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  “I see,” she said, no fear but a healthy dose of amusement in her voice. “In a shootout on the street?”

  Damn her, he could hear the smile in her voice, that whiskey-eyed witch.

  “Something like that.”

  “And how many men have you killed since then?” she asked lightly.

  “I stopped counting ten years ago.”

  “Oh, really, you must have a number. Every decent gunslinger has to be able to say, ‘I kilt eighty-seven men, two of ‘em jest for lookin’ at me cockeyed.’”

  He resisted the urge to turn in the saddle and look at her. “Not quite eighty-seven, and I never shot anybody for lookin’ at me cockeyed.” She should be scared, terrified, not amused. But the only thing that had terrified Catalina Lane had been the kiss. He could touch her and she’d be trembling, while she all but laughed at the violence that had filled his life.

  “Catalina Lane, you’re a strange woman,” he observed, shaking his head.

  “I’m strange?” She leaned to the side. He could feel the weight on his duster shift. “I’m not the one riding around in the desert pretending to be a … a … a fictional character out of the past. Really.” She slipped from her perch and grabbed onto his waist with both hands to keep herself from falling to the ground. She clung to him tightly for a long moment, and he was almost certain she was holding her breath.

  “Wait a minute,” she said as she righted herself and loosened the arms around his waist. “Kid Creede wasn’t a fictional character. Aisle nine, almost to the end, bottom shelf. I can’t believe I almost forgot. It’s the only book I ever saw him mentioned in, and he’s a minor historical figure, certainly. Why are you making a movie about him?”

  Jackson shook his head. It was lucky that she had stopped him before anything more than a kiss had happened. He didn’t want to be saddled with a lunatic. What the hell was a movie?

  “Let’s see. Kid Creede. Got caught up in a land war in … in … Baxter! Jackson, you could have told me, though I’ve decided you’re not the most talkative man I’ve ever met. Is the movie about the land war? Does Kid Creede have a big part or a small one? Let’s see … ” She shifted in her seat, and Jackson resisted the urge to tell her — again — to be still.

  “I don’t think there was more than a paragraph or two, and there was no picture. Kid Creede was killed in Baxter, wasn’t he? Ambushed by … by … I don’t remember.”

  He knew she was loco, but the words sent a chill down his spine. Ambushed in Baxter. It was a risk he’d lived with most of his life, particularly when he got involved in these land disputes. But it wasn’t pleasant to hear it voiced as a fact.

  “Catalina.” He said her name in a calm voice, displaying none of the fire she ignited in him … one way or another. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to dump you on the ground and let you walk the rest of the way.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she said sulkily.

  His silence must have been sufficient response to that, because once again Catalina Lane was — thankfully — silent and still as death.

  Four

  *

  “This is great,” Catalina said, leaning to the side so she could get a better look at the town that stretched before them. “It looks so real.”

  Kid Creede, Jackson Cady, said nothing, but she heard an uncustomary deep sigh.

  The town of Baxter had been perfectly recreated. The few people she saw were in costume, and the single dirt street was lined with hitching posts and buildings — adobe and wood — that looked eerily authentic. There was a saloon to the right, with wide terraces on the second and third floor. A general store, sprawling and busy, was directly across the street from the saloon. A costumed lady in a calico dress swept out of the general store, took one look at Catalina and Jackson and, with her nose in the air, turned her back just as Catalina waved energetically.

  Jackson stopped in front of the saloon, and Catalina glanced up at the sign that hung over the door. It appeared to be freshly painted, a sign of the prosperity of the place, she supposed. The general store sign was properly weathered, as were most of the others on the street. But there it was. Alberta’s Saloon, painted in red on white and hanging over the batwing doors.

  He helped her to the ground and in a moment was beside her, his movements fast and smooth. Those pale blue eyes took in everything, searching the almost deserted street and the windows that faced it.

  “Thanks for the ride, Jackson.” Catalina tried to smile, but her escort wasn’t cooperating. He all but ignored her, and she felt, for a moment, as if she didn’t even exist for him. “Who should I see about a job?”

