Teresa Medeiros - Nobody’s Darling

Now he was really riled.

He got in a flurry of savage licks before they managed to bind his arms behind him and shove a feed sack over his head. They herded him down the back stairs none too gently, slamming his head against the wall when he tried to bolt. He fervently hoped none of the girls would hear the commotion and get scared.

The fecund smell of manure and fresh hay penetrated the musty feed sack, along with the whickers of agitated horses. Even before they shoved him to a sitting position against a wooden partition and jerked the sack from his head, Billy knew they’d taken him to the livery stable.

He took his own sweet time licking the blood from the corner of his mouth before lifting his head to meet the eyes of the man standing over him. “Winstead,” he said without a trace of surprise.

The man offered him a curt nod, his smile remarkably pleasant. “Darling.”

The man’s gray-peppered hair was parted in the middle and slicked to either side. His eyes were like chips of coal, opaque and glittering all at the same time. His clothing was impeccably tasteful—his shoes polished, the creases in his wool trousers crisp, the stripes of his double-breasted vest perfectly matched. He held a leather satchel tucked under one arm.

Of all the U.S. marshals Billy had tangled with, Winstead was the only one truly worthy of his contempt. And his respect. He had served as a colonel in the Union Army during the war and Billy would go to his grave regretting that he’d been too young to face those glittering eyes across a battlefield.

Winstead’s goons huddled behind him. One glowered at Billy through an eye swollen nearly shut. Another cradled an arm cocked at an awkward angle. Behind the four men stood a pale and silent sentinel.

“Et tu, Brute?” Billy murmured.

Even in the nickering lantern light, Drew’s flush was evident.

“Don’t be talkin‘ that French filth to Mr. Winstead,” snarled one of the men. “You want me to smack him, sir?”

Winstead waved off the offer. “Don’t be so hasty to brand your friend a traitor, Mr. Darling. Sheriff McGuire simply accepted our invitation with a bit more grace than you. I always like to keep the local law apprised of our endeavors.” He drew a gold watch from his vest pocket and gave it a cursory glance. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for rousing you so late in the evening, but I have a job for you.”

“I suspected as much. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just send a telegram?”

Again that implacable smile. “Easier, perhaps. But not nearly as discreet.”

Never one to waste anyone’s time, especially his own, the marshal flipped open the satchel and pulled out a rolled-up sheet of paper. With a snap of his wrist, he unfurled the poster in front of Billy’s nose. “I want this man apprehended.”

Billy squinted at the paper, then up at the marshal. “You’ll have to forgive me, sir. I don’t read so good with my hands tied. If you could just…?” He shrugged to indicate his bound hands and was gratified to see every one of Winstead’s men take a hasty step backward.

Billy blinked up at the marshal, giving him the same look he used to give his ma when she stormed out to the barn looking for the culprit who’d filched her freshly baked blueberry pie. She’d always said he could coax the devil into letting him out of hell with that look. She never could bring herself to whip him, not even after she’d spent an hour scrubbing the blueberry stains from beneath his fingernails.

Winstead wasn’t quite as gullible. “Sheriff, would you do the honor?” he called over his shoulder, earning an audible sigh of relief from his men.

They all but licked their bruised and swollen lips with anticipation as Drew squatted beside their captive to struggle with the crude knots. “I oughta break your nose,” Billy muttered without moving his lips.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Drew murmured, the exchange hidden by the silver waterfall of his hair. “It would ruin my profile.”

The ropes unfurled. Drew slowly backed away, holding both hands in the air as if his friend held a loaded pistol on him instead of just a nasty glare.

Billy surprised them all by not bounding to his feet the instant he was free. He simply plucked the handbill from Winstead’s hand and settled back against the stall to study it.

He read the caption at the bottom of the page before snorting up at Winstead. “'Black Bart?' What kind of self-respecting outlaw outside the pages of a dime novel would call himself Black Bart?”

“A very accomplished one, I’m afraid. The kind who robs banks, trains, and stagecoaches with equal flair. The kind who must be stopped.”

Billy scowled down at the sketch. The artist had captured the outlaw’s image in bold strokes. He’d never seen a dimple look quite so malicious or a boyish smirk so sinister. A dark beard shadowed the rogue’s jaw, but did little to disguise the baby-faced cheeks underneath.

Cheeks that had only too recently borne the tender caress of Esmerelda Fine’s hand.

Billy sent his stunned gaze traveling back up the sketch only to find himself staring into the twinkling black eyes of Mr. Bartholomew Fine III.

Meanness coursed through his veins. Billy could feel it slithering through him like rattlesnake venom, numbing first his limbs and then his heart. If Winstead and his men had known him better, they would have seen it, too. It was there in the set of his jaw, the faint thinning of his lips, the steely glint in his eye. He had called Esmerelda’s bluff only to discover that she was holding a secret trump of her own.

As he came to his feet, only Drew was wise enough to back toward the stable door, plainly fearing they were all about to witness an eruption of that notorious Darling temper.

Disappointment and relief mingled in his expression when Billy simply shrugged and said, “Never seen the man before in my life.”

“Oh, but I think you have,” Winstead said. “I believe you just recently made his acquaintance, perhaps this very afternoon when a certain charming young lady visited your room.”

“How did you…?” Billy’s narrowed gaze swept the marshal’s deputies, easily locating the one with the cockiest smirk. “So it wasn’t one of the Zimmerman boys with Dorothea after all. Maybe you need to find a spy who’s not so quick on the trigger, marshal. Your man couldn’t have been in that room more than three minutes at the most.”

