- -
- 100%
- +
Was it possible she was attracted to him, and saw his invitation to dinner as romantic, rather than just business? If so, she might not want to remind him of what she was by having him pick her up at her place of employment. He hoped that was the reason, and his hope had little to do with the money he had a chance to regain by succeeding with the lovely Mercedes.
Mercy waited until they’d walked a block from the Alamo Saloon before rounding on her sister. “How could you? How could you, Charity? After all Papa has told us about the things those cowboys get up to! You could have been…well, violated out there, Charity, did you realize that? How do you like your yellow-headed cowboy now?”
Charity shuddered. “He was horrible, Mercy. He said he just wanted to go for a stroll! His breath stank of whiskey and tobacco, and his teeth were yellow. And his hands—I swear, Mercy, he had more hands than that octopus in our old picture book! And the way he kissed me, Mercy—it started out kinda nice, and then all at once he stuck his tongue right in my mouth! It was awful! Mercy, I’m not ever g-going near a m-man again!” Her breath caught on a renewed sob.
Mercy put her arm bracingly around her sister’s shaking shoulders bracingly, and spoke in softer tones. “Yes, you will, honey. They’re not all lecherous beasts like that cowboy. You’ll find a good, decent man someday. But in the meantime, we need to have a talk about men…”
“When we get home?”
“No, silly. It’s going to be tough enough to get us both back inside without waking Papa, if he’s not already awake and waiting up with a switch, that is. No, we’ll have that talk soon, I promise, but tonight we need to get some sleep. That ol’ rooster’s going to crow before you know it.”
“I don’t think I could sleep now,” Charity confessed as they walked through the darkened streets of Abilene. Here and there lamplight spilled through a saloon window, illuminating a patch of the hard-packed dirt beneath their feet, enabling them to see and step around piles of horse droppings and, in one case, a snoring cowboy, obviously the worse for wear after an excess of tanglefoot.
Mercy didn’t think she could sleep tonight, either. As she lay in bed, she was sure she would be thinking about the darkly handsome Sam Houston Devlin, with those dangerous, deep blue eyes and that predatory smile.
She found it difficult to believe she’d agreed to go to supper with him. A frisson of terrified delight tingled all the way down her spine. She knew instinctively that he was dangerous to her, though she could not define what that meant. And yet, she would not have given up trying to see him tomorrow night for the moon and the stars. But how on earth was she going to be able to manage to do it?
She’d almost lost her nerve when he’d asked to come pick her up. He’d raised an eyebrow curiously when she’d refused, and for a moment she’d been afraid he was going to ask her why not. She couldn’t very well tell him that the reason for her reluctance was a fire-breathing papa who’d shoot him on sight rather than let his daughter spend a minute in a Texas cowboy’s company.
But thankfully, he’d accepted her request without further comment, and now she just had to figure out a way to get out of the house tomorrow night, dressed appropriately for supper at Abilene’s Grand Hotel.
She’d wear Mama’s garnet silk dress with the bishop sleeves and the ivory lace trim, she decided, along with Mama’s garnet earbobs and black cameo on black velvet ribbon.
“Mercy…” began her sister, breaking into her thoughts.
“What?”
“What did Mr. Devlin say to you? If…if you don’t mind my askin’, that is.”
Mercy said nothing for several paces, so long that Charity finally spoke again. “Did he…did he say he thought I was an idiot? That I deserved what could have happened? He…he has such a fierce look about him, Mercy. You can’t tell for sure what he’s thinking, can you?”
Her words surprised Mercy. Charity could be such a featherhead so much of the time, and then she’d come up with these perceptions about people that were dead on target.
“No, he wasn’t saying anything about you at all, you silly,” Mercy said, putting her arm around her sister as they walked on toward their house. “I…I shouldn’t even tell you this, Charity, but he was asking me to supper.”
Charity stopped stock-still in the road for a minute, her mouth making an O of astonishment. Then a smile began to play about her lips.
“Are you going to go? Do you want to go?”
Mercy pretended to be concentrating on making her way past a particularly dark stretch between two buildings. “I shouldn’t even consider it for a heartbeat, and you know it, Charity. He’s just the sort of man Papa’s warned us about. He might be just like that Tom Culhane, in spite of the fact he helped me find you just in the nick of time tonight, and got rid of Culhane when he wanted to be ugly about it.”
