Beyond Betrayal Page 5

  "Would you be the proprietor of this establishment?” For the first time, Samson noted a faint Southern lilt in her tone.

  Mitch shook his head. "No, ma'am. That would be Miss Cora."

  The widow smiled though Samson wasn't sure he understood why. "And would you be so kind as to tell me whether Miss Cora will be in attendance here this evening?"

  Mitch hesitated. "Yes, ma'am," he responded a bit warily. "Can I ask you why you'd be lookin' for Miss Cora?"

  The widow sipped her cordial before responding. "Oh, it's nothing untoward, I assure you. I simply have a business proposition for her."

  "A business proposition?"

  "Yes.” The widow didn't elaborate, but Mitch continued to stare at her expectantly. Finally she commented, "I notice your gaming tables appear to be in a state of disuse. I've been told that there is no dealer in town. Is that correct?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Most folks in town don't quite cotton to professional gamblers."

  The widow's expression sobered slightly. "How sad. There's truly nothing amiss in an honest game of poker, though. Wouldn't you agree, sir?"

  Samson set his glass down with a definite clunk on the scarred wooden bar. He had a bad feeling about this. A real bad feeling.

  Mitch flashed a glance his way, then cleared his throat. "I wouldn't know about that, ma'am. The ones we had here didn't know the meanin' of the word honest. Trouble-makers through and through, they were. Here to swindle the local hands out of their month's pay and the miners out of their gold and silver."

  The lady didn't respond.

  "Is that what you want to talk to Miss Cora about, ma'am? Gamblin'?"

  The widow drew a deep breath and then flashed Mitch a smile so dazzling that Samson caught the reflected brilliance. "Yes, sir, it is."

  Sam grit his teeth. Dammit! The lady was a gambler!

  If there was one thing Samson could not abide, it was professional gamblers. They were a cold-hearted lot who brought nothing but trouble in their wake. And that trouble got good men killed. Men like his father.

  Samson had started cleaning the town up when he'd taken on the identity of Matt Chambers' and the sheriff's position in Red Rock two years ago. It had taken more than a year to do it, and he didn't intend to let all his work go for naught because a little slip of a woman with big-blue eyes had a penchant for vice. Not on your life.

  He turned to face the widow. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but if you've come here to set up a gaming table, you've come to the wrong place. We don't allow professional gambling here."

  The widow pinned him with her blue-eyed gaze and moved down the bar to join him, sliding her glass of cordial with her. Then, setting her carpetbag at her feet once more, she got right to the point. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Sheriff. Isn't it the prerogative of the proprietor to decide whether or not gaming will be permitted in his or her establishment? Or has a law been passed of which I am unaware?"

  Samson fought back a scowl. She sounded like a blamed school teacher. "There's no law against gambling, ma'am, but there is one against cheating. And, since I am the law in Red Rock I'll see that it isn't broken."

  Mrs. Sterne's left brow arched. "So then, your law doesn't include honest gamblers?"

  Samson hesitated. "I've yet to meet a professional gambler who stayed honest when ridin' a losin' streak, ma'am. That's why we don't allow gamblers in Red Rock."

  The widow's lips tightened perceptibly and the blue of her eyes deepened. "You mean that you don't allow gamblers in Red Rock, don't you, Sheriff?"

  Samson nodded sharply. "That's what I mean. I run a clean town. Cheats get run out real fast."

  Delilah echoed his nod and then turned back to Mitch. "Please inform Miss Cora that I will be by later to discuss a business proposition with her."

  Samson couldn't believe his ears. Few men would have defied him so openly. That this little lady would do so left him flummoxed.

  Picking up her carpetbag once more, ignoring Sam's presence as though she'd totally dismissed him from her mind, Delilah Sterne made for the door. Sam watched her retreating figure.

  After tossing back the last of his drink and allowing it to blaze a trail of fire through his innards, he thoughtfully replaced his glass on the bar and left the saloon. One thing was sure. He couldn't let anyone undermine his authority. Not even a lady like her.

  As the bat-wing doors squeaked in a discordant rhythm behind him, Samson paused on the boardwalk and observed the widow's retreating figure. She was headed for the hotel, her small double-time steps carrying her just as swiftly as any man's longer stride.

