Bleeding Texas Page 7

  He knew he had annoyed her, which was a damned shame. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. She was a young, vital woman who deserved a home and a family and happiness. She didn’t need to get herself tied down to an old codger like him who couldn’t give her any of those things.

  Someday, if he was lucky, she would realize that he was just trying to look out for her, the same way he always had.

  As people began to leave, Scratch came over and said, “I, uh, told Miz Ashley I’d walk her home. She sort of insisted. But I can tell her I got to ride back out to the Star C with you if you want, Bo.”

  “I don’t want that,” Bo said without hesitation. “You go ahead and see the lady to her door, Scratch. I’ll be fine. I’ll walk Lauralee back to the Southern Belle and then head for the ranch myself.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Lauralee said. “Your family is getting ready to leave now, Bo. You go with them. I can get back to the saloon just fine on my own.”

  He frowned and said, “I don’t much like that idea.”

  “I can take care of myself, you know,” Lauralee insisted. She slipped a hand in a pocket of the blue dress and brought it out with a two-shot derringer lying on the palm, holding the weapon discreetly so that nobody except Bo and Scratch could see it.

  Scratch grinned.

  “There’s a rule against bringin’ guns to a social,” he said.

  “Yes, well, for some reason Jonas’s deputies didn’t search me when I came in.”

  “I would’ve liked to see ’em try,” Scratch said with a chuckle.

  To Bo, Lauralee said, “So you can see you don’t have to worry about me. You go on with your pa and the rest of the family. Whoever tried to kill you earlier wouldn’t dare make another attempt while you’re with them.”

  “Probably not,” Bo admitted. “All right, if you’re sure.”

  She leaned over and brushed her lips against his cheek.

  “I’m sure.”

  They joined the flow of people out of the schoolhouse and went their separate ways. As Bo joined his family, Riley suggested, “Maybe you better ride in the wagon, Bo, seeing as you got stabbed and all. Sitting a saddle might not be good for that wound.”

  “I can ride just fine,” Bo said, aware that he was being stubborn but not in the mood to do anything about it.

  “Suit yourself,” Riley said with a shrug. “You open up that cut again, it’s Lauralee you’ll have to answer to, not me.”

  He had a point. Bo didn’t want to undo Lauralee’s work in patching up the wound. He said grudgingly, “I reckon I can tie my horse on behind Hank’s wagon, if that’s all right with him.”

  “You know it is,” Hank said.

  A few minutes later the large group, split about equally between wagons and horseback, started out of Bear Creek, heading south toward the Star C. Hank’s wife was riding in the back of their wagon with some of the grandkids already asleep around her and in her lap, so Bo rode on the seat next to his youngest brother.

  Bo saw a faint flicker of lightning, far in the distance, which was nothing unusual. Little squalls moved in frequently from the Gulf.

  Hank saw it, too, and commented quietly, “Looks like a storm comin’. You think it’ll get here or die out before it does, Bo?”

  “No telling,” Bo said. “I reckon it’ll do whatever it wants.”

  Events around here seemed to be the same way, he thought grimly. If trouble was moving in, they had about as much chance of stopping it as they did that distant thunderstorm . . .

  CHAPTER 11

  Gilbert Ambrose was pleasantly tired when he and his wife got back to their house after the social. It had been a good evening. Ambrose had danced not only with his wife but with several attractive, much younger women, the wives of men who had borrowed money from the bank. If his hands had strayed a bit while they were dancing—just a bit, you know, nothing too improper—none of the women said anything about it.

  As was fitting since he was the banker, Ambrose’s house was one of the biggest and nicest in Bear Creek. It had two stories and was set in a grove of trees.

  When they went in, Judith paused at the bottom of the stairs with a hand on the banister and said, “Are you coming right up to bed, Gilbert?”

  He knew the socials sometimes left her feeling amorous, one of the exceedingly rare occasions when that miracle took place. He could tell from her tone of voice that was true tonight.

