This Gun for Hire

Book 1: A McKenna Novel

by Jo Goodman

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

Former cavalryman Quill McKenna takes pride in protecting the most powerful man in Stonechurch, Colorado: Mr. Ramsey Stonechurch himself. But the mine owner has enemies, and after several threats on his life, mines, and family, Quill decides to hire someone to help guard the boss's daughter. Only problem is the uncontrollable attraction he feels toward the fiery-haired woman who takes the job.



Calico Nash has more knowledge of scouting and shooting than cross-stitching, but she agrees to pose as Ann's private tutor while protecting her. But between her growing attraction to Quill and the escalating threats against the Stonechurches, Calico will soon have a choice to make-hang on to her hard-won independence or put her faith in Quill to create the kind of happy ending she never imagined . . .

Release date: April 7, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter One

August 1888

Falls Hollow, Colorado

He watched her pause at the head of the stairs and survey the room. Her eyes swept over him and did not return. If she noticed that she had his full attention, she gave no indication. Perhaps she considered it no more than her due. Experience must have taught her that it gave a man a savoring sort of pleasure to look at her. Her pause had been deliberate, had it not? She raised one hand in a graceful, measured arc and placed it on the banister. The gesture drew his gaze away from her face. He doubted that he was alone in following it, but he glanced neither right nor left to confirm his suspicion.

She wore no gloves, no rings. Her hands needed no adornment. Her fingers were long and slender, the nails short but buffed. There was a moment, no more than that, when he could have sworn her hand tightened on the railing, gripping it hard enough for her knuckles to appear in stark, bloodless relief. Curious, his eyes lifted to her face to search for corroborating evidence that she was not quite at her ease. Nothing in her expression gave her away, and when he regarded her hand again, her fingers were merely curved over the rail, pink and perfect, and featherlight in their touch.

Quill McKenna wondered at what price she could be bought.

He had money. He had not planned to spend any of it on a whore, true, but experience had taught him that plans could, and should, change when new facts presented themselves. She was a new fact, and her presentation damn near took his breath away.

He was not entirely sure why that was so. As a rule, he preferred curves. Round breasts. Rounder bottoms. Soft, warm flesh in the cup of his palms. Also, he was drawn to blondes. Strawberry. Gold. Corn silk. Honey. Ash. Wheat. He liked a woman he could tuck under his chin. There was a certain comfort there, her being just so high that she was tuckable. Blue eyes, of course, liquid, lambent, and promising. He appreciated a woman who made promises, whether or not she intended to honor them. It kept him hopeful.

The woman standing on the lip of the uppermost step had none of the physical features that he typically admired. From face to feet, he counted more angles than curves. High cheekbones and a small pointed chin that was softened by the shadowed hint of a center cleft defined her oval face. Heavily applied lip rouge the color of ripe cherries accented the wide lush line of her mouth. Her eyes were almond shaped. He could not make out their precise color, but he doubted they were blue. Her hair, hanging loose behind her back, evoked the colors of night, not noon. Nothing about this woman was as it should be, and yet he continued to stare, knowing himself to be oddly fascinated.

With the exception of the brothel’s madam, who wore an emerald green silk gown and matching green slippers, the whores who worked for her appeared in various states of dress—or undress, as it were. Sleeveless, loose-fitting, white cotton shifts that dipped low at the neckline seemed to be preferred, and fallen straps artfully arranged around plump arms exposed naked shoulders. The women wore the shifts under tightly laced corsets to accentuate hourglass figures. Most of the whores sported ruffled knickers that they tugged above their knees. A few wore black stockings and black ankle boots. Some wore no stockings at all and red or silver kid slippers.

Quill had spent enough time in uniform to recognize one when he saw it. The woman at the top of the stairs wore a variation of the theme. The straps of her shift rested on her shoulders; perhaps because she had not yet resigned herself to the languid, lounging posture of her sisters who occupied overstuffed sofas, wide armchairs, and the laps of contented cowboys and miners.

