Each Time We Love by Shirlee Busbee Read Free Book Online

the
Mississippi River which signaled the end of his journey, Micajah was
wet, hungry, uncomfortable and in a decidedly foul mood. Leaving his
exhausted horse at the livery stable, he immediately set out in search
of some liquid comfort.
    Natchez was actually two cities. On a high, tree-covered bluff
towering above the river was situated the elegant town inhabited by the
wealthy planters and respectable merchants and their families. There,
along the jessamine-shaded streets, was to be found a charming mixture
of Spanish and American architecture, iron grillwork and vaulted
corridors mingling with arcades of slender columns and wide galleries.
But on the narrow clay shelf nearly two hundred feet below the bluff
near the river lay the "other" city—Natchez-under-the-Hill. And if the
town above was noted for its wealth and elegance,
Natchez-under-the-Hill had gained fame as a haven for every kind of
vice imaginable.
    Quite familiar with all the dens of iniquity that comprised
Natchez-under-the-Hill, Micajah quickly made his way to his favorite
haunt. It proved to be a shabby little dram shop named The White Cock,
on the notorious Silver Street, and mostly frequented by corrupt men
like himself. Sidling into a darkened corner, he seated himself at a
small, rickety table and glanced cautiously around the smoked-filled,
dimly lit room. Seeing nothing to alarm him, he settled back to enjoy
the first shot of throat-burning whiskey from the bottle that he had
ordered from the hard-faced slattern who worked as the barmaid.
    The White Cock was only half full, and when the doors flew
open a few minutes later, Micajah had a clear view of the two men who
entered. The shorter one in the ragged blue coat and stained leggings
he recognized as a sometime partner-in-crime of his, Jem Elliot, but
the other was obviously a stranger. His clothing alone—elegant,
form-fitting russet jacket, starched cravat and pristine nankeen
breeches— proclaimed him a man of wealth and style, and Micajah's
interest was instantly whetted. Now what the hell is Jem up to with a
gent like that? Micajah wondered as he covertly studied the two men. Is
Jem thinking to cheat him in a card game? Rob him after he gets him
drunk? Or something more interesting?
    Elliot, his narrowed hazel eyes missing nothing, gave the room
the same careful scrutiny that Micajah had earlier and saw him in the
corner. He nodded and with the "gent" in tow quickly made his way to
Micajah's table. A toothy grin breaking across his forgettable
features, Jem exclaimed affably, "Micajah! What the hell are you doing
here? Heard you'd gone to try your luck once more with that red-haired
vixen, Savanna." His grin became sly. "Since you're back so soon,
figure she must have thrown you out— again!"
    Micajah grunted some reply and motioned Jem and his companion
to join him. Despite the expression of distaste on the face of the
gentleman, both men seated themselves at the table.
    Silence reigned until glasses arrived for the two newcomers
and Micajah poured both of them a generous shot from his bottle. The
stranger, his aquiline nose fairly quivering with displeasure, stared
at the dirty glass filled with the amber liquor and snapped under his
breath, "I thought we came here to be private! I told you this was a
delicate
matter."
    Elliot flashed a wink at Micajah as he sipped his whiskey.
"Calm down, mister! There ain't no secrets between Micajah and me and
there ain't nothing
delicate
about murder! As a
matter of fact, Micajah here might be just the fellow you're looking
for—has a lot more experience taking care of fellows like your Adam St.
Clair than I have."
    Obviously not liking this turn of events, the stranger glared
at the unperturbed Elliot, his supercilious features tightened. Elliot
smiled serenely back, his shaggy brown hair and stubble-covered jaws
making him look even more disreputable than usual. "Ever heard of
Murdering
Micajah?" Elliot asked softly.
    The gentleman's green eyes