Sundown
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The air inside the small cantina smelled of stale tobacco, soggy, fried onions and rock-gut whiskey. Scott Lancer barely registered the pressing aroma as he stepped past the swinging doors and headed for the bar. Though he walked with an easy gait--a man accustomed to agility and litheness--he strike of his boot heels on the plank floorboards, caused more than one head to swivel in his direction. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of four borderhands, giving him a once-over before returning to their card game. A solitary prospector, hunched over a half-empty bottle of tequila, paused only long enough to blink at him bleary-eyed. At a battered barside table, two wranglers sopped down stew with large chunks of thick bread, their gazes hooded and suspicous, as they paused in their meal. The barmaid was less discreet, staring boldly, as she nibbled on one grubby finger, placed suggestively between ruby-red lips. Fish-net stockings, a revealing cobalt dress, and ankle-high boots, made her attire as openly inviting as her stare.
Striding to the bar, Scott ordered a bottle of rye, intending to get good and drunk, not giving a damn which rat from the hole approached him first. The bartender snatched the coin he dropped on the battered wooden counter, passing an ugly glance with the bottle. Though trail dust clung to his black shirt, and sweat stained the band of his hat, the expensive cut of Scott’s clothing, clearly marked him as wealthy. A rich man didn't stray into a snake-pit like the Spanish Wells cantina, unless he was looking for trouble or had grown foolishly suicidal. Johnny would have told him he was out of his league, but Scott didn't care, and at this point, Johnny wasn't likely to either.
Hooking a chair with his foot, Scott dragged it across the boards, taking a seat at the nearest table. The whiskey felt good trickling down his throat, burning and lacerating with tingling warmth. It eased the aches in his ribs, softening the after-effects of the punches he'd endured courtesy of Ridge Colton. Beneath his shirt, his chest was mottled with garish color, smooth skin darkened by recent bruising. With any luck, he'd done just as much damage to Johnny's unscrupulous saddle pal.
Scott downed four shots of rye, before becoming aware of a hand on his shoulder. Rubbing at his eyes, still burning and gritty with trail dust, he glanced up at the barmaid hovering over him. Another time he would have freed himself with charm and finesse, sparing her feelings, but tonight the thought of company was not entirely unpleasant. With black hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, and skin that had begun to show the harshness of her profession, she might have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty. In the wine-soaked rays of late-day sun slanting through the grimy windowpanes, Scott guessed her age somewhere in the middle.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Leila." Smiling seductively, the dark-haired woman sidled into a chair, drawing her skirt high on her legs, revealing long, shapely thighs. Leaning against him, she draped one arm across his shoulder, allowing the soft fullness of her breast to brush his sleeve. "Mind if I share your bottle?" Her voice was throaty and full, roughened by a prolonged use of whiskey.
Reaching behind him, Scott claimed a glass from the bar. "Help yourself." The soft tinkling of liquid into chipped crystal was the only sound as Leila poured her drink. Around them, conversation resumed in muttered grumbles, an occasional sidelong glance cast in their direction.
"They're suspicious of you, cowboy," Leila said at last. She downed the shot in an easy gulp, quickly pouring another. "Ain't a wise man to come in here, dressed so fine as you, with a pricey tooled gunbelt to boot. When you're good and drunk, they'll take all those fancies from you, then dump you outside of town, for the crows to pick come morning."
Shifting sideways in his seat, Scott turned to look at her. "So what do you get out of it?" The hint of a tart smile danced across his lips. "Besides a shot or two of my whiskey."
Her expression turned sly as she bit down on her bottom lip. Up close he could see the lines around her eyes. Five years ago she was probably stunning--a young, beautiful woman who had come west with dreams of success, only to end up selling her body for the price of a drink. Smiling brazenly, she traced a slow finger over his jaw, down his neck, into the open "v" of his button shirt. "Just a little diversion," she cooed softly. Her eyes dipped and she looked to the side, dark melancholy briefly crossing her face. "An hour away from this filth, in the arms of a handsome man." Just as quickly the gloominess passed, and her eyes sparked with interest. "Rich man or poor man, they all like the same things in a woman's bed."