“But?”
Mercy could hear the grin in her sister’s words, even though she couldn’t see her face just now.
“But I want to go, if there’s a way to get out without Papa knowing.”
Charity let out a whoop of glee, and hugged her sister. Mercy immediately put a hand over Charity’s mouth to smother her outcry. They were passing the house of Horace and Abigail Barnes. The fat would sure be in the fire if that gossipy matron found them out strolling through the streets at a time when respectable ladies were long abed! “
Good for you, Mercy! I’m glad to hear you have some grit, after all! I’ll help you get out of the house, somehow. We’ll think of a way!”
Mercy felt warmed by her sister’s approval, and amused by her choice of words. “You didn’t think I had any grit? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad,” Charity assured her sister. “It’s just that…well, you’ve always done what Papa says is right, and you’re always so good about taking care of him an’ me an’ the house. But it seems like you don’t ever do anything for yourself, Mercy. You don’t ever get out of line. I think you should go and have a wonderful time.”
“I don’t know…As you say, there’s something about this Sam Devlin that’s a little, um, scary. Something devilish in those eyes, Charity.”
“I know.” The idea seemed to produce shivers of delight in Charity, rather than the opposite. “He’s the trail boss of that outfit Tom Culhane rode in with, you know. They call him ‘Devil,’ and themselves the ‘Devil’s Boys.’“
“Oh.” All the more reason to think she must have been insane to agree to see him.
“Stop worrying, Mercy—I can practically see what you’re thinking,” Charity told her. “It’s only supper. Even if he does have any dishonorable notions, he can’t exactly carry them out over the supper table, can he?”
“And you thought you were just going for a walk with Tom Culhane, remember?” Mercy retorted.
“Oh, I knew that scalawag wanted to do a little spoonin’,” her sister had the grace to admit. “But I didn’t think he wouldn’t listen when I said no. Devlin isn’t Culhane, Mercy. He may look fierce, but I don’t believe he’d ever hurt a woman, you know? There’s something…something honorable about him, deep down.”
Mercy devoutly hoped her sister was right.
“Now, what are you planning to wear?” Charity asked, then ran on, “I think…” And suddenly they were both just girls again, discussing the age-old feminine concern.
Deacon Paxton was thoughtful as he wiped up spilled liquor with a damp cloth. That Texan—the trail boss who’d stood talking to him until the girl had come in—there was something familiar about him. Had they met before? In the year since Abilene had gotten the railhead and become the end point on the Chisholm Trail, hundreds of Texans had poured into the town and back out again. Maybe he’d been one he’d met last year, or maybe he just resembled one he’d met. They all started to look alike after a while, he mused-tall, lean, with weathered faces and wary, sun-narrowed eyes. And they sounded alike, too, men of few words, generally—though Devlin had been friendly enough once he’d seen Deacon was inclined to be likewise. But he hadn’t been inclined to say much about himself.
He wondered what the Reverend Jeremiah Fairweather’s daughters had been doing in here tonight. The blond one, the one they called Charity, was clearly headed for trouble. Should he tell the preacher about seeing her in here tonight, sitting with the cowboys?
He thought about the time he’d asked the preacher if he could attend his Sunday services, and the Reverend Mr. Fairweather had told him he was welcome—in fact, he’d consider making him a deacon in fact as well as name, soon as he quit his job working in the Alamo. Deacon was in Satan’s employ, didn’t Deacon know that?
Recollecting that conversation, Deacon didn’t think he’d be talking to the preacher about his blond daughter. Or the one with the dark red hair, either, come to think of it. He’d been even more surprised to see Mercy Fairweather show up, and then leave with the Texas trail boss, but she’d looked worried. He supposed she’d been searching for her scapegrace sister, and from his vantage point at the bar it looked as if Devlin had offered to help her find Charity.
But Deacon had also seen the way Sam Devlin had been looking at the preacher’s older daughter before he’d led her out of the Alamo. It was the look of a predator who’d spotted his prey.
Deacon wondered if the Texan knew that his quarry was the daughter of the only preacher in this wild cow town-and if he knew, if he actually gave a damn. But it was none of his business, Deacon decided—unless he actually saw Devlin acting in a shady way.
“Have a good night, Deacon?” a woman’s husky voice asked from the stairs that led right past the bar.
