“He left an hour ago,” she said, and the bruise was fresh red-purple, glaring and still puffing up. Her breasts swelled almost out of the dress—well, dress wasn’t quite the word, it was just a scrap of corset and lace, and low. “Gabe…”
“Tils?” He nodded as the ’tender, weedy Tass Coy, slapped his hand over the bit and made it vanish. Coy’s jaw was a mess; you could clearly see where the horse’s hoof had dug in and shattered bone. Not even the doctor could do much for it, and Russ Overton’s mancy didn’t extend to fleshstitching.
“He said he was gonna talk to her.” It was a strained whisper. “I sent Billy to the jail, but you warn’t there.”
Coy watched this, his brown eyes neutral. He plucked at one of his braces with long sensitive fingers, and turned away very slowly. There was nothing wrong with his ears.
No, I was ridin’ the circuit, dammit. Gabe’s chest knew before the rest of him. A cold, hard lump settled right behind his breastbone. “Tilson’s visiting the marm?”
“He said he was gonna ride right out to that schoolhouse and teach her not to interfere.” Mercy’s hands clutched into fists. “Gabe…now don’t be hasty.”
Hasty is one thing I’m not. “Tilson. Visiting the schoolhouse.” He repeated it slowly, just to make certain he hadn’t misheard. “When did he leave, now?”
“An hour, maybe more—Gabe, I—”
He bolted the shot. No use in wasting liquor, even if it was terrible. When he cracked the glass back down on the sloping counter, Mercy cringed like a whipped dog. Did she think he was going to tap her, too?
“Goddamn.” He headed for the swinging doors, but he didn’t have to take more than two steps before they whipped open as if disgorging a flood. Emmet Tilson stamped through, looking halfway to Hell. Blood and dust crusted his face, and one eye was swollen shut. It looked much worse than what he’d inflicted on Mercy, and Gabe stopped dead.
What the Hell? His jaw felt suspiciously loose, and the way his hands were tense and tight-knotted, Gabe was suddenly afraid he was going to break a finger or two.
Tils saw him a bare half-second later, and stopped dead as well. He wasn’t wearing a gun, which was a piece of good fortune, because Gabe saw the saloon owner’s hand twitch, and almost drew himself.
Now, don’t lose your temper, something inside him was trying to say. Oddly, it sounded a little like Annie, and a little like an archly amused schoolmarm.
There was a general shuffle as everyone in the saloon noticed the two of them eyeing each other like rattlesnakes, and moved out of the way.
Gabe decided to be mannerly. Why not? “Afternoon, Tilson.”
The man twitched again, and Gabe was mighty glad there was no gun on Tils’s hip. On the other hand, the saloon owner had gone out to the schoolhouse without an iron? That was very unlike him.
Maybe he thought Miss Barrowe wasn’t worth shooting. ’Course, Tilson preferred to talk to a woman with his fists.
A spike of heat went through Gabe. He realized, miserably, that he was not about to keep his temper. Especially if the whorehouse manager said one, small, wrong word.
“Sheriff.” Brittle, but at least Tilson wasn’t shouting. “My office. Now.”
Since when do you order me around like one of your whores? “Beg your pardon?” He drawled it nice and slow, as if he didn’t understand. Give the man some time to reconsider his tone, as it were.
The garish blood and dust all over Tils was thought-provoking. The cold was all through Gabe now, except for that hot spike of rage in his chest, beating like a heart. He hadn’t felt that heat in so long, it was almost comforting.
Whatever was in his expression made the saloon owner back up a step, his spurs jangling a discordant note against the worn wooden floor. If Gabe were still of the Faith, now would have been the moment for him to punish the man for a transgression real or imagined.
But that part of him was long gone, wasn’t it? And thinking about its loss was not guaranteed to keep his temper, either.
“I mean, ah…” Tilson coughed, rubbed at his swollen lips with one hand. But slowly. “I mean, Gabe, we’ve got business. Care to step into my office?”
That’s better. But you’re still likely to bite. Cowards always are. “I ain’t aware of any business between us, Tilson. Unless you want there to be.” It was hard, but he glanced aside at Mercy Tiergale, whose hands were clutched at her mouth. “Miss Mercy. Don’t you and the girls have an appointment?”
The silence was so thick you could pour it into a cup. Tils stiffened as if Gabe had just slapped him. The doors squeaked on their hinges, and the wind on Damnation’s main street was a low moan as wheels rumbled and horses neighed outside.
A susurrus behind him as he returned his gaze to Tilson. “You look like hell, Emmet.”
“Tangled with a she-cat.” Tils straightened. The tension leached out of the air, and Mo brought his hands down on the keys again. The tinny crash almost made him jump.
“Is that so.” Looks like she tangled you but good.
“Gabe…” Mercy sounded as if she’d been punched. Maybe she had. Or maybe she found it difficult to breathe. Mo noodled through the first few bars of “My Old Mother Is Watching,” and Gabe wondered if it was the man’s comment on proceedings, so to speak.
“You just run along now.” Gabe said it evenly, slowly. “Take the girls with you. I’ll be along to see all’s right.”
Tils seemed to have a bit of a problem with this. “You can’t—”
“You want to think right careful before you finish that sentence, Tilson.” And so help me God, if you hurt her, I’m going to make you pay.
It was an uncomfortable thought. He didn’t even like the marm; she was a prissy little miss, and he had no need to be involving himself in this trouble. It was too late, though. He was well and truly involved, because he had opened his fool mouth.
And besides, he was lying to himself again. A knight of the Order must never commit that sin, of untruth in his own soul. The smell of incense rose in his memory, the moment of struggle before the altar before he had turned away, leaving his brothers praying in their plainsong chant, his hands fists as they were now and a single thought burning in his brain.
Annie.
Except it wasn’t her he was thinking of now, was it.
The saloon owner subsided. But the ratty little gleam in his eye told Gabe there would be trouble later.
Oh, damn.
The news had spread like wildfire. By the time Gabe arrived at the schoolhouse the Granger wagon was there too, and he winced again.
Maybe this would all blow over. Tils might not use his fists too much on the girls now that Gabe was involved, but there were a hundred other ways he could make their lives even more miserable. And the miss might find that teaching a bunch of saloon girls was not as easy as the little ’uns—though Gabe didn’t know how easy the little ’uns were, rightly. About all he knew was that he wouldn’t care to be trapped in a schoolroom with them all day.
He took his time pumping fresh water for the horses. The sun beat down unmercifully, and even though the water was brown and the bottom of the trough none too clean, he still thought longingly of just sinking into it and letting the entire damn situation play itself out with no help from one tired, head-buzzing Jack Gabriel.