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CHAPTER TWO

  Angel of Mercy

  When he woke again, it was late morning, and a stunningly pretty young woman was leaning over him. Her skin was as smooth and white as alabaster, her face punctuated by sparkling blue eyes and framed in flowing, flame-red hair. She smiled at him."Good morning", she said, in a voice as silky as her skin. Wayland's eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise.

  "Well...if I'm dead," he mumbled, "at least I wound up in the right place."

  The comment brought a smile of amusement to her face. It was a bright, honest smile, and Wayland liked it. "I'm Cassie," she said, "and I'm about as far from an angel as you'll ever get. You're very much alive, Mr. Brice, I promise you."

  Wayland thought about the event from the previous night, and considered asking for the sheriff to tell him. Then, he thought better of it. Even if Shorty wasn't a party to it, there wouldn't be much he could do. Besides, Wayland already knew who his visitors had been. At least one of them. Obviously, Colonel Loomis had heard about Wayland, and wanted a look at him.

  Of course, Loomis had no idea who he was. That was Wayland's advantage, and had probably kept him alive last night. Anyway,Wayland had something more interesting on his mind, at the moment. Her name, she had said, was Cassie.

  "It's time to dress that wound," she said, "and I thought, maybe you'd like a shave."

  Wayland nodded. "I'd be obliged."

  Cassie gently began removing his bandages, her touch cool and easy against his skin. As Wayland gazed up at her, he found himself wishing he was in better shape. Dirty, unshaved and peaked, he must have presented an unGodly sight to Cassie, and he wanted it otherwise

  "You the one who took the bullet out?" he asked.

  "Lord, no," she laughed, "I'm just a saloon girl, Mr. Brice. I'm hardly qualified to perform surgery." There was a pause, then she added casually, "The blacksmith did it."

  Wayland frowned, and she seemed to take a playful satisfaction in his reaction.

  "Doc Murphy is up north, at the stage depot. One of the hands got kicked in the head by a horse. Doc should be back tomorrow. I'll have him take a look at your wound."

  "If it's all the same," Wayland said, "I'd just as soon you tended me."

  "I'm honored," she said, as she finished up his bandage. She reached over and picked up a bowl of water and a straight razor. "I don't do this much, so I'll apologize in advance if I cut you."

  She proceeded to lather up a brush, and apply the soap to Wayland's face. Carefully, she began to shave him. As he gazed up at her, he wondered to himself what she thought of him. He was a passably handsome man, he thought. Nearly six feet tall, a blond tint to his hair and deep blue eyes. He could turn a woman's head, but had never been anything like a lady-killer. This lady's face revealed nothing.

  Wayland relaxed, and enjoyed the attention. After she had shaved him, she offered to wash the trail dust from his face, and upper body. Wayland happily accepted. When she revealed his bare, muscular chest, Wayland sensed a brief stirring of admiration in her eyes. Just a flicker that probably would have gone unnoticed had he not been studying her face so intently. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Wayland drifted off to sleep feeling a sense of satisfaction.

  Cassie came frequently over the next several days, and her presence seemed to quicken Wayland's healing. She told him about the town, its residents, and their little quirks. From the sound of it, Loomis was pretty much an average Texas cowtown. To its credit, it did have a school. John Loomis was responsible for that, Cassie said. He had it built at his own expense. And, of course, Loomis owned interest in nearly every business in town.

  Wayland countered her stories with a few of his own exploits. He talked of cattle stampedes and range wars, always embellishing his own role just a bit, but not enough to cause doubt as to his credibility. They never allowed the conversation to become toopersonal,

  beyond the few coy flirtations that occasionally surfaced. At the end of all the hours of conversation, they still knew little of significance about each other. They did know that they liked one another. For now, that was enough. At the end of a week, Wayland was sitting up in his bunk and feeling much stronger.

  "It's time you got up," Cassie announced.

