Lawless
Nora Roberts
Chapter One
He wanted a drink. Whiskey, cheap and warm. After
six weeks on the trail, he wanted the same kind of
woman. Some men usually managed to get what they
wanted. He was one of them. Still, the woman could
wait, Jake decided as he leaned against the bar. The
whiskey couldn't.
He had another ninety long, dusty miles to go before
he got home. If anybody could call a frying pan like
Lone Bluff home. Some did, Jake thought as he signaled
for a bottle and took his first gut-clenching gulp.
Some had to.
For himself, home was usually the six feet of space
where his shadow fell. But for the past few months
Lone Bluff had been as good a place as any. He could
get a room there, a bath and a willing woman, all at
a reasonable price. It was a town where a man could
avoid trouble--or find it, depending on his mood.
For now, with the dust of the trail still scratchy in
his throat and his stomach empty except for a shot of
whiskey, Jake was just too tired for trouble. He'd have
another drink, and whatever passed for a meal in this
two-bit town blown up from the desert, then he'd be
on his way.
The afternoon sunlight poured in over the swinging
doors at the saloon's entrance. Someone had tacked a
picture of a woman in red feathers to the wall, but that
was the extent of the female company. Places like this
didn't run to providing women for their clientele. Just
to liquor and cards.
Even towns like this one had a saloon or two. A
man could depend upon it, the way he could depend
on little else. It wasn't yet noon, and half the tables
were occupied. The air was thick with the smoke from
the cigars the bartender sold, two for a penny. The
whiskey, went for a couple of bits and burned a line
of fire straight from the throat to the gut. If the owner
had added a real woman in red feathers, he could have
charged double that and not heard a single complaint.
The place stank of whiskey, sweat and smoke. But
Jake figured he didn't smell too pretty himself. He'd
ridden hard from New Mexico, and he would have
ridden straight through to Lone Bluff except he'd
wanted to rest his horse and fill his own stomach with
something other than the jerky in his saddlebags.
Saloons always looked better at night, and this one
was no exception. Its bar was grimy from hundreds of
hands and elbows, dulled by spilled drinks, scarred by match tips The floor was nothing but hard-packed dirt
that had absorbed its share of whiskey and blood. He'd
been in worse, Jake reflected, wondering if he should
allow himself the luxury of rolling a cigarette now or
wait until after a meal.
He could buy more tobacco if he had a yearning for
another. There was a month's pay in his pocket. And
he'd be damned if he'd ever ride cattle again. That
was a life for the young and stupid--or maybe just
the stupid.
When his money ran low he could always take a
job riding shotgun on the stage through Indian country.
The line was always looking for a man who was
handy with a gun, and it was better than riding at the
back end of a steer. It was the middle of 1875 and the
easterners were still coming--looking for gold and
land, following dreams. Some of them stopped in the
Arizona Territory on their way to California because
they ran out of money or energy or time.
Their hard luck, Jake thought as he downed his second
whiskey. He'd been born here, and he still didn't
figure it was the most hospitable place on the map. It
was hot and hard and stingy. It suited him just fine.
"Redman?"
Jake lifted his eyes to the dingy glass behind the
bar. He saw the man behind him. Young, wiry and
edgy. His brown hat was tipped down low over his
eyes, and sweat glistened on his neck. Jake nearly
sighed. He knew the type too well. The kind that went
out of his way looking for trouble. The kind that didn't
know that if you hung around long enough it found
you, anyway.
"Yeah?"
"Jake Redman?"
"So?"
"I'm Barlow, Tom Barlow." He wiped his palms
on his thighs. "They call me Slim."
The way he said it, Jake was sure the kid expected
the name to be recognized...shuddered over. He decided
the whiskey wasn't good enough for a third
drink. He dropped some money on the bar, making
sure his hands were well clear of his guns.
"There a place where a man can get a steak in this
town?" Jake asked the bartender.
"Down to Grody's." The man moved cautiously
out of range. "We don't want any trouble in here."
Jake gave him a long, cool look. "I'm not giving
you any."
"I'm talking to you, Redman." Barlow spread his
legs and let his hand hover over the butt of his gun.
