door. His grin revealed an odd assortment of gaps and tobacco-stained teeth. “Six hours and thirty-eight minutes,” he announced. “Only done it faster once, and that was back in ‘76 when we had that pair of quick-footed grays.”
Shadrach Jones punched the crease back in the hat that had taken his whole weight when he slid from the seat. “You’re a goddamn miracle, Eb.” He slapped the black Stetson on his dark head before angling his long legs out of the coach, then stood a moment, gazing around the dim confines of the stable.
“Six and thirty-eight. Damn! I didn’t know I had it in me,” the driver exclaimed.
Shad’s mouth slid into a grin—a flare of white against his deep bronzed skin—and he clapped the smaller man on the shoulder. “I wasn’t surprised for a minute, hoss. You’re still the best whip-cracker in Texas.”
Of course, why the man had been in such a damn hurry was beyond Shad. It wouldn’t have bothered him if the trip from Paradise had taken twice as long. He was about that eager to meet up with Amos’s two daughters and escort them back to the ranch.
He’d tried to get out of it, coming up with at least half-a-dozen crises that required his immediate attention, but Amos would have none of it. “You’re the only man I’d trust my daughters to, Shad,” the old man had said. “Do this for me, son.”
Hell. How could anybody deny what might be a dying man’s last request? And when that man called you son…well, it wasn’t in Shad to say no. He’d killed men for Amos Kingsland; the least he could do now was round up the two stray heifers and cart them back to Paradise. If only they were heifers, he thought. He knew how to handle those. But ladies…
The quiet of the stable was suddenly broken by the sound of female laughter and the swish of skirts.
Eb shook his head. “What do they do, smell you?” he muttered as three young women paraded across the hay-strewn floor, each trying to elbow the others out of her way, each flashing her petticoats in order to outdo the others.
Shad would have replied, but his arms were quickly filled with women. Rosa clasped her arms around his waist. Nona plastered herself against his hip. Carmela—bless her—fit herself like a favorite saddle to his backside.
“We saw the coach,” Nona cried, her face tipped up, her breath catching. “We ran. Come see us.”
“Come now.” Rosa pulled seductively at his gun belt.
While the prostitutes continued to press against Shad, Eb Talent stood nearby, poking a chew into his cheek. “Beats me, Jones,” he mumbled, “how a fella who claims he don’t care for ladies can draw ‘em like flies on dead meat.”
Shad lifted his head from Nona’s ardent kiss. “I said I didn’t care for ladies, Eb. I never said anything about real women.”
The girls giggled and squirmed all the more in light of the compliment, until Shad was forced to peel them away, one by one. They refused to leave until he had promised to spend the night—upstairs—at the Steamboat Saloon. It wasn’t a difficult promise as that had been Shad’s intention all along after he had paid a dutiful call on the Misses Kingsland to inform them that they would be leaving for Paradise bright and early the following morning.
Eb turned from watching the prostitutes as they sashayed out of the stable. He cast his cohort a look that told him he was one lucky son of a bitch, then spat out of one corner of his mouth.
“Don’t s’pose Amos’s daughters will be half so taken with all that road dust, though.” The driver grinned. “Guess they’re used to fancy fellas who smell more like hair tonic than Texas dirt.”
As he realigned the gun belt that Nona had nearly undone, Shad grumbled, “Some women like it fine.”
“Yup,” mused Eb, “I ‘spect it depends some who it’s on.” He bent then to pick up a bucket and rag, and began to wash down the dusty red-and-black coach. “Still, you best wash some of that dirt off, Shad, afore you pay your respects to the Captain’s daughters. Can’t walk through the door of a fancy eating establishment looking like a man who works for a living, I hear.”
Grumbling under his breath and rolling up his sleeves, Shad ambled toward the washbowl on a bench. “Doesn’t make much difference since I’ll be taking my supper at the saloon,” he called over his shoulder.
“Not tonight, you ain’t,” Eb called back.
“What do you mean?” Shad dipped his hands into the soapy gray water and splashed it on his face. “I always eat and bed down at the Steamboat when I’m in Corpus.”
“Bed down maybe, but tonight you’re eating with the Captain’s daughters at a fancy restaurant.”
The big man shook his wet head, sending beads of water in a wide spray. He pulled the towel roll till he found a dry spot. “Says who?” he asked.
“Says Amos.” Eb put down his bucket and rag, then fished in his pants pocket a moment before producing two gold coins. “He gimme these here double eagles to give you. Said you’re to see those females have a proper meal. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you hisself.”
Actually Eb Talent wasn’t at all surprised. When the boss had handed him the money and had instructed him in how it was to be spent, Amos had laughed as he added, “Shad’ll tell me no to my face, Eb, but once he’s in Corpus he can’t do that, now, can he?”
When it came to getting his way, the Captain didn’t miss a trick. And nobody knew that better than Shadrach Jones. Given half a chance, Shad could usually outfox the old man, too. The two of them were so much alike that some of the hands at Paradise had speculated over the years that the Captain might even be Shad’s natural father. Eb knew different, though. He and Amos had still been steaming back and forth across the Gulf of Mexico when Jones had been born some thirty-four or thirty-five years ago.
There was a lot about Shadrach Jones that Eb didn’t know, including his sire, but he did know right that moment in the livery stable that the man was about to explode. The former sailor was tempted to haul himself up into the coach as fast as his old legs could move in order to avoid the fireworks.
But Shad didn’t explode. He laughed instead, shook his damp head and muttered, “That old fox. I’m telling you, Eb, I don’t envy the Almighty once Amos Kingsland starts staking his claim on the real Paradise.” He jerked a thumb heavenward, then extended his hand toward Eb. “Gimme the damn money.”
Eb did as he was told, saying, “I sure wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when you’re having supper with those gals.”
Shad jammed the coins into his back pocket. “Come on along then. Only don’t expect to linger over coffee and prissy little desserts. Fancy or not, this is going to be one quick meal.” Shad sighed “I don’t get to town so often that I intend to waste my time with a couple of thin-lipped, bony-assed Eastern ladies when there’s all those willing women down the street.”
For a moment, the notion had a certain appeal for Eb. “Maybe I could get a couple new recipes. Fancy stuff, you know, to fix up for the Captain.”
“Sure,” Shad agreed.
Then the old man glanced back at the big coach, still covered with dust. He shrugged. “Nah. Guess I’ll stay right here. Anyway, fancy eats might not sit right with the Captain what with his aching stomach.”
“Suit yourself.” Shad planted his black Stetson on his damp hair and turned for the stable door. “I won’t be long, hoss. You can count on that.”
The second floor, corner room in the Excelsior Hotel was pleasant but small, made smaller still by a cot and a huge assortment of trunks, handbags and hatboxes. The room was so crammed that Shula Kingsland could barely pace. She kept tripping over luggage.
“Damnation,” she howled, grabbing onto the iron footboard to keep from pitching forward onto the floor. “Well, I don’t know why I