This Gun for Hire (3 page)

A small vertical crease appeared between Quill’s eyebrows as he gave her observation full consideration. A few strands of sun-licked hair fell across his forehead when he tipped his head sideways. He raked them back absently, still mulling. When he was done, his face cleared and he regarded her with guileless blue-gray eyes.

“No,” he said. “I never put chalk to a slate to write something like that. I think it is an original thought.”

“Well, damn. When I woke this morning, I did not anticipate standing in the presence of a man with an original thought, and yet here I am, practically basking in his glow. My day is steadily improving, wouldn’t you say?”

Quill grinned. “You think I have a glow?” A chuckle stirred at the back of his throat when her eyes narrowed—green eyes, he noticed, not blue, not soft, but remarkably fine in their own way, sharp and sentient, a shade sly, and framed by a sweep of thick, dark lashes. She surprised him by opening the door wider and gesturing him to enter. Afraid she would change her mind, he did not hesitate to accept the invitation.

Whit was still bound and gagged on the bed, though it was clear from the state of the covers and the angle of his body that he had been restless in Quill’s absence. “He woke?” asked Quill.

“Briefly.”

Quill did not ask how she subdued him a second time. He suspected that a careful inspection of Whit’s skull would reveal a lump or two. The man’s revolver was no longer in its holster. Instead, the .36 caliber Remington rested on the windowsill, far outside of Whit’s reach should he free himself. He did wonder for a moment if Whit was still alive, but then he observed a breath shudder through the big man and had his answer.

“I wasn’t sure you would let me in,” he said.

She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure I could keep you out.”

He nodded, looked her over. She was no longer wearing the cotton shift; or rather she was no longer wearing
only
the cotton shift. He supposed it was under her black-and-white-striped sateen dress, along with a tightly laced corset, a chemise, a flounced petticoat, a wire bustle of only moderate size, white or black stockings, suspenders to hold them up, and knickers. Courtesy of the corset and bustle, there was an illusion of curves, but Quill did not think they suited her.

“You dressed,” he said.

“Nothing gets past you.”

His grin came and went like quicksilver. “The sheriff should be here soon. Mrs. Fry had already gone to get him when I went downstairs. It appears there is some confusion about her mission. Honey seems to think she’s bringing Joe Pepper here for me.”

“And?”

Quill pointed to the bed. “He’s the one roped like a calf for branding.”

“He sure is. You, on the other hand, are still free to go. You probably should.”

Quill decided not to pursue it. It would require a conversation with Joe Pepper to make sense of what the women were saying. “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

“Suit yourself.”

He ignored the room’s only chair and sat on the oak chest at the foot of the bed. That put his back to Whitfield, but he was confident that he would feel the man stir. The room was sparsely furnished but cluttered nonetheless. The surface of
the vanity was crowded with pots of creams, perfumes, and a pitcher and basin. One door of the wardrobe was ajar, stuck in that open position by a white froth of petticoats spilling out from the bottom. Hanging over the knobs was an array of limp velvet ribbons in a rainbow of colors, all except for green.

“Huh,” he said. Aware that she was watching him, he lifted his head and turned to her. “This is not your room.”

“Huh,” she said.

“The ribbons,” he said, although she did not ask for an explanation. “They belong to one of the women still sitting downstairs. This is her room.” When she merely shrugged, he asked, “Do you even work here?”

“Today I do.”

“Are you a whore?”

“Whit certainly thinks so.”

“What am I supposed to think?”

“Whatever you like.”

“Huh.” His blue-gray eyes made another head-to-toe assessment, which he observed tested the limits of her patience. Although her placid expression remained firmly in place, Quill detected a flutter at the hem of her gown indicative of a rhythmically tapping foot.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you decided?”

“I am.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Whether you’re a whore or not. It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh.”

He smiled because her features finally hinted at the confusion she was feeling. Her foot had stopped tapping, and he supposed that was because she needed to regain her balance. She had no idea what to make of what he said, even less idea what to make of him. That was all right. The confusion should not be solely on his side.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Are you asking for my name or seeking a broader answer to the nature of my existence?”

