“Of course.” She held on to his arm and led him to one of the tables. As the three of them sat down, she nodded toward Lorenzo and asked, “Who is your amigo?”
“I ain’t his slave, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” Lorenzo said.
Juanita shook her head. “Preacher is not the sort of man who would keep another in bondage. I can tell the two of you are friends.”
“His name’s Lorenzo,” Preacher said. “He’s kind of a cantankerous old codger, but he’s handy to have around ever’ now and then.”
Lorenzo snorted. “Saved your bacon more’n once, I seem to recall.”
Preacher didn’t argue about that. Instead he turned to Juanita and said, “You’re lookin’ as pretty as ever, darlin’.” His compliments still had the power to make her blush with pleasure, he noted.
She said, “Of course I’m glad to see you, Preacher, but what brings you to Santa Fe?”
“I need a place to stay, Juanita.”
“With me,” she replied instantly. “Do not even think about arguing.”
Preacher chuckled. “I wasn’t intendin’ to. Reckon you can find a bed for Lorenzo, too?”
“Of course. You can both stay as long as you like. At least a month. It will take that long for my cooking to fatten you up and make you healthy again.”
Preacher’s mouth watered a little at the memory of all the savory vittles Juanita had fixed for him in the past. Beans and tortillas, strips of beef, and the peppers . . . Lord, the peppers! There was nothing like them to get a man’s vital juices stirring. Juanita was right. A month of her cooking would put him back on his feet again, good and proper. Washed down with plenty of tequila, of course.
“I can’t tell you how good that sounds, darlin’,” he said, “but there’s something else I need to take care of first.”
She heard the edge in his voice. She frowned again as she said, “Trouble. That’s what you mean.”
“You’re right,” Preacher admitted. “I’m lookin’ for an hombre.”
“A man you intend to kill.”
Juanita’s words were a statement, not a question, but Preacher inclined his head in agreement anyway.
She looked at Lorenzo and asked, “If you’re his friend, have you not told him that he is no shape to be seeking a battle?”
“I reckon you’ve knowed him longer’n I have, ma’am,” Lorenzo said. “You think it does any good to tell Preacher anything?”
She sighed. “Not really. Not once his mind is made up.” She looked at Preacher again. “So tell me, who is this evil man whose life you wish to end?”
“How do you know he’s evil?” Preacher asked.
“Because if he wasn’t, you would not want to kill him. Despite all the rough edges, you are a good man, Arturo.”
Lorenzo looked across the table and raised his eyebrows as he repeated, “Arturo?”
“Never you mind about that,” Preacher snapped. He had told Juanita the name he’d been born with—Arthur— and sometimes she called him Arturo in bed. It was the first time she had used it anywhere else. He went on, “The fella I’m lookin’ for is named Garity. I never heard his first name.”
He went on to describe the outlaw while Juanita nodded slowly. He told her about how Garity and the other thieves had attacked the wagon train twice, how they had tortured him, how Garity had escaped during the battle with the bear and evidently taken Casey with him. Juanita’s eyes widened in amazement as she listened.
“Dios mio, Preacher,” she said when he was finished, “how can one man get into so much trouble?”
“That’s what I been askin’ myself for a long time now,” Preacher growled. “Seems like some of us are just born to it.”
“And now you want my help finding this man Garity and the woman he has with him? Who is this Casey to you?”
“A friend,” Preacher replied honestly. She had been more than that to him for a while. That was over, but he still cared for her, and wanted to help her. “She’s been through a lot in her life, and whatever’s happenin’ to her now, she don’t deserve it.”
Juanita thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “You say Garity might have taken her to a house of ill repute?”
“More than likely. He’s probably stayin’ there himself while that busted arm of his heals up.”
“I don’t know every whorehouse in Santa Fe, you know. I run a respectable establishment here.”
Calling that cantina respectable was stretching the definition a mite, Preacher thought, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “You know a lot of people, though. I figured you could put the word out, quiet-like. Let folks know you’re interested in findin’ out if an hombre with a busted wing and a pretty young blonde has showed up in town lately, and if they have, you want to know where they’re stayin’. Don’t say anything except to people you trust. I don’t want word gettin’ back to Garity that I’m lookin’ for him. He don’t need to know I’m in Santa Fe . . . until I’m ready for him to know.”
Juanita nodded. “I will help you, Preacher,” she said. “But then you have to let me take care of you until you are well again.”
“It’s a deal,” Preacher said. “If I’m still alive.”
Juanita glared at him. “You had damned well better be!”
