CHAPTER 3

Marsh watched the activity around the Glory Hole with satisfaction.

David Scott had been something less than enthusiastic about this venture, but he’d obviously known the right people to speed it along. Marsh had met with a foreman last evening, directly after Scott filed the ownership deed, and work had started at daybreak.

Marsh had discarded his black clothing, just as he hoped to discard his past. He stretched out comfortably in denim trousers and cotton shirt, although he still wore a gunbelt under a leather jacket. The gun was too much a part of him to set aside. He had enemies, probably more than he knew, and he’d lived too long on the razor’s edge of danger to go unprotected.

The sky was pale blue, the sun still low and drowsy looking through a lingering light fog. A fresh breeze swept across the street, as he was discovering it often did in this city. After the heat of the Colorado plains, Texas, and Arizona, he relished this constant rush of cool, sometimes cold, air from the ocean. He liked the excitement of San Francisco, the color, the tolerance he found in the city.

The dog he’d discovered in the saloon was still about, slinking under some wooden boards, eyeing him malevolently. The dog had as much right to the saloon as he did, Marsh felt, perhaps more.

He looked back up at the sign nailed neatly above the door, each letter boldly outlined in the gold that had had so much to do with this city. He’d halfway thought about leaving the H off the Hole, but then reconsidered. His irreverent sense of humor might not be shared by others.

Marsh sauntered inside. Workmen were replacing the broken windowpanes; carpenters were working on the door and shutters. He felt an odd sense of proprietorship. He’d owned nothing but a horse, a saddle, and a gun since the war.

He took measure of what else needed to be done. The walls could remain as they were. He needed furniture: tables and chairs. A new piano. And then liquor, of course, and glasses. He’d obtained a list of dealers from David.

And employees.

He’d told David he wanted to open within two weeks.

Christ! Hiring employees.

He’d been a loner for more than fifteen years. A gunfighter didn’t have friends. You might have to kill one of them someday.

Like Lobo. They’d come damn close to facing each other several times. In the end, however, Lobo had hired Marsh to aid in his retirement from gunfighting and from being hunted. After his hand was crippled, Lobo, with the help of folks in a Colorado town, had faked his own death. He named Marsh heir to his estate, predated the will, and assumed the name of Jess Martin. Marsh took a share of the proceeds and transferred the remainder back to his old adversary under the new name.

Marsh grinned as he recalled the startling transition of Lobo into Jess Martin, renegade into respectable citizen.

He doubted his own transmutation would be anywhere as complete. He was, after all, older than Lobo, a hell of a lot more experienced. He’d often wondered which of them was faster, and now he would never know. He wasn’t sorry. He’d respected the man for his professionalism, his cool competence. They had been among the last of their breed, and when Lobo retired, something inside Marsh had known his own time had come.

Through a newly installed window, he looked over at the Silver Slipper, and his gaze traveled upward. He saw Catalina Hilliard standing at her window, hair down, her loose garment blowing against her tall, slender figure. She looked almost ethereal standing there. The very thought made him smile wryly. No ghost she.

Who dared to start up the Glory Hole, Cat wondered.

She stretched, thinking she would have to send Teddy to find out. Teddy was the only man she trusted, had ever trusted, other than Ben Abbott, who had died years ago.

Which reminded her of Molly again. Teddy tried to hide it, but he obviously was taken with the girl. Big, gruff Teddy, who maintained order, was really as gentle as a kitten. The fierceness was all on the outside.

After taking one last glance at the invaders across the way, she dressed quickly in a stiff white blouse and green skirt and went downstairs.

The saloon had already been cleaned from the night before, but the chairs still sat awkwardly on the tables. The floors were wet from mopping, and the smell of soap had replaced the sharp odor of alcohol.

Teddy stepped out of the back room, where barrels of beer and bottles of whiskey were stored. He was surprised at seeing her this early.

“The noise,” she explained.

Teddy’s expression was cautious. He, too, had seen the activity across the street, and he knew it boded trouble. And change. He didn’t much care for change. “Want me to find out?” he asked. He didn’t even have to ask. He had been with Cat Hilliard since the beginning of the Silver Slipper, probably knew her as well as anyone could, and he was positive she would want to know every detail about the Glory Hole.

She nodded.

Theodore Brown located his jacket, set a cap on the curly top of his head, and made for the door. He was a large man, solidly built, and his steps appeared lumbering, but he could be surprisingly quick, as troublemakers were wont to discover.

