The Gunfighter and the Heiress (2 page)

Beneath the lacy black veil of her widow's digs she had donned to conceal her identity and provide protection, she smiled in triumph. She had succeeded! She had calculated, planned and outsmarted the conniving bastards trying to control her life. She would like to see their expressions of confusion and surprise when they realized she had vanished into thin air like a fleeting phantom.

Serves them right,
she mused as she stepped onto the landing. She tapped the gold band on her left ring finger and told herself that her mother was up there somewhere, smiling down on her.
This is for both of us, Mama,
she thought as the conductor offered a hand to assist her down the steps.

With Phase One of her escape plan completed, Natalie surveyed the crowd waiting for arriving passengers. There were a dozen women waiting to welcome home their menfolk. There were several older men waiting to greet women passengers.

But there was no knight in shining armor waiting to help Natalie complete the next phase of her plan.

Disappointment swamped her as she searched for the man she'd hoped would meet her. She had been so certain her provocative telegram would produce the wanted results.

Although she wasn't sure what Donovan Crow looked like, because she didn't have an accurate physical description, she knew him by reputation. She had read every article she could find in the newspapers. The legendary thirty-two-year-old gun for hire—known from Louisiana to Arizona and points north—had been the subject of her research for the past three months.

Refusing to be discouraged because her heroic knight wasn't waiting for her, Natalie stepped to the ground. She searched the gathering crowd once again, while the porter retrieved the luggage.

She fixed her gaze on a rough-looking character with a scraggly beard. Unkempt hair poked from beneath his oversize sombrero. Surely
he
wasn't her gallant knight.

Next she focused her attention on a thin, wiry, scholarly looking young gent who kept pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose—a nose that looked as if it had been broken sometime in the past. He was well dressed and reasonably attractive. He glanced this way and that, as if he were expecting trouble. Then he whirled around and strode past the depot to disappear from sight.

“May I help you with your luggage, ma'am?”

Natalie pivoted back to the porter, who looked to be in his mid-fifties. “I would be most grateful if you could direct me to the best accommodations Wolf Ridge has to offer,” she said in an exaggerated Southern drawl. “It has been a long, tiring ride and I am most anxious to rest.”

The frizzy-haired porter with a pot belly and thick
shoulders smiled kindly at her. “That'd be the Simon House. The restaurant adjoining the hotel serves fine food, too.”

Natalie clutched the hem of her black dress to keep from dragging it in the dirt street and tramped off behind the porter, who lugged her oversize suitcase and tattered carpetbag. She paid close attention to the row of stores facing each other on Main Street. This town—the last civilized outpost on the Western frontier, and the end of the tracks—boasted a livery stable, blacksmith shop, billiard parlor, three hotels, several cafés and two general stores.

She noticed a gunsmith shop—which she intended to visit first thing in the morning—a newspaper office, boutique, bank and three saloons named Road to Ruin, End of the Tracks and Last Chance. She frowned disapprovingly at the three bordellos that set apart from the businesses and residences. A covered walkway connected the upper story of the billiard parlor to the more elaborate-looking brothel.

The town couldn't match New Orleans in architecture, accommodations or extensive selections of supplies or luxuries, but it looked like heaven to Natalie. This was the Promised Land. This is where her freedom and independence began—if only she could locate the legendary gun for hire that could help her achieve her long-held dreams.

She reminded herself that Donovan Crow might be on assignment, in which case he wouldn't have received her telegram. Which would explain why he wasn't waiting at the depot to meet the woman who claimed to be his fiancée.

It could very well be that she might have to wait a week or two to meet him. If that proved to be the case, she would spend her time equipping herself for the next leg of her journey—a journey that would be a hardship
for the two conniving bastards who would likely try to overtake her.

When they arrived at Simon House, Natalie paid the good-natured porter and then turned to the hotel clerk who looked to be a few years older than she was. He was blessed with thick blond hair, round face and barrel-sized chest. Without delay, he spun the ledger for her to sign, then handed over a key to her room.

