Maybe he had been starving, desperate to bury himself in the innocence, the loveliness Mary Ashleen had radiated.
But he'd seen men driven by thirst to drink from an alkali pond, had heard their screams as death throes overtook them.
And to Garret, a woman like Mary Ashleen O'Shea was a wine-sweet draught of poison.
Garret shrugged, signaling for another bottle of whiskey. By tomorrow he'd be miles away from the temptation, all his attention focused on bringing down the murdering Garveys. The woman's face would fade with time. He'd quit hearing the lilting magic of her voice in his dreams. Quit remembering what it felt like to crush her slender frame against his hard one.
A disturbance at the front of the saloon made Garret glance up. A slack-jawed buzzard of a man who looked as if he hadn't bathed in years was weaving through the swinging doors, his lanky frame supported by a couple of no-account drifters that made up the Double Eagle's less-than-savory clientele.
Despite the ever-present din of the saloon, the man's shrill laughter pierced Garret's eardrums, setting his teeth on edge as the trio moved to the end of the bar that was a mere arm's length from where Garret sat.
A girl in a feathered headdress plunked whiskey in front of Garret, and he drank deep, hoping to dull his senses enough so that he'd not have to listen to the man's blathering or smell the stench of year-old sweat and grime emanating from him in waves.
"Yep, boys, it's my lucky day," the drunken sot slurred, smacking his lips. "By t'morrow night I'll be buryin' myself in the choicest piece o' female flesh I've seen since that whore in Mexico."
Garret grimaced. He hoped the man would at least bathe before confronting the unfortunate lady. Garret understood the desperation that drove women to provide services to men for coin, but there wasn't enough money in the whole west territory to compensate for having to touch that vermin-infested skin.
"Spader, that high-nosed little filly wouldn't let you ride 'er in a million years, an' you know it," the drifter with the scraggly blond beard jeered.
A woman of discerning tastes, Garret thought wryly, almost glad of the distraction the three men were providing.
"Yeah," the other drifter chortled. "From the look o' her, she's kept that tup o' hers bottled up tight. You'd have t' pry 'er legs open with a damn axe handle."
Garret stiffened, his vague amusement dissipating into simmering anger.
The lascivious Spader rubbed his crotch suggestively with one grimy hand. "I'm not opposed t' using a little force t' give that gal the treat o' her life. Even if she be buck-shy, she'll be pure howlin' with pleasure once I spend a night pumpin' her." The man cackled. "Besides, even if she screams herself hoarse, there'll be no one t' hear her once we're on the trail."
Garret leveled a killing glare at the boasting Spader. "You'd be surprised how many men listen while riding the plains," he said in a deadly quiet voice. "Listen for Indians, listen for predators, listen for bastards like you. And most of 'em get real touchy when they hear a lady scream."
Garret drew his Colt, checking the cylinder with deceptive calm.
Spader glanced at the weapon, his jaundiced eyes widening. "Hey, mister, it ain't like I'm gonna be kidnappin' her or anything. She's goin' with me willing-like. She's the one who hired me. I didn't go pokin' around after her!"
"Hired you?" Garret let a feral smile play about his lips. "For what? Emptying the outhouse? It's the only thing I can see you're fit for."
Despite Garret's gun, Spader bristled, thrusting out his chest. "I be a trail guide, mister. I'm leavin' at daybreak to take that woman clear down t' Texas."
A sick suspicion stirred in Garret. His stomach heaved. He remembered the resolved look in Sister Ashleen's eyes, her vow that she'd find Stormy Ridge by herself if need be.
She and the children had nowhere else to go.
Slowly Garret stood, pacing toward Spader. One wrong word, one wrong move, and Garret knew he'd wring the little weasel's throat. "This woman," Garret said, leaning up against the bar. "She wouldn't happen to have a bunch of children, would she?"
Spader took a gulp of the beer the barkeep had just poured him. "Yessiree. A whole slew of 'em. But they look so different, musta had four different pas." He made a clicking noise with his tongue. "Mebbe come next summer she'll be lucky enough t' be swelled out with a brat that has my good looks."
Garret’s fist flashed out, the frustration, fury, and pain of the past two days infusing the blow with bone-cracking power. His knuckles connected solidly with Spader's grizzled chin, a sickening, garbled sound coming from the man's throat. Garret knew the instant his fist made contact that the man's jaw was broken. It was bent at a strange angle, his howls of agony strangled as he clutched his face.
In that split second Garret brought his gun to bear, making Spader's cohorts freeze, their own weapons half drawn. "I wouldn't." Two words, ice cold.
The men released the butts of their pistols, letting them fall back into their holsters.
"He b'oke my 'amn 'aw," Spader was wailing.
"Consider yourself lucky," Garret warned. "You ever go near that lady or those kids again, and I'll make sure you can never—what was the ignorant way you put it?—pump another woman as long as you live."
"Can't th'eaten me," Spader gurgled.
"It's not a threat, Spader. It's a promise. And I can assure you, I'm a man of my word."
