The Gunfighter and the Heiress - By Carol Finch Page 0,80
and Collier.”
The bartender puffed up with irritation until Bart said, “Thanks, Crow. I’d like a real whiskey myself, not this throat-scorching, foul-tasting rotgut.”
Alternately grumbling then eyeing Van warily, the man reached beneath the bar for a fresh bottle of whiskey. He filled both glasses to the brim. “On the house.”
“You are too kind,” Van muttered as he lifted the glass in a mocking toast. “We already paid for the drinks we couldn’t choke down.”
He sipped slowly, knowing he was procrastinating in his return to the hotel. He wanted to read Natalie several more lines and paragraphs of the riot act, but he didn’t trust himself not to grab hold of her and kiss the breath out of her instead. That would only make the situation more painful for him. He knew she planned to leave on the stagecoach in the morning, headed on to the next leg of her grand adventure.
He stared into the contents of his glass and contemplated what his life was going to be like without that obsidian-eyed hellion underfoot. Damn it, he’d already forgotten what his days and nights had been like before he met her.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a meal, a bath and a soft bed.” Bart polished off his drink, then pivoted toward the door. “Are we inviting Nat to dine with us?”
“Yes, we’ll feed her before I finish raking her over live coals for defying Marsh and his goons this morning.”
Van guzzled the last of his drink, then followed Bart out the door. He frowned curiously when he saw Marshal Dawson halt behind the string of horses tethered in front of the gunsmith’s shop. Then Dawson strolled over to scrutinize the horses standing in front of Lookout Saloon.
“Something wrong, Dawson?” Van asked.
Dawson hiked up his sagging breeches as he stepped onto the boardwalk. “Your wife came by earlier looking like sunshine in a pretty yellow gown.” He grinned and added, “You’re a lucky man, Crow. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” He remembered thinking the same thing about Nat when he first saw her in that very dress. “Did she stop by to tell Marsh where he could go and what he could do with himself when he got there?”
Dawson removed his hat and raked his beefy fingers through the coarse black hair. “Mostly she wanted to know about the three unidentified men she had seen with Marsh yesterday.”
Van started, his senses on high alert. “Three? When did she see them?”
“She said there were three men in addition to Marsh’s crew standing outside Rattlesnake Saloon in the afternoon. She thought maybe the threesome might be planning a jail-break and she wanted to stop it before it started. I decided to look for the horses described from last week’s stagecoach robbery. Doubt there’s a connection, but you never know. Maybe the two thieves had another man standing watch even if the stagecoach driver and guard didn’t see him. Should have thought of that earlier.”
Van muttered under his breath. Had Natalie seen the men while she was prowling around, trying to figure out who threw the rock through her window? Why hadn’t she mentioned the men to him before? She should have…and he’d tell her so the moment he returned to the suite.
“Did she describe the men to you?” Bart questioned the marshal.
Dawson crammed the hat on his head then nodded. “Big-boned, wearing ragtag cowboy-looking clothes. Scraggly hair and red bandannas around their necks.”
“What!” Van gasped in disbelief.
“Oh hell, you don’t suppose it’s the Harper Gang that hooked up with Marsh?” Bart croaked as he glanced up and down the boardwalk. “Could we be that lucky to apprehend them in the same town with Natalie’s tormentor?”
Van sorely wished the threesome would lumber out of one of the saloons so he could pounce and be done with them.
“Might try the brothels, too,” Dawson suggested. “Or that fleabag hotel by the red-light district. They might be passed out and sleeping off a hangover.”
Dawson’s voice trailed off when he noticed three riders approaching. He grabbed his gun and pointed it at the men in ragtag clothing.
“Put away your gun, marshal. That’s your long-awaited Rangers,” Van smirked then stared down Montgomery, Bristow and Phelps. “I hope you delivered my two friends to the reservation unharmed and filed complaints about Lieutenant Suggs at Fort Sill.”
The Rangers—all sporting several days’ growth of whiskers and a layer of dust—dismounted.
“The Indian Agent is checking into the situation,” Phelps reported.