Elspeth had almost forgotten the Russian was in the coach. Now she saw he had been drinking in Patrick Delaney’s words with an avid thirst that was faintly repulsive.
It was clearly repulsive to Patrick Delaney as well. “No, Dom’s not wanted by the law any longer. He was given a full pardon by the governor five months ago.” He lowered his voice to a dangerous softness. “And questions regarding a man’s past aren’t encouraged out here, Marzonoff. If you want to stay healthy, you’d better observe our primitive customs.”
For a moment Marzonoff actually appeared indignant. Then he smiled ingratiatingly. “I meant no offence. I admire you westerners very much. You bear a resemblance to the Cossacks of my own country. My cousin, Nicholas, is related on his mother’s side to Igor Dabol, the most powerful tribal leader in the steppes.”
“How interesting,” Delaney said politely. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.” He looked down and Elspeth noted a gleam of pure mischief in his hastily averted eyes. “We Delaneys have a few well-known relatives ourselves. Have you ever heard of the James brothers? Jesse and Frank?”
Marzonoff’s eyes widened. “Jesse James?”
“Cousins,” Delaney said. “On my mother’s side, of course.” He was scrupulously keeping his gaze from Marzonoff’s rapt face. “And then there’s old Joaquin Murrietta. You might say he’s the patriarch of the California branch of the Delaney clan. Of course, I guess Uncle Bill is probably more famous.”
“Bill?” Marzonoff was almost stammering with excitement.
“Bill Hickok. However, there are those who say he’s more infamous than famous. But not to his face. Uncle Bill is very careful of his good name.”
“Wild Bill Hickok,” the Russian repeated dazedly.
“And the Daltons and the Youngers are second cousins on my…” Delaney trailed off and Elspeth saw his shoulders begin to shake, though his expression was still bland. She was forced to smother a laugh herself.
Patrick Delaney’s voice was a little choked as he continued. “I think I’ll take a little snooze. All that walking has made me plumb weary.” He put on his stetson and tipped it over his eyes, ignoring Marzonoff’s obvious disappointment. “I’m afraid I’m not as rough and tough as my kinfolk.”
Elspeth didn’t know about his toughness but she was sure the young rascal could far outpace his “relatives” in sheer deviltry.
She settled back on the seat, shifting her gaze between the two young men opposite her. They were a strange blend of contrasts and similarities. The plump Russian was the older, she judged, close to her own age of twenty- two years. His fine city clothing should have given him the advantage of inner confidence over the auburn-haired cowboy, but such was not the case. Patrick’s tight denim trousers were shabby, his brown shirt and tan suede vest dusty, and his black stetson was sun-faded in spots. Yet his wide shoulders and narrow hips, the careless grace of his strong body, gave his attire an elegance Andre Marzonoff could never hope to bring to his clothing. Patrick’s speech was puzzling. His words sounded as educated and cultured as any of her father’s students, and yet they were flavored by a lazy and quite unusual drawl. This young Delaney was something of an enigma, she thought.
She glanced out the window. The Santa Catalina mountains were very beautiful but as stark and rugged as the rest of this wild country. How different they were from the mist-shrouded mountains of her native land. She shifted restlessly, suddenly tired of the scenery. She felt as if she had traveled years instead of weeks since she had left Edinburgh. She was growing terribly impatient now that she was so close to her objective. Her gaze returned to Patrick Delaney, and a tiny smile lifted the corners of her lips. She closed her own eyes and tried to relax.
The young cowboy was a complete scoundrel. Her father would have disapproved of both his attitude and his background, yet she was delighted to have his assistance when she arrived in Hell’s Bluff. Her smile brodened. Yes, she was perfectly delighted.
Dominic Delaney moved with utmost care down the carpeted stairs. His head felt as if it were being struck by the sharp point of a miner’s pick with every step. He stiffened the muscles of his neck as well as his entire upper body in an attempt to keep that blasted hammer at bay.
