The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (3 page)

"You're hurting me."

"Tell me!"

"An odd old man named Houston."

He cursed again before slowly releasing her arm. "Houston doesn't know what he's muttering about half the time, and that kind of rumor could get me killed around here. So keep your voice down."

Grace rubbed her tingling arm and glanced at the men at the nearby faro table who were too busy
bucking the tiger
to notice them.

"You do know them, then," she replied in a half whisper.

Donovan's eyes took on an animal-like glint. "No. I just don't want any fool thinkin' otherwise."

"Any particular fool?" she asked tartly, "or are you strictly referring to me?"

Standing a mere ten inches from her, his ungentlemanly gaze slid for a second time down the front of her, searing a slow path back up to her eyes. For the briefest of moments, she thought he was going to kiss her, drop his mouth on hers, the way he had that harlot's. Grace's eyes widened with fear—or expectation, she didn't know which. Had the wall not been firmly at her back, she would have retreated a safe step or two. Yet, as he seemed to sense her impulse, the predatory look transformed into a roguish grin.

"I'm not in the habit of callin' women as pretty as yourself names, unless, o' course, I know them a bit better than I do you. That fiasco in Mexico is none of my concern and I've no ties with it. On either side."

She wasn't sure what made her so certain he was lying. Perhaps it was the flicker of unease that darkened his sea green eyes, or the way his jaw tightened with the jump of a muscle. She only knew there was much more to what he was telling her than he was admitting.

"Why don't I believe you?"

Staring at her, he wavered a little off-balance. Despite the obvious effects a full bottle of whiskey could have on a man, Donovan suddenly looked very sober.

"Frankly, I don't care what you believe, Miss, as long as you don't go around spreadin' dangerous rumors about things you know nothin' about."

"I know my brother is falsely imprisoned. I know he doesn't deserve to die. I only want justice for Luke, Mr. Donovan. Something not even the U.S. government seems to care about."

Donovan let out a snort of disgust, turned his back on her, and walked back to the chair he'd occupied earlier. Slumping back down in it, he poured himself the last shot of whiskey from his bottle.

"Did you hear what I said?" she asked, following on his heels.

He turned bloodshot eyes on her and lifted his glass, examining the amber-colored liquid. "Justice. It's a fallacy, Miss Turner. A lie perpetrated by men who think they're above the law. American, Mexican, Irish—same thing." He slugged the drink down and set the glass back precisely on the table. "Lemme tell you something. If your brother's in Querétaro, he's a dead man already."

She felt the color drain from her face. "I don't believe that."

Donovan shook his head. "I've known a hundred fools like your brother, all full o' patriotic fervor, the call t' adventure. All of 'em now wearin' lead, courtesy of Maximilian's thugs. His troops have slaughtered thousands of Juarez's men on their way north and more than a few who'd nothing to do with either side. From what I hear, he's holed up in a fortress. You haven't a prayer, lass. Now, if there's nothin' else, I'd like to get back t' my drink."

She stared at him, speechless. Maria appeared beside him, bottle in hand. Grace turned back to Donovan, her voice tight and more high-pitched than she would have liked. "You mean you won't help me?"

"That's right." He pulled Maria back into his lap and spread his fingers across her hip.

"But I—" Grace bit her lip, fighting back tears of desperation. "You must! I'll pay you well," she lied. "I can pay whatever you ask."

"I value my neck a bit more than money."

She couldn't fail Luke—not now. Not when she'd come so far!

"Please. You have to. You're the only one left. Everyone else has turned me down," she blurted. Almost immediately, she regretted saying it.

A humorless grin lifted one corner of his mouth. "Bad luck, that. At least I wasn't your first choice. Forget about your brother. Go on home, where you belong. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my bottle and Maria. Your minute's up."

An impotent, reckless outrage surged through her. "Oohh, forget my brother, indeed! Well, that's just about as low-down as you can get. Oh, you're a sad excuse for a man, Mr. Reese Donovan." She yanked the edges of her black crocheted gloves up furiously and narrowed her eyes in disdain. "Well, Miss Beauregard always did say you can't make bricks without straw—"

"Miss Beauregard?" Donovan repeated with amusement.

"—and you, sir, are sadly lacking in straw!"

"Am I, now?"

"Indeed. However, you are right about one thing. You
were
my last choice. They all warned me. But I was a fool to hope even a drunken cynic like you could have any dignity, or courage, or"—she looked him up and down—"or human compassion left in him."

Donovan's hand stilled on Maria's curved bottom and Grace saw every muscle in his body tense. But that didn't stop her. She was too angry and had nothing left to lose. She plunged ahead, throwing caution to the wind.

"A
real
man wouldn't have to abandon himself to a bottle of rotgut, or use a woman like... like
that
to hide behind. To see you now, what you've come to, it's... why, it's unthinkable that the noble Texas Rangers could have ever numbered you as one of their own."

Slowly his gaze lifted to meet hers. As it did, just for a moment, she glimpsed something in his eyes—a flash of pain that made the breath hitch in her throat and stripped the accusation from her voice. That brief flare of humanity made her almost sorry she'd lit into him. Sorry, in fact, for the briefest of moments, for him. But the look was gone as soon as it appeared and he erased every trace of emotion from his face. Except for his eyes. They'd gone icy cold.

"That it? Or is there more?"

She bowed her head, unable to look at him. "No."

"Well, then," he said, his hand perfectly poised on Maria's rounded bottom, "since you've summed up my shortcomings in a such tidy little package, you'll forgive me if I don't get up to see you out. But drunkards are notoriously uncouth, so I'd advise you to get out of my little piece o' paradise while the gettin' is still good."

Grace opened her mouth to retort, but found there was, in fact, nothing left to say. She had given it her best—and, she feared, her worst. She had done everything she could think of, short of throwing herself at his feet, and botched the whole thing in the process.

