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Branch McCauley hummed as he sank into the hot water. He stretched out as much as the oval-shaped tub allowed and relaxed. The water felt good on his tired body and throbbing leg, almost as good as he felt inside as he anticipated his supper date with Eugenia. The thought brought a moment of guilt though. Only a few weeks had passed since he'd buried Sloan. The pain still knocked the breath from his lungs when the memory hit suddenly. He rested his head on the edge of the tub and eased his eyes shut. To think of that young life being snuffed out before it had the chance to know half the joys of life filled Branch with rage.
In his twenty-nine years, Branch had seen too much of death. His mother and little Shannon back in '58, his father a half-dozen years later; his brother Sean in the War Between the States; Patrick, his eldest brother, only three years ago. Union Army comrades. Johnny Rebs; and outlaws who'd died at his own hands. Too many faces. He could do nothing about the others, but Sloan. . . As much as Branch detested violence, his brother’s death must be avenged.
He opened his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. For the moment, the walls of Salt Lake City hid Black Jack Mendoza from him. But before Branch returned home, he would scour every stinking saloon, gaming house, and brothel until he ferreted out the murdering bastard. Then he would see Mendoza hang and know his duty had been done.
The man in the next tub—a Latino, judging from the swarthiness of his skin—called for a towel boy to scrub his back. After the quickest wash job Branch had ever seen, the kid rushed off to fetch a towel for another patron. The boy who had been working Branch's end of the room had disappeared.
Glancing over at Branch, the Latino said, "Nothing feels as good after a long journey as a hot bath. You agree, señor?" The man lit an expensive Cuban cigar, took a deep draw, and blew smoke rings toward the high ceiling. "Except perhaps a woman."
The man had a wickedly charming grin. A few years older than Branch, he appeared lean, wiry, and darkly handsome. Branch supposed the man did well with the ladies. He smiled back. "Sounds like we're here for the same reason."
"Ah. You, too, have been on the road, eh? I enjoy my visits south, but always I am muy grateful to get back to my luxuries."
Branch's eyes narrowed as he studied the dark man in the next tub. "Mexico?"
The Spaniard laughed. "Not as far south as that. I visited relatives in the Manti-La Sal, above a town called Mt. Pleasant. You know the area?"
"Southeast of Nephi, isn't it?" Branch shifted his gaze to the opposite side of the room and the row of marble-topped commodes and wooden valets assigned to each bather.
The Wasatch Bathhouse was one of the nicest in Salt Lake City. Each patron enjoyed clean water, unlike many where dirty water was replaced only after several uses. The Wasatch also sported china washbasins, razors, spicy shaving soap, and thick Turkish towels kept warm at a large stove in the center of the room. The wooden valet the Spaniard had used held a single-breasted sack coat, trousers and a vest of good quality, a silk shirt, clip-type ascot tie, and silver-headed cane. A valise sat on the floor. No weapons. Nor any clues as to the owner's identity or profession, except that he lived well.
Branch reached for the whiskey he'd purchased from the bar in the anteroom. He took a healthy swallow and considered how to obtain the information he needed. "Just got back from Denver myself."
"It is a fine city, Denver. I try to get there every summer."
"Been a while since you been there?"
"Si, since last year."
Branch sipped his whiskey and eyed a painting of a naked, olive-skinned beauty with dark hair, reclining on a satin chaise with a puppy nestled provocatively in her lap. She reminded him of Eugenia. Young, soft, seductive. But the naked beauty in the painting appeared submissive. Eugenia Leigh-Whittington would never be that. Bedding her would be a contest of wills as was everything else with her. A challenge worth pursuing. He cursed for having allowed his mind to wander. Just as he opened his mouth to ask the Spaniard his name, the back door opened.
Being in the last, and therefore closest tub to the door, Branch shivered as cold air blowing down from the canyons rushed inside, along with the missing towel boy.
A man shaving at the far end of the room, a towel wrapped around his loins, called for clean rinse water. The boy, wearing overalls and a mixed expression of fear and excitement, hurried to comply, leaving the door ajar. An older youth edged inside, wearing baggy trousers, an oversized coat, and a hat pulled low over his head. Branch's eyes narrowed. He detected something vaguely familiar about the youngster. Watching out of the side of his eye, he saw the kid push the coat aside to reveal a gun belt. Trembling fingers drew a revolver from its holster, and Branch nearly choked. The gun was a single-action .44 Starr.
Branch's hands plunged below-water to cover himself. "Dammit, Eugenia, what in blue blazes are you doing here?"
