“For J. C. Lawless. For Catherine Lawless. Vengeance.”
Like stones, Hannah’s remembered words pelted Jacey’s spirit. Trail-worn and saddle-weary, she pulled herself upright when, rounding the pass in the Santa Catalina Mountains, Tucson took shape down on the desert floor.
As Knight continued his plodding pace alongside a caravan of wagons, Jacey let out the breath she felt she’d been holding all the way here. There it was. Tucson. The city that’d been a Lawless Gang refuge over twenty-five years ago. The city where Papa’d kidnapped Mama for ransom, but had instead fallen in love with the Boston debutante and married her. He’d even, over the protests of his gang, returned the ransom money to her family.
“Vengeance.” That one word had sustained Jacey all the way from No Man’s Land to the Arizona Territory. And now, here was Tucson, the city that harbored men who had some answering to do. And answer they would—to her, the daughter of J. C. Lawless. They’d find no refuge in Tucson now. Not so long as there was breath in her body.
She’d come a long, hard way for answers. Every mile imprinted itself in her bones. From home, she’d ridden over the waterless Cimarron Cutoff and connected with the long lines of wagons on the Santa Fe Trail. After resting a day in the adobe town of Santa Fe, she’d set off on Cooke’s Route, which meandered southward alongside the Rio Grande. Then, northwest of El Paso, she’d finally joined up with the California-bound folks taking the Apache Pass on the Gila Trail.
And she’d ridden that trail all the way to Tucson. Jacey’s dusty clothes and slumping spirit testifed to the weeks of hard trudging, weeks of low prairies and high mountains, and weeks of rain or relentless sun that she’d lived through just to get here. They were weeks of danger, weeks of wariness. Weeks of mourning for Mama and Papa. But finally, they were at an end. Except for the mourning. That would never end.
Jacey reined in Knight, off to one side of the trail. Several wagons passed her, a few folks called out their good-byes. Jacey waved a hand in farewell, at once grateful for their company and grateful for their leave-taking. From here on out, she needed to be unknown. When her big black gelding shifted his weight and pawed the sandy desert ground, Jacey smoothed a hand over his withers.
“You hankering to ride into Tucson, Knight? Well, let’s look it over and see what we’re in for,” she crooned softly to him.
Lifting her black felt hat and rubbing her sleeve across her sweating forehead, Jacey made an assessing sweep of the village below her. There was the army fort folks’d spoken of. Fort Lowell, they’d called it. Wasn’t much to see. Mostly just wood sheds. Moving her gaze on, she focused on Tucson’s cluster of adobe buildings that squatted staunchly in the afternoon’s hot sun, their dried-mud roofs blending with the surrounding desert. Jacey then made a sweep of the narrow, twisting streets below her and dismissed them as not looking much different from Santa Fe’s.
She next looked to the south, spotting a starkly white mission church. Like those she’d seen in Santa Fe. Shifting her gaze back northward, back to Tucson, she focused on impressive stands of huge cacti—those saguaros Papa’d always talked about. Like sentinels with their arms raised in challenge, they stood protectively around the city.
When Knight again shifted his weight and shook his head, Jacey resettled her hat low on her brow. “You’re right. We’re not gaining anything sittin’ here.”
She urged her restive mount forward. From the relative sanctuary of the foothills, horse and rider moved out onto the open valley floor. While glad to be at trail’s end, Jacey nevertheless felt exposed, felt like hidden eyes were watching her. Like they knew the daughter of J. C. Lawless was coming for them. They’d not greet her with a warm smile and a welcoming wave, either.
That was fine with her. She wasn’t here for a homecoming. But she’d be willing to bet that Tucson would be glad to see her leave.
* * *
“Hey, Chapelo, take a look at what’s riding up the street—and all alone, too.”
His booted feet crossed on a rough-hewn table, a half-empty bottle of rotgut whiskey in one hand, a shot glass in the other, Zant Chapelo turned his blurry gaze to Blue. “Give me more of a reason to get up, amigo.”
Blue stepped back from the swinging doors and turned to Zant, showing him an eager-eyed expression. “There’s a woman just ridin’ into town. She’s a good-lookin’ woman, from what I can see.”