  Unfortunately, Ambrose didn’t return the feeling anymore, so as he loosened his tie, he said, “No, I don’t think so, my dear. I need to look over a few documents in my study, and I thought I’d have a little brandy while I’m doing that.”

  “I could keep you company . . .” she suggested.

  “No, no, that’s not necessary,” Ambrose said firmly. “I know you’re tired. You go on up and get some rest. Don’t try to stay awake for me. I may be a while.”

  Judith sighed and said, “Very well. Good night, Gilbert. It . . . it was a lovely evening.”

  “Indeed it was,” he agreed.

  He waited until she had ascended to the second floor, then went along the hallway from the foyer to the door of his study. They had left a lamp turned low in the parlor before they went out, and its soft glow lighted his way.

  The study was dark, though, when Ambrose opened the door. The curtains were snug over the windows, so no light from the moon and stars came in from outside.

  The gloom didn’t matter. Gilbert Ambrose had lived in this house for years and knew every inch of it. Unerringly, he walked across the room to the desk, lifted the chimney on the lamp that sat there, and took a match from a box of them on the desk. He struck it, held the flame to the wick, and lowered the chimney. Yellow light filled the room.

  As it did, it revealed the man standing in a corner with a gun in his hand.

  Ambrose dropped the smoking match he had just shook out and gasped in shock and fear. His first thought was of robbery.

  “I—I don’t have much money here in the house,” he stammered. “But you can take what I have. Just don’t hurt me or my wife.”

  He hoped the thief wouldn’t force him to go down to the bank and open the safe. Ambrose knew he would give in and do that to save his life, but it would ruin him.

  Then the man with the gun moved closer, so that his features under his pulled-down hat brim weren’t so shadowy, and Ambrose felt another shock. He knew this man pointing a Colt at him.

  “Take it easy, Ambrose,” Nick Fontaine said. “I’m not here to rob you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Ambrose’s eyes blinked rapidly in astonishment. He said, “Then . . . then why . . .”

  Nick slid the gun into a holster under his coat.

  “I didn’t want you letting out a yell when you first saw me,” he explained. “There’s no need to alarm your wife. Is she the only other person in the house?”

  Ambrose swallowed hard and nodded.

  “That’s right. What’s this all about, Nick?”

  He was still frightened, but he was starting to get a little angry, too.

  Nick didn’t answer directly. Instead he said, “There’s no need for Mrs. Ambrose to know I’ve been here. When you hear what I have to say, I have a hunch you’ll agree with me.”

  Ambrose was definitely angry, now that it was obvious Nick didn’t intend to murder him where he stood. With his jaw jutting out a little, he demanded, “Just what is it you have to say?”

  “I thought we’d have a little talk about you and Dulcie Lamont.”

  This time the shock Ambrose felt was great enough he had to put a hand down on the desk to steady himself.

  “How . . . how did you know . . .”

  He couldn’t bring himself to go on.

  A sardonic smile didn’t do anything to lessen the harshness of Nick Fontaine’s face. The younger man said, “How did I know you’d been paying visits to her place north of town? I keep an eye on things everywhere around here, Ambrose. Anyway, did y
ou really think you could get away with it forever? You figured the town banker, a pillar of the community, as they say, could go see a whore once or twice a week and nobody would notice?”

  That was exactly what Ambrose had thought, or to be more precise, he hadn’t really given the question much thought. He’d been too caught up in what he was doing. Too enamored of the excitement he’d felt at being with a younger, attractive woman again . . .

  Defensively, he said, “She’s not . . . Dulcie isn’t . . . what you said. She’s simply an unfortunate woman who’s had a run of bad luck since her, ah, husband passed away.”

  “A run of bad luck, and a long line of gentleman callers—including you.”

  “I—I was merely counseling the young woman—”

  Nick’s laugh interrupted Ambrose’s faltering excuse at a rationalization.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you counseled her real good. Like I said, once or twice a week.”

