Desperado's Gold Page 11

  As they neared Alberta’s, a lone voice rose singing “Shall We Gather at the River,” and soon the entire crowd joined in, much too loud and horribly off key. Catalina took a small step back, removing herself from any light the torches cast as the mob stopped in front of Alberta’s to face the front of the saloon like the army she was certain they were, ready to fight.

  She could see, through the slats beneath the rail, the vigilantes below.

  “It’s the Lord’s day!” the preacher shouted, and the hymn stopped in mid-verse. “These abominations must be stopped!”

  She couldn’t see, but beneath her Catalina heard footsteps on the boardwalk.

  “Millicent!” Alberta shouted. The madam’s cheerful voice gave Catalina chills. “Looking for your husband? He’s inside. Come on in.”

  The woman beside the preacher stepped back, and Catalina assumed the pious sourpuss was Millicent. Suddenly she felt sorry for the woman. What could she do in this time? Leave him? For what? Did he come home drunk every night, with the smell of cheap perfume on his skin? Was that why the woman, Millicent, had hated Catalina at first sight?

  The voices below were lowered, and then were raised again, and a torch was raised threateningly, as if the bearer intended to toss it onto the boardwalk. Catalina began to search for the quickest way out of the building, and wondered if she could manage to swing from this balcony to the one below and then to the ground. That was the sort of thing that looked so good in the movies but seemed impossible when you looked down from the third floor and tried to imagine actually hanging over the edge.

  But it was a decision she didn’t have to make. The sheriff intervened, and after a few hotly spoken words the crowd moved away.

  Moments later the miners and cowboys filed out of the saloon, grumbling as they were all but herded by the sheriff. It looked like Alberta’s had been closed down for the evening, though Catalina had no doubt it would be business as usual the next day.

  The greasy gambler was the last to go, headed alone for the boardinghouse down the street. Catalina was a little disappointed. He had been the object of Juanita’s attentions, when the hussy hadn’t been fawning over Jackson. Catalina had hoped the gambler would be spending the night with Juanita, but it appeared the trollop was available for the evening. Available for Jackson.

  She remained on the balcony. Jackson had told her to go to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. Not now. There were plans to be made.

  If she could save Jackson by leaving, she had no choice. Maybe she could make her way back to the place where he had found her, grasp the wulfenite tight, and return to 1996. The idea left her cold. There wasn’t much to go back to. Just an hour ago the possibilities awaiting her in this world seemed so intriguing, so endless. She hadn’t realized what part Jackson had played in that excitement until she was faced with the actuality of going on alone.

  She heard the key in the lock and turned to face the door. It opened silently, and Jackson turned his eyes immediately to the bed. Then he lifted his head and saw her there.

  He looked like the desperado he was supposed to be, dressed all in black, with that growth of hair on his face and those long locks that fell to his shoulders. Catalina could see how he could strike fear into men’s hearts. But there was no fear in her heart at the moment.

  Jackson kicked the door shut, and that was when Catalina saw the bottle in his hand. He grasped the almost full bottle by the neck, and as he turned whiskey splashed onto the back of his hand.

  “You’re awake,” he said, setting the bottle on the table and lighting the lamp.

  Catalina nodded and stepped to the door. Jackson avoided looking at her as he sat at the table and studied the bottle as if there was something fascinating there.

  “I hope none of that’s for me,” Catalina said as she stepped off the balcony and into the room. “I had entirely too much last night.”

  Jackson shook his head, and still he didn’t look at her. “Nope. It’s all for me, darlin’.”

  Catalina closed the balcony door and locked it, and then pulled the drapes closed. Jackson was sitting in the chair that he had placed under the doorknob the night before, and Catalina knew he would eventually place it there again. Barricading them in. Locking the world out.

  Catalina took the few, difficult steps that separated them. A hundred years. Had she traveled so far only to leave without tasting what she’d found?

  “We could leave tonight,” she suggested softly. “Surely Alberta won’t suspect.”

