Free Gaffney, Patricia by Outlaw in Paradise

leave him.
    "We've had this conversation before," Cady said.
"You do what you want on your own time, I won't say a word. But here in my
saloon, you go by my rules."
    "But I do!" Nobody could do wide-eyed innocence like
blond-haired, blue-eyed Glen. No wonder the sheriff was in love with her.
    Which reminded Cady. "You weren't very nice to Tom last
night, either."
    "I don't know what you're talking about." She finished
padding her bodice and looked around for something to drink. "Anyway, I'm
as nice to old Lily Leaver as he deserves."
    "Why do you call him that when you know he hates it?"
    "Huh? I think it's cute."
    "Cute. You—" She sighed. They'd gotten off the track.
Cady and Glendoline were about the same age, but as far as men went, Glen had
eons more experience. So what was it about her that always made Cady feel old,
practically grandmotherly? Once she'd put that question to Levi, and he'd
answered in two words: "She's stupid." Cady didn't believe she was, though,
not really; Glen just didn't think.
    "We were talking about Gault," she reminded them both.
"It's looking like he might stick around for a while."
    "You think so?" She pinched her cheeks, studying her
face in the mirror.
    "Yeah, and I don't think you should be cozying up to him. You
know what I'm talking about," she said when Glen opened her mouth to utter
some wounded protest. "He's dangerous—you only have to look at him to see
that. So leave him be, Glen." Don't take him home with you, she
meant, but she didn't say. It wasn't necessary; they really had had this
conversation before.
    "I saw you talking to him, too."
    "That's beside the point. Shoot, here comes Curly Boggs and
all those Witter ranch boys. You take care of them while I get dressed."
She untied her apron and threw it on a shelf under the bar.
    "I saw you smile at him," Glen called after her.
"You even laughed at something he said. I heard you!"
    Cady flapped her hand and kept going. "Owner's
prerogative," she threw back. It would've made a better exit line if she'd
thought Glen had the slightest idea what "prerogative" meant.
    In her room, she took a long time deciding what to wear. That
wasn't like her; she had eight or nine "saloon dresses," as she
thought of them, all in different colors, and normally she just pulled out the
one she hadn't worn in the longest time. Now she stared and stared, plucking at
a gaudy feathered shoulder or a jet-beaded bodice, dissatisfied. Why all this
girlish indecision? She knew, but she didn't care to think about it. She
reminded herself too much of Glen.
    Finally she yanked out her dark green taffeta and threw it across
the bed. She found the green high-heeled shoes she wore with it, and the little
fake-emerald tiara thing she sometimes stuck in her hair— men were crazy for
jewelry, the flashier the better. She hadn't had time to wash her black fishnet
stockings, so she'd have to wear a pair of flesh-colored ones, she guessed,
even though they wouldn't be as good with the green dress, which had black
lacings across the bosom. The green bracelet that looked like jade, the jet
earbobs, her little onyx pinkie ring... Was that enough? What about the pale
green cameo on a black ribbon around her neck? No, she decided; no. Even if you
did deal blackjack in a small-town saloon, it didn't mean you had to decorate
every appendage you had with jewelry. Enough was eventually enough.
    She undressed behind her screen and put her robe on over her
underwear. She had a little time left; she'd bathed earlier, and she'd gotten
dressing down to ten minutes flat—which was pretty darn good considering she
had no maid. "You move your big fat butt," she said to Boo, who
hadn't opened his eyes or even twitched his tail since she'd come into the
room. She put her hand on the back of his head— and the cat jumped and squalled
as if she'd electrocuted him. "Excuse me," she said to his arched,
resentful back. "Terribly sorry, no offense. But it is my chair." He
let her pick him up,