Promises Kept Page 5

  Recalling what Mr. Barlow wrote in his letter about the cattlemen surrounding his land, she wondered if he was one of the men who wanted Mr. Barlow’s land. He didn’t look like a rancher to her, with that pistol on his hips. Gunfighter, more like. Or with those black eyes, maybe even Lucifer himself, a fallen angel full of sin. When he moved closer she instinctively took a step back.

  Colt noticed her retreating step and the wary look in her eyes. After what had happened at the boardinghouse in St. Louis, he could understand why she would be cautious around men. She couldn’t possibly be the bride Bartholomew mentioned, since she already had a family. He hadn’t seen her husband, but he’d seen her boys. Boys. Bartholomew did say Chet’s bride had two boys. It couldn’t be. She was way too young for Chet—at least, to his way of thinking. He was never one for robbing the cradle, and he thought she might even be too young for him. Of course, there were many men who held a different opinion on that matter. This gal looked sweet and innocent, and way too young to be the mother of those two boys he saw at the boardinghouse.

  Even with her hair hanging in total disarray, and the streaks of dust on her face, he’d never seen anyone more lovely. Just like the first time he saw her, he thought she sure had nice curves packed in all the right places.

  Colt’s scrutiny made her uneasy, but she was determined not to let it show. “Mr. McBride, do you know where we can find Mr. Barlow?”

  Unsure of what to say, he simply said, “Excuse us a minute, Miss Eastman.” He closed his hand over Bob’s shoulder, urging him in the direction of the barn. Once they were far enough away so their voices wouldn’t carry, Colt faced Bob and whispered, “Is she Chet’s intended?”

  “What?” Bob whirled around to look back at Victoria. “Chet’s intended? What are you talking about?”

  “Shh . . . not so loud. Chet told me he was waiting for his bride. Is that her?”

  Bob stared at Colt in disbelief, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Collecting his thoughts, he said, “She never said that to me. But she sure is nervous about something.” He shifted his eyes toward Victoria again. “Ain’t she too young for Chet? Where is he, anyway? I guess he’s the only one we can ask. I don’t think it would be right for us to ask her if she is his intended, especially if she ain’t.”

  “Chet’s dead.”

  Chapter Six

  Bob stared, slack jawed, at Colt’s grim face. Once he absorbed the impact of Colt’s words, he asked, “What happened?”

  “Some of my men were rounding up strays and saw Chet’s horse. They figured he’d been thrown, but they found his body a few miles away. He was dead—not shot, so I’m thinking he might have had a heart attack. I don’t know what he was doing; he wasn’t farming that far out.” Colt glanced back at Victoria. She was staring at them with a quizzical look on her face. “I told the men to take his body to town. I came here thinking I would find Bartholomew. How do we go about breaking the news to her?”

  Bob wasn’t listening. He was still trying to come to terms with Chet planning on marriage. “What was Chet going to do with a young thing like her?”

  Colt imagined there were plenty of things he would do with her, but now wasn’t the time to let his mind wander on those particular thoughts.

  “I’ll tell you one thing—if she’s Chet’s bride, he was going to have one heck of a wedding night,” Bob stated.

  With a woman who looked like her, Colt figured Chet’s wedding night would have been one to be remembered, but he had a feeling that wasn’t what Bob was talking about. “What do you mean?”

  “I think she’s afraid of being around men. The way she hugged the other side of that seat on the buckboard all the way out here, it was a plumb miracle she didn’t fall off.”

  “She was traveling alone to a strange place; I imagine that would be enough to make most women nervous around a man they didn’t know,” Colt replied. He’d seen how some men responded to her, and he figured that accounted for her nerves around men. “I wish Bartholomew would show up so we could ask him if she’s Chet’s bride.” Colt walked inside the barn and looked around. “The buckboard is gone, so I bet Bartholomew’s in town getting supplies.”