Zant snorted his opinion of that as he measured out a stiff shot of the liquor. “Good-lookin’, huh?” He then hoisted the bottle by its neck, using it as pointer. “So’s Rosie, and she’s right over there. Now she doesn’t require me gettin’ up to look at her.”
He tossed his drink back and contorted his face into a grimace. He eyed the bottle as if it were responsible for its contents. “This stuff tastes like panther piss. Don’t know why I keep drinking it.”
When Blue, his spurs jangling, strode noisily over to Zant’s table and flung himself into the chair opposite him, Zant looked at the kid the same way he had the bottle.
The lean, blond and blue-eyed, sober pistolero crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Zant, I been sittin’ in this saloon for the past two days watchin’ you drink yourself stupid. Now, this ain’t what Señor Calderon told me to do. He told me to find you and bring you home pronto. But I ain’t takin’ you back to Sonora in this shape.”
Zant eyed him silently. Blue smacked the table and leaned over it. “Look at you. Pigs wouldn’t be seen in your company. You need to get yourself sober and get a bath, a shave, and a decent meal. If you don’t care about yourself, at least give a thought to your grandfather.”
“To hell with my grandfather.” Zant’s flippant tone of voice belied his curse. “Which one of us, me or you, just got out of that Mexican prison after serving five years for something he didn’t do?”
Blue huffed out a breath and answered, “You.”
Zant nodded and quirked a cock-eyed grin. “That’s right, amigo. And which one of us hasn’t seen the inside of a cantina or tasted liquor or seen a woman for those same five years? Me, right? So, one thing you need to know, Blue—I’m just gettin’ started.”
The kid huffed out his disgust and shook his head. “Is that all you got to say for yourself?”
Zant shrugged. “It’s enough. For now.” He then narrowed his eyes at his childhood friend. “No, I’ve got one more thing to say. Don’t ever throw Don Rafael up to me, Blue. I’ve already been home and paid my respects to the old man. So, for the last time—I’m not going back. And don’t push me. Because I’m in no mood to be pushed.”
Zant outstared Blue. The kid made a disgusted noise and pulled his weight up out of his chair. He hitched at his gunbelt and turned his head to spit on the scuffed, tobacco-stained wooden floor. “Suit yourself.”
Zant set the bottle on the table and raised his next drink like a toast. “I always do.”
Blue scowled and shook his head. “Yeah, you do, don’t you? Can’t nobody help Zant Chapelo. I don’t think those five years in a cell taught you anything. Señor Calderon should’ve left you there to rot. He never should’ve hunted all over hell and half of Mexico to find you and then pay your way out. Because you’re still hell-bent on destroyin’ the old man—”
“You shut your damned mouth. You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about because you don’t know him like I do.” The chair’s two front legs hit the floor, the table scraped forward, and Zant was on his feet, the bottle and shot glass forgotten as they both spilled and rolled across the floor.
He heard Rosie gasp, saw her, from the corner of his eye, duck behind the long bar with Alberto. The other customers sought their own refuge wherever they could find it. But not Blue. He didn’t flinch. He stood his ground. Which made Zant see red.
He flipped the table out of his way and stepped up to the kid, getting in his face, his nose practically touching Blue’s. The two, both six feet tall, stood eye to eye. “If you’re so all-fired determined to preach, Blue, then heist your sorry butt on down to the mission church. Otherwise, shut the hell up and let me drink in peace. You got that?”
Blue shook his head. “No, I ain’t got that. But you got this—and you’ve had it comin’ since we were kids.” With that, Blue stepped back and punched Zant in the jaw, sending him staggering back and sprawling over tables.
Zant ended up on the floor, sitting on his own sorry butt. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. Then he was on his feet and launching himself at Blue. Who sidestepped neatly, soberly.
This time, Zant met the floor hard in a belly slide across the greasy wooden floor, only to roll and collide, back first, with the bar’s wooden base. He heard Rosie screaming, and he heard Alberto fussing in Spanish about damage to his place of business.
His ears ringing, his head throbbing, Zant pulled himself up drunkenly to lean his elbows on the bar behind him, and saw … two Blues. Three Blues. Shaking his head, blinking rapidly, he finally got the three Blues to become one. He then pointed at his friend, who had his fists raised, and bellowed, “You had enough, boy?”
