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"Mendoza!"
"Si, Chiquita. You are unhurt?"
"Yes, but how. . . what—?"
"Let me get this excremento, this leavings of a rabid dog, off you before I answer questions."
He drew a dagger with a hooked ivory handle from Virgil's back and wiped it on a comer of the man's shirt. Then he shoved the knife into a slender tube. The crooked handle of the blade became the handgrip of the innocuous-looking cane she had seen earlier in his lap.
"You had that cane all along." Jenna clutched the remnants of her shirt and camisole over her breasts as the Spaniard hauled the deputy off her. "How come you never used it on McCauley or me to get away?"
He smiled. "In Emigration Canyon, it was not necessary. Later, when you caught up with me at Echo Station, I knew I must prove my innocence to you. Escape would only make me appear guiltier, no?"
"I heard what the marshal said before he tried to kill you. I know you didn't commit the robberies." She motioned to the deputy. "What are you going to do with him?"
Mendoza gave a lazy shrug of his shoulder. "There is not much meat on him to satisfy a coyote, I think. But he will make a tidy enough meal for a turkey buzzard or two."
"If the marshal finds him, he'll hunt us down as though we were coyotes." Her jaw ached worse than an impacted tooth. She gently tested it to make sure it wasn't broken. The old wound in her side throbbed so badly from the rough treatment she'd suffered, she wondered if she'd be able to ride.
"There is no time to bury him, Chiquita."
Mendoza rose to his feet and looked around. Twenty feet away, a cottonwood tree had fallen, its roots undercut by the river's flow. The ball of its roots held it above ground. A tangle of sweet-smelling roses grew along the far side. Taking Virgil by the feet, Mendoza dragged him to the log.
Remembering the way the deputy had limped, Jenna stopped Miguel before he could stuff the man under the deadfall. Pushing up the hem of Virgil's trousers, she found a dirty bandage low on his calf. "Just as I thought. He was one of the weasels who ambushed McCauley that day in Echo Canyon. I shot him with an arrow."
"This does not surprise me." Miguel yanked up bushes and used them to hide the body. "Come, let us flee."
He swung her easily into the saddle, took the reins, and led the sorrel a hundred yards up-river where Fortuna, his buckskin, waited. For the first mile that they rode, they kept to the thick growth along the river.
"Where are we going?" Jenna asked.
He grinned over his shoulder as though they were two youngsters playing hide and seek. "I know a cabin where we can be safe, and you can lie down."
She gave him a puzzled glance, and he chuckled. "You hide your pain well, but I see it in your eyes."
The horses' hooves made little sound in the rich, damp loam of the bottomland. The liquid call of a red-winged blackbird filled the cattail swamp with melancholy. Jenna wrinkled her nose at the stink of the skunkweed trampled underfoot.
"You know, Mendoza, I'm beginning to think there's a lot more to you than you let on. You knew the marshal was going to shoot you, didn't you?"
"I suspected he would try."
"From what I could hear back there, you and the marshal were once friends. Why did he pick you to frame for his robberies?"
Miguel chuckled. "That is a long tale, Chiquita. One better suited for the campfires of old mountain men or the tipi in winter."
Jenna tried to envision him in an Indian tipi and failed. "Give me the short version then."
"Many years ago, when I was a foolish boy with a head thicker than his intelligence, I met Sleed Hendricks in a gambling hall. He had mucho dinero and a woman on each arm. My luck at the tables had been bad that week. When he told me I could have pockets bulging with gold as he had, I listened. And when he rode off to gather more of this gold, I rode along. But his methods were not honest, and I did not like the way he treated women, so when a chance came, I rode away. Sleed did not like this and swore to make me pay. Today, I think, was to have been the day."
His nonchalance stunned Jenna. A powerful man of the law had sworn vengeance on him, and Miguel laughed it off. Yet, she had seen a hardness come into his dark eyes when he spoke of the way Sleed Hendricks treated women and sensed that his emotions were less shallow than he made out.
On the other hand, she had learned a great deal today about the marshal. And Virgil. A shudder ran through her at the thought of the skinny deputy and his bony hands.
"I guess I owe you an apology for arresting you," she said. "For the robberies, anyway."
He flashed her his most winning smile. "Have I told you, Chiquita, how beautiful I find you? If I were not married to the goddess Fortuna, after whom I named this good steed I ride, I would do my best to charm you into my bed. As it is. . ." He shrugged. "That does not mean we cannot have a good time together, eh?" He swooped his gray derby from his head, placed it over his heart, and winked as he bowed to her. "My reputation as a lover is unparalleled."
Jenna laughed. "And you have the scar to prove it."
"Si. My scar arouses you, perhaps?" He winked. "You would like to see it again?"
"No, that scar's gotten me into enough trouble already."
One dark eyebrow rose to meet the brim of the derby he replaced on his head. "This is something Miguel should hear more about, no?"