Her eyes darted to him, and her cheeks turned a healthy shade of pink, but her voice remained calm. "I'm doing what I came to Utah to do."
The boy in overalls jogged to her side. "You gotta hurry, ma'am.
I'll get fired, sure if they figure out you're a woman."
Too late; the eyes of every man in the room had zeroed in on her.
"What did you call that boy? Eugenia?"
"That’s a girl's name."
"By God, it is a girl!"
Eugenia didn't bother to disguise her voice. She lifted the Starr so they could all see it. "Keep calm, gentlemen. And do, please, remain seated." Turning to the boy, she said, "Which one, Billy?"
With eyes as round as donuts, Billy stared at the pistol in her hand. "Are you going to shoot him?"
"Not if he cooperates. Which one?"
Branch stared as the boy pointed to the tub next to his. The Spaniard shrugged. "Ah, the senoritas, they always manage to find me, no?"
"Turn around and stand up," Jenna ordered, the Starr aimed at the man's chest.
He spoke in a low, smooth baritone. "Always happy to oblige a lady."
The Spaniard rose out of the water like a golden sea god, water sluicing off his broad back and down over firm, round buttocks marred by a three-inch long scar.
"Sweet Jesus," Branch muttered.
Black Jack Mendoza. Sloan's murderer!
Branch surged to his feet, sloshing water over the sides of the tub. He ignored Eugenia's voice rising above the fury roaring in his brain but couldn't ignore the shot she fired into the ceiling.
"Sit down, McCauley." Her fingernails raked his arm as she yanked him back from Mendoza. Hands raised as if to circle Mendoza's throat, Branch whirled to look at her. She jerked back in shock and fear at the rage contorting his face. Then she aimed the Starr at his chest and hollered again: "Sit down!"
"No, dammit, this bastard—"
"I'll put a hole in your best shooting arm, McCauley."
He knew she could do it. She'd demonstrated her ability with the Starr well enough back in Echo Canyon. For one full minute, they glared at each other—McCauley, his large hands fisted, his green eyes cold enough to freeze the hot water in which he stood; Eugenia, her stubborn chin thrust toward him, fire smoldering in her smoky blue eyes. Around them, the silence became so intense that the hiss of the wood burning in the stove several feet away sounded like a geyser.
Tersely, she asked Mendoza where he'd left his horse. Then she sent the boy after the animal. "Get dressed, Mendoza. You're coming with me."
"With pleasure, Chiquita." He bowed. "Never have I known a woman more eager for my attentions."
Her apparent calm as her eyes slid back and forth between the two men, seemingly well accustomed to watching naked men dress, added fuel to the anger already roiling inside Branch.
"Listen to me, Eugenia—"
"You'll have to forgive me, McCauley. Maybe we can have dinner another time. . .if you'll shave off that awful beard. It makes you look like you ought to be on a wanted poster of your own."
He took a deep breath, struggling for control. He had to make her understand. "You don't know what you're doing. I—"
"I know exactly what I'm doing, and if you don't stop interfering, I'll have the boy tie you up and gag you. Now shut up. And sit down."
"Eugenia—"
"Down!" Her bullet plowed through the water of his tub and drilled a hole in the side.
McCauley dropped like a rock, soaking her with spray. A small fountain of water poured out through the bullet hole in the tin tub. McCauley had spent a lifetime learning to control his temper. He watched the water recede, exposing more and more of his nudity as it went, but all he saw was his only chance to see Mendoza pay for murdering Sloan going down the drain.
Mendoza had dried off and moved to the wooden valet. He kept his eyes on the woman while he dressed as though making sure she enjoyed the view. Hell, the bastard was half aroused! Branch assured himself he would catch up with Eugenia before she could disappear with the Latin Romeo. Why did she want Mendoza? The man may have cheated her father in a card game or seduced her sister. Whatever the reason; it couldn't be as important as Branch's.
"How did you know to find him here?"
Her smile held pride. "I simply asked myself who would have the best chance of spotting a scar on a man's naked bottom. If bribing the boys at the bathhouses had produced no results, I would have braved the whorehouses, eventually." She never batted an eyelash, or stammered over the words most women of her class would rather die than say out loud. She simply stated the plain truth and left him to accept it or not.
Astounded, he asked, "What are you going to do with him?"
"That's none of your business."
"Dammit, Eugenia, we've got to talk about this."
"I told you, I'm sorry about supper, but business has to come first. Maybe we'll run into each other again someday, and I can make it up to you then."
His words squeezed past clenched teeth as he fought to contain his Irish temper. "I don't give a damn about supper. We've got to talk about Mendoza."