  Wayland was eager to oblige, and allowed her to help him up. He wavered on unsteady legs for a moment, but quickly found his balance again. Cassie held to his good arm as they walked from the cell, into the front of the Sheriff's Office. There, Deputy Stiles looked up from the crude, wooden desk with that carved-stone expression of his. He was a hard one to read, and Wayland promised himself not to play poker with Stiles. Cassie nudged Wayland toward the door, but Wayland suddenly pulled up.

  "My gun," he said, simply. Deputy Stiles seemed reluctant to oblige. He didn't respond immediately, but under Wayland's determined stare, finally retrieved Wayland's Colt from the gun closet, and handed it to him.

  "Best keep it in the holster," Deputy Stiles said tersely.

  "Well, I'll try," Wayland responded dryly, "but I hear there's a lot of snakes in Texas."

  The deputy definitely frowned at that, but said nothing as he turned his attention to a stack of wanted posters on the desk. Wayland and Cassie walked out.

  The day was a broiler, but the sun felt good to Wayland. He spent most of his life outside, and always felt claustrophobic when he slept indoors for any length of time. Loomis was, indeed, a pretty typical cowtown. A lot of the wooden buildings were relatively new, though, and implied a period of growth. Aside from the usual, like a general store, livery and the like, there were two churches and two saloons. Saints and sinners split right down the middle.Wayland approved of such a balance.

  The saloon that Cassie took him to was called "The Texas Crown", and it, too was nothing unusual. A couple of glass chandeliers and a painting of a European Castle that hung behind the bar lent a twinge of elegance to an otherwise drab decor. The painting had several bullet holes in it. Wayland wondered if the bullet holes were put there in fun, during some cowboy's drunken revelry, or under more serious circumstances. There were few people in the bar. Cassie and Wayland drew mild attention as they entered. Only the bartender, a barrel-chested, mustached man, showed more than casual interest at their presence. He excused himself from his conversation and lumbered down the bar, his focus on Cassie.

  "There you are," he said with a tone of relief. "I need you to help me with the end-of-the-month tally."

  Cassie gave him an stern look. "Dave, if I'm going to keep doing your paperwork, you're going to have to give me a raise."

  Dave looked sheepish, and a little bit desperate. "C'mon, Cassie. You know I ain't no good with all them damn numbers."

  Cassie sighed with impatience, but Wayland knew she would oblige, even before she said it. She turned to him. "Rest here for a few minutes, then I'll get us something to eat."

  Wayland gave a nod in reply, and Cassie moved behind the bar and disappeared into the back room. Wayland surveyed the room. A couple of cowboys, still dusty from the trail, shared a bottle with a hard-looking saloon girl at a corner table. Huddled at one end of the bar were two more men, older and more settled looking. Locals, sipping warm beer and telling stories. A younger man sat alone at a table, a bottle and glass in front of him, idly flipping through a deck of cards. His stetson set at a cocky angle on his head and he looked to be in his early twenties. His clothes, Wayland noted, were clean and well-fitted. That, coupled with the man's low-slung gun belt, told Wayland that this was no cowhand. As if connecting with Wayland's thoughts, the man looked up from the cards, and he gave Wayland an easy smile.Wayland nodded back.

  "You're that fella the deputy shot, out on the prairie," the young man said.

  "I'm the one," Wayland confirmed.

  The young man shook his head. "I lost two dollars on you," he chuckled.

  Wayland's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't follow," he said.

  "I was bettin' you'd die. Hell, the whole town had money on it, one way or the other."

&
nbsp; Wayland flashed an amused smile. If nothing else, at least he had provided a few days of entertainment for a bored, sleepy Texas town.

  "Well, I had a considerable stake riding on it, myself," Wayland responded, "though I don't know if it amounted to two dollars."

  The young man let go a gentle laugh. He held up the deck of cards in his hand. "How about, I'll buy you a drink, and you give me a chance to win my two dollars back?" he offered.

  Wayland considered it, then gave a nod of agreement. "Fair enough," he said, and crossed to the table. He slid into a chair across from the younger man, who extended his hand.