  “Alberta’s got men watching this room and the livery around the clock.” He did lift his eyes to her then, studying her with as much intensity as he had the bottle that sat before him. “You’re a valuable commodity she can’t afford to lose.”

  “But we could get away, somehow.”

  Please say yes, she begged silently. Please don’t make me leave here alone.

  But Jackson was shaking his head, and studying the bottle as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted it or not. “Sorry. It won’t work.”

  She knew what he really meant. His words told her what she didn’t want to know. What she already knew. That there was nothing for them.

  Her hands were trembling as she placed them on his shoulders. “Jackson … ”

  He lifted the bottle then and took a long swig. “Get to bed, Catalina,” he said softly, a resigned gruffness in his voice.

  “Kiss me good night?” Catalina leaned forward, and Jackson turned his head so their lips met briefly. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it was better than nothing, a touch of lips that tasted like whiskey and warmed her from the inside out. She tried to prolong the kiss, but Jackson turned away from her, breaking the contact.

  She stood behind him to slip out of the gold and black dress. All he had to do was turn around. But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t, Catalina knew. She dropped the nightgown — a special request, like the gold dress — over her head. A near sheer white gown fit for a fairy princess, it was a bit too long and pooled around her feet. The sleeves were cut wide and fell over her hands, and danced when she lifted her arms. The bodice was cut daringly deep, a v-neckline that plunged almost to her navel. It was a nightgown made for seduction, not for sleeping in, and it was going to be completely wasted.

  Jackson wasn’t likely to respond. He lifted the bottle to his lips once again.

  “Jackson?” Catalina stepped past him to the bed. If he took any notice at all of the seductive nightgown, he didn’t show it. His manner and expression were almost weary, or else bored. Either way, he was definitely not interested in her, as she had been so certain he was. Somehow she’d blown it; ruined her chance with Jackson. “I’m sorry I screwed everything up tonight.”

  He lifted his head only briefly, then looked down again. “Go to sleep.”

  “I just don’t want you to … hate me.” Surely she could leave him with some good memories of her, even if he didn’t care for her as she did him. Even if he didn’t love her.

  He lifted his head slowly, gazing into her eyes. “I don’t hate you, Catalina. If I sometimes seem like I don’t know what to do with you, it’s because I’ve never known a woman like you before.”

  “A loco one?” she offered with a smile.

  “You’re not loco,” he said softly. “I’ve just never spent any time with ladies … except for women like the ones who work here in Alberta’s.”

  At least he hadn’t mentioned Juanita by name. “Haven’t you ever thought of getting married? Settling down with a nice girl and having children?”

  “You’ve forgotten who you’re talking to,” he said angrily, lifting the bottle again, hesitating reluctantly. “Kid Creede. What kind of nice girl wants to settle down with a gunslinger?”

  Catalina sat on the edge of the bed. “Don’t sell yourself short, Jackson. You could start all over. It’s a big country … ”

  “I told you, when you asked, that I didn’t know how many men I’d killed,” he interrupted her. “That’s not true. I tried to stop cou
nting, but I couldn’t.” He licked a drop of whiskey from his lower lip. “Thirty-one,” he said softly. “A life for every year of my own. Rather prophetic, don’t you think? I can’t put that behind me. I can’t forget.”

  Catalina stood, wanting, needing to go to him, but he stopped her with his raised hand. “No. Stay where you are.”

  Catalina lowered herself slowly.

  “Don’t try to make me anything more than I am. Or anything less. Could you look a man in the eye while you shot him in the heart?” For a long, terrible moment Jackson’s pale blue eyes held her. He wasn’t avoiding her now. Catalina knew that Jackson wanted her to know exactly what he was. No illusions. “I’ve done it.”

  Less reluctantly than before, Jackson lifted the bottle to his lips.

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Why?”

  Jackson reached out and doused the light, leaving them in complete darkness. “Good night, Catalina.”

  He sat in the dark, taking frequent sips of the cheap whiskey that he normally — no, always — avoided.