"There's nothing to say."
Mendoza bowed gallantly before her, a dazzling smile full of white, even teeth adorning his handsome face. "To you, bella señorita, I happily surrender." He turned to Branch. "Do not worry, señor. The señorita is unusually eager for my attention, but I will please her well."
The way he looked at Eugenia reminded Branch of a coyote who'd spotted a fat hare. A new jolt of anger coursed through him.
"I'm warning you, Eugenia, you walk out of here with him and—"
"Kill the jealousy, McCauley. I told you this is strictly business.
Mendoza placed his hand over his heart. "Have mercy, señorita. I will gladly share."
At the same time, Branch and Jenna shouted, "Shut up, Mendoza."
She handed the towel boy a rope she'd had coiled over her shoulder. "Here, Billy, tie my prisoner's hands together real tight."
"That is not necessary," Mendoza said, his smile faltering. "I do not resist."
Jenna jerked her head at the boy. "Do it, Billy."
Puffed out with pride, the boy got to it. "Is he an outlaw?"
Mendoza chuckled, but Branch saw his confidence slip.
"No, niño," the Spaniard said, "the lady is too shy to admit her attraction, but we men understand these things, si?"
Jenna checked the boy's work and nodded her approval. "All right, Mendoza, let's get out of here. Keep hold of the rope, Billy, I'll need your help tying him onto his horse."
"Sure thing, ma'am. Are you a lawman?"
"Of a sort."
The boy led Mendoza out the back door. As Eugenia turned to follow, Branch surged once more to his feet.
"Eugenia!"
She turned. Her gaze sluiced down his chest—white with soap that clung like pearls to his pale, reddish chest hair—to his narrow waist, slim hips, and thick, corded thighs. When her eyes returned to meet his, she gave a small shake of her head. "You're sure all-fired proud to show me all you've got, McCauley. I only wish I could figure out why. Don't forget to shave."
Then she was gone.
THE RAIN DIDN'T IMPROVE McCauley's temper. Merely a drizzle, in truth. Even so, he rode into Emigration Canyon soaked to the skin. He tugged his dripping hat lower onto his forehead. For the thousandth time since the fiasco at the bathhouse, he cursed his stupidity and bad luck as he watched the rain wash away Eugenia's tracks.
She and Mendoza couldn't be far ahead. The instant she left the bathhouse, he'd dragged his clothes on over wet skin and headed for the livery stable. Now, dark settled over the land. Eugenia would be searching for a dry camp spot.
The question that had niggled at him ever since Sloan's murder was, why? No one in Utah, except Branch and Maura and her family, even knew Sloan. And none of them had known of his imminent arrival. There hadn't been time for the boy to offend anyone; he'd barely stepped off the stage before being gunned down. Only the possibility that the killer thought he was shooting Branch made sense. Despite the age differences, the two brothers looked quite similar; same size and coloring.
True enough that Branch had made enemies. His years of riding shotgun on ore shipments hadn't endeared him to the criminal element; not with his aim. Hell, his expertise with his Peacemaker challenged men to try their luck against him. Young, ambitious toughs, mostly. He'd never killed except in self-defense, but that didn't ease his conscience or banish the nightmares.
The other thing that nagged Branch was why Mendoza had told him—a total stranger—that he'd been more than a hundred miles south of Park City at the same time Sloan died. Had he been warned Branch was after him and hoped to throw him off-track? But Mendoza couldn't have known Branch would be at the bathhouse, and no one else had spoken to the man before Eugenia showed up.
An outcropping across the creek looked like it might offer some measure of protection from the elements. It offered a break from the wind if nothing else. And Eugenia would be looking for shelter. Branch steered his horse toward it, then stopped.
The wind in the cottonwoods formed a high-pitched whine, the creek a muted roar. Neither had caught his attention. The sound he'd heard reminded him more of the angry cry of a cougar. Or a woman.
JENNA LEFT THE SORREL ground-tethered and walked the few steps to Mendoza's dripping horse. His bound hands were secured to his saddle horn, his feet lashed beneath the horse's belly. The arrangement, with her in charge of his reins, had worked splendidly so far, but she couldn't very well leave him there for the ten to twelve days they would be on the trail. How could she cut him loose to make camp without giving him a chance to jump her?
Mendoza looked more like an exceedingly sensuous, wet, overgrown child than a murderer. To try taking a wanted man all the way to Denver approached insanity. On a long and lonely road, anything could happen. For all she knew, the man might have a gang somewhere. She could turn him over to the U.S. Marshal in Salt Lake City. But the Denver police chief 's sanctimonious comments about women not having the brains or the muscle to do law work still rankled. She desperately wanted to see him eat those words.
