Fancy That | Part One
“I can’t wait to take a bath,” Danneel says. Her voice is the first thing Jensen has heard for ten miles besides the clop-clop of shoed hooves on the packed-dirt trail and the occasional shout from the coachmen calling out to one another.
“A real one,” she clarifies unnecessarily as she reaches up to twirl a stray curl that’s tickling her ear. The rest of her sunset-colored locks are wrapped and pinned at the back of her head with small combs. “Preferably in a copper tub, with lavender soap. Or rose petals. I’m not choosy.”
She certainly is, but Jensen doesn’t correct her; their private coach is small and Danneel’s reach is impressive. She can afford to be particular, but why would she bother spending her own money when the West is teeming with men willing to part with coin to earn her favor? Jensen, on the other hand, treats himself with his own money. Men are welcome to buy him drinks or petty trinkets, but he’d never tell a stranger about the things he truly wants.
The sway of the coach has lulled Jensen into a restful state where the miles pass like birds soaring over the grasslands. Shaded mountains on the horizon have given way to the gently rolling hills over which they’re winding, gradually traveling further west. To the south, Jensen knows there’s a railroad being built, its metal arms crawling closer to the Pacific Ocean every day, and in its path, homesteads become settlements; settlements become outposts; outposts become towns.
Towns are what they want. Some are still too rough around the edges. J.D. Morgan-the owner of their little travelling show-does his best to steer the caravan around those, unwilling to risk his livelihood against cowherds and lawless gunslingers in places where gravestones outnumber townsfolk. Others consider themselves too civilized for Morgan’s brand of entertainment. Jensen has no idea where they’re heading now, but he trusts the boss; Morgan always knows which towns are ripe for a show.
Mild morning sun slants through the windows of the stagecoach, but Jensen and Danneel sit beyond its reach. Sun-weathered skin, or freckles in Jensen’s case, is for farmers and ranch hands. Morgan’s customers want to see soft, linen-white skin-the more, the better-and smooth, unblemished shoulders. But if the next competition isn’t for a week or more, the first thing Jensen does is spend a morning riding shot-gun on one of the coaches, forearms bare and chin tilted towards the sky. Perhaps he would even convince Misha to saddle one of the spare horses for him, and ride away a long day on the trail. Through careful practice, Jensen has been able to train the natural bowleggedness out of his gait, but one good day of riding would bring it right back.
“What are you looking forward to?”
Jensen blinks, coming out of his musings. “A real bed,” he says, “with feather pillows and a quilt that doesn’t smell like a horse’s rear end.”
“Someone to share it with, perhaps?” Danneel winks before looking down at the lace glove she’s been halfheartedly trying to mend for the last hour.
“Certainly not a requirement.”
Jensen reaches over and takes the glove and needle out of Danneel’s hands. She sighs and leans back as he begins repairing the seam between the thumb and forefinger. She’s rubbish with the mending, but Jensen’s never met a better cook or card player.
It’s not that he’s opposed to the kind of companionship she’s implying, but he’s grown weary of the men in these two-horse towns. The attention is always welcome-he wouldn’t have a job without it-but he never gets more than one night.
True, Jensen rarely wants more than that with the men he chooses to take to bed, though there have been a handful he wouldn’t have minded seeing when he woke up the next morning. Those are the only partners Jensen bothers to remember. He can recall the way one of them, a well-dressed railroad financier, touched his bare hip. Whisper-soft, the way Jensen imagines running his hand through a cloud would feel. With another, a ranch foreman with deep blue eyes, it was the manner in which he undressed Jensen, each item treated delicately, as if he’d never handled such fine fabric.
Jensen’s been surviving on scraps, mere pieces of what he really wants.
“Stop it.”
“Hmm?”
“You’re too melancholy,” Danneel says. “Picture sleeping in a hotel tonight. Fresh linens-”
“Meat that isn’t roasted on a stick,” Jensen adds.
“A game of poker with actual money at stake!”
Jensen smiles. “Has winning against our boys gone sour?”
“Misha bets with horse feed and apples- “
“So give those to me,” Jensen says. “I love apples.”
“And Ty wagers bullets.”
“Those can come in handy.” Jensen hands the glove back to Danneel. She inspects the seam before snipping off the tail of the thread with the dainty pearl-handled knife Jensen gave her last winter. “I’m sure you’ll make them earn their losses back.”
Danneel smirks, leaning into the sunlight for a moment. She looks beautiful bathed in the warm glow. Jensen likes her better this way, without the painted lips or rouged cheeks, no restrictive corset or delicate stockings. In the dusty miles between towns, the entire troupe is able to relax, Morgan included. No pressure to perform, no false charms.
Despite long, dusty days on the trail and never knowing where he’ll lay his head down at night, Jensen doesn’t mind life on the road. The journey has been strange and wonderful, seemingly never-ending. It’s not always enjoyable, but he’s grateful for the people who share it with him. Danneel and Morgan, the eccentric horse-hand Misha, even their gun-hand Ty and the rest of their company hold special places in Jensen’s heart.
Without them, Jensen doesn’t know what his lot would be. The way his life was heading when Morgan found him, it’s a good bet he would’ve ended up poor, alone, or worse.