“Will you be staying long…?” He glanced at the name. “Missus Jones?”

“That depends,” she drawled. “I'll pay for two days and check on my travel arrangements. In the meantime, a bath would be most appreciated.”

The clerk snapped his fingers and two teenage boys lounging against the door to the restaurant came to attention. “Take Missus Jones's belongings to her room and fill the tub,” he ordered.

While the boys scurried off, she glanced back at the clerk through her concealing veil. “Would you happen to know if Donovan Crow is in town?”

The clerk's hazel eyes widened in surprise. “Why, yes, he is. Just returned two days ago, in fact.”

Natalie told herself it was possible the gun for hire hadn't taken time to collect his mail. Perhaps that's why he hadn't shown up at the depot. Either that, or he suffered from a shameful lack of curiosity.

No matter, she reassured herself as she ascended the steps behind the young boys. Donovan Crow would know who she was and what she wanted very soon. She had come to strike a bargain with him and he could name his price.

 

Van rose from a crouch atop the roof of the train depot. Then he holstered his pearl-handled peacemaker—or
widow maker, depending on the outcome of potentially deadly situations. He'd scanned the area around the depot but the vicious Harper Gang was nowhere to be seen. And neither was his supposed fiancée. The only woman near his age had hurried off the platform to greet a waiting sodbuster who hugged the stuffing out of her.

If the telegram announcing his fiancée was someone's idea of a joke, Van was not amused.

Apparently, Bart had come to the same conclusion about the hoax telegram for he halted behind the depot to peer up at him.

“No fiancée.” Van walked over to the eave, then shimmied down the gutter pipe.

“Not that I could see,” Bart said as he monitored Van's descent. “The only unattached female was a widow in mourning.” He frowned pensively. “That odd telegram still bothers me. If I were you I'd watch my back—just in case.”

“Exactly what I plan to do. Come on, Bart. I'll buy you supper,” he invited.

“Let me stop by my office and close up for the day, then my time is yours. Later, we can decide which assignment appeals to you and I'll send off a correspondence soon.”

“I'm not going anywhere for at least a week,” Van reminded Bart sternly. “I damn well intend to sleep in my bed instead of a flea-bitten way station or on the hard ground.”

On the wings of the declaration, they strode off. Van didn't give another thought to the disturbing telegram from his so-called fiancée.

 

The next morning, after a surprisingly tasty meal at the hotel restaurant, Natalie returned upstairs to discard
her disguise. She hoped to make Mr. Crow's acquaintance and negotiate a price for the assignment she had in mind for him.

Anxiously Natalie appraised her reflection in the smoky cheval glass that stood beside the plain dressing screen and bathtub. The modest gown she selected didn't hint at the wealth her parents had amassed in New Orleans. That was nobody's business and she didn't approve of flaunting wealth the way her stepfather and former fiancé were prone to do.

However, she hoped to look partially rested and presentable when she met Mr. Crow.

She wondered if Crow was holed up at one of the brothels, tripping the light fantastic after completing his most recent assignment. She didn't want to have to march into a bordello. Yet, as of three months ago, Natalie had cast off the burdensome yoke of proper behavior and protocol demanded by the upper class. Now she was alone in the world and vowed to do whatever necessary to make a new, unrestricted life for herself that didn't involve those two devious bastards she'd left behind.

“First things first,” she told her reflection as she fluffed the wrinkles from her bright yellow gown. “Purchase a weapon to defend yourself from trouble. Then locate Mr. Crow and strike your bargain.”

As she descended the staircase, she noticed she was receiving far more attention than she had while dressed in widow's digs. Since she had moved her mother's wedding band to her right hand, the three men exiting the restaurant made note of her ringless left hand. They gave her a thorough once-over. Their blatant interest was an annoying reminder of the hassle she encountered in New Orleans where adventurers and gold diggers, familiar with
the Robedeaux-Blair family name, congregated around her like pesky flies.

