The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) Read online

  She nodded silently.

  "It's a big country. Exactly where in Mexico?"

  "A place called Querétaro."

  He snubbed his smoke out viciously against the sand-filled tin ashtray sitting on the table. "You're outta your bloody mind."

  "They say you have connections with Juarez's rebel forces...." She paused deliberately. "As well as Maximilian's—"

  With an agility she'd never have thought him capable of in his inebriated condition, Donovan shot out of his chair, grabbed her arm and pulled her far out of earshot of the table full of men playing faro nearby. Her fan slapped shut and she let out a cry of surprise as his fingers dug painfully into her flesh. Her back collided with a wall.

  "Who told ya that?" he demanded with a low growl.

  "Ow!"

  "Answer me."

  Up close, he smelled of whiskey and leather and Maria's strong ambergris perfume—and some scent that was his alone. He towered over her with a furious look on his face. She shrank against the wall and took a deep breath to calm the pounding of her heart, despite the unexpected thrill that chased through her at his sudden closeness. The utter absurdity of that reaction stunned her even more than what he'd done.

  "You're hurting me."

  "Tell me!"

  "An odd old man named Houston."

  He cursed again before slowly releasing her arm. "Houston doesn't know what he's muttering about half the time, and that kind of rumor could get me killed around here. So keep your voice down."

  Grace rubbed her tingling arm and glanced at the men at the nearby faro table who were too busy bucking the tiger to notice them.

  "You do know them, then," she replied in a half whisper.

  Donovan's eyes took on an animal-like glint. "No. I just don't want any fool thinkin' otherwise."

  "Any particular fool?" she asked tartly, "or are you strictly referring to me?"

  Standing a mere ten inches from her, his ungentlemanly gaze slid for a second time down the front of her, searing a slow path back up to her eyes. For the briefest of moments, she thought he was going to kiss her, drop his mouth on hers, the way he had that harlot's. Grace's eyes widened with fear—or expectation, she didn't know which. Had the wall not been firmly at her back, she would have retreated a safe step or two. Yet, as he seemed to sense her impulse, the predatory look transformed into a roguish grin.

  "I'm not in the habit of callin' women as pretty as yourself names, unless, o' course, I know them a bit better than I do you. That fiasco in Mexico is none of my concern and I've no ties with it. On either side."

  She wasn't sure what made her so certain he was lying. Perhaps it was the flicker of unease that darkened his sea green eyes, or the way his jaw tightened with the jump of a muscle. She only knew there was much more to what he was telling her than he was admitting.

  "Why don't I believe you?"

  Staring at her, he wavered a little off-balance. Despite the obvious effects a full bottle of whiskey could have on a man, Donovan suddenly looked very sober.

  "Frankly, I don't care what you believe, Miss, as long as you don't go around spreadin' dangerous rumors about things you know nothin' about."

  "I know my brother is falsely imprisoned. I know he doesn't deserve to die. I only want justice for Luke, Mr. Donovan. Something not even the U.S. government seems to care about."

  Donovan let out a snort of disgust, turned his back on her, and walked back to the chair he'd occupied earlier. Slumping back down in it, he poured himself the last shot of whiskey from his bottle.

  "Did you hear what I said?" she asked, following on his heels.

  He turned bloodshot eyes on her and lifted his glass, examining the amber-colored liquid. "Justice. It's a fallacy, Miss Turner. A lie perpetrated by men who think they're above the law. American, Mexican, Irish—same thing." He slugged the drink down and set the glass back precisely on the table. "Lemme tell you something. If your brother's in Querétaro, he's a dead man already."

  She felt the color drain from her face. "I don't believe that."

  Donovan shook his head. "I've known a hundred fools like your brother, all full o' patriotic fervor, the call t' adventure. All of 'em now wearin' lead, courtesy of Maximilian's thugs. His troops have slaughtered thousands of Juarez's men on their way north and more than a few who'd nothing to do with either side. From what I hear, he's holed up in a fortress. You haven't a prayer, lass. Now, if there's nothin' else, I'd like to get back t' my drink."

