Night of the Wolves. Heather Graham
that knife away from my neck first,” Milo said.
“No. When your men are on their way to the door, then I let you go. And then you get the hell out of this town.”
“Even with your handy-dandy sidekick over there,” Milo said, indicating the older man who had entered behind the newcomer, “you’re outnumbered.”
“Doesn’t matter. If you don’t let those women go and get the hell out of here, I’ll show you what two men can do.”
“The girls will die.”
“So will you.”
Milo’s eyes gleamed with a fury that seemed to glow red, but he was clearly aware of the blade at his throat. He growled a command.
His gang began releasing the women and heading for the door. “Not outside!” Milo bellowed. “Not until I’m with you.”
If not for the deadliness of the situation, it might have been amusing to see the way they collided with one another in an effort to stop and turn around. Finally the tall newcomer removed the blade from Milo’s throat and pushed him toward his comrades. “Get out now, and leave this town be,” he said quietly.
At the door, Milo turned back. “No one tells me what to do.”
“No one can stop a man bent on sheer stupidity,” the newcomer returned. “But I’m warning you—stay the hell away from here—or else.”
“I don’t take kindly to threats, friend,” Milo said.
But apparently he’d wanted only to get in the last word, because he turned and left, his gang of outlaws following quickly.
For a moment there was dead silence in the saloon. It was as if everyone were waiting, listening for hoofbeats, the assurance that the outlaws were really gone.
When the hoofbeats came, then died away, cacophony followed.
Girls left their hiding places, racing toward the stranger.
“Oh, my God, you saved our lives!” one cried. Alex thought she looked new to life as a scarlet woman. Her hair was naturally red, and she had an innocence about her.
“The Good Lord alone knows what might have happened,” another crooned—this one older, harder, a tall brunette, attractive, but with calculating eyes. She didn’t look mean, just worn down by life. Alex thought she’d met her a few years back. Sherry Lyn, her name was. Victory was a small town. “Decent” women didn’t usually mix with saloon girls, but there was just no way out of the fact that you were going to meet at the general store.
“You can have anything in this place that you want, young man,” said a third woman. Maybe she was the madam, Alex thought. She was of medium height, buxom and a bit stout. Her hair was hennaed, and she had the weary look that came from too many years of scraping along in life.
Ignoring the offer, the golden-eyed man said, “Ladies, listen to me. You’ve got to stay close for the time being. Lock your doors at night, put up a sign saying you’re closed to the public, and don’t go letting any strangers in.”
His words were greeted by silence.
His older friend cleared his throat and nudged him, grinning.
“This is a … funhouse, Cody.”
The brunette was the first to speak. She cleared her throat. “Honey, I don’t know how to put this delicately, but … if we don’t invite people in, this place ain’t going to be in business long.”
“I see,” Cody said gravely. “Well, you’re still going to have to be very careful. When you’re not … entertaining, you need to lock your doors. And don’t fall prey to anyone seeking entrance when they shouldn’t be.”
“And when would that be, sugar?” the buxom woman asked. “And by the way, I’m Dolly. I keep things running around here.”
“Dolly,” Cody said, “you have to keep an eye out for things that don’t seem … quite normal, for men like that bunch that were in here just now. You have to fight them. All the men—and women—in this town need to learn to fight them.” He paused, looking at the bright-eyed female faces staring at him as if he were a god who had come to earth. He shook his head, as if realizing that he wasn’t being understood. “I’m Cody Fox, and this is my friend Brendan Vincent. We’ll be sticking around for a while. We’re going to try to find out what’s going on here.”
The sound of furniture being shoved across the floor startled everyone, and all eyes in the room were suddenly focused on the piano. It was just Jigs, who had risen from his hiding place at last.
Alex noted that Cody Fox already had a hand on his gun belt.
“You two some kind of lawmen?” Jigs asked. He epitomized the popular image of the perfect piano player with his fine suit, bow tie and misty-gray top hat that nicely complemented his ebony flesh. Tall and lean, he lent just the right touch of class to a place frequented by cardsharps, fast women, ranchers, cowboys and transients.
“Lawmen? No. Just concerned citizens,” Cody replied.
Brendan Vincent said, “I had kin who lived out in Brigsby. There’s not hide nor hair of them to be seen.”
“Well,” Dolly said dryly, making no mention of the state of things in Brigsby, “you’re mighty welcome here. As you might have noticed, we’ve yet to see the sheriff or his deputy.”
Cody was an extremely attractive man, Alex thought. He had a handsome face, if somewhat gaunt. His eyes were a golden hazel, and when he dusted his hat on his knee, she saw that he had rich wheat-colored hair. Tall and rugged, like many another cowboy, still he had something that was entirely unique. Alex found herself curious about him, and it was no wonder the working women in the saloon seemed about to have the vapors.
“Ma’am, to be quite honest, I think we’re looking for a rooming house of some kind, a place where we can have a bit of peace and quiet, a place to think some of this out,” Cody said politely.
“Then you want to be staying at Alex’s place,” Jigs said.
Alex hadn’t realized that Jigs had even seen her, but now he stared at her, grinning. “Welcome home, missy,” he said softly.
Everyone in the place was staring at her now, and she didn’t like the sudden attention. She felt her cheeks grow warm and flushed, though she didn’t know why. It must be the stranger, she told herself. Cody Fox.
He looked at her for a long moment. A very long moment. Then a hint of a smile touched his features and he tilted his hat in greeting. “How do you do, miss?”
She had the feeling she looked like a worn-out school marm. Most of the women in the saloon were showing a great deal of flesh and wearing vivid colors.
She was basically wearing travel dust.
“Fine, thank you—considering the circumstances. How do you do?” she replied courteously, feeling inexplicably awkward.
“You own a boardinghouse?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, unable to make further conversation, but then again, it had been a yes-or-no question.
“And might you have a couple of vacancies?” he asked politely.
She started to turn to Jewell to check, then remembered with sudden clarity and horror that Bert was lying unconscious—or worse—back at the boardinghouse. “Oh!” she gasped, and without replying, she raced out the door and across the street to the house. She rushed in, dropping to her knees by Bert’s prone body.
She patted his cheeks and called his name, and after a moment he let out a groan and opened his eyes, staring up at her blankly.
“Bert?” she said anxiously.
He blinked, then started to speak, but his words froze in his throat, and he grabbed her arm in