she hadn’t known.

“I didn’t say I was proud of them, Duchess. But remember your reaction to these,” he said bitterly as he pressed her hands to his nipples, “and your reaction just now, and you have your answer. These bring forth disgust. My back makes women puke.”

“Do you know why?” she asked with some heat. “Because you did one set yourself, deliberately inflicting self-torture, and you’re
proud
of it. But someone else did the other, mutilating this magnificent body, and that’s an atrocity beyond description. Who did that to you, Colt?”

He wasn’t sure if he’d just been scolded or complimented. “You just watched him die.”

It took her a moment to grasp that, but then the color drained from her face. “Oh, God, no wonder you couldn’t move when you saw him! I couldn’t move myself when I thought he was going to hit me, and I
didn’t know what it would feel like. But you knew…oh, God,” she groaned and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck again, as if by doing so she could take the memory away for him. “You knew exactly what it would feel like if he struck you…and he did! You had to relive that nightmare—”

“Cut it out, Duchess,” he said gruffly. “You’re making it out to be worse than it was. I felt nothing. It takes live nerves to feel pain, and I’ve got few of those left.”

“Oh, God!” She started crying again.

“
Now
what?”

But she shook her head, aware that he wouldn’t want to hear her say that was worse. Only he knew what she was thinking. And he knew what she was doing, trying to smother him with the soothing only a female could offer. She’d have his head at her breast if he’d let her, and trouble was, the thought was too tempting by half.

He had to get her mind on something else, and spotting the rifle she’d dropped on the floor, he asked, “Where were you heading with that rifle?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t hear you come in,” she sniffled. “It had finally occurred to me that you might have had more difficulty at the saloon after I left.”

“And so you were going back to save me?”

“Something like that.”

She expected him to laugh. Instead she felt his hand in her hair pulling her head back so he could kiss her. And she didn’t wonder about the almost desperate quality of that kiss, for it could have been more on her part than his. Their time together was running out, and they both knew it.