Love of a Cowboy 1 Page 48

  Mary Rose’s eyebrow crooked. “By someone more reliable than Mrs. Jenkins, I assume?”

  “Yep,” Penny breathed, nodding vigorously. “You heard about the trains?”

  There had reportedly been several instances of a gang of thugs stopping and robbing trains as they entered the territory. The engineers, as well as any passengers who resisted in any way—and even some that didn’t—were shot and left for dead as the thieves galloped away with anything of value they could take.

  “I did.”

  “Well, they’ve been robbing banks in Texas and the territory, some of them not too far from us. They say the Rangers are on their tail, but the crooks seem to always be a step ahead of them.” Penny’s voice was reduced to a near whisper. “Word on the street is that they’re completely ruthless, and that they’ll shoot you as soon as look at you, then laugh while you writhe and gasp your last breath in the dirt.”

  Disliking that particular mental image, Mary Rose stood and headed back to work. “That doesn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary for an outlaw.”

  Penny shivered behind her, staring at the door to the saloon as if the apocalypse was about to burst through it. “I don’t like it, Miz Caldwell. I don’t like it a-tall. They hit the bank in Clearwater and killed everyone in it—men, women, and children.”

  That gave Mary Rose pause. Clearwater wasn’t but an hour or two away by horseback. That was, she had to admit, uncomfortably close. She shook off the fissure of fear that ran down her back, spiking her nipples tightly against her chemise. “I still say there’s nothing here to draw them.”

  Penny let the topic drop, but neither woman was completely at ease for the rest of the day.

  Chapter 2

  That unease fell away, however, over the next few days. The rumors persisted, as Penny gleefully reported whenever she tromped back from town, and as Mary Rose herself got an earful when she picked up supplies at Seymour’s. Mrs. Seymour seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in recounting the goriest of details of the previous incidents. “Aren’t you terrified to live out where you are, dear?” she asked in a voice that dripped with patent concern.

  “No,” Mary Rose had replied blithely, fingering a pretty yellow muslin that would have made a lovely day dress, if she’d had the money. “Stu is there every afternoon until closing.” Well, most afternoons, Mary Rose frowned. Lately Stu Hamblin had been falling victim to the same evil as he dished out all night; more often than not, he arrived at work either fully soused or badly hung over, if he made it at all. Mary Rose wasn’t sure which was worse—having him there or not. He could be somewhat of a loose cannon, but at least he was a male influence over the patrons, which was desperately needed.

  Sometimes she thought she needed to station a ranger at the entrance, in full regalia, gun drawn, but that was usually on Saturday nights during roundup, when the town was even fuller to bulging with rowdy cowboys than it usually was. As it was, she’d been pinched, poked, and patted in the past few months more than she ever had been in her life. The first time it happened, she had stormed out of the saloon, uncertain that she even wanted to be there in the first place.

  But she desperately wanted to help her Uncle Shep, and he had helped her laugh it off. The next time someone pinched her, she waggled her finger at him and then pinched him back—on the arm. For a moment, the bar fell silent. Everyone was watching what the object of her attack—however playful—would do. His name was Black Bart. He wasn’t over tall, probably just under six feet or so, but he had enough muscles on his muscles that he was at least as wide as he was tall. And he wasn’t known for his pleasant disposition. But he had surprised them all by laughing so heartily he nearly fell over in his chair, and then he stood up to bow and apologize, to boot.

  Overall though, she felt safer at home at the inn and saloon than she ever would in town, and she told Henrietta Seymour exactly that, which just produced an indignant “Well!” from the older woman, along with what was probably intended as a friendly warning, but came out sounding more like a threat. “You best be careful out there by yourself. You never know what kind of riff-raff might ride in from the range.”

  Mary Rose sighed, and paid for her purchases while Mrs. Jenkins gave her a disturbingly thorough once-over. The townsfolk had decided that she was an odd one. And it wasn’t a compliment. They were much closer to lumping her in with Mariah Jenkins than not, especially when she decided not to sell out to the owner of one of the hotels in town who offered a very reasonable settlement for the inn and the saloon when her aunt died. Everyone had figured she’d be on the next train out of town once Alma was buried in the town graveyard, next to Shep.

