Chapter 18

 

Jonas Creedy stood at the window of Big Red’s bedroom in the Sagebrush Princess, his mouth curled in a snarl as he watched Tempest Whitney drive past in her dogcart, Maddux riding alongside. Maddux, not Whitney. Jonas was certain of that now, which meant he had been tricked into giving up Tempest. No one made a fool of Jonas Creedy and lived to boast of it.

“Jonas?” The rustle of cotton sheets accompanied Red’s soft, southern voice as she lifted herself higher against the bed pillows. Nearly two weeks had passed since Jonas had pummeled her to near-death for shooting him, and she still bore the bruises. Probably would have them for some time to come. Along with the broken ribs. “Please, Jonas, tell me what you’re plannin’ to do about Lacey.”

Tempest pulled up next to the hotel. Maddux dismounted and secured the reins to the hitch rail. He circled her waist with his hands and started to lift her out of the cart, flinched, and quickly released her. Even from where he stood, Jonas saw the grimace of pain on the man’s face. He smiled. It seemed Tempest’s so-called husband had hurt his shoulder. Thanks to Morgan Paine. But it’s nothing compared to what you’re going to suffer before this is over, you filthy interloper.

Jonas had raised the ante on Maddux, hoping the added pressure would force the man to show his hand and lead them to the stolen payroll. Maddux must know where it was or he wouldn’t be hanging around. Especially since he hadn’t started sleeping with Tempest until lately. Maybe the man thought Tempest knew where the money was and he was trying to romance her into telling him. But Jonas was tired of waiting, tired of wasting time on Buck Maddux when he should be searching for the lost gold, which was bound to be worth a great deal more than the payroll.

Tempest’s brats were jumping up and down in the cart like idiot monkeys. The sun glinted off their bouncing curls, making their hair look more white than blonde. A hideous, floppy hat hid Tempest’s hair, but Jonas didn’t need to see it to know it was darker than her children’s. The last time he had seen that hat was the day he dragged her into the back of the hotel and threw her onto a bed in one of the rooms. His body quickened at the memory. He would never forget the smell and taste of her. Like fine French brandy, compared to a crude home brew.

He wouldn’t forget the raging headache he’d awakened with later, either, or the snickers of his men when he walked into the ranch yard naked.

“Jonas? Did ya hear me?”

“Enjoy your breakfast in bed while you can, Red, your days of being waited on and pampered by those morons downstairs are over.”

Next to Tempest's fair-haired brats, the ebony-haired man with them looked like a raven in a flock of swans. Or, in this case, a skunk. Folks might wonder how those tow-headed brats escaped having black, white-streaked hair themselves, but it was no mystery to Jonas.

His smile was feral as he reached into his pocket and drew out the telegram his foreman had fetched from Price yesterday. The man arrested two years ago as Skeet Whitney’s partner and sentenced to prison on a charge of robbery had been released in July—six weeks before “Skeet Whitney’s” miraculous appearance in Deception Canyon. The wire also confirmed that he had blue eyes and black hair with a white streak over his forehead. And that he went by the name of Buck Maddux.

“Jonas!”

There was a possibility, Jonas supposed, that the dead man the posse helped bury truly was Buck Maddux and Skeet had assumed the man’s identity to evade prison. The driver and passengers of the robbed stage had seen only one bandit whose face was hidden by a kerchief, which proved nothing, and so Maddux went to jail. Whatever happened two years ago, it no longer mattered if the man with Tempest was Maddux or Whitney. Either way, he was a dead man.

"Ah won’t 'llow ya to hurt Lacey, Jonas.”

He turned and gazed at the woman propped up by a mound of pillows in the center of the bed, a breakfast tray on her lap. Her bruises had turned a putrid purple and yellow that made her appear sickly and unappealing. His gaze followed the trail of her long hair to the voluptuous bosom it barely concealed. Tempest’s breasts were smaller, but nursing babies had left the nipples large enough to please even a man’s mouth. His groin stirred as he remembered the taste of those nipples.

Moving to the bed he cupped Red’s discolored cheek in his hand, squeezed the tender flesh with his thumb, and smiled when she winced. "Don’t push me, Red. You know I don't like having to punish you."

