The Innocent And The Outlaw. Harper St. GeorgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
on the table for her—the locals had nothing extra to leave. But with him...the look was different. It wasn’t merely taking in what the dress put on display. His eyes demanded her attention, demanded her response, demanded much more than she was willing to give, while his lips promised more than she could risk imagining. One corner of his mouth turned upward, a suggestive smile that had her blushing again. Holy hell, what was happening to her? Men didn’t affect her this way. She didn’t allow it, because she knew they couldn’t be trusted.
Tearing her gaze away from him, she focused her attention safely on the scarred, wooden tabletop as she sat the tray down and offered her customary greeting. “Welcome, gentlemen. Jake sends his regards.”
“Jake?” The pretty one spoke, his voice a deep rumble that warmed her deep down in ways she refused to acknowledge.
“The owner.” Without looking up, she gestured over her shoulder toward the bar where Jake stood watching...she hoped. Then she carefully sat a tumbler with a finger of whiskey in front of each man. On the rare occasions Jake thought it necessary, he’d preemptively send over a free drink to welcome a new customer. If the man felt indebted or grateful to the proprietor, he’d be less likely to leave a mess behind. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.
The giant picked his up and tossed it back before she’d even finished.
“Rotgut.” The hard voice matched its owner.
Glancing up, she met his disapproving look with a challenge in hers. “We don’t serve rotgut, sir.” She actually didn’t know if that was true or not. Men complained that other saloons cut their whiskey, but nobody had ever complained about Jake’s. She wouldn’t put it past him, though. With the amount of business they’d had lately, it was barely worth her time to make the trip into town for work.
“My friend has expensive tastes.” The pretty one pulled a wallet out of a pocket hidden inside his coat. It was a smooth, chocolate-colored leather with no creases, almost brand-new, she’d guess. When he opened it to extract a note, she could see many others nestled inside. The confident way he carried himself, along with his clothing, had left little doubt in her mind as to his wealth, but this only confirmed that she was right to be suspicious. What were they doing in Whiskey Hollow? Bringing trouble, she was certain of it. “A bottle of your finest Kentucky bourbon.” His gaze licked over her and one corner of his mouth tipped up as he extended a ten-dollar note to her.
“We only have rye. Overholt?” The question forced her to look at him. She was struck anew by the strong, masculine beauty of his features. High wide cheekbones, strong granite jaw covered with a dusting of honeyed stubble, perfectly formed lips. This one was trouble in more ways than one.
He merely gave a single nod, indicating the substitution would be fine, and lifted an eyebrow when she hadn’t taken the money.
Remembering herself, she grabbed the note, deliberately making sure to not touch him, and gave a small smile to the other two. They did not return her smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Emmaline managed to keep her steps even and measured all the way back to the bar. But when she placed the tray down, her gaze speared Jake where he stood. “They want a bottle of rye. Come to the back and help me get one.”
He looked like he wanted to argue—she knew he kept a few bottles under the bar—but she needed to know what he knew of them. Some instinct warned her that their presence had something to do with her stepfather’s absence. He and her older stepbrother, Pete, were over a week late coming home from their latest job, which wasn’t entirely uncommon, but no one had heard from them. A hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach said that the job had gone terribly wrong. As much as she disagreed with their lifestyle, it turned her stomach to think of what would happen to her and her younger sisters without them.
“Who are they?” she asked the moment Jake stepped through the door to the tiny storeroom filled with crates of bottled beer and barrels of moonshine. “Does their presence have anything to do with Ship?” Though he was her stepfather, everyone called him Ship, even her younger sisters who were his blood.
“Calm down, Em.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know anything for sure and getting upset won’t help anything. You’ve heard of the Reyes Brothers? That could be them. That one in the middle, the one that looks like a Spaniard, I think he’s their leader.”
The Reyes Brothers. A chill prickled her scalp and cold ribbons of fear trailed down her spine. Ship had talked about them the last time he’d been home. Though she hadn’t gotten the impression the two had crossed paths, he’d described the successes of the gang with the glee and admiration only someone hoping to rise to those levels could summon. They moved cattle across the border. Lots of cattle. Which was only illegal depending on which side of the border they were on. But to hear Ship tell it, they’d made a fortune guarding mining and land claims and even that wasn’t technically illegal, unless it involved killing. She couldn’t remember anything else he’d said. The only detail she’d taken to heart from that conversation was that no one crossed them and lived to tell about it.
Had Ship done something stupid like try to steal from them? Had he taken Pete with him?
“That doesn’t make sense. They work down near the border. Las Cruces, or was it Santa Fe? Damn, I can’t remember. Why would they be here?”
Jake shrugged. “My buddy down off Green River swears he saw the Spaniard there last month buying supplies. He’d know because he spent some time near the border just last year. Says he was in a saloon down in Perez and in walked the Spaniard with a giant, I suppose that one he brought with him tonight. Both better dressed than normal outlaws. He walked in and called out to a fella playing faro. The man charged him with his gun drawn so they shot him. The Spaniard left and the giant followed him out. No one said a word and the poor son of a bitch was carted out the back and his winnings divided amongst those at the table.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck and glanced at the closed door leading to the bar. “Seems like if they were in Green River last month they could be here now. It’s not that far away.”
“Is this the same buddy you have to carry out every time he comes in because he drinks an entire jar of moonshine?” When he gave an irritated sigh, confirming her words, she continued, “That man could be anybody.”
“Sure it could, but how often do you see men dressed like that step foot in here?”
Not many passed through here if they could help it, not since all the mines had been bought out and the creek picked clean of gold, and certainly none dressed like those men. They were here for a reason. “Do you think they’re looking for Ship? Is he hiding?”
“I don’t know, Em. I wish I could say. I haven’t heard a word from him. Just go back out there and act as if nothing’s wrong. You don’t know anything.”
Grabbing a bottle of Old Overholt—how anyone could drink it, she didn’t know—she gave Jake a quick nod and headed back out. A small part of her had hoped they’d left, but there they sat, deep in discussion about something. Perhaps their next murder.
Jake followed her out and placed three fresh tumblers on her tray. He gave her a nod of encouragement and then she was off to the lion’s den. She kept her gaze down the entire walk over, unwilling to lock eyes with the pretty one again. If she could just get through this, then she could prove to the knot in her belly that nothing was wrong, that nothing had happened to Ship and Pete.
Without a word, she sat the tray down on the table and unloaded the bottle and three fresh tumblers, before retrieving the tray and turning to go. It was easy, simple. There was absolutely no reason to believe that these men meant her any harm. The pretty one had actually smiled at her earlier. And she knew that smile. He wanted to do something, but it didn’t involve hurting her. Quite the opposite, in fact. Everything was fine.
But then the Spaniard reached out and put a hand on her arm, his long, tapered fingers curling gently around her wrist. “A moment, please.” His voice was soft and quiet, commanding respect from the confidence and intensity of the tone rather than the volume. Though his grip was