Blue coiled up like a rattlesnake. “Who you calling a boy? You’re twenty-two—the same age as me. And hell no, I ain’t had enough. ’Cause I’m the one kickin’ your ass, amigo.”
“Like hell you are,” Zant slurred. He pushed away from the bar and went in a lurching run across the saloon, avoiding cowering patrons and correcting course and grasping at empty air each time Blue danced or darted away—after getting in a lucky punch or two. Dizzy from spinning to hunt Blue and reeling from his punches, Zant grimaced. “Stand still, you stupid blue-eyed—”
“Why don’t you make me? You’re too drunk to even defend yourself against someone who gives a damn about you. What if some quick-draw hears Zant Chapelo is out of the hoosegow and decides to come try his gun hand against you? Until last week, you ain’t had a gun on in years. You’re still rusty. So how’re you goin’ to be able to outgun him?”
The kid has a point. Zant weaved to a flat-footed stop. And reached for his gun. He didn’t have to fight all the Blues. He could just shoot ’em.
He raised his pistol in a wavering aim and … couldn’t find any Blues. He turned to his left, only to have Blue wrench his gun out of his hand and shove him, with a boot against his butt, right out the saloon’s bat-wing doors. Right out into the parched late-afternoon heat of a Tucson day.
Trapped in his own bumbling momentum, Zant careened about with a windmilling of his arms and got his booted feet all tangled in each other, finally stumbling and tripping until he lost his balance. The rock-hard, dusty street collided with him in a solid thud of bone and muscle.
Lying sunny-side up and right under the hooves of a rearing black horse, Zant froze and stared up at death.
“Zant! Get the hell outta the way, man!”
Blue’s shouted warning galvanized Zant into doing just that. Two deft rolls saw him beyond the reach of the horse’s stiff-legged, dust-stirring crash back to earth. Just then, a woman screamed. Zant sat up and flipped back around. A black hat went flying through the air. A flurry of unseated arms and legs and long black braid followed it as the horse’s rider was thrown over its bucking head. She hit the ground hard and rolled three or four times, finally pitching onto her side, still and lifeless.
Too stunned to do much but stare, Zant flicked his gaze to Blue as he barreled through the cantina’s bat-wing doors. He jumped clear of Zant and grabbed up the panicked black’s trailing reins. With hushed and soothing sounds, the blond kid quieted the animal and backed him a safe distance away. As if he’d been ordered to, Zant numbly watched as Blue tied the horse to a hitching rail.
“La muchacha. Señor Chapelo, la muchacha!”
Zant turned to Rosie when she cried out. The pretty little Mexican barmaid stood next to her father and clutched at his sleeve. They both stared wide-eyed, looking past Zant and pointing out into the street.
He spun back around. La muchacha. With her back to him, the girl still lay on her side. And she still wasn’t moving. Cussing and suddenly sober, Zant jumped up and ran to her. A month out of prison and he’d already caused the death of an innocent woman. Great.
When he reached her, he went down on one knee behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, thinking to turn her toward him. She surely is a slender little thing. Biggest thing about her is that black braid of hair—Two shadows fell across him from behind. From long gun-fighting and prison habit, Zant jerked to his feet, his hand on his … empty holster. Luckily, it was only Rosie and Alberto. But behind them was a gathering crowd. Just what he needed.
When Blue ran up, skittering to a crowd-parting stop and squatting on one knee in front of the woman, Zant turned his attention back to his friend. Frowning, Blue looked the woman over without touching her. He then looked up at Zant. “Damn, man, that was a close one.”
Zant raised an eyebrow. “Close? That horse is a gelding. That’s how close it was.”
“You ain’t lyin’.” Blue shook his head and huffed out a breath, finally pointing to the girl. “Is she dead? That was a mighty mean spill she took.”
Zant put his hands to his waist and frowned down at Blue. “You’re just a regular ray of sunshine, aren’t you? No, she’s not dead.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I—” How did he know? Zant looked down at Blue’s earnest face and then lowered himself again to squat on his haunches. “Because her heart’s still beating.”