Maria scowled up at her, a censuring fire in her midnight eyes as she wrapped her arms around Donovan's shoulders. She said something to him in Spanish that Grace didn't understand.

Perhaps, she thought belatedly, she should have tried a few of Maria's tactics. Used honey instead of vinegar, as Miss Beauregard had always advised. But it was too late for that—as usual. She'd let her mouth run on ahead of her brain. She'd burned that bridge to ashes with her last cutting remarks.

If she'd been a swearing woman, she would have done so then. Since she wasn't, and she didn't want to make a fool of herself by bursting into tears, she turned on her heel and headed toward the louvered cantina doors, past the noise and the stench and the idiotic bear standing on his hind legs begging for a treat. Leaving her last hope far behind her.

Before she made it halfway there, a man stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Grace skidded to a halt. It was the same young tough who'd pushed her through the doorway earlier. Only now it wasn't mischief she saw in his eyes, but malevolence. A prickle of fear raced through her and she wished she could call back her earlier jibe.

"Where you goin',
bon-eeta?"
he asked, still chewing on his matchstick. He reeked of liquor and held a shot glass full of whiskey in his hand. Reaching up, he touched a strand of her hair that had fallen from its mooring. She jerked back, out of his reach.

He laughed. "Don't see hair the color o' gold round these parts much. It's real purty."

"Don't," she warned, knocking his hand away with a slap of her fan.

He narrowed his eyes. "Still got yer nose up in the air, huh? I jes' wanted a touch."

Grace resisted the temptation to toss a desperate look for help to Reese Donovan. Not that he'd help her.

She lifted her chin, trying to make herself appear taller. "Let me pass, if you please."

His eyebrows went up in amusement. "Let her pass. D'you hear that, Shelby?" he asked the slightly older man sitting at the table beside him. "She wants to pass."

Shelby, an overweight saddle tramp in real need of a haircut and a shave, grinned, enjoying her predicament. "Ask her the password, Deke. She cain't go without the password."

A few men at a table nearby turned in their chairs to watch. Deke took a step toward her, and Grace took an equal step back. "What's the password, honey?"

Deke's whiskey breath assaulted her nose. He was
snookered.
For the first time, Grace realized what a truly precarious position she'd placed herself in. Perhaps, she admitted, she'd been a bit naive in her wish to confront Donovan on his own ground. Not only had she failed miserably at that, she saw now she should never have come. There was nothing left but to bluff.

"I insist you let me by."

Deke grinned around the matchstick in his mouth. "Did that sound like the password to you, Shelby?"

The fat man shook his head.

"Nope, that ain't it," Deke agreed. "Try again."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bear rearing up on its hind legs five feet to her left, its beady black eyes pinned on her. Deftly, she scooted around a table to her right and put it between her and the drunken Deke. "Don't touch me," she warned him. "Let me go and we'll forget all about this. I... I promise I won't even bring charges against you."

His brows fell in mock relief and he turned to his friend. "You hear that? She won't bring me up on charges."

His friend grinned and got to his feet, coming at her from the other side. "Hey, Deke, considerin' yer brother's the only law around these here parts, I'd say that's right big of her."

Deke laughed as the blood left her face. Backing up, she edged her way toward Donovan's table.

"There's even room for three in that empty cell," said Deke, pulling the mangled matchstick from his mouth and tossing it on the floor. "We wouldn't need it long, right, Shelby?"

The pudgy one nodded, coming around the other side of the table. "Not long at all. Hey, you reckon she's blond all over? Or jest from the neck up?"

A squeak of terror worked its way up her throat, and she struggled to hold it in. She was alone here. Brewster was asleep and didn't even know she'd come. Why, oh why hadn't she told him?

Don't panic,
she warned herself.
It'll do no good to panic. Stay calm.
Even so, her mind raced.
Lorna Lee Goodnight would pick up a chair and whack it over the villain's head before he could defend himself.

Every chair in the cantina was occupied save the two Shelby and Deke had just abandoned.

Would Lorna Lee scream for the hero's help?

She shot a desperate look over her shoulder at Donovan, who was watching the whole awful affair over the rim of his whiskey glass. He lifted it in mock salute, and tipped his head with an "I-warned-you" expression, but showed no sign of interfering on her behalf. In fact, like the others in the room, it looked as if he was rather enjoying the whole spectacle.
Some hero.

No, Lorna Lee wouldn't scream or cry, she decided. She'd simply brush past them with her head up and leave those two drunken baboons gaping after her. She could do that... couldn't she?

Grace snapped her fan open with a meaningful
pop
and started to her left. Shelby intercepted her, blocking her way, grinning down at her with foul breath. Backing up, she took an evasive step to her right. Deke, however, was faster and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to him as if she weighed nothing. Her fan flew out of her hand and skittered across the bar. This time, she couldn't help the short yelp of fear that escaped her as he drew her up against his sweaty body.

"Let go of me!"

"C'mon, girly-girl. I ain't had nothin' sweet as you fer months. Ain't no use bein' coy. You come in here askin' for it."

She gasped. "I certainly did n—"

"I know you want me; I kin see it in them pretty blue eyes of yours."

Jerking her arm, she tried to free herself, but he was much too strong. He turned her around so her back was against him and his forearm was against her throat. One hand slid provocatively down in the direction of her breast. Desperate, she shoved her boot heel hard against his shin.

Deke yelped and hopped on one foot, letting loose with a string of expletives. This elicited a howl of laughter from the disreputable lot of men surrounding them, which only made him madder. "
Damnation!
Hold still, you little hellcat!" he roared.

Grace opened her mouth to scream for help, but her cry was cut off as Deke hauled her back to him and swung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.