Gunslinger (2 page)

Desperado poured himself a whiskey, tossed it down, grimaced and poured another. It burned all the way down, unclogging his throat and slipping smoothly down his gullet to settle warmly in his stomach.

Conversation had resumed, but Desperado knew what everyone was thinking. They were wondering what he was doing in town and who had hired him. They’d be surprised to know that he didn’t know himself why he’d returned to Trouble Creek. It wasn’t a town one visited on a whim, or yearned to return to after one left. Yet something deep, dark and unresolved had drawn him here. And that was before he had met the gun-toting, entrancing Miss Chloe Sommers, the woman who now owned the land that by rights should be his.

He chugged down another whiskey, recalling the day he’d run away from his aunt’s house. He knew the way home and intended to inform his father when he arrived that he was going to stay no matter what his stepmother said. Unfortunately he’d never reached home. His horse had stumbled into a hole and broken a leg, pinning Logan beneath him. Logan’s leg had also been broken and he feared he was going to die out there on the desert. He drifted in and out of consciousness for two days before an Apache hunting party stumbled upon him.

Desperado dragged his thoughts away from that fateful day and tossed back another whiskey, staring glumly into the mirror. Suddenly the swinging doors slammed inward and Desperado squinted against the glare of sunlight reflecting back to him in the mirror. He blinked, then blinked again, stunned to see the curvy, trouser-clad Miss Chloe Sommers push through the swinging doors. Time hung suspended as every man in the saloon ogled the feminine curves so blatantly displayed in tight, definitely unfeminine clothing. With his back to her, Desperado watched through the mirror as Chloe’s long-legged stride brought her to the center of the saloon, where she paused uncertainly as if to gather her thoughts.

Chloe had never been inside a saloon before but desperation made her dare anything. After being curtly rejected by the despicable gunslinger known as Desperado Jones, she had no other choice. If she failed to get her herd to the railhead, Calvin Talbot would buy her ranch for the back taxes. And without a hired gun along on the trail drive, she hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of reaching the railhead with enough cattle left to sell.

Curling her lip in what she hoped was a mean-as-hell expression, she scanned the room and its occupants. A few of the men she knew, most she didn’t. All looked disreputable. Then her gaze lit on Desperado Jones and she no longer had to pretend the mean-as-hell look; suddenly it was very real. He had his back to her, nonchalantly sipping his whiskey. Chloe knew he watched her in the mirror, and that made her even angrier.

When she had the undivided attention of everyone one in the saloon, with possibly the exception of Desperado Jones, she cleared her throat and said, “I’m hiring on a gunslinger. Do any of you polecats have the guts to apply for the job?”

No one stepped forward to volunteer. Undaunted, Chloe said, “The job pays well.”

Like puppets on a string, the men turned their heads to stare at Desperado, who pretended not to have heard. Boldly Chloe approached the gunslinger, intending to shame him into accepting.

“What about you, Mr. Jones? Are you interested in the job?”

With studied indifference, Desperado calmly sipped his whiskey. Chloe felt like a fool when the saloon customers, following Desperado’s example, resumed their conversation and returned to the activities she had interrupted. Her face flaming, Chloe brazenly tapped Desperado on the shoulder.

Desperado turned slowly, his dark eyes kindling with desire as they slid over her curves with blatant speculation.

“I haven’t changed my mind, lady. I don’t work for females,” he drawled in that raspy voice of his that sent shivers down her spine. “But,” he added, stunning her with a dimpled smile, “I’ll gladly accommodate you in any other way.”

Someone in the room tittered. Then another. Until the entire room echoed with laughter. Seething with outrage and embarrassed by Desperado’s brazen suggestion, Chloe flung her arm back and let it fly straight toward Desperado’s bristly cheek. Desperado must have read her mind for he caught her wrist in a viselike grip before her blow connected.

“Don’t ever raise your hand to me,” he said in his creepy whisper.

“Or what?” Chloe challenged with false bravado. There were too many eyes upon her to back down before the ornery half-breed.

He smiled again, displaying that damnable dimple. “Or you won’t like the consequences.”

“Go to hell!” she shouted, wresting her wrist from his grasp and whirling on her heel.