To prove it, he felt for her pulse, but couldn’t locate it what with her blouse and vest and her sideways position. Sighing and rolling his eyes, he worked his hand inside the neck of her blouse, around a silver chain tangled in her underclothes, and finally found … her breasts … Nice … and then her steadily beating heart between them.
Before he could even sigh in relief, the woman sucked in a huge breath and swung her gloved fist back in an upward arc as she blindly struck out. Zant tried to rear back, but his too-big hand wouldn’t come free. Her small fist connected with his nose, forcing an involuntary yell out of him as he jerked backward and tore his hand loose. And tore her blouse open. Cussing for all he was worth, Zant sat down hard on the sandy street, amid the retreating and shocked gasps of the spectators.
“That’s the least of what you’ve got coming, mister, if you ever lay a hand on me again.”
He heard her words, heard her scrambling movements, but his eyes remained closed as he braced himself with one hand while he held his other to his aching nose. When Zant finally opened his eyes, when the stars and tears cleared from his vision, he became aware that Blue was now sitting in the dusty street with him. And was laughing like a jackass—while he pointed at him.
“Pretty damned funny, ain’t it, Blue?”
Blue grinned and nodded. “Pretty damned funny, amigo. I believe the little lady bloodied your nose.”
Frowning, Zant swiped his hand under his nose as he looked up and then all around him. Where the hell is she? The wide-eyed but hushed crowd began backing up, leaving one lone woman in the ring with him and Blue. Still not facing him, she was on her feet and dusting her clothes with her felt hat.
Zant finally looked at his hand and verified what Blue’d just told him. Blood. He looked up again at the woman’s slender back. “Lady, I was trying to help you. You’ve no cause to bloody my nose like that.”
With no reaction to indicate that she’d even heard him, she pushed her way through the curious crowd. Is she deaf? Raw anger tugged Zant’s mouth down as he wiped his sleeve under his nose and looked at it. No more blood. But that didn’t change things. Nobody—man or woman—just poked Zant Chapelo in the nose and walked away without accounting for it.
Zant hauled himself up and made a swiping gesture at the crowd. “Get the hell out of my way.”
They did, moving aside to open a wide corridor between him and the swaggering female. Her thick black braid hung down her back and swung like a pendulum back and forth over her split-skirted bottom.
“Now, Zant, don’t do anything stup—”
“Shut up, Blue. This is between me and her.”
Blue grinned good-naturedly as he rested his arms on his bent knees and shook his head. “All right. But somethin’ tells me you’re gettin’ in over your head.”
Zant watched the woman take another step or two before looking down at Blue. “Yeah, well, it won’t be the first time.” He then pointed at the woman’s back. “Hey, you, I’m talking to you, lady.”
All heads turned to stare at the lady. Who kept walking. Like she didn’t even hear him. All heads turned back to Zant. He eyed the sober, wide-eyed crowd and felt a heat that had nothing to do with Arizona climbing up his face. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He called out to her again. “Turn around and answer me, woman.”
She did neither of those things. Instead, she stepped around to her mount’s left, which put the big horse’s bulk between her and Zant. All he could see was her black hat. She moved to the horse’s head, unhitched him, and easily swung herself up into the saddle. Still not acknowledging him, she silently turned her mount away from the crowd and urged him into a canter.
Frowning like a prison warden, Zant turned to Blue and put his hands to his waist. “She can’t just ride away like that. Doesn’t she know who I am?”
* * *
Once at the other end of Tucson, Jacey slowed Knight to a walk. Shaking like a scared dog, her whole body aching as much as her right hand, she transferred the reins to her left hand and slowly worked her leather riding glove off. She stared at her swelling knuckles. So that’s how it feels to hit a man.
It hurt. That’s how it felt. But it didn’t hurt as much as being thrown from her horse. Good thing Papa’d raised her in the saddle and taught her how to land and roll when thrown. Otherwise, she might not be alive right now to moan like a baby over her aches and pains.
Threading her way through the wagon traffic, and keeping an eye on the folks afoot out in the street, she urged Knight into a relatively cool and shaded alley between two adobe buildings. There she turned him and reined to a stop.
