Soiled Dove Page 10

  “You didn’t let me know you were comin’ into town,” a woman’s voice purred.

  Turning in the woman’s arms, Ino smiled when he saw her face framed by a full head of red hair.

  “Clare’s order at the mercantile is supposed to be here, Miss Mavis.”

  “Then I’m glad you got here early tonight, sugar.

  You eat already?”

  “Yeah. Just finished.”

  “Lookin’ for a little dessert to top off your meal?”

  she whispered.

  “Don’t see how I could pass that up,” he said with a grin.

  “Where’s Clare?”

  “Playin’ poker.”

  Mavis looked over her shoulder and spotted Clare holding five cards in her hand, slouched down in a chair with her hat pushed to the back of her head. She was a study in concentration. “Hey, Peg!” Mavis called to a woman who was draped over another customer at the bar.

  “Yeah,” Peg said.

  “How’s about takin’ a drink over to Clare? Tell her it’s on me. And keep an eye on her. You know how she can get.”

  The woman nodded and motioned toward Willis for the drink.

  “That’s mighty nice of you, Miss Mavis,” Ino smiled.

  “Well,” Mavis began as she played with the buttons on his shirt and looked slyly up at him. “If I’m gonna be entertainin’ her best hand all night, it seems the least I can do.”

  “All night, huh?”

  “Unless, of course, you’re not up to it,” Mavis teased.

  “Just make sure I’m up in time to load our buckboard with a few supplies.”

  “You got nothin’ to worry about, sugar,” Mavis said as she poked him playfully in the chest. She slid her fingers between the buttons and pulled him away from the bar and toward the stairs to her room. “If anybody asks, Willis, tell ‘em I’m indisposed tonight,” she said as they passed the bartender who only nodded and continued wiping down the bar.

  Clare was engrossed in her game, but noticed Ino and Mavis out of the corner of her eye. She liked Mavis Calendar. Amazin’ Mavis. That was what some of the men in town called her and Ino certainly enjoyed spending time with her. She was startled by a slender hand sliding over her shoulders as a drink was set in front of her. “From Miss Mavis,” Peg whispered, sending a chill down Clare’s spine. “If you get tired later, you can bed down with me, sugar.”

  “Thanks, Peg. I have a room at the hotel.” Clare said as she upped her bet. She watched the brunette stroll back across the bar. There was something about the way Peg moved that intrigued her. The woman had a thin waist with hips that flared out slightly from the tight corset she wore and Clare wondered what would happen if the string holding her bodice together popped loose.

  “Your bet,” a man across from Clare said, bringing her thoughts back to the game.

  Clare picked up her third shot and held it as she scanned the three men at the table. She leaned back in the hard wooden chair, trying to relax. So far the whiskey wasn’t helping. She lost the first three hands as she struggled to get a fix on how the men at the table played. Her fourth hand was a much better one and she tried not to let it show on her face. She played with the small stack of chips in front of her and wagered a small amount. Ino taught her to lure the other players in with small bets that indicated a weak hand. She wasn’t convinced it was the right thing to do, but decided to take his advice. By the time the round ended, she had taken a sizeable pot and was feeling confident. Perhaps too confident.

  As the shots continued to be set in front of her, she began losing. She couldn’t think, but couldn’t force herself away from the table. By the time her chips were down to the break-even point, she felt warm breath next to her ear and inhaled the scent of sweet floral perfume. “You should call it a night and get some rest, sweetie,” a familiar soft voice said.

  Clare turned her head toward the voice and saw Peg, leaning next to her. “I’m fine,” Clare muttered.

  “Just a bad streak.”

  “Just too much liquor. Quit while you’re even, honey.”

  When Clare ignored her advice, Peg reached in front of her and took the cards from her hand and tossed them in. “What the hell are you doing?” Clare demanded. She stood up quickly and spun around to face the shorter woman with chestnut hair. Before she could say anything else, she noticed the room hadn’t stopped spinning when her body did. She push her hat back on her head and gave Peg a crooked grin. “I reckon you’re right, Peg.”