Mendoza smiled, his expression absurdly cheerful under the circumstances. "Why do you distrust me, Chiquita? Did I not tell you I am innocent of these charges and give you my word I would not try to escape?"
Jenna snorted. "You're a man, Mendoza. That's reason enough."
The teasing light left his dark eyes as he studied her through the increasing downpour. She had the uncomfortable feeling he could see clear into her soul.
"Someone has hurt you and made you bitter," he said, his tone compassionate and tender. "I could ease that burden from your heart if you would allow me."
She glowered up at him. "I take care of my own problems."
"Ah, that is the sadness of it. A woman like you should not have to worry about such things. She should be cherished and loved until she purrs like el gato."
Drawing a knife from the sheath at her waist, she said, "Never mind that. I'm going to free you from the horse, but your hands will still be tied, and I'll have my gun on you, so don't try anything funny."
"I promise, nothing. . .funny, as you say."
She lifted a dubious eyebrow, blinked a raindrop from her lashes, and plied the blade to the wet rope holding his bound wrists to the pommel. Drawing the Starr, she kept it aimed at him while she made one quick slice to free his feet. That done, she stepped back. "All right, get down easy-like, no sudden moves."
When he stood on the puddled earth, he lifted his still bound hands. "And these, Chiquita? Will you free these now as well?"
"No. Remove your saddle, then mine."
He didn't move. The wind whipping his wet black hair in his face seemed to make no impression on him. "How can I convince you I am only a gambler, not a train robber?" he said softly. "Look at me. Can't you see? Miguel Mendoza is a lover, not a killer."
"Quit trying to seduce me and get those saddles off." She used her free hand to sweep the wet hair from her face.
"You sadden me, señorita." He leaned toward her, his bound hands over his heart as he gazed earnestly into her eyes. "You are too young, too pretty to be so hard. What you need is a good man to love you. To teach you what it is to be a woman."
The image of his wet naked body rising out of the bath water filled in her mind, only to be replaced by another. One with more powerful shoulders and arms, soapy red hair matting his chest and angling in a vee down his belly to a thicker patch where. . . Heat sluiced through her veins. She shook herself to clear away the memory and its disturbing effect on her.
All at once, Mendoza stood only two feet away, reaching for the Starr. She jerked back, cursing. "Blast you! Get back over to your horse."
"I don't think that is truly what you want, querida. I saw the passion in your eyes just now. Let me hold you, only for a moment, then—"
The click of the hammer silenced him. His dark brow furrowed. Then his eyes widened. His head jerked up. Staring over her shoulder, his dark eyes filled with alarm. "Did you hear that? A bear, I think, in the trees."
"Where?" She barely turned her head, but it was enough. Mendoza knocked the gun from her hands, brought his arms down over her head like a snare, and pulled her tight against his chest.
Jenna struggled, cursing him, cursing herself. He wouldn't have been able to get his arms over her if she'd worn her bow across her chest as she usually did. Now her arms were trapped at her sides, useless except to pound on his wet back. She could merely squirm and kick at his booted shins.
"Be still, Chiquita." His lips nuzzled her ear. "Do not struggle. Miguel will not harm you."
His bound hands made his grip awkward. He cupped her bottom to keep her from kicking him, which drew her snugly against his groin. He moaned, and his body swelled in reaction. A new wave of fear washed over her. She tried to push him away. "Get your hands off me."
"Ah, but you feel so good. Does it not feel good to you?"
He kissed her cheek, her eyes, and was working his way to her lips when Jenna let out a low moan of pleasure and went limp in his arms. Mendoza chuckled softly. "Do not swoon on me, querida; I am hampered by the rope on my wrists."
"I'll cut it," she whispered.
The moment he raised his arms, Jenna rammed her knee up between his legs. But her timing was off. His arms fell back in place, imprisoning her as he doubled over in agony. Bent backward by his weight, Jenna lost her balance. She screamed as they fell.
Mendoza buried his face in her neck, fighting off nausea and pain while Jenna bucked and writhed under him.
"Well," said a deep voice, "looks like I arrived at a bad time."
Jenna froze. "McCauley? Is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me."
He stepped into view, his Peacemaker in his right hand. With his left, he picked up the Starr and stuck it in his waistband.
Branch had learned long ago that guns and unleashed anger didn't mix. But even with his hard-won control, he found it difficult not to shoot Mendoza on the spot. To see the bastard on top of Eugenia pushed his restraint beyond the limit. He forced himself to appear calm and unhurried. "Sorry to interrupt you two lovebirds. I'll wait over there under that nice dry overhang till you're finished."
