Johanna Lindsey - Savage Thunder

When Jocelyn had heard that, she had felt strangely bereft and insisted Colt's services were most defi-nitely still in need, if for no other reason than to keep her safe. She pointed out how many times he had already come to her rescue. She pointed out his ability in keeping Longnose from discovering their new direction. And if that wasn't enough, she had announced that Wyoming was where she had decided to locate her stud farm.

Wisely, Vanessa hadn't said any more, though Jocelyn had felt her disapproval at the time and still did.

She even understood it, knowing Vanessa was worried that she might form an attachment for Colt that was utterly unsuitable.

"First lovers are inevitably special," Vanessa had told her months ago when they had originally decided she needed one. "But the thing to remember is that they are only the first, that you mustn't mistake a simple, healthy attraction for love."

Remembering those words now, Jocelyn tried to examine what she was feeling, but all she could come up with was confusion, anxiety over her next encoun-ter with Colt, and most of all, a lingering amazement that lovemaking was much, much more deeply satis-fying than she had imagined it would be.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she revealed some of those feelings to her friend. "I'm sorry, Vana. It's just that it was… it was…"

"I know," Vanessa cut in with a snort. "It was so blissful you haven't the proper words to describe it."

"Well, it was," Jocelyn said defensively.

"Then we owe our surly guide our everlasting grat-itude, don't we?" Vanessa returned in her most acerbic tone. "Especially when it could have been quite the opposite with someone of his unpredictable ternperament, and still could be if you are foolish enough to court his attentions again." Then her voice soft-ened, exposing her very real concern. "What you experienced, my dear, can be had with any man.

But it would be preferable, as well as safer, as well as less worrisome to me, if you experienced it with a lover you can trust not to erupt into violence at any given moment. I suggest you find another man to prove that, and quickly, before you make this one into something he isn't."

Jocelyn usually heeded Vanessa's advice, but in this case it wasn't necessary. She had needed a lover for only one purpose, and that purpose was accomplished. She didn't need to take another man to her bed, nor even Colt again. Vanessa was getting worked up over nothing. But it wouldn't do to say so. She wouldn't believe it.

"You were saying something about the Bradens?" Jocelyn said pleasantly, but pointedly.

"The Drydens," Vanessa corrected, taking the hint to drop the subject for now. "I told you I met them this morning in the lobby. A very interesting pair of siblings. You could say they are impoverished gentry of the American variety. I swear the run of bad luck they've had since their parents died makes us fortu-nate we've only got an assassin on our trail."

"That's not funny, Vana."

"No, I suppose not, but I did feel sorry for them."

"They told you their life story while standing about in the lobby?"

"We were sitting, actually, and it was a very short-ened version, I'm sure. A few bad investments and the family funds were gone, that sort of thing. They decided to take what little was left and come west to start anew. I believe Miles mentioned something about buying a ranch."

"Miles? Mr. Dryden, I assume you mean? He's Miles after only one meeting, yet you continue to call Colt Mr. Thunder?"

"Don't change the subject, dear," Vanessa replied, undaunted. "As I was saying, their luck turned from bad to worse when they reached New Mexico. The stagecoach they were traveling in was robbed by some highwaymen — outlaws, I believe they call them here— and one passenger was killed. Then that very same day, in the same coach, mind you, they were set upon by Indians. They would have both been scalped—"

"Scalped?"

"Something unpleasant Indians do to you, I gather, but the cavalry came along — they had been chasing that particular group of raiders — and saved them. At any rate, they've understandably had a change of heart about settling in this part of the country, but they've frankly been too apprehensive about riding the coaches again and so in effect have stranded them-selves here. Naturally, I felt compelled to offer them our escort."

"Do you think that's wise? I mean, what do you really know about these people except what they've told you? The brother could be—"

"I'll have you know I have not become dotty in my old age yet," Vanessa interrupted indignantly. "Sir Parker has checked their story and confirmed it. They have been living in this very hotel for the past three months. And Miles Dryden has a sister, my dear, a sister. If our Mr. Longnose has one, he wouldn't be carting her about with him, now, would he?"

"I didn't mean to imply that he might be Longnose, only that he could have been hired. oh, never mind." Then, with sudden suspicion: "He wouldn't happen to be handsome, would he?"

"Now don't look at me like that. So he is rather striking in appearance. That doesn't mean I hoped he would take your mind off your half-breed if I invited them along."

"No, of course not," Jocelyn replied with annoyance, for Vanessa's motive was obviously just that.

She was no better at dissembling than Jocelyn was, at least not with Jocelyn. It was time to tell her how unnecessary these machinations were and hope she would believe it.

"I do not intend to allow a repetition of last night, Vana."

"Does he know that?"

"He was practically raped—"

"What?"

Jocelyn waved a hand dismissively. "The principle was the same. He had to be forced, didn't he?

Se-duced? Made to lose control so his baser instincts would take over and he would be powerless to resist? You seem to forget he didn't want anything to do with me, that I did the pursuing, not him. So he isn't likely to want a repetition of last night either, Vana. In fact, I'd be terribly surprised if he isn't furious today, and determined never to put himself in such a position again."

"Attitudes change once the die is cast, my dear. Once the sin is committed, a person tends to overin-dulge before he's ready to repent."