"When we know each other better, maybe. A lot better."
To keep a conversation with Miguel serious proved impossible. Part of Jenna liked it that way. Learning of Miguel’s innocence of the robberies meant giving up the reward money she had counted on, as well as failing to show that jackass police chief in Denver she had other abilities than cooking and bearing babies.
They had followed a narrow, winding canyon higher up the mountain, and emerged into a small park where a stream belled into a series of beaver ponds. At the far end of the meadow, a doe with a speckled fawn lifted her head, blew a warning signal, and fled. The fawn bounded in and out of view through the deep patches of pink shooting-star, violet elephant head, and wild blue flag.
Mendoza picked up his pace across the open meadow. Jenna caught up with him as he slowed to enter a stand of quaking aspen.
"Wait, Miguel."
He reined in and turned in the saddle to face her as she caught up. Pinning him with her gaze, she said, "I have to know. You were telling the truth when you said you'd murdered no one, weren't you?"
"Si. The truth." His stare never wavered. Nor did he fidget or hedge.
Jenna's head bowed. "Damn!"
"This is a problem for you, that I am innocent?"
Jenna looked up to follow the flight of a dark-eyed junco, its white tail feathers flashing. "I'll handle it."
"It is the reward money, no?"
She sighed, squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight as she nudged Gent to a fast walk. "As I said, I'll handle it."
Miguel quickly caught up with her. "It pains me to know I cause you trouble, sweet Eugenia. Money is no problem for me. Lady Fortuna sees to that. Let me help—"
"No, Miguel." She softened her harsh tone with a smile. "My name's Jenna. I like the sound of the Spanish word you call me though. It's soft and pretty."
Again, the stunning smile. "Like you, Chiquita. But Jenna suits you as well. We are amigos now, yes?"
She laughed. "Yes, friends. I guess that means I'd better help you get out of this mess you're in before some other lawman tries to collect the bounty on your head."
"Being friends also means it is allowed to ask personal questions, yes?"
"I suppose."
"Then tell me. . . you and Señor McCauley, there is something between you?"
"No. We just sort of kept stumbling onto each other while we were looking for you."
"But you care for him, si?"
Quickly she glanced away. "That bossy, pigheaded Irishman? Do I look crazy?"
Miguel's smile softened, and he nodded. "Gunmen die young.
There is little room in their lives for love."
Jenna snorted. "There isn't any room for love in Branch McCauley's life. Or in mine, either. But he might be the very person to help us clear your name. I may not be able to do it on my own."
"He is already working, I think, to help me in this." Miguel appeared unusually solemn. "It occurs to me that if he speaks to Sleed of my innocence, he could put himself in danger."
"You're right. The marshal won't look kindly on anyone trying to help you. But what makes you think he is?"
In a few words, he relayed the gist of his conversation with Branch the day before.
Jenna frowned. "So, he was going into Salt Lake City, anyway. That skunk-faced weasel! He let me think he was going only for my sake."
"What would you have done had he told you the truth, Chiquita?"
"If I'd known he was planning to get you cleared and rob me of my living, I'd have. . ." Her cheeks colored as she realized what she had been about to say. "But I could never turn in a man once I knew he was innocent. I swear it, Miguel."
"Do not fret. What matters is that McCauley felt a need for discretion, even with you."
"All right, but how do we warn him about the marshal? You can't ride into Salt Lake City, and if I do, he’ll have my hide. I'm not even supposed to be out of bed yet."
"Perhaps Dove is the answer."
"You mean the whore you said could prove you weren't anywhere around here when McCauley's brother died?"
Miguel's smile was indulgent. "Friendship is too rare to pass by, my Jenna, no matter where we find it."
Jenna closed her eyes and let her breath out in a whoosh. "Sorry, Miguel, I should have realized she was more to you than a. . . Oh, blast! Me and my big mouth!"
As they rode on, they discussed how Dove could be contacted at Aunt Fanny's and given a message to pass on to Branch. Miguel argued that he should be the one to attempt such a dangerous task as they broke out of the trees into a broad meadow. A small log cabin stood in the shade beside a clear-running creek. Windows, shuttered against the weather, gave it an abandoned look.
"The trapper who built the cabin was a friend. He died last fall.
You will be safe here, and there is food inside."
She halted in front of the door but remained in her saddle. "No, Miguel. I'm the one who's riding into town. Sleed Hendricks only met me once, and I wasn't dressed as a man then. Even if he recognized me, he wouldn't connect me with you or McCauley. It's the only way."
"What about your wound? If you reopen it—"
"Let me worry about that. I promise I'll be careful." Before he could think up another argument, she wheeled the sorrel around and started off. A dozen yards away, she stopped and turned back partly to face him though her gaze never left the ground.
"When I first met you, I called you a Mex a couple of times," she said hesitantly.
