Teresa Medeiros (3 page)

“He weren’t ridin’ no horse, miss. He just walked out o’ Miss Mellie’s whorehouse a little after noon and moseyed right on over to the saloon.”

The plank sidewalk seemed to buckle beneath her feet, giving Esmerelda cause to regret that she hadn’t packed a vial of smelling salts. Her stunned gaze drifted to the weathered facade of the saloon across the street. The tinny notes of a poorly tuned piano spilled out of its swinging doors, barely penetrating the roaring in her ears.

He was there. Now that she knew he was there, she could almost feel him. Coiled. Deadly. Waiting for her.

She swallowed in a vain attempt to stifle the flutter of raw excitement in her throat. She had never dreamed her quest for justice would be fulfilled with such ease. Shock made her voice sound distant and quavery, even to her own ears. “You must fetch the sheriff immediately, sir. I shall insist he march over to the saloon and take the renegade into custody.”

The cowpoke scratched his balding head, his expression
oddly reticent. “Uh, miss, the sheriff is already at the saloon. Been there since this mornin’.”

Esmerelda blinked in confusion. “And what, pray tell, is he doing there?”

“Playin’ poker, most likely. He and Billy’ve had a runnin’ game for almost three months now. Ever since Billy got shot up and moved into the whorehouse.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. Nearly choking on her outrage, she glanced frantically around, earning nothing but a polite tip of a passing gentleman’s hat for her trouble. “What manner of place is this Calamity? Surely the townsfolk aren’t content to stand idly by while their sheriff consorts with outlaws!”

“Aw, don’t be so hard on Sheriff McGuire. He’d arrest Billy if he thought it’d do any good. But our jail cain’t hold him. Before the marshal could come to take him to Santa Fe for trial, his brothers would just bring a bunch o’ dynamite and blast him out. You see, miss, Billy’s brothers is outlaws to the last man. They come from Missoura after the war and there’s some that says they even rode with Quantrill’s Raiders and Bloody Bill Anderson, just like them James and Younger boys.”

Esmerelda shivered. The exploits of those Confederate desperados who had refused to accept that their cause was lost had reached as far north as Boston. The wild-eyed boys and their ruthless leaders had struck terror in the heart of a nation already ravaged by four years of war.

The cowpoke shook his head. “You don’t want to mess with them Darlin’ boys. They set a high store by Billy, him bein’ the baby o’ the family and all.”

Esmerelda clenched her teeth against a frisson of rage. How could a cold-blooded killer like Billy Darling be anybody’s baby? Her brother’s face drifted through her
memory as it had so many times in the months since his disappearance—his plump, rosy cheeks pale and sunken, his sable hair dulled by blood, the spark of mischief in his eyes doused by the icy, black waters of death.

Beset by a strange and dangerous calm, Esmerelda gently placed her violin case on top of her trunk and dipped a hand into her reticule to caress its sleek contents.

As she stepped off the sidewalk into the dusty street, the cowhand called after her. “Miss! Oh, miss, you forgot your fiddle and trunk.”

“Watch them for me, won’t you?” she replied, studying the beckoning doors of the saloon through narrowed eyes. “I won’t be long.”

Esmerelda Fine’s arrival in Calamity on that lazy Wednesday afternoon had garnered more attention than she realized. While the townsfolk had grown accustomed to having the stagecoach pass through, they were not accustomed to seeing anyone actually disembark from it. Especially not a slender wren of a lady garbed in a bustle and bonnet the provincial folk of Calamity assumed was the very pinnacle of city fashion.

When Esmerelda plunged into the dusty street without a visible care for her high-heeled kid leather boots, curtains twitched and children came creeping out of alleyways. When it appeared her destination was to be none other than the Tumbleweed Saloon, shopkeepers emerged from their deserted stores to sweep the sidewalks, trading curious and wary looks.

They breathed a collective sigh of relief when Esmerelda paused just outside the saloon, obviously realizing her error. No true lady would ever darken the doorstep of such an establishment. The townsfolk nodded and smiled
at one another, their faith in the innate nobility of womankind restored.