  “I saw Bartholomew in town just yesterday, and he sure didn’t say nothin’ about a woman visiting either. And he darn sure didn’t mention no bride.” Knowing he didn’t want any part of what had to be done, Bob started walking toward his buckboard. “She’ll probably want to stay out here to rest before the next stagecoach. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Colt watched as Bob hurriedly jumped into the buckboard, all the while wishing he could ride away with him. He glanced at his men who had ridden in with him, and they both gave him a look that said, Sorry, boss, but this is your party. “Aw hell,” Colt muttered. He walked back to Miss Victoria Eastman to deliver the sad news.

  Stopping in front of her, he snagged his hat from his head and nervously resettled it again. He gazed off in the distance as he tried to form the right words, and said a quick, silent prayer that he wouldn’t muck it up. Whether she was a relative of Chet’s, or his betrothed, the news was sure to be devastating. Just as he was about to deliver the news, his attention was diverted by the sound of a buckboard coming down the road.

  Bartholomew pulled the team of horses to a halt in front of Colt. “Colt,” he said, but his old gray eyes landed on the young woman standing beside him. He set the brake and climbed down from the wagon, hurriedly yanking his hat from his head. “You must be Miss Victoria,” he said with a wide smile.

  Victoria couldn’t have been more shocked. This gentleman, with his wild white hair and a limping gait, had to be near eighty. What in the world was he doing trying to find a wife at his age? It took a full minute for her to find her voice, but she finally choked out, “Mr. Barlow?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m Bartholomew,” he replied, with a chuckle in his voice. “Chet is expecting you though. He should be back shortly.” He couldn’t stop staring at her beautiful face, and he knew Chet was going to be the happiest groom alive. “Let me tell you, when he gets a gander at you, he will be thanking the Good Lord all night.”

  He looked around nervously, trying to decide what was proper for him to do with Chet’s bride. He glanced at Colt, who seemed unusually quiet. He figured he was caught off guard by the beauty of Chet’s bride, too. He turned back to the buckboard. “I reckon I might as well climb back in and go fetch him now. I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about before marryin’ up before dark sets in. Go on inside and make yourself comfortable.”

  “Before . . . dark . . . isn’t that . . .” Victoria couldn’t manage to finish her sentence. She hadn’t planned on Mr. Barlow wanting to get married so quickly. It seemed reasonable to her that they would take some time to get to know each other before they wed, or even agreed to wed.

  Colt’s eyes darted back to Victoria. That answered one of his questions. She was definitely here to wed Chet. At the moment she didn’t look too keen on marrying up before sundown. Wonder how Chet met her in the first place? And what in the world was he thinking, wanting to marry such a young gal? He felt a stab of jealousy at the dead man. What was she thinking by agreeing to marry someone so much older? It wasn’t that Chet wasn’t a fine man, there was none better, but he had to be at least thirty years older than this gal, probably more. She wasn’t a sportin’ woman like so many that had come west in search of a man. He’d heard of many women lying about their past in an effort to land a husband. Then he remembered her boys. Maybe she was a widow and was forced to do what was necessary to find a way to raise her boys, he thought more charitably. But she had a job in St. Louis, he reminded himself.

  In the midst of his internal dialogue, it registered that Bartholomew was scrambling back in the buckboard to leave. He placed a staying hand on the old man’s arm. There was no help for it, it had to be said. “Bartholomew, I’m afraid I have bad news for you and Miss Eastman.”

  “No bad news today, Colt. This is a day to celebrate.
You know Chet will expect you to stay for the wedding.”

  “There will be no wedding,” Colt said, looking directly into Victoria’s eyes.

  Victoria’s mouth fell open, but not a sound came out. She couldn’t imagine why Mr. McBride thought he had a right to interfere. As intimidating as he was, she wasn’t about to let him dictate her future. Granted, when she mistakenly thought Bartholomew was Chet Barlow, she’d nearly hiked her skirts and run all the way back to St. Louis. Her nerves were at the breaking point, plus she was tired, hungry, and thirsty. She couldn’t take much more today, and she wasn’t at all certain she could handle a man like the daunting Colt McBride, but she was going to give it her best effort. Finding her tongue along with her backbone, she said in the haughtiest voice she could muster, “Mr. McBride, what business is this of yours?”

