“You smell like that damn wolf.” He leaned close to her and sniffed.
The female part of her was appalled. She was having a difficult time staying in character. A dormant feminine side of her nature always fluttered to life around Deacon and the fact that she was close enough for him to inhale her scent and she smelled like Ketchum upset her. She gritted her teeth and mustered her best Beau snarl.
“Yer crowding me, McCallister. Make up yer mind if’n yer in or out, but whatever ya do, move.”
“That’s my shirt,” he muttered and withdrew from the doorway only to catch the tail of her shirt as she scooted by. “Where did you get my shirt?”
“It fell out of the sky and hit me on the head,” she answered and pulled free. Miri wrapped herself in Beau’s persona as she put the coffee on to perk, then turned to face Deacon, prepared to talk business.
“Spit it out, McCallister. What’s yer angle? If you were gonna cash in on Ned, you’d already have done it. But you didn’t because he’s my catch.”
“Nope. Harold Tully was shocked to discover you’d disregarded the Pleasure Dome’s neutrality and turned him loose. I wouldn’t go back to Fort Worth for a time if I was you.”
“I didn’t tell Harold squat when I dropped Jackson off. Let me guess, you decided to fill in the gaps of Sheriff Tully’s knowledge.”
“I always think it’s best for all players to know what’s going on. And I’ll ask one more time. Where did you get my shirt?”
She couldn’t very well jerk it over her head and hand it to him because she hadn’t bound her breasts. It was a quandary. She shouldn’t have kept the shirt, she sure shouldn’t have worn it and now she was caught trying to explain it. Attack seemed the only option.
“You are dumb as well as greedy, McCallister, if you think this is done. After I saved your miserable hide, I spent six weeks tracking him.” She didn’t really have to pretend outrage when she thought of all the time she’d spent following her quarry.
“Don’t know why,” he drawled. “It took me less than an hour to catch him. You must be doing something wrong, Beauregard.”
Least said soonest mended. And I need to skedaddle on out of here.
She ignored the taunt, filled two mugs with coffee and handed one to Deacon. “What’s yer game?”
He didn’t seem in any hurry to conduct business. She remained impassive, refusing to unbend and give him the satisfaction of argument.
“Good coffee. Strong enough to grow hair on your chest,” he said. Almost casually he returned to her age with a compliment. “I’d say you’re not old enough for this business but you’ve managed to cut a chunk for yourself.” He saluted Miri in appreciation.
“I’m old enough to spot a snake in the grass before I step.” Miri dodged his question for the second time by being surly.
“Simmer down. I have to admit you did a fine job of tracking the counterfeiter.” Deacon pulled up a chair, straddling it as he faced her.
Since it wasn’t like McCallister to heap praise on his competition, she viewed him with suspicion and shrugged.
“Sit down. Let’s talk.” He tipped his hat to the back of his head before resting his arms on the chair.
She edged farther from him, leaning her shoulders against the wall and standing nonchalantly with folded arms. He locked gazes with her in a staring contest that mocked his earlier show of civility. She noted the stern slant of his lips before he spoke.
“I want her name and where she lives.” His words caught her off guard, since they’d been tussling over the counterfeiter.
“Who?” She stalled for time.
“You know who. The woman you sent to my room. Don’t lie or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap. I already talked to Lydia.”
Wash my mouth out with soap? How old does he think I am?
Miri caught back the gurgle of laughter threatening to erupt and turned it into a snort.
“I ’spect Lydia loves talkin’ to ya. Myself, I spent my time at the Pleasure Dome avoiding Lydia.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Deacon said gruffly. “When you were posing as Lydia’s butler, you sent a woman to my room. I want to know where I can find her and you want to know where the counterfeiter is staying. Seems like a fair trade to me.”
“Why?” Miri hedged. This was a strange how do you do. She didn’t think men normally wanted to know the women they’d used in whorehouses.