His own injury was healing up well, in spite of the setback Tempest had given it with the cruel blow she’d delivered to it.

Red set the tray aside.

"You hardly touched your food,” Jonas said.

"Ah'm not hungry. 'Sides, it still hurts to chew.”

The unspoken accusation rankled. His pleasant mood slipped a notch.

"Well, you damned well better eat anyhow. I've lost enough money with you laying up here doing nothing."

Red smiled. "Not to mention what Lacey used to bring in, eh, Jonas?"

That was too much. He backhanded her across the face. Red flinched but didn’t cry out.

He walked back to the window. Damn whore. If it hadn’t been for threats from Stud and Rueben, he would have had her spreading her legs for customers two days after the beating when it was apparent that she was going to live. How much could it hurt to simply lay beneath a man, broken ribs or no broken ribs?

Down on the street Maddux was kissing Tempest. The memory of watching Maddux fondle her naked breasts brought an element of anger with it. Jonas was the one who should be sharing her bed, not Maddux. Even the physical release he had given himself that night outside her dugout had failed to completely ease his hunger for her. He smiled. His fantasies of Tempest hadn’t always included pain, but lately . . . ah, yes, lately he’d thought a lot of how her cries of pain would add to his pleasure as he thrust himself inside her.

He rubbed his hand over the aching bulge in his trousers, but he had no intention of settling again for the kind of relief he’d had to settle for after the dance.

“Come here, Red.”

“Why, Jonas?” Her tone was wary.

“I said come here.”

The steel-edged voice allowed no room for argument. Red got out of bed and went to him.

“Kneel down,” he ordered.

She'd spent enough time at his feet to know what he wanted. Without comment, she knelt and began unbuttoning his trousers.

On the street below, Tempest watched her pretend husband walk toward the Swede’s place, a perfect picture of wifely concern. The boy in her arms put a small hand on her breast. Jonas imagined it was his hand. He felt the delicious suck and pull of Red’s talented mouth on his sensitive flesh, his breathing hard and fast now, and thought what it would be like to have Tempest there on her knees before him instead of the whore. His excitement grew. He knotted his hands in Red’s hair and pumped hard, ignoring her choked complaint. As if sensing his gaze on her, Tempest looked up at the window. The intoxicating idea of her seeing what he was doing to Red nearly shattered him. When her gaze actually met his through the glass pane, and widened in fear, Jonas’s body began to convulse.

When he opened his eyes—the pulsating ripples of a spectacular climax beginning to ebb—all he saw of Tempest was her back hurrying into the store. Red hitched herself to her feet and went to the washstand. Jonas refastened his pants and sauntered to the door. He was feeling exceedingly good again, making him more generous than usual.

“I’ll give you the rest of the day off, Red. Tonight you go back to work. You just proved you was capable of servicing a man. In one way at least.”

On his way through the saloon Jonas told Morgan Paine to come to his office. A simple way of piecing together the last of the Whitney puzzle had occurred to him.

Paine outweighed his boss by fifty pounds. He had a laugh like the bark of a walrus and a triangular face with a low forehead that gave him the look of a moron. But the man was canny as wolverine, and twice as mean. Traits Jonas admired.

“Come in, Morg.” Jonas motioned to a chair and offered one of his poorer quality Cuban cigars. “Got something I want you to do.”

Morgan ran the cigar under his nose, sniffing its aroma with audible relish. “Anything you say, Mr. Creedy. Just say the word and it’s done.”

Jonas smiled. He loved having his boots licked.

* * *

There was no sign of Cale when Buck entered Swede’s saloon and bellied up to the bar.

“You look for someone, maybe?” Swede asked with a knowing grin.

“Did you talk to him?”

“Ya, I talk. And I think he listen, but he is saying nothing. How is your wound, my friend?”

Buck flexed the injured shoulder and grimaced. “Probably no worse than Cale’s head this morning.”

Swede pushed a tumbler of whiskey toward him. The glasses weren’t getting any cleaner, Buck noticed. He scrubbed at the rim with his thumb before bringing it to his lips. “Where is he?”

