Christie And The Hellcat Part 2

"Sorry."

Christie shrugged, put down the basket of eggs, and untied her bonnet. "And I'm sorry it took me so long," she said.

"'S all right." Zee studied her and frowned. The air of nervousness about her had grown stronger. Zee glanced at Prescott's hands to check that they were still secure. Then she retied the holster thongs round her thighs, and slid her two revolvers out then back in, checking that nothing would snag when she drew. Finally, she pulled on her gloves.

Christie had put on her ap.r.o.n and was standing next to the huge stove. With a metallic clatter, she put the skillet on to heat and tossed in a lump of lard. Soon fat was sizzling and a delicious smell of bread toasting and ham and eggs frying began to waft round the kitchen.

Zee readied herself for what was to come.

Chapter 4.

Christie tried to control her trembling and focus on making breakfast.

It's going to be all right, she told herself over and over. Rogers will take care of it.

The Wells Fargo agent, who fortunately lived only a few doors down, had listened open-mouthed as she spilled out the information that the infamous h.e.l.lcat was at that very moment sitting in her kitchen, planning to rob the Yuma train. Then he closed his mouth with a snap, jutted his jaw, and stood up.

"You go right back home and keep her occupied. You hear?"

"Oh, but"

"Now don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Miss Hayes.

I'll get my rifle and be there before you know it." She could almost see the thoughts flashing through his head: the man who put this sym-bol of perverted womanhood back behind bars where she belonged would be famous. It would probably earn him a promotion too.

He placed his hands on Christie's shoulders, turned her round, and urged her none too gently back out the way she had come.

"Wait," she said. "If I'm going back, I must have eggs."

"In the coop out back," he told her. "Help yourself . . . but hurry."

So she had.

She cracked the third egg on the side of the skillet and tipped its contents into the sizzling pan, trying not to think about the snippet of conversation she had overheard while she stood, gathering her courage, outside the kitchen door.

"I'm not that person anymore, Prescott," Brodie had said. "I've changed."

Suppose I've got it wrong? Christie thought suddenly. Suppose . . .

23.

She turned toward Brodie. "Deputy" she began.

The tall woman arched an interrogative eyebrow, then blinked and swung round, hands reaching for her guns.

The crash of the back door slamming open made Christie drop the skillet. Sunlight silhouetted the Wells Fargo agent. She expected him to shout a warning and demand surrender, but instead his rifle muzzle flashed, then came the roar of gunfire. Clapping her hands over her ears, she fell to her knees and bowed her head.

There was a dull tearing sound. Then came a profanity, quick footsteps, a blow. Something thudded to the floor.

Ears still ringing, Christie looked up to see Brodie standing over a now p.r.o.ne Rogers. Her guns were holstered once more and a wisp of smoke curled up from the rifle in her gloved hands. Rogers' rifle.

"Don't shoot him!"

Brodie glanced across at her. "Wasn't going to." She pushed the back door shut and bolted it.

"Is he dead?" asked Christie.

"No." Brodie gestured at the rifle stock. "I hit him."

Movement made both their heads turn. Ches Prescott was making a break for it, heading for the sitting room door. In two strides, Brodie reached him. The rifle stock rose and fell. She dragged his now limp body into the center of the kitchen and rolled it under the table with her boot. A feeling of unreality stole over Christie.

Poc.

The faint dripping sound made her turn toward the zinc sink. Was there a leak?

"Why?" asked Brodie.

Poc.

It wasn't the sink.

Belatedly Christie registered the quiet question. She turned to ask for clarification, but her words died unspoken and she put a hand to her mouth. On the floorboards next to the outlaw's dust-covered boot was a widening red pool. What she had taken for the play of shadows on Brodie's left shoulder was a spreading stain.

Poc. Another droplet of blood rolled down the gloved left hand and hit the floor.

"You're hurt!" Christie got to her feet and started forward.

Brodie stepped back warily, her finger on the rifle's trigger.

Christie halted. "Don't be silly! Let me look at your wound."

24.

Brodie shook her head. "I can take care of it myself . . . Why?" she repeated.

"Because two hands are better than one." Without waiting for the other woman's permission, Christie crossed to the dresser and pulled out the medicine chest. Her own boldness surprised her. Why aren't I more afraid of her?

