The Man from Stone Creek by Linda Lael Miller Page A

Spanish, because she understood him readily. She tilted her head to one side, her mouth forming a fetching little pout. “Sí,” she said.
    He glanced at the crucifix again. “You bring men here?”
    She nodded, took another step toward him.
    He held up a hand, halting her progress.
    Rosita looked as though he’d slapped her. “I am not pretty to you?” she asked softly, this time in English.
    â€œIt isn’t that,” Sam said, and thrust a hand through his hair. He’d left his hat at the table, with his glass of whiskey.
    â€œYou do not like women?”
    He chuckled. “Oh, I’m right fond of women,” he said.
    She tugged at one side of her ruffly bodice, about to pull her dress down.
    â€œStop,” Sam told her. Then, at her injured expression, he drew a five dollar gold piece from his vest pocket and extended it.
    Rosita was clearly confused, and her dark eyes rounded at the gleaming coin resting in his palm, then climbed, questioning, to his face.
    â€œThat’s for keeping your clothes on,” he told her gruffly.
    She darted forward, snatched the gold piece from his hand and took a couple of hasty steps back, dropping it down the front of her dress. “Nobody ever pay me to keep clothes on, ” she marveled. Then, watching him closely, she blinked. “Downstairs…they think we—” Rosita flushed and fell silent.
    â€œLet them think it,” Sam said. Then he leaned down, put one hand on the cot, with its thin, lumpy mattress, and gave it a few quick pushes, so the metal springs creaked. The sound was loud enough to raise speculation downstairs, even over the melancholy strum of the guitar.
    Rosita put one hand over her mouth and giggled.
    Sam pulled part of his shirttail out and rumpled his hair.
    â€œYou have folks around here?” he asked, watching her face. He’d have bet his last pound of coffee beans that she hadn’t seen her sixteenth birthday yet. “Someplace you could go?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œHow about the padre, over at the church? Maybe he could help.”
    â€œHelp?” Rosita echoed, obviously puzzled.
    Sam sighed. “Never mind,” he said. He consulted his watch. He was supposed to meet Vierra in twenty minutes. “This church you told me about—where is it?”
    Rosita went to the window to point the place out, and Sam stood behind her. The adobe bell tower was clearly visible, even in the starlight. He could get there on foot, in plenty of time.
    He was turning to go when Rosita caught hold of his arm. “Vierra,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Do not trust him too much.”
    Sam cupped Rosita’s small, earnest face with one hand. “Thanks,” he told her, and headed for the door.
    She followed him down the stone steps and he made a point of tucking his shirttail back in as soon as he was visible to the patrons of the cantina. He smoothed his hair, crossed to the table and reclaimed his hat. As an afterthought, he downed the whiskey, and it burned its way to his stomach.
    He knew the Donaghers would follow, and as soon as he got outside, he ducked around the corner of the cantina, into the deep shadows, instead of heading for his horse.
    Sure enough, Mungo’s sons came outside a moment later.
    â€œWhere’d he go?” one of them asked the other.
    â€œMaybe the outhouse,” the other replied.
    Sam waited. If they bothered his horse, he’d have to deal with them, but they were either drunk or just plain stupid, maybe both, and headed for the privy at the far side of the dooryard.
    He watched as one of them slammed at the outhouse wall with the butt of his gun and bellowed, “You in there, mister?”
    The second brother tried the door, pulling on the wire hook outside, and it swung open with a squeal of rusted hinges.
    â€œHey!” the first brother yelled, putting his head through the opening.
    Sam eased out of