Wolf Shadow (31 page)

It had been Sorenson over at the livery who had told him
that Rosalia had hired a rig and driver and left town, headed west.

Chance shook his head. He’d bet his last dollar they’d lit
out for Crooked River to catch the next train to San Francisco. Damn. Why had
he waited so long to go after her? By the time he made it to Crooked River,
they’d be long gone.

Dammit!

Feeling like an old man, he climbed the stairs to his room,
opened the door and stepped inside.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Was it his
imagination, or could he still smell her scent? Murmuring her name, he recalled
the hours they had spent in each other’s arms just days ago. He knew he was no
good for her, but she was sure as hell good for him. She had made him laugh
again, made him dream again, made him long for a life he had turned his back
on.

“Teressa.”

She would be in San Francisco now, living in her old man’s
fancy house, being waited on by servants, wearing expensive clothes, eating
lavish meals, having her every wish fulfilled, her every need met. Hell, why
would she want to come back here? But, one way or another, he had to see her
again.

Shedding his clothing, he washed off in the water Cookie had
heated for him, then pulled on a clean pair of long handles.

After blowing out the lamp, he crawled into bed. She had
slept here. The thought of her in his bed left him hard and aching. Murmuring
her name, he buried his face in his pillow.

Sleep was a long time coming and when slumber finally
claimed him, his dreams were filled with images that did nothing to ease his
longing for a dark-haired beauty with deep blue eyes.

* * * * *

Chance woke at first light, reluctant to leave the dream
he’d been having behind. Rising, he dressed quickly and went down to breakfast
with the men. After issuing the day’s orders, he took his foreman aside.

“I’ll be riding out as soon as I saddle up,” he informed
Dreesen. “When I get to ‘Friso, I’ll let you know where I’m staying. Have some
of the men stick close to the east range, and send McCarthy and Boyd up to the
number four line shack to relieve Farrell and Ackerman.”

“Right, boss. Anything else?”

“That’s all I can think of right now.”

“I caught Henley out behind the barn last night. He was dead
drunk. You want I should fire him?”

“Yeah. I’ve warned him three times. Take his pay out of the
cash drawer in my office.”

Dreesen nodded. “That’s gonna leave us a man short.”

“Put out the word we’re hiring. I’ll leave it up to you.”

“How long you think you’ll be gone?”

“I’m not sure. I hate to leave again so soon, but it can’t
be helped.”

“Don’t worry about it. Except for those rustlers, things
have been mighty quiet.”

“Thanks, Dave.” He clapped his foreman on the shoulder, then
headed for the barn.

Thirty minutes later, he was riding hard for Crooked River.

* * * * *

He reached the town three days later. He had ridden hard and
fast and his first stop was the livery. Once he’d made certain his horse would
be well cared for, he went to the train depot. As luck would have it, the train
for San Francisco had pulled out a week ago. According to the time table posted
on the bulletin board, the next westbound train was scheduled to leave town the
day after tomorrow at noon, and he intended to be on it.

Leaving the train depot, he strolled down the boardwalk.
Crooked River was a good-sized town, bigger and more settled than Buffalo
Springs. He passed by a Chinese laundry, a couple of saloons in full swing, a
fancy restaurant, a soda shop, another restaurant, a millinery shop, a general
store, a barber shop.

Chance ran a hand over his jaw, thinking a shave and a
haircut probably wouldn’t hurt.

He paused outside a saloon. Peering over the batwing doors,
he glanced around the room. It was obviously an establishment for serious
gamblers. There were no doves in cheap, low-cut outfits to distract a man. He
stood there a minute, wondering whether he should go in and idle away a few
hours playing cards or just go find a hotel room. In the end, the whisper of
cards being dealt and the prospect of a quiet drink drew him inside.

He stood there a moment, getting a feel for the place, his
gaze wandering from one table to the next, before he made his way toward a
table near the back of the room.

“Evenin’, gents,” he drawled. “Mind if I sit in for a few
hands?”

The four men sitting at the table looked up, each one taking
his measure before inviting him to sit down. They introduced themselves as Mort
Warner, Axle Foley, Bob Sunderland, and Jules Sturgeon.

