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Authors: Barbara Bretton
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mayor in Silver Spur either?"
"Had one once, but he died in bed with the doctor's wife."
"I do not see anything funny about death, Mr. Reardon," she retorted. "Perhaps if your heart gave out at an inopportune moment, you wouldn't—"
He threw back his head and roared. "Only thing wrong with Billy's heart was the piece of lead doc's wife put there."
Even in the dim light he could see the crimson blush staining her cheeks and throat. "She shot him?"
"Twice."
"I do not understand," she said, her voice losing that cool Eastern tone at last. "It would seem to me that...I mean, would it not be more understandable if her husband..." Her words trailed off delicately.
"He wore his spurs," Jesse drawled. "Cut up her sheets somethin' fierce."
Her mouth dropped open in horror. "She killed him because he wore his spurs?" What was the matter with the gal—she have some kind of trouble understanding English? "Some women around here think that's just cause for murder."
"I hope she went to jail for that."
"Nope," said Jesse, "but the circuit judge fined her one hundred dollars in gold." She swayed and he reached out to steady her. "You feeling poorly?"
"The heat." She leaned against the long expanse of bar, looking as beautiful and fragile as a desert flower, and he ignored the way her eyelashes cast shadows against her cheeks. "It suddenly came over me."
"I think you got scared."
"I think you are mistaken."
He shook his head. "I know fear when I smell it, lady, and you're scared."
"It would take more than a story like that to scare me, Mr. Reardon."
"I got a thousand stories worse'n that, Car-o-line," he said, drawing her name out lazily to get under her pretty skin. "One's sure to make you turn around and go back where you came from."
"There is nothing you can say that will scare me back to Boston."
He stepped closer to her but she held her ground. "This is my place, lady, and I don't recall sendin' you no invitation." She drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable for a woman, and met his eyes bold as any man in town. "I don't need an invitation, Mr. Reardon, for I own this establishment."
"We don't seem to be gettin' too far with this," Jesse said. Short of tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her outside to the stagecoach, he was beginning to wonder how he'd get her out of the saloon. Pulling over a chair, he straddled the seat. "Why don't you set a spell and tell me how it is you come to own the Crazy Arrow?"
"Don't you be tellin' him anything, Miss Caroline," said the redhaired maid as she hurried down the staircase. "This is your place, right and proper, and I wouldn't be lettin' the likes of him take what belongs to you."
Caroline turned toward her maid, affording Jesse with a view of her cameo-perfect profile. "Nobody is taking anything away from me, Abby. Why don't you step outside and see to having our luggage brought in."
"Don't waste your time, Miss Abby," Jesse advised the girl. "May as well just have it loaded back on the stagecoach."
"Pay no attention to him, Abby," Caroline instructed, her voice firm. "Have the bags brought in here now."
"Have it your own way," said Jesse with a shrug, "but don't expect me to help you drag them back out to the stage."
Miss-Caroline-from-Boston heaved an enormous sigh and a vivid memory of the way her body had felt beneath him a few minutes ago made him glad he was sitting down.
"This grows more tiresome by the minute, Mr. Reardon," she said, facing him once again. "First you leer at me in a public place, then you fling me to the ground under the guise of protecting me, now you order me to return to a city I devoutly pray never to see again. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."
His hand darted out quicker than a rattlesnake and he pulled her to him, ignoring the sweet scent of her perfume. "I'm gonna say this once more, little lady, and I advise you to listen real careful: this is my saloon and you ain't welcome here."
She glanced around the
"Had one once, but he died in bed with the doctor's wife."
"I do not see anything funny about death, Mr. Reardon," she retorted. "Perhaps if your heart gave out at an inopportune moment, you wouldn't—"
He threw back his head and roared. "Only thing wrong with Billy's heart was the piece of lead doc's wife put there."
Even in the dim light he could see the crimson blush staining her cheeks and throat. "She shot him?"
"Twice."
"I do not understand," she said, her voice losing that cool Eastern tone at last. "It would seem to me that...I mean, would it not be more understandable if her husband..." Her words trailed off delicately.
"He wore his spurs," Jesse drawled. "Cut up her sheets somethin' fierce."
Her mouth dropped open in horror. "She killed him because he wore his spurs?" What was the matter with the gal—she have some kind of trouble understanding English? "Some women around here think that's just cause for murder."
"I hope she went to jail for that."
"Nope," said Jesse, "but the circuit judge fined her one hundred dollars in gold." She swayed and he reached out to steady her. "You feeling poorly?"
"The heat." She leaned against the long expanse of bar, looking as beautiful and fragile as a desert flower, and he ignored the way her eyelashes cast shadows against her cheeks. "It suddenly came over me."
"I think you got scared."
"I think you are mistaken."
He shook his head. "I know fear when I smell it, lady, and you're scared."
"It would take more than a story like that to scare me, Mr. Reardon."
"I got a thousand stories worse'n that, Car-o-line," he said, drawing her name out lazily to get under her pretty skin. "One's sure to make you turn around and go back where you came from."
"There is nothing you can say that will scare me back to Boston."
He stepped closer to her but she held her ground. "This is my place, lady, and I don't recall sendin' you no invitation." She drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable for a woman, and met his eyes bold as any man in town. "I don't need an invitation, Mr. Reardon, for I own this establishment."
"We don't seem to be gettin' too far with this," Jesse said. Short of tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her outside to the stagecoach, he was beginning to wonder how he'd get her out of the saloon. Pulling over a chair, he straddled the seat. "Why don't you set a spell and tell me how it is you come to own the Crazy Arrow?"
"Don't you be tellin' him anything, Miss Caroline," said the redhaired maid as she hurried down the staircase. "This is your place, right and proper, and I wouldn't be lettin' the likes of him take what belongs to you."
Caroline turned toward her maid, affording Jesse with a view of her cameo-perfect profile. "Nobody is taking anything away from me, Abby. Why don't you step outside and see to having our luggage brought in."
"Don't waste your time, Miss Abby," Jesse advised the girl. "May as well just have it loaded back on the stagecoach."
"Pay no attention to him, Abby," Caroline instructed, her voice firm. "Have the bags brought in here now."
"Have it your own way," said Jesse with a shrug, "but don't expect me to help you drag them back out to the stage."
Miss-Caroline-from-Boston heaved an enormous sigh and a vivid memory of the way her body had felt beneath him a few minutes ago made him glad he was sitting down.
"This grows more tiresome by the minute, Mr. Reardon," she said, facing him once again. "First you leer at me in a public place, then you fling me to the ground under the guise of protecting me, now you order me to return to a city I devoutly pray never to see again. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."
His hand darted out quicker than a rattlesnake and he pulled her to him, ignoring the sweet scent of her perfume. "I'm gonna say this once more, little lady, and I advise you to listen real careful: this is my saloon and you ain't welcome here."
She glanced around the
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