Jensen turns his thoughts around before Danneel calls him out on his melancholy once again. It’s of no use dwelling on what ifs and might have beens. Instead, Jensen finds comfort in the peacefulness of the moment, in the sway and roll of the stage and the cries of the prairie birds flying above, and the promise of new adventures that await them.
~~~
J.D. Morgan has been selling entertainment since he was fifteen years old and taking tickets for a Paris-inspired revue in Kansas City. When he grew tired of making money for other men, he set out on his own with seventy-five dollars and a head full of ideas.
Years later, luck brought him to Jensen.
By then, Morgan had earned himself a reputation for staging the best shows money could buy. He was in Texas to court a pair of wealthy men out of whom he hoped to wring a sizeable investment. Morgan soured on the notion when he found out what the men considered to be entertainment.
The place was nicknamed Coates’ Town after the man who ran it. William Coates, a friend to the local ranchers, had set up his camp in a sweet little valley along one of the East Texas trade roads where he offered diversions for any traveler willing to pay. Prostitutes, gambling, and liquor-Coates welcomed customers with a bright smile that hid the darker side of the business.
While Morgan shared a bottle of whiskey with his potential investors and watched the colorfully and provocatively dressed girls and boys wooing Coates’ customers, his gaze was drawn to one boy in particular who was carrying bottles to the bar and removing the empties. Mistaking Morgan’s interest, his potential investors slipped Coates enough money to ensure the boy’s appearance at their table.
When the boy approached, skinny hands wringing together in front of his stomach, Morgan saw that he was indeed beautiful, drawing attention from all corners of the main tent. However, as he came closer, Morgan noticed his hollow gaze and bony elbows, bluish bruises around his arms and throat. Whoever this boy was, he was clearly underfed and mistreated.
He timidly introduced himself as Jensen.
Playing along, because he suspected any refusal would be taken out on the poor boy’s hide, Morgan escorted Jensen to an empty tent despite the shudders that wracked his narrow shoulders. After swearing that he had no intention of harming Jensen or taking advantage, Morgan asked what brought him to Coates’ Town.
Jensen hadn’t been gifted with an easy childhood. The fever claimed both his parents before he was ten years old. His grandmother tried her best to school him, but a bad winter took her, too. Without family, Jensen had to steal and scrounge in order to survive. It wasn’t a terrible way to live, unless he got caught. And when Jensen was fourteen, he got caught by the wrong people.
The men from whom he’d attempted to pilfer a few coins turned out to be thieves themselves, and they recognized the opportunity in Jensen’s plush lips and wide, innocent eyes. They brought him to Coates who in turn acted the part of magnanimous benefactor. Coates graciously repaid the men once Jensen offered to work off his debt through menial labor at the camp.
At least, that’s what Coates told Jensen.
Morgan knew the truth. It was obvious given how easily Coates agreed to let Morgan’s businessmen buy the boy for his pleasure. He enjoyed beautiful things, but the thought of hurting Jensen turned Morgan’s stomach. He couldn’t spend another minute in Coates’ Town, but he refused to leave Jensen behind.
He lost his investors, but there was plenty more money out there, he claimed, and after settling Jensen’s remaining debt with Coates (with guns drawn but no bullets fired), the two of them were off.
Fearful he’d traded one master for another, Jensen was wary of Morgan’s plans despite his gratefulness. Jensen was well aware of the way the camp worked-with interest, he’d never be able to repay what he owed Coates-and it was only a matter of time until he would have been forced to prostitute himself like the others instead of earning his keep carrying crates and cleaning up after the horses. The day he met J.D. Morgan was the first time someone had paid Coates money for him, and though he wasn’t opposed to the idea of warming a man’s bed, Jensen wanted to have a choice.
His doubts lingered until Morgan took him to New Orleans where he was introduced to the Bourbon Beauty, Danneel, at a well-known brothel in the city. She took one look at Jensen, then nearly sixteen years old, threw her arms around him, and nearly caused him to choke on a cloud of vanilla perfume.
It was Danneel who introduced Jensen to the art of seduction. In the brothel, he learned how to pleasure others and satisfy his own desires at the same time. It was there that Jensen learned who he truly was.
When Morgan returned to New Orleans with a proposition for the two of them, they didn’t refuse. Jensen can’t remember who said yes first, but neither was willing to let the other seek fortune and adventure alone.
Their trio was forged, and the West was waiting.
~~~
The caravan comes to a stop well past midday atop a low, grassy mesa. Morgan appears outside their coach wearing a smile for his two beauties.
“I’ve heard good things about this town,” he tells Jensen and Danneel. “The railroad hasn’t quite made it through these parts yet, but it’s growing. There are still a few big cattle ranches in the area, too,” Morgan adds with a raised brow.
Ranches mean ranch hands, a whole slew of them. Seeing that it’s Friday afternoon, those boys will be heading into town with a week’s pay in their pockets, eager for any excuse to spend their coin. Liquor, gambling, a pretty girl…it hardly matters, but Morgan will have their troupe pulling in just in time to provide another option.