  But they had figured wrong about this little lady. And they couldn’t quite come to terms with it. Why would a spinster lady—and apparently a somewhat patrician one—want to run and own a saloon? Some of the population thought that, since she hadn’t done anything to discourage the strumpets who populated her bar of an evening, she might as well be one of them and perhaps that was how she was managing to keep that place afloat.

  Of course, that conjecture was the furthest from the truth.

  Mary Rose could not possibly have been any more innocent—despite the pats and pinches she was forced to endure—but less so since she’d set down Black Bart, though. Her parents had never so much as kissed in front of her, and they certainly weren’t going to discuss the intimacies of their bedroom with their daughter. It just wasn’t done. Even if it had been done, they weren’t going to do it. And they certainly didn’t teach anything about men at Miss Victoria’s School for Girls—except how to simper and smile shyly and how to flirt delicately, only with one’s eyes from just above a beautiful lace fan.

  Penny delighted in teasing her about her innocence, which only served to make Mary Rose mad. She hated not knowing about something that everyone around her seemed to know. She was constantly left out of the joke. At the rate she was going, though, she would never find out what it was like to be so much as kissed by a man, much less get married and actually spend time in the same bed as he did. She found that idea quite a novelty, as her parents had been what her mother considered as civilized enough to maintain separate bedrooms.

  But Penny had hinted that that was not necessarily the norm, especially in the West. When the man was interested in that type of arrangement—and had the scratch to back it up—she gladly spent the whole night in his bed.

  Mary Rose had to wonder—quietly of course—what they could possibly spend all that time doing …

  ~

  Later that evening, as regular as clockwork, Stu had failed to show up to tend bar so Mary Rose ended up filling in, something she frankly detested doing. Penny was there, but they were the only two people in the place, and it left them unprotected. Henrietta Seymour’s warnings about the outlaws being nearby played on her nerves all evening, until every little creak and moan as the place settled around her made her jump.

  “This place is dead as a doornail,” Penny whined for what seemed like the hundredth time from her perch at the end of the bar. She fluffed her hair and straightened her carmine dress, fluffing her breasts to the point of overflowing at the same time.

  “So go in to town.” Mary Rose eyed the other woman’s cleavage skeptically.

  Penny huffed. “I can’t leave you here alone—there’s no telling what would happen.”

  “I’ll just die of boredom. Bury me next to Uncle Shep.” It was true. She’d washed all the dishes, polished the bar, wiped down all the tables and dusted everything to within an inch of its life.

  They’d not had one customer all night, which, despite the tedium, was fine with Mary Rose … until just before closing time when a very tall, very broad stranger came in—armed to the gills. He was carrying a rifle—although it wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular he still had it at the ready—and had not one but two six shooters strapped around his narrow hips. A fissure of fear traveled up Mary Rose’s spine. There was something she
didn’t like about this man, and Penny seemed to agree with that assessment. She hopped down off her stool and came around to stand next to Mary Rose, practically hugging the other woman’s side, her eyes wide as saucers.

  The big man’s boots clunked menacingly on the floorboards as he advanced towards them. “Whiskey,” he commanded when he made it to the bar. Most cowboys laid their rifles on top of the bar while they drank—actually, most cowboys left their rifles in the holsters that were as much a part of their horses’ tack as their saddles—but not this man. Even when he threw back his drink, he held onto that gun like it was child, his lifeline. And it probably was.

  He looked around, those black eyes missing nothing. “Any rooms in the inn?” he asked, still looking away from them, as if assessing the place.

  Penny piped up in an even higher voice than usual. “No, there’s no one here but—”

  Mary Rose planted her elbow firmly in Penny’s ribs, causing the girl to yelp sharply. “We have several people staying here—they’re asleep upstairs. But we do have rooms still available, Sir.” She met his piercing eyes steadily as she told the complete fabrication, proud of herself for being so calm.