She retreated to the straight-backed chair he had ignored and, much like a deflated balloon, abruptly sank. A soft whoosh of air accompanied the movement. She blinked. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“No,” he said. “Quill McKenna.” The squinty-eyed look she gave him made him steal a glance at the windowsill. The Remington revolver was still there.

“I would not use the Remington.” She turned over her right hand, revealing a bulge at her wrist beneath the long sleeve of her gown. “Derringer.”

“Ah. Some things do get past me.”

“It happens.” She settled her hands in her lap, threading her fingers together. “I am not sufficiently provoked to shoot you. Yet.”

“Good to know.”

“So, Quill McKenna, what matter of business brings you to Falls Hollow?”

“No business. Passing through.”

“On your way to . . .”

“Stonechurch. That’s near—”

“Leadville. Yes. I know where it is. Stonechurch Mining. You can’t pitch a nickel there without hitting something named after the man himself.”

“Ramsey Stonechurch.”

She snorted softly. “Ramses is more like it. The pharaoh.”

“People call him that?”

“Not to his face. Not that I ever heard.”

“You know him?”

“I know
of
him.”

“Then he has never sought your . . . um, services.”

She smiled thinly. “Um, no.”

“Have you been to—” Quill stopped, distracted by footfalls on the stairs. “Company.” He cocked his head, listened, and held up two fingers.

“Mrs. Fry and the sheriff,” she said. “This is your last chance to leave.”

Since the window was his only exit, he shook his head.

Shrugging, she stood, smoothed the front of her gown, and went to greet Joe Pepper and the madam. Her mistake, she reflected immediately, was in not confirming identities before she opened the door. It seemed that Mr. Whitfield had at least two friends, and she was confronting the pair of them across the threshold. She nodded to each in turn, one half a head taller than she, the other at eye level. Black Stetsons shadowed their broad, squared-off faces. The taller of the two had a silver-studded hatband and stubble on his chin. The shorter one’s hat sported a sweat-stained leather band. He was clean-shaven. They both carried Remington revolvers, and both guns were still strapped.

“Gentlemen,” she said, genial in spite of the fact that they were more interested in looking past her than at her. She might have been insulted if it had not served her purpose.

“He’s really here,” the taller one said. “Damn me if she wasn’t telling the truth.”

“I didn’t doubt her, not after you knocked her sense in and her teeth out.”

“Gentlemen? Who did the knocking? And who was knocked?”

The shorter one jerked his thumb at his compatriot. “Not me. Him.”

“Mrs. Goddamn Fry,” the compatriot said. “How about you stepping aside?”

She did not move. Her mind whirled. If this pair had intercepted Mrs. Fry on her way to the sheriff’s office, that meant Joe Pepper was not coming, and with so much time having already passed, that seemed the likeliest scenario. She lifted her left hand and placed it on the door frame while she shrugged her right shoulder. The movement was as casual as it was calculated. The derringer slipped comfortably into her palm, unnoticed by either of them. She would have one shot. Her chances of making it count, should it prove necessary, were improved by the fact that the guns of both men were still strapped.

“Step aside,” the taller one said again.

This time she did, pivoting out of the way before they hurried past her. It did not surprise her that Quill McKenna was not in sight. Although she primarily worked alone, and entered into partnerships with considerable reluctance, she had not forgotten her guest or the reason for his interference in the first place:
I was concerned about you
. Perhaps it was not a lie. Not only had McKenna disappeared, so had Whitfield’s gun belt and gun. The chair she had been sitting on was now the resting place for petticoats, shifts, chemises, and a bright scarlet corset.

She did not permit herself to glance at the wardrobe, although she doubted Whit’s friends would have noticed. They only had eyes for him.

The short one nudged the bed with his knee so that it shook slightly. Whitfield did not stir. “Is he alive?”

“Would he still be tied if he wasn’t? Use your head, Amos.” He looked to Katie for an explanation. “Who did this to him?”

So Mrs. Fry had not given her up. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was told to sit with him until the sheriff came. I did not see what happened.”