"Si?"
"I'm sorry."
He tipped back his head and laughed. "Andale, mi amiga. I miss you already." Then he dismounted and entered the dark hole of the cabin. She saw him fling open the shutters before she kicked Gent into a gallop.
PEOPLE HALTED TO STARE at the corpse draped over the rump of Sleed Hendricks' mount as the marshal rode into Salt Lake City. Children with dogs at their heels raced alongside, daring one another to touch the stiffening hands that bounced gently with the animal's gait. Already, flies buzzed above the body and crawled in the dark, sticky stains on the back of the shirt.
"Who is it, Marshal?"
"Isn't that Godbe's horse you're riding?"
"What happened? Is that the deputy you're bringing in?"
Hendricks didn't answer. He rode straight to the Gentile undertaker. The Mormons took care of their own. Gil Funkauser waited by the hitching rail. He resembled a great gray owl with his grizzled hair, hooked nose, and bulging yellow eyes.
"Did you bring me a customer, Sleed?"
Hendricks made certain his voice carried to those who'd followed along. "I finally caught that murdering devil, Black Jack Mendoza. Bastard had a gang waiting though. We got no more'n five miles outta Coalville 'fore they jumped us, up along the Weber."
"Whole passel of 'em ought to be strung up."
"Did you get any of them, marshal?"
"No, boys. I'm ashamed to say they got clean away." He held up his left hand, wrapped in a bloody kerchief. "They killed my horse and shot up my gun hand, first off. Virg went after one of 'em and got knifed in the back."
"We'll get 'em for ya, marshal."
"Yeah, you go get your hand seen to. We'll take care of Black Jack Mendoza."
"That's exactly what I got in mind. Give Doc a couple minutes to stitch me up, and I'll go along. Somebody help Gil get poor old Virg inside. The rest of you get your guns and meet me at my office in half an hour. And be prepared to spend the night. We won't have much daylight left by the time we get up there."
"Maybe we ought to wait 'til morning, Marshal."
He studied the sky. "Might rain tonight. Ain't taking no chances of them tracks getting washed away 'fore I get back up there. I want the son of a bitch who done this to Virg. I want him bad."
The crowd parted as he rode away, head lowered just enough to remind folks he was Virgil's friend and to inflame their outrage over a senseless death.
Armed men had already begun to gather outside the marshal's office fifteen minutes later when the door opened, and the breeze fanned a light floral scent under Hendricks' nose. He looked up and smiled.
"Howdy, Fanny. Did you hear about Virg?"
Fanny Babbitt, better known to her customers as Hellfire Fanny, laid her parasol on the marshal's desk and reached up to adjust the peacock feathers that bobbed a good three feet from the hat that bore them. Her gown was pale blue with orchid stripes and extremely modest.
Fanny believed men hungered more for what they couldn't see than for what they could see. Which is why she dressed her girls in discreet gowns and insisted they conduct themselves as decorously as any decent woman of virtue. As a result, her house was known as the finest in the territory, attracting men of wealth and reputation. "I heard. How's your hand?"
"Doc stitched it up. It'll be as good as new in no time."
"I'm glad. I was so worried, considering how useless your other hand is. . . with a gun anyway." She took the newly injured hand and kissed it. "Is it true Black Jack Mendoza did it?"
"Him and his gang."
"In that case, there's something you should know." She daintily plopped her generous buttocks on the desk and leaned close to give him a good whiff of the new perfume she'd ordered straight from
Paris, France.
Hendricks glanced toward the window to make sure no one could see in, then cupped his palm over her plump breast. She removed it and danced away.
"Just because we've kept company for three years now doesn't give you the right to paw me anytime you please, Sleed. Particularly in public."
He chuckled. "All right, I'll 'paw' you when I get back from running that posse all over the mountain."
Fanny returned to the desk and braced her hands on the dark wood, watching him rub the sweat from his bald head. "Branch McCauley came to my house today to see Dove. You know how cozy she is with Mendoza."
"Yeah, what'd McCauley want with her?"
"I'm not sure, but I thought you ought to know he was buzzing round her and up to no good. You can be certain of that."
Rags stuck his wet nose against the hand resting on Hendricks' thigh. When that brought no results, the dog whined. Hendricks rubbed behind the mutt's ears. With the other hand, he scratched the day-old whiskers on his own chin. "Might be something to what you say. McCauley turned Mendoza into the deputy constable in Coalville. Said he'd be back for him and not to bring him into Salt Lake. It sounds a mite protective to me, considering McCauley spent three weeks trying to hunt the man down for killing his brother."
Fanny nodded. "I figured he was up to something, coming around in the middle of the day and all. I listened at Dove's door and didn’t hear any bedsprings creaking. They were talking, low and secretive-like."