"Don't you dare leave me like this. McCauley?"
Silence.
"Blast you, McCauley, are you still here?"
"I'm here."
His voice had gone hard and cold. Jenna wondered what in tarnation he had to be angry about. Hadn't he had the pleasure of seeing her prove herself as inept as he'd believed her to be? Gritting her teeth, she made a silent vow to shoot him in the foot if he made so much as one crack about it.
"Well?" she bellowed. "Are you going to get him off me or not?"
"I'm considering the matter." He feared to go near them until he had himself under control.
"Please, señor, could you do your thinking a bit farther away?" Mendoza was recovering from Jenna's blow, but his voice remained hoarse. "The señorita and I have something to finish between us."
"I bet you do."
Angry and desperate, Jenna flailed at the Spaniard. "Don't you dare, McCauley."
Branch walked over to them, bent down and yanked on Mendoza's arm. "All right, fun's over. Get off her."
"Patience, my friend. My hands are tied."
McCauley stepped back. He kept his pistol on Mendoza while the man struggled to sit up, straddling Eugenia as he pulled her up with him. The Spaniard lifted his arms over her head and stood. He faced McCauley with a grim smile. "You are a cruel one, to interrupt as you did. I would never be so insensitive toward you, señor."
"You're not me."
Eugenia stumbled to her feet, covered with dirt and leaves. Her hat had gone missing, and her hair stuck out about her shoulders in a wild muddy array. Her eyes flashed blue fire, her soft, expressive mouth a hard, grim line as she walked up to Mendoza. She formed a large fist with her two hands and belted the Spaniard in the stomach.
"Don't you ever try that again, you damn Mexican."
Mendoza hugged his stomach and scowled back at her. "I am not Mexican," he said when he had breath. "My padre's family came to this country from Spain long before the English arrived. My mother was French. We are aristocrats. Our home in St. Louis is a palace."
"If you're so blasted rich, why did you take to robbing trains?"
"I have already told you, I do not rob trains."
Jenna stepped closer and jabbed a finger in his chest. "Then why is there a wanted poster on you? And a reward."
"A reward?" Mendoza blanched. "You mean you were after me. . .for money?"
"Did you think she only wanted you for your good looks?" McCauley growled.
Mendoza stared at him in confusion and disbelief. "A bounty hunter? But she is a woman, and so young."
"Too damn young. Nevertheless, that's what she is." Too damn female, too, McCauley added silently.
She slammed her hands on her hips and thrust her nose in the Irishman's face. "I'm twenty-two years old, McCauley. Last I heard,
that makes me a full-grown woman."
"Old enough some man ought to have put his brand on you by now and given you a brat or two to keep you out of trouble. What's the matter—couldn't you find a man fool enough to take you on? Lord knows, a hellcat like you would discourage most men with any smarts."
"Is that so?" Once again, a man insinuated she was useless except in the kitchen. Or the bedroom. "It may interest you to know, Mr. McCauley, that I have too much 'smarts,' as you call it, to shackle myself with any man. What are you doing here, anyway? Did you follow me to make my life miserable or is there some purpose for this visit?"
"A damn good purpose." His voice was as harsh as the thunder exploding over their heads. "I'm relieving you of your prisoner. You may want him for train robbery, but I want him for murder."
She faced him squarely, unafraid. "If you're talking about the Pinkerton he bushwhacked in Denver, forget it. You're too late. I've already got him."
"Had him, you mean. He can kill all the Pinkertons he wants as far as I'm concerned. In fact, I'd love it. But I'll see him hang for murdering my brother if it's the last thing I do."
She blinked and reared back. "Your brother worked for the Pinkertons?"
"Hell, no! Sloan was just a kid who'd never hurt anybody. Mendoza shot him down for no reason, and I aim to see he pays."
Jenna stared at him, torn by a conflict as turbulent as the storm raging around them. McCauley indeed had more right to Mendoza than she did. But if she lost out on the reward for Mendoza, her plans would be ruined. Once she turned in her prisoner and collected her money, McCauley could demand custody of the man from the Denver chief of police. Stiffening her resolve before her courage failed her, she said, "You'll get him over my dead body."
"Suit yourself."
They spun about, each intending to take charge of the man in question. The space where they had left Mendoza stood empty. A frantic search found only wind-whipped trees and the cave-like rock overhang under which Jenna had intended to camp.
Black Jack Mendoza had fled.