The Innocent And The Outlaw. Harper George St.
with their dusters covered with a layer of dust, the fine cloth and texture of their breeches and coats were apparent and their boots were obviously high quality. But it wasn’t the clothing that made the outlaw. It was the eyes. Outlaws had the eyes of predators—full of violence and aggression.
Violence crackled like energy in the eyes of these men.
They paused to boldly survey the room and all conversation died. A quiet wave sucked out the sound as it moved throughout the handful of tables, silencing the patrons and leaving tension in its wake. Even Lucy, Jake’s wife, who’d been pounding away on the woefully out of tune piano in the corner, faltered and let her fingers fall still. No one overtly acknowledged the newcomers, unless you counted the sideways glances from behind hunched shoulders as the men in the room took note of them without shifting their positions. The customers were like dogs, bristling at potential intruders.
After taking note of every occupant in the room, they did another pass, no doubt noting the bare wood floors and rough edges of the place. Jake hadn’t spent much money on making the place appealing. There was no need when the nearest competition was more than a two days’ ride away.
Emmaline stood at the bar, her hands clenched on the scarred and polished wood. She swallowed as she watched them through the narrow, cracked mirror that hung behind it. It was framed in an elaborate plaster that had been gilded at one time, but most of it had long since chipped away, leaving it a mere ghost of its former self. She had thought many times that that was probably an apt description of the town itself. Once it had been a thriving mining community, but when the creek had been picked clean of gold, everyone had moved on.
Gesturing to Jake for three whiskeys, she turned to set eyes on the strangers. They were taller than the mirror had suggested and meaner looking. The quality of their clothing struck her again. Their breeches weren’t patched with the leather that sometimes adorned the thighs of the men who spent most of their time in the saddle. They were tailored, not the simple clothing of ranchers and cowhands. Even their coats were a thick wool that would have made her envious if she hadn’t been so busy trying not to be afraid. They were no ordinary outlaws. These weren’t the same type of men she’d known in her stepfather’s gang. These men exuded power along with danger, a dark intent that said it was no accident that they had found their way to the saloon on that particular night. They were on the hunt and every man in this room had something to hide. It was a combination that could turn deadly with only the slightest provocation.
Each of them was over six feet tall, but the one on the right towered over the others by a few inches. He wasn’t the least bit gaunt as often happened with tall men, as if they couldn’t possibly eat enough food to support such a build. His powerful frame matched his height and his black eyes blazed with fury as he boldly looked over everyone in the room, sizing each of them up for the threat they might present and then discarding them one by one. It was hard to imagine the man who could pose a threat to him. An angry red scar ripped down his cheek and contributed to his fierce appearance, but he would’ve had no problems carrying out the look without it.
The middle one, a Spaniard, with his thick black hair and furrowed brow, appeared just as fierce as his partner, but more measured and calm. Less brute power, despite his broad shoulders and thick chest. His vivid green eyes were alight with intelligence and intensity, and he exuded an autocratic air that left her willing to bet anything that he was the leader.
But it was the one on the left who drew her attention and held it. With his physique, he could’ve been a match for the leader, except that his hair was lighter, that indefinable shade that hovered between rich brown and golden blond. His features were more refined, too, though undeniably masculine, a square chin with the hint of an indentation and a full, sculpted bottom lip. He seemed almost lazily indifferent, except that his eyes carried a calculating intensity that held her momentarily rooted to the floor when he happened to glance her way. A bolt of awareness shot directly to her belly as their eyes met, sending her pulse soaring and making her look away quickly as if she’d been caught doing something sinful.
The giant of a man moved to a table near the door and the other two followed suit, moving with caution, clearly suspicious of everyone else. The dark blond one on the left moved with surprising grace for a man of his strength, like he knew the full power of his body and knew how to control it. Somehow, observing that made her more aware of her own body and exactly how much of her breasts were on display. The realization made her blush.
“Em?” Jake’s voice penetrated the strange fog that had come over her.
“Yeah?”
Eyebrows raised, he nodded to the three drinks on the tray beside her.
Always sensible and rarely flustered, she shook off the inexplicable fog that had come over her and grabbed the discolored tin tray with both hands.
“Be careful.” Because she knew him well, she could easily discern the grimace lurking behind the caterpillar moustache that obliterated any hint of a mouth. But it was the nervous gesture of his hand running through his graying hair that ratcheted her anxiety up a level. He was always calm, even on that night two years ago when that bank robber had come in and everyone had recognized him from the flyer hanging beside the door. Jake had merely grabbed the short-barreled shotgun he kept behind the bar and offered the man a chance to leave. He had taken it.
Unable to stifle the impulse in time, she turned her head to look at the billboard postings. There were five posters there, but none of the drawings resembled the strangers. Of course, two of them were drawings of men with kerchiefs covering the lower halves of their faces, so there was always the possibility.
“Do you know them?” she whispered and turned her attention back to Jake.
He shook his head, but his eyes shifted to their table again. “No, but I have my suspicions. Go on now. We’ll talk later.”
How was she supposed to remain composed when he went and said something like that? Now that the men had settled themselves at a table, the conversations resumed and the tension in the room decreased notably. Lucy even resumed her piano playing, but at a more sedate pace. Her own anxiety should have begun to abate, but it hadn’t, her stomach refused to stop its churning and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. That something dangerous and profound was about to happen and she was powerless to stop it, like being stuck on a runaway train that was about to run out of track and she could only hold on and watch as it flew over the edge of a cliff.
With Jake’s warning spinning around in her mind, Emmaline tightened her grip on the tray and slowly made her way to the table. She’d long ago become accustomed to the revealing nature of her outfit, but as she approached, she longed for the modest dresses she wore every day on the farm. The costume she wore at the saloon had been one of her mother’s gowns from her days in the brothel in Helena. Emmaline and her sisters had modified it by shortening the deep red silk to knee-length and adding two layers of black lace taken from another gown. The bodice had already been obscenely low, so they had only had to add the matching black lace there. It revealed a large amount of her cleavage with its nonexistent sleeves, mere scraps of fabric that dropped low off her shoulders to hang down her upper arms. Her legs at least were covered in sensible black, woolen stockings. She’d started out with her mother’s silk ones, but they had worn out years ago. She’d always disliked the costume, but never more so than now as she walked toward a table full of outlaws.
She shivered as she approached the doorway. Though the days were getting warmer, winter had refused to relinquish its grip on the nights. The other customers were drinking and keeping warm at tables near the cast-iron stove that sat further inside, but not the strangers. Apparently they preferred to keep their distance, as if she needed any further proof of their dubious intentions.
As she advanced, the pretty one with light hair—is that how she was referring to him?—turned the full force of his gaze on her. It licked its way up her legs and over her hips, settling on her breasts for a moment before finally making its way to her face. He’d sat back in his chair, one leg stretched out before him, almost lazy in his regard of her. She had worked at the saloon for almost five years, so she was used to the looks men gave her. She even encouraged them