Chapter 17
“Oh my God,” the woman said, shocked, taking a quick step for ward. “Lou?”
“Lou who?” came a man’s voice, slurring the words. The question had come from the man who’d been slumped across a table to Prophet’s right, against the far wall.
Lola dropped to her knees before Prophet. She sandwiched his face in her hands, shoved hers up close to his until he could see the watery light glinting in her soft, blue eyes. “Oh, Lou!” she cried half in joy, half in anguish.
“Lou who?” said the drunk again, more persistently this time.
“Oh, shut up, Buster!” Lola said, keeping her eyes on Prophet, raking her eyes across his bullet-torn temple. “Lou, my God, what happened to you?”
“Had a little trouble . . . out on the trail.” Prophet stared at her in amazement. “Lola . . . it is you. My God!”
It was Lola, all right. Whoever she was now, she was still Lola Diamond to him. She looked very much the same as when he’d last seen her several years ago. Still beautiful despite a slight tightening of the skin around her eyes and mouth. Maybe the eyes were a little less sparkling than before, a little more jaded. Maybe she was even prettier for time’s tempering of youth’s raw blush.
“It is me, Lou. It is me. Come on. We have to get you upstairs.”
Prophet smiled as he gazed into her eyes. “You’re even more beautiful than before, Lola. I didn’t think it possible, but, by God, girl . . . er, woman . . . you sure are!”
Despite his physical agony, he couldn’t help taking a peek at the well-filled, low-cut bodice, which she wore over a ruffled, equally low-cut white blouse.
Lola gave a throaty chuckle. “You’ve taken a right big blow to your head, Lou. Obviously.” She chuckled again and then turned to where the only other person in the place was now sitting up in his chair, watching them. “Buster, if you’re one bit conscious, get over here and help me get Lou upstairs. He’s a mite more man than I can handle on my own.”
“You managed before . . . a time or two, as I recall.” Prophet grinned at her, winked.
Lola blushed. She gave a grunt as, wrapping Prophet’s right arm around her neck, she hoisted him to his feet. Prophet couldn’t offer much help. His knees were weak. Likely the result of pain, blood loss, overexertion, and lack of food. But it was whiskey he craved the most.
“Whoever runs this dump,” he said, glancing toward the bar, “you think they’d sell me a bottle?”
“Since I’m the one who runs this dump, I reckon I would.”
Prophet blinked. “You?”
“Yep.” She turned toward where the drunk was stumbling toward them. “Buster, hurry!”
“This is all the better I can do,” Buster said, walking like a knock-kneed, old, long-legged horse ready for the glue factory. He was as tall as Prophet but he was whipcord thin with a pronounced forehead and chin and bulging, drink-bleary brown eyes. His brown patch beard was liberally sprinkled with salt.
He stumbled over a chair, nearly fell, then came around to Prophet’s other side and wrapped the bounty hunter’s left arm around his neck. “What’d you say your name was?” Buster asked as he and Lola began leading Prophet to the stairs at the back of the room.
“Lou Prophet, Buster. The pleasure’s mine.”
“Lou Prophet. Damn, I think I’ve heard that name,” Buster said, tripping over another chair.
“Buster, be careful!” Lola cajoled him.
“Lola, how do you know this big fella here?” Buster asked her as they made it to the bottom of the stairs.
“Long story.” Lola gave Prophet a sidelong, conspiratorial smile. “Long, long story—eh, Lou?”
“Ain’t near long enough for me, girl,” Prophet said as he put one foot on the bottom step and, with Lola’s and Buster’s help, began climbing.
He gave Lola a wink and she returned it. He cast a glance down her corset, into the deep, dark cleavage.
“You still have a brazen eye, bounty hunter.” Lola’s eyes danced with amusement.
“A brazen eye for beauty.”
Lola laughed. So did Buster. They almost fell back down the stairs but then Lola got serious and, grabbing the banister to her right and scolding both men profusely, got them back on an upward climb that, after another near-catastrophe, had them stumbling through the first door on the right of the second-floor hall.
The room was large and well appointed in a feminine manner, with ornate wallpaper and lacy curtains over the two large windows. A thick oriental rug graced the floor, and a wine red canopy anointed the four-poster bed, which was covered with a black, silk, gold-embroidered comforter and large pillows also swathed in silk.
“Holy Christ,” Prophet mumbled as Lola and Buster led him to the massive bed. “I didn’t know the queen of Merry Ole England was livin’ in Jubilee now.”
“This is my room,” Lola said.
“You sure you want this big ole reprobate in your room, Lola?” Buster sounded astonished.
As they sat Prophet down on the edge of the bed, he narrowed one eye at the drunkard. “Buster, have we met before?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve heard the name before but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“Then how did you know I was a reprobate?”
“Don’t let it make you feel bad,” Buster said. “I’m the town drunk.”
Prophet snorted.
“Lou, you hush now, and lay back.” Lola was pulling the covers down. “You lay here and rest while I get some brandy and heat water so we can stitch that wound in your head before you bleed out.”
She reached into a closet, grabbed a man’s shirt off a hanger, and laid it on the pillow near Prophet. “That’s so you don’t get blood all over my bed, you old reprobate.”
She cupped her hand under his jaw and stared down at him with concern. “What happened to you, Lou?”
“I’ll tell you about it after you fetch that brandy.” Prophet smacked his lips. “Damn, I’m thirsty!” He frowned as he kicked out of his boots and shifted his position on the bed, scooting up to lay his head back on the shirt-covered pillow. “Who’d you say was gonna stitch my head?”
“Me an’ Buster are.”
“You an’ Buster qualified to stitch my head?”
“Not tonight, I ain’t!” Buster said. He was holding on to one of the posters holding up a corner of the canopy, as though it were the mast of a ship he was clinging to lest he should get swept overboard.
“Buster’s an old ranch cook. You know how they are. They’re doctor and lawyer and mother and father and peace officer and even sometimes a judge and jury, when it comes to that. He’s been Jubilee’s only doctor for the past year and a half, since old Doc Baldwin kicked the bucket just down the hall with one of the girls who used to ply the old trade here.”
“He died with a smile on his face, though, I’ll give him that,” Buster said, chuckling but looking peaked.
“Go on downstairs and have a cup of coffee,” Lola told the man. “Have two. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Buster negotiated the gap between the bed and the door as though it were the deck of the ship threatening to toss him into the cold, dark drink. “I think I’d better have three.”
“Yeah, I think you’d better,” Prophet called to him.
Lola turned to Prophet, who lay staring up at her, deeply puzzled. “Lola . . . ?” He shook his head, so confused that he wasn’t sure which question to ask first.
Lola placed two soft fingers on his cracked lips. “You’re wondering what I’m doing here—the great actress, Lola Diamond, who had her hat set for the New York stage. What could I possibly be doing in this boil on the devil’s backside, running a watering hole? I’ll explain it all to you soon, Lou. As soon as we get you stitched up. And I’ll tell you why I summoned you here, as well.”
“Yeah,” Prophet said, letting his heavy lids flutter closed. “All that . . .”
He fell helplessly into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He woke believing he must have fallen asleep in a raspberry patch. He opened his eyes. Lola stood beside the bed, running a cool, wet sponge across his naked chest.
He couldn’t feel a stitch of clothes on him. Sliding his gaze down his body he saw that, sure enough, he was naked. Naked and damp, his body glistening dully in the faint, rippling lamplight.
“Shhh,” Lola whispered. “All’s well, Lou. I’m just giving you a little bath. Make you feel better, cool you off.”