No one can claim that J.D. Morgan doesn’t know what he’s doing. The reputation he’d carried when he met Jensen has only gained momentum over the years. Jensen is proud of the small part he’s played in Morgan’s success.
“Think you two can be ready within the hour?” Morgan glances at his Sterling pocket watch. “I’m sending Cain ahead to check things out, but I’m aiming to hit town before the cattle boys are too drunk to understand what I’m saying.”
“Before they’ve spent all their money on whiskey,” Danneel adds, pulling her satchel onto the seat. “Don’t worry, sugar, we’ll be ready.”
“You always are.” With a wink, Morgan’s gone to check on the rest of his company. No doubt making sure that Stephen, J.D.’s best rider, and his mustang Arrow are ready to show off their racing skills, and that Stephen’s cousin Robbie is sober enough to lasso a few railposts. He’ll ask Misha if the rest of the horses are fit enough for the exhibition and consult with Sheppard, a sour-faced man hailing from across the Atlantic Ocean.
Mark Sheppard is the only person Morgan trusts (beyond himself) with the troupe’s money. Though he might consider trusting Jensen and Danneel as well if they wanted to bother learning the books. Sheppard has his own system of accounting, not to mention he becomes rather prickly if another else tries to interfere, but he’s nothing if not loyal to Morgan.
“Are you wearing the red or the teal?” Danneel asks.
“Teal,” Jensen says. He pulled his satin corset and matching skirt from his trunks that morning.
“Saving the red for a special occasion?”
“Perhaps.”
Jensen and Danneel have perfected this routine over the years, learning to make do without proper accommodations. Hotel suites, backrooms, wagon beds, and shaded groves have all served as dressing rooms. The two of them act as mirrors for each other as they trade ordinary travel garments for richer silks and delicate lace.
Danneel’s nimble fingers are able to cinch Jensen into his corset faster than anyone else. Once he’s laced in, Jensen returns the favor. Her cornflower blue corset is trimmed in ivory lace, gold satin bows sitting over her hips. More lace caps her narrow shoulders, and fine, gold stitching runs the length of the corset from bust to bottom, complimenting the layered gold and ivory ruffles of her skirt.
Each of them owns the finest powders and creams money can buy. Morgan spares no expense. He’ll purchase the finest fabrics, horses, firearms; he views everything as an investment.
There’s fine talc perfumed with the loveliest fragrances from Paris; iridescent powder made from crushed pearls to soften their complexion and make their cheeks glow. Jensen uses more on his face than Danneel, thanks to his freckles, because no amount of scrubbing with buttermilk, lemon, and sugar has bleached the sun sprinkles across the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks.
For the final touches, the best crème rouge imported by one of J.D.’s numerous associates on the East coast highlights their cheekbones in a healthy way. They use pencils made of dyed beeswax to darken the tops of their eyelids and shadow the corners of their eyes with burnt cork spread using fine, sable brushes.
After approving one another’s appearance, Danneel sees to her pinned, wet-set curls while Jensen removes his prized wig from its box.
Last night after setting up camp on the trail, Jensen treated the strands with golden oil, brushed through until they shone in the firelight. He pinned each section carefully before setting it aside for the rest of the night. Now he removes each pin and ribbon and lets the soft waves free around his fingers. Without the aid of a looking glass, Danneel helps him settle the wig over his hair, which has been slicked back and flattened with thinned wax.
They’ve just finished adjusting their stockings and preparing their headpieces when Morgan raps his knuckles on the side of the coach. “Nearly ready?”
Caught tickling Danneel’s shoulder with a plume of teal feathers, Jensen quickly pulls his hand back. “We’ll be through by the time we hit town.”
“Fine,” Morgan says, sliding his gaze away from Danneel’s stocking-covered feet. “Cain’s back from scouting. This town’s got two hotels and a few saloons of varied repute. No shortage of card tables-seems folks around here appreciate games of chance.” His dark eyes are bright, eager. “I want to showcase everything,” he continues. “This is the biggest town for more than fifty miles. We can make enough here to head to California for a longer stay.”
That is a fine tune for Jensen’s ears. He’s wanted to see the Pacific Ocean since hearing stories as a boy, often dreaming of white-capped surf and long tracks of warm sand. Sometimes men would come through Coates’ Town telling tales of California, and young Jensen quickly became enamored with the idea of someday escaping to the western coastline.
“Go on then.” Danneel shoos their boss. “Let us finish up.”
Morgan slaps the door and grins. “You two look beautiful already. I’ll go tell Misha to get us moving again.”
Danneel can’t sit still once they’re underway. Jensen knows that she’s looking forward to the first night in a new town. He’s never met anyone as capable of reading a room the way Danneel can, using her intelligence and experience to single out the biggest purses in the room. Not necessarily the boastful men playing cards in all their finery like peacocks (those are the easy targets), but the hidden gems as well.
It’s more difficult for Jensen. There will always be men whose tastes favor Jensen’s form over Danneel’s whether they make their interest known or not, and he has no doubt he’ll be able to charm them into putting money down on the exhibitions. Jensen will smile and enjoy the thrill of the competitions, putting on the same act he always does.
Danneel can have whoever she chooses; Jensen hardly walks with that kind of luck.