  “Gimme another shot.”

  Penny tilted the bottle towards his empty glass, ready to pour his second, when Mary Rose pushed the bottle away, saying strongly, “We would be glad to, Sir, once you’ve paid for your first.”

  He smiled then, quite unpleasantly, then threw his head back and whooped loudly. The two girls stared at him, mouths agape, wondering if he was out of his mind. Mary Rose thought the noise he was making was the closest thing she’d probably ever hear to an Indian war cry.

  Before the echo died down, two more men burst into the saloon, not only brandishing guns but discharging them loudly into the ceiling, laughing and yelling riotously as they clamored towards the bar. Penny grabbed Mary Rose’s arm, squeezing it until it nearly popped. Mary Rose could feel Penny shaking, and she knew that a fine, uncontrollable tremor also ran through her own body. Her eyes were painfully wide, and she was too scared to blink as the two heathens descended on them, banging the butts of their guns on the bar hard enough to dent the wood, and demanding whiskey.

  Penny seemed to be looking to her for permission, somehow, and Mary Rose nodded slowly, grabbing a second bottle and two more glasses.

  “I believe I’ll have that other drink now,” the first man drawled, mocking her words.

  Mary Rose herself poured it, then stepped as far away as she dared, until the counter of the mirrored wall opposite the bar dug painfully into the small of her back, swallowing hard, the bottle still clenched in fingers that were numb from her death grip on it.

  One of the men reached across and grabbed her free wrist, dragging her back up against the edge of the bar. That’s when her eyes literally began to water. The first man didn’t smell bad at all—body odor was something her Eastern nose had detected first about the West: everything and everyone stunk to high heavens—the cows, the men, the roads, everything. Bathing was a luxury out here—at least, the majority of folks treated it as such, whether it was to them or not. But Mary Rose’s nose had never quite gotten used to it, and she noticed anyone who reeked more readily than most—probably because she was so scrupulous with her own hygiene.

  “Yer a purty one, ain’tcha?” The man sniveled and leered at her, but Mary Rose stood still, feeling very much the coward, wishing, not for the first time in her life, that she were a man so she couldn’t be treated like this—like chattel to be pinched and poked or married off or cowed into submission. “But yer too covered up for my tastes, eh, Toze?” He winked suggestively at the third man, who sniggered and wiped his snotty nose on his dirty sleeve.

  Two incredibly filthy hands grabbed her shirt, and within seconds, the front of Mary Rose’s very prim and proper white linen shirt was calmly ripped open from high collar almost to her navel, revealing the muslin chemise beneath. Before she could bring her arm up to cover herself, she found it caught in unyielding, filthy fingers as he proceeded to mangle the chemise, too, leaving her breasts bare to everyone’s eyes.

  The grubby man literally began to drool through his crooked black and yellow teeth as he leaned forward, his mouth open as if to draw in one of those tempting rose pink nipples.

  The first stranger threw back his shot and banged the glass down on the counter loudly, uttering words that nearly stopped Mary Rose’s heart: “She’s mine.”

  She wasn’t sure if being released would be a good thing, but it didn’t matter—the ogre maintained his painful grip on her arm, jerking her around as he faced the first man and complained, “Aw, Diablo, you always take the good ‘uns for yourself!”

  The tremor became the out and out shakes at the mention of the man’s name. They were being held at gunpoint by one of the most notorious outlaws in the territories.

  How lucky for them.

  Diablo didn’t say one word, didn’t even look at the man, merely nodding to Penny to refill his glass again.

  “I want her, and I got her,” the pudgy second man vowed, reaching another arm out towards a shrinking Mary Rose.

  “What did I say, Hernandez?” The devil’s voice was deceptively soft; he looked as relaxed as if they were all at a garden party. He sounded like a father reprimanding his son.

  Although that second, reaching hand never made it to its goal, Hernandez’s original bruising hold on her forearm didn’t loosen one bit for a long, tense moment of complete silence. But as soon as El Diablo’s arm moved—whether he was going to reach for his gun or just scratch an annoying itch, they would never know—it was enough to intimidate his companion, and she immediately found herself free to rub her aching appendage.