  “You know I am, sugar. Now go on upstairs and go to sleep.”

  “I got a room at the hotel,” Clare mumbled.

  “Well, I ain’t lugging your sorry ass all the way to the hotel.”

  “Just need some fresh air.” She leaned over and picked up her old Henry rifle. “Tell Ino not to be late in the morning. We got work to do at the ranch.”

  “Stubborn woman,” Peg said as Clare moved toward the door.

  Clare rested for a moment against the post in front of the saloon before she began the walk to the Columbian Hotel. She was tired and teetering on the edge of drunkenness, but was looking forward to a hot bath at the hotel. She walked slowly down the deserted street.

  Halfway to the hotel she heard footsteps behind her and clenched her hand around her rifle. She waited until the footsteps were closer, then stopped and brought the rifle up to hip level, pointing it at whoever was following her. She blinked to clear her vision and lowered the rifle once again. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Are you all right?” Loretta asked. “I was on my way home and noticed you seemed to be having a little trouble walking.”

  “Too much liquor can do that.” Clare reached up and dragged her hat off, letting her hair fall unevenly in her face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Are you staying at the hotel?”

  “Eventually,” Clare answered.

  “Why don’t I make sure you get there before I head home?”

  “I’m fine, but you shouldn’t be out alone this late at night.”

  Loretta laughed. “You sound like my brother-in-law. I can take care of myself.”

  “And I obviously need to sober up some. A walk would do me good. Where do you live?”

  “At the parsonage of the Presbyterian Church near the edge of town.”

  The women walked silently for a while. Then Loretta said, “We’ve never been properly introduced.

  I’m Loretta Langford.”

  “Clare McIlhenney.”

  “Rosario tells me you’re a rancher.”

  “Of sorts.”

  “And I gather you’re not particularly fond of the Garners.”

  “Not particularly.”

  “And apparently you’re not much of a talker either.”

  Clare stopped and looked down at Loretta. “Not unless I have something to say that anyone gives a damn about.”

  “Is that your subtle way of telling me I talk too much?” Loretta blinked up innocently.

  “No, ma’am.”

  Loretta glanced at Clare as they continued toward the parsonage. Despite her slightly inebriated condition and somewhat grim exterior, Clare McIlhenney was a striking woman. She had angular facial features and, when she allowed anyone to see what was in them, seductive brown eyes under heavy eyelids.

  Periodically, they would hear a noise and Clare would raise her rifle slightly and look around. Loretta noticed how quickly her eyes turned from hazy to alert. “Are you expecting trouble?” she asked.

  “Trouble always happens when you least expect it. I’ve found it’s best to keep an eye out for it.”

  They were less than a block away from the parsonage when Loretta saw a figure walking briskly toward them. Clare began to bring her rifle up once again, but Loretta stopped her. “It’s Cyrus. My brother-in-law,” she said quietly.

  Cyrus closed the distance between them in a near trot and placed his hand protectively on Loretta’s elbow. “Are you all right, Retta?”

  “I’m fine
, Cyrus. Miss McIlhenney was kind enough to walk me home.”

  “I meant to leave sooner, but Elder Jessup stopped by to discuss a church matter,” he explained. He turned to Clare. “Thank you for escorting Loretta safely home, Miss McIlhenney. If I’m not mistaken, this is the second time tonight you’ve come to her assistance.” Cyrus extended his hand. “Cyrus Langford.”

  Clare shifted her rifle to her left hand and took his hand awkwardly. “Reverend. Welcome to Trinidad.”

  Clare looked at Loretta, her eyes unfathomable, and nodded slightly. “Good evening, ma’am.”

  Clare turned around and began the five block walk back toward the Columbian Hotel.

  When he was certain they were out of earshot Cyrus said, “I’m glad someone escorted you, Retta, but Miss McIlhenney wouldn’t have been my choice.”

  “She is a little tipsy, but…”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. I was telling Elder Jessup about the events at the café tonight. He is very familiar with Miss McIlhenney and the man she lives with.” He leaned in closer and whispered,

  “There’s talk that she’s murdered some men, but the Sheriff could never prove it.”

