The Devil's Own Desperado
She cleared the plates from the table. “I’ll start
some water heating for your shave, Mr.—”
“Colt. My name is Colt,” he interrupted.
She froze for a moment near the stove. “I would feel very forward to address you by your given name, Mr. Evans.”
His laughter boomed through the room. Amelia whirled. His head was tilted back and the strong cording of his throat stood out in relief. “Amelia, you didn’t have a problem taking care of me while I was unconscious and naked as the day I was born, but you think it would be forward to use my given name. There is something that doesn’t add up there.”
She twisted her apron between her hands, staring at the floor. A moment later, Colt caught her chin in his palm and tilted her head to him. She hadn’t heard him cross the floor. Her breath caught in a mingling of fear and some nameless anticipation.
“My name is Colt. Try it, Amelia. Colt.”
Amelia’s skin burned with the light touch of his fingers and her heart hammered against her breastbone. She wet her parched lips.
“It’s a simple name, really. Four little letters. Colt.”
Her throat was frozen. She was falling into the depths of his gray eyes. The pad of his thumb brushed along her lower lip. The butterflies returned to her stomach and that curious ache renewed. She shook her head, freeing herself of his gentle hold. She staggered a step away and broke the spell.
The
Devil’s Own Desperado
by
Lynda J. Cox
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 by Lynda J. Cox
Originally published by Wild Rose Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
eISBN: 9781503999190
This title was previously published by Wild Rose Press; this version has been reproduced from Wild Rose Press archive files.
To my husband, Ken Cox,
who never stopped believing,
and Champion Wych’s Rolling Thunder
—a.k.a. “Colt”—
the original “Devil’s Own Desperado.”
Chapter One
Near Red Deer, Wyoming Territory, August 1887
Colt Evans learned at an early age never to sit with his back to a door. Any door. At a poker table in the corner of the room, he sat with a log wall, darkened by age and smoke, protecting his back.
A lanky kid no more than fifteen pushed open the saloon doors and paused for a moment. A gusting breeze swept through the saloon, stirring the lamp flames and swirling the hazy smoke hanging near the rafters. Shadows skittered across the floor and danced up the walls. Colt nudged his hat back a little on his head and spared the kid silhouetted in the doorway little more than a glance before he turned his attention to the cards in his hands.
Aces and eights and the nine of diamonds—a dead man’s hand. A superstitious chill crept up Colt’s spine, despite the heat of day lingering in the dark night. Same hand Hickok had been holding when he’d been shot in the back—when Hickok had forgone his rule of never sitting with his back to a door. Colt pulled out the nine, and was dealt a third ace.
Colt looked away from the cards. He was getting too damn old for this. Just that morning, he’d found several gray strands shot through the black of his hair, and he’d been forced to squint to see his reflection that closely in the mirror. Somehow, that blasted dream he’d held onto all these years—the one of a small house sheltered in some mountain valley, with a couple of kids, a few head of cattle—seemed to be getting further out of reach.
He grimaced. He wasn’t simply getting old. Hell, he was getting maudlin. He knew better than to grab at a dream. A shootist didn’t settle down with a woman to raise kids and cattle, and he certainly never stopped being a shootist, no matter how many years passed after hanging up the hardware. It was a bitter realization, but one he’d learned to come to terms with.
He spared his cards another glance. They weren’t changing. Colt peered through the haze of cigar and cigarette smoke for the kid. What was a boy with peach fuzz on his face doing in a saloon?
The kid approached the bar, walking as if the gun strapped to his thigh was too heavy for him. After a moment of being ignored by the barkeep, the boy knocked on the wood bar top and demanded a whiskey. Colt lifted a brow when the barkeep placed a tumbler full of tarantula juice in front of him. Ordering a whiskey in Dale Carrie’s saloon was always a questionable proposition. Everyone knew the liquor was cut with something, but no one knew what Dale added to the whiskey barrels to make it last longer. Colt had once bet that Dale used turpentine. He wasn’t going to buy a shot of red-eye to find out if he won that bet though.
A smile tugged at one corner of Colt’s mouth when the boy slammed the rotgut down and fought to hide the fact he was choking on it. Probably the kid’s first taste of whiskey. And, more than likely, his first time to wear a gun too. The kid’s walk bellowed that to the heavens. He was uncomfortable with its weight and over-strode to try to adjust for the heaviness.
“You in or out, Colt?” Bear Mulligan’s rumbling voice dragged Colt’s attention back to the game.
Colt spared his cards one last look. Ghostly fingers traced a chill up his spine and lifted the hair at his nape. He nudged his hat back a little on his head and dropped the cards face down onto the table. “Out.”