She worked her gun hand, fisting and unfisting it. Not five minutes in Tucson before she’d gotten into a brawl out in front of a saloon. Damn! She’d hoped to slip quietly into town, get an out-of-the-way room, and put her plan into action. If putting out the word that J. C. Lawless was back in town worked the way she hoped it would, she’d be riding for home in a few days.
But now? Well, now word would spread like wildfire about the woman who’d bloodied some drunk’s nose when he shied her horse, got her thrown, and then stuffed his hand down her blouse. Jacey fumed as a blaze of heat suffused her cheeks. Again she felt the indignity of the thrusting hand on her flesh, heard her blouse tearing.
Lucky for him she hadn’t pulled her thigh-strapped knife. Because she’d have been more than happy to bury it in the same place on him where his hand had been on her. If she ever saw that no-good, low-down—No. She took a deep breath and willed her thoughts away from the rough moments she’d just survived.
She then looked again at her puffy knuckles and groaned. That lousy drunk’s nose surely was hard. By tomorrow her whole hand would be stiff, most likely. And that would considerably slow down her quick draw for days. Dang him! Now she’d have to lie low while she healed. Just hole up in some stuffy room and mend. And hide from the world. Angry, close to defeat, Jacey put a hand over her eyes, hitching irritably at Knight’s reins when he balked suddenly.
“Señorita? Are you hurt?”
Jacey started and lowered her hand from her face. There, standing about a pace or two in front of her and Knight, was a pretty Mexican girl dressed in a loose white blouse and brightly patterned skirt and a bunch of silver jewelry. A half-smile rode her lips as her wide brown eyes invited trust.
Unsmiling, Jacey eyed her. “I’m fine.”
“Que bien. My father and I were afraid for you when you took that fall from such a big horse.”
So she’d seen that. And followed her. “I’m fine,” Jacey repeated, wanting like crazy for this nice, concerned girl to clear out of her business. She wasn’t here to meet folks.
The girl’s smile faltered, but still she nodded in a friendly manner and didn’t go away. “That man back there”—she jerked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the street behind her—“he is not so bad.”
Jacey snorted her opinion of that as she pointedly tugged her blouse closed. “I was in a better position to judge that than you were.”
Now the girl laughed. A pleasant sound. Go away. “Perhaps you are right.” She shrugged her slim shoulders and took hold of her skirt. “But I am bothering you. I will go now.” She started to turn away, but immediately turned back to Jacey. “Me llamo Rosarita Estrada.”
Jacey frowned and shook her head. “I don’t speak Mexican. What’d you say?”
“I said my name is Rosarita Estrada. But the men, they call me Rosie. You can, too.”
“Row-cee?” Jacey tried the name, giving it the same inflection the girl had. It sounded funny on her tongue. “You mean … like Rosie?”
“Sí. Like Rosie.”
When Rosie stared at her and smiled, Jacey knew she was expected to give her name in return. But it was too soon for that. So, instead, she just said, “Well … thank you for checking on me.”
Rosie nodded. “I will thank my father for you. It was he who sent me.” She then cocked her head as she looked Jacey up and down. “He says there is something about you, something he knows.” In another quick change of mood, she roused herself with a dismissive gesture and laughed. “You must think us loco, eh? Por nada—it was nothing, my seeing to you. You would do the same for me, no?”
Jacey almost said no right back to her. She knew she wouldn’t have come to check on this girl, had she been the witness and not the one thrown. But she caught herself and nodded. “Yeah.”
Rosie put her hands to her slender waist and grinned. “You are lying to me, mi amiga. It is written on your face.”
Jacey stiffened. “I wouldn’t be calling me a liar, if I were you, sister.”
The girl ducked her head in apology. “I meant no harm. Perhaps I should go now. My father will be worried.”
Finally. But when she turned away, Jacey surprised even herself when she called out. “Wait!”
Rosie faced her again and raised her finely arched black eyebrows in a wordless question.
Jacey firmed her lips into a frown. “That man … back there. You said he’s not so bad. How do you know him?”
Rosie’s expression changed to one of amused disbelief. “I know him from my father’s cantina, where I work. But I also know him by his reputation. The nose you bloodied belongs to Zant Chapelo. And he will not soon forget it.”