In the haven of his daydreams, Jensen imagines meeting a kind and handsome stranger who’s spellbound by his performance but even more captivated by the man beneath the illusion.
Jensen’s musings are a far cry from the reality he faces. Experience has taught him that the less his lovers see of the man is really is, the better they treat him. Few are cruel, but most of the men Jensen sleeps with would prefer not to look beyond the soft curls of his wig, the painted blush on his cheeks.
The longer he goes without meeting a man with whom he can truly connect, the harder it is for Jensen to hang onto his cheerful disposition. There are times when Jensen wishes he could leave the trappings of his act in his trunks, work with Misha and the horses, or patrol the town with Ty while he listens to the Southerner tell tales of growing up on the bayou.
But J.D. needs him, and that’s enough for Jensen to set aside his daydreams and put on the best show he can, flirting with any man whose gaze lingers a little too long on his cinched-in waist. At the very least, he can look forward to a warm bath and a night off the trail.
~~~
They hit town just as the sun begins drawing her golden cloak over the horizon. The oil lamps have been lit outside the saloons, dancing red and orange flames welcoming passerby in for a drink. The two competing hotels have tried to upstage one another with brightly decorated windows and inviting music.
As Stephen gathers the riders and Sheppard hands out posters for his runners to hang around town, Morgan directs his beauties to a saloon on the corner.
“Go on and dazzle them,” he instructs with a smile. “I’ll be right behind you.”
From the street, this saloon is indistinguishable from the many others Jensen has visited: swinging doors, chipped scrollwork paint on the windows, and the smell of rye reaching the boardwalk out front. It’s noisy already-the cattle hands must’ve ridden in early, meaning they’ll be good and loose for Morgan’s introduction.
Nothing Jensen can see sets this saloon apart from others in nameless towns across the frontier. But he ought to know better; it’s what’s on the inside that truly matters.
Jensen singles him out as soon as he walks into the saloon alongside Danneel.
The man is slim with a brooding brow. He stands belly-up to the dusty bar, a doe-colored duster falling just shy of his ankles. There are no spurs on his well-cared for boots, and there is a faded cavalry hat slung between his broad shoulders, letting the weak sunlight touch on his sweat-matted hair. Even from the door, Jensen can see how long Slim’s brown hair is. Jensen owns a pearl-handled comb; his fingers are suddenly itching to draw its teeth through those strands until they’re touchable and soft. Maybe wrap it around his fingers after a hot bath while it’s wet and shining…
There’s a woosh of air as the batwing doors swing shut at his back. Jensen leans into Morgan’s left side, demurely tucking his chin. On Morgan’s right, Danneel’s petal-stained pout is already directed towards a group of wranglers who’ve come to town after a long week, no doubt looking to part with some of their wages.
All eyes are on the three of them; must be a rare thing for these dingy farmers, rustlers, and gun-hands to see such resplendent finery, or such an unusual trio.
“Well now!” Morgan’s voice claps like thunder, shaking some life into the saloon. Quiet is not in his repertoire. “It seems to me that there might be some fine ropers and riders in this crowd.”
That gets a few murmurs swirling. Jensen’s heard Morgan’s speech dozens of times, so he doesn’t need to listen; his job is the crowd. He swishes the plumage in his honey-brown wig, blue and teal feathers sweeping the dusty air away from his face. Tosses a wink towards a table full of rustlers in the back and hitches his bare shoulder. Jensen knows his elaborate getup doesn’t actually fool anyone (well, maybe a few of the cowboys who’ve been kicked by a mule one too many times), but it’s a damn good illusion.
“My name is J.D. Morgan, and I run the best exhibition of shooting, roping, and riding this side of the mighty Mississippi River!” Morgan’s got the crowd’s attention now. “If you think you’ve got what it takes, I invite y’all to try your luck against the best of the West! Maybe even win a brand new Winchester rifle!”
Danneel displays the Winchester Model 1873 that Morgan hands over, her delicate, lace-gloved fingers caressing the stock. Like flies on molasses, every gaze in the room is stuck on her red hair, her sinful smirk, her suggestive touch. Except Slim’s. His back remains turned to the rest of the saloon, but Jensen holds his stare in the dirty mirror behind the bar, sweeping his lashes over his cheek. A small invitation made worthwhile when Slim runs one calloused finger around the rim of his glass. Jensen reads more in that subtle gesture than some of the most elaborate propositions he’s received.
After that, Jensen doesn’t mask his interest in Slim’s form. It’s obvious that the man is no cowboy or ranch hand like so many others in the room. He’s a gunslinger up and down, trying to hide his true profession in the casual stretch of his long, long legs. Slim’s keeping tabs on the entire dingy saloon by way of that mirror, keen eyes roaming but always coming back to Jensen.
A rough voice shouts from the direction of the poker tables. “That rifle’s gonna be mine!” Not to be outdone, someone else calls out: “You ain’t a better roper than me! I’m gonna win it!”
A chorus of boasts roars through the saloon.
Morgan is grinning; a competitive crowd is good for business. “You’d better come out this afternoon and put your money where your mouth is! Now, if you gentlemen have any questions, I’m sure these two will be happy to provide answers.” He draws Jensen and Danneel forward as if they’re an offering. “Say hello to my Bourbon Beauty and my Texas Rose.”
