“Did you talk to ’em?”
“Course, but they won’t listen to me. I figured maybe you being the county law...”
“Oh, yeah, that’s me, all right—big shot.” He was too tired to talk and too tired to care right now. He opened the door. “Well, those boys shouldn’t be having any trouble with water on a day like today.”
“That’s for sure.” Woodrow made a derisive sound in the back of his throat.
Jake stepped out onto the sidewalk, Woodrow right behind him, both men ducking their heads and turning away from the beating rain. Jake had to hold on to his hat brim to keep it from flapping in the wind. “I’ll come around tomorrow and we can talk. Okay?”
Lightning split the gloom of the gray sky like a flash of gunpowder and was followed by the explosion of thunder.
“Sounds good.”
Woodrow grabbed up the packhorse’s rein and reached for the lead on the gelding. Jake shot him a questioning stare.
“Let me,” Woodrow said, talking loudly over the storm. “I’m headed to the livery anyway.”
“A man’s not much of a man if he can’t put up his own horse,” Jake countered, rain soaking through the wool of his trousers and icing his recently warmed skin beneath.
“A friend’s not much of a friend if he can’t help out once in a while.”
With a smile and a pat on the shoulder, Jake said, “I owe you.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” Woodrow left, leading the horses.
Jake trudged off to send the wire telling the folks in Broomfield their money was safe. It was the part of the job he liked. Law and order.
Clair paced back and forth, back and forth along the length of the bar, her heels drumming a steady rhythm on the uneven wood floor. Every so often she’d pause long enough to glance over at the marshal’s office.
How long did it take to identify a body? How long did it take to write a voucher for the bounty hunter’s money?
Just go, why don’t you? she thought, as though her wishing would make it so, would make him leave.
Anxious, downright worried, she started pacing again, the hem of her skirt picking up the dust with every step. She’d about reached the far end of the bar when the front doors banged open, the wood slamming against the wall and sending her heart up into her throat. Clair whirled around faster than a carousel.
It was him.
He filled the doorway like some dark menace and sent her mind racing. Was he after her? Had he seen a Wanted poster somewhere?
Well, there was no escape now. She had to play out the hand she’d been dealt. Good sense and a little healthy caution made her move discreetly behind the bar. She needed a protection—of sorts.
“Hell of a storm out there,” the man said in a voice that was deeper than a well bottom and smooth as fine whiskey. Her nerves prickled at the sound and the closeness of him.
He kicked the door closed with his booted foot and took off his slicker and hat, which he tossed on the nearest tabletop as if he hadn’t seen the Closed sign displayed in the front window. She had the distinct feeling his type didn’t bother with things like signs or warnings. His type did what they damn well pleased. A reckless temper flared and before she could stop herself, she said, “Can’t you read? We’re closed.”
“Since when?” he challenged. “This isn’t Sunday.”
If he was angry, he didn’t show it. In fact, when he turned to look at her the man was smiling. Who would have expected that? Not her. She’d had the misfortune to meet a few bounty hunters over the years and not one of. them had ever smiled. Leered, frowned, snarled, even, but smiled—never.
Her pulse took on a funny little flutter, then settled. This was crazy. Maybe so, but he was looking at her all soft and easy and way too familiar. Her pulse fluttered again.
“No, it’s not Sunday, but we’re closed, all the same.”
“How come?” he asked again.
He took a step in her direction and she was glad for the bar between them. His face was all chiseled planes and smooth curves like the wild countryside he’d come in from. Several days’ growth of dark beard covered his square jaw and framed his mouth like a mustache.
His hair was black as coal and gleamed from the wet. There were deep furrows where he’d finger-combed it back from his face. The overly long ends curled around his ears and neck and skimmed the top of his collar.
But it was his eyes that held her. Even in this dim light she could see they were black as midnight and just as wild. She was transfixed, intrigued by his unrelenting gaze. A restlessness stirred in her like some long-forgotten memory—eager, exciting, promising.
Bounty hunter, remember?
Sure she remembered. She tore her gaze away, pulled herself up to her full height, all five feet eight inches, and said, with all the authority she could manage, “I don’t have to explain to you. I said we’re closed.” She was feeling awkward and uncomfortable and it was more than just his being a bounty hunter, though Lord knew that was enough. She grabbed up a rag and absently started wiping a glass.
For a full five seconds he looked straight at her as though he was giving her declaration some thought.
She kept right on wiping that glass. She polished the darned thing as if it was Irish crystal instead of green glass.
He moved in close, his chest pressing against the edge of the bar, his fingers curving over the polished wood trim. He flexed his shoulders like a man who was tired. “Look, lady, it doesn’t matter to me if you’re closed or open. Where’s Bill?”
“He’s not here. We’re closed.”
His mouth, the one that had smiled so seductively, now curved down in a hard, fierce line. A muscle flexed in his cheek. “I got that, lady.”
Stay calm. He doesn’t know anything. He’s looking for Bill, remember?
“Bill left on the stage yesterday. If you leave now, you could catch him, I’m sure.”
Jake arched one brow in question. “You think I’m going back out in this to go chasing . after Bill? Woman, are you crazy, or what?”
“You’re the one who was asking about Bill. So go after him if you want to see him.” There, she thought, feeling more churlish than cautious.
At that moment the rain turned particularly heavy. Lightning close enough to illuminate the room in a bolt of white light Thunder crashed.
Jake saw the woman jump, heard her sudden intake of breath. If he hadn’t been so tired he would’ve jumped himself.
“You all right?” he asked, wondering if it was entirely the storm that had her on edge.
“What? Yes. Sure. I’m fine,” she said with not a bit of conviction. “Now you have to leave.” She put the glass down and picked up another.
For the first time he really looked at her. Up until now all he’d been thinking about was sleep. However, he began to think about just how pretty she was—blond hair, blue eyes, delicate features that hardly fit the usual saloon-girl image.
He propped one foot on the brass railing and settled in for one or two more questions. “Are you from around here?” He didn’t get up this way much, but he was sure he’d have remembered her.
“No” was all the answer he got—almost all. “We’re closed,” she repeated emphatically.
“You keep saying that. You know, I could start to take this personally.”