  She stared at him, speechless. Maria appeared beside him, bottle in hand. Grace turned back to Donovan, her voice tight and more high-pitched than she would have liked. "You mean you won't help me?"

  "That's right." He pulled Maria back into his lap and spread his fingers across her hip.

  "But I—" Grace bit her lip, fighting back tears of desperation. "You must! I'll pay you well," she lied. "I can pay whatever you ask."

  "I value my neck a bit more than money."

  She couldn't fail Luke—not now. Not when she'd come so far!

  "Please. You have to. You're the only one left. Everyone else has turned me down," she blurted. Almost immediately, she regretted saying it.

  A humorless grin lifted one corner of his mouth. "Bad luck, that. At least I wasn't your first choice. Forget about your brother. Go on home, where you belong. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my bottle and Maria. Your minute's up."

  An impotent, reckless outrage surged through her. "Oohh, forget my brother, indeed! Well, that's just about as low-down as you can get. Oh, you're a sad excuse for a man, Mr. Reese Donovan." She yanked the edges of her black crocheted gloves up furiously and narrowed her eyes in disdain. "Well, Miss Beauregard always did say you can't make bricks without straw—"

  "Miss Beauregard?" Donovan repeated with amusement.

  "—and you, sir, are sadly lacking in straw!"

  "Am I, now?"

  "Indeed. However, you are right about one thing. You were my last choice. They all warned me. But I was a fool to hope even a drunken cynic like you could have any dignity, or courage, or"—she looked him up and down—"or human compassion left in him."

  Donovan's hand stilled on Maria's curved bottom and Grace saw every muscle in his body tense. But that didn't stop her. She was too angry and had nothing left to lose. She plunged ahead, throwing caution to the wind.

  "A real man wouldn't have to abandon himself to a bottle of rotgut, or use a woman like... like that to hide behind. To see you now, what you've come to, it's... why, it's unthinkable that the noble Texas Rangers could have ever numbered you as one of their own."

  Slowly his gaze lifted to meet hers. As it did, just for a moment, she glimpsed something in his eyes—a flash of pain that made the breath hitch in her throat and stripped the accusation from her voice. That brief flare of humanity made her almost sorry she'd lit into him. Sorry, in fact, for the briefest of moments, for him. But the look was gone as soon as it appeared and he erased every trace of emotion from his face. Except for his eyes. They'd gone icy cold.

  "That it? Or is there more?"

  She bowed her head, unable to look at him. "No."

  "Well, then," he said, his hand perfectly poised on Maria's rounded bottom, "since you've summed up my shortcomings in a such tidy little package, you'll forgive me if I don't get up to see you out. But drunkards are notoriously uncouth, so I'd advise you to get out of my little piece o' paradise while the gettin' is still good."

  Grace opened her mouth to retort, but found there was, in fact, nothing left to say. She had given it her best—and, she feared, her worst. She had done everything she could think of, short of throwing herself at his feet, and botched the whole thing in the process.

  Maria scowled up at her, a censuring fire in her midnight eyes as she wrapped her arms around Donovan's shoulders. She said something to him in Spanish that Grace didn't understand.

  Perhaps, she thought belatedly, she should have tried a few of Maria's tactics. Used honey instead of v
inegar, as Miss Beauregard had always advised. But it was too late for that—as usual. She'd let her mouth run on ahead of her brain. She'd burned that bridge to ashes with her last cutting remarks.

  If she'd been a swearing woman, she would have done so then. Since she wasn't, and she didn't want to make a fool of herself by bursting into tears, she turned on her heel and headed toward the louvered cantina doors, past the noise and the stench and the idiotic bear standing on his hind legs begging for a treat. Leaving her last hope far behind her.

  Before she made it halfway there, a man stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Grace skidded to a halt. It was the same young tough who'd pushed her through the doorway earlier. Only now it wasn't mischief she saw in his eyes, but malevolence. A prickle of fear raced through her and she wished she could call back her earlier jibe.

  "Where you goin', bon-eeta?" he asked, still chewing on his matchstick. He reeked of liquor and held a shot glass full of whiskey in his hand. Reaching up, he touched a strand of her hair that had fallen from its mooring. She jerked back, out of his reach.