  Jerking his Stetson from his head again, Colt smacked it against his thigh in frustration. Aw hell. He absently raked his hand through his hair, gave a loud sigh, and blurted out, “Chet’s dead.” Well, I could have gone about that better.

  Bartholomew staggered back against the buckboard as if the life had drained from his skinny body. “What? What do you mean, dead? Of course he ain’t dead, he just went to look at that piece of land . . .” His words trailed off when he saw Colt’s haunted expression. “What happened to him?”

  Colt cursed himself for being the biggest kind of fool for spitting the words out like he did. He took Bartholomew by the arm and assisted him to the porch. “I’m sorry, Bartholomew. It looks like Chet had a heart attack. A couple of my men found him a few hours ago, some distance from here. I don’t know what he was doing out there.”

  Bartholomew could hardly believe Chet was gone. He thought he would be the first to go, and he’d never have to face the day that he would bury his best friend. “Was he up on that grassy knoll overlooking the river?”

  “Yes.” Colt was surprised he knew the exact spot where his men had found Chet.

  “A few days ago he told me he decided on that spot to build Miss Victoria a new home. Said the old place wasn’t good enough for a lady like her. I guess he went back up there to start making plans,” Bartholomew said sadly.

  Colt glanced back at Victoria to see her reaction to what Bartholomew revealed. Her face turned a pasty white, and her body started to fold like every bit of starch had left her spine. He reached her just as she fell over in a dead faint. Sweeping her up in his arms before she hit the ground, he carried her inside the house. The thought occurred to him that if not for a twist of fate it could have been Chet carrying his bride over that threshold this very night.

  Chapter Seven

  For a woman with considerable heft to maneuver, L. B. Ditty deftly skirted the tables of the saloon, making her way to one of the gambling tables at the back of the room. Hearing the commotion across the room, she automatically knew who was causing the ruckus. Seeing Hoyt Nelson’s streak of bad luck at poker, she’d kept a watchful eye on that table, expecting trouble. She reached the table just as Hoyt jumped to his feet, ready to draw down on Slim Hicks, the man who had been taking his money for the better part of the evening. She wrapped her strong fingers around Hoyt’s forearm. “Cowboy, why don’t you take a break? Go on to the bar and have a drink on the house.”

  Hoyt shrugged off her hand. “I didn’t know you allowed cheating in your establishment.”

  “Slim wasn’t cheating, it’s just his night to be lucky, that’s all,” L. B. responded in her take-charge tone.

  Hoyt’s hand hovered over his revolver. “I’d say his luck just ran out.”

  The other men around the table threw their cards down. Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as they quickly moved away, leaving Slim and Hoyt in a face-off. Silence filled the room as everyone turned from the bar to watch the action. Sam, the bartender, reached for the shotgun he kept under the bar for just such occasions.

  Slim remained seated and turned his palms faceup. “I wasn’t cheating, Hoyt. As L. B. said, I just got lucky tonight. You’ll make it up next time.” He’d seen Hoyt in action with his fast draw, and he wanted to be alive to spend his money tomorrow.

  “Get up!” Hoyt demanded.

  L. B. made another attempt to reason with the drunken gunman. “I don’t want trouble in here.”

  Hoyt shoved her aside as he took a step back from the table, his eyes never leaving Slim. “I told you to stand,” he demanded.

  Before Slim could make a move, L. B. stuck a derringer into Hoyt’s side. “You don’t hear so good, cowboy. I said I don’t want trouble in my saloon.” She nudged the derringer deeper in his ribs. “This ain’t too big, but it makes a nasty hole all the same. And if it ain’t enough,” she said, inclining her head to the bartender, “Sam can give you an even bigger hole if need be.”