Drew and the other deputies snickered. The man’s smirk hardened to a snarl as he took a step toward Billy, growling beneath his breath.

Winstead waved him back. “He was there long enough to learn what I needed. That you were entertaining a woman who was attempting to hire you to find the man in this poster.”

Billy nodded. “His sister, Esmerelda.”

Winstead snorted. “Surely you didn’t fall for that tired old ruse. An outlaw like Bart Fine probably has sisters in every cowtown and miner’s camp from Kansas City to San Francisco.”

There was something about Winstead’s leer that made Billy want to smash him in the mouth. “She was pretty damn convincing when she tried to put a bullet through my heart because she thought I’d killed her baby brother.”

“So I heard. An impressive and passionate display of her ardor, was it not? But was it the ardor of a devoted sister? Or a desperate lover?”

Billy could neither defend nor deny. To hide his troubled expression, he swung around, instinctively seeking the stall that housed Belle, his own mare.

Winstead followed him step for step, pressing his advantage. “I have it on good authority that Bart Fine is an only child. Fine doesn’t know it, but I’ve even had the Pinkertons tracking this woman since she left the Boston residence she once shared with him. Until today, we didn’t realize that she believed him dead. We thought she was coming west to rendezvous with the scoundrel. Since you were kind enough to persuade her that he might indeed be alive, we’re hoping she’ll do just that. When she does, I want you to be there to take him into custody.”

Billy reached into the stall and stroked his mare’s velvety nose. “You want me to use the girl for bait?”

“You can use the girl in any way you see fit, Mr. Darling.” Winstead’s callous words sent a primal shiver of anticipation through him. “I’ve arranged my own bait. I prefer to think of her as insurance.”

“What’s this fellow done to ruffle your feathers, marshal?” Billy asked, deliberately deepening his affable southern drawl. He’d learned through harsh experience that it was the most effective way to get someone to underestimate him.

“Made off with a shipment of treasury gold on its way to a prominent San Francisco bank. A shipment I was responsible for protecting.”

“Made you look like a fool, eh? Well, no man should have to tolerate that. Not even a Yankee.” He responded to Winstead’s glare with a mocking grin. “Why do you need me? Why don’t you just arrest him yourself? You do have an army of marshals and Pinkertons at your disposal, not to mention these fine upstanding young deputies.”

He indicated the battered men with a sweep of his arm. They glared murder at him.

Winstead glanced over his shoulder at his men and snapped, “You’re dismissed. Meet me back at the horses.”

“But, sir, I don’t think that would be a wise—”

“That’s an order.”

The deputies obeyed, skulking out of the barn like chastened schoolboys. Drew made a valiant effort to tiptoe after them.

“Stay,” Billy commanded. “The marshal here might not want any witnesses, but I damn sure do.”

Billy had always thought of Winstead as a straight shooter, but tonight a disarming aura of furtiveness clung to the man. “Why is this job different from any other?” He nodded down at his rumpled drawers. "Why'd you have to drag me out of my bed half-naked in the middle of the night to discuss it? We’ve done this a dozen times. You tell me who you want. I bring him in.”

“Because this time I don’t want him brought in.”

Billy would have liked to blame the chill that shot down his spine to his shirtless state, but couldn’t. “I’m a bounty hunter, marshal, not a killer for hire.” It galled him that this was the second time in twenty-four hours he’d had to explain the distinction.

“You killed Estes, didn’t you?”

“Only after he shot me in the back,” he replied evenly.

Winstead sighed. “I’m not asking you to shoot this man down in cold blood. Just to arrange a little… mishap after he’s taken into custody. He might take a tumble off his horse, slip beneath the water while crossing a river…”

“Choke on some stale jerky,” Billy provided.

“Yes!” Winstead cried, oblivious to his sarcasm. “That’s precisely the sort of subtlety I’m looking for.”

Billy exchanged a dry look with Drew. “And if I accept the job, what’s in it for me?”

“Your life, Mr. Darling. Your life for his.”

The sparkle had disappeared from Winstead’s eyes, leaving them utterly flat. The man was serious. Dead serious.

“If you reject this assignment, my deputies are prepared to take you back to Santa Fe tonight. You will stand trial for the murder of Juan Estes and most likely hang.”

“I guess I can count on you to handpick the jury.”

“I already have.”

Silence hung in the air, thick with tension, until Billy chuckled softly. “Go to hell, Winstead. And take your deputies with you.”

He started for the door.

“Wait!” Winstead cried. The raw desperation in his voice revealed that he had far less confidence in his men than he’d pretended to have. “What if I sweeten the deal? I might be able to offer you more than just amnesty this time.”

Billy kept walking.

“What if I could promise you that badge you’ve always wanted?”

Billy froze, then slowly swung around. Winstead had extended his hand. Lying on his palm was a gleaming badge. The tin star seemed to twinkle in the lantern light, more out of Billy’s reach than if it had been hanging in the night sky. He hated Winstead more in that moment than he ever had before.

“What good would a badge do me? We both know my first official act as deputy U.S. marshal would have to be arresting my own brothers and watching them hang.”

“Not if I can guarantee amnesty not only for you, but for them as well. Provided, of course, that they agree to practice their… um… trade a bit farther south of the border in the future.” Winstead held out the badge. “Go on. Take it. Try it on for size.”

Painfully aware of Drew’s troubled scrutiny, Billy reached for the badge. As he closed his fingers around the cool tin, the clasp’s pin stabbed his thumb. A single drop of blood welled from its tender pad, the pain both sharp and sweet.