Two Brothers by Linda Lael Miller Page B

won’t take nobody else!”
    “Then I guess he’s in for a long dry spell,” Shay reasoned, “since he hasn’t got a hope in hell of getting any woman he doesn’t have to pay for.”
    The bartender narrowed his pig-bright eyes. “You know somethin’? I don’t think you’re showin’ much sympathy here.”
    “Nobody quicker than you, Jake,” Shay answered. Then he tugged at the brim of his hat, scanned the room once, and headed for the swinging doors. Since his brother was out in the countryside somewhere, and he could turn a corner without fear of running into himself, he figured he’d make the rounds and let the good folks of Prominence see that they had a marshal after all.
    He hadn’t even gained the sidewalk when one of the saloon girls caught hold of his arm. In the sunlight, her hair was an unlikely straw color and her face paint was on crooked, resembling an ill-fitting, tawdry mask. She couldn’t have been any older than twenty, but in her eyes he saw something ancient. She glanced back over one bare shoulder, well aware that Jake was watching her.
    “If you see Liza Sue,” the prostitute whispered, “you tell her never to come in here, not for nothin’. Billy’ll kill her for sure if he sets eyes on her again. He damn near did last night—beat her half-senseless. If me and the pianoplayer hadn’t drawed his notice away, he’d ’ave smashed her face in.”
    “I guess I’d better look Billy up and explain that I don’t take kindly to that sort of behavior,” Shay said calmly. He glanced back at Jake, who was oozing along the back edge of the bar, like the spill of something noxious, evidently ready to grab the girl if she made a run for it. Jake was too stupid to realize what Shay could see plainly in the woman’s face; she’d long since run dry, where hope was concerned. She was just trying to stay alive, and that out of habit.
    “She’s hidin’ out someplace,” the woman murmured, and her fingers dug into his arm like the talons of a sheowl. “Marshal, you’ve gotta find her before Billy does, and put her on the next stage out of here.”
    Jake was within earshot by then, and Shay knew she wasn’t going to say another word if there was a risk that he’d overhear it.
    “Belle, you just get yourself back in here,” the bartender called out. “I don’t pay you good money to stand in the doorway barrin’ my customers from comin’ in.”
    “That’s right, Jake,” Belle snapped back, with uncommon spirit. “You don’t pay me good money.” She hung on to Shay for a moment longer, then turned and sashayed over the sawdust to stand behind a trail-weary cowboy, kneading his shoulders with her strong hands. Her gaze linked hard with Shay’s, then she drew back inside herself with a harsh laugh. “This here handsome drover wants to buy me a drink, Jake. Make it whiskey, and hold the water.”
    Shay stepped outside, still turning the conversation over in his head, and nearly collided with Dorrie, out in front of the general store. When he’d told Tristan that his sisters hated him, he’d been stretching the truth a little. While Cornelia wouldn’t have spit on him if he was roasting on a stick, he and Dorrie got along just fine.She’d had a gift for stirring up scandal when she was younger, and Shay missed those entertaining days.
    “Hello, beautiful,” he said.
    She’d been scouring the display window with vinegar water and crumpled newspaper and, seeing Shay, she beamed, drew back one fist, and punched him square in the belly. Fortunately, by dint of long experience, he’d been ready. She laughed and squinted at him. “I do believe you’re sober, Shamus McQuillan,” she said. “Just wait till I tell Cornie. It will spoil her whole day.”
    Shay rolled his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t been at his best these past eighteen months or so, but he hadn’t been lying around in the gutter, either. The way folks acted—his own sister, no less—he might have spent every day of