  “One day, Black, I’m not going to let you win.”

  So that was Diablo’s last name! Mary Rose filed the information away in the back of her mind, just in case they survived this—which was doubtful—she would be able to give it to any Ranger who road through town.

  The only sign that Diablo had heard the remark was a raised eyebrow until he drawled laconically, “Then that’ll be the day you die.” Just as she was beginning to get some feeling in her left arm, he reached over and seized her right one, dragging her around to clamp her to his side with a heavily muscled arm.

  Hernandez, unhappy at having been deprived of the plaything he most wanted, descended on a hapless Penny instead, cornering her near where Mary Rose was being held hostage by Diablo, and producing a wicked looking knife with which he proceeded to divest the poor, whimpering girl of her clothing, right there in front of God and everyone.

  Mary Rose tugged against the steel band around her waist, wanting to go to Penny’s aid somehow, but not really knowing how. She just wanted to help the other girl, who sounded desperately frightened, as they both were. But it was like trying to move a mountain. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Stay,” El Diablo commanded, tightening his arm until Mary Rose could barely breathe.

  The other man, Toze, had joined in Hernandez’ fun, reaching out to touch one of Penny’s breasts, until the bigger man backhanded him viciously across the face. “Not until I’m done!” he yelled, hefting Penny over his shoulder and making his way through the door to the Inn. “If there’s anything left, you can have her.”

  Tears filled Mary Rose’s eyes as they all heard the clomping of his boots up the stairs and Penny’s plaintive cries for him not to hurt her, which he would most certainly ignore.

  “Toze, you stand first guard shift. You can wake Hernandez in four hours.” Black was moving about the place, keeping her with him, plastered to his side, checking every entrance and setting the locks on all the doors and windows. “Move two of those barrels in the back against each door, just in case. We’re not going anywhere for a while. Douse the lights and put up the closed sign. Lay low.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  When he was through, they were at the bottom of the same stairs Penny had just been carted up kicking and scre
aming. That disturbing image was the foremost thought in Mary Rose’s mind, and he seemed to know that as his heavy lidded gaze settled on her face. “Take me to the nicest room you have.”

  Although she was of a mind to show him to the exact opposite, Mary Rose thought that that probably wasn’t the smartest of moves. Although it would certainly soothe her injured pride, she could just as easily end up dead for it, outlaws not being known for their good humor, and this one for having absolutely none. There was a master suite on the third floor that almost no one could afford, but it was kept in a state of complete readiness, just in case, and that’s where she took him.

  He made her lead the way into the dark room as he followed with a lit candle, from which he lit the bedside lantern. As the room was bathed in soft yellow light, Mary Rose had the stray thought that this room was much too feminine for him; she’d sewn the quilt herself in scraps of the finest lilac, yellow and cream cotton, creating a matching skirt for the bedside table as well as cushions for the divan that sat in front of the bow window. The curtains were a deeper lilac damask with pale yellow Irish lace insets. This was Mary Rose’s favorite room—it was usually so warm and inviting.

  But not any more.

  The bed had been specially ordered and was half again as big as usual beds, with a deep custom-made feather mattress packed tight enough so that it was at once both soft and firm. It was the height of luxury, especially for a town like this. The sheets were a muted yellow satin, and there were four pillows lined up like soldiers on the head of the bed. It was completely decadent.

  No wonder no one could afford it.

  Mary Rose knew that her Uncle Shep had occasionally slept there—he’d paid to furnish it, he’d justify to Alma, who would rail against that practice, why not use it if it wasn’t being occupied. Aunt Alma, of course, considered this the epitome of sloth and sin. Mary Rose and Uncle Shep had just rolled their eyes.

  Nothing pleasant was going to happen there that night, Mary Rose knew instinctively. She’d be happy just to live through the experience … maybe. Perhaps in the morning she’d just shoot herself and be done with it, since the chances were that she’d be a fallen woman—not unlike Penny—before the evening was over.