“Then I’m calling. Beat ’em if you can,” Hank cheerfully announced, and dropped a straight to the queen on the table. Still grinning, he bent to the side and spat a glob of dark tobacco juice into a spittoon before raking his winnings in.
Bear and Joe snorted something unintelligible, and Joe pushed away from the table.
“I’m done,” Joe said. He picked up his hat and plunked it on his head. “If anyone else wants any more of my hard earned money, tell ’em to come looking for me upstairs. I’m going to spend the last of it on one of the girls.”
Bear picked up Colt’s cards, and raised his brows. Colt shrugged. “Not a hand I wanted to play,” he said. “It ain’t against the law to fold a decent hand, is it, Sheriff?”
Bear laughed, sounding like a huffing grizzly bear. “Boy, keep on riding me about this here badge, and I might just have to throw you in a cell for a day or two.”
“Save me from paying for a night sleeping on a lumpy mattress over at Bullfinch’s if you did that.”
“Now, that could be considered being on the wrong side of the law, getting arrested so you don’t have to pay for a good night’s sleep.”
“Who said it was a good night’s sleep?” Colt snorted. “It’s like trying to sleep on a sack of potatoes.”
The boy at the bar straightened and ambled to the poker table. He stood within a circle of flickering yellow light cast by the lanterns overhead, his gaze skipping over the three men, lingering for a moment on the badge pinned to Bear’s shirt. “Can anyone sit in?”
Colt glanced at Bear and Hank, and then shrugged. “So long as we see the color of your money before you sit down.”
The kid met Colt’s eyes, and reached into his pocket. Another chill brushed up Colt’s spine as the boy glared at him. His instincts warned this boy was some Johnny Quick Draw, looking to make a name for himself.
The kid dropped two gold double eagles onto the table. “That enough to cut me in?”
“Your momma know you’re here? Or that you been robbing banks to play poker?” Hank asked with a grin. His amusement died when the boy aimed a frigid stare in his direction.
Bear whistled low between tobacco-stained teeth. “That’s a good start, kid. What do they call you?”
“I didn’t rob no bank for it, Sheriff. You always go without a gun?” Without waiting for Bear’s response the kid glanced again at Colt. “Most folks call me Mitch.”
“Well, Mitch, usually I’m big enough to intimidate people, so I’ve never felt the need to pack iron. Have a seat.” Bear flexed his fingers, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll see if we can’t lighten your load just a little.”
Mitch swung his leg over the chair back, sitting directly across the table from Colt.
Colt’s nerves strummed with the aggression and cagey tautness radiating from the kid. For the third time in as many minutes, an indistinct warning whispered in the back of his head.
Bear shuffled and began to deal, in an obvious attempt to break the tension. “This hand, we’re playing five-card draw, nothing wild.”
Hank groaned. “Again?”
“Don’t know what you’re belly-aching about. You’ve won the last three hands,” Bear said, tossing cards onto the table. “And I know you wouldn’t try cheating with me sitting at this table.”
Mitch never removed his dark glower from Colt. Finally, Colt rocked his chair onto its two back legs. “Son, most men get real nervous when they’re being stared at.”
“Just trying to place where I know you.” Mitch didn’t break his steady stare. “You’re Colt Evans, ain’t you?”
“Well, that’s the name I was given. I’m at a disadvantage, because I know I have never seen you before.” Tension thrummed in the air. Bear eased his chair back slightly from the table, and on Colt’s other side, so did Hank. “I don’t recall ever knowing anyone with the name of Mitch.” Colt casually reached for his cards, fanned them, and spared them a quick glance.
“How about Frank Matthews?” Mitch’s sharp voice pulled Colt’s gaze away from the cards. Fury had filled the emptiness in the kid’s eyes.
Colt’s stomach twisted. Damn. This kid wasn’t just
some
Johnny Quick Draw. Frank Matthews—some fool who’d called him out a year ago and paid for it with his life. Who was this blasted kid? One of Matthews’ brothers? Or his son? He’d bet brother. The kid had the same dark hair, same dark eyes, same hooked nose. He should have seen the resemblance earlier. And if this brother was here, where were the rest of the Matthews boys?
Just as casually as he’d picked up the cards, Colt lowered them, face down, to the felt-covered table. “Can’t say I recall that name either.” Colt reached above his head to flick a speck of daubing from the wood wall behind him. The moment Mitch’s attention strayed to his raised hand, Colt slipped his gun hand under the table. His palm curled around the cool wood of the revolver’s handle, and he slid his finger against the trigger. A familiar, icy calm settled over him with the comfortable feel of the revolver in his hand.