Scott was tempted. Wretchedly tempted. He'd already made a mess of things with Johnny. What was one more wrong, after what he'd done? In Boston, after the war, he'd routinely bed-hopped as a way of shutting out unpleasant memories. Why break the pattern now? He was bone-tired and sore, and the thought of soft, yielding flesh melded to his, would go a long way to ease those pains.
The chair scraped against the floorboards as he stood and snagged the bottle. "Do you have a room somewhere?"
A flicker of surprise passed through Leila's green eyes. She hadn't expected him to accept her offer. "Around back," she said. Catching his hand, she pulled him past the battered bar and rickety chairs, through a cloth-draped doorway, and into a murky storeroom. A draft of cold, musty air struck Scott in the face. Though the room was windowless and dark, he could decipher the bulky silhouettes of wooden barrels and kegs; the rough edges of grain-sacks; the squarer frames of crated potatoes and onions.
"Mmmm . . . I thought you would say no, " Leila murmured huskily. In the dark room, Scott felt her arms close around his neck. Her mouth, hungry and moist, descended on his. He returned the kiss as she pressed up against him, aware of the familiar sensation her body caused. Accustomed to the courser ways of romance, she boldly rubbed against him, eagerly plucking at the stubborn buttons on his shirt.
Gripping her shoulders, Scott held her at arm's length. The bottle of whiskey dangled from one hand. "This isn't what I had in mind."
As though she'd been backhanded across the face, Leila's eyes grew savagely vindictive. "Ain't I good enough for you, cowboy?"
"I was talking about the room," Scott said flatly.
With a glance for her surroundings, Leila shrugged. "So it ain't no fancy hotel, but there's a cot in the corner," she tossed a nod over her shoulder, indicating a rumbled mattress with blanket. "I ain't never known a man to be too particular about where he does the deed, as long as it gets done."
The directness of her statement brought a chuckle from Scott. Tipping the bottle to his lips, he took a long draught of the rye, then walked a bit unsteadily to the bed. The day had been exhausting. His ribs still hurt from the scuffle he'd been in with Ridge Colton, and the whiskey was quickly adding to the toll. Collapsing on the mattress, he lay on his back, staring vacantly at the ceiling. How the hell could I have hurt Johnny like that?
He heard the swish of Leila's dress as she approached in the darkness. He surrendered the bottle when she took it from his hand; watched as she helped herself to the smoky liquid. Setting it aside, she pulled pins from her hair, releasing a black cascade of silk over her shoulders. The numbness from the whiskey was setting in, and he could almost envision her haloed in the glittering, chandelier light of one of Boston's elite bordellos.
Her fingers were rough, padded with calluses, but her touch was stimulating as she unbuttoned his shirt and skimmed her hands across his bare chest. From the outer room came the muted sound of a scuffle. Scott barely turned his head, sliding deeper into whiskey-induced numbness. The track of her lips was warm and dangerously seductive, as she trailed open-mouthed kisses across his mouth and down his chest. Either he was too far gone in the bottle, or she was more skilled then he'd originally guessed, because he didn't think a backwater courtesan could be so stimulating. His eyes grew heavy and lidded. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears, a soft fuzziness at the edge of his vision. He was vaguely aware of the scuffle in the other room, but more intent on the pleasurable sensations Leila was stirring in him. One hand tracked over his stomach, lightly skimming the flat muscles, then departed to reach behind her. Annoyed by the absence of her touch, Scott raised a hand to pull her against him. With an abruptness that shattered the fog encasing his senses, Leila was wrenched brutally backwards, off the cot.
"What the--" Throwing his legs to the side, Scott struggled to sit up. He heard the woman shriek, spewing a string of curses that would have done a saddletramp proud. Blinking, Scott stared up at his brother, who had one hand gripped tightly around Leila's wrist. Even as Scott watched, Johnny yanked a thick-bladed knife from the woman's other hand, and pushed her toward the door.
