Read Online .45-Caliber Firebrand by Peter Brandvold - Free Book Online Page B

apologized and awarded a sizable check. I know that doesn’t bring back your dead driver, but it should give you a new wagon, six new mules, and more whores than you, sir, can possibly fuck over an entire Denver city winter!”
    Serenity slammed his fist on the table and started to rise, bellowing, “Well, you, sir, got no idea just how many—”
    â€œFather?” It was a girl’s voice—soft, high-pitched, and slightly raspy.
    It cut Serenity off like a pistol shot.
    Cuno turned his gaze from Serenity to the room’s arched doorway. Michelle stood there, a blond vision in a simple, green velvet dress cut low enough to show off her long, creamy neck and chest and just enough cleavage to start a young mule skinner’s heart to turning somersaults in his rib cage.
    Her long, honey-colored hair was brushed straight down across her shoulders, the ends curled like a licking tongue. It fairly glowed in the umber light from the popping fire. A pearl necklace lent the girl—seventeen or eighteen at the oldest—an elegant, old-fashioned charm that accentuated her girlish, wholesome allure.
    She favored her father with a demure smile as, entwining her hands at her waist, she said, “You know I don’t approve of such barn talk, Father.” She cast her sparkling glance at the table. “I apologize for my tardiness, gentlemen. I’m Michelle Trent.”
    Cuno and the other men in the room slid their chairs back and climbed to their feet.
    As Logan Trent grumbled and chuffed behind his own chair, Serenity cleared his throat meaningfully and rammed an elbow into Cuno’s ribs. He looked up at the brawny young freighter knowingly and winked.
    â€œForgive me, my dear,” Trent growled. “Got my blood up there for a minute. Friendly disagreement, I assure you. Come in and have a seat. Yes, gentlemen, this is my lovely, devoted daughter, Michelle . . .”
    Trent let his voice trail off as more footsteps sounded down the hall behind Michelle. They were the tap of light leather shoes set down in a brisk, forthright step. And then, the owner of that step—a tall, ivory-pale lad with a cap of coal-black hair and matching mustache and goatee, and dressed to the nines in a black suit, glowing white shirt, and fawn vest trimmed with a gold watch chain—marched up beside Michelle and placed an arm around her shoulders. He lifted his dimpled chin to the room as though posing for a photograph.
    Michelle smiled proudly and reached across her matronly bosom to squeeze the young man’s hand.
    All the blood in Cuno’s body dropped into his boots. He thought he would vomit.
    â€œAnd this,” Trent said with a courtly nod and a fling of his bony old hand, “is Michelle’s betrothed, Mr. Jedediah H. Gallantly.”

7
    JEDEDIAH H. GALLANTLY marched up to the table in soldierly fashion, still jutting that dimpled jaw, and shook everyone’s hand. His hand, Cuno noticed, was as smooth as a baby’s rump. It was as pale and waxy as fresh paraffin. The man wore a slim silver ring on his pinky and a giant onyx set in gold on his forefinger.
    â€œPleased to meet you, gentlemen,” the young man said, stepping back to pull a chair out from beside Kuttner for Michelle. “You’re the, uh . . . the freighters, isn’t that right?”
    â€œThat’s right,” Cuno said, feeling as though he were wearing the tip of a Ute war lance in his belly.
    Michelle folded gracefully into her chair, smiling demurely, celestially, her eyes bright but owning a vaguely distracted, bored cast, as well.
    Young Gallantly slid her forward, then moved to the chair to her right. “Did the trip go well? No trouble with the Indians?”
    â€œOh, we had trouble with the Injuns, all right,” Snowberger growled, retaking his seat to the right of Serenity Parker.
    â€œLost a man,” Serenity said. “A good one . . .”
    â€œOh,”