Desperado watched her strut from the room, her sweet little bottom all taut and hard beneath her Levi’s. Her bottom wasn’t the only thing all taut and hard, he thought ruefully. His own trousers barely contained the rigid length of his sex and he thought about what he’d like to do to the long-legged, gun-toting little hellion who’d had the audacity to think she could slap Desperado Jones and get away with it. His stern frown was softened by the dimple in his cheek as he stifled a grin. The female wildcat didn’t know with whom she was dealing, but he sure as hell would like the opportunity to show her.

Desperado picked up his bottle and glass and moved to an empty table facing the door. Jones was a realist. He knew that someday a man would come along with a gun faster than his and blow him away. But until that day arrived he was taking no chances. His mind alert for unexpected danger, Desperado allowed his thoughts to drift back to the past again.

The day the Indian hunting party had found young Logan Ralston would have probably been his last on this earth had they not stumbled upon him when they did. When one fierce brave raised his gun to end his life, Logan had closed his eyes and awaited death. The medicine bag given to him by his Indian grandfather had saved his life. One of the braves had spotted it and stopped the other from shooting. After crudely setting his broken leg, they had carried him to their village.

“Desperado Jones?”

Desperado cursed beneath his breath when he heard his name spoken, expecting another challenge. His gun appeared in his hand with lightning speed. He might have let his mind wander but his senses were well honed after years of living dangerously, of walking a thin line between life and death. The man who had addressed him didn’t look dangerous, but experience had taught him that appearances could be deceiving.

“Whoa, put the gun down, Mr. Jones,” the man said. He held his coat open. “As you can see, I’m unarmed.”

Desperado’s dark, penetrating gaze studied the man standing before him. He looked like a prosperous businessman in his dark suit, vest and pristine white shirt. There wasn’t a speck of dust on either his brand-new Stetson or shiny boots. The man was neither young nor old, but somewhere in between. Desperado was slightly repelled by his nearly colorless blue eyes and guileless smile. Instinctively he knew that this man would make a formidable enemy.

“What can I do for you, mister?” Desperado asked as he shoved his six-shooter back into his holster.

“The question is, what I can do for you? My name is Calvin Talbot.”

When Desperado merely stared at him, Talbot cleared his throat and said, “The man who challenged you to a shoot-out is my son.”

Desperado calmly took a slim cigar from his duster pocket, lit it and blew a puff of smoke into Talbot’s face. “You don’t say.” The way he said it, raspy and mean, usually scared all but the most determined challengers away. Which was exactly Desperado’s intention. He’d avoided more than his share of gunfights that way.

“You got me all wrong, Jones,” Talbot said, surprising Desperado. “The young whippersnapper deserved his comeuppance. He was getting too cocky for his own good. He’ll heal and maybe learn something from the experience.” He held out his hand. “No hard feelings?”

Desperado stared at the soft white hand, flicked the ash from his cigar on Talbot’s shiny boots and said, “State your business, Talbot. I’m thinking of moving on. Trouble Creek has nothing to offer me.”

Talbot stared at his own outstretched hand and hastily withdrew it. Desperado had no idea why he’d developed such an intense dislike for Talbot without even knowing the man, but something about Talbot rubbed him the wrong way. He thought about Chloe Sommers and what she’d said about the unscrupulous land speculator and liked him even less.

“Perhaps Trouble Creek has nothing to offer you, Jones, but I do,” Talbot said. “May I sit down? I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

Desperado took his time mulling over Talbot’s words before dragging out a chair with his foot and shoving it in Talbot’s direction. “Make it fast, Talbot.”

Talbot sat down, scooted the chair closer to the table and leaned forward. “I need someone like you, Jones, and I’m willing to pay top dollar.” He let that sink in before continuing. “When you hear my offer, you won’t be able to turn it down.”

Desperado studied him through eyes as cold and dark as death. People often wondered how it would feel to stare into those cold eyes over the barrel of a gun and know it was the last sight they’d ever see. “Who do I have to kill?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Talbot said, warming to the subject. “You don’t have to kill anyone. Unless you want to,” he added hastily. “I’ll leave that up to you. But we can’t talk here. Come to my office later, where we can discuss my offer in private.” He scraped his chair back. “Enjoy your drink, Jones. I’ll see you in…say, an hour?”

