Wildfire in His Arms (2 page)

That didn't need any clarification. High noon was when most stand-and-face-your-opponent gunfights happened, a time of day when neither combatant would be disadvantaged by blinding sunlight.

Degan glanced up to see where the sun was before saying, “It's close enough to high noon right now, so if we're going to do this, let's do it now. Come hitch up your horse if you don't want it catching stray bullets.”

Degan rode his palomino to the nearest hitching post before he dismounted and tossed the reins over it. The boy followed him and did the same, so he wasn't expecting Degan to come around the horses with his gun already drawn.

Now the boy was glaring at Degan as he slowly moved his hand away from his gun. “How'd you get your reputation if you cheat like this?” he spat out.

“By killing men—not boys. And this isn't cheating, it's saving your life.” Degan took the boy's gun and emptied it on the ground between them, then handed it back. “But I guess you don't get it yet. We're still doing this. If you win, you can reload and we'll have another go. If I win, you get to ride off and be glad you're still breathing. Sound fair?”

“Hell no. How 'bout we just do this normal in front of witnesses?”

“Look around, you're being watched. And I'm offering you exactly what you came here for, a chance to see if you're faster than I am, just without spilling blood in the street, and without you pissing your pants in fear thinking you're about to die. This is actually a much better test of who's faster, if you think about it. You'll be relaxed, without fear, without sweaty palms that might cause you to fumble. And you'll still have your bragging rights if you win.”

Degan removed his jacket and hooked it over the pommel of his saddle. Just because he lived in the West now didn't mean he had to give up the finer things in life he was accustomed to. Well, he'd had to give up some, but not the way he dressed. His black jacket was finely tailored, the black vest silk, the white shirt made of soft linen. His black boots were highly polished; the spurs weren't tin but real silver. And his gun holster was custom-made.

He stepped out into the street away from the intersection. He didn't want his friends witnessing this if they came out of the church early. The boy had followed Degan's example and left his slicker with his horse before putting some distance between them. He still looked nervous. Degan wondered if he had done this before or if this was his very first gunfight. It was a shame kids like this didn't learn from their mistakes and just go home. Maybe this one would when they were done.

“You're not going to empty your gun like you did mine?” the boy asked hesitantly.

“No. There are witnesses, remember? I'm not a murderer, just a fast gun. So prove you know how to do this.”

A few more seconds passed with the boy's hand hovering just over his weapon. He was still nervous, despite Degan's assurances. Degan could see the boy's fingers shaking.

Degan finally sighed. “I'm giving you an edge, to draw first. Anytime now would be good.”

“So you're gonna let me win?”

“No, I'm not.” Degan drew his gun, then slid it back in his holster just as fast. “See? Now draw.”

The boy tried to, but his gun still didn't clear his holster before Degan's was out and pointed at his chest. “Thing is, kid, I don't miss either. So are we done here?”

“Yes, sir, we are.”

“M
AX, WAKE UP. MAX
Dawson!”

Dark eyes opened wide, then blinked a few times before locating the pretty lady of the night pouting beside the bed. “You don't have to shout, Luella, especially not my whole name.”

“Sorry, honey, but I wouldn't have to if you'd just wake up more easily. It's a wonder you can sleep at all in this establishment with all the moaning and groaning going on into the wee hours.”

Max grinned. “As long as you're quiet and you don't mind sharing this exquisitely soft bed, everything else sounds like whispering wind.”

“It's a wonder you ain't been caught, sleeping that soundly.”

“Your door was locked, wasn't it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And no one's ever climbed in though your window?”

“Just you.”

“Well, there you go, perfect safety and a soft bed. This is the only place I
can
sleep soundly. At my camp in the hills, the slightest noise, a twig's snapping, will wake me. 'Sides, no one's looking for me in these parts.”

“Then why'd you want me to wake you at dawn before the deputies make their early rounds? By the way, that was thirty minutes ago. That's how long I've been trying to wake—”

“Damnit, why didn't you say so! I hate being in town in daylight.”

“But if no one's looking—”

“Not actively looking, but the wanted posters have made their way this far north. I snatch them down when I find them, but the sheriff here keeps putting more back up. He must've been sent a pile of them.”

Max slipped out from beneath the covers fully dressed except for coat and hat, which were grabbed now. The gun holster hadn't been removed either. Luella didn't like sleeping next to a long-barreled Colt even though she was used to guns and kept a small derringer tucked away in her small bureau for emergencies. But she minded something else even more.

“You could at least remove your damn boots before you go to sleep,” she said, staring at the scuffed boots that had just left her bed.

“Can't, case I have to leave fast—like this.” Max opened the window, climbing onto the porch roof that fronted the bordello, then dropping to the ground.

Luella watched from her window. Standing there in her chemise, she heard a whistle from across the street. She didn't try to cover herself. After all, part of her job was to attract customers to Chicago Joe's bordello. Helena had far too many whorehouses, and the competition was fierce.

