to leave, Roger burst out indignantly, “You really aren’t going to tell us what this is about?”
“No, I’m sorry but I can’t right now. I’ll explain later,” she promised on her way out the door.
J. D. Raven collapsed on his bed, exhausted. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey he’d picked up in a saloon on his way over from Marshal Emmett Doyle’s office. He expelled a weary sigh and took a drink. The liquor burned its way down his throat to his belly then he took another sip.
He stared at the saddle and saddlebags he had tossed in the corner of his hotel room. “Damn sons of bitches,” he mumbled before he took another swig.
If life were fair, Buck—the best horse he’d ever had—would be brushed down, eating hay and resting comfortably in the livery stable right this moment. “But life sure as hell isn’t fair,” he said to the room at large. “I’ll drink to that.” And he did.
A firm rap on the door forced Raven to roll to his feet. “Who is it?”
“Emmett. I brought your bounty money.”
Just to be on the safe side, Raven grabbed his pistol, moved to the left of the door then peeked out to make certain it was the city marshal.
“Besides the bounty, I also have a word of warning for you,” Emmett said as he ambled inside. “Buster Flanders’s widow just stormed out of my office. She swears revenge after you killed her husband.”
“She wouldn’t be the first,” Raven murmured as he brushed his hand over the three-week growth of beard and mustache he hadn’t bothered to shave during the manhunt. “I’ve had lots of death threats.”
Emmett shrugged his thick shoulders. “Well, this woman says she intends to dance on your grave when you end up like her husband. She also wants to know where you planted Buster.”
“At the bottom of a deep ravine. Took me an extra two hours to climb down, make sure he had expired, cover him up and climb back to the ledge to retrieve the other two criminals.” He glanced at the marshal. “Dance on my grave, huh? That’s a new one.”
Emmett stared solemnly at Raven. “Buster Flanders has lots of kin and so does his wife. You’ve been marked for death so you better watch your back, in case she hires someone to repay you for killing her husband.” He dropped the pouch of money in Raven’s hand then gave him three new bench warrants. “These men are reported to be preying on miners and prospectors near Purgatory Gulch and the other camps in Devil’s Triangle to the southwest of here.”
“These will have to wait until I train a replacement for Buck.” Raven tucked the warrants in his saddlebag. “I’ll get to them when I can.”
Emmett nodded. “I’m real sorry you lost your horse. And remember what I said about the spiteful widow’s threat. She’s been passing word around town so be on guard, Raven.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Raven said as Emmett exited.
Sighing heavily, Raven plopped on the bed and helped himself to another drink. Five minutes later a quiet rap on the door prompted him to reach for his six-shooter. Hell, now what? he wondered. Considering the possibility of Buster Flanders’s kinfolk gunning for him, plus a few others along the way who had vowed revenge, Raven adhered to his motto. Stay alert or die. It was the code of the Cheyenne and of the wilderness. Carelessness got a man killed in a hurry.
Raven came silently to his feet. “Who is it?”
No one answered so he eased up beside the door again. There had been times when outlaws had shot through doors, hoping he was standing in front of them. Raven never faced a door directly.
When the quiet rap came again, Raven snapped open the door, grabbed the unwanted guest by the throat then jerked him inside. A gurgling yelp erupted from the kid in the oversize hat and jacket. Snarling, Raven slammed the kid’s thin shoulders against the wall and loomed threateningly over him. If the widow had hired this brat then Raven vowed to scare the bejeezus out of him and send him running back to the widow.
“You’re messing with the wrong man, brat,” Raven growled viciously. “Get the hell out of here and don’t come back or I’ll gut your carcass and throw it to the wolves.”
The kid’s chocolate-brown eyes widened then narrowed in annoyance. Raven didn’t usually have trouble with his scare tactics, but the kid boldly reached up with a gloved hand to pry his fingers—one at a time—from his neck.
“Back off, you buzzard. I came here to hire you and I can pay good money for your services.”
The kid’s voice sounded feminine and Raven squinted to appraise the shadowed face beneath the wide-brim hat. When he used the barrel of his pistol to knock off the kid’s hat, a cascade of curly auburn hair tumbled free. The woman was young. Twenty-two or twenty-three, he guessed. Despite her smudged cheeks, she was stunningly attractive. Although her thick-lashed eyes were her most striking feature, her Cupid’s bow lips drew his rapt fascination.
“Are you the Flanders widow?” he asked, refusing to unhand her until he knew how much of a threat she posed.
“No. I’m the angel of doom who wants a lying, cheating sidewinder of a man hunted down,” she replied.
It had been three months since Raven had been anywhere close to a woman. Staring at this woman’s lush lips had him wondering what she tasted like. As good as she looked? He was certain of it.
Before he became sidetracked, he shook off the lusty thought. No matter how deprived he had been, his survival instincts always prevailed. Always. He trusted only half of what he saw and even less of what he was told. This mysterious female was no different, lovely though she was.
The wary thought provoked him to clamp his hand around her throat again…in case this was a ruse. The woman coughed then glared at him for cutting off the air in her windpipe. He eased off enough to let her catch her breath.
“Nice to meet you, too, J. D. Raven,” she sniped. “Kindly move away. I didn’t come here to shoot you. Only to hire you.”
“I’m at a disadvantage here. Who the hell are you?”
She looked him up and down and said, “You? At a disadvantage? Rarely, I suspect. I’ve heard that you’re the best in the business. Judging by our unique introduction, you seem to be prepared for anything.”
“Everything. There’s a difference,” he corrected. “You didn’t answer my question, Miss…? Mrs…?”
He arched a brow when she refused to fill in the blank. Instead, she made herself at home by walking over to plant herself in the middle of his modestly furnished room.
“I’m glad to see the room is tidy and clean. Good. A guest has every right to expect the comforts of home,” she commented.
He disregarded her odd remark and studied her closely. She possessed the regal bearing of nobility, but she didn’t flash the aloof smiles he usually attributed to the privileged class of white society. Her unconventional style of clothing indicated that she wasn’t afraid to be different. Yet, she didn’t bear the hard lines of living that he noticed on the faces of women who supported themselves on their backs.
In
