Page 33 of West Wind

“That’s where you’re wrong, Yates,” Mordecai said. “You see,” he continued as they turned toward the western trail and started down the dusty street, “women are my weakness.”

“Didn’t know you had a weakness.”

A stiff breeze came out of the west to lift a few strands of Mordecai’s thin, pale hair.

“’Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.’”

Wendell studied his fellow agent for several minutes, stunned. Mordecai Butterfield, the man who didn’t smoke, drink, or curse, the man who looked down his nose at the common men who did, was a skirt chaser. He burst into laughter. Mordecai Butterfield?

“My shame is no cause for your amusement,” Mordecai said solemnly.

Wendell forced himself to stop laughing. He might be in Butterfield’s company for several more weeks, and he couldn’t afford to alienate the man. “I’m just glad to find out you’re human like the rest of us.”

The dark clouds that rolled in from the west grew thicker and darker. They could always spend the night in the settlement, and probably should. Malloy would surely put them up, let them wait out the storm. But every minute they delayed, Shelley and his prisoner got farther ahead.

“So.” He prodded his mount forward. “What do you figure? Promontory?”

“Yes. If we don’t catch them by then we take the rail to Virginia City and wait for them there.” Mordecai shouted to be heard above the rising wind. They both knew that a man of Shelley’s reputation couldn’t resist a stop in Virginia City, especially after crossing the desert.

A broad grin crossed Wendell’s face. “You don’t think they’ll take the rail?”

Mordecai shook his head.

“Hey, Butterfield.” Wendell looked above his head to the black clouds that threatened them. “I was thinking. Maybe you could use your influence to get this storm to pass us by. What do you say?”

Mordecai shook his head. “Blasphemy,” he said flatly. “We’re going to get wet.” As he finished speaking, the first large drop landed on Wendell’s face.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Come on, Shelley.” The dark-haired Ellie ran her fingers up and down his arm. “Give me a smile. Just an itsy bitsy one.” She talked baby talk half the time, and it irritated the hell out of him. His memory of her had been vague; that voice was a detail he hadn’t recalled.

“I don’t suppose you can sing.” He stared at the pale golden tequila in the shot glass that sat on the bar. All he had to do was pick it up, toss back the fiery liquid, and he’d be well on his way to forgetting he’d ever met Annie Brown. He continued to stare at the liquor. Hell, he couldn’t even enjoy a simple drink, all because of her.

Ellie giggled. “Of course I can sing.” She began singing, if you could call it that, an off-key rendition of a cowboy song. Something about dogies, the words squeaking as she sang in her shrill baby voice. When she hit a high note, he felt as if she’d stabbed his brain with a thin, sharp knife. One eye drifted closed, all on its own.

“Never mind,” he snapped, stopping her before she finished the first verse.

He ignored her pout and the whining protest at his elbow. Ruined. Annie Brown had ruined him.

The bartender leaned forward and shooed Ellie away. “Let me talk to him,” he said.

Shelley didn’t say a word as Ellie moved away. The barkeep placed one elbow on the bar then shook his head slowly back and forth.

“Women,” he said in a low voice that retained a deep Southern accent even after all his years in Cheyenne.

Shelley lifted his head. “What about them, Gil?”

“Damned nuisances.” He continued to shake his head. Shelley resisted the urge to reach out and grab the man’s head between his hands and make him be still. “You can’t let a woman get you in the dumps. Men like us, we know the truth.”

He never would’ve lumped himself in with the increasingly irritating bartender, but he pretended to be interested. “What makes you think I’m having trouble with a woman, and what is the truth?”

Gil grinned. “I just know. I’ve been there myself.” He leaned closer, divulging his secrets. “We both know that women are fickle deceivers. All of them.” His eyes gleamed with a touch of madness. What woman had done that to him? Some sweet Southern belle?

“I know about broken hearts. I turned away from the woman who rejected me and I never looked back. Look at me now. I have my own place. Women…” He gestured with a casual hand to Ellie and a new blonde who were socializing on the opposite side of the room. “Women like these are all we need. They ask for nothing but money. They’re honest, in their own way. A whore will never break your heart.”

Shelley grabbed the shot glass and emptied it. Gil’s half-mad thoughts were too close to his own.

“Nobody broke my heart,” he assured the man. “I don’t have one. You can’t do what I do for a livin’ and have a heart.”