Free Merline Lovelace by The Colonel's Daughter Page A

came up the line that you hightailed it back to Ten Mile Station.”
    “We did. However, we decided not to wait there for the next stage.”
    The saloon owner hooted, expelling a cloud of blue smoke in the process. “I can’t blame you none for that. Nothing to do in that sorry hole but scratch your fleabites. Well, come on in and sit a spell, missus. I can’t offer you wine or sarsaparilla, but the beer don’t pack too bad of a punch.”
    “A beer would be wonderful.”
    “You and your man will want a bed for the night. I’ll get the Chinee girl to put clean ticking on mine. It’s big enough to take you both. The boy kin bed down out back.”
    “That’s very kind of you, but this gentleman isn’t my, er, man.”
    “No?” Her gaze went to Matt. “Don’t tell me you’re married to this great, beardless gawk.”
    “No, I’m not married to him, either. Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. I’m Suzanne Bonneaux.”
    “ Miss Suzanne Bonneaux,” Jack drawled.
    She sent him a speaking glance over her shoulder, but the instant clamor that arose at the news she was single precluded any comment. Like aherd of love-starved buffalo, the saloon patrons snorted, stamped and pawed the earth.
    “Here, miss!” A stooped, gray-bearded customer grabbed a chair. “Take yer weight off the feet and sit right down beside me.”
    A younger, randier buck whisked the chair from his hands. “She don’t want to sit with a toothless old geezer like you.” With a flourish, he thumped the chair down in the center of the room. “Sit here, miss.”
    “Kin I fetch you a beer, ma’am?”
    The crush of male admirers carried Suzanne forward. The moment she was seated, a small forest of chair legs scraped the floor. Her smile faltered for a moment as twenty or more men surrounded her and avidly absorbed every detail of her hair, face and figure.
    “I’m on my way to Fort Meade,” Suzanne said, breaking the awkward silence. “Have any of you been there?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I have.”
    “So have I!”
    “Can you tell me how far it is from the fort to the Arapaho camp on the Cheyenne River?”
    The three men immediately tried to impress her with their knowledge. Jack left Suzanne attempting to make sense of their conflicting estimates and Matt hovering at the edge of the circle.
    Mother Featherlegs joined him at the scarred pine plank that served as a bar. The scent she’d doused herself with rolled from her in waves.
    “What’ll you have?”
    “Whatever’s wet.”
    “Pour him a whiskey,” she told the attendant behind the bar. “Take the kid and the lady a beer, too, would you, Joe?”
    “Sure thing, Bess.”
    Leaning her elbows on the rough-edged plank, the saloon owner puffed idly. “We don’t get many unattached females passing through these parts.”
    “That right?”
    “Don’t get many men who keep their holster so well oiled, either.”
    Jack grunted and tossed back the shot. The raw-grained alcohol hit his throat with the kick of a half-broke mustang and bucked all the way down to his stomach.
    “Are you carrying a name I should recognize, mister?”
    “Sloan. Jack Sloan.”
    “Black Jack Sloan?”
    He grunted again. It was the best he could manage with his gullet spitting fire.
    A wary look came over the woman’s face. With a jerk of her curls, she nodded to Suzanne. “You got a claim to the lady that she didn’t want to tell me about?”
    “You got some reason for wanting to know?”
    “Look, I ain’t prying into your business. I just don’t want one of my customers layin’ a hand on your woman and winding up with a bullet between the eyes.”
    The idea of one of these men putting his paws on Suzanne didn’t go down any easier than the whiskey, but Jack forced a shrug.
    “The lady can take care of herself.”
    “That little bit of a thing?”
    “That little bit of a thing.”
    With a mental brace, Jack finished the rest of his drink. He’d done what he’d promised to do.