Cat went into the kitchen. Teddy—all his friends called him Teddy, which was far more apt than Theodore—had already fired the stove and started a pot of coffee. It would be as black as the stranger’s eyes, she thought, wondering why she still couldn’t banish that damnably attractive, though chillingly cold, face from her thoughts. She had seen handsome men before—her late husband had been disarmingly attractive—and they mostly repelled her. A handsome exterior often hid rot underneath, she’d learned. She shivered, reliving the night when she’d learned her husband, the man she thought would finally be her protector, had bartered her body to a gambler to whom he’d lost. The betrayal had numbed her that first time, but not the succeeding ones. Since then she had trusted only two men—and only after years of wary vigilance.

He probably wouldn’t even return, the stranger. He had been new to the city; she was sure of that, since he’d openly worn a gun with such assuredness. His was the kind of presence people noted, and word about him would have reached her.

Which raised another question. Why had she heard nothing about the revival of the Glory Hole? In the past her suppliers, or city officials, or the men who controlled the liquor distribution had told her about each competitor long before he opened.

There simply was not enough business for two saloons, at least not enough to satisfy her goal. She didn’t want to compete with a saloon that watered drinks and offered more than simple female companionship, as did her former competitors. It brought a rougher crowd to this area, sullied her own hard-won reputation, and, of course, reduced her profits.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, and it was, as she expected, strong enough to walk. The cook would be here soon to prepare the midday buffet. The Silver Slipper would officially open in two hours. Another day, another deposit. Another evening of being polite and charming to customers. She winced as she thought of the incessant ordeal of being nice to men whose lust was plain in their faces. But it was far better than doing other things with them.

She went to the door and looked over at the Glory Hole, and her body suddenly stiffened. Two men were talking, one in workman’s clothes, the other in a pair of tight trousers and a shirt that stretched across broad shoulders. A gun was in the black leather holster tethered to his thigh with a leather strap. He seemed totally oblivious to the fact that it was out of place in a sophisticated city like San Francisco.

The wind ruffled his dark hair; his profile was unforgettable. Even from this distance, she noticed that lean, sleek grace that had been so apparent last night. The impression was lethal, hard and implacable.

The stranger!

He’d exuded the sensation of power yesterday, even of menace easily stirred. Could he be the new owner?

Cat couldn’t think of a more unlikely saloon owner.

To blazes with waiting for Teddy.

She was drawn across the street, as much by attraction to the stranger as curiosity. The fact was difficult to admit, although undeniable if she was honest with herself. And she always was these days. She had spent half her life avoiding truths, running from them, and learning to face them had been another difficult lesson.

She didn’t like her odd interest in the stranger, but there it was, and it was better to satisfy herself and explore the reasons than to allow it to fester.

Cat knew he was aware of her approach, though he was turned away from her. It was a change in his stance—not a stiffening exactly, but an awareness. She wondered if he had eyes in the back of his head, but perhaps he did if he was what she sensed. She’d spent more time than she’d intended last night thinking of him, wondering at the sense of recognition, of awareness that had flared between them. She tried to categorize him, to put him into one of the slots she usually reserved for her men customers, but he didn’t seem to fit in any of them. And then she’d remembered the gunmen she’d seen in the innumerable mining towns she’d worked her way through. There was a particular aura about them, and he had it: the alertness in his eyes, the danger that radiated from him.

But what was he doing in San Francisco? More important, what was he doing at the Glory Hole?

He turned then, a slight smile on his face as his eyes measured her in more than one way and glinted suddenly with appreciation. The smile, however, was as chilling as she remembered.

He bowed, not low exactly, but with an amused gallantry that she remembered from the past evening. It might have been laughable with anyone else, but nothing about this man was laughable. It was almost as if he were testing her in some way, teasing her with a mocking gesture.

“Miss Hilliard, isn’t it?” he drawled, and she tried to place the accent. She thought she heard the South in it, but she wasn’t quite sure. It could just as well be Texas or a border state.

“Mr.…?” She remembered his name very well, but she wasn’t going to let him know it.

“Canton,” he said, the grin on his lips spreading as if he’d read her mind.

She gave him her most insincere smile. “You’re up early this morning.”

“I might say the same about you.”

“Ah,” she said softly as she surveyed the work that had already been completed this morning, “but I suspect you’ve been up since … very early.”

“I hope I—that is, we didn’t disturb your rest,” he said. “That would be most unforgivable.” But there was no true concern in his voice, only a challenge, and she knew suddenly that he was the new owner of the Glory Hole—and that he was very much aware of her reaction to previous owners.

“Of course not,” she said. “I’m most interested, Mr.… Stanton.”

“I hope the construction won’t take too long. We are using double crews to keep from disturbing our neighbors for too long a time.”

“Very thoughtful,” Cat said, trying to keep the hiss from her voice. She didn’t like being baited.

“I try to be a good neighbor,” her adversary said with a grin that wasn’t quite as cold as it had been. Neither, however, did it have any sincerity, only a personal amusement that made her simmering anger flare into full antipathy.

