Crone nodded. “I suppose you was thinkin’ ’bout what you’re gonna do to Marcus and Foley when we catch up to ’em. Well, hell, that’d put a grin on my face, too! What you got planned, Slocum?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is it terrible cunning?”

  “No, Crone,” Slocum said, and squeezed Cougar with his knees, urging him into a trot. “Just thinkin’ that the bar in Apache Wells keeps more variety on tap than that hole back in Monkey Springs did, that’s all. Thinkin’ about havin’ me some fine champagne.”

  Crone cackled wildly while trying to keep his seat. He was riding a stout bay with short legs, and the horse could barely keep up with Slocum’s rangy Cougar. This was not lost on Slocum, who pushed Cougar to move a little faster.

  “Say-ay-ay, Slocum-um,” called Crone, whose mount was currently doing something resembling a Missouri Fox Trot, only less smooth. “Slow-ow-ow down-wn-wn!”

  With a snort, Slocum reined Cougar down to a shambling walk. “Sorry,” he said. “But we’ve got to make better time if we want to make Apache Wells by sundown.”

  “Well, we ain’t goin’ nowhere at this blood-blisterin’ trot!” Dave complained as he caught up. “My backside’ll be beat to a bloody pulp inside a mile! Why you gotta ride them speckled giraffes, anyways?”

  Crone stopped grumbling long enough to satisfy an itch at the back of his neck, then added, “Now, iffen you was to do a slow lope on that critter, I reckon me and Tommy could keep up with you if we was to gallop full out.” He paused. “Just not for very long, understand? Tommy’s got a lot of bottom, but I ain’t gonna kill him just so’s you can have a drink!”

  Eager to escape another lecture on saddle-making, the intrinsic superiority of ivory, or the art of cooking beets, Slocum nodded and clucked to Cougar, putting him into an easy lope.

  The stocky Tommy followed behind, legs pumping to beat the band while Crone fanned his backside.

  Slocum had no more than tied his horse at the rail outside McGuffy’s Hotel and Saloon than he heard a ruckus coming his way. He had half-turned toward the voices when a hand on his back stopped him, then shoved him, face-first, into the water trough!

  Sputtering and swearing, he pulled himself up by the edge while Crone laughed and slapped his thighs.

  Slocum stood, hands balled into fists, and wheeled about, his fists cocked, while spattering and scattering droplets like a retriever fresh from the river. He pulled his punch about a half inch from a pretty female face atop a knockout figure that was barely more than five feet tall.

  “Miranda Cassidy?” he said in shock and surprise. “What the hell are you—?”

  A big lump of a galoot in a checkered shirt pushed her protectively out of the way, right into Crone’s arms. “Who’re you?” he demanded. “What call do you got to butt in?”

  Crone, putting Miranda aside, said, “Are you crazy, boy? That’s Slocum! The Slocum, his own dang self!”

  Immediately, the man took a step back, and for once, Slocum was glad that somebody had called attention to those damned dime books. He wasn’t much in the frame of mind to take on this big bull.

  The bull’s eyebrows worked for a while before he asked, “Is that right? Are you really Slocum? I thought he was made up!”

  “Of course he’s real, Berto!” cried Miranda, pushing her way forward. She wrapped her arms around Slocum’s damp waist and said, “I told you he’d come, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but I thought you was teasin’ me again, Miss Miranda,” muttered Berto the bull.

  She looked longingly up at Slocum, and all of a sudden, his britches felt a couple of sizes too small.

  Which she noticed, because she looked down, then looked up again with a peculiar grin on her face.

  Slocum remembered that grin.

  “Nice to see you, too,” she said slyly.

  “You’re an ornery little minx, Miranda,” he quipped. “And you’re gonna be soaked through pretty soon, too,” he added, squeezing water from his sleeve. “Among other things.”

  He pried her off him so that he could take her arm, and led her into the hotel, which just happened to be the saloon, as well.

  “So tell me, sweetheart,” he said as he pushed open the batwing doors. “What exactly has got your knickers in such a knot, and how in hell did you ever track me down?”

  “You remember Carmelita?”

  “Sure!” She was the best damned cook in the county, and had been out at the Bar C since Miranda’s mother was alive.