“At livery, seeing to horse.”

Buck frowned. “Is he leaving?”

Swede shrugged.

Downing the drink in a single gulp, Buck tossed a coin on the counter and gave his friend a nod.

John Bennet’s livery was as cavernous and fragrant as most such places, though less drafty. Buck heard Cale before he saw him. The young man had a deep clear baritone voice that could make him a fortune on the stage back east, if he wasn’t so determined to go into their step-father’s import-export business. The song was one Buck remembered their step-mother singing when they were boys, a sweet ballad about a maid with golden hair and swallows in the air.

Cale was in the far stall, brushing down his roan stallion. He barely glanced up at Buck’s greeting. John’s boy, Beaner, all pimples and Adam’s apple, came out of the office. “Morning, Mr. Whitney. Can I do something for you?”

Buck gestured to the man in the stall. “Just came to talk to my brother.”

The boy screwed up his face. “But his name’s Kincade.”

“Same mother, different fathers,” Buck explained.

“Oh.” Beaner scratched his armpit and nodded. Cale kept on brushing, ignoring them both.

“We could use some privacy,” Buck said when the boy continued to stand there.

“Oh. Sure. I was watching the place for my pa, but with you here, maybe I could run over to the eatery and see if I can talk Mrs. Sims out of a cinnamon roll.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Buck assured him. “When we’re done I’ll come and get you.”

A long silence followed the shuffle of the boy’s oversized feet out the big sliding doors. Finally Cale turned. He leaned an arm on the roan’s rump and looked his brother in the eye. “What have you gotten yourself into here, Richard?”

“Buck.”

“Richard, Buck, whatever. Are you after the woman, is that it? You just trying to get under her skirts?”

Hearing his brother talk that way about Tempest rankled. Maybe because it made him sound exactly like the scoundrel he was. He nipped the flesh inside his lower lip and waited until the anger passed, knowing it wouldn't be wise to give it rein. “No. I came here only to keep a promise."

During the next several minutes Buck explained how he'd met Skeet Whitney and landed in prison, how he'd came to Deception Canyon to see if Whitney’s widow was getting along all right, and found her in trouble. Buck skipped over the emotions behind his decisions: the desperate need to avoid responsibility that conflicted with his need to keep promises; the self-hate driving him from job to job, state to state, never letting anyone close to him, never letting himself care, because caring hurt too much when the time came to move on again, and he didn’t deserve to be cared about in return anyway. He left out the complex emotions living with Tempest had wrought in him the past few days too: his increasing respect for her courage and tenacity; his growing affection for her children; the frightening need to make her his; and, most of all, the resurfacing of dreams he’d told himself long ago he didn’t deserve to see come true—family, home, love, happiness.

When Buck finished, he fell silent and waited for his brother’s reaction. Cale’s face was hard and calculating, as if dissecting every word and seeking untruths. The apparent lack of trust smarted.

“I already told you I wouldn’t do anything to hurt your little widow,” Cale said finally. “She obviously needs someone’s protection.”

“But not mine, is that it?” Buck ground out. “Not the protection of a woman killer.”

Cale blanched. “I never called you that, Richard. In fact, I’ve never heard anyone refer to you that way except you. Is it guilt that makes you so defensive?”

“Yes, damn you. The guilt of Ellen’s death has eaten at me every minute of every day for fifteen years. It’ll keep on eating at me till the day I die. That’s something you won’t ever have to worry about though, is it, Mr. Perfect Gentleman?” he sneered. “You don’t make mistakes, so you’ll never know how it feels to be rejected by everyone you know and love. You’ll never know how it feels to hate yourself so bad you want to take a .44 and . . .”

Suddenly the fury waned, leaving Buck weary to his soul, empty. Whirling away from his shocked brother he stood, panting, fighting for control, fighting the sickness in his stomach that made him want to spew up his breakfast.

Behind him, Cale said, “You’re right, Buck. I can’t know how it felt to be rejected like that, but you’re wrong about one thing . . . you weren’t shunned. The folks, maybe, but not us kids. We didn’t know enough to turn against you then. It was the way you left, without a word, that hurt us and made us hate you for a while.”