"Get out of here," he said angrily. Holding her wrist, as though he'd injured her, Leila scampered through the cloth-draped passageway. With a glance for the near-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor, and Scott's disheveled clothing, Johnny shook his head. "Well you nearly got yourself killed this time, Boston. Do you know what this friendly little group had planned for you?"
Scott rubbed the ballooning ache in his head. "Don't call me that."
Caught off guard, Johnny stared. "What?"
" 'Boston.' Don't call me 'Boston.'" Testing his legs against the floorboards, Scott stood unsteadily. "I'm not completely ignorant, you know."
"Oh." Propping a hip against the nearest barrel, Johnny watched his brother strike a hand against the wall to steady himself. "Then maybe you'll tell me what part of bed-play involves a cheap prostitute with a knife. By the time I walked in, that crew in the front was already arguing over who was gonna get your boots." Frustrated, Johnny shook his head. "Are you that drunk, or just plain stupid?"
Tiredly, Scott rubbed at his eyes. Nothing made sense. Johnny shouldn't even be here. Not after today. Not after Ridge Colton. "A little of both, I guess," he said wearily. Half-heartedly he glanced at his brother. "Should we be worrying about getting out of here, or did you take care of my *friends?*"
With a nod for the back door, Johnny stepped forward and caught his tottering brother by the arm. "I think that's the safest way clear. Where's your horse, Romeo?"
For just a moment, Scott could almost believe he heard a teasing note of affection in his brother's voice. But a glance into Johnny's steely blue eyes told him he'd only imagined the inflection. "Stable," he said woodenly.
Johnny's grip was bruising--an unforgiving band of cruel fingers forcing him in the direction of the stable. Scott stumbled only once, tripping to match Johnny's brisk stride. "We have to talk about Ridge,” he insisted, wheezing the words between tightly gritted teeth. The alcohol that had once been so soothing soured his stomach, and the pleasant fuzziness receded from his temples, usurped by violent pounding.
"Forget Ridge," Johnny snapped, punctuating his words with a savage tug on Scott's arm. The motion sent pain splintering into the older man's ribs, but he said nothing, merely wincing at the rising discomfort.
The sun was barely visible on the horizon by the time they reached the stable. Purple shadows slanted through the streets, laced with the silver edge of twilight. Within the barn, the air was warm and musty, sweet with the apple-browned redolence of hay. Tired and sore, Scott wanted to curl into a mound of cushioning softness, and sleep until morning. Granting no such leniency, Johnny nodded at his horse.
"Mount up," he ordered.
An hour later, Scott clung to the reins with stiff fingers, his head sinking lower of the black stallion's sleek neck. He'd done everything he could to fight the churning in his stomach, but the moment was fast approaching when he knew he was going to be sick.
Johnny seemed to know it too. "We'll stop for a while," he said.
With an audible sigh of relief, Scott dragged a hand across his sweat-soaked brow. A stitch of pain flared beneath his ribcage, as he shifted uncomfortably. Pausing to take a swig from his canteen, Johnny cast a doubtful eye at Scott. "You gonna make it back to Lancer?"
Scott managed a barely perceptible nod.
Irritated by his silence, Johnny scowled. Wiping his mouth, he offered the battered jug to his brother, who declined with a curt shake of his head.
"We'll camp here," Johnny relented. Swinging down from the saddle, he stared up at his brother who remained seated, staring morosely ahead. Frown lines creased the smooth skin beneath Johnny's dark bangs, as he considered the other's glum expression. "Look, Scott, I'm not asking for help, or even a "thank-you," but an occassional grunt of acknowledgement would be nice."
Dropping the reins, Scott dragged both hands over his face. He exhaled raggedly. "What do you want me to say?" Blue-gray eyes confronted Johnny with a directness that surprised the younger man. "What can I possibly say to change what happened?"
Tensing, Johnny glanced away. "Get down off the horse, Boston."