  “Well, it seems she can work wonders with things besides fried catfish and cherry cobbler.”

  “Just as long as she doesn’t go hangin’ one of those charm jiggers on my door again. I don’t go for gettin’ hit in the face by a dead rooster’s feet first thing in the mornin’.”

  Miranda patted his arm. “Now, now. She’s gotten over that.”

  3

  “Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you about the ranch,” Miranda said, looking for all the world like she wasn’t about to tell him a dang blasted thing until she got what she wanted.

  Which, knowing Miranda, he suspected was exactly what she had in mind for him, too.

  That suited him just fine.

  Laughing, she lifted a coy, finely arched brow, and then ran a hand down his arm. “Something to rinse your pipes, now you’ve had a nice, refreshing bath?” Her hand roved to his leg like she planned on taking up ownership. She softly stroked the hard muscles of his thigh.

  At this rate, he’d never dry off. She had him steamed up and sweating like a racehorse!

  Before Slocum could open his mouth to answer, she had dragged him through the saloon’s door to a table, and held up two fingers to the barkeep. A dripping glass for each of them appeared on the scarred bar.

  Miranda hopped up and sauntered over to retrieve them, red curls trailing over her shoulders, and said in a loud voice, “Mr. Slocum’s checking in, Harvey.”

  Miranda’s backside was sleek and round as a Bar C mare, Slocum thought. And the way it jiggled and bounced under her bright calico, it was a sight easier to look at. A damn sight easier.

  Suddenly much warmer, Slocum wiped his forehead with the back of a hand. He flicked his eyes toward the door, checking for Crone. He’d taken the horses to the livery, but it was too early for him to be back.

  Miranda picked up the drinks and turned toward the table. The left side of her dress was soaked though where she had leaned against him, plastering the wet material to the outline of her body. A dark pink nipple stood up, proudly pointing at him.

  Damned if that woman didn’t know how to fill out a dress!

  Damned if that woman never could learn to wear underwear! At least, all the time.

  “Drink up,” Miranda said as she slid into her chair and handed him a beer. She dropped his room key on the table as she tipped her own drink up and took a long draft, her eyes peering at him over the top of her glass. “Ahhh,” she sighed.

  The sight of her moist pink tongue slowly licking foam off her top lip nearly made him forget the reason he had let Dave Crone follow along. “So, you goin’ to tell me what’s been happening at Apache Wells?”

  Miranda leaned toward his ear and rested a soft fleshy mound against his forearm. She smiled that peculiar grin of hers again before she answered, “In due time, honey. But not here. Finish your drink. We’ll get us a bottle of champagne and go up to your room to talk . . . among other things,” Miranda teased, and gave his crotch a smart squeeze.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Slocum nearly came out of his chair, but had to admit he liked a woman who showed initiative. “Keep that up, we won’t be goin’ nowhere any time soon.”

  Calmly, Miranda removed her hand but arranged her body in a way that gave Slocum full view of her two best features. A slow seductive smile crept over her face, not that he needed more encouragement. Just the memory of those hips grinding figure eights—

  “Well if that ain’t about as welcome as a skunk in the church aisle!” Slocum heard behind him.

  He instantly regretted breaking his own rule: Never sit with your back to the door. With measured slowness, he turned toward the voice. “Bob Marcus. And Granger Foley, I presume. Heard you two were ridin’ this way.”

  Marcus moved a cud of tobacco to his cheek and sent a stream of amber liquid that landed a few inches from Slocum’s feet.

  Foley’s hand inched toward his holster.

  Quickly, Marcus placed a hand on Foley’s arm and growled an introduction. “Granger Foley, John Slocum.”

  Foley shrugged him off. “We already met a time or two. Least, almost met up.”

  “Just what brings you to Apache Wells, Slocum?” Marcus asked, his watery blue eyes darting between Slocum and Miranda.

  “Since when does Slocum answer to a couple of trail bums like you two?” Miranda snapped. “Just because Uncle Abel hired you, it doesn’t give you the right to interfere in my business.”

  Hired them? Abel Cassidy had hired Marcus and Foley?