Mercedes LaFleche stood there, lighting a cheroot. Once she was sure of at least one male watching her entrance into the nearly empty main room of the saloon, she descended the final three stairs.
“Yes, Miss LaFleche, how about you?” he asked politely. He liked the woman well enough—Mercedes LaFleche was an amiable person, especially when her customers had paid well.
“Good enough. I haven’t wasted my time, I guess.” She looked around the room, gauging the remaining customers, and turned back to Deacon, obviously deciding that none of the die-hard drinkers was worth her time and attention. “Give me a beer, Deacon, would you?”
“Sure ‘nough, Miss Mercedes. Say, did Wyatt see you? He told me there was a Texan in here hoping to meet you, a drover.”
“Hey, what’s this ‘Miss Mercedes’ stuff? I’ve told you often enough it’s just ‘Mercedes,’ haven’t I?” the woman said with a lazy smile, which showed the dimple in one rouged cheek. “Naw, I didn’t see Wyatt any time I was downstairs, which wasn’t often, if you know what I mean. So some Texas drover wanted to meet me, hmm? How unusual, ” Mercedes said with a wry quirk to her mouth that robbed her sarcasm of any sting.
“He seemed like a real pleasant fella, Miss Mercedes,” Deacon insisted, handing the prostitute her beer and wondering why he bothered to defend the drover to her. “I believe he said his handle was Sam Devlin.”
“I’m sure he was a nice fella, Deacon,” Mercedes said, patting the bartender’s hand. “You’ve never steered me wrong yet. Well, if I see this Devlin, I’ll smile at him real pretty, and listen to what he has to say—if he hasn’t lost all his money to Wyatt by then, that is.”
Chapter Six
Sam woke late the next morning with an enormous sense of well-being. In fact, he felt like a pup with two tails. Tonight was going to go well, he was sure of it. The only difficulty would be in waiting for evening to arrive.
Well, in a cow town like Abilene whose saloons were open twenty-four hours a day, there ought to be plenty he could keep busy with until evening, he reasoned as he rose and dressed and went downstairs. He’d start with breakfast. It would be good to eat his eggs and bacon sitting at a real table, instead of hunkered down by a campfire with hundreds of longhorns lowing nearby. Then he’d check on Buck, his horse, at the Twin Barns, the livery stable beyond the railroad tracks. The buckskin gelding was probably eating his fool head off, but Sam wanted to make sure the liveryman wasn’t neglecting the cow pony that had brought Sam so far from Texas.
Buck was fine, he discovered, and whinnied a greeting when he saw his master coming. Sam scratched underneath the gelding’s jaw, a favorite place, and fed him the apple he’d talked the Drover’s Cottage cook out of.
The horse in the stall next to Buck caught Sam’s attention. The tall black stallion was an unusually fine beast to be found in a livery. Thoroughbred, Sam mused, admiring the stallion who gazed back alertly at him, his ears pricked forward. Someone in Abilene must be boarding the beast here, for the black was certainly not the kind of nag a livery would rent out.
He sure reminded Sam of Goliad, the horse Caleb had ridden away from the Devlin farm when he went to join the Union army. Thinking of Goliad, and the kind of horses that had once filled the Devlin stables, made Sam nostalgic. He was going to fill those barns up again with good horseflesh, he vowed as he left the livery, if it took a dozen trail drives to finance it!
It was still only eleven-thirty. Now what was he going to do?
He was going to stay away from the Alamo, that was certain—not because he thought he’d see Mercedes working this early, but to avoid further poker games with Earp. As likable as the cardsharp was, he was determined not to lose any more money to him.
About noon, therefore, he was firmly ensconced in a rawhide-backed chair in the Longhorn Saloon, holding three aces and a king. Boy Henderson, who had been regaling them with a tale about losing his virginity in the arms of a sloe-eyed harlot the night before, had just stepped out back to relieve himself when Tom Culhane ambled in, saw Sam and scowled.
“Morning, Tom,” Jase Lowry said in greeting. “Pull up a chair and set a spell, and watch me lose some more money to Dev here.”
“I ain’t intr’sted in sittin’ nowhere with that sumbitch spoilsport,” snarled Culhane, glaring at Sam with bloodshot eyes.