  Ambrose sighed and gestured at the chair behind the desk as he asked, “May I sit down?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Ambrose settled into the chair and sighed again.

  “What is it you want from me, Nick?”

  “Why, I just want you to do your job, Mr. Ambrose. You run the bank. You decide when it’s all right to extend a note—or call it in and demand payment in full.”

  Ambrose’s watery eyes widened slightly. He was smart enough to see right away what Nick was getting at, but at the same time he was puzzled by the demand.

  “You’re talking about the mortgage I hold on the Star C, aren’t you?”

  Nick grinned and shrugged.

  “How did you know about that?” Ambrose asked. “Such business arrangements are supposed to be private.”

  “There are other people who work in that bank besides you,” Nick pointed out. “Some of them see paperwork that maybe they’re not supposed to. And some of ’em talk in a saloon when it’s late and they’ve had too much to drink and they’re holding bad cards in a poker game.” Nick shook his head. “It really doesn’t matter how I found out, does it? I know about the money John Creel owes you, and I know about your visits to Dulcie Lamont’s house. Seems pretty clear to me what needs to happen next.”

  “You want me to call in Creel’s note,” Ambrose said in a hollow voice.

  “It’s coming due, isn’t it? You’ve got every right in the world to call it in, especially if it looks like Creel won’t be able to pay. In fact, I’d say it’s your duty as an honest banker to do just that. You are an honest banker, aren’t you, Mr. Ambrose?”

  “There’s never been a hint of scandal about my business !” Ambrose said, angry again now.

  “All the more reason you don’t want anybody finding out about you and Dulcie. Has the bank loaned her any money?”

  Ambrose looked down at the desk without saying anything. He couldn’t meet Nick’s eyes. That was all the answer the other man needed, anyway.

  After a moment, Ambrose said, “If I . . . if I call in John Creel’s note . . . ?”

  “Then your wife won’t find out about your little whore, and neither will your friends here in town. Nobody will have any reason to suspect you’ve done anything improper. You’ll be the same fine, upstanding citizen you’ve always been.”

  The unwelcome visitor’s mocking tone made Ambrose’s face flush hotly. He wanted to stand up and give Nick Fontaine a good sound thrashing.

  Of course, that was impossible. He couldn’t risk angering the man. And Nick was a lot younger and in better shape. Not to mention the cruelty that lurked in his eyes and around his mouth. Ambrose knew that if he threw a punch, Nick would hurt him.

  “All right,” he said in a half whisper. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “I knew you’d see it my way,” Nick said with a self-satisfied smirk. “Just remember, you’re not doing anything illegal. Hell, the way the Star C has been losing stock, you might have called in that loan anyway. Pretty soon that spread’s not going to be worth what Creel owes on it.”

  Something occurred to Ambrose and made him lift his head. He asked, “Have you had anything to do with that?”

  “Creel’s rustler trouble, you mean?” Nick’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to forget you just asked me that, Mr. Ambrose. I’d advise you to do the same.”

  The cold menace that Ambrose saw on Nick’s face now made a fresh jolt of fear go through him.

  “Of—of course,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t know what got into me.”

  Nick nodded, but his features remained set in hard lines.

  “Since we understand each other, I’ll show myself out,” he said. A humorless chuckle came from his lips. “I showed myself in, after all.”

  He stepped out into the hall. Ambrose stayed where he was behind the desk while he listened to Nick Fontaine’s quiet footsteps receding. The front door opened and closed.

  Ambrose hoped Judith hadn’t heard that upstairs. He didn’t want to have to explain what was going on to her. There was no way he could explain. If she found out the truth, she would never forgive him. She would hate him for the rest of her life. Despite his lack of any deep feeling for her, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to hurt her.

  Feeling twenty years older than he had when they got home, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to the sideboard where several glasses and a decanter of brandy stood. He splashed liquor in one of the glasses, lifted it to his mouth with a trembling hand.

