Glorious Angel (29 page)

“I am not a fool, Angela,” Bradford said drily and walked to the door. “Nor do I give a damn who you keep company with. And as for tonight, no, I won’t be here for your little party. I’m going into town this afternoon, and since I feel the need of a good whore, I probably won’t be back tonight.” He opened the door, then turned back to her. “Unless, of course,
you
would like to oblige me. I pay top dollar for a good whore, and as I remember, you were quite a good one.” He chuckled at her shocked face.

Bradford leaned precariously against the long black bar, staring pensively at the glass of whiskey before him. He had drunk heavily all evening while playing cards at a corner table. He was finally feeling the results of his liquor con
sumption and had only just quit the game. He had lost more than two hundred dollars. But what the hell, it was only money.

He drained his glass and then bought a full bottle of whiskey from the bartender. He glanced slowly around the smoke-filled room.

Two tawdrily dressed saloon girls had caught his eye earlier, but now he just wasn’t inclined. He couldn’t deny that he needed a woman. In New York, he had thrown himself into business matters so completely that he hadn’t found the time for female company. But he decided just to lose himself in the sweet relief of liquor. He had to drown out the torturous images playing havoc with his mind.

Moving unsteadily, he left the saloon, the bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand. The fresh night air was like a splash of cold water after the stench of smoke and sweat from the crowded saloon. He gained his directions without too much difficulty, and started toward the hotel at the other end of town. The long street seemed deserted, and the din he had just left receded slowly as he walked.

Suddenly a blast of gunfire exploded across the street and Bradford heard a bullet whiz past him. It took him a moment to realize what was happening before he dove for the nearest doorway and crouched into it. He saw a streak of light across the street as another bullet was fired, then another flew from a different gun some yards
away from the first. He understood that whoever held those guns were firing at him.

Bradford was instantly reminded of two other recent attacks. He bore a scar from an attack in New York. And not too long after that, he had battled robbers in Springfield. He had come close to losing his life. In fact, now that he thought about it, it seemed the robbers had been more intent on killing him than robbing him.

Could this attack be connected with the other two?

He had no more time to wonder. A bullet embedded itself in the door behind him, inches from his head. He tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The nearest shelter was a plank stairway at the end of the building. There being no other course open, Bradford ran for it quickly, hearing three more shots as he ran.

He crouched down beneath the stairs, cursing himself for not having a gun. He should have known better than to come to town without one. He wondered briefly why his attackers didn’t come after him. Maybe they didn’t know he was without a gun.

Down the street, people had come out of the saloon to see what the shooting was about. But no one came forward to help. Where the hell was the sheriff, anyway? The men across the street kept up their barrage of gunfire, making it impossible for him to escape. How much longer before they realized he wasn’t firing back at them?

Just then one of the men crossed the street. In the dark, Bradford couldn’t make out his features. He ducked behind the other side of the building, his new position making Bradford’s cover useless. In the next moment the man darted out of his hiding place and fired one shot, then disappeared. In that instant, Bradford felt a searing flame across his skin. His shirt was torn and blood was trickling down his arm, but the bullet only grazed his skin.

A burning rage filled him. How had he let himself be left so helpless? His only chance was to make a run for his hotel, where there was a rifle in his room. He would have to dodge bullets while making a run for the hotel.

Bradford steeled himself to run, his muscles tense, his breathing ragged. He waited until there was a pause in the firing, hoping his assailants were busy reloading. In that moment, he poised himself for flight.

Forty-two

Angela waved good-bye to her guests, waiting on the porch until Mary Lou and her overbearing father had driven off. Angela smiled and breathed deeply of the fresh night air, a pleasant relief after enduring Walter Howard’s cigar smoke all evening.

Walter Howard was just as Grant described him—opinionated, raucous of voice. His sunburned skin, large, beaked nose, and jutting chin made Angela wonder where Mary Lou had gotten her delicate features.

Mary Lou seemed to know how to handle her father, which had made the evening bearable. The man thought his ideas were the only ones worth consideration. At first Angela felt her temper rising when the conversation turned to what a woman should or shouldn’t be allowed to do on a
ranch. But then Grant had whispered to her that he had given her fair warning.

Finally Angela gave up arguing and took Mary Lou’s advice: “You just have to smile and ignore Daddy. He’s gonna say what he wants to say anyway. Pay him no mind, honey, or he’ll never give up.”

After a huge meal of roast chicken and dressing with gravy, potato salad, peas, sweetbread, and apple pie, they sat around the fireplace, and Grant entertained them with songs from the trail drives. It was nice while it lasted, but then Grant excused himself early, explaining he had to get up before dawn. Mary Lou and her father stayed a couple more hours. Over coffee, which Walter spiked heavily with whiskey, he spent the rest of the evening extolling Grant’s virtues to Mary Lou.

Angela was amused. She knew that Mary Lou didn’t need any encouragement. The two of them would make a fine couple, for Mary Lou already had years of experience in handling a man with Grant’s temperament. Angela hoped something would come of their flirtation.

Angela stepped back into the house, thinking wistfully of Mary Lou and Grant, and of the courtship they would probably soon begin. Her thoughts led to Bradford…and to Candise Taylor. Angela slept fitfully that night.

Bradford sat straight in the saddle, the effects of his hangover wearing off. The night air helped.
What a day, he thought with anguish. Between his retching stomach and his throbbing head, he had spent the whole day in bed. It would take him quite a while to get used to the raw whiskey they served in town.