She apparently had no use for a corset, and the shift hung straight to the middle of her calves. There was no flash of ruffle to indicate that she wore knickers. It was an intriguing notion that she might be naked under the shift, and the notion was supported by the fact that not only was she without stockings, she was also without shoes. Quill had no memory that he had ever found a barefooted woman immediately desirable, and yet . . .

Judging by the stirring in the room as the woman began her descent, he was not alone in his notions.

Quill’s gaze returned to her face, and he saw that her eyes—whatever the color—were no longer surveying the room but had found their target. He tracked the direction to the source and discovered a man of considerable height and heft standing in the brothel’s open doorway. It occurred to Quill that he might have mistaken the reason for the earlier stir in the room. It was certainly possible the madam, her girls, and her patrons had more interest in the man crossing the threshold than they had in the barefoot whore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Quill saw the madam step away from her place beside the upright piano, where she had been turning pages for one of the girls. She came into his line of vision as she approached her new guest. Quill recalled that he had been greeted warmly when he entered the house, but not by the madam. She had smiled and nodded at him, acknowledging his presence, but she had not left her post. Instead, one of the girls—whose name he never caught—relieved him of his hat and gun belt and escorted him to his present chair. Except to fetch him a whiskey, she had not left his side.

Clearly the madam had decided this customer deserved her special attention, although whether it was because he was a favorite or because of his considerable size and the potential threat it posed, Quill had no way of knowing. It occurred to him to put the question to the girl at his side, but then he became aware that her fingers were curled like talons around his forearm where they had only been resting lightly moments before. Posing the question seemed unnecessary. This man represented someone worth fearing.

The madam smiled brightly if a shade stiffly. She held out her hand for his hat and gun belt, neither of which he gave her. Her extended arm hung awkwardly before she withdrew it. She took a visible breath and then spoke. “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Whitfield. I suppose this means you heard about our new girl, the one I found especially for you.” She tilted her head ever so slightly toward the stairs.

Quill thought the gesture was unnecessary. Mr. Whitfield’s gaze had been riveted on the woman on the staircase since he entered the brothel. Quill was not convinced that Whitfield had even seen the madam’s outstretched arm or been aware that she wanted to relieve him of his gun.

“By God, you did, Mrs. Fry,” he said under his breath. “I’ll be damned.”

“You will get no argument from me.”

Quill suppressed a grin at the madam’s cheek. Mrs. Fry had spoken softly, but she was in no danger of being heard even if she had shouted the retort. Whitfield was paying her no mind.

Whitfield lifted his hat, slicked back his hair with the palm of his hand, and then replaced the black Stetson. He sucked in his lips as he took a deep breath. He had the manner of a man calming himself, a man who did not want to appear too eager or at risk for losing control.

Quill’s gaze swiveled back to the stairs. The woman was standing on the lip of the bottom step. He could see that she was not as young as she appeared from a distance. He had taken her for eighteen and no more than twenty when she appeared on the landing. He revised that notion now, adding four, maybe five years to his estimate. There was a certain maturity in her level stare, a composure that would not have been carried so easily by someone younger, or someone inexperienced. If the madam had hoped to present a virgin to Mr. Whitfield, she had very much mistaken the matter. It did not seem Mrs. Fry would have made such an obvious error. That could only mean that something else was afoot.

Quill wished he had resisted giving over his Colt. It would have been a comfort just then to have it at his side.

Whitfield’s gaze did not shift to the madam when he asked, “What’s her name?”

“Katie. Katie Nash.”

Whitfield’s lips moved as he repeated the name but there was no accompanying sound. He nodded slightly, as though satisfied it suited her, and it struck Quill that there was something inherently reverent in the small gesture.

Mrs. Fry crooked a finger in Katie’s direction. “Over here, girl, and make Mr. Whitfield’s acquaintance.”

Katie took a step forward, smiled.

Whitfield put out his hand, stopping her approach. “You don’t have to listen to her,” he said. “I’m paying for your time now. You listen to me, Miss Katie Nash, and you and I will do proper acquaintance making upstairs.”