  No one had ever asked him why before.

  Catalina tossed and turned on the high bed, and only after his eyes had adjusted to the complete darkness could he make out her form there. The curve of her hip as she lay on her side. An arm raised slightly as she shifted, trying to find comfort.

  As hard as it would be to keep Catalina with him and not touch her, he knew he couldn’t leave her here. She trusted him. In spite of everything she knew, Catalina Lane trusted Kid Creede.

  No, he corrected himself. She trusted Jackson Cady.

  Her ridiculous story that she was from 1996, that he would be ambushed in Baxter, he dismissed without much thought. He’d always been careful never to place himself in a position where he might be vulnerable. That hadn’t changed. Right now he had Harold Goodman to worry about, but that didn’t weigh heavily on his mind. He was more concerned with how he could get Catalina out of Baxter without taking on the entire town than facing Harold. By the time the boy managed to hire another gunfighter he would have Catalina well away from this place.

  And then what?

  He never should have told her his name. She was able to separate Jackson Cady from Kid Creede, so that he was forced to remind her who he was … what he was.

  Finally she was still, her breathing even. She wanted to know why. He wanted to know why she cared. Why she was jealous of a whore. Why she trusted him.

  Jackson rose slowly, leaving what little was left in the bottle sitting on the edge of the table. His resolve was wavering as he stepped toward the bed and Catalina. He unbuckled his belt and draped the gunbelt, with the six-shooters still in their holsters, over the footboard.

  Catalina was curled up on her side, hugging the edge of the bed. The evening was warm, and she had folded the blue coverlet to the end of the bed, covering herself with only a thin sheet that came to her waist.

  Jackson sat slowly and easily on the opposite side of the bed and eased off his boots. The first boot he set gently on the floor, but the second dropped from his clumsy fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. He waited, remaining perfectly still, to see if he had awakened Catalina. But she didn’t move, didn’t even stir.

  The shirt he wore he slipped off silently and dropped to the floor by his boots. And then he stretched out beside Catalina, sliding his legs slowly under the sheet until they all but touched hers, and rested his head on the pillow. Her hair was right there, fresh and clean and golden, and he reached out to touch a strand that lay on her pillow, careful not to disturb her.

  “When I was fifteen,” he whispered, his voice so low it was no more than a hushed breath, “I was mining in Creede, Colorado, with Gus. Augustus Philpot. Gus was always looking for gold, and we’d been all over Colorado and Nevada. Finally it looked like we had struck it rich.”

  Jackson fondled the strand of hair between his fingers. “I dreamed of gold. Not the things we would have, but of the gold itself. Bright and shining and … magic.”

  He hadn’t thought of Gus in years … and now he remembered why. It hurt too much. Gus had been the only family he’d ever known. His parents had died when he was six, and he’d run away from the orphanage in Chicago three years later, figuring life on his own couldn’t be any worse than it was there.

  He’d been wrong, finding out soon enough what real hunger was, and what it meant to be terrified, with no home, no family, nowhere to run. But Gus had taken him in, taught him to work hard, taught him to dream of gold… .

  “They tried to buy the mine, at a price that was way too low, and Gus refused to sell. He was too happy about the strike to wonder what they might try next. Fenton and Kent Walker. Brothers with a reputation I knew nothing about, until later.

  “They shot Gus down in the street. He didn’t have a chance. He never wore a gun, and he never saw them coming.” Jackson closed his eyes and he could see it: Gus’s body twitching and bloody.

  “I don’t remember everything.” His voice slurred slightly, and Jackson was reminded that without the false bravery of the whiskey he wouldn’t be telling any of this even to a sleeping Catalina. “But I killed them both. Two guns. Six bullets in each of them.” He could still hear the screams as the guns blazed, and remembered that he hadn’t realized until the deed was done that the screams had been his.

  “Turns out they were real badmen. Ours wasn’t the first mine they’d taken over by killing the rightful owner. Gus wasn’t the first unarmed man they’d killed.”