The floorboards shake as the men cheer, bottles rattling behind the bar adding their own song, and Jensen soaks up the attention.
Outside, the commotion Stephen and the rest of the riders are causing carries into the saloon. Shouts and whoops, barkers calling out to the crowds gathered on the sidewalk. Jensen hadn’t bothered to learn the name of the town, but Morgan was right about the money they’ll take in. There are plenty of people, residents and transients alike, and a handful of saloons doing their part to keep the men liquored up and willing to part with their wages.
Danneel is quickly swept up by the crowd, and Jensen would be worried if he couldn’t pick out Ty and Cain standing at opposite ends of the saloon. The two burly men are there to snuff out any sign of trouble.
Cain is the quiet sort, tall and bearded. Melancholy on his best days. But when he decides to speak, his voice is rich and deep, his mind full of myths and tales. Jensen would ask where Cain learned them, but his eyes are the saddest when he speaks, so Jensen refrains.
Ty, a former soldier whose soul hadn’t yet recovered from the war, joined Morgan’s troupe down in New Orleans. Alone, and with no desire to return to his family’s old farm, he had leaped at J.D.’s offer of a job. Over the years, Ty’s good humor has gradually returned. Though nothing will ever replace the brothers he lost during the war, Ty credits his new family with helping him live again.
Normally, Jensen would be spinning his own circle of admirers. Men with a gleam in their eyes and eager hands, keen to paw at Jensen’s body beneath the fabric and lace. But today, he sidles up to the bar where Slim’s contemplating another whiskey.
They make quite a picture in the mottled glass behind the bar. Slim with his faded duster and dark pants, linen shirt and an olive handkerchief pulled below his throat-all meant to protect Slim from the elements and a hard life of riding alone. Next to him, as conspicuous as a peacock in a barnyard, stands Jensen with his tailored finery and bustle, the aqua satins and black lace playing up his milky complexion.
Slim hitches his elbow up onto the bar, duster swinging aside and giving Jensen a flash of his gunbelt. He wears it tight, years of experience settling it in just the right spot for a quick draw. A Colt revolver with an ivory grip sits in the holster-ironically named the Peacemaker, it’s a gunslinger’s weapon of choice.
They match stares for a moment, commotion around them all but forgotten, before Jensen (who’s never short on courage) leans forward.
“I bet you’re a decent shot,” he says, letting his fingers touch the warm ivory. Slim doesn’t stop him, allowing Jensen’s hand to trace the outline of his gun, the heavy stitching on the holster. Jensen intends on teasing, hand so close to the undoubtedly impressive second piece tucked behind Slim’s pants.
Slim grins. The sight is like a shot of good liquor hitting Jensen’s stomach.
“Lookin’ for a demonstration?”
Jensen likes the sight of white teeth, a man who doesn’t dirty his mouth with cheroots or tobacco, although Slim clearly sours his gut with whiskey. A man needs vices, Jensen figures, all the while hoping that Slim’s got more than one.
“Maybe,” Jensen tells him, sweeping the long strands of his wig over his shoulder. “If you pony up the fee.” Slim raises an eyebrow, forcing Jensen to clarify: “For the exhibition, of course. You can take home that rifle if you win.”
“I’ve got a rifle.”
“Then I’ll just have to find another prize to entice you, cowboy.”
Slim’s eyes flash like lightning on the mesa. He takes a step forward, boot heel thumping hard on the wooden floor. Jensen fills his lungs with the warm scents Slim carries: sun, sand, leather, and gunpowder.
“Don’t call me cowboy.” Slim says it with rye on his breath and a promise written in the corner of his mouth.
“You never gave me a name.”
Slim picks up his shot glass and swallows in one go. Jensen shivers; he’s gone and struck gold.
“It’s Jared.” He waves for another drink, but Jensen shoos the barkeep away before he can pour. If Jared was just another mark, Jensen wouldn’t care, but he prefers his men sober.
“Well, I’m known as the Texas Rose, but you can call me Jen.”
“Jen?”
Jensen winks. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
Jared looks him up and down. Jensen’s no stranger to a thorough regard, but Jared’s inspection feels more like a caress, and a flush spreads from the base of his throat up to his cheeks. As Jared’s gaze moves down past the ruffled layers of his skirt, Jensen brings his foot to rest on the boot-rail running beneath the bar. Smitten men have been known to pen poems about his legs, wrapped pretty words around his calves and toes; Jensen figures it can’t hurt to flash one of his best features.
“Sure is,” Jared says, pulling his eyes away from Jensen’s boots to glance around the saloon.
Danneel’s perched on the edge of a poker table, leaning over the shoulder of a well-dressed man and whispering in his ear. No one else at the table is paying attention to their cards, meaning the man Danneel’s favoring should win without much trouble. Hopefully he’s willing to repay her attention by betting on the exhibitions tomorrow.
Jared is studying the way she works the men around her, leading them all to the same end. Normally Jensen would be behaving the same way, but he wants Jared to see him as more than an enticement.