  Hell, he could have done better hiring a couple of coyotes to guard the henhouse, Slocum thought.

  Slocum was still grinning at the thought of these two spitting feathers when he noticed dried blood splashed on the men’s boots and clothing. But before he could give it a second thought, or further ponder the reason Abel Cassidy would engage a couple outlaws, Dave Crone walked up behind Foley and put a hand on his shoulder.

  Big mistake.

  Faster than a diamondback’s strike, Foley whirled around. He caught Crone under his left eye, laying his cheek open to the bone. Foley’s next punch caught the burly Crone in the chest, dropping him straight as a lead sinker in a fishing hole. Crone made a loud ooph as he hit the floor and kicked up a cloud of sawdust.

  Dammit! Slocum thought. In town for less than twenty minutes and already thick into a mess. For someone who rarely started a fight, plenty seemed to find him.

  Foley drew his left boot back like he was fixing to kick Crone’s teeth in.

  Springing to his feet, Slocum grabbed Foley by the shoulder and spun him around.

  The rock-hard knuckles of Slocum’s right hand landed on Foley’s left temple, splitting the skin next to his eye.

  Blood spurted from the wound. Now that Slocum had been dragged into it, Foley and Marcus both better count on a good pounding.

  He pulled back for another blow.

  “That’s enough!” Miranda cried.

  He froze.

  “Marcus! Take Foley back to the ranch,” Miranda ordered.

  Marcus stepped between Slocum and Foley. Reluctantly, Slocum dropped his arm.

  Just dandy. Two new enemies, and here was Miranda taking his back.

  Marcus prodded Foley to the bar and ordered whiskey. They quickly tossed their drinks down and headed out the batwing doors. Foley could have frozen a witch’s cauldron with the look he shot at Slocum before stepping out to the sidewalk.

  Groaning, Crone struggled to his knees. Slocum reached down and hauled him to his feet. Crone pulled a rag from his pants pocket and wiped his face, smearing dirt and blood into a gruesome mask that made the injury appear worse than it was.

  And since they had met up at Monkey Springs, it was the first time the blithering idiot was at a loss for words.

  “Ain’t you got any God-given common sense at all, Crone?” Slocum asked. “You’re lucky you didn’t catch an extra hole in the head instead of just a cut cheek. Better find the sawbones and let him take a look at it. You might need to get yourself stitched up. I mean, Jesus Christ! What would Alan Pinkerton say?”

  “Probably ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ ” muttered Crone. “Least, that’s what he said before.”

  “Down the street to your right, up over Harley Briggs’s café,” Miranda called to Crone’s back.

  As Crone staggered out the door, Slocum asked, “Why’d you stop me, Miranda?”

  “Grab that bottle of champagne and let’s go upstairs,” she replied. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Which isn’t much, I’m afraid.”

  “And I can help you untie your drawers.”

  “Oh no, you can’t, Mr. Slocum.”

  Shocked, he asked, “And why not? It’s about all I’ve been thinking of since—”

  Miranda grinned and placed her fingers to his lips. “I’m not wearin’ any.”

  Slocum unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it on the nightstand. The springs of the iron bed squeaked as he sprawled on his back. Miranda had hiked her skirts up around her waist and was in the process of rolling a silk stocking down a long shapely leg.

  She had indeed not worn drawers.

  Slocum stared at the thatch of red curls between her legs and felt himself grow hard. Again. While Miranda removed the other stocking, he worked at the buttons of his shirt.

  But when he reached to his pants, she whispered, “Why don’t you let me do that?”

  Sinuous as a mountain lion on the prowl, Miranda walked to the bed and straddled his legs. “Why have you stayed away from Apache Wells for so long?”

  She pulled several tortoiseshell pins from her hair and tossed them next to Slocum’s guns. Then she eased her dress off over her head and threw it over the foot of the bed.

  “Beats the hell outta me,” he replied, rolling a dusky nipple between his fingers.

  Miranda moaned softly and shifted her body. “It’s been too long, darlin’, far too long.”

  Slocum slid his other hand between her legs and dipped his fingers into her wetness.

  Again, Miranda moaned and her eyes glazed slightly. She reached down and rubbed the growing bulge in his pants.