Until the young woman squared her slender shoulders, thrust open the swinging doors, and disappeared inside.

The sudden shift from sunlight to gloom nearly blinded Esmerelda. Long shadows cut a swath through the interior of the saloon. The isinglass windowpanes admitted only enough light to gild the dust motes drifting through the air.

A garishly painted woman straddled a chair in front of the piano, banging out a rollicking dance-hall tune with her crimson fingernails. A bartender stood behind a long counter, polishing glasses in front of a row of amber-tinted bottles. A handful of stragglers slumped at the bar, but most of the chatter and merriment in the room seemed to be coming from a table situated just below the upstairs balcony.

Two bleary-eyed cowboys flanked a broad-shouldered man whose mouth was dwarfed by a drooping mustache. His silver hair flowed past his shoulders like lustrous waves of corn silk. A tin star was pinned to his satin waistcoat.

The esteemed sheriff McGuire, Esmerelda deduced, fortified by a fresh surge of contempt.

The trail of bills and silver scattered across the table’s pitted surface led directly to a fourth man. A man who sat with his back to the wall and his face shadowed by his hat brim. A thin cigar was clamped between his lips. A dimpled whore perched on one knee.

He was watching her, Esmerelda realized, repressing a shiver. His regard might be nothing more than a wary gleam penetrating the shadows, but it was powerful enough to draw every other eye in the saloon to her frozen form. It was almost as if she hadn’t existed until the moment he had chosen to take notice of her.

The piano fell mute. The bartender’s cloth ceased its circular motions. Curious faces appeared in the saloon windows, struggling to peer through the gloom. Avid eyes peeped over the top of the saloon door, abandoning all pretense of discretion.

Chin up and one foot in front of the other, girl
, Esmerelda heard someone say in her head.
If you keep putting one foot in front of the other, you’ll eventually get where you’re going
. Although she had never heard her grandfather speak, Esmerelda knew exactly who that clipped British voice belonged to. She might loathe the man for turning his back on her mother, but it was his pitiless scolding that had prodded her to get up off the bed and stop feeling sorry for herself after her parents had died, that had goaded her into drying little Bartholomew’s tears when she was still blinded by her own.

Despite her hatred of her grandfather, or perhaps because of it, his gruff, no-nonsense tones never failed to calm her fears.

Until now.

She marched to the table, stopping directly across from the man she had traveled over two thousand miles to find. The woman on his lap wrapped a possessive hand around his nape, surveying her with sloe-eyed amusement.

“Mr. William Darling?” Esmerelda winced when her voice cracked in the unnatural silence.

His only acknowledgment of her presence was the faint twitch of a muscle in his jaw. Smoke wafted from his cigar, curling toward her like tendrils of brimstone.

“I am,” he finally drawled, stubbing out the cigar and tipping back his hat with one finger.

Esmerelda had braced herself to confront a bewhiskered fiend. She nearly dropped her reticule when the shadows retreated to reveal lean cheeks shaded by the barest hint of stubble and a pair of dark-lashed, gray-green eyes that
failed to betray even a glimmer of shiftiness. Those eyes assessed her, taking her measure with disturbing bluntness.

Praying that she had practiced in front of the mirror often enough to do it without shooting herself in the foot, Esmerelda fished the derringer from the satin-lined depths of her reticule and leveled it at his heart.

“You’re under arrest, Mr. Darling. I’m taking you in.”

Billy Darling was a jovial drunk.

Which explained the dangerous edge to his temper as he surveyed the haughty young miss who had presumed to interrupt his poker game. His first whiskey of the day sat untouched on the table just inches from his fingertips. The way his day was going, he doubted it would be his last.

The woman disagreed. Noting the direction of his glance, she gave the brimming glass an imperious nod. “You’d best finish your whiskey, sir. It may be the last you taste for a very long while.”

