Free Cactus Flower by Alice Duncan

all she’d known when they’d first encountered
one another, he might have been as mad as his uncle.
           She
knew better now, or thought she did. One could never be absolutely certain
about these things, and he still might prove himself to be a brute.
Until she knew for sure, it might be worthwhile to mend a couple of
fences as regarded Mr. Taggart. If it became necessary for Eulalie and
Patsy to seek more protection than their weapons and wits could give
them, it looked to her as though Nick Taggart was at the top of the
list of candidates.
           Eulalie
huffed once, peeved that such a drastic possibility might eventuate—and
all because of a fiend like Gilbert Blankenship—then reminded herself
that life was merely life and didn’t have it in for her or Patsy in
particular. She said a silent prayer that Edward, if his spirit lingered
anywhere, would forgive her and understand.
           Then
she fingered her Colt Lightning on the night stand, and made sure her
Ladysmith was nearby and her knife in its sheath under her pillow—just
in case—and tried to get to sleep again.
           Eventually
she did.
    * * * * *
           Long
before dawn, Nick was cursing himself as a damned fool. It wasn’t
his lookout some prissy city girl was too stupid to prepare herself
for rigors of the West before she ventured into it. Miss Eulalie Gibb
was nothing to him but a pain in the neck, and here he was, giving up
an entire night for her—and without even the benefit of enjoying her
favors, if she had any. So far, it didn’t appear likely, although
he recalled the softness of her skin and the fullness of her breasts
with something damned near akin to longing, idiot that he was.
           And
why? Why was he stuck here in the damned hall when he might be home
sleeping peacefully—or having a nice romp with Violet? Because he’d
succumbed to the irresistible urge to protect a female. Damn it! He’d believed he’d overcome his tendency to harbor chivalrous
impulses years earlier. The good Lord knew he’d tried hard enough.
           But
no. Here he was, sitting in a hard chair and playing knight in shining
armor to protect a female whom he didn’t like and who didn’t like
him.
           “Nick,”
a thick voice said. “How’s about you take this gold eagle and lemme
into that li’l lady’s room for a few minutes.”
           Nick
chuffed out an irritated breath. “No can do, Sam. Miss Gibb’s not
for sale. I already told you that downstairs.”
           “Aw,
Nicky, be a sport.”
           “Get
the hell out of here, Sam.” No use being polite. Sam didn’t care,
and Miss Gibb wouldn’t appreciate it.
           “But
Nicky.”
           Nick
allowed the front legs of his chair to hit the floor—he’d been leaning
back against the wall, as if that would offer him a measure of physical
comfort, which it didn’t—grabbed Sam Bollard by his collar, turned
him around, and shoved him back towards the stairs. He didn’t expect
he’d have to heave Sam down the stairs as he’d had to do with Gus,
because Sam wasn’t as stupid as Gus. After all, Nick had been working
as a blacksmith and farrier ever since his father died fifteen years
earlier. He had muscles in places Gus hadn’t even heard of, and he
was stronger than just about any other man in town except for his uncle
Junius.
           Speaking
of Junius, Nick hoped Sheriff Wallace would keep him in jail overnight,
because Nick couldn’t be in two places at once, and he’d committed
himself to playing guard dog for Miss Gibb, fool that he was. If Junius
got out of the jug and did something else stupid, he’d be on his own,
and Nick owed him too much to be comfortable with that, even though
Junius’ inability to handle liquor vexed Nick sometimes.
           When
he was sure Sam was gone for good, Nick sat back down in his chair,