“I suppose you know the Glory Hole has been … well, unlucky. I would hate to see you waste money on it.”

“It’s very kind of you to concern yourself,” he said solemnly. “But I don’t believe in luck, good or bad, and I can afford to lose what might be required.”

Cat bit her tongue to keep from saying that she planned on making him lose every bit of what he could afford—and more. Instead, she gifted him with a smile every bit as insincere as his. “If you need anything …”

“I’ll know who to call upon,” he finished smoothly, his eyes glowing with a dark flame of mischief. “I’m sure you will be an inspiration. Your Silver Slipper sets a standard to emulate. There’s nothing that improves quality as much as worthy competition.”

Cat counted to ten, keeping her face absolutely still, her gaze cool and distant. Competition, indeed! The Glory Hole had never been competition, never would be. Certainly not under the direction of this … arrogant donkey. “Are you going to be running it yourself, Mr. Stanton?” she asked sweetly.

“Canton, Miss Hilliard,” he corrected. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she said in her best dulcet tone.

“Since we’re going to be neighbors, why don’t you just call me Taylor? It’s probably easier to remember than Canton.” Now he made no pretense at hiding his amusement, as if she had been caught in some particularly childish prank.

Cat felt checkmated, and she didn’t like the sensation at all. She was used to winning. And she would win, no matter what it took! She started thinking again of ways to thwart him, starting with distributors and moving more dishonorably to some of Teddy’s disreputable friends. Just thinking about this arrogant man’s downfall put a genuine smile on her face.

“So it is,” she agreed readily and made one last attempt to discover useful information. “I suppose you have experience?”

“I have a great deal of experience, Miss Hilliard,” he replied. The words were obviously open to interpretation, and the sudden glint in his eyes said his experience wasn’t limited to business.

“I have little doubt about that,” she said, “and it will be most interesting to see how that … experience works in San Francisco.” Her gaze went down to his gunbelt, and when she looked back up at him, she saw that she had scored a point of her own. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by a momentary bleakness that took her by surprise, but then vanished in an instant.

“You will have to come to our opening,” he said.

“And when will that be?”

“Two weeks, three at the most.”

She showed her surprise then. She would have wagered a goodly sum that it would take at least a month.

“Do you also plan to live there?”

He shrugged. “The living quarters come last,” he said. “I’m currently living at the Pacific Palace.”

“Quinn Devereux’s hotel?” There was surprise in her voice as if she couldn’t believe he was staying in such a respectable—or expensive—hotel.

“You know him?”

Cat hesitated. She knew of Quinn and Meredith Devereux, but she had never met them. They simply didn’t move in the same circles, and Quinn Devereux was one of the few civic and political leaders who hadn’t patronized the Silver Slipper. There were legends about the couple, about how they had worked in the Underground Railroad and barely escaped capture. Meredith Devereux was a painter of renown, and her husband was well known for his many civic contributions, and particularly for charity for the poor. Part of her envied this “golden couple” as they were sometimes called by the newspapers. They seemed to have everything, especially respectability and security. She’d given up on respectability years ago, but security …

“I only know of them,” she answered honestly.

“It’s a fine hotel,” he said. “One of the best I’ve stayed in.”

“And how many have you stayed in?”

“More than I want to remember,” he said, and for the first time Cat heard something other than complete assurance in his voice. There was weariness in it for a fleeting second that made him appear vulnerable, that took some of that icy hardness from his face and softened something in her. She, too, knew that kind of weariness. He suddenly was more the man and less the untouchable, fallen archangel. Their gazes caught, and that charged magnetism that rushed between them took on the force of a runaway train headed down a mountain.

Cat felt a longing pull deep inside, a craving she’d never experienced before and had thought she never would. She’d hated even the touch of a man, and now, inconceivably, she felt her body betray her with needs she had never even known it harbored. Even worse, she was responding to him in an odd empathic way.

She didn’t want to be touched in that way, any more than she did physically. People betrayed. Men betrayed, and it would be well for her to remember that. James Cahoon, the man she had trusted and married, had male beauty, too, and charm. She bit down on her lip and tasted blood. A good warning.

Her gaze flicked away from his, and when it returned, his eyes were hard again, hard and cold, and she wondered whether she had imagined the attraction. Her glance studied him anew, the dark taut skin that stretched over high cheekbones, the dark thick eyebrows. There was the slightest dent in his chin, which on another face would be charming but on him was incongruous, almost mocking features hewn by years of violence. The mouth was sensual, too sensual.

Hot blazes. She had made a certain peace with herself, and now it was disintegrating. Cat felt anger building inside that he could do that. He had no right. He had no right to be here, to open the Glory Hole, and by his mere presence to break barriers no one else had been able to breach.