Although the men in the hotel didn't know who she was, nothing could change her cynical opinion of the male species. To date, she hadn't met a man who proved to be reliable, trustworthy or honest—certainly not all three at once!

Especially
not those two sneaky bastards who sought to destroy her life—and would have if she hadn't spirited away from New Orleans when she did.

Natalie walked straight up to the clerk and said, “Could you tell me where I might find Donovan Crow?”

Shocked, the clerk leaned close to say confidentially, “Ma'am, I wouldn't want to be seen with him if I were you.”

“Why ever not?”

“Most dignified ladies avoid him whenever possible. He has an infamous reputation, you know. He's also half Kiowa.”

“Oh? Which half?” she asked straight-faced then pivoted toward the door. She wanted to ask the clerk for a physical description of Donovan Crow, but that would invite too many questions since she planned to marry him immediately.

“Ma'am? Are you staying at the hotel?” the clerk asked as he perused the ledger.

“I'm Anna Jones,” she informed him.

His blond brows shot up his forehead and he glanced owlishly at her.

“I used the widow's digs as a protective disguise during my trip. It worked amazingly well.”

The three men who overheard her conversation with the clerk fell into step behind her. Natalie rolled her eyes in
annoyance when the men followed at her heels, showering her with effusive compliments.

Change of plans, she thought to herself. She would purchase a pistol to scare off the men who wouldn't take the hint of being ignored and leave her alone.
Then
she would wander around town, hoping she would know Donovan Crow the moment she laid eyes on him.

 

The night after Van's supposed fiancée failed to show up at the depot, he lounged against the bar in the Road To Ruin Saloon. He threw back a drink and let the strong whiskey burn its way down his throat. He was feeling considerably better after sleeping most of the day away—again.

“There's a saddle tramp in the corner who's been eyeing you for ten minutes,” Bart murmured quietly.

“I noticed him. Spoiling for a fight is my guess.”

“He's consumed enough liquor to assure himself he can outdraw you and make a name for himself.”

“That's exactly how I ended up with Robbie Harper's three brothers gunning for me,” Van grumbled. “The little fool couldn't clear leather nearly as fast as he thought.”

“Whiskey makes a man reckless with his tongue and far braver than he actually is,” Bart agreed.

When Van heard the sound of a chair being scooted across the planked floor to clank against the wall, he pivoted to face the glassy-eyed, peach-fuzz-faced kid toting double holsters and shiny pistols.

He flashed the would-be gunfighter his trademark glare. “The last drunken fool who decided to draw down on me is wearing a marble hat.”

The kid had drunk enough bottled courage to make him defiant. He jutted out his pointy chin. His hands hov
ered over his pistols. “You're the one who'll be wearing a marble hat, Crow. You worthless half-breed,” he slurred.

“No one is going to become a permanent resident in the cemetery,” came an unexpected female voice from the doorway.

Startled, Van—and every man in the saloon—glanced at the stunning female who stood five foot six and looked to be about ten years younger than he was. Her trim-fitting yellow gown displayed her full creamy breasts to their best advantage. Her eyes were black as midnight and sparkled with so much inner spirit that Van became lost in their depths—and he wasn't alone. The woman had captivated the male crowd with her arresting beauty and her daring.

He dragged his gaze from the enticing display of cleavage to survey her curly auburn hair. The highlighted red-gold strands seemed to dance like flames in the lantern light. To his amazement, the alluring woman headed straight to him. Then, to the shock of every man—including Van—she pivoted to position herself in front of him like a human shield.

“Mr. Crow and I are going to be married day after tomorrow and I will thank you for not spoiling my wedding, sir,” she said in a heavy Southern drawl to the drunken kid. “You, of course, are invited to the festivities, along with everyone else. I've decided to hold the ceremony in Lobo Park so we can have a town-wide reception.”

“Married?”
The crowd hooted in unison. They gaped at Van, then their bewildered stares bounced back to the enchanting female, dressed in bright yellow—who had burst into the saloon like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.