"I'm not talking about Spanish Wells and that rat-infested cantina," Scott continued quietly, as though he hadn't heard. "I'm talking about Ridge Colton."
"Off the horse," Johnny repeated, irritation plain in his voice.
Swinging his right leg across the saddle, Scott dropped to the ground. What little numbness remained from the alcohol was wearing off, and he felt the returning sensation of awakening pain along his battered ribs. His stomach roiled as nausea pushed against his throat. "I don't even know why you came looking for me," he told his brother.
"Because I knew you'd do something stupid," Johnny flared. "After nearly six months of having you at my side, I finally figured out what drives you--it's that damn, blighted sense of honor. You made a mistake, and I knew you'd be hell-bent, intent on paying for it."
"So why stop me?"
"Why?" Infuriated, Johnny poked a finger against Scott's shoulder. "Because you're my brother, you stupid, thick-headed oaf. Did you think I'd side with some ex saddle pal, over you?"
It was getting too difficult to stand. Scott felt if he didn't sit soon, he'd keel over from exhaustion. Bracing an arm across his tender middle, he walked a short distance to a rock outcropping, leaning into the bulging stone for support. A cool breeze scuttled across the darkening landscape, drying the sweat-dampened hair on his neck. "It's probably best we don't talk about this."
"Bullshit."
Sighing, Scott closed his eyes. "Look . . ." he struggled for words, confusion tangling with nausea, tangling with self-loathing. "I made a mistake. If Ridge Colton was your friend, you had every right to defend him. I-I should haven't been so quick to judge."
A snort of derisive laughter escaped Johnny. Stepping nearer, he gripped Scott by the arm. This time the support was solicitous, not violent. "I don't know--you managed a whole twenty-four hours before antagonizing him into a fist-fight." The hint of a smile curled Johnny's lips as he met Scott's gaze in the gathering darkness. "Come on, big brother--sit down before you keel over. I'll take care of camp."
"I-- Scott wet his lips, intending to protest, but Johnny's expression--a strange mixture of affection and annoyance--made him reconsider. Relenting with a nod, he sagged against the stone, succumbing to a seat on the ground.
As Johnny moved away, Scott let fatigue slip back into his bones. Both grass and rock had been heated throughout the day, and inviting warmth remained trapped within. For a brief time it was enough to silence the nausea, but eventually the alcohol got the best of him, and he had to crawl away into the bushes and empty his stomach.
Much later, Johnny returned and squatted across from him. The horses had been unsaddled and watered, and a small fire crackled a short distance away. The younger man took one look at his brother's strained, milk-white face, and knew he'd been sick. Uncorking a flask he'd taken from his saddlebag, he offered the small container to Scott. "How about some tequila?"
With a violent turn of his head, Scott wrenched away. Chuckling softly, Johnny sealed the flask and set it aside. "Guess that wasn't too considerate of me, huh?" A wicked gleam danced in his dazzling blue eyes.
Settling back against the rock, arms hugged to his ribs, Scott stared. "Immature."
Johnny tilted his head. "I like that word." His voice grew low, falling into his normal soft drawl. That quiet manner of speaking had surprised Scott when they'd first met. He'd once envisioned gunfighters as swaggering fools, mouthing false bravado, but that was before he'd encountered Johnny Madrid Lancer. As deadly as his brother was with a pistol, he was as soft-spoken as they came, more menacing for his quietness than vain boasting. Except for yesterday. Except for when I told him Ridge Colton wasn't worth the tar on my boot heels.
"If I'm immature I guess that means you've got to stick around and straighten me out."
Scott's head came up with a jerk. He'd been ruminating about Johnny. About how he'd almost ruined their relationship, by forcing the younger man to choose between him and an old friend. "Johnny . . ." Scott wet his lips. In the semi-darkness, his brother's sun-bronzed skin was mottled with shadow; the glint of his eyes heightened by the flickering wash of firelight. "I think you should know why I said the things I did."
"Hmm . . . let me guess." Plucking a blade of grass, Johnny eased the torn edge between his lips. "You sensed Ridge is what I used to be--bad news bent on trouble--a fast gun looking for a faster dollar, and--"
"And-- The words caught in Scott's throat.