  "Will Burdett," he announced, and Wayland shook the outstretched hand. The grip was firm, but the flesh of the man's hand was smooth and uncalloused.

  Will poured a drink, and slid the glass to Wayland, who tipped it in a toast of thanks before he downed it in one gulp. The whisky sent an instant glow of warmth through him, from the inside out, and Wayland savored it.

  "Draw poker?" Will asked, but he was already dealing, so Wayland didn't bother to respond. They played a few quiet, uneventful hands, with only the slapping of the cards to break the silence.

  "You're a Reb, hey?" Will said casually, his eyes on the cards in his hand. Wayland took a moment to reply. These days, the question often implied that trouble was at hand, though Wayland didn't see that attitude in Will's behavior.

  "I was," he said simply.

  "Don't really matter, mind you. I wasn't in it, myself," he said. "Got no loyalties to anybody but me..and my boss."

  Wayland inwardly tensed. Will's manner was so casual, so non-threatening that Wayland had ignored the signs. But now, it was clear to him what was coming. Wayland maintained his own amiable appearance, but his right hand dropped easily to his leg, nearer his holster

  "And, who might your boss be?" Wayland asked.

  "That'd be John Loomis," Will answered, with a wide smile, "And you'd be smart to keep your hands up on the table, where I can see them." His eyes locked on Wayland, cold and threatening. Wayland gently raised his right hand to the table.

  "Your deal", Will said flatly, and shoved the cards to Wayland.

  Wayland maintained his subdued nature, but inside, his mind was racing. He knew now that Will was a hired gunman. Wayland was handy enough for most occasions, but he was no match for a professional. To allow himself to be lured into a gunfight would be suicide. Wayland forced his hands to remain steady as he picked up the deck of cards and began to shuffle.

  "I heard you were asking about Mr. Loomis. That right?" Will pressed.

  "That's right," Wayland answered. He kept shuffling, but with one eye on Will.

  "And what would you be wanting with him?" Will asked.

  Wayland stopped shuffling. He put down the deck of cards and rested both hands on the rim of the table before him. He kept the move subtle, hoping Burdett wouldn't detect it.

  "Well, that's kind of personal," Wayland replied, "but I'll be glad to state my business to Loomis, himself."

  Will let out a gentle sigh. "I don't guess you're going to get that chance, mister," he said evenly, "See, I think maybe I'm gonna win that bet, after all. You know, about you dyin'."

  As Will slid his chair back to rise to his feet, Wayland exploded into action. Will Burdett's hand was streaking for his gun, as Wayland gripped the edge of the card table firmly and thrust it up and out at him. The gunfighter got off a shot, just as the table slammed into him and the bullet ripped through the wood and passed an inch from Wayland's neck. The force of the table knocked Will to the floor and gave Wayland valuable seconds to clear leather. Will rolled to one side, aimed for another shot and was just squeezing the trigger when Wayland's bullet slammed into his chest. Will's last shot went wild and into the castle painting behind the bar.

  It had happened so quickly that the stunned patrons had no time to even dive for cover, and Cassie was just bursting from the back room. Wayland kept his Colt fixed on Will, until he was certain that his bullet had done the job, then looked around at the frozen, shocked faces of the bar's inhabitants. His gaze rested on Cassie.

  "What happened?" she asked in a half-whispered voice.

  "He lost two dollars," Wayland replied, "I guess he wanted to get it back."

  Just then, the saloon doors crashed open. A startled Wayland spun, to find himself staring into the barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun. Deputy Stiles was behind the shotgun and Sheriff Duncan was with him. Shorty quickly surveyed the scene, and gave a glaring look at Wayland.

  "I'd recommend you drop you're gun, Mr. Brice, before Harley here spreads you halfway across Texas," Shorty said.

  Wayland responded immediately, dropping his gun to the floor. "I don't guess you'd care to hear what happened?" Wayland retorted.

  "You bet your buttons I would. Right after I put you in a jail cell," Shorty answered, and gave a nod to the door. Wayland walked out, hands up, under the watchful eye of the shotgun-wielding deputy.