Her eyes narrowed; she was ready for battle.
But the doorknob twisted one last time, and then she heard footsteps—soft, soft footsteps!—moving away from her, down the hall and then down the stairs, fading away into the night.
"Malachi!" she murmured in misery.
So there would be no fight, and no words spoken. She could not go to battle, and she could not give of herself or take, for he was gone, leaving her again.
She lay down and cast her head against the pillow in misery. She stared straight ahead and ached for what seemed like hours and hours.
He had gone back to her. Back to his old friend. Back to the red-haired harlot.
She could not sleep. She could only lie there and hurt.
At three in the morning, the last of the locals threw down their cards, finished off their beers or their whiskeys and grunted out their good-nights to Matey and to Reba, the golden blonde who played the piano at the Haywood saloon.
Reba started collecting glasses. Matey washed them, telling Joe, his helper, to go on and clear out for the night. Joe had a wife and new baby, and was grateful to get out early for the evening.
Reba tucked a straying tendril of her one natural beauty, her hair, back into the French knot she wore twisted at her nape. She looked across the saloon to the dark shadows and paused.
They had both forgotten the stranger. It was peculiar; she had thought that he had left earlier.
But he had not. He was still there, watching her now. She could feel it.
He raised his face, tilting back his hat.
He was a decent-looking fellow, Reba thought. Sexy, in a way. He was tall and wiry and lean, with dark hair and strange, compelling light eyes. The way he looked at her made her shiver. There was something cold in that look. But it made her grow hot all over, too, and there weren't many men who could make her feel anything at all anymore.
This one made her skin crawl. He also made her want to get a little closer to him. There was something dangerous about him. It was exciting, too.
"Mister," she called to him. "We're closing up for the night. Can I get you anything else?"
He smiled. The smile was as chilling as his eyes.
"Sure, pretty thing. I'll take me a shot and a chaser…" His voice trailed away. "A shot and a chaser and a room— and you."
"You hear that, Matey?" Reba called.
"Got it," Matey replied with a shrug. The drinks were his responsibility. It was Reba's choice, if she wanted to take on the drifter this time of night.
Reba brought the shot and the beer over to his table. He grasped her wrist so hard that she almost cried out and pulled her down beside him. She rubbed her wrist, but thought little of the pain. Lots of men liked to play rough. She didn't care too much. Just as long as they didn't get carried away and mar the flesh. If he wanted to be a tough guy, though, he could pay a little more.
"You got a room?" he asked her.
"That depends," she said.
"On what?"
He was a blunt one, Reba decided. She flashed him a beautiful smile, draping one long leg over the other, and displaying a long length of black-stockinged thigh. She ran a finger over the planes of his face, and found herself shivering inside again. His eyes were strange. They were so cold they might have been dead. They calculated every second. They were filled with something. She didn't quite recognize what it was.
Cruelty, maybe…
She shook away the thought. A lot of men looked at women that way. It made them feel big and important. Still…
She started to pull away from him. She almost forgot that she made her living as a whore, and that she didn't mind it too much, and that the pay was much better than what she bad been making as a backwoods schoolteacher on the outskirts of Springfield.
Should she? She was tired; she wasn't in any desperate need for money. She should just tell him that it was too darned late for her to take a man in for the night.
"I got gold," he told her. "Is that what it depends on?"
Gold. He wasn't going to try to pawn off any of that worthless Southern currency, and he wasn't even going to try to pay her with Union paper. He had gold.
"All right," she told him at last.
And unknowingly sealed her fate.
He stroked her cheek softly, and looked toward the stairs. He smiled at her, and Reba silently determined that she had been mistaken—he was just a tough guy, not a cruel one. And he was handsome. Not nearly as handsome as Iris's friend Sloan, but he had all his teeth, all his hair and all his limbs. And that wasn't so common these days.
A working girl could always use a little extra cash.
"Where's your friend?" he asked her.
"Who?"
"The redhead."
Strange, he was talking about Iris. Reba started to answer, but then she paused, stroking his arm. "Iris is occupied for the evening." She smiled.
The stranger lifted his glass toward the saloon doors. "The husband, eh? That the blushing little bride was looking for."
Reba chuckled. "It's a good thing the groom is occupied. The maid over at the Haywoods' told Curly—Curly's the barber—that Mrs. Gabriel has bolted down for the night. Sloan Gabriel would need four horses to ram the door down."
"Is that a fact?"
"'Course, Iris says he'll do it. When he—when he's good and ready, he'll go over and break right in. Determined type. He doesn't take nothing off of her."
"Doesn't he, now?"
"Not Sloan Gabriel."
The stranger's lip curled. "Sloan Gabriel, eh?"
"That's right. That's the man's name. Why?"
"No matter. It's just a good story. I watched the woman earlier. She needs a lot of taming." He paused, sipping at his whiskey. "You think Mr. Gabriel will just break the door on down to get to her, eh?"
"To teach her a lesson."
"And he's here now. Right here in this fine establishment."
"Ain't that a laugh."
"Yeah. It's a laugh. But, hey, now…" He swallowed the whiskey in a gulp, then drained his beer. He set the glass down on the table hard. "No matter at all. What matters now is you and me. Let's find that room of yours, all right?"
Reba nodded swiftly, coming to her feet. She took the stranger's hand and called good night to Matey as they walked up the stairs. She passed by Iris's doorway and hid her smile of secret delight.
Sloan Gabriel was in there, all right. Still sleeping away, after consuming his own bottle of whiskey. Iris had asked her to look in on him now and then, and she had been glad to comply. He was still sleeping peacefully, and his golden wife assumed he was enjoying the daylights out of himself. She didn't know why she didn't tell the stranger. It was a funny story. It was great.
But Iris had acted as if she didn't want too many people to know where she was going.
Reba shrugged and hurried to her own door.
When they entered her room, the stranger closed the door. Reba turned around, smiling at him. "Want to help me with a few buttons, honey?" she asked. She sat down at the foot of the bed, a woman practiced with her craft, and slipped off her shoes. When that was done she slowly slid off her garters and started peeling away her stockings one by one. He watched her, standing by the door. Reba smiled with pleasure, certain that she had this drifter well in hand.
"What's your name, honey?" she asked him.
"Justin," he said.
"Justin what?"
"Justin is all that matters."
"All right, Justin, honey." She smiled and licked her tongue slowly over her lips, as if she gave grave attention to her stockings. He was quiet, then he spoke suddenly, pushing away from the door.
"Turn over," he told her.
"Now, honey, no funny stuff," she said. He didn't smile. She added nervously. "Honey, any deviation—any slight, slight deviation—will cost you a fortune." Little pricks of unease swept along her spine, but she kept smiling anyway.