Billy barely resisted the urge to bust out laughing. Instead, he curled his fingers around the glass and lifted it in a salute to her audacity. She really ought to be flattered by the stir her announcement had caused. Noreen had gone tumbling off his lap in a flurry of scarlet petticoats
while Dauber and Seal went diving under a nearby table, scattering bills and coins.

Only Drew had remained upright, but even he had scooted his chair back a good two feet and thrown his hands into the air. The waxed tips of his mustache quivered with alarm. Billy suspected he would have joined the cowboys under the table if he hadn’t feared rumpling the new paisley waistcoat he’d had shipped all the way from Philadelphia. You could almost always count on Drew’s vanity overruling his cowardice.

It wasn’t the first time Billy had faced a woman across the barrel of a gun, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Hell, he’d even been shot once by a jealous whore in Abilene. But she’d cried so prettily and tended the wound and the rest of him with such gratifying remorse, he’d forgiven her before the bleeding stopped.

It wasn’t even that he particularly minded being shot by a woman. He just wanted to do something to deserve it first.

He sipped the whiskey, narrowing his eyes to study the woman over the rim of the glass. Her hands were steady, but an unnatural flush heightened her color. Any woman with a gun was dangerous, but he suspected this one might be more dangerous than most. Her delicate nostrils flared like a high-strung mare’s each time she exhaled.

He searched his memory for any transgression he might have committed against her. She didn’t look the sort to thrust some squalling brat into his face, claiming it was his. He swallowed a shudder of distaste along with a mouthful of whiskey at the thought of inflicting another Darling on the hapless West.

His gaze roamed briefly over her trim form. She was as slender as a reed—downright underfed by his standards.
She most definitely didn’t favor the busty whores who bore the brunt of his romantic attentions.

Billy frowned. He’d woken up on more than one occasion with women whose faces and names he could barely remember, but it troubled him to think such an encounter could have escaped him completely. He studied the pristine curve of the woman’s cheek, wishing he could see the hue of the hair hidden by that ridiculous bird’s nest of a bonnet. As his gaze lingered on her mouth, he decided he had never known her, biblically or otherwise. If he’d have ever persuaded those prim lips to part for him or made those snowy cheeks flush with pleasure instead of indignation, he damn well would have remembered it.

He drained the rest of the whiskey in a single searing swallow and thumped the glass to the table, making her flinch. “Why don’t you put the gun down? You really don’t want to get powder burns on your pretty white gloves, do you, Miss …?”

“Fine. Miss Esmerelda Fine.”

She flung her name at him like a challenge, but it failed to trigger even an echo of recognition. “Esmerelda? Now that’s a rather lofty name for such a little bit of a lady. Suppose I just call you Esme?”

He would have thought it impossible, but her mouth grew even more pinched. “I’d rather you didn’t. My brother was the only one who called me Esme.” Then that same mouth surprised him by curving into a sweetly mocking smile. “Unless, of course, you’d rather I call you
Darling?”

Billy scowled at her. “The last man who cast aspersions on my family name got a belly full of lead.” In reality, he’d gotten only a bloody nose, but since Billy didn’t plan to give either to this persistent young lady, he didn’t see any harm in embellishing.

“It wouldn’t have been my brother, by any chance,
would it? Is that why you gunned down a defenseless boy? For hurting your poor, delicate feelings?”

“Ah.” Billy’s good humor returned as he folded his arms over his chest and tilted his chair back on two legs. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Do refresh my memory, Miss Fine. You can’t expect me to remember every man I’m supposed to have killed.”

He felt a surprising flicker of remorse when his jibe drew blood. The gloved hand wrapped around the derringer trembled ever so slightly. Dauber and Seal cowered deeper beneath their table, all but hugging each other.

“I should have expected no less than such callous disregard from an animal like you, Mr. Darling. A cold-blooded assassin masquerading as a legitimate bounty hunter.” Her contemptuous gaze flicked to Drew. “Sheriff, I demand that you arrest this man immediately for the murder of Bartholomew Fine III.”