"So, you hustled your sweet body over here to tell me as soon as you knew I'd come back, huh?" He grinned and stood up. "Seems to me I ought to reward you for that."
Fanny lowered her eyes in what she considered a genteel fashion, then glanced up through her kohl-darkened lashes and gave him a flirty smile. "It seems to me that way, too."
He looked toward the windows again. A few more men had arrived, but they were caught up in a heated discussion on whether to string Mendoza up from a tree or build a scaffold and do the thing proper. Hendricks guided Fanny into the back and shut the door. All the cells were empty, and each housed a cot with a thin straw mattress, but he didn't need a bed for what he had in mind.
Pushing Fanny up against the cold metal bars, he laid a kiss on her while his hands kneaded her breasts. When he finally lifted his head, and saw the passion in her eyes, he shoved her to her knees and opened his pants.
Fanny suppressed the anger that flared inside her and curled her gloved fingers around his burgeoning length.
Just like him to reward her by seeing to his own satisfaction. She hated what he asked of her, but believed a smart woman pretended to enjoy whatever fed her man’s lust. Maybe she'd been wrong about that.
She had begun to suspect there was something a bit unhealthy about the all-consuming love she felt for him. But she was determined to become Mrs. Sleed Hendricks and achieve the respectability she'd yearned for all her life. If she had to accomplish that on her knees, so be it.
BRANCH SKINNED OFF his denims and climbed into bed buck-naked. He didn't bother closing his eyes. After his visit with Dove, he had spent the evening at Martin Perkins' home.
Luella had served a fine supper, but afterward, she and Martin had insisted that the night was too pleasant to waste, and Branch had found himself walking in the moonlight with young Ila Perkins. After half an hour of fending off her attempts to get him to propose, he'd escaped to the hotel. Now he was too wound up to sleep.
His thoughts drifted back to Dove. The half-Ute prostitute was a strikingly beautiful woman with a body that could tempt a saint, and he'd wanted her. Or told himself he did. But he had to admit it wasn't knowing her heart belonged to Miguel Mendoza that kept Branch out of her bed. Jenna did that.
What had the little hellcat done to him? She'd wound herself around his heart as sure as a wild clematis vine on a quaking aspen trunk, and he couldn't shake her loose. Merely thinking about her sent the blood rushing to his groin. He moaned and flung his arms over his eyes.
If he didn't find some way to get her out of his system by the time he got back home to Park City, something drastic was bound to happen. Even thirty miles away she had full control of his body. Hell, she even controlled his mind. And heart. He couldn't stop himself from thinking about her, wanting her.
He rolled over onto his stomach, but the rough weave of the cheap hotel sheets rubbing against him only made the situation worse. He flopped back over and considered the idea of going down to the Twin Peaks Saloon for a stiff drink. As he debated the matter a timid knock came on his door. He threw back the covers and reached for the Peacemaker in its holster, hanging from the bedpost. "Who is it?"
"Mistah McCauley?"
"Who's asking?"
"Miss Dove over t' Aunt Fanny's house as't me t' fetch ya a message, mistah."
Cursing, Branch yanked on his pants and struggled to fasten the buttons over his aroused flesh. With the Peacemaker ready in his hand, he unlocked the door and cracked it enough to peer out into the hallway. A black boy with twitching eyes peered back. "What's the message?"
The boy cleared his voice, but it still broke when he tried to speak. "Aunt Fanny. . . I mean Miss Dove, from over t' Aunt Fanny's place, she done tole me t' say she thought a-sumpthin' more y'all should know and you should get right on over there."
"Is that all?"
The whites of the boy's eyes appeared stark compared to the darkness of his skin. He blinked twice and swallowed. "Yassir, that's all."
Branch dug in his pocket for a penny and tossed it to the boy, then shut the door. Two minutes later he headed down the hall to the hotel's back door. Being Sunday night, not much went on in town. A buggy clattered over the rutted street, chains rattling. At the hitching rails in front of the saloons, horses whiffled softly to one another. A sway-backed mule snored, one hind foot lifted from the ground.
When Branch reached Aunt Fanny's "boarding house," he went around to the rear entrance and let himself in. In the kitchen, someone hummed along with the song Fanny's darkie banged out on the piano in the front parlor. More than likely the kid Dove had sent to Branch's hotel belonged to the piano player. As Branch made his way along the hall to the back stairs, he spared a second to wonder where a negro had learned to play the piano so well.
Branch took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he paused to make sure no one wandered the second-floor hallway. Then he hurried down the corridor and tapped on Dove's door. No answer. He frowned. Likely Fanny had sent for her to appear in the parlor where business appeared as brisk as ever, despite it being the Lord's Day. Branch tried the door and found it unlocked. He stepped inside, wondering why Dove hadn't left a lamp burning.
A muffled sound set off an alarm in his brain a heartbeat before something hard and heavy slammed into the side of his head. He fought the darkness and lost.