Bradford glanced silently at his companion, barely making out his features in the moonlight. He had to give his new friend credit for being able to withstand that fiery brew. The man didn’t seem to be affected in the least today, and was still as cheerful and smiling as he had been last night, when the two men had met.

The man had saved Bradford’s life. He remembered the moment when he prepared to run from his shelter, and the blast of a shotgun. The shotgun had forced a halt to the gunfire directed at him. Another blast followed and Bradford watched in amazement as one of his attackers started running down the street, then quickly ducked into an alley. The other assailant quickly followed.

And then Bradford saw the Mexican sitting on a horse right in the middle of the street. The man just sat there without any cover at all and fired the shotgun.

The stranger nudged his horse over to Bradford. He eyed Bradford with concern.

“You are all right,
amigo?”

Bradford was still stunned by the close escape.

“I’m fine now, thanks to you,” Bradford answered shakily. He finally stood up. “I’ve only a small nick on my arm.”

“Your small nick bleeds a lot,” the stranger replied, smiling, showing even white teeth below the bristling black moustache.

“It’s nothing.”

“You should not go about unprotected,
amigo,”
the other man admonished. “Those men, did you know them?”

“I certainly hope not.”

“They were trying to rob you then?”

“I don’t think so,” Bradford replied thoughtfully. “I just lost all of my cash in a poker game. But then, they probably didn’t know that.”

“It is too bad. If you need a place to bed down, I was on my way to get a room at the hotel. You are welcome to stay with me.”

Bradford laughed shortly. “You have already done me the biggest service you could, friend. You saved my life. I insist you let me repay you. Your room at the hotel is on me. The name’s Bradford Maitland. Yours?”

“Hank Chavez.”

They spent the rest of the night in Bradford’s hotel room, getting thoroughly drunk. Bradford felt he couldn’t do enough for the man and offered him anything he desired. Hank Chavez refused payment. But since he had business in the area, he accepted Bradford’s offer to stay at his ranch.

It was quite late when they reached the ranch, a peaceful setting in the still night. After bedding down their horses in the barn, they approached
the house, which was bathed in moonlight and dark inside.

“My, ah—partner—must have gone to bed already,” Bradford said quietly as he tried the door and found it locked. “No point in causing a commotion. Are you opposed to climbing through windows?”

“I have left by many a window, but never yet entered by one. It will be a change,” Hank Chavez laughed.

After a few moments they were inside the house, moving like cats. Bradford showed Hank to the room across from his and bid him good-night, then came back to his own and made ready for bed. But having slept most of the day, Bradford lay awake for many hours.

He was troubled by the attack. He had given it more thought and was almost sure now that someone was out to kill him. But who? And why?

Bradford tossed restlessly. Three separate attempts to kill him, all three recently. There would surely be another, and then another. His luck might run out. He had to find out who wanted him dead.

Zachary, of course, had the most to gain. But Zachary had left for London with Crystal. Still, he might have hired someone.

And there was Angela. He had put a damper on her freedom by coming here. Now that he thought about it, the first two attempts had happened before he came here, but after he had met Angela.

Christ! Was she after revenge for what happened in Springfield? Could that be it? Bradford didn’t want to believe it—he couldn’t.

But who else could there be? He always dealt fairly with business associates. And he made it a point not to gamble with someone who couldn’t afford to lose.

His thoughts turned to the woman in the room next to his. Was she really so treacherous?

He got up and tossed on a robe. It took him only moments to reach Angela’s room, and he entered it quietly, without waking her. He stood silently by her bed, looking down at her. Angela lay in peaceful slumber, her russet hair spread out in waves around her face. She was wearing a light blue nightgown, with ruffled lace about her neck and at her wrists, and only a loose sheet was draped over her. She was such a beautiful woman, Bradford thought wistfully.

Suddenly rage filled him. He needed to hurt her, to cause her pain as she had hurt him in destroying his love and his trust.

Bradford yanked the sheet away and took off his robe. He sat down on the bed and started to untie the ribbons of her nightgown. She came awake as his fingers brushed against her skin.

Angela’s first reaction surprised him. She seemed happy to have him there. But then she remembered what he had said to her as he left.

“So you stayed in town! I guess you couldn’t tear yourself away from—from—”

“The town whores?” he finished with a sardonic grin. “I found I didn’t need them, not when I have a whore under my own roof.”

Angela gasped. Twice now he had called her a whore. But why? And why was he in her room in the middle of the night?

“Bradford, what are you doing in my room? If you came here to insult me, then please leave.”

“I haven’t insulted you,” he said gruffly. “I only spoke the truth. And I’ll leave just as soon as I’m finished with you.”

She started to sit up, but his hands pushed her back down.

“Bradford, no!” she gasped, her eyes wide with sudden fear.

He clamped his hand over her mouth and she struggled against him. He moved on top of her swiftly and in a desperate attempt to make him stop, she bit his hand.

The pain sobered him. He looked down and groaned, seeing her fear and the tears, like glistening diamonds on her cheeks. He felt sick with revulsion at what he’d tried to do. Irrationally, he blamed Angela for it. He needed to lash out at someone.

“What the hell are you crying for?” His voice was husky. “Can you be feeling remorse over deserting and deceiving me?”

“What are you talking about?” Angela gasped. “I didn’t deceive you,
or
desert you!”

“What would you call it then, damn you?” he
raged. “I had already been dealt one shock the day you ran off with Grant Marlowe. My dear sister-in-law was up to her treacherous schemes again. She tried to convince me that you were my half sister! I was going to inform my father of our forthcoming marriage, so I went ahead and did it, waiting for his reaction. The old man was never more pleased in his life, which shot Crystal’s lying scheme to hell.