a hulk of a man waving a six-shooter in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. The man swung the Colt in Case’s direction. But before he could fire another shot, Case knocked his arm up and at the same time slammed a fist into the man’s jaw.
Case’s motion was so quick and supple, Katlyn scarcely believed she’d seen it until the man crumpled and fell face-first to the floor.
Case kicked the Colt across the foyer. Then he grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him up.
“I told you, you’re not welcome here, Charlie. I’m tired of you shooting up the place after you’ve had a few too many.” Yanking the befuddled man to the front door, Case shoved him outside. “Next time, I call in the sheriff. Now get home before you hurt someone.”
He jerked the doors closed behind the unfortunate Charlie and swung his glare to Katlyn.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed or do you make a habit of running toward bullets?” He didn’t give her time to answer but strode over and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
A strange breathlessness attacked Katlyn, though from anger at Case’s rough tone or his sudden nearness, she didn’t know. He had shed his jacket and, in his shirtsleeves, his smoothness ruffled by the scuffle with Charlie, he looked a different man.
At first, he had unnerved her because she feared he would see through her pretense. Now, he disturbed her with this new image of a man as adept at protecting his property as he was at operating it. Her initial impression had been of a polished and intimidating businessman.
Her impression of him now was something very different. He unsettled her on another level, somewhere deep and private. The aggressive anger in his eyes, his mussed hair, disheveled clothes, the power written in the taut muscles straining against his rolled-up sleeves revealed a strong, rugged and terribly masculine side she found herself completely unprepared to face.
“Well?”
“Well what?” she asked, baffled.
“I asked you if you are all right.”
“Oh. Of course. Yes, I’m fine,” she said, realizing he still held her hand and looked at her as if he worried the close encounter with the bullet might make her turn and run. Instead, she banished the flash of fear at the idea she might have been shot, pulled her hand and her eyes away, and stepped back. “Interesting customers, you have. Does this happen often?”
Case shrugged. “Fourth one this week,” he said, taking a closer scowling look at the bullet hole. “There are so many holes in this place it’s a wonder it didn’t start leaking long ago.” He laughed shortly at Katlyn’s dubious expression. “This isn’t St. Louis, Miss McLain. Did you think it would be?”
“I didn’t think I would be dodging bullets,” Katlyn snapped back. “Are these the kind of people you expect me to entertain?”
“Charlie is relatively harmless. He dips a little too far into the bottle and decides to come here and fire a few shots at the woodwork. That’s all.”
“He nearly took a shot at you.”
“He would have missed. And to answer your question, the kind of people I want you to entertain won’t set foot in here because they’re afraid of the guests that have been here in the past. I need you to change that.”
Katlyn looked away and Case frowned a little. For a woman who earned her way and her reputation catering to audiences, she seemed oddly inhibited when he made any reference to her singing. From her letters he’d expected a pretty, vivacious woman, decidedly vain, experienced at flattery and expecting her share of honeyed praise in return.
Katlyn McLain seemed someone else entirely.
“Sing for me,” he said abruptly.
The color drained from her face, leaving two spots of rouge staining her pale cheeks. “Now?”
“Why not?” Case shoved open the door of the saloon. “I’d like to hear what I’m paying for.” Holding out a hand, he invited her inside.
Or ordered her, Katlyn thought, tempted to refuse him. But if she did, she would only give him another reason to suspect her.
Slowly she walked in, acutely aware of Case behind her, watching. Katlyn sat at the piano. She flexed her fingers a little, trying to keep them from shaking, and blessed her mother’s insistence that she learn to play. At least this way she wouldn’t have to look at Case while she tried to convince him performing came as naturally to her as breathing.
She chose the first song that came to her, a sweet, sad Irish ballad she’d learned as a girl. At first the notes and words came tentatively. Then, gradually, without her being aware of it, the music flowed into her and out in her voice. For a few moments she closed her eyes and she was Katie again, sitting alone in her mother’s hotel room, singing romantic ballads to herself and dreaming of true love.
Case stood at the bar, his hand arrested in the motion of reaching for glasses, and stared at her.
She sang like an angel, the sweet clarity of her voice weaving magic into the air like pure gold threads in a tapestry. There was nothing contrived or practiced about her singing. Nothing he ever expected to hear from a woman who had earned a reputation from entertaining on riverboats.
Instead, her song touched him, warm and true, and caught him in a moment of enchantment.
When she finished, Katlyn sat with her hands on the piano keys for a moment before she came out of her dream and slowly turned to face Case.
He looked almost stunned and her heart plunged. “I—I haven’t practiced,” she stammered. “I’m sure once I’m able to—”
“Practice, yes, I know,” he said, his voice low and rough. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure your reputation alone will make you a success.”
Katlyn opened her mouth, closed it, and finally managed to find her voice. “I don’t want to be a disappointment.” To anyone, she added silently.
“Why should you be?” Case shifted as if throwing off some troublesome feeling, the edge back in his voice and demeanor. Moving behind the bar, he poured out two glasses, offering one to Katlyn.
“A toast,” he said, raising his glass to hers when she stepped up to the bar to take the drink. “To Penelope Rose, my new songbird.”
Katlyn acknowledged the toast with a forced smile. She took a sip of the brandy and tried not to cough. She had always hated spirits.
Case laughed at the slight grimace she couldn’t quite curb. “I have no idea why you’re here, and I can’t picture you on a riverboat stage. What a puzzle you are, Miss McLain.”
“Do you think so?” Katlyn walked away from the bar. She went around the room, idly touching a table here, a curtain there. “You’re more the puzzle. You don’t seem the kind to invest so much here, in Cimarron of all places. Why not Denver or Las Vegas or even Santa Fe? And why a hotel where bullets in the walls are as common as nails?”
Case walked around the bar and went through the ritual of cutting and lighting a cheroot and taking a long draw before answering her. He leaned back against the ornately carved