And he will not soon forget it. Jacey’s stomach wrenched at those words, but she focused on the man’s name. What with Rosie’s heavy accent, all Jacey could do was frown and repeat, “Saint Sha-pellow? What kind of a name is that? He didn’t look or act much like a saint to me.”
Laughing, Rosie wagged a finger at Jacey, which upset Knight into snorting and backing a step or so. Jacey reined him in and frowned at Rosie’s amusement. “Did I say something funny?”
“Sí. Very funny. That one—he is no saint. The holy cross itself would fall off the wall at San Xavier del Bac if Zant Chapelo were to darken the mission’s door.” She made the sign of the cross on herself.
Jacey watched her go through the motions and swallowed. If all that was called for, then the man was pretty bad, no matter what Rosie’d said a minute ago. Something wasn’t adding up here. And now that she kept repeating the name in her head, kept sounding it out, his name was beginning to sound familiar. Too familiar.
Saint Sha-pellow. Saint. No, she said it more like Sant. Sha-pellow. Sant Cha-pellow. Zant Chapelo. Zant Chapelo? Jacey jerked upright and stared straight ahead, barely able to get a breath past her aching lungs.
“Señorita, what is it?”
Jacey held up her hand. “Hold on a minute. Don’t say anything. And don’t leave.” Staring at Rosie, but not really seeing her, Jacey gave herself over to the memory which flooded her with Papa’s voice. She again heard him talking about Kid Chapelo. The Kid rode with Papa in his outlaw days. But Papa’d always talked the man down, said he was a hothead, had a real nasty streak. The way Jacey remembered the story was the Kid had forced Papa to—
A sinking feeling, like she’d been exposed to too much heat, swept over Jacey. The Kid had forced Papa to shoot him dead. Papa had killed Kid Chapelo. Oh, Lordy.
But Papa never would say exactly what had happened to make them draw on each other. He and Mama would just exchange a serious look when it came up. Could this Zant—a man she’d just humiliated—be some of the Kid’s family?
Jarred by that thought, and blinking as if just waking up after a long sleep, Jacey focused on the quietly attentive Mexican girl in front of her and dismounted as she spoke. “Rosie, where’s this Chapelo from?”
Rosie shrugged as Jacey approached her. “Sonora. Just across the border in Mexico. His abuelo—his grandfather—is a very important man there. He owns mucha tierra—much land. And much cattle. Very rich. Do you know him?”
Jacey nodded before she could stop herself. So this Chapelo is from Meh-hi-co, pronouncing it for herself as Rosie’d said it. Papa’d said something about the Kid and Mexico. But what? Not able to come up with it, Jacey again focused on the girl, shook her head, and cleared her expression. “No. No, I don’t know him.”
Rosie cocked her head and pointed that wagging finger at Jacey. Again. “Sí. You do know him. You are not a good liar, mi amiga.”
Jacey put her hands to her waist. “I tell you what, Rosie—one more time you call me a liar, and you better be danged sure you’re armed and ready to back it up. Now, what’s that other name you keep calling me?”
Rosie smiled. “‘Amiga’? It means ‘friend.’ I’m calling you my friend. You do not tell me your name”—she shrugged with graceful nonchalance—“so I must call you my friend.”
Jacey snorted her opinion of that. “You’ve no cause to call me friend. You don’t know me.”
Rosie laughed. “Eh, you are a hard one, no, mi amiga?”
“No,” came Jacey’s immediate response. Then she frowned. “I mean yes. Yes, I am.”
Her words denied it, but Jacey was intrigued by this notion of a friend. Especially someone who knew the lay of things in these parts. So, making her mind up, she quelled the tiny voice of protest in her head, a voice that warned she knew nothing of this girl, and stuck her hand out. “Sorry for being so rude a minute ago. I’m pleased to meet you. My name’s Jacey Lawless.”
Rosie’s smile, which began when Jacey stuck her hand out, ran away from her face. The girl slowly lowered her hand to her side and stared wide-eyed at Jacey. “Madre de Dios.” She then crossed herself—twice. “Ay-yi-yi.” She shook her head slowly and blinked more than once. Then, looking all around, she whispered, “We got to get you out of here. Ahora—now! You and your caballo must come with me.” She reached out toward Knight’s bridle.
