Each Time We Love by Shirlee Busbee Read Free Book Online Page B

stable, and a film of sweat broke out on his brow as he
realized that he was unarmed and being carefully stalked by someone in
the darkness…
    The threat of danger cleared his head instantly and an ugly
light entered his eyes as he clenched his big fists. So someone thought
to take on Murdering Micajah, did he? Well, it wouldn't be the first
time Yates had killed a man with his bare hands.
    Craftily deciding to use the element of surprise against the
man who followed him, Micajah spun on his heels and with fists flying
lunged at the slight figure behind him. His massive fists viciously
pummeled the stalker, hitting the smaller man relentlessly in the
stomach and the face.
    Caught totally by surprise, the stalker gave a frightened,
pain-filled squawk as those first powerful jabs caught him. Bent nearly
double from the force of the blows that Micajah was raining upon him,
he stumbled backward into the wall of one of the buildings which formed
the narrow alley. Half beseechingly, half protectively, he held his
hands out, but Micajah swept them aside, and grasping the man by the
throat, lifted him upright, then slammed him savagely against the wall.
    Fingers digging into the scrawny throat of his one-time
stalker, Micajah breathed malevolently, "Thought to rob me, did you?"
    "No! No!" the helpless figure gasped, clawing ineffectually at
the fingers that threatened to close off his breathing. "Jesus Christ,
don't kill me!" he gabbled fearfully. "It's me, Micajah! It's Jeremy
Childers!"

----
Chapter
Three

     
    "JEREMY
CHILDERS
!" MlCAJAH EXCLAIMED IN
STUNNED disbelief. "I thought your bones were bleaching on some
godforsaken plain in Texas!" Loosening his stranglehold on the other
man's throat, he muttered disgustedly, "What the hell do you want?"
    This wasn't precisely how Jeremy had envisioned his meeting
with Micajah, but, exceedingly thankful that he wasn't dead, he coughed
painfully a few times and rubbed his bruised neck. "Need to talk to
you," he said hoarsely. "Private-like."
    Considering how he earned his money, Jeremy's request didn't
rouse any great interest within Micajah—there were always men needing
to talk to him "private-like," men like the stranger tonight. And since
his immediate need for money was going to be met by that same stranger,
Jeremy's words didn't exactly fill him with excitement.
    Shrugging his burly shoulders, Micajah turned away and
continued toward the boardinghouse. "Where the devil have you been
these past years?" he finally asked when Jeremy followed him, half
running to keep up with his longer stride. "Thought you and Orval were
going to make your fortune trading horses with the Comanches."
    Jeremy grimaced in the darkness. "We were… only Orval got
scalped by the Comanches and I ran into a Spanish patrol and spent my
time since then in a prison down in Mexico."
    Micajah glanced back at him. "Talk about bad luck," he
commented unsympathetically. "Told you it was a fool notion at the
time."
    They reached the boardinghouse, a small, ramshackle wooden
building which was situated near the river and the livery stable where
Micajah's horse was stabled, but a little distance from the main
cluster of equally shabby buildings that comprised the lower town.
Micajah liked the location since it would allow him a quick exit, and
he had a nice little understanding with both the widow who ran the
boardinghouse and the owner of the stable; they treated him well and he
was willing to pay them equally well for their services or…
    The widow Blackstone kept a fairly decent room at the back of
the house, away from the other boarders, ready for him at all times.
Silently Micajah and Jeremy entered the darkened building and made
their way to Micajah's room. The candle that Micajah quickly lit once
they were inside revealed the meager furnishings—a pine chair and
bureau and a bed with a threadbare quilt on it which did little to
disguise the lumpy mattress. A washstand with a tiny cracked mirror
above it and a