“Maybe,” Desperado returned, not really anxious to take any job Talbot had to offer but still curious enough to ask, “Can you give me a hint? I want to make sure it’s worth my time.”

Talbot cast a furtive glance around, as if to satisfy himself that no one was listening, and sat back down. He leaned toward Desperado and said, “There’s a piece of land I want. It’s standing in the way of progress. I’m willing to do anything to own it. That’s where you come in. I want you to help me get it. The job pays five hundred dollars.”

Desperado whistled softly. “That’s a helluva lot of money, Talbot.”

Just then a waitress came along and the conversation skidded to an abrupt halt. “I’ll tell you more later,” Talbot said as he doffed his hat and made a hasty exit.

“More whiskey, Mr. Jones?” the waitress asked as she sidled up beside him.

He shook his head.

“Anything else I can do for you? Anything at all?”

She smelled of cheap whiskey, cheaper perfume and sex, and Desperado grimaced in distaste. He wasn’t that hard up yet, although he hadn’t had a woman in some time.

“Thanks for the offer, honey,” Desperado drawled, “but I got business elsewhere in an hour. Maybe some other time, when I don’t have to rush.”

That seemed to placate the woman and she strutted off, hips swaying provocatively. Desperado nursed his drink for another hour, trying to decide whether or not his curiosity was strong enough to warrant a visit to Calvin Talbot’s office. His curiosity might not be strong enough but the money sure was a powerful inducement.

He’d hired out his gun for a helluva lot less in the past, to men who expected more of him than Talbot. He usually turned down jobs involving outright killings. A gunslinger had to set his own rules, and Desperado refused to do cold-blooded murder. His high principles had kept him out of jail, except for short stints for minor infringements, and he wasn’t going to change his policy now.

Desperado was still thinking when he saw a man wearing a badge enter the saloon. The man spotted Desperado immediately and wended his way around tables until he stood beside Desperado’s table.

“I’m Marshal Townsend,” he said. “It’s my duty to keep peace in this town.”

“Have I done anything to cause trouble?” Desperado rasped in his mean-as-hell voice. In his opinion Townsend had coward written all over him.

Townsend stepped back a pace. “There was that shoot-out in the street,” the marshal began. “We don’t cotton to shoot-outs in Trouble Creek.”

“You’re talking to the wrong person. I was merely defending myself.” He inched his hand toward his gun butt and wondered how long Townsend would flaunt his authority before turning tail and running. Silently he started counting to ten.

On the count of three, Townsend backed away, saying, “This is just a warning, Jones, no harm done. But it’s my duty to tell you that if you intend to remain in town you’d best keep your nose clean.” Before Desperado could answer, Townsend backed all the way to the door, then made a hasty exit.

Desperado chuckled to himself. Whoever had hired Townsend should have found someone with backbone.

A short time later Desperado left the saloon and ambled down the street to Calvin Talbot’s office. Despite his misgivings about the land speculator, curiosity had won out. Engrossed in thought, he unintentionally bumped into Chloe Sommers coming out of the general store, her arms loaded with packages. The packages went flying and his arms went around her to steady her. He’d expected to be poked by sharp angles and bony joints and was startled to discover that the body molded against his was softly rounded and as femininely endowed as any woman he’d ever held.

“Watch where you’re going,” Chloe admonished. A moment later she realized just whose hard body was pressed so intimately against hers and jerked out of his embrace. She tipped up her head to stare into his dark face. Her next thought came unbidden. Desperado’s eyes were beautiful. Impenetrable black and thickly lashed, they looked as though they could see into one’s soul. He was also pleasing to look at, though not classically handsome, Chloe thought, surprised by this new discovery. His features were too bold, too dark, too…Indian. She shuddered and looked away.

“Sorry,” Desperado said, grinning unrepentantly. He bent to help her retrieve her packages.

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you, Mr. Jones?” Chloe asked hopefully. “I really could use a hired gun, and your reputation in that area is unsurpassed. As you learned earlier, even a small town like Trouble Creek has heard of you. I’m a little surprised you didn’t kill Tate Talbot.”

Desperado frowned. “You sound almost sorry I didn’t.”