Jacey could have kicked herself. She should have listened to that voice in her head. Not surprised but still stung by the girl’s reaction, Jacey stepped back. “Me and my … caballo aren’t going anywhere—with you or anyone else.”
Rosie firmed up her expression, even narrowing her eyes like a mother to her naughty child. “Sí—yes, you are. If Zant Chapelo learns that a Lawless bloodied his nose, he will kill you.” For emphasis, she drew her finger across her throat, like a knife slitting it.
Jacey raised an eyebrow at this bit of theatrics. She’d just learned two things. One, the Lawless name still held sway in Papa’s old stomping grounds. And, two, it meant something to Zant Chapelo. She was right, then—he was related to Kid Chapelo. Closely related, she’d bet. Does he have on his spurs? she wondered.
But out loud to Rosie, she challenged, “So you think he’d slit my throat? Well, you tell him for me that had I known it was a Chapelo sticking his hand down my blouse, I would have killed him right then and there. Better yet, I would’ve let my … caballo stomp him to death before he ever got the chance.”
Rosie began backing up and shaking her head. “No. I cannot tell him these things. You do not understand this man, mi amiga.”
Jacey advanced a step on the girl, holding Knight’s reins tighter than necessary as he trailed behind her. Pressing Rosie, hoping she’d reveal more about this Chapelo, Jacey taunted, “Maybe I’ll just tell him myself.”
Rosie shook her head with enough emotion to swing her unbound, waist-length black hair all around her. “You cannot. I say this for your sake. You are as good as dead if you challenge Chapelo. And it will not matter to him that you are a woman—because you are also a Lawless.”
“Good. Because it won’t matter to me that he’s a man. Or a Chapelo.”
Rosie didn’t end her retreat until the afternoon’s sunshine spilled across her. Jacey, undecided about following her or not, stayed deep in the alley’s cool shadows. Frowning, she tried to keep Rosie in her sight as folks ambling by stepped between her and the other girl. Finally catching sight of her, Jacey saw Rosie look both ways out in the crowded street and then elbow between two sombreroed misters and return to the alley’s mouth.
Looking mighty vexed, the Mexican girl leaned toward Jacey and spoke in a low hiss. “Por favor—please. If you won’t come with me, then you must leave Tucson now—while you can. Forget that he is here.”
Her comeback to that already on the tip of her tongue, Jacey opened her mouth. But the words never left her throat because Rosie darted a glance to her left, gasped, and abruptly turned around, only to smack into two bonneted women behind her. What happened next was blocked from Jacey’s view by the passing crowd. Frustrated, more than a little concerned, she kicked at the sandy ground in frustration.
And then froze when Rosie reappeared at the alley’s entrance, just as suddenly as she’d disappeared. Only this time, she wasn’t alone. Zant Chapelo was with her. Shock sucked the juice out of Jacey and dried her mouth. The man’s back was to her, but if he turned the slightest.…
She didn’t even dare finish her thought as, hand over her own mouth, she helplessly watched the scene between Chapelo and Rosie. The man, who no longer moved or spoke as if drunk, stood with one knee bent and his thumbs hitched in his gunbelt. “Did you find who you were huntin’, Rosie?”
Jacey didn’t hear Rosie’s answer because her mind was screaming, Rosie’d followed her, and he’d followed Rosie. But how long had Chapelo been standing off to a side before Rosie’d spotted him? Long enough to know she’d been speaking to someone in this very alley?
Fear-induced sweat meandered down Jacey’s spine. Her heart pounding, her clothes clinging damply to her, she forced her attention back to the scene before her. She saw her new friend grab Chapelo by his arms—effectively holding him in place. Relief swept over Jacey with the thought that the man probably would not have left his back open to a bullet, if he thought he wasn’t alone with the girl. She relaxed and lowered her hand to her side.
God bless Rosie, she was flirting outrageously. And obviously protecting Jacey’s presence. That said something about the Mexican girl. “Señor Chapelo, shame on you. Why are you following me? You better not let my father know you do this. He will get his gun to you.”
Señor Chapelo didn’t say anything for a moment. But when he did, his tone of voice clearly said he wasn’t the least bit sidetracked. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we? Where is she, Rosie?”