The sooner she destroyed his business, the sooner she would have her peace returned. She would talk to the liquor distributors today, talk to the police captain to whom she paid a rather large tribute. Maybe she could keep Canton from obtaining a license.

She sensed it wasn’t going to be as easy as in the past. Canton wasn’t like any of the former owners. He wasn’t even like any other man she’d ever met.

His lips curved slowly, and she wondered what a real, honest-to-God smile would do to that face.

She didn’t want to know. Destroying him was no longer a business necessity but a personal one. Her legs were trembling slightly. She never trembled. Her lips wanted to do the same, and the only thing preventing them was the iron will she’d forged. One of these days she might not be able to control it, and, she sensed, a moment’s weakness with Canton would doom her.

“Another example … of quality to emulate,” he said into the silence between them.

She tried desperately to figure out what he referred to. Ah, the Devereux hotel. They were talking about the hotel. One of the finest he had stayed in, he’d said, before that moment of weariness had crept into his voice.

“Do you never do anything of your own, Mr. Canton?”

“You remembered the name,” he said triumphantly. “And the answer is yes, at times, but don’t forget, Miss Catalina, that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

“Really?” Cat said. “I would call it a lack of imagination, even theft.”

“Oh, I intend a few twists of my own,” he said easily.

Cat gnashed her teeth. Not if she could help it. But she smiled at him. “I had better let you get back to work. I know how much you have to do.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” he said dryly. “It’s so pleasant to have friendly neighbors. And I hear your food is excellent. I’ll have to try it.”

Cat thought about poisoning the buffet, but then she might kill off too many of her other customers. “I’d be glad to accept your money,” she said. “And remember, if you need anything …”

Like a bullet between the eyes, she thought wistfully, as she turned around without waiting for a reply. She was gratified to discover her legs still worked properly.

Marsh leaned against the bar of the Glory Hole and surveyed the interior. The swinging doors had been fixed and a lock added to the solid door. Glass was back in the windows. Some of the layers of dust and dirt were gone from the floor, but now there was sawdust. He liked the aroma. There was something clean about the smell. He looked down at the blisters on his hands. Sometime during the afternoon he had taken a hammer and gone to work with the carpenters. There was only so much standing and watching he could do, and after a few awkward strokes he had caught the rhythm. Hell, he’d even enjoyed it.

Christ, how long had it been since he had built instead of destroyed?

The workmen, hampered by the encroaching darkness, had left minutes ago. Tomorrow he would purchase some lamps. The soft dusky glow of a setting sun hid the many imperfections of the room. It looked quite attractive and gave him a sense of satisfaction. He was tired, but it was more a relaxed exhaustion than that to which he was accustomed.

For years he had slept lightly, very lightly, certain senses awake even when his body cried for rest. He had hunted, and he had been hunted, and he’d seldom known an easy night’s rest.

Tonight, he thought, would be different.

If, that is, he wasn’t haunted again by a pair of watchful green eyes.

They were, unquestionably, the most striking eyes he’d ever seen.

God knew he’d seen green eyes before. And beautiful women. Gunmen were exceedingly attractive to some women. He’d never understood it, but he realized that what made him good with a gun also made him good with women. Practice. Deliberation. Control. He always knew instinctively when to climax, when to bring both of them to the ultimate pleasure. It wasn’t so much out of thoughtfulness as the recognition that his own physical satisfaction was greater when it matched the woman’s. But he never bedded the same woman twice.

And he never changed his rule. Just as he never changed any of his other self-imposed rules: never stay long in one place, never permit a friendship, never get personally involved in a job, never take on a partner. It was a lonely way to live, but the devastating grief he had felt during and after the war was worse. He’d vowed never to love again, to care again.

And he hadn’t.

The dog, hostility still bright in his eyes, had come inside and regarded him warily. Marsh put down some food he’d taken from the Silver Slipper, where he’d indulged in the bountiful buffet earlier in the afternoon; he’d justified the action as being for a worthy cause.

The buffet was free, and he understood that a number of other San Francisco bars and saloons offered free food. He’d watched carefully and speculated about the cost, amused with himself as he did so. Marsh Canton. Concerning himself with the price of oysters. It was ludicrous, or would be to any number of people who had seen him behind a gun.

The dog looked at the food and backed off, as if it were a Greek gift. Marsh grinned, understanding the distrust only too well. He moved away, opened one of the windows so the dog could come in and out. He doubted if any human would try to crawl through that window with the dog inside. And, after all, the dog had been here first.

Someone was playing a piano at the Silver Slipper. Catalina Hilliard had not been evident earlier when he went over for a beer and something to eat. She would be there now, he thought, weighing the idea of a return visit.

And then he thought again about those green eyes, and the odd effect they’d had on him today. He’d best leave well enough alone at the moment … if he wanted any sleep.