The Man from Stone Creek by Linda Lael Miller

saloon. His stomach soured around the light supper he’d made for himself, but he responded to the smile as best he could. He asked for whiskey, and the girl flounced away to fetch his order.
    The pair of riders had turned back to their shared bottle, though Sam suspected they were keeping an eye on him in the long, dingy mirror behind the bar. Both of them wore side arms under their dusty coats, one a right-handed gun, the other a southpaw. He unsnapped the narrow leather strap that kept his own .45 secure in the holster.
    The girl came back with his whiskey. Sam paid her and left the drink to sit on the table, untouched. The barmaid lingered, her brown eyes thoughtful and unblinking, and then suddenly plopped herself onto his lap, draping her arms around his neck.
    Tentatively, Sam hooked an arm around her slender waist.
    She nuzzled his neck, sending shivers through him before nibbling her way up to his ear to whisper, this time in halting English, “Vierra, he will meet you behind the church, beside the grave of Carlos Tiendos, one hour from now. In the meantime—” she tasted his earlobe “—you could come up the stairs with me.”
    Sam shifted uncomfortably. He’d gone a while without a woman, so the invitation had its appeal, but a particular storekeeper/postmistress had taken up squatter’s rights in the back of his mind, and that ruined everything. Besides, he needed to keep his thoughts on the task ahead of him, meet up with Vierra and work out a plan.
    â€œThey are watching you,” the girl persisted. “Those two Americanos at the bar.”
    Sam traced the outward curve of one of her breasts with one finger, so they’d have something to look at. He might as well have been running a hand over a wooden Indian outside a cigar store, for all the excitement he felt. Damn that Maddie Chancelor, anyhow. “Who are they?” he whispered back.
    She trembled at his caress, though Sam felt as though the blood in his veins had turned to high-country slush. “Donaghers,” she answered, confirming his suspicions. “Garrett and Landry. They don’t take to strangers, so you must be careful.”
    Sam nodded almost imperceptibly. If what Terran had told him about the three eldest Donagher brothers was true, he’d have a run-in with them sooner or later, but this night, he didn’t want to be bothered.
    â€œCome upstairs with me,” the girl reiterated. “They will guess that I am passing a message if you don’t.”
    Sam forced a lusty chuckle, for the benefit of the Donaghers and anybody else who might be paying attention. “Lead the way,” he said under his breath.
    She bounced to her feet, grabbed his hand and hauled him toward a set of three stone steps, around the far end of the bar. He swatted her lightly on the bottom as they passed the Donaghers and she giggled mischievously.
    â€œMy name,” she told him, closing the door of a dark room behind them, “is Rosita.”
    Sam stood warily, waiting for his eyes to adjust, taking a measure of the place with all his remaining senses. He’d been led into more than one trap in his life, usually by a pretty woman full of promises, and he was absolutely still until he was sure they were alone.
    Rosita raised herself onto her toes, slipped her arms around his neck again and kissed him on the mouth. “We might as well make good use of the time,” she teased in her native language.
    Sam laid his hands on either side of her waist and set her gently away from him. Thin moonlight seeped into the room, through a single, narrow window, outlining a narrow cot, a washstand and a simple wooden chest with a candlestick on top.
    He crossed to the chest, took a match from his shirt pocket and lit the candle. In the flickering light, he noted the crucifix on the wall above the cot, and wondered about Rosita.
    â€œIs this your room?” he asked.
    He must have spoken