The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (28 page)

With a rattling sigh, he closed his eyes. "I ain't never been able to give 'em the fine things their own folks woulda given 'em, but they never held that against me. I reckon as how the good Lord saw fit to give me a family whether I deserved one or not. I reckon He understands something about loneliness."

He coughed again, grimacing from the pain in his chest. His lips were pale, bloodless.

"You should be resting," Reese told him.

"I ain't gonna make it as far as Querétaro with you. I'll only slow you down now and Luke... he don't have that much time."

Reese stared at his hands. "Listen, Tom says Elena—Señora Adregon—is good at what she does."

"Donovan," Brew croaked, his rheumy blue eyes regarding him seriously. A thin sheen of sweat coated his features. "It ain't about me, now. It's about Grace. If anybody'd told me when we started on this whole thing I'd be askin' it of you now, I'd 'a told 'em they was crazy."

Reese looked away.
Don't ask me that, old man. Don't ask me.

"Promise me you'll watch out for Gracie. Get her outta this safe. She needs someone to look after her."

"What she needs is a keeper," Reese argued, "which I'm not."

He stood up, hands shoved in his pockets, and walked to the window. Outside, Grace and Tom stood under the shade of a banana tree, talking. An odd feeling rose in him at the sight of his old friend comforting Grace with his arm on her shoulder. Odd, in the sense that he had an almost uncontrollable urge to lay Tom flat for touching her.

Slamming his eyes shut, Reese curled his fist into a ball. What was wrong with him? He couldn't be jealous! Not over a baffleheaded bit like Grace Turner! It was too absurd to consider. That wasn't to say he hadn't wanted her—in a purely physical sort of way. She wasn't too bad to look at, he admitted, and her kissing technique had... well, improved.

But jealous?

It was just a natural, protective reaction where Tom Newcastle was concerned. His reputation as a ladies' man was almost as impressive as his renown as a privateer—neither of which being the sort of man the dewy-eyed Grace Turner should fall in with.

It should be just as obvious to Brewster McDodd that a down-on-his-luck gunslinger with a penchant for booze and a nose for trouble fell into that same category. Which was why he knew the decision he'd come to was the right one. He turned back to Brew to tell him so, but the old man spoke first.

"Yer in love with her, ain't ya, son?"

Reese's eyes widened in shock. "What?"

Brew smiled weakly. "She does creep up on ya, don't she?"

"You're daft, old man, I—"

"An' even so, yer thinkin' of runnin' out on her, am I right?"

Reese clenched his jaw, then gave a snort of cynical laughter. "Is it some kinda crystal ball you have? Since when is reading minds one o' your gifts?"

"It don't take a mind reader to see what's in plain sight, boy. The truth's all over yer face."

Carefully blanking his expression, Reese swallowed hard. When had he become so bloody transparent? And when had he started having feelings enough to show at all?

"You're fevered, old man, and it's a good rest you're needin'. I've got to go," Reese said, heading toward the door.

"Donovan—"

He didn't turn around, but he stopped, staring hard at the bead-draped doorway. "I've got some business to take care of here in Tampico. I'll be back."

"Sure ya will."

Reese turned and shot a final look at him. In that moment, he came flat up against his own lie, because he saw it there exposed in Brew's relentless gaze.

"Fer once in yer life," the old man gently admonished, "think of someone besides yerself. Ya never know. It might do you some good."

He didn't wait to hear more. Reese turned and walked out. It took all his effort not to run.

Outside, Grace turned at the sound of his footsteps. "Reese," she said, abandoning Tom Newcastle's comforting arm. "How is he?"

"I'm no doctor," he reminded her, sending Tom a narrow-eyed look. "He's in good hands, though, if Tom can be trusted. I can trust you, can't I, Tom?"

Tom raised one eyebrow sardonically. "Hey, 'trust' is my middle name. Besides, it was the least I could do for such a lovely lady in distress."

"Right," Reese murmured doubtfully. He turned to Grace. "Brew was asking for you."

She glanced at the house.

"Look," he said at last, pinning his gaze on the distant river, "I have some business I have to take care of."

There was desperation in her eyes when she looked up at him. "Business? Here?"

"Personal business."

She pressed her lips together, glanced at Tom, then back at Reese. "I see. When will you be back?"

"Soon. I'll be back soon," he replied, unable to look her in the eye. "Brew's waiting for you."

She nodded and turned to go, but against his better judgment, he grabbed her arm. "Grace."

With a hopeful expression, she searched his face. "What?"

The words jammed in his throat. He hated it when she looked at him that way, so he let go of her. "Never mind."

He watched her disappear past the strands of glass beads, leaving them swaying in her wake. They made a soft swishing noise in time to the dull thud of his heart. He'd told himself it was for her own good. That this whole foolish enterprise had been doomed from the start. That if he stayed with her one minute longer something might happen between them they'd both regret.

Then, he thought of Earnest Edgar, her spider-killer hero, and wondered who the real coward was. It was a pointless question. He knew the answer.

Turning to Tom, he withdrew a thick envelope from his chest pocket and handed it to him.

"What's this?" Tom asked, a frown narrowing his one good eye.

"Another favor."

Tom peeked inside the envelope and gave a low whistle.

"I kept an account open in Bagdad," Reese explained. "It's enough to get them both back to Virginia when the old man's well enough to travel. Will you do it?"

The privateer lifted his gaze slowly to Reese. Before he answered, he lit a cheroot and inhaled deeply. Above them, the crimson bougainvillea that crept across the porch swayed in the breeze. "I thought you were going to Querétaro with her." It wasn't an accusation, exactly. But it was close enough to draw blood.