At the same time she preened, mentally fluffing her fledgling feminine feathers, she recognized the absurdity of his request. It really wasn’t feasible for Beauregard to introduce Miri to Deacon.
But then again, why not? The humor of the situation threatened to send her into peals of laughter. For once she definitely had the upper hand in dealing with Deacon McCallister.
Deacon wanted to tan Beauregard’s hide. Payback was hell. The kid knew he had him over a barrel and he was deliberately stalling. And to add icing to the cake, the brat was wearing Deacon’s shirt.
“What do you mean, why?” Deacon growled, his patience stretched thin. Beauregard blew on the hot coffee and then lounged against the far wall, sipping it.
“Why do ya want her name now? Did ya not introduce yerself afore ya had yer way with her?”
Heat scorched up Deacon’s neck to burn his ears. The brat sauntered to the coffee, poured himself a cup and took a sip before he answered his own question.
“Well then, Deacon, it seems like she didn’t want ya to know her name if you asked and she didn’t say.”
“You just point me in the right direction. I’ll change her mind.”
“Nope. Can’t be giving out information about my friends to just any hooligan who comes along.” The kid was shaking his head before Deacon got the final words out.
“So you admit she’s your friend?”
“From time to time we’ve helped each other. I’ll have to see if she’s interested in meeting you again. Meanwhile, I want to question my prisoner.” Beauregard’s expression was determined.
“Name first. Then I’ll see about an interview with Ned.”
“Miri,” she snapped. “Now where is Ned and when can I question him?”
“Ned’s on the MC3. I’ll arrange a visit with him after I’ve met with Miri.”
“Not until I’ve asked her. She might not want to meet with a lowdown polecat who’s swindled a friend of hers.”
“If Miri is such a good friend, why in hell did you steer her to the Pleasure Dome? You ought to have your ass kicked for such a thing.” Rage boiled inside him at the miscreant’s poor treatment of his friend.
“She said she was thinkin’ of going into the trade and wanted me to fix her up with a customer.” Beauregard’s drawl deepened. “I was all set to talk her out of it when you showed up. I figured if a round with you didn’t change her mind, nothing would.” The kid walked to the door and opened it as if he was leaving.
“Where are you going? I’m not finished.” Deacon wasn’t any closer to knowing how to find the woman. Worse than that, Beauregard knew her and could influence her. His jaw clenched at the thought.
“I am. I’ve got work to do seeing’s how my big catch just got thieved from me. Mind your back trail, preacher man.” Beauregard left.
“Dammit.” Deacon stood in the door watching Beauregard’s hasty retreat. He didn’t know the kid much better than when he’d first set eyes on him almost two years before.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Deacon had been accompanied by his partners—his brother Sam and cousin Charlie Wolf—and he hadn’t been interested in anything but picking up the latest dead-or-alive posters from the Abilene sheriff’s office for the next hunt.
Usually when the McCallisters arrived, the townsfolk scurried inside and peered from cloaked windows. He didn’t know if they were remembering what he’d been—Reverend Robert McCallister preaching the gospel in the First Baptist Church every Sunday. It was just as likely they whispered about what he’d become—part of a trio of bounty hunters feared by anyone with sense.
On the day Deacon met Beauregard though, the street hadn’t been silent. Deacon had tracked the catcalls and loud insults to a spot in front of the Chester Saloon.
“Boy, I’m talking to you. Don’t ignore me.” The heckler had been a sawed-off cowboy carrying a bottle of whisky and staggering from too much drink though the day hadn’t seen high noon yet.
The lanky figure being targeted had worn buckskins, leather moccasins laced to his knees and a knife sheathed and tied to his thigh. A drooping belt wrapped around his baggy shirt and he’d sported a short-barreled shotgun in an attached holster. As if that wasn’t enough protection for ten men, the kid had worn a coiled bullwhip, carrying it looped over one shoulder and hanging to his waist.