"I doubt that would apply in Colt's case. Besides, I've already said that I have no intention of letting it happen again. My problem has been solved. I have no further need of a lover."

So says a woman who has been thoroughly satisfied only hours past, Vanessa thought. But she didn't point out that Jocelyn's "need" would eventually be of a different nature, that once tasting the pleasures of the flesh, the body tended to demand more of the same.

She said instead, "If that one wants you again, my dear, I don't think you'll have much choice in the matter."

That prediction caused a tiny thrill in the pit of Jocelyn's stomach, but she staunchly ignored it. "Then I'll just have to make sure I'm never alone with him again. So you can stop worrying—"

"Madame!" Babette interrupted just then, so ex-cited she entered the room without knocking first.

"Alonzo, he insists I should tell you Monsieur Thun-der is about to have the western duel in the street. He says you would want to know this."

"To have the what?"

Vanessa made a tsking sound. "I believe she is referring to what that milliner in Tombstone called a showdown, my dear. Remember we witnessed. Jocelyn, don't you dare!" But the duchess had already run out of the room.

Standing at the long bar, Colt finished off the whiskey in his glass and slowly poured another from the bottle he'd yanked away from the barkeep earlier. This being the third saloon he'd entered since he left the hotel that morning, by rights he should be drunk already. But he wasn't. His gut was too full of anger to let the whisky do its stuff.

Looking for a fight also tended to keep a man so-ber, and he couldn't deny he'd been looking. When the first two saloons had turned up nothing worse than dirty looks, he'd tried this one — and hit the jackpot.

Only it wasn't the jackpot he wanted. He'd needed a punching bag for his anger, not an invite to let some lead fly. It was just his luck that the only one to object to his presence with any degree of vocal belligerence was a young man who considered himself a fast draw. Whether he was or not, Colt had little doubt he could take him. It was the quiet ones you needed to worry about, not the show-offs.

It'd be over with already if the barkeep hadn't in-sisted, with a shotgun to make his point, that they take themselves outside to settle their differences. Colt claimed he'd finish his drink first. Riley, as his friends called him, was magnanimous once his challenge was accepted, and went outside to wait.

The kid was a so-called professional. Still wet behind the ears, but already a gun for hire. He worked for a local mine owner who'd been having some trou-ble with claim-jumpers. In the six months since he'd come to town, he'd already killed two men, pistol-whipped a few more, and forced all others to give him a wide berth. Story was, the mine owner didn't know how to get rid of him now that he was no longer needed.

Colt surmised that much from the bits and pieces of hushed conversation going on behind him. He also heard a number of disparaging remarks about himself, but nothing he hadn't heard before. He'd been called every foul, dirty name there was, so he had to be in a damned ornery mood to take exception to insults that were second nature to the white man when an Indian was around.

It was what he'd been looking for today, those in-sults. His mood was certainly ornery enough. But folks this far south didn't know what to make of him. They took him for a half-breed, but they'd never seen one so tall, or mean-looking, or with a Colt Peace-maker riding his hip. Things like that tended to make a man think twice before opening his mouth — unless he was a young kid with delusions of omnipotence who'd let a few lucky draws go to his head.

Colt had kept his antagonist waiting about ten min-utes now, which was why the customers remaining in the saloon were gradually becoming less wary of him. Riley's shouted "What're ya waitin' on, breed? Or has that red skin o' your turned yeller?" had drawn a few snickers from the room, but outright guffaws from the kid's two sidekicks, a couple of cowboys who had been egging him on from the beginning, and both had followed him outside.

Colt's eyes met those of the barkeep's. The man was slowly wiping a glass with a dirty rag. There was contempt in his red-rimmed eyes, mixed with a good deal of sneering pleasure, making his sentiments only too clear. He figured the taunt was true, that Colt would likely be begging for the direction of the back door as soon as he got up the nerve. He figured a half-breed wouldn't have the guts to face a man down, that it wouldn't be his style. Backstabbing and ambushing were all a breed was good for.

So let him think it. What the hell did Colt care what a barkeep thought, or any of them for that mat-ter?

They were all waiting to see him gunned down, hoping to see it. The loudmouthed Riley might be feared and despised in this town, but today he would be applauded if he managed to take down a presump-tuous breed.

Colt drained his glass again, then, to match actions to feelings, tossed it to the barkeep. Unprepared, the man dropped the one he'd been cleaning to catch it. Satisfied to hear the glass break and the man snarl, Colt shoved away from the bar and headed toward the entrance. Chairs toppled over in the customers'

haste to follow him, but feet came to a skidding halt when he paused just beyond the swinging doors to locate his quarry.

Shade had enticed Riley across the street, where he was lounging against a hitching rail with his two friends. The covered boardwalks on both sides of the street were already filling with eager spectators drawn by Riley's earlier taunt.

The young man had to be nudged to notice Colt's arrival, and he grinned before straightening, making some comment that brought chuckles from his friends. He then walked toward the center of the wide street, slow confidence in his stride.

A muscle jerked in Colt's jaw as he ground his teeth in disgust. He wondered if the good townsfolk would call for a lynching if he happened to kill their resident asshole. Probably. Fair fight or not, white folks didn't like seeing a half-breed defeat one of their own.