When Jacey was suddenly nudged forward, as if in answer to the man’s question, she swallowed a startled breath and clamped her hand back over her own mouth. Who—? But then she remembered who was behind her. Knight. She quickly stepped back farther into the shadows, pulling down on the reins and putting a hand over the gelding’s muzzle to keep him quiet. If Zant Chapelo turned around right now, she would be trapped. And from what Rosie’d told her, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her.
With that thought, her gaze slipped down to the man’s hip. That was a pretty big Colt strapped there. She then looked him up and down. He was big, too. That sinking feeling swept over her again. He was really big. Why, his shoulders came close to rivaling the alley’s width. His lean waist tapered to narrow hips and muscular legs under his close-fitting denims. He was most certainly a powerfully built man. He looked like he could snap her in two with one hand. Then, biting at her bottom lip and fingering the bit of broken spur on the silver chain around her neck, she looked to his boot heels.
And sucked in a breath through her dread-pinched nostrils. No spurs. On her way into town, Jacey’d observed that nearly to a man, the gunslinger types she’d passed wore spurs. So why wasn’t Chapelo sporting any? She glanced up at the back of his head, as if she could read his mind for her answer. But all she saw, under a wide-brimmed black felt hat, was hair as black as her own that lay over his shirt’s collar.
Zant Chapelo. He had more reason to want her dead than she did him, she figured. After all, if he wasn’t the thief she was after, then she had no quarrel with him. But, on the other hand, she was Jacey Catherine Lawless, daughter of J. C. Lawless—the man who’d killed his kin, maybe his father. And like Rosie’d said, it probably wouldn’t matter to him that she was a woman, if it was vengeance he was after.
Suddenly wanting to be as far away from Zant Chapelo as she could get, Jacey looked back over her shoulder to the other open end of the alley. She swung her gaze back to Knight, then to Chapelo, and then back down to the alley’s exit. And slumped. She didn’t dare try backing the cantankerous gelding all the way to the next street. The big horse, never too well behaved for long, wouldn’t go without a fuss if she forced him blindly backward.
And Zant Chapelo was kicking up enough of a fuss right now for both of them. Jacey forced a calmness on herself that she didn’t feel, and listened to Chapelo’s raised voice. “Dammit, Rosie. I saw you take off after her. I swear I’m not going to shoot her. Just tell me where—”
“No, I will not. I mean—I cannot. I do not know where she is.” Rosie, all but lost to view on the other side of the big man, didn’t sound the least bit afraid of him. But then again, she wasn’t the one who’d bloodied his nose and then turned her back on him. And her last name wasn’t Lawless.
Chapelo exhaled noisily, effectively signaling his disgust. “Fine. I’ll find her myself. But when you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”
Rosie didn’t say anything. Jacey figured that wasn’t a good sign. Shouldn’t she have been protesting that she didn’t know where she was, that she wouldn’t be seeing her? “Tell me this, Señor Chapelo. This muchacha—what do you want with her?”
Again, Chapelo took his time answering. In those few seconds, Jacey’s heart didn’t beat—she was sure that Rosie’s question was a tactical error. To add to her mounting dismay, Jacey was sure she could hear the wheels turning in the man’s head.
He chuckled—and proved her right. “Just as I thought.” He nodded several times, and moved his hands from his gunbelt to cross his arms over his chest. “We both know you know where she is. Now, why don’t you do me a favor and just tell me?”
Rosie backed up a step. “No. I cannot. I do not know. I must go now.” With that, the little barmaid turned. Chapelo grabbed at her, but he was no more successful in keeping her there than Jacey’d been. With a flash of color, she was gone.
Surprisingly, Chapelo didn’t give chase. He simply put his hands to his waist and muttered, “Damn.” Then, he stepped out of view, going back the same way he’d just come.
Exhaling, Jacey slumped against the adobe wall behind her. Flexing her knees, she leaned her head back against the sundried bricks’ warmth and closed her eyes. That was close. Too damned close.
Just then, Knight snorted and whinnied out his impatience. Jacey sucked in an agitated breath and grabbed for the horse’s bridle. In the next instant, she came close to jumping out of her skin when, right behind her, Chapelo asked, “What’s wrong? Can’t find anyone to poke in the nose?”