Jared looks back at Jensen, expression shuttered. “Might be too pretty for the likes of me,” he says, regret in his low timbre.
But Jensen won’t have Jared thinking he’s too rough, or too poor. Hell, Jared has owned Jensen’s attention since he walked into the saloon on Morgan’s arm.
“Maybe I’m looking for something more substantial,” he offers, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice.
Jared opens his mouth, but whatever he’s going to say is cut off as he looks over Jensen’s shoulder. Jensen turns and sighs. As if Jensen has summoned him by thought alone, Morgan is back, motioning for his two ‘beauties’ to join him.
Jared is contemplating his empty glass and tossing coins onto the bar when Jensen lays a hand on his arm. In his soft calfskin boots, Jensen is nearly as tall as the gunslinger, so he tips as close to Jared’s ear as he can without letting his lips touch skin.
“Promise me you’ll sign up for the exhibition,” Jensen whispers. “In fact…” With his free hand, he slips a few of Jared’s coins into his palm. “This takes care of the fee, so you have to show up tomorrow. Noon, out in front of the Royale Hotel.” He drops the coins into a hidden pocket within his skirt.
“What about the prize?” Jared asks as Jensen reluctantly pulls away. Across the saloon, Morgan is waiting impatiently with Danneel already on one arm.
Jensen smiles and turns away, swaying his hips as he heeds Morgan’s call.
“Win,” he says glancing back over his shoulder, “and you’ll see.”
~~~
When they’ve got good money (and the town is more than a rail-post and a spittoon), Morgan books a pair of hotel rooms for him and his ‘beauties’ while the rest of the troupe makes camp with the wagons and horses beyond the town limits. They tend to cause less of a stir that way.
After leaving the first saloon, Morgan leads Jensen and Danneel up the street to the Royale Hotel where their luggage is being unloaded. The richly paneled lobby is bustling with onlookers trying to see what all the commotion is about on the street beyond, but Morgan escorts them through.
Morgan’s able to purchase two luxurious rooms on the second floor, undoubtedly the best this hotel has to offer. Most of the folks passing through won’t be able to afford more than basic room and board, but J.D. enjoys taking a break from the road as much as his beauties do, leaving the camp in Misha’s capable hands.
After seeing that their trunks make it upstairs, J.D. tells Jensen and Danneel to freshen up.
“I’ll be back in time for supper,” he says. “I’ve reserved a table in the dining room, unless you’d rather take your meal up here.”
“We’ll meet you downstairs,” Jensen says, already dreaming about the way the feather pillows are going to feel beneath his head.
As soon as the door closes behind J.D., Danneel wheels on Jensen. “I saw you with that cowboy.”
“He’s not a cowboy,” Jensen peels off his gloves and flexes his fingers. “Just a gunslinger I was hoping to recruit for tomorrow. He seemed like the kind of man to have a reputation.”
“Either way, he was handsome.”
Jensen shrugs, unwilling to show his hand. “I couldn’t tell under all the dirt.”
“Oh, Jensen,” Danneel sighs. “You can’t lie to me.”
Their camaraderie is born from sharing close quarters like this while they travel throughout the West. Danneel, Morgan, and Jensen have been staging this show for years, adding to their company as they go. Ty joined them right away; they met Misha in Oklahoma where he was training horses for a stagecoach company. Sheppard joined up while the troupe was passing through Amarillo; a former gambler, Sheppard recognized Morgan from a show he’d seen in Kansas years ago.
Others have come and gone along the way, but the rest of them have remained loyal to Morgan and to one another. However, being close brings its fair share of problems as well. Sometimes lines get crossed.
Danneel and Morgan take a ride every now and then-he’s always been a handsome man-but Jensen prefers to find his own mounts outside their number, though Morgan’s gotten drunk enough to end up with his mouth on Jensen’s cock a handful of times. Even Misha and Jensen have found themselves getting close out on the trail a time or two, but their intimacy has been limited to a handful of heated embraces.
Jensen’s gut tells him that both Misha and J.D.’s desires lean more towards women than men. Despite the comfort they provide, Jensen doesn’t pressure either of his friends for more.
For once, the room they’re in has a decent mirror paired with a vanity. An attendant has already seen to the oil lamps; they fill the room with a warm amber glow. Danneel grabs her toiletries and beckons Jensen over to the embroidered stool.
“Come sit, sugar. Your rouge needs to be touched up.”
Danneel was raised in that New Orleans brothel, gaining an adept hand with combs and powders when she was very young. Jensen wouldn’t look half as good without her help. And he loves to look good. Jensen’s no amateur; dressing up isn’t about being a funny cowboy. He’s a performer and he needs to look the part.
“You can have this room,” Danneel says, winking at Jensen as she brushes light green powder above his eyelids. She’s already darkened his lashes with kohl ink, a smoky look that makes his eyes flash, added rouge to define his cheekbones, and penciled his lips dark red. The makeup feels heavy after a long day of traveling, but Jensen insists on perfection and there are still two more saloons to visit after dinner. Jensen won’t be introducing himself to those pillows anytime soon.
He’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but… “Where will you sleep?”