Chance sat down in the vacant chair and bought his way into
the game. Warner was dealing a new hand when Sunderland removed his jacket. It
was then that Chance saw the star pinned to his vest.

Sunderland caught his gaze. “Hope you don’t have any qualms
about playing poker with a lawman.”

“Not at all,” Chance said with a wry grin. “I reckon it
assures an honest cut and an honest deal.”

Sunderland grinned wryly. “Reckon so.”

Chance picked up the hand he was dealt and for the next hour
or so, lost himself in the pleasure of playing cards with four men who
appreciated a good game. From time to time, one of the men bought a round of
drinks, and Chance took his turn.

The conversation was sporadic. Warner talked about falling
beef prices, Foley complained about the lack of rain, Sturgeon expressed some
concern about the new store opening across the street from his own.

Chance was thinking of calling it a night when Sunderland
mentioned Jack Finch.

Chance sat up, suddenly wide awake.

“Was anyone killed?” Sturgeon asked.

“He killed the shotgun guard and one of the passengers who
tried to stop him.”

“What’d you say happened?” Chance asked, trying to keep the
excitement out of his voice.

Sunderland’s sharp brown eyes rested on Chance’s face. “Coach
was robbed outside of Deadwood.”

“That’s pretty far from here,” Warner remarked. “You think
he’s headed this way?”

“He was, last I heard,” Sunderland replied, his gaze still
on Chance.

“How long ago was the holdup?” Chance asked.

“Day before yesterday. You know Finch?”

Chance hesitated, debating between the truth and a lie. At
the moment, the truth seemed wiser. “I met him once.”

“Is that right?”

Chance nodded curtly.

The two men stared at each other for stretched seconds, then
Sunderland shrugged. “No law against knowing a man.”

“Reckon not.” Gathering his winnings, Chance pushed his
chair away from the table and stood. “Thanks for the game.”

Leaving the saloon, Chance stood on the boardwalk. Jack
Finch was headed this way. There weren’t that many towns between here and
Deadwood. There was a good chance Finch would come here. It was the first solid
clue he’d had to the man’s whereabouts in five years.

He gazed out into the darkness, torn between the need to
wait here and see if Finch showed up and his yearning to see Teressa again.

Muttering an oath, he crossed the street to the hotel and
checked in. The room at the top of the stairs was small but clean. Pulling back
the covers, he sank down on the mattress, one arm folded behind his head, and
stared up at the ceiling. He had vowed a blood oath to avenge his mother. He
had promised Teressa that he would not leave her, had taken her innocence, told
her he loved her.

How could he turn his back on his vow?

How could he turn his back on Teressa?

Torn by indecision, he closed his eyes and in the back of
his mind, he heard his mother’s dying words.
Be happy, my son.

But how could he live with himself if he let Finch get away
with what he’d done?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The following morning, Chance bought a ticket to San
Francisco for himself and made arrangements for Smoke to travel in the stock
car.

Leaving the depot, he wandered aimlessly through the town,
pausing when he came to a shop that sold men’s clothing. Looking down at his
plaid shirt and jeans, he entered the store. When he left an hour later, he had
a couple of new shirts and a new pair of wool trousers. He made two more stops,
purchasing a new hat and a new pair of boots.

After dropping off his packages in his hotel room, he went
to the livery, saddled Smoke, and rode away from the town.

Once clear of the town, he gave the mare her head. It felt
good to ride across the plains, to have a day to himself, a day with no
responsibilities. Such days had been rare since his father died, what with
trying to run the ranch, pay off the old man’s debts, and get a line on Finch’s
whereabouts.

Finch. With a shake of his head, Chance put the man out of
his mind, determined not to spoil the day with thoughts of the last of the
low-down scum that had killed his mother.

He would think of Teressa instead. His mood lightened
immediately as her image sprang to mind. Whether dressed in a simple Lakota
tunic with her hair falling over her shoulder or in a demure gown cut in the
latest style, hair piled atop her head, she was the loveliest, sweetest, most
desirable woman he had ever known. Since the first moment he had seen her, she
had filled his thoughts and his heart. He would not lose her now.