  Pretty she might be. But if Mrs. Sterne proceeded with her gaming plans, she'd darned well find herself cooling her heels in his jail the first time she cheated. He smiled slightly, intrigued by the picture that came to mind. Yessir, now that would be interesting.

  He had little doubt that she would cheat, for all gamblers did. And he'd taught himself to recognize most of their tricks.

  He'd be watching Mrs. Delilah Sterne like a hawk.

  ~~~* * *~~~

  CHAPTER 3

  ________________________

  If that big galoot of a Sheriff thought he could tell her what to do, he had another think coming, Delilah fumed with outrage. He might be as big as an outhouse, but he didn't scare her. As her daddy used to say, “Big men only have farther to fall.”

  Poopsy whined and, without conscious volition, Delilah stepped off the boardwalk into an alley to let the little dog do her business.

  Who in blazes did that sheriff think he was? Why wasn't he out chasing rustlers instead of harassing a lady looking to do an honest day's work?

  And why did he continue to strike her as vaguely familiar? Delilah frowned, as she proceeded on to the hotel. Maybe it was simply that aspect about him that made him seem larger than life. But she didn't give a hoot how big he was, or how incomprehensibly dynamic she found him, she wasn't going to let him interfere with her plans to make some money to help Eve. If she got some good games going, she could make as much as twenty or twenty-five dollars a night, even after subtracting the saloon's cut.

  Still immersed in her thoughts, Delilah opened one of the white double doors and stepped into the Mountain View Hotel. As she'd requested, Mr. Didsworth had brought her trunk on ahead. It sat on the dark hardwood floor to one side of the mullion-paned doors. Delilah paused to survey her surroundings. There was no one in sight. The lobby smelled of beeswax and old cigars. In the rear, she could hear voices, slightly accented, but could not make out what they were saying. On her right, an arched doorway led into what appeared to be a dining room. The smell of fried steak and potatoes—a true Western meal—wafted forward to tease her nostrils and tempt her empty stomach.

  Stepping up to the gleaming mahogany desk, Delilah rang the bell and waited. A moment later, a curtain parted and a middle-aged woman with steel-grey hair secured in a braided coronet, stepped out. With a wide welcoming smile and a pronounced accent, she asked, "Vat can I do for you, missus?"

  "I'd like a room please," Delilah said. "I'm Mrs. Sterne. This is my trunk.” She indicated the small hump-backed trunk that carried all her worldly goods.

  "Uf course. Uf course. We'll gif you a corner room. Zey are ze nicest. I'm Freda Schmidt. I'll haf my Erich carry your trunk up for you.” As she spoke, she turned the register around on the desk, placed a fountain pen in Delilah's hand and tapped the page with a finger to indicate where exactly Delilah was to sign. "Erich is a goot boy, and strong too."

  Delilah signed and handed the pen back. "Can you tell me if anyone from the Devil's Fork ranch has been inquiring after me?"

  Freda frowned thoughtfully. "No, I don't sink so. I vill ask my husband.” She stepped through the curtained doorway at her back calling, "Marc?” A man's bass rumble responded, and then Delilah heard the murmur of voices.

  Freda returned a moment later. "Zere has been no one asking about you, Mrs. Sterne. Perhaps you should check vit ze sheriff."

  Delilah nodde
d. "Thank you. I may do that.” But she doubted that she would. She was too angry with the man at the moment. Besides, she didn't think it very likely that Sheriff Matt Chambers would know any more than anyone else.

  "You vill be vanting a bat'?" Freda asked.

  "A bath? Oh, yes. Please.” The mere thought of being clean again was heavenly.

  Freda smiled again revealing strong white wide-spaced teeth. "I'll haf Erich carry up some hot vater for you. Vill you be haffing supper with us?"

  "Yes, as long as your dining room will still be open in. . . say, an hour."

  "Uf course. Uf course. It is likely there vill still be others dining.” She held up a finger. "You yust vait. I vill call Erich."

  Delilah smiled. "Thank you."

  A couple of minutes later, Delilah followed a burly young man with short white-blond hair up the shiny mahogany staircase. Erich, who'd shouldered her trunk with surprising ease, led her to a room at the rear of the upper hallway. When he opened the door, Delilah saw that the room was a corner one as promised. It had windows facing both South and West, and the lowering afternoon sunlight slanted its way across the hardwood floor. In the height of summer, such a room would have been too warm, but now, in early spring, Delilah felt certain she would appreciate the warmth it would afford. The small room was well-furnished with a bed, a dressing screen in one corner, a night-table, a dresser complete with pitcher and wash basin, and a small round writing table in the corner nearest the window.