“There’s no curfew in this town,” she says with relish, “and it’s been ages since we’ve been anywhere with a decent gambling hall. I figure I’ll take in a bit of the nightlife, wait for opportunities to come about.”
Meaning she’s got a lead on a high-stakes poker game tonight. If lady luck is with them, sunrise will find Danneel with a full purse and Jensen with a full-
“Stop grinnin’ like that!” Danneel smacks the back of his head. “You’ll ruin my hard work.”
When she’s through with Jensen, Danneel nudges him away from the vanity in order to touch up her own appearance. Standing behind her to take advantage of the clean mirror, Jensen adjusts his corset and straightens out the black lace over his shoulders. The combination of teal and black does wonders for his complexion, tight fit shaping his body into an hourglass. Like the boots he’s wearing, Jensen’s legs are supple and soft, shaved smooth with a razor the day before.
He knows he made an impression on Jared earlier, hoping now that it was enough to draw the gunslinger into the competition tomorrow. If not, Jensen decides to sweeten the pot in case the gunslinger patronizes one of the other saloons tonight. Jensen slips a silk sash around his waist and ties it in the back. Danneel has told him that the large bow ‘makes his derriere look delicious.’ Finally, he fastens a beaded choker around his throat, one black strand swinging down between his collarbones.
Danneel glances up from her reflection. “Oh, Jen. Your gunslinger doesn’t stand a chance.”
“That’s the idea,” he says with a grin, fluffing his honey waves. There are times he wishes he could grow his hair long enough not to need the heavy wig, but when the heat hits, he’s grateful to be able to take it off, or dress in simple pants and leave his chest bare. He adores playing the beauty, but he’s still a man.
A man with needs, he silently amends. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Jared’s lean lines, the height and breadth of his body, and the strength in his hands. Those thoughts bring on a mighty shiver. If Jensen’s excited at the mere idea of a sweaty rendezvous, the real thing might break him. And he doesn’t mind the idea, so long as it’s Jared doing the taming.
~~~
Belly full after a satisfying meal, Jensen’s wearing a smile as he strolls into the next saloon. Word of their arrival in town must’ve spread like a brushfire; this saloon is more crowded than the first. A cheer goes up when Danneel and Jensen pass through the batwing doors, many pairs of boots shuffling on the wood floor until a path appears before them leading straight to the bar.
Jensen tries to rein in his disappointment when he doesn’t see Jared standing at the bar; he was hoping for a chance to know the gunslinger better.
Morgan riles up the throng when he arrives a moment later. Misha and the riders have retired for the night to make camp, but Robbie will be out on the street showcasing his roping abilities, probably suckering drunken cowboys into a wager or two. The cockiness, the fanfare, the demonstrations-it’s all good for business.
Jensen and Danneel split up as soon as J.D. begins talking to a pair clean-shaven men in pressed suits. Their wealth is obvious: silver chain disappearing into a coat pocket, polished shoes, a flash of brilliance as a bejeweled cufflink catches the light. Men like that, spending time in an establishment like this, are easily swayed into placing significant wagers on the competitions.
This time, Jensen circles the poker tables while Danneel remains at the bar and accepts a shot of whiskey-the finest bottle this saloon can provide, of course-from one of her new devotees. Jensen doesn’t need to read the words off her lips to know that she’s talking each and every one of them into either ponying up the fee to pit themselves against one of Morgan’s men or betting on the action. Jensen watches a few hands at the table, paying attention to styles of play and facial expressions. He doesn’t have the sharp mind for cards like Danneel, but he enjoys trying to predict who will bluff and who will fold.
The third saloon in town is more subdued, no clanging piano music filling the gaps between conversations. Jensen blinks through the acrid cigar smoke, grateful he thought to bring one of his fans to sweep the thicker air away from his face.
There are no grand speeches given here-these men wouldn’t appreciate Morgan interrupting their card game. A more subtle approach is required. Morgan buys two bottles of decent whiskey and hands them to Jensen and Danneel. They ingratiate themselves with the players, offering liquor when a glass runs dry, and it’s not long before Morgan is invited to join a game.
Unlike the other two saloons, there are several women here tonight working the men around the tables. Draped over their shoulders or seated on their laps, giggling like schoolgirls. Jensen only needed to spend a moment in this saloon to know that this is where the moneyed men take their entertainment. Poor cowboys can’t afford a night with these women.
If Jensen was interested in trapping himself a rich man, he could do no better than here. But he catches himself comparing his options to Jared and finding them wanting. Not tall enough; fingers like sausages; eyes that lack the same heat. He flirts and flatters, but none of the men in this saloon can take his mind off Jared.
The whores are enamored of Jensen once they realize he has no intention of interfering with their business. They ask him questions about the powders he uses on his skin and the best way to keep their lip color fresh during a demanding engagement. Men send over glasses of expensive liqueurs, and soon their conversation devolves into tittering retellings of memorable nights.
Eventually Jensen needs fresh air. He excuses himself from the table where Danneel is sharing-in graphic detail-her techniques for pleasing a man with her mouth, and steps outside. The commotion has died down leaving the street empty of all but a few silent folks out for a stroll.
