Wild Card. Susan Amarillas
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more than the clothes on her back, anyway, and a few pieces of jewelry.
“Umm.” She made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. “My saloon.”
Intrigued with the notion, she strolled around the room, sort of checking things over—not that she was staying, mind you, but just...checking. There were twelve tables and an odd assortment of chairs, all in need of a coat of paint. How much was paint these days, anyway?
That wallpaper was a disgrace even for a saloon—red roses on a background that had probably been white at some time in the ancient past Now it was closer to brown, dark brown.
The place did have possibilities though. She’d start by doing a thorough cleaning, take down the wallpaper and see—
You aren’t staying.
Well, she hedged, there’s staying and then there’s staying. She sure wasn’t going anywhere in this rain. Why, she doubted the stages were running today. The mud was probably up to the wheel hubs by now.
She toyed with a stray lock of hair that had come loose from the pins, twisting the blond strand around her index finger, thinking.
An old adage about a moving target being harder to hit or, in this case, harder to find, floated through her brain. Move on. It was the wisest thing to do. It was the only thing to do, but...
As she ran her hand along the top of her bar, her fingers glided over the rough surface and her eyes skimmed the floor, badly gouged from too many pairs of spurs. Floors could be sanded, bars could be painted, and walls...
Her saloon.
The words, the reality settled softly, warmly in the pit of her stomach; she felt like a child with an unexpected present.
Broken Spur was remote, she reasoned. The likelihood of running into someone from Texas was next to none. She’d been on the run three months and she hadn’t seen any posters—not once. Maybe they weren’t looking for her.
Phrases like “starting over” and “second chance” flitted through her mind. Logic struggled with a lifetime of longing.
Her luck had changed here. The Fates wouldn’t hand her this dream, this wish, if she wasn’t meant to have it. Broken down as it was, it was hers and...and, dammit, she was keeping the Scarlet Lady.
Decision made, exhilaration soared in her. Breathless, eyes shining, heart racing, she was actually grinning when a sudden gust of wind banged the front door open; hinges squeaked as the door slammed against the wall, then bounced back. Cold air poured into the room like a ghostly presence, carrying with it an eerie foreboding that sent her euphoria fleeing. The fright was so real, so intense, it took her a couple of seconds to shake it off.
“This is silly,” she said out loud as though to dispel any demons that might have floated in with that rainy mist Forcing her smile back in place, she strode across the room to close the door, her black skirt flouncing with each long step.
That was when she saw him.
A moving shadow against a menacing gray sky, he was all but obscured by the rain. A shiver moved through her. Instinctively, she hugged herself in a protective gesture, though why, she wasn’t quite sure.
The street was a lake, ankle-deep in water and mud.
The horse and rider didn’t seem to notice. The sorrel moved slowly up the street, lifting his legs free of the quagmire one at a time. As though heedless of the rain, the rider never hurried the animal or the packhorse he led.
Sidestepping, she edged over to the window as she paralleled his progress.
She could make out his tan slicker, the bottom third stained brown with splattered mud. Water ran off his black hat, front and back, the brim sagging. He was tall, she could tell that much, and he moved with the horse in the way of a man who spent a lot of time in the saddle.
So what brought a man out in this miserable weather? she mused and almost instantly she spotted the answer. That packhorse he was leading wasn’t carrying supplies—it was carrying a body, slung facedown over the saddle, the boots protruding from the end of a dark brown tarp used as a shroud.
Clair went very still.
“Bounty hunter.” She said the words on a funereally-quiet whisper as though to say them too loud would confirm her fear, as though he would hear her and know she was there, watching.
Self-preservation made her take an instinctive step back, then another and another, until the rounded edge of the bar pushed hard into her back, the corset stays digging painfully into her flesh.
“He’s come” was all she managed before she spun on her heel and started for the back door, only to come up short.
Dread snaked coldly and relentlessly up her spine as she stared at the door that represented escape—but escape to where? She didn’t own a horse or a wagon of any kind. There were no stages until day after tomorrow, assuming the stages got through. In the meantime, where could she go?
Trapped!
Calm. Stay calm.
She repeated the words like a litany until the panic eased and her heart rate slowed to a manageable level. She glanced over her shoulder toward the window and the man still visible through the glass. Her gaze flicked from him to the back door then to the man again. If he came in here, she could... What?
So he’s a bounty hunter. So what? There could be a hundred reasons he was here. Broken Spur was the only town around for at least fifty miles. The storm could have driven him in.
Through the rain haze she saw him again. He was here to get out of the storm and collect his bounty, his...blood money. He’d be gone soon, tonight, tomorrow at the latest. She’d seen his type more than once. His type liked noise and women and wild times, none of which he’d find around here. Confidence built on reason.
He’d get his money and go and she’d never even see him again. Again? Why, she never had to see him at all, she realized with a start.
Cautiously, almost on tiptoe, she moved toward the front doors and pushed them closed, pulling down the shades and praying she didn’t attract his attention.
Her breathing came in shallow, rapid gasps as, eyes fixed on the man, she reached for the lock. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal, feeling the hole where the key should have been. Nothing.
No! There had to be a key. Where the hell was the key? Everything would be all right if she could just lock the damn door.
Gritting her teeth in frustration, she grabbed up the closest chair and wedged it under the rusty knob, but the knob was too low and the chair too tall and it only slid to the floor like some drunken cowboy.
Think. She shoved the hair back from her face. Hitching up her skirt, she tore around behind the bar. Paper. She needed paper, something to write on. Frantically she scanned every surface, every nook and cranny.
Spotting a pasteboard box buried under the weight of empty whiskey bottles, she dumped out the bottles in a wild tumble of glass that shattered on the floor.
Her fingers slipped on the slick paper surface as she tugged, muscles straining, and finally ripped off the top flap.
Okay, now pen, pencil, something. She yanked open drawers, one after another, her hand groping in the dark confines until blessedly her fingers closed around a pencil.
Quickly she scrawled a word and raced back to the door, sliding the sign in front of the shades.
Closed.
With a sigh, she turned and sagged against the door frame, her trembling hands sandwiched between the smooth wood and the cotton of her skirt.
Closed. It was so simple. She was safe.
Jake was never so glad to see any place as he was to see Broken Spur.
Muscles in his legs, stiff with cold. complained as he swung down from the saddle and stepped in mud that