  The brandy’s warmth going down braced him a little. He poured another drink and gulped it down, as well.

  Nick Fontaine’s behavior was outrageous, unforgivable. Breaking into a man’s home in the middle of the night! Threatening him. Blackmailing him.

  On the other hand, Nick had told the truth when he said he wasn’t asking Ambrose to do anything illegal. There was every chance in the world that he would have called in John Creel’s note anyway. Yes, of course there was. He was a banker, after all. He had certain responsibilities. He could do what Nick wanted, and no one would ever suspect that any pressure had been involved.

  It was just good business, that was all.

  Ambrose started to pour yet another drink, but then he stopped himself. He put the cork back in the neck of the decanter.

  One thing was certain, he told himself. He had to stop seeing Dulcie Lamont. He couldn’t open himself up to anything like this ever happening again. But he would miss their times together, no doubt about that. A man needed a bit of comfort now and then, no matter who he was.

  Gilbert Ambrose blew out the lamp in the study and trudged toward the staircase.

  God, he hoped Judith was sound asleep when he got upstairs!

  CHAPTER 12

  A week had passed since the dance in town. The knife wound in Bo’s side was still tender, but it was healing nicely. Idabelle Fisher, who’d had experience herself at patching up an assortment of gun and knife wounds, changed the dressing on it every day and assured Bo he was going to be fine except for a scar.

  “It’s not like that’s the only one of those I’ve got,” he told her with a smile.

  Idabelle snorted at that comment.

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Bo Creel! You men make a habit of getting yourself shot up and cut up. You’re all so eager to fight, I don’t see how civilization has a chance.”

  “Some say civilization is overrated,” Bo pointed out. “Sooner or later the barbarians are going to come out on top no matter what we do.”

  “Well, we can at least try to postpone that day for a while.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bo agreed.

  One day during that week, a Star C puncher rode in to report that a couple dozen cattle were missing from one of the pastures. Bo rode out there with his father to have a look, along with Riley and Cooper and Scratch, who happened to be there at the time.

  “You’re probably the best tracker among us, Scratch,” John Creel said when they reached the past
ure. “See if you can follow the sign, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s just what I was plannin’ to do, Mr. Creel,” Scratch said. He roamed back and forth around the countryside for a quarter of an hour before he found the tracks the stolen cows had made as they were being driven off.

  The trail led west, toward a region of thickly wooded knobs and gullies. Bo knew it was going to be difficult to follow the rustlers, and sure enough, they had gone only a few miles before Scratch reined in and said, “Looks like they split up. There were enough of the varmints that each man took two or three cows apiece. Reckon they’ve got it set up to rendezvous somewhere later.”

  “Can’t you follow any of the trails?” Riley asked.

  “All we need to do is track one of the rustlers,” Cooper added. “He’ll lead us to the others.”

  Scratch shrugged and said, “We can give it a try, but I got a hunch these fellas know what they’re doin’. They’ve been gettin’ away with it for a while, after all.”

  The search proved to be futile. The group from the Star C took one trail, then another and another, only to have them all peter out. As Scratch had indicated, the rustlers were skillful.

  Finally, late in the day, the men headed back to the ranch with an air of discouragement hanging over them. Two dozen cattle wouldn’t make or break the Star C . . . but losing that many every few weeks over time added up to considerable shrinking of the herd.

  John Creel cussed the Fontaines all the way back. It was true that the stolen cattle had been driven west, in the opposite direction from the Rafter F, but that didn’t mean anything. The rustlers could still be working for Ned Fontaine.

  Fontaine didn’t want to blot the brands and add the cows to his own herd, Bo thought. He just wanted to hurt the Star C.

  It was a couple of days later that Gilbert Ambrose arrived at the ranch driving a buggy. A fine black horse pulled the vehicle, which had brass trim. Had to expect the town banker to travel in style, Bo thought from where he was sitting on the porch, playing dominoes with Scratch.