Night of the Wolves. Heather Graham
I just want to do a bit of riding.”
“Riding,” Beulah said, disturbed. “Now, Miss Alex, you’ve seen what can happen around here.”
“I’m going to coerce Deputy Hinton into being my escort, and I’ll be careful,” Alex promised.
Beulah pointed a finger at her. “You promise me, you swear on the souls of your blessed parents, that you’ll be back before sunset.”
Outlaws could and did attack by daylight as well as in the dark, Alex thought, but she decided to humor Beulah. “Yes, ma’am.”
Beulah sat back, eyeing the compact Colt six-shooter, caliber .58, that Alex had strapped around her hip.
“You didn’t forget how to shoot while you were off in the big city, did you?” she asked.
“I swear I remember how to shoot, so you mustn’t worry,” Alex assured her.
Beulah poured herself a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table, smiling slowly. “Just so long as you’re careful. You’re all we’ve got now, and keeping you safe is mighty important to us. Your father was a wonderful man. He was always so wise and so clever—” her smile faded “—until Linda.”
“Where is my father’s widow, anyway? Did he really marry her? Legally, I mean. According to his letters, it was quite a whirlwind thing.”
Beulah let out a sniff. “First time I ever saw your father thinking with his pants.”
“Beulah!”
“I’m sorry for the indelicacy, but it’s true. No sooner had he met her than he stopped coming home—he’d be sleeping over at the saloon every night.”
“So she was … working there? What was she? A pianist? A hostess, or maybe a bartender?”
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