sputtered and choked, infuriated beyond all bearing, and let loose a stream of Patch Town invective that would have given the members of the Friday Afternoon Community Improvement Club collective heart failure.
Eli sighed as the door of the suite finally gave way with a whining crash, stepped back from the side of the tub and folded his arms across his chest. His fine clothes were muddied, Bonnie was pleased to see, and behind the mockery in his golden eyes snapped a controlled rage that was better left unnoticed.
“Are you through bathing, dear?” he asked sweetly, as Forbes, Mr. Callahan and the marshal all wedged themselves into the doorway like vaudevillians in a comedy revue, their mouths agape.
Bonnie’s dignity was entirely gone. She rose from the water like an Independence Day rocket, hair and clothes dripping, makeup doubtless running down her face. She didn’t care how she looked; at that moment, her one aim in life was to tear Eli McKutchen apart with her own hands.
Her voice, as she moved toward him, was a low, throaty monotone. “You self-righteous, overbearing,
store-stealing—”
Eli stood still, unafraid, unmoved, a maddening grin curving his perfect lips, but the three rescuers backed out of the doorway, their eyes wide.
After one quick glance about, Bonnie selected the toilet brush as a weapon and it seemed to fly into her hands. Holding it baseball-bat fashion, she took a hard swing and struck Eli’s chest a bristly blow. The slight spray of water didn’t bother Bonnie, considering the sodden condition of her person, but it made Eli’s jaw tense and intensified the quiet ferocity in his eyes. With one swift motion of his hand, he wrenched the brush from her grip and flung it aside, sending it clattering against the wall.
There was a short, ominous silence as Bonnie and Eli stood facing each other, neither willing to give so much as an inch.
Forbes, apparently the bravest of the three, edged his way past Eli’s massive frame. His brown eyes laughed at Bonnie briefly before fastening themselves to the face of her oppressor. “Mr. McKutchen, if there’s anything I can do to straighten out this—er—matter—”
“You’ve done quite enough,” Eli replied, his eyes never leaving Bonnie’s face. “And don’t delude yourself, Durrant: I won’t forget the favor.”
Forbes shuddered visibly, but he was never off balance for long and he quickly recovered his obnoxious aplomb. “You seem to misunderstand the situation, Eli—Mr. McKutchen. Bonnie—Mrs. McKutchen—is a hurdy-gurdy dancer, not a—a—”
“Whore?” Eli supplied, with biting clarity.
Lacking the toilet brush, Bonnie had no recourse but to kick her estranged husband soundly in one shin. He gave a howl of pain and during that precious moment of distraction, Bonnie dodged past him, past Forbes, and fled for her life.
She ran into the hall, bathwater dripping from her hair and her clothes, her shoes sodden and squishy, and down the rear stairs, through the kitchen. There, with the cooks and serving girls staring at her in utter amazement, she paused to catch her breath and think.
She couldn’t very well go dashing through the streets in this state of disarray, and yet every moment she tarried in the Brass Eagle increased her dire risk. The thought of facing Eli McKutchen again, before he’d had time to recover his reason, was a horrifying one.
Bonnie stood on the far side of a worktable, trembling with cold and fear and fury, trying to think. If she could just reach the newspaper office and Webb Hutcheson, she would be assured of safety.
“If Forbes or—or anyone else comes in here,” Bonnie whispered, through chattering teeth, “you haven’t seen me. Do you understand that? You haven’t seen me!”
With that, spurred by a clatter in the fancy dining room beyond, Bonnie dashed out the rear door and cautiously rounded the building. Menelda and her battalion of do-gooders were gone; there was only the usual
Eli sighed as the door of the suite finally gave way with a whining crash, stepped back from the side of the tub and folded his arms across his chest. His fine clothes were muddied, Bonnie was pleased to see, and behind the mockery in his golden eyes snapped a controlled rage that was better left unnoticed.
“Are you through bathing, dear?” he asked sweetly, as Forbes, Mr. Callahan and the marshal all wedged themselves into the doorway like vaudevillians in a comedy revue, their mouths agape.
Bonnie’s dignity was entirely gone. She rose from the water like an Independence Day rocket, hair and clothes dripping, makeup doubtless running down her face. She didn’t care how she looked; at that moment, her one aim in life was to tear Eli McKutchen apart with her own hands.
Her voice, as she moved toward him, was a low, throaty monotone. “You self-righteous, overbearing,
store-stealing—”
Eli stood still, unafraid, unmoved, a maddening grin curving his perfect lips, but the three rescuers backed out of the doorway, their eyes wide.
After one quick glance about, Bonnie selected the toilet brush as a weapon and it seemed to fly into her hands. Holding it baseball-bat fashion, she took a hard swing and struck Eli’s chest a bristly blow. The slight spray of water didn’t bother Bonnie, considering the sodden condition of her person, but it made Eli’s jaw tense and intensified the quiet ferocity in his eyes. With one swift motion of his hand, he wrenched the brush from her grip and flung it aside, sending it clattering against the wall.
There was a short, ominous silence as Bonnie and Eli stood facing each other, neither willing to give so much as an inch.
Forbes, apparently the bravest of the three, edged his way past Eli’s massive frame. His brown eyes laughed at Bonnie briefly before fastening themselves to the face of her oppressor. “Mr. McKutchen, if there’s anything I can do to straighten out this—er—matter—”
“You’ve done quite enough,” Eli replied, his eyes never leaving Bonnie’s face. “And don’t delude yourself, Durrant: I won’t forget the favor.”
Forbes shuddered visibly, but he was never off balance for long and he quickly recovered his obnoxious aplomb. “You seem to misunderstand the situation, Eli—Mr. McKutchen. Bonnie—Mrs. McKutchen—is a hurdy-gurdy dancer, not a—a—”
“Whore?” Eli supplied, with biting clarity.
Lacking the toilet brush, Bonnie had no recourse but to kick her estranged husband soundly in one shin. He gave a howl of pain and during that precious moment of distraction, Bonnie dodged past him, past Forbes, and fled for her life.
She ran into the hall, bathwater dripping from her hair and her clothes, her shoes sodden and squishy, and down the rear stairs, through the kitchen. There, with the cooks and serving girls staring at her in utter amazement, she paused to catch her breath and think.
She couldn’t very well go dashing through the streets in this state of disarray, and yet every moment she tarried in the Brass Eagle increased her dire risk. The thought of facing Eli McKutchen again, before he’d had time to recover his reason, was a horrifying one.
Bonnie stood on the far side of a worktable, trembling with cold and fear and fury, trying to think. If she could just reach the newspaper office and Webb Hutcheson, she would be assured of safety.
“If Forbes or—or anyone else comes in here,” Bonnie whispered, through chattering teeth, “you haven’t seen me. Do you understand that? You haven’t seen me!”
With that, spurred by a clatter in the fancy dining room beyond, Bonnie dashed out the rear door and cautiously rounded the building. Menelda and her battalion of do-gooders were gone; there was only the usual
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