"That's none o' your business," Reese snapped.

Tom held the envelope up. "It seems you just made it my business."

Reese blew out a breath. "She thinks she knows what she's getting into, but she doesn't. One or both of us will end up dead trying to free her idiot brother from the mess he's gotten himself into. Sanders almost took care of that for us. Now that we're safe, the best thing is to get her home, let her forget about her brother, who's likely dead by now anyway. Besides, I've got my own scores to settle here."

"Jake Scully?"

Reese scowled at him. "How would you know that?"

With a shrug, he replied, "Because I know you. It's a small world, my friend, and I move in and out of this one freely. He's down here. Somewhere. I've seen him."

"Where?"

"Here and there. I've even heard his name associated with a
juarista
named Dominguez, if that helps."

Reese glared off toward the Panuco River hidden by a lush thicket of vegetation and willowy palms. Insects buzzed in the humid air. "Thanks."

Tom lifted his eyebrows. "About Grace... she doesn't strike me as the sort of woman who gives up any easier than you."

Reese slid a look back at him. "She won't leave the old man. She'll have no choice once I'm gone. Will you take them?"

Tom looked at the ground. "Price is right. Aren't you even going to say good-bye to her? I get the distinct impression that's in order."

"No. It would only complicate things. Tell her..." Reese hesitated, glancing back at the house. "Tell her tomorrow, when she realizes I'm gone. Tell her I said good-bye."

"Mi amigo,
" Tom said, holding up the envelope, "I'll take your lady home. I'll even deliver her to her doorstep. But say good-bye? There ain't enough money in the world to get me to do that dirty little job for you."

Tom clamped the cheroot between his teeth and offered his hand.
"Buena suerte, amigo.
Good luck."

Chapter 15

Sitting on the rough wooden bench at the edge of the river, Grace blotted her damp neck with a hanky and stared up at the evening sky. The blanket of stars still hung brilliantly in place, the moon still shone down on the world like a great lamp. Even the crickets held up their part, imbuing the sultry night with its own cadence. All was as it should be, except for one thing:

Reese was gone and he wasn't coming back. Of course, she had no proof. No one had told her. Not Reese. Not even Tom, who'd ducked back to his ship as soon as he possibly could after Reese left so he wouldn't have to lie to her face. But she knew.

He'd left her, just as he'd warned he might. She hadn't believed it in her heart of hearts. But, she admitted wearily, putting her faith in the right men had never been one of her strong suits. Reese had, however, told the truth about one thing—she'd been a fool to believe in him. She pressed the hanky against her eyes to stem the flow of hot tears that threatened.

She wouldn't cry! She wouldn't give him the satisfaction!

Tears leaked out the edges of the hanky. Her shoulders shook with silent, angry sobs. Her nose burned, her throat ached. Oooh, she hated him. She really, really hated him!

Tightening her fists, she chided herself:
Think. What should I do now? Give up and go home to Miss Beauregard and Edgar?
And abandon Luke? Impossible.
Go on without Reese?
How? She didn't even know the way.

What would Lorna Lee do?

Grace's shoulders slumped. Suddenly, Lorna Lee Goodnight and her exploits extraordinaire seemed to pale in comparison to the pickle she found herself in.

"What is it,
querida?"

"Oh!" Grace jumped at the sound of Elena's voice and the touch of her hand against her shoulder.

"Is it for Brewster you shed so many tears?" Elena asked, holding her monkey, Mani, close to her neck. "He is better, you know."

"I know. I saw him. I'm so grateful to you. But it's not Brew. It's nothing. Really." Grace hiccupped, looking up at the woman. She was busy enough with Brew. Elena didn't need to hear her problems, too.

Elena raised one disbelieving eyebrow and set Mani down next to Grace. The monkey climbed tentatively up Grace's arm and reached a miniature hand for a taste of the tears on her cheek.

"He's beautiful," she said. "I've never met a monkey before. Only seen an organ grinder's from a distance. You're very lucky to have him."

"Mani is not mine. He is wild like the forest. He comes. He goes." Her face grew serious. "Like your man, no?"

Scrutinizing the white frill of fur on Mani's back, Grace said, "I don't know what you mean."

"Sometimes it is easier to talk to a stranger than one who knows all your secrets. Why do you cry?"

Grace laughed tearily. "I cry at the drop of a hat." She waved one hand, then blew her nose. "Weddings, happy endings. Why once I-I even cried at the milliner's"—she sniffed—"when I found the hat with the perfect periwinkle blue I'd been looking for."

"But it is no color you cry for now,
niña, verdad?
It is the man called Donovan."

Grace nodded miserably.

Elena sat down beside her. "Brewster fears you love him."

"I don't love him. I hate him," she choked out, petting the monkey, who'd curled up in her lap.

"Ahh-hh,
comprendo.
I understand." She soothed a hand down Grace's shoulder. "Many years ago, my parents disapproved of a young man who wanted my hand. Ohhh, I loved him." She stared at the night sky. "With all my heart. But my family, we were
hacendados.
Landowners. He was"—she hesitated—"not like us. He was
Americano."

"Brew?"

Elena smiled sadly. "And
Americanos
wanted one thing only—our land.
Mis padres,
my parents, sent me away to distant relatives. Far from our hacienda in what you now call Texas, to Veracruz. I was very angry with them. But I was more angry with the man who owned my soul." She glanced toward the house.