A mean-looking scar ran across the back of his hand
from his index finger to his wrist. He wore his holster
high, a single rig with the leather worn smooth at the
buckle. It paid to notice details.
Easy, moving no more than was necessary, Jake met
his eyes. "Something you want to say?"
"You got a reputation for being fast. Heard you
took out Freemont in Tombstone."
Jake turned fully. As he moved, the swinging door
flew back. At least one of the saloon's customers had
decided to move to safer ground. The kid was packing
a .44 Colt, its black rubber grip well tended. Jake
didn't doubt there were notches in it. Barlow looked
like the type who would take pride in killing.
"You heard right."
Barlow's fingers curled and uncurled. Two men
playing poker in the corner let their hands lie to watch
and made a companionable bet on the higher-stakes
game in front of them. "I'm faster. Faster than Freemont.
Faster than you. I run this town."
Jake glanced around the saloon, then back into Barlow's
dark, edgy eyes. "Congratulations." He would
have walked away, but Barlow shifted to block him.
The move had Jake narrowing his eyes. The look came
into them, the hard, flat look that made a smart man
give way. ' 'Cut your teeth on somebody else. I want
a steak and a bed."
"Not in my town."
Patience wasn't Jake's long suit, but he wasn't in
the mood to waste time on a gunman looking to
sharpen his reputation. "You want to die over a piece
of meat?"
Jake watched the grin spread over Barlow's face.
He didn't think he was going to die, Jake thought wearily.
His kind never did.
"Why don't you come find me in about five
years?" Jake told him. "I'll be happy to put a bullet
in you."
"I found you now. After I kill you, there won't be
a man west of the Mississippi who won't know Slim
Barlow."
For some--for many--no other reason was needed
to draw and fire. "Make it easy on both of us." Jake
started for the doors again. "Just tell them you killed
me."
"I hear your mother was a squaw." Barlow grinned
when Jake stopped and turned again. "Guess that's
where you got that streak of yellow."
Jake was used to rage. It could fill a man from stomach
to brain and take over. When he felt it rising up,
he clamped down on it. If he was going to fight--and
it seemed inevitable--he preferred to fight cold.
"My grandmother was Apache."
Barlow grinned again, then wiped his mouth with
the back of his left hand. "That makes you a stinking
breed, don't it? A stinking yellow breed. We don't
want no Indians around here. Guess I'll have to clean
up the town a little."
He went for his gun. Jake saw the move, not in
Barlow's hands but in his eyes. Cold and fast and
without regret, Jake drew his own. There were those
who saw him who said it was like lightning and thunder.
There was a flash of steel, then the roar of the
bullet. He hardly moved from where he stood, shooting
from the hip, trusting instinct and experience. In a
smooth, almost careless movement, he replaced his
gun. Tom they-call-me-Slim Barlow was sprawled on
the barroom floor.
Jake passed through the swinging doors and walked
to his horse. He didn't know whether he'd killed his
man or not, and he didn't care. The whole damn mess
had ruined his appetite.
Sarah was mortally afraid she was going to lose the
miserable lunch she'd managed to bolt down at the
last stop. How anyone--anyone--survived under these
appalling conditions, she'd never know. The West, as
far as she could see, was only fit for snakes and outlaws.
She closed her eyes, patted the sweat from her neck
with her handkerchief, and prayed that she'd make it
through the next few hours. At least she could thank
God she wouldn't have to spend another night in one
of those horrible stage depots. She'd been afraid she
would be murdered in her bed. If one could call that
miserable sheetless rope cot a bed. And privacy? Well,
there simply hadn't been any.
It didn't matter now, she told herself. She was
nearly there. After twelve long years, she was going
to see her father again and take care of him in the
beautiful house he'd built outside Lone Bluff.
When she'd been six, he'd left her in the care of
the good sisters and gone off to make his fortune.
There had been nights, many nights, when Sarah had
cried herself to sleep from missing him. Then, as the
years had passed, she'd had to take out the faded daguerreotype
to remember his face. But he'd always
written to her. His penmanship had been strained and
childish, but there had been so much love in his letters.
And so much hope.
Once a month she'd received word from her father
from whatever point he'd stopped at on his journey
west. After eighteen months, and eighteen letters, he'd
written from the Arizona Territory, where he'd settled,
and where he would build his fortune.