Katie Nash stayed precisely where she was.

The madam boldly cocked a painted eyebrow at Whitfield and turned over her hand, showing her empty palm. Quill thought Mrs. Fry demonstrated considerable temerity to demand payment up front from this customer, especially when it appeared she had made some effort to please him by recruiting Katie Nash for her house. Again, he was not alone in his thinking; he was aware that the girl at his side was holding her breath.

Whitfield stared at the madam’s hand for several long moments. He had the broad shoulders and barrel chest befitting a man of his height. His chest jumped slightly as quiet laughter rumbled through him. Abruptly, it was over. He laid his large palm over Mrs. Fry’s, covering hers completely. “You must be very certain of my satisfaction.” When she did not respond, he said, “In good time, Mrs. Fry. Allow me to be the judge of how well you’ve done.” He waited for the madam to withdraw her hand before he lowered his. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes, and no one in the parlor was comforted by it.

It was Katie Nash who eased the tension. She ignored Whitfield’s earlier edict and crossed the room to stand directly in front of him. With no hesitation, she laid her palms against his chest and raised her face. Her smile held all the warmth that his had not. “About that acquaintance making . . .”

As though mesmerized, he blinked slowly.

Katie Nash’s dark, unbound hair swung softly as she tilted her head in the direction of the stairs. “I have whiskey in my room. Mrs. Fry told me what you most particularly like.”

Quill did not doubt that Miss Nash was speaking to something more than Whitfield’s taste in liquor. Whitfield seemed to know it, too. Quill almost laughed as the man nodded dumbly.

Katie’s palms slid across Whitfield’s chest to his upper arms, and after a moment’s pause, glided down to his shirt cuffs. Her long fingers were still not long enough to completely circle his wrists. She held them loosely, lifted them a fraction, and then dropped the left one in favor of taking him by the right hand. “Come with me,” she said. And when he did not move, she tugged and turned, and led him, docile as a lamb, toward the staircase.

Quill tracked them as they climbed. They were just more than three-quarters of the way up when he was seized by a sudden impulse to follow. He did not realize that he had in some way communicated that urge until he felt his companion’s outstretched arm across his chest. He glanced sideways at her, saw the small shake of her head, and released the breath he had not known he was holding. He leaned back the smallest fraction necessary to encourage her to withdraw her restraining arm. When she did, he settled more deeply in his chair, the picture of self-control and containment while every one of his senses was alert to a danger he could not quite identify.

At the top of the stairs Katie Nash and Whitfield turned left and disappeared from view. The moment they were out of sight, there was a subtle, but unmistakable, shift in the mood of the girls, their patrons, and the madam herself. The whore at the piano began playing again, softly at first, and then more loudly as her confidence grew. Someone tittered. A giggle, pitched nervously north of high C, followed. That elicited a chuckle from one of the cowboys, then some deep-throated laughter from another.

Quill did not join in, although the woman beside him did. Without asking if he wanted another drink, she plucked the empty glass from his hand and went to the sideboard to refill it. She returned quickly, a little swing in her nicely rounded hips as she approached. Standing in front of him, she held out the glass. When he took it, she eased herself onto his lap.

“So what about you?” she asked, sliding one arm around Quill’s neck as she fit her warm bottom comfortably against his thighs. “What is it I can do for you, Mr.—” She stopped and made a pouty face. “I do not believe you told me your name. I would remember.” She leaned in so her lips were close to his ear. Her warm breath tickled. “I remember names. I am very good at it.”

“I can’t say the same right now,” he said. “I don’t recall yours.”

She sat up, the pout still defining the shape of her mouth. “Honey. They call me Honey on account of my hair.” With this, she tilted her head to one side so a fall of curls cascaded over her shoulder. She fingered the tips. “See? You can touch. It feels like honey. Soft, you know. But thick, too.”

“Viscous.”

“What? Did you say vicious?”

“Viscous. Thick and sticky.”

