Part 5 (1/2)

Chapter 7.

Zee found herself whistling as she strode along the rutted road from the station depot. She glanced down at the little burlap sack she was carrying and gave a snort of amus.e.m.e.nt.

You're going soft, h.e.l.lcat.

Even so, she kept on whistling, and it wasn't long before she reached the little clapboard house with the white picket fence and roses around the front porch.

A black stallion was tethered to the cast-iron hitching post out front, with no protection from the noonday sun. Its ears were laid flat back in annoyance and its neck was drooping. Zee frowned, and, careful not to spook the magnificent animal, approached him.

After dropping the sack, she unslung her canteen, unstoppered it, and poured tepid water into her cupped palm. At once, the horse began to drink.

”That better, boy?” She patted his hot neck with her free hand. A rough tongue licked her palm dry. The horse looked at her with mournful brown eyes and gave her a nudge. ”Still thirsty? All right.”

His ears flicked toward her as she refilled her palm and held it out again. ”I've got a few things to say to your owner, and that's a fact.”

After the horse had finished drinking, Zee reslung the canteen over her shoulder, grabbed the sack, and pondered whether to use the front door. A glance down at her dusty boots decided her against it.

At the back porch, she stopped, feeling suddenly nervous. She polished the toes of each boot on the back of her Levi's, took off her Stetson, and ran a hand through sweat-slicked hair, then shook her head in disbelief.

You can face a gang of outlaws but you can't talk to one itty-bitty gal?

39.

She took a deep breath then rapped her knuckles against the door.

No reply. She knocked again, louder. She was hammering when the door at last jerked open, framing a scowling man with a bushy mustache.

”What's all the ruckus?” He broke off as his gaze fell on the tin star pinned to her vest. ”Deputy Brodie?”

”That's me.” She studied his fair hair, saw eyes the same shade of green as Christie's. ”Bluford Hayes?”

”The same.”

She tucked her hat under her arm and held out a hand. He took it in a firm grasp and shook it.

”We expected you yesterday, Deputy.”

”Sorry 'bout that. Something came up.” A little matter of a riot.

Some of the lowlifes in Yuma Prison had taken one of the guards hostage; Zee had helped rescue himthe irony of the situation did not escape her.

”Won't you come in? I'm sure you could use something to drink.”

As she stepped into the familiar kitchenas tidy as everher gaze roamed eagerly around it, but there was no sign of his sister. She hid her disappointment.

”You'll be wanting to know where your horses are,” said Bluford, as he disappeared into the pantry and returned carrying a jug of lemonade. ”They're over at Atkins Stables in Commercial Street.

He's expecting you.” He poured a gla.s.s and handed it to her.

She gulped down the cool, tart concoction, which tasted as good as she remembered. ”How much will Atkins want paying?”

”No charge,” said Bluford. When she made to protest, he interrupted her with an upraised hand. ”Least I can do after what happened. Christie told me all about her little misunderstanding.”

Zee put down her empty gla.s.s. ”She did?” He had given her the opening she needed. ”May I have a word with her?”

He frowned. ”Well, right now I'm afraid she's in the parlor with her beau.”

Something clicked into place. ”That his horse out front?”

”As a matter of fact, it is.”

”Needs watering,” she said tersely. ”Some shade would be good too.”

”Oh, my Lord!” Bluford frowned, then the frown eased. ”I know my sister was looking forward to seeing you again, Deputy, and since 40 I'll have to interrupt them anyway to tell Younger about his horse . . .

Let me take you in so you can pay your respects before you go.”

”Much obliged.” She reached for the burlap sack.

”One thing,” he said, as he ushered her into the sitting room and from there toward another door. ”I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention what happened when you were here.”

Zee blinked at him in confusion.

”That Christie killed a man, I mean,” he clarified. ”Younger doesn't think that kind of thing is . . . well . . . ladylike.”

Zee suppressed a snort but said merely, ”I'll see what I can do.”

He gave her a grateful smile, then reached for the doork.n.o.b. ”Here we are.”

GIF.

The parlor door creaked open and Christie looked up, glad of the distraction. Fred had got onto his favorite topichimselfand for the past half an hour had been droning on about the fine time he was sure to have and the excellent business contacts he was sure to make next week when he went to San Francisco.

With a start, she realized that Blue was not alone. Standing behind her brother in the doorway was a tall woman in men's clothing, a red bandanna at her throat, a well-worn gun belt at her waist. Her black hair was cropped short.

”ZDeputy Brodie.” Christie stood up, almost sending the occasional table flying.