Brodie gave an exaggerated sigh, then sank onto the chair recently vacated by Prescott. "Much obliged, I'm sure. But I meant: why did you set me up?" She nodded at the unconscious Rogers.

Christie busied herself with bandages and spirits of turpentine.

"He was only supposed to capture you," she said stiffly. "His name's Rogers. He's the Contention agent for Wells Fargo."

Then she was standing beside Brodie, very conscious of her scent, a mixture of fresh sweat and horses and cordite that should have repelled yet was oddly enticing. She untied the red bandanna and undid enough shirt b.u.t.tons to keep Brodie decent ( She's not even wearing a corset) yet allow her to peel back the sodden check fabric from the shoulder.

The rawness of the bullet hole made her suck in her breath, but she steeled herself. I've seen blood before. When Blue cut himself on those lethal dressmaking shears of his. She reached for a swab and began to clean the wound.

Brodie hissed a curse, then flushed. "Sorry, Miss Hayes."

Nice manners. Christie peered round the other side of the shoulder and frowned. "No exit wound."

"Must've struck bone," said Brodie. "You'll have to dig it out." A faint groan from over by the door attracted her attention. "Wait a minute."

In spite of Christie's protests, she got to her feet and crossed to where the Wells Fargo agent lay. One-handed, she unbuckled his belt and slid it free of his trousers. Then she rolled him over on his substantial belly and tried to secure his hands with the belt . . . without success. She cursed under her breath and looked at Christie.

"Give me a hand."

"I don't know that I should. He was only trying to recapture an escaped prisoner."

Brodie blinked at her. "Is that why?" She gestured to the belt.

"Come on, Miss Hayes. Before he comes round. Either that or I kill him. You don't want that on your conscience, do you?"

25.

"Of course not." Reluctantly, Christie knelt next to her, looped the belt round Rogers' wrists, and pulled it tight. Brodie checked the result, grunted in satisfaction, and heaved him into a sitting position against the wall where he lapsed into unconsciousness again.

Wearily, she returned to her chair and sat down with a groan.

"Just for the record," she muttered. "I ain't an escaped prisoner."

Christie's hand, which had been reaching for a fresh swab, froze.

"You're the h.e.l.lcat, aren't you?"

"I was."

After a long pause, the hand continued its journey. Brodie flinched as Christie dabbed spirits of turpentine on her wound.

Clean enough, thought Christie. She took a knitting needle and some tweezers from the medicine chest, then fetched a bottle of whiskey from a cupboard. Brodie grabbed the bottle from her and helped herself to a long swig.

"Purely medicinal." Even white teeth flashed.

An indignant Christie s.n.a.t.c.hed back the bottle and poured whiskey over the knitting needle and tweezers. "This is going to hurt."

"Let's get it over with, then." Brodie took a deep breath, let it out, and clenched her jaw.

Removing the rifle bullet was tougher than Christie had antic.i.p.ated. She was able to locate it fairly quickly with the needle, but it had lodged in an awkward spot. Three times she thought she had it, only to find the tweezers sliding free. Eventually, her grip held, and with a horrid sucking sound and a gush of blood the bullet came out.

Clamping down on her nausea, she bathed and st.i.tched the wound as best she could. By the time she'd finished Not a bad job, if I say so myselfBrodie's tanned face was pale and beaded with sweat, and she was trembling.

Wordlessly, Christie gave her the whiskey bottle and went to rinse the blood off her hands.

"Thanks." Brodie tipped up the bottle and emptied it. Soon, to Christie's relief, some of her color returned.

"Something you should see." Brodie put down the bottle and fumbled in her shirt pocket.

Christie batted the still trembling fingers away. "Let me do it.

What is it?"

"It" turned out to be a folded piece of paper, kept inside another sheet of paper for protection.

26.

"Read it," instructed Brodie.

With a little shrug, Christie unfolded the paper and peered at the ornate script. There was a wax seal at the bottomit looked like the Arizona Governor's stamp. As she read, a wave of shame washed over her, and her cheeks grew hot.

"Zerelda Brodiethat's you?"

"Yeah."

Christie looked up. "You were pardoned?" Her voice was barely audible.