  “Possibly because it wasn’t true.”

  “Well, regardless, her reputation isn’t exactly stellar. She lives alone on her ranch with six men. I shudder to think what might be going on out there.”

  Loretta laughed. “Are you suggesting Miss McIlhenney might be fornicating with six men? Then I can understand why the ladies in town might be jealous.”

  “She’s hardly a lady and has quite a violent temper. I think we all saw a demonstration of that this evening.”

  “She was defending me, for Christ’s sake,”

  Lorettta fumed, “while everyone else in the café, including you, cowered at their tables. I, for one, appreciated it very much. She and her men will be gone tomorrow and that will be the end of it.”

  Loretta picked up her pace toward Cyrus’ house.

  She knew that although Cyrus was a good man, he wasn’t a particularly brave one. It hadn’t been Cyrus who stepped forward when Clement Garner acted inappropriately. In fact, not a single man came to her rescue. Only Clare McIlhenney, an intriguingly intense woman, had.

  BY THE TIME Clare opened the door to her room at the hotel she had sobered up considerably. She propped her rifle next to the bed and began stripping her clothes off. She would have to wear the same clothes the next day, but prepared a hot bath anyway.

  Despite the spring weather, the nights were still cool. The window was slightly ajar to allow a cool breeze into the stuffy room. Goose bumps appeared on her skin, hardening the dark nipples of her breasts as she stepped into the tub and sank into the warm embrace of the water. She stared into the water as it gently lapped against her body, her fingertips idly tracing the outline of the scar on her shoulder.

  IT WAS A beautiful day. The sky the bluest blue eighteen-year-old Clare McIlhenney had ever seen, stretching overhead like a clear ocean of air, unmarred by even a wisp of a cloud as far as her eyes could see. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a sky so clear. Terrance McIlhenney found a shaded grove of trees to stop for the day. Clare’s eight-year-old brother, Stillman, was absorbed in a game of pitching stones into a small circle drawn on the ground with a stick. While her father fed and watered their horses, her mother kept watch over their dinner cooking over an open campfire.

  Clare promised to return within the hour and set off to explore the area near their camp. Her father said they were within a day or two of their destination. It had been a long and tedious journey. They were forced to leave most of their personal belongings behind when they left Pennsylvania. It seemed they left behind more of the life Clare had known at each river crossing and before each steep canyon descent. She glanced over her shoulder at the horses her father purchased in Pueblo to replace their exhausted oxen. They left the wagon train they had traveled with for the past four months and turned south, leaving behind new friends along with the memories of the trials along the road west.

  Clare plucked a tender shoot of prairie grass, put it in her mouth and sucked the sweet taste of it. Every step brought back another memory of their long journey. It had been an unnecessary ordeal, she thought. She had done nothing to be ashamed of, or at least nothing shameful enough to warrant her parents’ sudden move across the continent in search of a new beginning. They never spoke of their hasty decision to leave their home, but Clare knew she was the reason. Sometimes, when she was alone, she could still smell a hint of lavender similar to the scent of Annalee’s favorite toilet water.

  A smile tugged at her lips whenever she thought of Annalee Sullivan. Clare couldn’t blame Annalee for her misfortune. The young woman had been desperate to defend herself and her honor. It was nothing more than a single, chaste brushing of their lips, much as sisters might do. Except they weren’t sisters. Annalee’s mother nearly fainted at what she imagined would have happened if she hadn’t abruptly entered the room in time to prevent her daughter from being defiled by a pervert such as Clare McIlhenney. The venomous disgust in Mrs. Sullivan’s voice when she spat out the word made Clare cringe.

  Pervert!

  A small break in the rocks ahead drew Clare’s attention away from the past and she climbed up the rise to reach it.

