Shot Gun Grooms. Maureen Child

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      “Mr. MacIntyre,” she said in as loud a voice as she could manage, then headed for the far end of the bar.

      The crowd was thicker there, and the men less likely to let her through. She found herself in the uncomfortable position of having to push between people when her polite “Excuse me” was ignored.

      Conversation spilled over her. She ignored the swear-words, the calls of the gamblers on the far side of the room and the odor of too many unwashed bodies. Fortunately Mr. MacIntyre was tall enough that she could easily see him over the heads of his patrons. She moved steadily toward him, only to have him suddenly move back the way she’d come. She was forced to stop and turn herself.

      “Excuse me,” she said, trying to squeeze past two miners drinking beer.

      Before she knew what was happening, they’d trapped her neatly between them, their heavy bodies pressing against hers. One of them put down his drink and grabbed both her arms.

      “Not so fast, little lady,” he said, his voice slurred from the alcohol. “Seems to me if you want to keep brushing against a man the way you are, you have to be ready to accept the consequences.” The last word broke on a hiccup.

      Emily turned her head from the horrible stench of his breath. “Unhand me, sir,” she demanded, not exactly afraid but not comfortable, either. She didn’t like the way the man’s fingers seemed to be squeezing her arm, or his nearness, not to mention the closeness of his friend behind her.

      “Don’t you sound real uppity,” the man said, his narrow eyes squinting at her. “What’d you think, Bill? She’s got a mouth on her, which I ain’t fond of with any woman. And she’s skinny and ugly.”

      Emily gasped as a hand settled on that part of her she didn’t even like to think the name of. That place where she sat. She tried to speak, but all that came out of her mouth was a high-pitched squeal.

      “You know,” the one named Bill said, “if we wait until dark, we won’t have to see her face anymore, and if we’re drunk enough, we won’t care that she’s as bony as an old mule.”

      Emily didn’t have time to think or react. Suddenly a large hand settled on the shoulder of the man in front of her. The man looked startled, then he was flying through the air, landing on a table and crashing into the ground. She caught a glimpse of Mr. MacIntyre turning toward the one called Bill. That miner went sailing across the room, as well.

      Emily couldn’t catch her breath. She wasn’t sure what to say as she started to thank her rescuer. But before she could speak, a different man threw a punch toward Mr. MacIntyre and the fight was on.

      Fists flew, bodies tumbled, men grunted, yelled and cursed. And Emily was trapped in the middle of the fray. She told herself she needed to get out of the saloon as quickly as possible, but the swinging doors seemed so far away. She huddled close to the bar, trying to stay out of the way. But when a strange man reached for her, she reacted instinctively. She grabbed a bottle from the bar and crashed it over the man’s head.

      At that same instant, she saw a flash of movement. Something hard and horribly painful connected with her eye. She yelped in pain. Stars appeared in her head. She felt her lower limbs starting to give way when she suddenly recognized the man she’d assaulted with the bottle. Her last thought before the blackness reached up to grab her was that she’d accidentally cracked a bottle over the head of the local deputy.

      * * *

      Lucas didn’t remember ever visiting a woman in jail. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering now. Miss Emily Smythe—former schoolteacher and spinster—had gotten herself in plenty of trouble without any help from him. It wasn’t his fault she’d hit Deputy Wilson over the head with a bottle of Lucas’s most expensive Scotch. Hell, he wasn’t even going to make her pay for the liquor. And he was sure that Wilson would get over his temper soon enough and release the woman from jail. So Lucas should just mind his own business and head back to the Silver Slipper.

      Except he couldn’t. He paced outside the sheriff’s office that also housed Defiance’s small jail and swore under his breath. So what if that skinny, pinched-mouth miss had wanted to speak with him? He didn’t owe her his time. He doubted she could have looked more disapproving of him or his place of business. Like he’d thought before—he didn’t owe her anything.

      Lucas walked back and forth on the wooden plank sidewalk, hating himself for being curious about what she wanted and wishing he wasn’t thinking what he was thinking. That she might just be the answer to his problem. Yes, he needed an answer and fast, but Emily Smythe? He couldn’t really be considering her could he? He shuddered.

      But time was passing quickly and he’d run out of options with last week’s post. Grumbling under his breath, he pushed into the sheriff’s office and asked to see the pinched-faced spinster.

      Emily Smythe sat on the edge of the thin mattress in her jail cell. Her back was straight, her expression haughty. Even her black eye looked almost regal. She was the kind of woman who made a man feel he hadn’t washed good enough and that he was going to put every foot wrong. She was cold enough to freeze off a man’s privates. He shuddered again, wishing he could bring himself to ask one of Miss Cherry’s lovelies to help him out. There he’d find a warm, willing woman with plenty of curves and the skill to keep a man purring long into the night.

      At least the sheriff kept a clean jail, and it was nearly warm in the spring late afternoon. No doubt Wilson would see reason within an hour or so and let the lady go free, despite her unfortunate aim.

      “Miss Smythe,” he said, nodding his head.

      He’d remembered to slip on a jacket before leaving the saloon, but he hadn’t grabbed a hat. So when he reached up to tip it, he found his fingers gasping for air. He had to think quick and instead smoothed back his hair, as if he’d planned that gesture all along.

      Emily regarded him with as much pleasure as she would an infestation in her flour. “Mr. MacIntyre. What are you doing here?”

      Lucas cleared his throat. “Yes, well, ma’am, you mentioned wanting to talk to me.”

      “You weren’t interested before.”

      He wasn’t now, either, but he felt guilty. Why the hell couldn’t he have lost his conscience when he’d lost his soul? He’d had more use for the former than the latter these past years.

      “I was trying to be polite,” he said. “I can see my effort is not welcome. Good day, Miss Smythe.”

      But before he could leave, she sprang to her feet and approached the bars. “No, wait.” She grasped the metal with both hands and squared her shoulders. “I would very much like to speak with you, sir. I have a business proposition.”

      He was too startled to give her any reaction. In the space of time it took him to absorb her words and wonder if she really meant what she said, he noticed that she’d seemed to brace herself. As if she was expecting him to be angry…or perhaps laugh. There was pride in the haughty angle of her chin, but there was something else in her blue eyes. Apprehension? Fear? Embarrassment?

      “What sort of business proposition?” he asked warily, thinking of only one way a woman could have business with a saloon. He doubted that was what someone as proper as Miss Smythe would have in mind.

      She glanced left and then right, obviously aware of the СКАЧАТЬ