  "Where would you like the trunk, ma'am?” Erich had very little of his mother's accent. Delilah decided that he'd probably been born here.

  "At the foot of the bed will be fine."

  Erich set the trunk in place and then opened a closet door to remove a large serviceable and undecorated galvanized tub. "The chamber pot is under the bed if you need it," he said. "I'll be back in a few minutes with the water for the bath."

  "Thank you Erich."

  He nodded. "My pleasure, ma'am."

  He was just about to exit the room when Delilah had a thought. "Your mother wouldn't have any kitchen scraps that I could get for my dog, would she?” Delilah really didn't feel like carrying the little rascal down to supper with her, but if she didn't feed her before going down for her own meal, she'd feel obligated to take Poopsy with her. After all, the dog was no doubt hungry as well.

  Erich shrugged. "I don't know, ma'am, but I'll check."

  "Thank you, Erich.” Delilah poured some water from the pitcher into the basin and set it on the floor for Poopsy to drink.

  * * *

  An hour later, having bathed and changed into a clean, albeit slightly wrinkled taffeta skirt and black shirtwaist, Delilah made her way downstairs to the dining room. It was empty of all save four gentlemen patrons. An older gentlemen with grey hair and an equally grey beard sat near the window reading a recent edition of the Helena Herald. The meal before him looked neglected. A younger man sat near the center of the room shoveling food into his mouth with single-minded attention, as though eating was simply a tiresome necessity that must be gotten through as quickly as possible. He was dressed in a suit and Delilah pegged him for a young doctor or lawyer. The other two men sat together at a table against the opposite wall. A man dressed in denims and a blue flannel shirt was sitting with . . .

  Delilah stopped in her tracks. Sheriff Chambers! Somehow she hadn't anticipated meeting him here although she knew that, in a town the size of Red Rock, she could run into him almost anywhere. He'd changed from the blue denim and buckskin leather vest he'd worn earlier into black trousers and a black shirt on which his badge was prominently displayed. He wore a gun holstered on his right side, and for the first time she noted that the holster had been securely tied to his thigh with a rawhide thong.

  "You always gotta be careful of a man with his gun tied down," her daddy had said on more than one occasion. "When he pulls his pistol, he means to use it."

  The black clothing Matt Chambers wore did not make him appear any smaller. To the contrary, in fact, his black clad form seemed even larger and somehow more sinister against the white walls and red-checkered tablecloth. And yet, in some way, his hard features and intense unreadable eyes were even more compelling.

  Tearing her gaze away from the sheriff with an effort of pure will, Delilah made her way toward a vacant table. She would simply ignore the man's presence and enjoy her meal. She had too much to do to spend any time thinking about the strangely charismatic lawman. She had to speak with Miss Cora tonight to put that portion of her plan into motion. Then, first thing in the morning she wanted to be off to Eve and Tom's ranch. . . with or without her escort.

  She couldn't help but worry about the fact that Wes Powell had not contacted her. Had something gone wrong at the ranch to keep him from leaving? Was Eve all right?

  But Delilah would have no way of knowing the answers to her questions until Powell arrived, or until she got to the ranch.

  Oh, darn! If her escort didn't arrive, she'd have no horse, and no means to get to the Devil's Fork. Unless. . . Just to be on the safe side, she'd make tentative arrangements for a mount. If her escort did show, she could always cancel.

  At that moment, Mrs. Schmidt approached her table. "Dit chor doggie like her supper?" she asked.

  "Very much," Delilah responded with a smile. She was suddenly conscious of the sheriff's gaze on her, tangible, disturbing. "Thank you."

  Freda waved away her thanks. "It was notink," she insisted. "For supper ve haf roast beef vit' mashed potatoes and carrots, or t'ick, juicy t-bone steak vit' fried potatoes and sauerkraut. Also, I save you some apple cobbler for dessert."

  "I'll have the roast beef, please. And the apple cobbler sounds heavenly."

  "Goot. Goot."

  "Mrs. Schmidt, would you be so kind as to tell me where I can find the livery stable? I may need a horse for a few days."