Buck’s head came up. “For a while?” He turned and looked at his brother. “You don’t hate me anymore?”

Cale looked away. “I don’t know.”

Buck nodded, feeling as bleak as a winter sky. “A moment ago it was Buck,” he said quietly.

“Give me time. I told you I don’t know what the goddamn hell I feel now.” Pinning his big brother with a piercing glare, he added, “But if that woman suffers for all these good intentions of yours, I promise, Richard, I’ll kill you.”

Buck’s gut tightened. Cale didn’t believe Tempest would be better off in his hands than Jonas Creedy’s. That pained him. Almost as much as when his family first turned on him fifteen years ago. He stared at the unforgiving brother he loved, and his voice turned to stone. “If I fail Tempest, you won’t have to kill me, little brother. I’ll do it myself.”

Spinning on his heels, he stalked out of the livery.

* * *

Tempest didn’t know the two rough-looking men who stopped her outside the hotel and pretended to admire her children, but she suspected they worked for Jonas. That alone made her jittery. Her gaze cut to the window of the Sagebrush Princess where she had seen Jonas earlier, watching her with such savage carnality on his face she had felt as if his hands were on her naked flesh. The window was empty.

One of the men wore a meticulous brown suit with checkered trousers and a bowler hat. He might have been taken for a clerk or secretary, if not for the cruelty in his pale yellow eyes. The other, larger man looked like a cowhand except for the gun belt strapped low on his hip the way she'd heard gunmen wore them.

“You shore named this‘un right, ma’am,” the cowhand said around a chunk of tobacco as he squatted in front of Angel. “If she ain’t the living image of an angel, I don’t know what is. Ain’t that right, Howard?”

"How did you know her name?" Tempest asked, more frightened than ever.

"Uh, musta heard you call her that. Right, Howard?"

The tidy little man called Howard was looking at Angel as though she were frosting on a cake. Remembering Jonas’s words about knowing a man who would love to get his hands on her little girl, she drew her children closer. It was all she could do not to grab up her daughter and run screaming for Buck.

The cowhand patted Angel on the head like a puppy, rose to his feet and turned to Ethan. Tempest forced herself to stand still and not flinch as he stroked Ethan’s arm, all but brushing his finger over her breast in the process. The fear lodged in her throat threatened to collapse her lungs. Trying not to be obvious, she glanced up the street, hoping to see Buck. Hoping for anyone who might offer protection.

She tried to assure herself the men wouldn’t dare to hurt them there on the street. Their hard, sadistic eyes told her otherwise. She could scream. Someone was bound to come running, but no one could reach her as fast as a bullet fired from a few feet away.

“Had a cousin once with hair that color,” the big man said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the street, “like bleached out wheat, you know? Ran in the family.”

Eyeing the thick, light brown braid hanging over her shoulder, he added, “Reckon your kids musta got their coloring from their pa, is that right, ma’am?”

Too rattled to think, she mumbled, “Yes, he-he was very blonde.”

"Ain't that interesting,” a familiar voice commented behind Tempest.

She whirled to find Jonas two feet away. His smile was like spider tracks down her back. With a jerk of his head, he dismissed the two men. They didn't bother to tip their hats as they strolled away.

Grinning, Jonas said, “You just gave me the last bit of proof I needed, puss.”

“Proof of what?” She managed not to stutter, but barely. He had heard her admit the children’s father had been blonde—not raven-haired with a white streak over his forehead. Fear crawled over her body like wind-chilled sweat.

“The truth about that husband of yours, of course.”

Even though she had expected the words, the air in her lungs froze. He laughed.

“Didn't think I'd figure it out?” His expression hardened, the thin lips curled downward, and the nostrils of his bent, flattened nose flared. “Were you counting on a half-breed being too stupid to see you were lying?”

Fighting to control the rapid flutter of her heart, she lifted her chin and stared him in the eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jonas grabbed her arm and yanked her close. Ethan began to fuss. “You know, all right.”

“Skeet will kill you if he sees you bothering me.”

“Skeet is dead.”

“No, he—”

Dirty fingernails bit cruelly into her arm. “Don’t . . . don’t lie to me again.”