  He laughed. "Don't see hair the color o' gold round these parts much. It's real purty."

  "Don't," she warned, knocking his hand away with a slap of her fan.

  He narrowed his eyes. "Still got yer nose up in the air, huh? I jes' wanted a touch."

  Grace resisted the temptation to toss a desperate look for help to Reese Donovan. Not that he'd help her.

  She lifted her chin, trying to make herself appear taller. "Let me pass, if you please."

  His eyebrows went up in amusement. "Let her pass. D'you hear that, Shelby?" he asked the slightly older man sitting at the table beside him. "She wants to pass."

  Shelby, an overweight saddle tramp in real need of a haircut and a shave, grinned, enjoying her predicament. "Ask her the password, Deke. She cain't go without the password."

  A few men at a table nearby turned in their chairs to watch. Deke took a step toward her, and Grace took an equal step back. "What's the password, honey?"

  Deke's whiskey breath assaulted her nose. He was snookered. For the first time, Grace realized what a truly precarious position she'd placed herself in. Perhaps, she admitted, she'd been a bit naive in her wish to confront Donovan on his own ground. Not only had she failed miserably at that, she saw now she should never have come. There was nothing left but to bluff.

  "I insist you let me by."

  Deke grinned around the matchstick in his mouth. "Did that sound like the password to you, Shelby?"

  The fat man shook his head.

  "Nope, that ain't it," Deke agreed. "Try again."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bear rearing up on its hind legs five feet to her left, its beady black eyes pinned on her. Deftly, she scooted around a table to her right and put it between her and the drunken Deke. "Don't touch me," she warned him. "Let me go and we'll forget all about this. I... I promise I won't even bring charges against you."

  His brows fell in mock relief and he turned to his friend. "You hear that? She won't bring me up on charges."

  His friend grinned and got to his feet, coming at her from the other side. "Hey, Deke, considerin' yer brother's the only law around these here parts, I'd say that's right big of her."

  Deke laughed as the blood left her face. Backing up, she edged her way toward Donovan's table.

  "There's even room for three in that empty cell," said Deke, pulling the mangled matchstick from his mouth and tossing it on the floor. "We wouldn't need it long, right, Shelby?"

  The pudgy one nodded, coming around the other side of the table. "Not long at all. Hey, you reckon she's blond all over? Or jest from the neck up?"

  A squeak of terror worked its way up her throat, and she struggled to hold it in. She was alone here. Brewster was asleep and didn't even know she'd come. Why, oh why hadn't she told him?

  Don't panic, she warned herself. It'll do no good to panic. Stay calm. Even so, her mind raced. Lorna Lee Goodnight would pick up a chair and whack it over the villain's head before he could defend himself.

  Every chair in the cantina was occupied save the two Shelby and Deke had just abandoned.

  Would Lorna Lee scream for the hero's help?

  She shot a desperate look over her shoulder at Donovan, who was watching the whole awful affair over the rim of his whiskey glass. He lifted it in mock salute, and tipped his head with an "I-warned-you" expression, but showed no sign of interfering on her behalf. In fact, like the others in the room, it looked as if he was rather enjoying the whole spectacle. Some hero.

  No, Lorna Lee wouldn't scream or cry, she decided. She'd simply brush past them with her head up and leave those two drunken baboons gaping after her. She could do that... couldn't she?

  Grace snapped her fan open with a meaningful pop and started to her left. Shelby intercepted her, blocking her way, grinning down at her with foul breath. Backing up, she took an evasive step to her right. Deke, however, was faster and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to him as if she weighed nothing. Her fan flew out of her hand and skittered across the bar. This time, she couldn't help the short yelp of fear that escaped her as he drew her up against his sweaty body.

  "Let go of me!"

  "C'mon, girly-girl. I ain't had nothin' sweet as you fer months. Ain't no use bein' coy. You come in here askin' for it."

  She gasped. "I certainly did n—"

  "I know you want me; I kin see it in them pretty blue eyes of yours."

  Jerking her arm, she tried to free herself, but he was much too strong. He turned her around so her back was against him and his forearm was against her throat. One hand slid provocatively down in the direction of her breast. Desperate, she shoved her boot heel hard against his shin.