He watched her closely, looking for the lie. He knuckled his stubble thoughtfully. “This is on account of that whore he tussled with the last time he was in town.”

“You must mean Daria. I’ve only heard things, you understand. Whispered things. I am new to the house and not long for it what with the goings-on tonight.”

Amos leaned forward and began tugging on Whit’s gag. His fingers were clumsy on the knot, and after several attempts he gave up and yanked the strip of linen down and removed it. Whit snuffled, sucked in a mouthful of air, and began to snore. Sighing heavily, Amos straightened. “I don’t see how we’re going to get him to his horse. Whit’s not a lightweight in any circumstance, Chick, and in this circumstance, he’s a deadweight.”

Chick ignored his partner and continued to direct his attention elsewhere. “What do you know about that whore’s
kin? Did you hear a whisper maybe that one of them was around tonight? Plenty of folks knew Whit was coming back today. Could be someone was waiting for him.”

“I never heard anyone say that she had kin. Most of us don’t, or we have kin that don’t claim us.”

Chick’s dark eyes narrowed as they settled on her mouth. “You haven’t taken a notion in your head to protect someone, have you?” He did not wait for a response. “Because I have to tell you, that would be as foolish a notion as there ever was. I got the sense that you’re the sort of woman that Whit would want under him. Hair color’s right. He likes it dark. And you’re on the bony side of thin. You put me a little in mind of his sister, fragile-like.” He elbowed Amos to get his attention. “What do you think? Does she put you in mind of Whit’s sister?”

“Not sayin’ one way or the other. Hell, I’m not even going to think about it. The way Whit talks about her, it ain’t right.”

Chick shrugged. “Just an observation. It makes me wonder if you were bait, you being new to Mrs. Fry’s establishment, her being a businesswoman who doesn’t want her girls roughed so they can’t work. You have anything to say to that?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

He grunted softly, skeptically, but then turned his back while he helped Amos tear at the knots at Whit’s ankles.

“Would it help if you had a knife?” she asked as she looked on with interest.

“Yeah, it’d help,” said Chick. “Do you have one?”

“No, but I can get one from the kitchen.” She started to turn, but Chick barked at her to stop. She tried another tack. “Perhaps some cold water in his face would bring him around. Then he could walk out on his own.”

“Well, do you have
that
here?”

“Behind you, on the vanity. The pitcher’s half full.”

“All right. Bring it here.”

She did, holding it in her left hand so she could grip it properly without interference from the derringer. When she
returned to the bed, she went around to the side opposite Amos and Chick so she was facing Whitfield. His eyes were still closed. Except for the occasional snore shuddering through him, he was quiet. Amos and Chick had been successful at untying the ropes, and Chick was unfolding Whitfield’s stiff legs while Amos tried to arrange his arms in what he imagined was a more comfortable position.

Comprehending her time for action was short, she cleared her throat and held up the pitcher. Amos and Chick looked up in unison and, confronted by her genial smile, did not see the shower of water coming at them until they were wet-faced and sputtering. She threw the pitcher, aiming for Chick’s head, but he sidestepped it, and it glanced off his shoulder and hit Amos squarely in the jaw. Amos yelped, palming the side of his face while Chick momentarily lost his mind and threw himself across Whit and the bed to get to her.

She raised her right hand and delivered a hard blow to the crown of his head with the derringer still in her palm. He collapsed, arms and legs splayed, pinning his friend under him. She entertained the fleeting thought that she was fortunate the pistol did not discharge because then she would have no defense against the revolver Amos was trying to draw. He fumbled with the strap in the same manner he had fumbled with the knots.

“Leave it,” she said. “Leave it or I will shoot.”

Amos’s fingers stopped twitching. He blinked rapidly; water dripped from his eyes like tears. When he could see clearly, he stared at the derringer and put his hands out. “Easy now. Go easy. Just tryin’ to do a friend a favor. You mind if I look after Chick? You clobbered him pretty hard.”

“He’s fine.”

“Maybe I could just pull him off Whit.”

“You can try.”

Amos started to reach for Chick’s legs and then stopped abruptly. He straightened.

She smiled. “Uh-huh. I’ll shoot.”