  Jackson slid closer to Catalina, until his legs brushed hers. He spoke soft words into her hair. “They had friends and three brothers, who came after me when word got around what had happened. They laughed when they saw that I was nothing more than a skinny kid … but they didn’t laugh for long. It’s amazing how brave a man can be when he doesn’t care if he lives or dies.”

  He moved a tentative hand to her side, unable to resist the urge to take in some of her softness and warmth. “And that’s how it happened, Catalina Lane. That’s how Jackson Cady became Kid Creede.”

  Shifting his weight gingerly, Jackson settled himself against Catalina’s back. It seemed like a story about someone else, it had happened so long ago.

  Catalina continued to breathe evenly, but it took a real effort. Another tear slipped from her eye and slid across the bridge of her nose to land on her pillow.

  He never would have told her those things, never would have shared so much of himself if he hadn’t believed her to be sleeping soundly. And so she resisted the urge to roll over and wrap her arms around him and cry on his shoulder and tell him how sorry she was.

  It wasn’t right. Jackson had never had a chance for a normal, happy life. Never had a chance to know love.

  His leg brushed against hers, rough twill against her bare leg, and with his chest against her back Jackson held her. His touch was soft, undemanding, comforting, and Catalina knew he needed that comfort as much as she did. More.

  He fell asleep — or passed out — and Catalina let out a deep sigh. The weight of his hand on her side increased, and the breath that touched the back of her neck slowed.

  She did love him, and if he would let her, she would teach him to love her. A healing love, a love that would make him forget the past. But she didn’t think she would ever get the chance, and a fresh tear fell to her pillow.

  Ten

  *

  Catalina opened her eyes slowly. She knew it was morning. A tiny beam of sunlight peeked through a break in the heavy curtains. Time to leave. If she could sneak away from Jackson now, he would have no reason to stay in Baxter.

  His chest was against her back, as it had been the night before, but the hand that had rested on her side now lay on the bed in front of her, and a possessive arm encircled her. One leg, covered with the white sheet, rested heavily over hers. She could feel each warm breath Jackson exhaled, there at the top of her spine.

  The thin shaft of sunlight
touched the almost empty bottle that still sat on the table. She knew the only reason Jackson had confided in her, the only reason he held her now, was the effects of the contents of that bottle. It had broken through his shell, shattered the wall he kept between them, and she knew that when he woke he would distance himself from her again.

  Maybe she could slip from the bed without waking him. Maybe not. Catalina decided not to try. For now, while he held her, she would stay.

  Catalina remembered the short paragraph about Kid Creede almost word for word. It had painted him as a heartless killer and had told of his death with no regret or passion. Shot a dozen times on the street of Baxter in broad daylight. She shivered at the thought of the warm body that held hers devastated in such a way.

  Jackson would certainly have quite a hangover when he did wake. Maybe she didn’t have to leave right away. If she could keep him in this room and nurse his hangover, she would have another day. One more day with Jackson, in the safety of the blue room. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to leave. She knew him well enough already to know that his bender had been a one-time occurrence. There would be no repeat performances, and no more nights sleeping in his arms.

  Her eyes drifted closed as Catalina found herself trapped in the comforting warmth of Jackson’s arms surrounding her. There was a deep ache accompanying that comfort. An odd combination, but undeniable.

  Jackson murmured in his sleep and pulled Catalina solidly against his chest, and she knew there would be no escape this morning.

  The whispering click of a key in the lock woke Catalina from a deep sleep. She sat straight up, and Jackson’s hand fell from her side as he groaned — low, rumbling groan from deep in his throat.

  Catalina reached for the pistol nearest her feet and pulled it from the holster. It was so much heavier than she’d expected it to be that it sagged as she drew it toward her. But by the time the door swung silently open the six-shooter was held securely in two hands and aimed at the door.

  Alberta made a tempting target, and the madam took a single step back as she entered the room and found Catalina pointing one of Jackson’s Colts at her midsection.