Sam sighed. If that cowboy wasn’t careful, he was going to ruin a perfectly good morning—make that afternoon, he thought, noting that it was fifteen minutes past twelve on the clock.
“Aw, come on and sit down, Tom,” he said, motioning to a chair opposite him. “Hellfire, I’ll even buy you a drink to prove there’s no hard feelin’s. That’s why you’re such a sorehead this mornin’, you know—you need a hair of the dog that bit you.”
“You may not have hard feelings, you sumbitch, but I do,” sneered Culhane, pointing a finger at Sam. “You thought you wuz some high-an’-mighty knight in shinin’ armor last night, didn’t you? Showin’ off for the filly you found—an’ at my expense! I hope she gave you some disease that makes your pecker rot off.”
Sam was determined not to let Culhane rile him, though it was clear the cowboy was spoiling for a fight. “Aw, Culhane, what was I supposed to do? Miss Mercedes told me her sister wasn’t in the business. Granted, sashayin’ around cowboys like that, it won’t be long, but I had to let you know you’d made a mistake, didn’t I?”
Sam’s reasonableness apparently only enraged Culhane further. “What you wuz supposed t’ do, Devlin, was mind yer own goddamn business!” shouted Culhane. “You ain’t my boss no more! You don’t tell me what t’ do!”
“C’mon, Culhane. Don’t be yellin’ like that,” pleaded Jase. “I got a headache. B’sides, ya might wanta work for Dev again next spring.”
“I wouldn’t work for that stupid sidewinder if he wuz the las’ trail boss in Texas!” Culhane shouted back, but his eyes remained on Sam. His hands dropped, hovering near the Colts strapped at his hips.
Sam noted the fact. Yep, the pleasant afternoon was definitely about to get ruined. He was armed, too, of course—there was as yet no real law in the wild cow town, so a man had to be prepared to defend himself. But he had no intention of drawing down on the young cowboy. He rose to his feet, slowly and deliberately. “You don’t want to do this, Culhane,” he advised.
The saloon became very quiet as cowboys nearby took note of the explosive situation. Those nearest Sam’s table edged away. A drummer who had come in to wet his whistle backed out the doors, keeping a nervous eye on the two Texans.
Culhane went right on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Fact, when I get done with him, ain’t none o’ you saddlebums gonna work for him. Whenever you’re ready, Devlin,” he said with a meaningful glance at Sam’s pistols.
“Tom! What are you doin’?” shouted Boy Henderson from the back of the saloon. He had come back just in time to see Culhane fixing to draw on the boss.
Involuntarily, Culhane glanced in the direction of the boy’s voice, and Sam took instant advantage of it, launching himself at Culhane with doubled-up fists. A moment later Culhane was out cold on the saloon floor, and the patrons of the Longhorn were going back to their whiskey and cards.
“We’ll get him back to his room, Dev,” Jase Lowry said, gesturing for Boy and Cookie to join him, “so’s he can wake up peaceable. I’ll try an’ talk some sense inta him when he comes to.”
Sam was just finishing a mental thanksgiving that he’d been able to avoid using his gun on his own drover. “Much obliged, Jase. I’m not so sure anyone can talk sense into that mule-headed fool, though,” Sam said with a heavy sigh. He’d made an enemy, and now he was going to have to watch his back.
Jase nodded his agreement. “I can try. But I know what ya mean, Dev. I can explain it to him, but I can’t understand it for him.”
As it happened, all the schemes Mercy and Charity had concocted turned out to be unnecessary. At about four o’clock in the afternoon, when Mercy was just coming in from the barn after having managed to stash her chosen ensemble for the evening there, she noticed George Abels’s buckboard parked in front of the house.
Going inside, she found the middle-aged farmer in the parlor with her father and Charity, telling them that his elderly father-in-law, who lived with them and who had been declining for months, was saying he was going to die again. He wondered if the reverend would come out, and sit up with him for a while, and quiet his doubts about the hereafter.
Mercy did her best to smother a smile. This had happened so many times before that it had become something of a joke between the girls, for their father would go out to the soddy out by the Smoky River, spend all night praying with the cantankerous old man, return home exhausted but triumphant that he had helped save the old, nearly deaf reprobate’s soul, only to have the process repeated in a few months. Mercy suspected the old man used his imminent death as an attention-getting device, or a means of quieting his daughter’s numerous brood when he’d had too much of their noise. Their father never failed to go, however, for old Ike Turnbull was nearing eighty and each time might be the real thing. No, their papa never failed to go; a pastor must tend his flock.