  Deke yelped and hopped on one foot, letting loose with a string of expletives. This elicited a howl of laughter from the disreputable lot of men surrounding them, which only made him madder. "Damnation! Hold still, you little hellcat!" he roared.

  Grace opened her mouth to scream for help, but her cry was cut off as Deke hauled her back to him and swung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  She went numb with fear as the air whooshed from her lungs. She kicked wildly and pounded on his back with her fists. He seemed not to feel any of it. The crowd roared with laughter as he spun drunkenly, trying to regain his balance.

  As the room whirled by, Grace felt her heel connect with something hard, followed by the sound of breaking glass and the collective gasp of the crowded cantina. Deke apparently heard it too, and staggered to a rolling stop in front of Reese Donovan's table.

  After a drunken pause, Deke laughed and said, "Aw, now, that's a real shame."

  Stunned by the sudden stop, Grace ceased her flailing and looked under her captor's arm to see an upside-down view of Donovan, rising with slow menace from his chair; his shattered new bottle of whiskey leaking across the table, his shirtfront soaked with liquor. Grace's eyes widened at the furious expression on his face as he spoke.

  "Buy me another, Sanders."

  In the eerie silence that followed Donovan's demand came the sound of chair legs scraping against the wood-planked floor as men vacated their seats and hurried to the far edges of the room. Shelby, apparently frozen by indecision, only backed halfway to the wall, in halfhearted support of his friend.

  Her tormenter looked around accusingly at the men who'd abandoned the fun like scattering cockroaches, then he looked back with whiskey-induced courage at Donovan. "I don't buy drinks for micks."

  The room had gone deadly quiet; quiet enough to hear the whiskey drip from Donovan's table in a steady tattoo against the floor. Quiet enough that Grace was sure the frightened thud of her heart could be heard by all in the room as it pounded against Sanders's shoulder and sent blood rushing straight to her head. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she waited for the inevitable explosion of male outrage she was certain would follow.

  Donovan stepped deliberately away from the table. "What'd you cal
l me?"

  With a bigot's confident swagger, Deke glanced around the room at his friends. "You heard me—mick."

  Even upside down, Grace thought, Donovan looked appallingly sober. Maria, who'd been standing near Donovan's elbow, edged away.

  His words were deceptively quiet. "Put her down."

  "The hell you say."

  A muscle jerked in the ex-Ranger's jaw. "Put her down, now, or by God you'll wish you had." He pointed the barrel of his gun purposefully downward toward Deke's crotch. "I've a clear shot."

  Sanders stilled, considering that awful consequence. Weighing his options, he slid Grace off his shoulder, and dropped her heavily onto the floor. She landed with a thud. Black spots swam before her eyes as the blood rushed from her head. She grabbed the edge of a nearby table for balance and pulled herself up. Swallowing hard, she backed up against the long wooden-planked bar.

  Without taking his eyes off Donovan, Sanders pointed at her. "Stay there, bon-eeta. I ain't done with you—yet."

  "Oh, I think he is. Get out of here, Miss Turner," Donovan told her, hitching his chin in the direction of the door, but she found herself rooted to the spot. Her feet refused to cooperate with the command to run.

  "Mr. Donovan," she pleaded in a choked whisper, but he wasn't looking at her. His gaze was riveted to Sanders.

  Sanders gingerly pulled aside the edge of his jacket to reveal a shiny, ivory-handled revolver strapped to his hip. "I ain't afraid of you, Donovan. I'm younger and faster'n you'll ever be. Your hand ain't steady enough no more to aim that gun of yours."

  "Think not?"

  "Yeah."

  "Willin' to bet your life on it, are you?"

  "Try me."

  Donovan eased his pistol back into its holster and lifted his hand away. "You're drunk, Deke. Go home and sleep it off."

  Sanders laughed uneasily. "You yellow, Donovan? I heard that about you. That you was yellow. I heard you even shot a friend in the back. That true—mick?"

  "Get out of here, Deke, before I have to kill you."

  "Ooh-hoo, I'm shakin' in my longjohns. Ain't I, boys?"