  "Uf course. Uf course," Mrs. Schmidt replied. "But why go all ze way down zere when, Mr. Metter, he is right here?” Before Delilah could respond, the woman turned to the table where Matt Chambers sat with his companion. "Mr. Metter?” Metter looked up. "Zis lady needs to talk vit' you about a horse. Yes?"

  "Sure.” Metter swung his gaze to Delilah. "Ma'am," he said, with a nod. "When do you need it and how long you aim on keepin' it?"

  Studiously ignoring Matt Chambers' gaze, Delilah responded. "I'd like to leave at first light. And I'd only need it for about three or four days this time, but I may want to keep it longer.” She paused. "Do you have anything?"

  Metter frowned. "Depends. If you can handle a little spirit, I've got an appaloosa gelding. Other than that, all I've got is an old mare who don't like to move too fast no more."

  Of its own volition, it seemed, her gaze flicked ever so briefly to Sheriff Chambers and her heart leapt at the way he was looking at her. Cold fire was the only way to describe it. Did he find her attractive? She still didn't know. But there was definitely some emotion for her in that enigmatic gaze.

  "The gelding will be fine, Mr. Metter," she managed to respond. "Where may I find the livery in the morning?"

  Metter told her and she hastily looked away, unwilling to risk another meeting of glances with Matt Chambers.

  "I hope you're not planning on travelin' far from civilization alone, Mrs. Sterne," Sheriff Chambers suddenly interjected. "This is dangerous country."

  She had no choice but to look back at him. Their gazes locked. Studiously ignoring the riotous sensation that suddenly had her stomach in turmoil, Delilah managed to find her voice. "I can take care of myself."

  "Whatever you say, ma'am," he responded with a dismissive shrug. "You have friends in the area?"

  "A sister and her husband."

  "Ranchers?"

  "Yes," she replied tersely. Why in the world did he think he had the right to pry into her personal affairs?

  "Let's see. That wouldn't be the Flying L, Mrs. Harlin would be a bit too seasoned to be your sister. Nor the Rocking E., confirmed bachelor there. M
ust be either the Devil's Fork or the Lazy M."

  Delilah's lips tightened. The man was implacable in the pursuit of answers which were none of his business. Losing her manners along with her patience Delilah said, "The Devil's Fork, if you must know, Sheriff."

  At that moment, Mrs. Schmidt returned with her meal, and Delilah had an excuse to ignore the too-powerful presence of the man at the other table.

  "I'll be ridin' out Devil's Fork way tomorrow. I can ride with you if you like?"

  Delilah paused with her fork midway to her mouth. Then, she carefully lowered it to her plate. The last thing she needed was to spend more time in the company of Sheriff Chambers. However, his offer was not overly forward, and for a woman alone to refuse his accompaniment would only raise questions.

  "The road is free, Sheriff. You may, of course, ride where and when you like. I should think you'd be more concerned with catching the rustlers and returning the stolen cattle to the people to whom they belong, however, so please don't concern yourself on my account."

  "Wouldn't think of it, ma'am," he drawled. Delilah thought she noted a trace of Texas in his tone. Either transplanted many years ago, or the son of Texans, she concluded. "And don't you worry your pretty little head about how I do my job.” The statement was calculated to inflame her ire and it served its purpose.

  Bristling at his condescension, Delilah resisted the impulse to lambaste him—just the response he was seeking do doubt—and returned to her supper. Moments later, Sheriff Chambers and Mr. Metter rose to leave. Both men tipped their hats, and, as they walked by, Chambers said, "I'll see you in the morning, ma'am."

  The devilish impulsiveness she'd inherited from her dear Irish mother came to the fore and Delilah responded, "Or, if you're planning to be at Miss Cora's this evening, perhaps you'll see me again tonight."

  Whyever had she reminded him of that, she asked herself the moment the words left her mouth.

  Chambers turned back to look at her, his stone-cold charcoal eyes pinning her in her chair. Then slowly, he smiled. The expression transformed his hard features and for the first time Delilah realized that the man was quite handsome. Yet the smile did nothing to negate the aura of danger that clung to him. In fact, it aggravated that quality for, like the snarl of a wolf, its only purpose was to show teeth. "Maybe," he acknowledged slowly in a tone barely above a whisper. Somehow the single word sounded vaguely threatening. And then he was gone.