He'd convinced her that he'd been right to leave her
in Philadelphia, in the convent school, where she could
be raised and educated as a proper young lady should.
Until, Sarah remembered, she was old enough to travel
across the country to live with him. Now she was
nearly eighteen, and she was going to join him. Undoubtedly
the house he'd built, however grand, required
a woman's touch.
Since he'd never married again, Sarah imagined her
father a crusty bachelor, never quite certain where his
clean collars were or what the cook was serving for
dinner. She'd soon fix all that.
A man in his position needed to entertain, and to
entertain he needed a hostess. Sarah Conway knew
exactly how to give an elegant dinner party and a formal
ball.
True, what she'd read of the Arizona Territory was
distressing, to say the least. Stories of ruthless gunmen
and wild Indians. But, after all, this was 1875. Sarah
had no doubt that even so distant a place as Arizona
was under control by this time. The reports she'd read
had obviously been exaggerated to sell newspapers
and penny dreadfuls.
They hadn't exaggerated about the climate.
She shifted for a better position. The bulk of the
woman beside her, and her own corset, gave her little
room for relief. And the smell. No matter how often
Sarah sprinkled lavender water on her handkerchief,
there was no escaping it. There were seven passengers,
crammed all but elbow-to-knee inside the rattling
stagecoach. It was airless, and that accentuated the
stench of sweat and foul breath and whatever liquor it
was that the man across from her continued to drink.
Right from the bottle. At first, his pockmarked face
and grimy neckcloth had fascinated her. But when
he'd offered her a drink, she had fallen back on a
woman's best defense. Her dignity.
It was difficult to look dignified when her clothes
were sticking to her and her hair was drooping beneath
her bonnet. It was all but impossible to maintain her
decorum when the plump woman beside her began to
gnaw on what appeared to be a chicken leg. But when
Sarah was determined, she invariably prevailed.
The good sisters had never been able to pray or
punish or lecture her stubbornness out of her. Now,
with her chin slightly lifted and her body braced
against the bouncing sway of the coach, she kept her
eyes firmly shut and ignored her fellow passengers.
She'd seen enough of the Arizona landscape, if one
could call it that. As far as she could see, the entire
territory was nothing but miles of sunbaked desert.
True, the first cacti she'd seen had been fascinating.
She'd even considered sketching a few of them. Some
were as big as a man, with arms that stretched up to
the sky. Others were short and squat and covered with
hundreds of dangerous-looking needles. Still, after
she'd seen several dozen of them, and little else,
they'd lost their novelty.
The rocks were interesting, she supposed. The
buttes and flat-topped mesas growing out of the sand
had a certain rugged charm, particularly when they
rose up into the deep, endless blue of the sky. But she
preferred the tidy streets of Philadelphia, with their
shops and tearooms.
Being with her father would make all the difference.
She could live anywhere, as long as she was with him
again. He'd be proud of her. She needed him to be
proud of her. All these years she'd worked and learned
and practiced so that she could become the proper,
well-educated young lady he wanted his daughter to
be.
She wondered if he'd recognize her. She'd sent him
a small, framed self-portrait just last Christmas, but
she wasn't certain it had been a truly good likeness.
She'd always thought it was too bad she wasn't pretty,
in the soft, round way of her dear friend Lucilla. Still,
her complexion was good, and Sarah comforted herself
with that. Unlike Lucilla, she never required any
help from the little pots of rouge the sisters so disapproved
of. In fact, there were times she thought her
complexion just a bit too healthy. Her mouth was full
and wide when she would have preferred a delicate
Cupid's bow, and her eyes were an unremarkable
brown rather than the blue that would have suited her
blond hair so much better. Still, she was trim and
neat--or she had been neat before she'd begun this
miserable journey.
It would all be worthwhile soon. When she greeted
her father and they settled into the lovely house he'd
built. Four bedrooms. Imagine. And a parlor with windows
facing west. Delightful. Undoubtedly, she'd have
to do some redecorating. Men never thought about
such niceties as curtains and throw rugs. She'd enjoy
it. Once she had the glass shining and fresh flowers in
...
sinderella