Dance With A Gunfighter by JoMarie Lodge Read Free Book Online Page A

instead of inside one’s home or with one’s
family. But then, she no longer had a home or family to listen with.
    The first and second night after leaving Jackson City, she
had dreamed that she attacked Bisbee’s gray adobe jailhouse single-handed,
forced the sheriff to turn Colton over to her and the minute they had stepped
into the street, she had shot him dead. In the dreams, she had managed to get
away clean.
    By the third night, she realized her dream had more holes
in it than a gold panner’s sieve.
    Once in Bisbee, she decided she would try to angle a rifle
shot through the window bars, nailing Colton straight between the eyes as he
watched the setting sun. She had waited for him, to the consternation of a few
of the townspeople, who had looked askance at the wild-eyed girl holding a long
rifle and staring at the jailhouse. But Colton never came to the window. He was
a man who didn’t hold store with nature.
    That night, she had come up with her plan to pick Colton
off as he walked to the gallows. She hadn’t slept in anticipation of carrying
it out.
    So, she had schemed and planned and worried, and it all
came to nothing. She could take satisfaction in one thing, though. Colton was
dead.
    She watched McLowry head toward the hotel. Maybe she could
afford a nice room one night. Just one night. Yanking the saddlebags off her
horse, she hurried after him.
    At the entrance, she paused, wide-eyed, taking in the
fancy lobby with its green and red floral carpet on the floor and polished
carved wood and mirrors on the walls. The cherry-wood chairs were so spindly,
she didn’t think they could hold a full-sized man and not crack in two, but
they were covered in the most beautiful shiny red material she had ever seen.
She hurried to stand beside McLowry as he faced the desk clerk.
    "I need two rooms," he said.
    The clerk, a thin-lipped, soft-fleshed man, dragged his
gaze from the top of McLowry’s hat, down over his long hair, beard, worn
flannel shirt and denims, over to Gabe’s dusty boots, up to her equally mangled
and dirty trousers and man’s shirt, to her floppy hat. By the time he had
finished, his mouth was so puckered he looked like he had bitten a green
prickly pear. "Sorry, can’t help you," he announced.
    "Wrong answer, Mister." McLowry’s voice was
silky smooth, his drawl thicker than Gabe had ever heard it, but it also held a
deadly undercurrent a deaf man wouldn’t have missed.
    A silver-dollar-sized red spot colored each of the clerk’s
flabby cheeks. "There was a hanging today. We’re all booked up."
    McLowry reached across the desk, grabbed the man’s jacket
lapels, and pulled on them until the clerk was nearly lifted over the desk.
"The lady needs a bed and a bath."
    "McLowry!" Gabe touched his arm, not wanting him
to get into trouble on her account. He let go of the clerk, but his expression
stayed fierce.
    The man backed up against the wall behind him, carefully
fingering his throat. "You...you’re Jess McLowry?"
    McLowry’s eyes narrowed. "You got a problem with
that?"
    "Oh, my, no!" His skin turned so white Gabe
thought he might pass out. "In fact, I...I do have a room for you. Only
one, I’m afraid. But it’s large, and we’ll do all we can to make it comfortable
for you both."
    "We’ll take it." McLowry slapped money on the
counter before Gabe had a chance to open up the saddlebag to find hers.
    "I’m paying half," she announced. The clerk’s
fearful eyes darted from one to the other.
    "We’ll settle it between ourselves later,"
McLowry replied, taking the key. Then, back to the clerk, he said, "Send
someone up right away to prepare a bath for the lady."
    She grabbed her bags and followed him up the stairs. He
unlocked the door and stepped aside for her to enter.
    Their hotel room was scarcely larger than her tiny
quarters back home had been. A brown-painted iron double bed, a short, boxy
dresser, spindle-backed wooden chair and pine wash stand topped by a blue
pitcher and bowl