He rode until dusk, then returned to Crooked River. After
cleaning up, he went to the hotel dining room for supper, then moseyed down to
the saloon where he had played cards the night before. Warner, Foley, and
Sturgeon were sitting at the same table as the previous night. When they saw
Chance, they waved him over. The fourth man at the table eyed Chance
suspiciously as he sat down.

“You’re an Injun, ain’t ya?” the man asked, his tone surly.

“That’s right,” Chance replied, his hand resting on the butt
of his Colt. “You got a problem with that?”

“Leave him be, Moss,” Sturgeon said. “He’s all right.”

“Is that so? I ain’t never met an honest Injun.”

A muscle worked in Chance’s jaw as he met Moss’ gaze
head-on. After a moment, the other man looked away.

Chance glanced at the other three men. “I’m not looking for
any trouble. Maybe it would be best if I found another game.”

Warner fixed Moss with a hard look. “There won’t be any
trouble, will there, Eli?”

Moss cleared his throat. “Not from me.”

“Let’s play cards, then,” Foley said. Picking up the deck,
he shuffled the cards, offered Sturgeon the cut, and dealt a new hand.

The play passed peacefully for the next hour. Lady Luck
smiled on Chance as she was wont to do and he won more than he lost. With each
hand he won, Moss’ frown deepened.

“All right,” Moss said as he tossed his last raise into the
pot. “Let’s see you beat this!” One by one, he turned his cards over, revealing
a full house, queens over threes.

“Beats me,” Sturgeon said, tossing in his hand.

“Me, too,” Warner said.

“Damn!” Foley turned his cards over; another full house,
nines over sixes.

Grinning, Moss reached for the pot.

“Hold on there,” Chance said. “The pot’s mine.”

Eyes narrowed, Moss looked up as Chance spread his cards on
the table. Four sevens.

Moss spat an obscenity. “You’re mighty lucky, mister.”

With a nod, Chance raked in the pot.

“Too lucky.”

“Back off, Moss,” Foley warned. “You’re drunk.”

“I say he’s cheatin’,” Moss said loudly. “No one’s that
lucky.”

At Moss’ accusation, the men at the surrounding tables
turned to see what was going on until, gradually, all eyes in the place were
focused on Chance and Eli Moss.

Slowly, Chance pushed away from the table. “Don’t do it.”

“Won’t be no trouble so long as you admit you’re cheatin’
and the pot’s mine,” Moss declared. “Go on, say it. Say you’re cheatin’.”

Foley, Sturgeon, and Warner exchanged worried looks.

Chance kept his gaze on Moss. He knew the exact moment the
man decided to reach for his gun. Muttering an oath, Chance dove across the
table, his shoulder slamming into Moss’ chest. Greenbacks and coins went
flying. Moss’ chair skittered backward, then tipped over and they both hit the
floor. Men at nearby tables scrambled to their feet to get out of the way.

Chance grunted as Moss’ fist connected with his jaw, knew a
moment of satisfaction as he drove his own fist into the other man’s face.
Blood spurted from Moss’ nose.

“All right! That’s enough!”

Bob Sunderland’s voice cut across the din.

Chance gained his feet. Breathing heavily, he lifted a hand
to his jaw.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Sunderland demanded.

“He was cheatin’, sheriff,” Moss said, jabbing a finger in
Chance’s direction. “I called him on it and he hit me.”

Sunderland looked at Chance. “Is that right?”

“Not quite.”

“We can sort this out in my office,” Sunderland said. He
gestured at Chance’s Colt. “I’ll take that iron. Yours, too, Eli.”

Chance glared at the sheriff. “Am I under arrest?”

“Reckon so.”

Chance swore as he handed the sheriff his pistol.

Sunderland jerked a thumb toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t worry about your stake, McCloud,” Foley said. “I’ll
hang on to it for you.”

“Obliged,” Chance muttered.

Sullen-faced, Eli Moss picked up his hat and strode out of
the saloon.

Grabbing his own hat, Chance followed him. Damn and double
damn.

The sheriff’s office was a large square brick building
located at the end of Main Street. Sunderland unlocked the front door and
motioned Moss and Chance inside. Opening a drawer in his desk, the sheriff
dropped Moss’ Remington and Chance’s Colt inside, locked the drawer, then
gestured at a pair of cells.

“Listen, Sheriff…”