  “Gonna tease me all afternoon, darlin’?” Slocum asked with a slow smile. “Or get down to business?” He pulled Miranda down and found her mouth. Her tongue was the only answer he needed.

  Miranda straightened again and opened Slocum’s pants, easing them off his hips. Then, smiling that quirky smile of hers, she ran her fingertip around the head of his erect cock.

  Slocum grabbed her soft, plump hips and lifted, positioning her to receive his first drive home.

  “Oh, yes,” she hissed as he entered her. Miranda tightened her knees around his hips and began to rock. “Oh, God, yes.”

  Plunging into her like an elk in rut, Slocum matched her rhythm. Miranda was a woman who knew when a man wanted to make love, and when he wanted to just plain ease himself. Right now, she was hotter than a Mexican pepper and needed it as badly as he did. Hard and fast. Slocum felt her tighten her internal muscles and knew she was ready.

  So was he. More than ready.

  The sounds of her squeals and groans of pleasure drove him over the edge. He exploded inside her.

  Slowly, his breathing returned to normal.

  Tossing her tousled hair over her shoulder, Miranda stood and walked to the washstand. Sweat glistened down her spine and formed droplets at the small of her back. She lifted the pitcher and splashed some water into the basin. Then she wet the corner of a towel and wiped her face, breasts, and stomach.

  Slocum rolled a quirlie, stuck it in his mouth, and watched. He flicked the head of a lucifer with his thumbnail and the flame sprang to life.

  He held the match to the tip of his smoke and drew several long puffs. Yep! he thought. There’s only one thing better than a good smoke after lovemaking. And that’s more lovin’.

  “What are you grinning at?” Miranda asked as she turned toward him. “You look sly as a cat that just found the butter plate. And a bit silly with your pants halfway down to your knees.”

  She picked up the bottle of champagne and two water glasses and returned to the bed.

  “Gonna pull them up or take ’em off?” she asked, and set the bottle and glasses beside the bed.

  “That depends entirely on you, darlin’.”

  Miranda squealed and leapt on top of him, planting a long wet kiss on his mouth. “In that case . . .” She yanked his pants off and tossed them to the floor, beside her dress.

  “At this rate, I’ll never find out why you asked me to come.”

  Miranda took on a wicked smile, removed the quirlie from his hand, and stuck it between her teeth. Drawing a mouthful of smoke, she blew a row of shaky rings and handed it back to him.

  “I don’t recall asking you to,” she said. “I think you did it all on your own.” Miranda yelped when Slocum lightly smacked her backside.

  “You know damn well what I mean. What are Bob Marcus and Granger Foley doin’ in Apache Wells? Why would a man like Abel Cassidy do business with a couple of owlhoots like that?”

  “Told you, I don’t know much,” she said. “A few months back we found a mare back in one of the canyons dead and butchered. At first, Uncle Abel figured it was the work of a renegade Apache. They’re always busting out of San Carlos, you know.”

  “But why’d he think that? Apaches love their horses as much as their children. They’d never butcher a horse, no matter how hungry they were, except as a last resort. Or if they found it dead, or somethin’ . . .”

  “Once he came to his senses, Uncle Abel said the same thing.” Miranda shivered as though she’d taken a chill. She rubbed her arms briskly.

  “Since then,” she went on, “we’ve found more. Seven mares and two stallions and a prime four-year-old gelding—a wonderful roping horse. Couple of this year’s foals, too. Who’d want to do such a thing?”

  “It don’t make sense,” Slocum said. “And if it don’t make sense, then it ain’t true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Thieving horses—that I can understand. But just butchering them? That’s the part that don’t make sense. No, there’s more to it . . . and I aim to find out.”

  4

  Slocum rolled out of bed while the sky was still a hazy purple and orange. Miranda purred like a well-contented kitten and stretched before she snuggled into the pillows once again.

  Her husky voice stopped him at the door. “Leavin’ me again already, darlin’?”

  “Just for a little while.” Slocum looked over his shoulder. “I ain’t leavin’ town just yet, honey.”

  Abruptly, Miranda sat up and the sheet fell to her waist, revealing her ample charms. “I should hope to kiss a pig you’re not! Where are you going?”