Christie And The Hellcat Part 5

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.

Her gaze went to Zee's left shoulder. The bloodstain had gone from the check shirt, and the bullet hole had been neatly mended. She wondered if Zee had darned it herself, or if someone else had. The thought sent an irrational stab of jealousy through her.

"You've already met my sister, Christie," Blue was saying as he came further into the parlor, "and this is her beau, Fred Younger."

"Mr. Younger." Zee's gaze flickered over the bearded man still sitting on the sofa. Belatedly he got to his feet.

"Deputy," acknowledged Fred, moving closer to Christie.

Why did she have to arrive while Fred is here?

As Zee's gaze returned to Christie's face, her lips curved into a faint smile, and Christie felt her cheeks growing hot. Then Zee crossed the room toward her, threading her way between armchairs,

41.

sofas, tables, vases, and planters, her presence making the fashionable little front room seem suddenly cramped and overcrowded.

As though sensing a threat, Fred stiffened, but all Zee did, when she halted in front of Christie, was hold out a bulging brown sack.

Christie blinked at it, and Fred muttered something under his breath. A cool blue gaze flicked toward him, then dismissed him.

"It ain't much, Miss Hayes," drawled Zee, "but I'd be obliged if you'd take it. Reckon it's the least I can do, after what my horses did to your flowers."

"Thank you." Christie accepted the sack, wondering what in the world was in it, but resisting the urge to open it then and there. She could sense that Fred would rather she refused the gift, and wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. His behavior since Zee had entered the parlor put her in mind of a dog and its bone.

"Please sit down," she told Zee, indicating the upholstered armchair that had been their father's favorite.

"Er . . . erm." Blue cleared his throat and gave Zee a glance that halted her movement to sit down. She frowned and glanced back at Christie.

An arm took Christie's, and she turned in some surprise. "We mustn't keep the deputy any longer, dear," said Fred. "People are paying her good money for her time." He turned to Zee. "Isn't that right?"

The muscles in Zee's jaw clenched then relaxed. "It's a point of view."

"And I'm sure you've got a long ride ahead of you," chimed in Blue.

Christie raised an indignant eyebrow at her brother, but he shrugged and gave Fred a look. His meaning was clear.

Her rebellious streak surfaced. Why should I say goodbye to this intriguing woman? But even as she resolved to defy both Fred and her brother, she became aware that Zee had caught the nonverbal exchange and was putting on the broad-brimmed black hat that she had been fiddling with since she entered the parlor.

"I've a ways to go today," said Zee, her tone neutral. "So thanks all the same, Miss Hayes, but I'd best be making tracks." She tipped her hat, then headed for the door.

"Oh, but"

"Now, now, my dear." Fred chuckled and patted her hand. "You 42 can't keep a lawman from his duty."

She threw him a furious look. "Zee . . ." To her embarra.s.sment, her voice cracked.

Zee turned at the parlor door and looked at Christie. "Yes, Miss Hayes?"

"At least tell me how your wound is."

That earned Christie a warm smile, which was a distinct relief after the frozen formality Zee had adopted. "It's mending fine, thanks for asking." But the relief was momentary, for Zee went on. "It's surely been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Hayes."

Christie stared at her. Don't go. "You too, Deputy Brodie," she managed.

"Mr. Hayes?" Zee turned a suddenly harsh gaze on Christie's brother, who blinked. "Don't forget about the horse."

He blushed. "Oh . . . no, of course not."

She looked at Fred. "In my book, any man who treats his horse that bad deserves to be horsewhipped." Then she shrugged and gave a thin smile. "Of course, in your book," the emphasis was slight but it was there, "things may well be different."

Then with a final tip of her hat at Christie, she was gone.

Chapter 8.

A scowling Zee headed toward Commercial Street, ignoring the apprehensive looks coming her way, her mind buzzing like a hornets'

nest.

Turning up on her doorstep like that and expecting her to fall into my arms. What was I thinking? Courting a gal who probably don't even like me that way.

She turned left onto Commercial Street, located the sign that said "Atkins Horses" and strode toward it.

Just as well. What kind of life could I have given her? She's probably the type to want brats too.

She clamped down on her unruly thoughts and pushed open the stable door. After the heat and dust, the coolness and the familiar scent of hay and horses were soothing.

"Anyone here?" she called into the darkness.

An ap.r.o.ned boy, barely into his teens, appeared, clutching a pitch-fork. "Ma'am?" He gaped up at her, then his gaze took in the tin star.

"Deputy?"

"Name's Brodie. You have two horses for me? A black mare and a brown gelding with a white blaze on his nose?"

He nodded. "Sure do. Mr. Hayes said you'd be picking them up this week sometime. I'll get them for you right away."