“Oh.” Her pout disappeared in place of an uncertain smile. “I suppose.” She withdrew her fingers from her hair. A few strands clung stubbornly until she brushed them away. “I don’t figure I would mind having your fingers caught in my hair.”

“Hmm.” Quill’s eyes darted toward the top of the stairs.

Honey touched his chin with her fingertip and turned his attention back to her. “Forget about her. You have no cause to worry. Do you see anyone else here showing a lick of concern?”

He did not. There had been interest when she appeared, but it was Whitfield’s arrival that aroused apprehension. What he felt in the room now that Whitfield was gone was collective relief.

“Quill McKenna.”

“How’s that again?”

“My name. Quill McKenna.”

She smiled, tapped him on the mouth with the tip of her index finger. “I see. Finally.” She removed her finger. “Quill. It’s unusual, isn’t it? What sort of name is it?”

“Mine.” He remained expressionless as Honey regarded him steadily.

“Not much for words, are you?”

“Not much.”

His response gave rise to Honey’s husky chuckle. “That’s all right by me,” she said. “I’m thinking there’s other things we could be doing. You want to finish that drink, maybe go upstairs, have a poke at me?”

He should have wanted her, he thought. When she first approached him, he was glad of it. Honey hair, in color and texture. An abundance of curves. Lambent, cornflower blue eyes. A nicely rounded bottom that fit snugly in his lap and breasts that looked as if they would overflow the cup of his palms to the perfect degree. Spillage, but no waste. Before he saw Katie Nash, this woman would have satisfied him.

Quill finished his drink, knocking it back in a single gulp, and placed the glass on the side table. He held Honey’s eyes and jerked his chin toward the stairs. She grinned, took him by the hand as she wiggled off his lap, and Quill gave her no reason to think he did not enjoy it. She drew him to his feet, letting him bump against her before she coyly turned and led him to the steps. Giving him an over-the-shoulder glance, she released his hand and began to climb.

Quill followed until she reached the top. She went right; he went left.

“My room’s this way,” she said when she realized he was no longer behind her. Quill ignored her and she hurried after him, looping her arm through his. She tugged hard enough to pull him up. “The other way.”

“Show me where her room is.” Gaslight flickered in the narrow hallway. Shadows came and went across Honey’s troubled face as she shook her head vigorously. Quill was unmoved. “Show me.”

“No. It’s nothing but trouble for me if I do. You, too.”

“I’ll knock on every door.” He counted them quickly. “All four.”

In response, Honey doubled her efforts to hold him back by circling her other arm around his. She squeezed. “You don’t understand. You’re a stranger here. Let it be.”

Quill looked down at her restraining arms and then at her. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I will if I have to shake you off. And I will shake you off. Let me go.” He was used to being taken at his word, but she was right that he was a stranger, and so he allowed her a few extra moments to make a decision about the nature of his character. He held her gaze until he felt her arms relax, unwind, and then fall back to her sides. “Which room?” he asked quietly.

Honey tilted her head in the direction of the room on her right. “You are hell bent on makin’ trouble, aren’t you?”

Quill had no answer for that, at least not one that he cared to entertain now, so he merely shrugged. He was not surprised when Honey, clearly disappointed by his lack of response, sighed heavily.

“Go,” she said, waving him on. “But don’t ever say you weren’t—” She stopped abruptly, startled by a thud heavy enough to make the door she had pointed out shudder in its frame. A second thud, only a slightly weaker echo of the first, caused the floor to vibrate.

Quill moved quickly, pushing at the door while it was still juddering. He expected some give in it, but there was none. He looked over at Honey. She had turned toward him, hands raised, palms out, a gesture that was meant to absolve her of all responsibility and remind him he was on his own.

Behind the door, Quill could hear scuffling sounds and labored breathing. He examined the door; saw there was no lock plate, and therefore no key. He raised an eyebrow at Honey. This time she was the one who shrugged.

Quill turned the knob again and threw his shoulder into the door. It moved a fraction, but he could feel resistance on the other side. From below stairs, he heard Mrs. Fry calling for Honey. She did not hesitate to desert him to answer the summons. Once he heard Honey offer assurances to the madam, he paid no more attention to their exchange.