  It was too dark to venture far into the cave and she stood a few feet inside the entrance to allow her eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside. She had only taken two or three tentative steps inside when she heard the loud report of gunfire. She whirled around and ran from the cave toward their camp as fast as her legs would carry her, hiking her long skirt up to prevent it from becoming snagged on low brush. It didn’t seem as if she’d walked so far. She stopped to catch her breath and get her bearings, making certain she wasn’t running in the wrong direction.

  She topped a small rise and looked down to see her father firing his Henry repeating rifle while sheltering Stillman and her mother. Four men fired over the top of a ravine a few dozen yards from the McIlhenney camp, their horses milling behind them.

  Clare raced down the low lying hill toward their wagon, but before she reached it she saw her father fall.

  Her mother picked up the rifle and continued to fire toward the men without much accuracy. She skidded to a stop next to her mother, took the rifle from her shaking hands, and pushed her back to protect Stillman.

  “Tend to father,” she said as she took aim around the front of the wagon and squeezed off another shot. It hit the dirt at the lip of the ravine, causing the men to duck. She used the seconds until the attackers recovered to reach under the seat of their wagon and grab the box of ammunition her father kept there. As she reloaded the rifle chamber she heard Stillman sobbing behind her. A quick glance over her shoulder told her Terrance McIlhenney was dead. She didn’t have time to grieve even though tears forming in her eyes blurred her vision. She never saw the man coming around the side of their wagon until a bullet ripped through her shoulder and spun her toward him. She saw her mother grasp Stillman and shield him with her body seconds before she saw the life disappear from her mother’s eyes.

  She tried to bring the rifle up to defend her brother, but a blinding pain shot through her scalp. She heard Stillman call out her name, seemingly from far away, as darkness fell over her.

  Clare didn’t know how much time had passed when she regained consciousness. She squeezed her eyes shut again attempting to block out the throbbing pain in her shoulder and along her forehead. The sky above was the same brilliant, cloudless blue it had been earlier. The sound of feet shuffling in the dirt startled her and she turned her head toward the sound. She saw the blurry image of a man leaning over her mother’s body and her hand reflexively tightened around her rifle. She grabbed a spoke on the nearby wagon wheel, biting her bottom lip as pain stabbed at her arm. She managed to sit up and lean against the wheel, propping the rifle on her knees.

  “Get away from them,” Clare ordered in a raspy voice
.

  Despite her bravado, her hand trembled as she leaned against the wagon wheel, barely able to hold the heavy rifle.The man’s eyes widened when he turned and saw the rifle pointed at him. “You’re alive!” the stranger said as his hand moved quickly over his chest to make the sign of the cross.

  “No thanks to you. You murdered my family,” Clare spat.“Let me help you, senorita. You’re hurt. I didn’t shoot anyone except those two,” he said, pointing to two bodies sprawled on the ground nearby. “The others, they run away like the cowards they are.”

  Clare stared up at the strangely dressed man. He was shorter than her father. Hell, he was shorter than she was.

  Not more than five-and-a-half feet tall. He wore blue and red striped pants, partially covered with leather over his thighs and shins. Despite the summer heat, he wore a blousy, pale yellow long-sleeve shirt and a leather vest. A pair of revolvers hung from his waist and the largest hat Clare had ever seen hung down his back revealing shaggy, black hair. The skin of his face was dark and a black mustache that needed trimming draped across his upper lip. He stood over Clare and smiled in an attempt to win her trust, and avoid being shot himself. She noticed his teeth were amazingly white against his skin and dark hair.

  “I am Ino Valdez,” he offered.

  Clare rested the rifle on her knees and squinted up at him, trying to decide whether she could trust this stranger who had appeared out of nowhere. She was scared and wanted to trust him. “Clare McIlhenney,” she managed while finally trying to stand upright.

  Ino rushed to her side and grasped her arm to help her stand. Blood trailed down Clare’s cheeks from the grazing wound along the right side of her forehead and her left arm was virtually useless. Ino propped her against the water barrel on the wagon and went quickly to the tailgate. He returned a few minutes later with a quilt and an armful of supplies. “Let me see your shoulder, senorita. The graze to your head can be cleaned fine, but I am sure the shoulder is much worse.”