Red. Damn, why did Rina have to have such a fondness for red? Why didn’t she listen when he pointed out to her that a whorehouse didn’t necessarily have to look like a whorehouse. The flowered paper on the walls of the foyer was garish and rolled before his eyes as if he were seasick.
The front door opened and he flinched as slanted rays of afternoon sunlight hit him squarely in the eyes. He squinted against the glare and recognized the tall, familiar silhouette framed in the doorway. It didn’t improve his temper. “Shut the goddamn door,” he said in a growl as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Are you trying to blind me?”
“Sorry.” Patrick’s voice was cheerful as he entered the foyer and closed the door. “You look like hell. You ought to stick to singles if you don’t have the stamina for Rina’s little games. You’re not as young as you used to be, you know.”
“I’m young enough to take on a runny-nosed kid who doesn’t know better than to smart off to a man in my condition.” Dominic turned away and walked slowly down the corridor toward the kitchen. “And it wasn’t Rina or her games, as you call them. It was the whiskey. Lord, I’ve got to get a cup of coffee. What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were going back to Killara.” He turned his head too quickly and cursed softly as pain stabbed his temples and behind his eyes. He gave Patrick a sour look. “Don’t think you’re going to stay in Hell’s Bluff. A Saturday-night spree now and then is all right, but whorehouses and saloons are no good for a man in the long haul.”
Patrick’s lips quirked. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble to furnish me with proof of the wages of sin.”
“You go back to Killara tomorrow,” Dominic said flatly.
“If you’re so convinced Hell’s Bluff is the road to destruction, why don’t you come with me to Killara?” Patrick met Dominic’s gaze. The laughter had vanished from his face. “Come home, Dom. Why do you think Gran-da doesn’t give me hell for coming up here so often? He wants word of you. More, he wants you to come home, where you belong.”
Dominic averted his eyes and felt an ache somewhere within him that had nothing to do with his overindulgence of the previous night. Belonged. How long had it been since he’d belonged anywhere as he once had belonged at Killara? There had been times during the last nine years when he’d missed his home with a ferocity that had been sheer torture. “Someday.”
“When, Dom?” Patrick asked softly. “You’re not on the run any longer. You love Killara. Maybe more than anyone but Gran-da. Times aren’t good now. Killara needs you.”
Dom flinched as if he’d been struck. “And whose fault is it that times aren’t good? For God’s sake, I’ve practically destroyed Killara. Do you want me to come back and finish the job? You know damn well why I can’t come back to the ranch. Now drop it, Patrick.”
“Dom, I-” Patrick broke off and slowly shook his head. “You’re wrong. You’re a Delaney. You know we protect our own.” He paused. “Gran-da just wants you home.”
Dominic’s lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “And what if protecting me ends with Cort or Sean or you dead or shot up? Will he want me then?”
“Yes,” Patrick said. “I think you know that, Dom.”
Yes, he knew his father wouldn’t count the cost when it came to any member of his family. It made the situation all the more painful. “Well, I’m not about to let any of you pay that kind of a price. I’ve cost Killara too much.” He violently pushed open the door to the kitchen.
Li Tong turned away from the stove with a wide smile as they came into the room, took one look at Dominic’s face, and nodded shrewdly. “Coffee,” he said with certainty, and hurried toward the cupboard, his pigtail bouncing. “Sit down, Mr. Delaney. I get.”
Dominic dropped into the wooden chair at the large round table covered in blue-checked gingham. He gave Patrick a sardonic glance. “Tell Da I’m doing fine. Who could ask for anything more? I make a decent living playing poker at the Nugget. I can sleep all day and spend most of the night pleasing myself.”
Li Tong placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of Dominic and looked inquiringly at Patrick. When Patrick shook his head he moved silently across the large room toward the large woodburning stove.
Dominic deliberately changed the subject. “Speaking of pleasure, how did you like Dulcie?”
“Very talented,” Patrick said, his thoughts still far away from the playful redhaired strumpet who had shared his bed the night before. Then his frown disappeared as he grinned at Dominic. “Maybe you ought to try her. You