  He did glance at her then, with a calculating gleam in his eyes. “You could check at the general store, or see if the hotel needs any help with the laundry or the kitchen.”

  Neither of those options seemed very exciting, and Catalina frowned. “Anything else?”

  He nodded to the batwing doors. “You could always go to work for Alberta.”

  Catalina looked toward the saloon. “I did learn the cancan when I was twelve or thirteen. I don’t remember exactly what year it was. Dance class,” she added. “It might be fun to work in a real Old West saloon. Do you think I could wear one of those costumes? You know, red silk and black stockings and a feather in my hair?”

  Jackson closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. Why did he have to look so irritated? As if she’d done something wrong? “I’m sure Alberta would be happy to have you, and if you want a red and black costume, I’m sure she’ll arrange to have one made. Alberta is very … accommodating where her girls are concerned.”

  The doors to the saloon swung open, and a busty woman who looked to be approaching middle age burst through. Her costume was nothing like the simple calico the lady from the general store had worn. Her ample breasts looked about to spring from the tight bodice of Catalina’s dream red silk dress. She had a tiny waist, but her hips were wide and swung as she stepped onto the boardwalk, the motion as certain as the continued sway of the doors.

  “Kid Creede, you old dog.” She greeted Jackson in a husky voice, opening her arms wide. “Where the hell have you been keeping yourself?”

  Jackson removed his hat and stepped forward. “Here and there,” he said softly as the busty woman wrapped her arms around him and gave him a chaste kiss on a bearded cheek.

  Catalina squirmed impatiently, abandoned there beside Jackson’s horse and filled with a sudden awareness of her appearance. She knew she must look a mess. Her dress was dirty, and her hair hadn’t seen a comb for two days. She could use a bath, too.

  She felt a little better when the woman released Jackson.

  “Alberta, this is Catalina Lane. She’s looking for a job here in Baxter.”

  Alberta turned her calculating eyes to Catalina, but her perusal didn’t last long. Another woman burst through the doors with a squeal that pierced Catalina’s brain.

  This woman, dark-skinned and with a gorgeous head of flowing black hair, threw her arms around Jackson just as Alberta had, but she held on and continued to squeal. She wrapped her long, skinny legs around Jackson’s and offered her lips to him for a kiss.

  He didn’t hesitate. He gave her a long and passionate kiss, eyes closed and mouth open, that made Catalina’s stomach do a sick flip. Alberta was watching them with a satisfied smile, and then she turned her eyes back to Catalina.

  “So. You’re looking for a job?”

  Catalina ignored the spectacle Jackson was making of himself and faced the impressive Alberta. She had a soft and pretty face, and brown hair that was tightly curled and piled high on her head. Still, there was something in her eyes … something hard. Jaded.

  “Yes,” Catalina said confidently.

  “Why?”

  Catalina licked her lips. “Well, to be honest with you, I was supposed to be married yesterday, but the man I was supposed to marry … changed his mind. There’s no place I need to be for a while, if ever, and I’m looking to make a chan
ge in my life.”

  Alberta smiled. “To be beholden to no man.”

  Catalina nodded.

  “To take charge of your own life.”

  Catalina nodded again. Alberta tipped her head slightly, tucking in her chin in a way that was almost girlish … and slightly bizarre on the aging woman. “Have you no family, Miss Lane?”

  Catalina shook her head.

  Alberta’s smile was broad. “Honey, we’re all here for the same reason. Can you see me as some farmer’s wife with a passel of kids?” Fortunately, she didn’t wait for an answer. “We’ll get you cleaned up in no time, dress you in some suitable clothes … ” She looked Catalina up and down. There was approval in her eyes as she nodded her head.

  Catalina allowed the woman to take her arm.

  “I think you’ll do nicely,” Alberta purred.

  Catalina looked at Jackson’s back. He was still kissing that … that tramp. “You mean, I’m going to be an extra?”