  Hoyt looked up to see the bartender pointing a shotgun at his head. He moved his hand from his gun and turned to face L. B., hands in the air. “Okay, no trouble. I guess I’ll take you up on that offer of a free drink.”

  “I’ve revoked that offer for tonight,” L. B. replied, her revolver still poking his ribs. “Now you go on out of here and sleep it off. Next time you come back maybe your luck will have changed. The whiskey will still be here.”

  Hoyt gave her a mean look, wanting to argue, but Euan Wallace walked into the hushed saloon. He strolled to the bar and saw Sam with his shotgun pointed at one of his men. “Hoyt, what’s going on here?” Wallace demanded.

  “Nothing, Mr. Wallace, I was just leaving,” Holt told him smoothly. He turned toward the doors, but before he walked through, he glanced at L. B. “I’ll be back.”

  Once Hoyt left, the men at the tables took their seats and L. B. sauntered to the bar beside Euan Wallace. “Sam, give me a whiskey.” Sam placed two glasses on the bar and filled them with the good whiskey that Wallace preferred. L. B. tossed hers back without a grimace, just like a hard-drinking cowboy. She stared at Wallace in the mirror behind the bar. “That man is nothing but pure trouble. Why did you feel the need to hire him? It obviously wasn’t for his cowboying skills.” She already knew the answer to her question, but she just wanted to see what Wallace would say.

  Wallace took a drink of his whiskey before giving her an answer. “He has other talents.”

  “Yeah, I just bet he does,” L. B. retorted. “He’s going to provoke the wrong man one day. I just hope he doesn’t kill some innocent man before that day comes.”

  Motioning for Sam to refill both their glasses, Wallace gave L. B. what he thought was a friendly smile and handed her the whiskey. “Why don’t you let me buy into this business and you won’t have to worry about drunken cowboys again. You could sit back and count your money without having to work.”

  L. B. wasn’t fooled by his smile. She’d been around too long, and she knew the devil when she saw him. She turned to face him. “Now why would I take on a partner when I’ve run this business just fine for years?”

  For a split second, Wallace thought about asking her to dinner, thinking he might find a way to ingratiate himself to get what he wanted. But then he took a good long look at her. He couldn’t tell how old she was since she wore her face all painted up like some sort of doll. Her eyes were rimmed in black kohl, her lips were painted a bright red, and her hair was almost as red as her lips. Every time she moved, her red curls bobbed up and down, reminding him of coiled springs. Her ample rear end stuck out like a shelf on a wall, and he thought several glasses of whiskey could sit atop it without spilling a drop. He slugged back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass back down on the bar. Nope. There wasn’t enough whiskey to get him that drunk. Not even for business. “You just might need more protection than you can handle from now on.”

  “Is that right? Protection from what?”

  Wallace was slow to respond. He watched the bartender refill his glass and he took a sip, enjoying the feel of whiskey burning its way down to his stomach. He turned to look around the smoke-filled room. “I’ve always wanted to own a
saloon. I guess if I was to set up my own establishment, that might cause you some concern.”

  L. B. narrowed her eyes at him. “So you’re offering me protection from you, or some other enterprising soul, from opening another saloon in this town?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  L. B. had seen his kind before, men who wanted what other people had worked for. In another town she’d let a man like Wallace run her off. It wasn’t going to happen again. Oh, Wallace concerned her, particularly since he had the sheriff doing his bidding for him, but she wasn’t going to let him know that. She looked him in the eye. “I say the more, the merrier. Another business will just make my gals work harder to keep the clientele happy.”

  “I’ll let you think about it.” He leaned closer to her ear and whispered, “You know the sheriff and I have a good arrangement. I’m sure I could convince him to make sure no one caused you problems if I was to be part owner. Things are changing around here. Folks who don’t change with them, well, I guess they’ll just be flat out of luck.” With that said, he threw some coins on the bar and left.

  L. B. watched him walk away, considering what he said and what he didn’t say.