Tempest clenched her teeth against the pain of his fierce grip, and tilted her chin higher. She would not let him see her pain, or her fear. He was like a wild animal, sensing his prey’s weakness, using it against her. Drumming up her courage, she spat, “Get your hands off me, you goat-faced bastard, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” he sneered. “Send Maddux after me again? Tell me, has he been keeping my spot between your legs warm and well greased for me? No matter. I’ll be seein' to it myself soon, once we're rid of him.”

Ethan buried his face in her neck and began to wail. Angel clutched her mother’s skirt so tightly Tempest feared the girl would yank the garment off her. Knowing she needed to be strong for them was all that kept her on her feet.

“I’m looking forward to it, you know—” Jonas’s low whisper was like the hiss of a snake “—killing that bastard you been spreading your legs for. I ain't looked forward to anything so much since the day I tracked down my mother who thought she was too good to raise me. She died real slow, same as Maddux will, and I’m gonna enjoy every minute of it. Almost as much as what I have in mind for you. Tell him that. Tell him I’ll be waiting.”

Shoving her aside, he strode down the alley between the store and the hotel.

Tempest closed her eyes and fought for sanity. Ethan and Angel were both crying now. She wished she could join them and let her tears wash away all her fear, but it wasn’t that easy. Tears were nothing but emotional rain, useless and unproductive.

Buck. Sweet Lord, if Buck found out about this, he’d kill Jonas. She might be tempted to let him do exactly that, if she wasn’t afraid Buck would end up in prison again. What had happened to him two years ago proved the law was not infallible. And she would die if she lost him. She knew it was inevitable, yet she was fool enough to keep hoping to make Buck want to stay, make him love her. But losing him to his wandering feet was better than seeing him in prison. Or dead.

Taking a deep breath, Tempest stroked her son’s back. “It’s all right, sweetheart. There’s nothing to cry about. It’s all right.”

Cradling him against her breasts, she squatted in front of her daughter and smoothed the pale hair out of the girl’s face. “Stop crying now, Angel. He’s gone. Papa Buck would never let anyone hurt us. You know that, don’t you?”

Angel managed a nod, and bravely knuckled the tears from her eyes. “I don’t like that man, Mama. He’th not nithe.”

“I don’t like him either, honey. Now listen to me, when we see Papa Buck at Viola’s, you mustn’t say anything about what just happened, okay? Because if he finds out Mr. Creedy was nasty to us, he’ll try to make the man sorry for it, and I think that’s what Mr. Creedy wants. He wants to hurt Papa Buck. Understand, Angel? We don’t want Papa Buck to get hurt, do we?”

A fresh spurt of tears purled on the girl's lashes. "I wouldn't never do anything to make Papa Buck get hurt, Mama.”

“I know you wouldn’t.” Forcing a smile, Tempest kissed her daughter’s forehead, kissed Ethan and wiped away his tears. “Now, shall we go have some of Aunt Viola’s good cinnamon rolls and be happy again?”

The children's brave, watery smiles nearly broke her heart.

* * *

Buck didn’t go straight to Viola’s when he left the livery. Instead, he took a long, dusty hike up the rocky slope behind town, using physical exercise to dissipate the savage fury tumbling his innards.

How could his own brother think so lowly of him? Oh, Buck knew he deserved it. But it still hurt. Damn. If a person truly loved someone, that love should never die, no matter how frequent or serious the mistakes the loved one made. When the disappointment and hurt faded, the love should still be there underneath. But that wasn't the way it worked. Not with his family, anyway. He hadn’t realized how much he had secretly counted on being able to go home some day, once he’d regained some self-respect, and find the old love waiting for him. Now he knew he would never go home. Or find forgiveness.

The man who returned to town several minutes later was not the same one who had climbed a hill to work off his anger. This man was colder, harder, more hollow.

He and Tempest had taken three days to finish up autumn chores so they wouldn’t be caught unaware by an early winter. A few more days, maybe only one, and they would find Skeet’s ill-gotten stash. Buck would be able to leave with a clear conscience. He’d go without his heart. But, he’d probably never had one anyway. How else could he have murdered his own wife and child?