When Quill put his shoulder to the door again, it moved just enough for him to insert his fingers between the door and frame and provide additional leverage.

“Good way to get your knuckles crushed.”

Quill recognized the voice immediately, and nothing about it was masculine. He withdrew his fingers.

“Very wise.”

Katie Nash did not show herself in the narrow opening, but neither did she close it. Quill did not know what to make of that. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“No one’s holding a gun to my head, if that’s what you mean.”

He wondered if that were true. He heard some more scuffling, a husky moan, and then . . . nothing. He glanced down the hallway and saw that Honey was no longer standing at the top of the stairs. He waited several long beats before he pushed at the door a third time.

The response he got for his effort was, “What do you want?”

“In.”

“I am with someone.”

“I know.”

“I do not entertain two men at one time.” A brief pause. “Unless they are brothers. I believe I would make an exception for brothers.”

“Winfield is my brother.”

“His name is Whitfield.”

“That’s his last name. Winfield’s his first.”

“Uh-huh.”

Her dry response raised Quill’s smile. He was coming around to the notion that she was just fine, but before he quite got there, he heard her swear softly. This was followed by another thud against the door, this one hard enough to shut it in his face. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, and twisted the knob and pushed.

This time he was met with little resistance, which made his entrance ungainly as he more or less fell over himself crossing the threshold. He stumbled clumsily past the woman he meant to save.

“That’s one way to do it,” she said, not sparing him a glance as she pushed the door closed behind him.

Quill straightened, regaining his equilibrium if not his dignity, and turned. He was glad she did not look up as astonishment had momentarily made him slack-jawed. She was kneeling at Mr. Whitfield’s side, testing the ropes that trussed that former tree of a man into something more closely resembling a stump. He lay awkwardly and uncomfortably curled on his side by virtue of the fact that his wrists and ankles were now bound behind him. His sweat-stained neckerchief was wadded in his mouth, secured by a piece of linen that Quill recognized as a strip torn from the hem of Katie Nash’s shift.

He watched her place a hand on Whitfield’s shoulder, shake him hard enough to rattle his teeth if he had not been gagged and unconscious, and then, apparently satisfied, raise herself so she could rock back on her heels and finally turn narrowed eyes on him.

“Well,” he said. “So it’s true.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “What’s true?”

“The ropes and gag. My brother’s proclivities in the bedroom run to the peculiar.” He thought she might smile, but she didn’t. She continued to stare at him, more suspicious than curious.

“I was concerned about you,” he said.

“Can’t think of a reason why that should be so.”

“Just now, neither can I.” Quill’s gaze darted to Whitfield and then to the clothes scattered across the floor. His gun belt hung over the headboard. The man certainly had been eager. She had managed to subdue him while he was still wearing his union suit, but even that was unbuttoned to the navel. Whitfield had a chest of hair like a grizzly. His cock was a small bulge pressing weakly against the front flap of his drawers. It occurred to Quill that stumbling through a door was a lesser indignity than being laid low with a cock curled in on itself like a slug.

When Quill’s attention returned to her, his eyebrows beetled as he scratched lightly behind his right ear. “I admit to being a tad perplexed.”

She stood, hands at her sides. “A tad?”

“A touch. A mite. A bit.”

“I know what ‘a tad’ means.”

“Good. It’s better if I don’t have to explain.”

“Words I live by.” She pointed to Whitfield. “You want to give me a hand, you being here and all? Uninvited, for a fact.”

“Depends. Are you going to drop him out the window?”

“A temptation, but no. Help me get him on the bed and then tell Mrs. Fry she can send for Joe Pepper. He’s the sheriff.”

“All right.” He observed that his agreement seemed to make her more suspicious, not less. “Did you expect an argument?”

She said nothing for a moment then her cheeks puffed with an expulsion of air. “Not sure what I expect. You’re not a bounty hunter, are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“That’s no good,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“How’s that again?”