Remembering the moment, Deacon still grimaced in disgust at the whip. It had been the favored weapon of his grandfather and all three McCallisters wore scars from the old man’s brutal use of it. On the kid it had been particularly ludicrous for both its size and the skill necessary to wield such a thing. Only an expert whipster could unleash the monster and use it effectively, and that sure as hell wasn’t the half-grown whelp currently wearing it.
An undeniable aura of
dumb, young and vulnerable
had shrouded the figure under siege. Apparently the local cowboys hadn’t been able to resist the lure. Three in particular had decided to humiliate their selected victim. Four less aggressive friends had lounged in front of the store, egging on the trio.
Deacon had turned his horse and stopped to monitor the escalating street ruckus. He’d raked the hell-raisers with his glance, checking faces to see if he held paper on any of them and marking their features to remember.
All the while, the stripling fumbled in his saddlebags, his back turned to the men, ignoring them. Deacon couldn’t see the kid’s face, but his arsenal of weapons and rough clothes had apparently attracted the hecklers.
Young or not, his attitude added heat to the simmering discord and it seemed clear that shortly the bastards intended to deliver a severe beating to the kid. But the youth had stalwartly ignored the threat.
“There’s not much muscle to him but he’s not short on grit.” Sam had reined to a halt, fanning himself with his hat as he looked with interest at the scene. “Kid might surprise us if he can use even half those weapons he’s totin’.”
“Doubtful,” Deacon had grunted.
“Fool’s gonna get his ass kicked but two bits says he takes a couple of yahoos down with him,” Sam had observed unsympathetically.
Charlie Wolf had watched the coming entertainment with interest. Finally he’d turned to Sam and flashed an unexpected grin. “A dollar says the kid wins.”
“He’ll get thumped and you know it.”
Deacon remembered how he’d scowled at his partners and tightened his grip on his carbine, ready to draw down on the cowboys if necessary.
“If he survives today, his best hope is to shed most of the gear and learn to use one weapon well. A young squirt armed to the teeth offers a challenge and that’s the only invitation fools need to pick a fight.”
The focus of his concern had suddenly spun around, emitting a sharp whistle that called a snarling, slavering beast from the alley. At the same time the kid’s hand snaked down faster than lightning, retrieving his knife and throwing it, pinning one miscreant to the mercantile wall.
Then, with an almost delicate flick of his wrist, the stripling unfurled the whip, wrapping the end around the neck of the second bully. The third man sprawled on the ground with a wolf growling in his face. In a moment, the kid had changed the odds from one against three to
what in hell happened
.
“Ya’ll have a problem?” the youth had drawled, at the same time surveying seven sets of stunned eyes. Showing Deacon that he had enough sense to recognize help at hand, the kid had dismissed possible threat from the three bounty hunters, focusing instead on the rowdies he’d quelled.
“Why you damn hillbilly. Think you can pull that shit in this town? I’ll—” The knife-pinned fellow jerked the blade free and reached for his sidearm.
By reflex, Deacon had levered a round in his rifle’s chamber, the sound making a statement in the otherwise silent tableau. The cowboy had turned, facing the threat coming from the McCallisters, and the kid’s shotgun blast had peppered the drunken sod’s hip instead of his groin. Yowls of pain had ended the disagreement.
“Brother,” Sam said, “I think you just saved that guy’s nuts.”
Deacon had kept his rifle steady on the other men while one ran to alert the doctor. The rest carried their buddy up the street to have the pellets picked out.
“That fella on the ground looks a mite green around the gills,” Sam had murmured.
Indifferent to his former prey, the beast had stood and shook the dust from his fur. The mauled heckler had staggered to his feet and wiped sweat and animal spit from his face, all the time staring at the animal in horror.
“Who the hell is that kid?” Sam had asked.
“I don’t know. But when he gets done growing he’ll be someone to reckon with.” Deacon had looked back to where the boy had been standing. The pinto gelding had remained tied to the hitching post, flicking flies from its ears and patiently waiting. When they’d reached the sheriff’s office, the wolf sat in front of it eyeing them as they stopped at the hitching rail.