Too many bordellos, too many millionaires, too many miners, heck, just too many people. But then Helena was the most populated town in Montana Territory, had been since gold was discovered in the nearby gulch back in '64. Eighteen years later folks were still moving to Helena when most towns that had sprouted up because of gold had turned into ghost towns. Even Virginia City, a ways south, was dying, and it had boasted a population of three thousand during its heyday. But Helena, with hundreds of businesses, didn't rely solely on gold for its prosperity. It was also the capital of the territory, and the railroad was heading this way, too. In another year or two it would probably reach Helena, and that would ensure that the town didn't bottom out when the gold did.

Luella thought Helena would be a nice place to settle down if she could find a man who would have her. She'd only received marriage proposals from miners so far, and miners didn't have their own homes or make much money, so they didn't have the means to start families here. Usually if a man had means, he wasn't interested in taking a whore for a wife when he could bed one for a few coins.

Luella looked over at Big Al, the man who had whistled at her. He was out early, sweeping the porch of his saloon across the street. He was one of her regulars and had always treated her with a gentle hand. She'd actually been considering him as a potential husband until the night Max had rescued her and she had fallen instantly in love. So dumb for someone like her to succumb to that emotion.

But with Big Al's being a landowner and a businessman, and single, he was still an option. His saloon was one of many in town that never closed its doors. Luella's place of business never closed either. Josephine Airey, or Chicago Joe as most people called her, owned the bordello and many others like it. Quite the landowner, their madam was, and she believed a man who wasn't put on a time schedule—at least when satisfying his amorous needs—was a happy man.

Big Al was giving Luella a cheeky grin now—and not watching where he was sweeping. Dust flew toward one of his customers who was leaning against the porch post, drink in hand. The man, a fancy dresser, was probably a businessman, she thought, until she saw the gun on his hip and quickly took her eyes off him. She figured Big Al must be wary of him, too, if he'd let him take a drink outside to the porch. Big Al never allowed that. Sheriff's orders, no drinking allowed in the streets. Now Al rushed back inside his establishment before the man noticed the dust on the back of his polished boots.

Luella didn't like gunfighters, though Lord knew she'd bedded a lot of them. Gunfighters frightened her because they didn't throw punches when they got mad; they drew guns instead. Max probably did, too, but Max was different. And what wasn't to like about Max Dawson?

“See you next week, Luella!” Max shouted up at her now.

“Sure thing, honey,” Luella called back, and waved, but Max was already galloping out of town.

She closed her window and went back to bed. She hoped the gunslinger hadn't noticed her and wouldn't be paying her a visit.

D
EGAN WATCHED THE KID
race out of town. He'd watched him exit the brothel, too. Anyone departing that quickly through a window usually meant someone else would soon appear with a gun in hand and start shooting, but that didn't happen. Instead a pretty blonde in her undergarments had appeared at the window to say good-bye.

The little scene was unusual enough that Degan took in more details than he normally would. Not that he wasn't always aware of what was going on around him. He was, but he usually only focused on what he sensed could be dangerous. The long coat the kid was wearing over black pants and shirt wasn't a typical rain slicker but an expensive garment made of soft doeskin. His tan, wide-brimmed hat was either new or well cared for because it hadn't been dented yet. Light brown boots that were scuffed all to hell and a white bandanna revealed that the boy had no sense of style. He had dark eyes, short white-blond hair under the hat, and a baby face. Another boy so young that he hadn't grown hair on his face yet, but was sporting a gun on his hip. Why did they court violence at such a young age?

But this one appeared to have a love of life. Degan had seen it in the kid's expression as he'd hopped onto his horse and heard it in the laughter that trailed after him as he raced away. A good night with a comely woman could do that, Degan ­supposed—or young love. And then one of those details he'd only vaguely noticed surfaced in his mind and he stepped back and stared at the wanted poster tacked to the post he'd been leaning against.

He'd seen it earlier, just hadn't paid attention to it. Whoever had drawn the picture must have known the outlaw because the likeness was uncanny. An outlaw visits a brothel across the street from his wanted poster that offers $1,000 for his capture? Degan shook his head. Boys were far too daring these days. But this one was none of his concern. His gun was for hire but he wasn't about to do the sheriff's job for him.

Degan took his empty glass back into the saloon and stopped at the bar. The only other customer in the room had been sleeping with his head down on a table and still was. Degan wouldn't even have stopped at the saloon if he hadn't ridden all night to get to Helena and the saloon hadn't been the first place he'd passed that was open at this hour. He deplored camping in the wilderness and only did it when he was too far between towns. He didn't like traveling at night either, but he hadn't been tired enough to stop last night, and the lure of a bed and a hot bath had kept him going.

“I'll take a bottle of your finest to go—and a rag for my boots.”

The rag was quickly shoved across the bar as the barkeep's face turned red. The bottle had to be searched for. When the man returned, he said hesitantly, “I should warn you, there's a law here 'bout drinking in the streets.”

“I wasn't planning to.” Degan paid up, then added, “I don't consider your porch the street.”