blonde whom Webster wanted to marry. The thought of Alexa wedding Webster annoyed the hell out of him, although he told himself that it really wasn’t any of his business.
“Webster obviously has a strong appetite because I know he and Lily Brantley have standing appointments three times a week,” Gil reported. “Maybe more.”
“As in Lily’s, the owner? Webster and the madam?”
Gil nodded his reddish-blond head. “She also has two sisters who run brothels in the territory. Must be a family tradition passed from one generation to the next.”
Coop vowed to pass along the information about Webster and his intimate companion to Alexa. He figured a prospective wife ought to know where her would-be husband went for lusty passion. After all, Alexa claimed she didn’t want to enter into a marriage blindly, if she decided on Webster.
“Marshal Henson?”
Coop glanced at the young man who called out to Gil from the door of the café.
“Harlan Fredericks is on the rampage again. You better come quickly.”
“Damn that old fool,” Gil grumbled as he tossed aside his napkin then bolted to his feet. He cast a longing glance at his half-eaten breakfast then sighed defeatedly.
Coop tossed money on the table for their unfinished meals and clambered to his feet, silently cursing the inconvenience of his splinted leg. “I’ll come along to back you up,” he offered. “Who’s Fredericks?”
Gil led the way onto the street. “About once a month the old bastard starts drinking heavily and convinces himself that his wife is cuckolding him. He takes after her and causes a public commotion.”
“Is she cheating on him?” Coop asked curiously.
Gil barked a laugh as he veered toward the residential area behind the bank. “Doubt it.”
A moment later Coop knew why Mrs. Fredericks, who looked to be in her early fifties, wasn’t cheating on the older man, who looked to be in his early sixties. Fredericks was scampering around his front lawn in his long handles, swishing a tree branch threateningly, as if brandishing a sword.
He was chasing after a homely woman, whose gray eyes were a mite too close together to be attractive. Her salt-and-pepper gray hair was piled atop her head, exposing her oversize ears. Her hips were as wide as an ax handle and her shoulders were exceptionally broad. She was six feet tall if she were an inch and she dwarfed Mr. Fredericks, who was rail-thin and stood about five foot nine inches tall in his stocking feet.
“Harlan!” Gil bugled loudly. “Put down that stick and leave your missus alone! I will never understand why she is loyal and true-blue to an idiot like you. You’re the one who needs a good thrashing for running around in your underdrawers. Go put on your breeches!”
“Stay outta my business, Marshal,” Harlan shouted without breaking stride. “What’s between a man and his wife is private.”
He swung his stick, missing his wife by a few inches. She yelped and quickened her pace.
“This isn’t private because you’re attracting public attention.” Gil gestured toward the gathering crowd that watched Harlan perform his monthly ritual.
Coop’s gaze settled on Alexa who stood on the street corner with her bodyguard. She watched Harlan chase his wife in circles and her annoyed expression indicated she was offended by his behavior. Coop inwardly groaned when Alexa marched across the street to plant herself directly between husband and wife.
“Here now!” she spouted off. “That is no way to treat a lady!”
“Lady? Hell!” Harlan raised his stick menacingly. “Get outta my way, lass, or you’ll get what she’s got coming. A man has a right to expect fidelity!”
Alexa, curse her courageous hide, simply crossed her arms over her breasts, lifted her chin belligerently and stood her ground. “Mrs. Fredericks?” she called to the woman behind her.
“Yah, ma’am?” the older woman said, panting for breath.
“Have you been faithful to your husband?”
“Yah, but the old fool doesn’t believe me.” Her voice carried a distinct Swedish accent.
Alexa focused intently on Harlan. “There you have it, sir. Your wife has not betrayed you. I plan to hire her so she won’t have to put up with your nonsense all the livelong day.”
“Hire her?” Harlan hooted. “Then who’s gonna feed me if she ain’t here to do it?”
“I’ll take the job,” Mrs. Fredericks said enthusiastically.
“You don’t even know what the job is,” Harlan snapped at her.
“Doesn’t matter. It has to be better than getting chased down the street when you’re having one of your mean streaks.”
When Harlan raised his stick again, looking as if he intended to whack Alexa for interfering—before he went on his way to thrash his wife—Coop lunged forward. He used his cane to deflect the blow aimed at Alexa. To his surprise, she didn’t need his assistance. She agilely darted sideways and the tree branch collided with the upraised cane.
In the blink of an eye, her bodyguard pounced on Harlan. Before Harlan could react, the nasty-looking dagger that Miguel Santos kept strapped to his thigh was pricking the older man’s throat. Harlan squealed like a stuck pig and his eyes popped when he noted the size of the knife.
“Alexa, my dear!” Webster cried. “You shouldn’t witness such distasteful goings-on! Why, the old codger isn’t even dressed!”
Coop muttered under his breath when Webster showed up to fuss over his intended bride. The hypocrite scurried over to latch on to her elbow then shepherd her back to Main Street. He fussed and fawned over Alexa as if she were the light and love of his life. Coop doubted the two-faced bastard had whispered Alexa’s name while lying naked in Lily Brantley’s arms the previous night. Clearly Webster’s devotion was pretentious and calculated.
When Alexa glanced over her shoulder at Coop, he felt marginally better. Her smile indicated that she wasn’t falling for Webster’s theatrics and that she saw through him, too.
“C’mon, Harlan,” Gil said, grabbing the man by the scruff of his neck. “You can cool down in jail.”
The Mexican bodyguard tucked away his dagger and stared somberly at Coop while Gil frog-marched his prisoner to jail. “Thank you for your assistance, señor. My employer often acts before she thinks, when it comes to her desire of righting wrongs.”
“Obviously.” Coop extended his hand. “And you are—?”
“—Not sure we can be friends, gringo. Not if you can’t offer Alexa the respect she deserves,” he said pointedly.
“I see you are direct. Good. I appreciate that.” Coop smiled dryly. “I hear you were ill last night.”
The comment earned him a scowl. “Si. I am Miguel Santos.” He clasped Coop’s outstretched hand. “Harold Quinn pays me handsomely to keep Lexi out of trouble.”