  Alberta looked a little puzzled, wrinkling her brow and pursing her full lips, and she continued to hold Catalina’s arm, gently but firmly. “We can always use an extra girl.”

  As Catalina passed Jackson and the dark-haired hussy, she pretended to trip, and her shoulder thudded against Jackson’s back.

  All her force, and he barely moved. But he dropped the trollop and turned his head to Catalina, silently staring down at her.

  He knew she’d done it on purpose. Catalina could see that in the set of his damp mouth and the fire in his hooded eyes.

  “Thank you. Kid,” she said sweetly, “for not leaving me in the desert to perish of thirst.”

  He could have said “You’re welcome,” or “No problem,” or even a surly “Sure.” But he said nothing.

  The slut wound her arm through Jackson’s and glared at Catalina. “Come on upstairs. Kid. I’ve missed you so much,” she cooed.

  Jackson leaned his body toward the tramp, resting a portion of his weight on her shoulder. Catalina carefully restrained a sigh. She should’ve known; he was too good-looking not to be attached.

  “Tonight, Juanita,” he said, in that silky voice that suddenly made Catalina’s toes curl. “I’ve got business to see to.”

  What might’ve been a smile started to cross his lips. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight as well, Catalina Lane.”

  Catalina smiled brightly, ignoring the challenge in his voice. She could give this harlot — she had a name, now: Juanita — a run for her money. And Jackson was interested. He was definitely interested in her. It was that competitive streak within her — the one that was always getting her into trouble — that made her refuse to back down.

  “Maybe you will.”

  She could clean up, and dress in one of those skimpy outfits — well, skimpy compared to the wedding dress that now seemed about to choke her — and put on a little makeup and fix her hair.

  Alberta chuckled and Juanita glared, narrowing her black eyes. Jackson just raised his eyebrows and blinked quickly a couple of times.

  “Maybe you will,” she repeated, turning away from Jackson Cady and allowing Alberta to lead her into the dim saloon.

  Jackson stabled his horse at the livery and walked to the prearranged meeting place. By now, the man who had sent for him would know he was in town and would be waiting.

  It was a ramshackle little house off an alley, built onto the back of what had been a dressmaker’s shop five years ago. That building was vacant now. Must not be much call for fancy dresses and such in a mining town.

  Of course, Catalina Lane would be needing new things. Dresses and shoes and ribbons … all the things women had to have. Alberta would likely take care of all that for Catalina. For her new girl.

  Is that what she was? A soiled dove? Jackson had never claimed to understand women, but he never would have thought … it never would have occurred to him that Catalina was that kind of woman. Like Juanita and Alberta. If he had offered to pay her there in the desert, would she still have done … whatever it was she had done … and put him on his back?

  He walked through the alleyway with an unexpected smile creeping across his face. She’d surprised him, and he had to admit he respected that. Admired her, even. If she’d cried or screamed, he would have been disgusted with her and with his own lack of control. But she’d taken care of herself. Catalina Lane had done what any number of men had tried and failed to do; she’d flattened Kid Creede.

  And tonight she’d most likely flatten him again.

  The smile faded as he faced the door and knocked rapidly. Thinking about the woman was going to get him killed, if he didn’t watch it. There was a time and a place for giving his attention to women. Any woman. Places like Alberta’s.

  The door swung open, and Jackson laid his right hand over one six-shooter, ready to draw if necessary. But the old man who opened the door looked familiar, and even greeted Jackson with a weak smile.

  “Come on in, Kid,” the old man said shakily, watching closely the hand that still hovered over his weapon.

  “Walter, isn’t it?” Jackson asked crisply, stepping into the dimly lit room. Goodman’s righthand man, if he remembered correctly. And he always did. The last five years hadn’t been kind to Walter. His hands shook, and he’d lost a lot of weight. The man had been thin to begin with.

  “Where’s Goodman?” Jackson asked, searching the darkened single room.

  “Right here.”

  The voice of the man who answered from the dark corner was too young and too cocky to belong to Ben Goodman, and Jackson drew one six-shooter and dropped his stance slightly.