“I said it’s no good. You would lie about it if you were.”

“Lying doesn’t come naturally to me. I have to work real hard at it.”

“Are you working hard now?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Katie,” she said. “Call me Katie.”

“I don’t think that’s your name.” If he had not been watching her closely, he would have missed her almost imperceptible start. It pleased him that he had guessed correctly, though he took pains not to show it.

“You were sitting beside Honey downstairs. I saw you. You heard Mrs. Fry tell Whit my name.”

“I heard what she said. I am no longer certain I believe it.”

“I can’t be responsible for what you believe. Call me Katie or nothing at all. Now, you take his shoulders while I get his feet.”

It was no easy task hoisting the man she called Whit, so they dragged and carried and dragged some more, and heaved him onto the bed together. Whit made unintelligible guttural sounds but never woke up.

“He’s a big one,” Quill said. “What did you use to put him down?” When she did not answer, he surveyed the room again, overlooking the scattered clothes and gun belt this time. His eyes fell on the whiskey bottle on the bedside table and the twin tumblers beside it. Only one of the tumblers still had whiskey in it. “Remind me not to drink from that bottle.”

“Suit yourself.” She picked up the glass that held a generous finger of liquor and knocked it back. Smiling ever so slightly, she replaced the tumbler on the table.

Eyeing the bottle again, Quill said, “I don’t suppose he is worth laying a bottle of good whiskey to waste, not when you can drop chloral hydrate into his drink.”

She gave him no direct response, pointing to the door instead. “You are supposed to tell Mrs. Fry about getting Joe Pepper.”

“Right. The sheriff.” His eyes darted briefly to Whitfield. “He’s going to come around soon, a big man like that. Will you be—” He did not finish his sentence because she gave him a withering look. “I am going now.”

Quill did not have an opportunity to close the door; she closed it for him. He had not yet taken two steps when he heard the telltale sounds of a chair banging against the door and then being fitted securely under the knob. Shaking his head, he went in search of Mrs. Fry and discovered that the twin parlors on the first floor were largely deserted.

Honey, he saw, had found another lap to warm. He meant to give her a wide berth, but she put out a hand to stop him when he would have walked by. “If you’re looking for Mrs. Fry, she’s gone for the sheriff herself. I warned you not to interfere.”

He frowned. “What are you saying? She’s not bringing the sheriff here for me.”

“You certain about that?”

“He’s coming for Whitfield.”

Honey shrugged, dropping her hand. “Two birds. One stone.”

Quill looked to Honey’s companion for confirmation, but the lanky cowboy had his face in the curve of her neck and was rooting like a piglet to his mama’s teat. He regarded Honey’s guileless expression and wondered what he could believe. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “I’ll take my chances.”

She merely smiled and ruffled her cowboy’s hair. “Upstairs, lover. You can nuzzle at your leisure.”

Quill stood back as the pair got to their feet. He watched Honey pull her cowboy along just as she had pulled on him. It was as choreographed a move as any he had seen in a Chicago dance hall, and while he could appreciate, even admire, the practice needed to acquire the skill that made such moments appear spontaneous, he had a deeper regard for those moments between a man and a woman that were spontaneous.

He turned away before Honey and her new partner reached the stairs. No one was at the piano. The brothel was as quiet as it had been when Whit came calling. He approached a pair of whores drinking beer in a dark corner of the main parlor. Although they looked up when he came upon them, neither gave an indication they welcomed his attention. Just the opposite was true. Their expressions were identically sullen.

“Mrs. Fry,” he said. “Where can I find her?” At first, Quill thought they did not mean to answer him, but then they traded glances, shrugged simultaneously, and pointed to the front door.

“She’s really gone for Joe Pepper?” he asked.

They nodded, and the one with a drooping green velvet ribbon in her hair was moved to add, “Had to, what with you causin’ such a fuss. The menfolk that took off kicked up dust like stampeding cattle. You cost us some earnings there.”

The whore who wore a cameo pendant around her neck said, “