"You were afraid he'd tempt me into leaving. Going back on the trail--"
Scott dragged a hand over his face. "--getting yourself killed," he mumbled. The nausea came back, but this time he was sure it had less to do with the alcohol and more to do with the horrible thought of Johnny dying. Removing his hat, he swept trembling fingers through his hair, then pushed the brim back on his forehead. He swallowed hard. "All those years in Boston, I never knew what I was missing." Closing his eyes briefly, he dropped his voice to a whisper. "Sometimes . . . sometimes it scares me blind, thinking about how I might lose it . . ." about how I might lose you.
Johnny rolled his shoulders. "That goes both ways, big brother. You challenged Ridge Colton to a draw down, like some elite society duelist. Now I wouldn't want to cross you with a long-rifle, and I don't think there are many fools who would, but you're only fair-to-middlin' with a six-shooter."
"So you had to stick your nose in." There was heat in Scott's voice now.
Johnny stared pointedly. "How else was I gonna save your sorry butt? Colton would have pumped six shots into you before you'd even cleared leather." Pausing, Johnny rubbed his jaw. "Although I'm not particularly fond of the way you thanked me."
Uncomfortable, Scott lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry I hit you," he muttered. It was what bothered him the most about the situation. When the confrontation with Colton had fizzled, he'd turned all his anger on Johnny--the very person he'd been trying to protect. What had started as an argument ended disastrously, with Scott striking his brother. A day later, Colton and a few stray cowhands had jumped him coming back from the north pasture. He'd held his own for a short time, but three-to-one odds had left him curled in pain, and only semi-conscious. It was Murdoch who'd found him, and Johnny who'd reacted, striking after Colton with vengeance on his mind. When gunplay ensued, it was Colton who ended up the bullet-side down of Johnny's fast-draw.
Raising his eyes, Scott stared openly at his brother. "None of it should have happened. Least of all, you drawing on Colton. If I'd just kept control of my temper--"
Sighing, Johnny flecked the blade of grass aside. "Look, Scott, the people I associated with before, aren't exactly the kind you turn your back on. I knew what Colton was. I wasn't about to go ride off with him, but when you reacted the way you did, you didn't leave me a whole lot of options. All I wanted to do was stave off that gunfight. Colton forced the issue after that, when he hired those other rubes to help bushwhack you. Even then, when I tracked him, he didn't have to draw on me. He could have faced me, instead of turning tail with a gun. I guess a man who'd shoot you cold, really ain't no saddle pal."
Feeling the pressing weight of fatigue, Scott nodded. "I guess I should have talked to you, instead of just assuming . . ." His voice trailed into the stillness as he grew uncomfortable again. "When I heard that you'd killed him, I didn't think . . . I mean, he was your friend, and I was indirectly responsible."
"Well I sure wouldn't have gone after him for whacking a stranger," Johnny tossed off lightly. Standing, he crossed the short distance to where his brother was seated and squatted down in front of him. A cocky smile lifted the corners of his lips. "Now what I really want to know is if that reputation you've got as a ladies man is fiction or fizzle--cuz, from where I'm sitting, it's looking like an awful lot of tripe after tonight."
Frowning, Scott took a light cuff at his brother's head. "I was drunk, you idiot."
Chuckling, Johnny settled down, bracing his back against his brother's knees. "That's putting it mildly."
"Johnny?"
"Yeah, Boston?"
"I'm glad you came after me."
"Me too. But there's just one thing."
Fearing something remained unresolved between them, Scott stilled. His stomach muscles clenched. "What?"
Shifting for dramatic effect, Johnny tried to get comfortable. "You've got some god-awful bony knees."
Feigning rage, Scott gave a bark of laughter and lunged. Cathcing him, Johnny pulled him into a hug. With a rough hand he mussed his brother's blonde hair.
"Who needs Colton? I've got the only friend I need, right here."
*****End****
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