If Gauge came through for her as promised, a fancy two-story Victorian house, furnished like this throughout, on its own nice piece of property, would be hers one day soon. Or she should say, theirs. These were nice-enough quarters for a dance-hall queen.
But the wife of a cattle baron would have it so very much better...
A sharp knock came at the door. She smiled proudly at herself in the mirror — the stranger had changed his mind! He’d gone to his lonely room and stared at the wall, driven mad by thoughts of the delights awaiting him on the other side. She laughed at herself, and him.
She was in her corset and silk stockings now, but found that perfectly acceptable apparel in which to greet him, to encourage her new friend to have that nightcap after all, and perhaps...?
She opened the door just a crack, but the face there did not belong to the stranger or Harry Gauge, either.
“Hi, Lola.”
Vint Rhomer pushed through, shutting the door behind him in a near slam. The red-haired, red-bearded deputy — in his usual gray shirt with sleeve garters, buckskin vest, dirty denims, and tied-down .44 — reeked of liquor. Reeked, period.
She glared at him. “Vint! What the hell are you doing here?”
He gave her a hooded-eyed grin, teeth like a rabbit’s poking through the red brush. “Just thought I’d stop by for a friendly little visit.”
Her hands went to her hips. She didn’t give a damn that he was seeing her like this; in her profession, modesty was not an issue.
With chin high, she said, “There are plenty of girls over at the Victory. Slow night like this, you’ll have your pick. Go visit one of them.”
He came over, stood close to her, arrogance and stupidity rising off him like two more foul smells. “Maybe I’d rather visit you, honey.”
She gave him a defiant smile, hands still on her hips. “You’re takin’ one hell of a risk... ‘honey.’ What if Harry Gauge came walking through that door?”
He shook his head. Tobacco was in there with all the other odors. “Harry’s busy. Got called away on a matter. He’s got way more to worry about than me makin’ time with his... whatever it is you are to him.”
She bared her teeth. “Lay one finger on me and I’ll tell him you ravaged me.”
The dark blue eyes narrowed and his upper lip curled back in its red nest. “You really think he’d give a damn?”
Her chin crinkled in anger, nostrils and eyes flaring like a rearing mare. “What the hell do you think you’re talking about, Rhomer?”
He chuckled and went over and sat in the fancy chair. Crossed his legs.
Casual, he said, “You really shot yourself in the foot, Lola, when you brought Harry into the picture. Oh, I know the whole story. How this town was gonna run you and your tramps out when you sent for Harry and his big gun. Paid his damn stage fare, then just handed him a half-interest in the Victory.”
She stood with her arms folded now, looking down at the seated intruder, but keeping a distance. “This is fascinating, hearing my life story told by an idiot.”
“You made a bad partnership, honey. Harry Gauge wants more from a woman than you could ever give him.”
Her chin came up again. “Harry’s got everything he ever wanted — the land, the cattle, the town... and he’s got me.”
Rhomer’s shrug was slow and his sneering expression nasty. “Yeah, only he don’t want you.”
“Is that right?”
“Dead right, baby. What he wants is sweet, little Willa Cullen.”
She scowled. “You’re as crazy as you are stupid, Rhomer. All he wants is her ranch.”
His eyes went huge. “And you call me stupid! She goes with the damn ranch. She is the damn ranch! You really think when Harry Gauge sets himself up as king of this part of the country, he’s gonna do it with a shopworn soiled dove like you at his side?”
She was trembling now, with rage, and... something else. Fear? Not of Rhomer, but that... that he might be right...?
She pointed at the door. “Get out! Get out of here now.”
Rhomer got to his feet, in no hurry. He came toward her in an easy lope. “Don’t cry, honey. No need to cry. Vint here still thinks you’re sweet. Hell, I don’t mind takin’ Harry’s sloppy seconds. He can have that sage hen Cullen gal.”
He undid his gun belt and tossed it on the chair he’d vacated near the window on the street. As he turned back to her, grinning horribly, she was right there to slap him, hard, and it rang out like a gunshot.
Rhomer grunted and returned the slap, but twice as hard, and she cried out. Then he slapped her again, even harder, and started in clawing at her, trying to rip off what little she wore, but dealing with a corset was beyond his intelligence and she pummeled his chest with hard, tiny fists and bit him on the ear, hard, tearing at his flesh, spitting out a bloody lobe.
He screamed and let go of her, scarlet trailing down one cheek, and yelled, “You witch!”
He pushed her onto the bed and was coming at her with grimacing hatred and his right fist was high when the door splintered open and someone came in fast.
The stranger.
Bareheaded, no sidearm, he grabbed Rhomer from behind, by the shoulders, and flung him across into the dresser, where the deputy hit hard, the mirror shaking, drawers rattling, pitcher in its basin careening.
She sat up on the bed, breathing hard, her mouth bleeding — the stranger must have heard the struggle! And came to help his neighbor out.
Rhomer’s right hand went to his side — forgetting for a moment that his gun in its belt was over on that chair — and then grabbed the pitcher from the dresser top and hurled it at the stranger, who ducked, and so did she, as it flew into the wall behind her and crashed into chunky fragments.
The deputy raised his fists and with a sneering smile came slowly toward the man who’d interrupted his fun.
“About time,” Rhomer said, “somebody taught you to mind your own damn business.”
The stranger, his own balled hands at the ready, was smiling, but his eyes weren’t. “Please try.”
In the cramped space of the hotel room, there was little for the two men to do but stand there and slug it out, though Rhomer landed few blows. The stranger kept rocking him back, taking only a handful of hits on his arms and his body, just glancing blows.
Then Rhomer brought around a looping right hand that could have done real damage, but the other man ducked it and brought up a right hand that caught the deputy on the chin, sending him, already bleeding from his ragged ear, stumbling back.
Not even breathing hard, the stranger said, “Maybe it’s time I taught you not to burden a lady with unwanted attentions.”
Lola felt tears come. The physical punishment Rhomer had dealt out to her hadn’t made her cry. She was used to that kind of thing, much as she hated it. But her unlikely savior’s oddly formal defense of her... her virtue... had sent tears streaming.
The stranger was delivering a flurry of punches to Rhomer’s body, his chest, his belly, his sides, and the deputy seemed to be staying on his feet only by the force of those blows, bloody spittle flying.
Then in one last desperate move, Rhomer shoved the stranger away, and scrambled after the gun belt on the chair near the window. As the deputy bent over for it, the stranger came up behind him and kicked him in the backside and through the glass shatteringly, shards flying, wooden pane frames cracking.