The Reverend Mr. Fairweather said he would go again this time, of course.
“Oh, bless ya, Reverend. I…I think this time he means it,” Abels said, just as he said every time. “He’s been lookin’ might poorly for some time now, laws, yes.”
When they had first moved to Abilene, the reverend would bring Mercy and Charity with him on these calls, volunteering them to help with the farmer’s twelve children, so that the farmer’s wife could be with her father, but after the first couple of times he had told his daughters it wasn’t necessary. Perhaps he suspected the old man was hoaxing him, or perhaps he realized that the older children were perfectly up to watching the younger ones, but in any case Mercy and Charity were relieved not to have to go.
She offered one more time, however, just in case God had decided He had favored her enough by allowing Charity and herself to sneak back into the house undetected last night and was not inclined to bless her any further by permitting the secret supper with Devlin this evening.
“Mr. Abels, would you like Charity and me to come out and watch the children, so your wife can sit by her father’s sick bed?” Give me a sign, she prayed. If you don’t want me to see Sam Devlin tonight, let Mr. Abels take me up on my offer. Then she held her breath. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, imagining Sam Devlin waiting in vain for her in front of the Abilene Grand Hotel.
The reverend beamed proudly, not noticing Charity’s shocked, dismayed face, or her attempts to get her sister’s attention.
“Oh, bless ya fer offerin’, Miss Mercy, but that won’t be necessary,” Abels replied. “The house is plumb fulla relatives come over from across the Smoky River. They think this might be the end, too, so there’s plenty t’ help. No, I won’t take you girls away from the house, but your papa should be mighty proud of you girls, mighty proud indeed. Laws, yes. You’re good girls.”
“Thank you, George. Yes, I know I’m blessed in my daughters,” said the reverend, rising from his seat. “They’ve been such a comfort to me since their sainted mother went to her reward. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get my Bible from my bedroom before we go.”
Mercy let Charity handle the small talk while they waited for their father to return. She was too full of relief, and a giddy excitement about how easy it was going to be, to speak. Fortunately Charity handled the task well, inquiring about Abels’s crops and chattering artlessly about the lack of rain.
Moments later their father had departed in the buckboard with Abels, admonishing the girls, “Don’t wait up-it might be morning before I’m back, you know.”
The sisters knew, all right.
He was standing on the planking in front of the Abilene Grand Hotel when she came around the corner, leaning against one of the columns that supported the establishment’s overhanging roof. She knew he had spotted her and was watching her approach, and the knowledge made her pulse quicken.
Was she doing the right thing? She’d been so sure, when she’d left the house, buoyed by Charity’s encouragement. There was no way Charity would have allowed her to back out of going to supper, in fact. She kept reminding Mercy that she owed Devlin that much, at least, for coming to her sister’s aid yesterday.
But now she felt very uncertain as she saw Devlin straighten and push himself away from the post, stepping down off the planking to extend his hand to her.
He looked her up and down. “Miss Mercy, you’re looking pretty as a field of bluebonnets,” he said.
She found it a strange compliment, seeing as how she was clad in garnet silk, not blue, but she figured that must be high praise to a Texan. They were so proud of their oversize state to the south, with all of its unique features. And then his hand touched hers and their eyes met and she almost forgot how to breathe.
His hands were work-worn and callused, but they were warm, and the blood flowing through them called to hers. As Mercy stepped up onto the planking from the dirt of the street, holding his hand as if it were a lifeline, his other hand left his side and she saw that he was holding a small bouquet of red roses.
“For you, Miss Mercy,” he said with a devastating grin. “I had no idea they’d go so well with your dress, too.”
“Too?” she repeated in confusion, her eyes unable to escape his compelling dark blue gaze. She gathered her white lacy shawl more closely around her.
His eyes lowered a few inches. “I was thinking of your lips,” he confessed, handing her the bouquet. “They look soft as these petals,” he said, stroking the edge of one bloom in a circular motion with his thumb.
Mercy felt that caressing thumb as surely as if he had been touching her lips. Involuntarily she licked them, tasting the carmine salve Charity had made her rub on.