  But the figure in the corner raised both hands in a gesture of peace. “I know you’re expectin’ my old man. I wasn’t sure you’d come if I let you know it was me who wanted to hire you.”

  The man stepped forward, and Jackson reholstered his six-shooter. Little Harold Goodman, only he wasn’t a kid any longer. What was he now, twenty-three or-four? He still looked like a kid, but he wasn’t gangly, as he had been five years ago. There was a bit of muscle on that thin frame, and Harold was trying to grow a mustache.

  “You’re probably right,” Jackson said, no emotion in his voice.

  “Have a seat.” Harold dropped one hand and pointed to a rickety-looking chair placed before a small table, in the center of the room. Quickly, the younger man stepped to the table and took a similar seat himself. There was a bottle of whiskey in the center of the square table, and two glasses. Harold poured two full measures and took a healthy swallow himself before Jackson sat down. Jackson didn’t drink, but lifted the glass and watched the play of light from a single low lantern through the amber liquid. The color of Catalina’s eyes.

  Damn! The thought had come out of nowhere, and he couldn’t afford that. He banged the glass down on the table, and whiskey splashed over the warped wood.

  “What do you want, Harold?” he snapped.

  Harold smiled. “I would like to retain your services.”

  Jackson rocked the glass back and forth, maintaining an appearance of calm control.

  Harold leaned across the table, bringing that idiotic smile closer. “The ranch has really grown since you were here last. A few people moved on, and I bought them out. A couple of mines have done right well for me, in addition to the ranching. The place has prospered since Pa died.”

  “When?” Jackson asked quietly. Ben Goodman had been a decent fella. Ambitious, but fair and kind-hearted. Harold seemed to have inherited his father’s ambition, but without the temperance of fairness.

  “Pa? Oh, he died just over three years ago,” Harold said, no hint of sorrow in his voice. Jackson wanted to throw the whiskey at his fingertips in the boy’s face, but the restraint he’d developed over the past sixteen years wouldn’t allow it. He didn’t have to work for the boy, though. “What do you want?”

  “There’s this one ranch that borders us to the west. Hell, old Doc Booker barely makes a living off the place. It’s not suited to ranching, and he won’t mine
it. I want it. I want it, and the old bastard won’t sell.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Harold’s smile widened. “Kill him.”

  Jackson pushed the whiskey glass to the center of the table and stood slowly. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “What do you mean you can’t help me?” At last, Harold’s grin faded. He stood quickly, spilling his own whiskey. It rolled across the table and seeped into the dry wood.

  “What do you not understand?” Jackson stepped away from the table. This trip had been a waste of time. He could never work for Harold Goodman.

  “You’re a hired gun! You’ve killed dozens of people! What’s one more?”

  Jackson had long ago quit trying to defend himself. People would always believe what they wanted to believe, no matter what he said. He wasn’t an assassin.

  “You’ll have to find someone else, Harold.”

  “That’s Mr. Goodman to you, Kid.”

  Jackson smiled. “Whatever you say, Mr. Goodman.” He couldn’t contain the sarcasm that crept into his voice. Harold would never be the man his father had been, not even if he ended up owning all of Arizona Territory.

  “Don’t you walk out on me,” Harold insisted shrilly as Jackson turned away. “Dammit, you’ll regret it if you do.”

  Jackson slammed the door on Harold’s protests. Damnation. All this way for nothing. And Harold might be a problem, until Jackson decided it was time to leave town.

  He listened for the door behind him to open as he walked down the alley, but all was silent. Harold wasn’t completely senseless, after all.

  The trip to Baxter didn’t have to be a total waste of time. Alberta’s was a great place to spend a day or two, or maybe even a week. There was Juanita … and Catalina.

  Catalina Lane, golden-haired and loco and the prettiest thing this side of the Mississippi. It would definitely take more than a day or two to work her out of his system.

  She worked for Alberta now. He had a pocket full of gold and silver coins, and she couldn’t say no. She couldn’t toss him on his back, either … unless that was where he wanted to be.