Jensen fills his chest with a deep inhale, relaxing his shoulders as he breathes out. He can picture the bed waiting for him back at the hotel and hopes that J.D. won’t ask him to stay much longer. He’s already decided to postpone his bath until morning, fearing that if he bathes tonight, he’s likely to fall asleep in the warm water and drown.
Movement at the edge of Jensen’s vision catches him off guard. He watches carefully as a figure separates itself from the shadows across the street. Jensen recognizes the building as a boarding house-their coach drove right past it on the way into town.
As his eyes adjust to the darkness, Jensen can make out a long body, one knee crooked against the lamppost. He knows beyond a doubt that the shadow belongs to Slim. The gunslinger’s been stalking Jensen’s thoughts throughout the evening, and the more Jensen thinks about him, the more conflicted he feels. Men like Jared have reputations. Nine times out of ten, it’s not a sterling one. No doubt Slim’s ivory-handled Colt has sent a few men to the grave, but instead of being fearful, Jensen is flattered. All he needs to do is remember the gentleness in Jared’s eyes, the way he welcomed Jensen’s touch…
“You disappeared on me.”
Jensen turns at J.D.’s voice. “We’re set for tomorrow. I didn’t think I’d be missed.”
“I always miss you, Jen.” The comment brings a familiar smile to his boss’s genial face. They stand side by side for a moment enjoying the respite. Inside, the merriment continues amongst laughter and the celebratory clink of glasses.
“You’ve been distant since dinner,” J.D. muses, stepping back to lean his wider frame against the wooden support. “It’s not like you to be this distracted. Something wrong?”
Jensen feels the weight of Jared’s stare from across the street and does his best not to steal a glance.
“The day has finally caught up with me. I’ll be glad to get back to the hotel and sleep.”
“Sleep, hmm?” Morgan considers his excuse. “I thought you might have something wicked planned for tonight.”
Jensen smirks. “Then you have no idea what kinds of things I plan to do in my bed.”
Morgan laughs, but Jensen knows him better than that. His boss won’t let go of his concerns that easily. He’ll have to tread carefully. He’s never hesitated to share his intentions with his longtime friend, but there’s something enchanting about the connection forming between Jensen and his contradictive gunslinger. For now, he wants to keep Jared to himself.
Fortunately luck in on Jensen’s side tonight.
“Feel safe enough to head back on your own? Cain’s already left for camp, but Ty’s still inside-he’ll escort you back to the hotel if you want.”
Jensen declines his offer. “Danni?”
“I’ll stay here and walk her back after she’s bled a few of these fellas dry,” J.D. says. “See you at breakfast.”
Jensen’s come across his fair share of rude men. More than once, a disgruntled-and usually intoxicated-patron has attempted to follow him in the dark or corner him in an empty alley. Tonight, however, he walks to the hotel without apprehension, mindful of his silent guardian moving with him but sticking to the shadows.
As he walks, he wonders if Jared will reveal himself but when Jensen arrives at the hotel only a moment later, he’s fairly relieved that Jared hasn’t approached; he’s enjoying their interplay too much. But he does turn and blow a kiss into the darkness before he steps into the Royale, hoping he won’t be the only one treated to sweet dreams tonight.
~~~
“You look far too rested,” Danneel says as she drops into the chair next to Jensen’s. “Does that mean you didn’t have your way with the cowboy last night?” She pouts and steals a piece of bacon off Jensen’s plate.
At Morgan’s request, the hotel staff sectioned off the far corner of the dining room with tall folding screens granting them a small amount of privacy. Jensen awoke early to bathe-the perfumed water worked wonders on his constitution, the warmth as relaxing as he’d hoped-and came downstairs in time to share a cup of coffee with Morgan before the boss was out the door to meet with Misha.
“I decided last night would be better spent resting.”
“So you’ll be even more insatiable tonight?” Danneel grins. “Good plan.”
Like Jensen, Danneel is dressed as casually as they’re able to be while still preserving the illusion. Danneel’s curls are pinned at the back of her head and Jensen put his wig on before leaving his room. The last thing he wanted to do after bathing was dress up in his full costume again, but with the number of folks already milling around the lobby and the boardwalk outside, there were few options. He’d chosen a soft, cotton dress; its green fabric matched his eyes. Tying his waves back with a ribbon the color of fresh grass, he’d gone downstairs with minimal makeup.
“Were you out late?”
“J.D. walked me back around midnight,” she says as a sweet-looking girl in a blue gingham dress appears with her breakfast. “I would’ve stayed longer, the action was there-“
Jensen nabs a piece of her still-sizzling bacon before she can pick up a fork. Serves her right.
She recovers quickly and fixes Jensen with a lively stare. “This means you’ve had an entire night to come up with ways to debauch your cowboy.”
“Not everyone spends their nights thinking about sex, Danni.”
She shrugs. “Folks might be happier if they did.”
Privately, Jensen agrees, but he hasn’t always felt that way. After leaving Coates’ Town, Jensen abstained from bedding anyone. He’d seen too much in the whores’ tents to view sex as enjoyable, merely a service that could be bought.
It was Danneel who eventually taught him the joys that could be found in sex. Not personally, mind you, but she showed Jensen that the physical act was nothing to be feared. She was there when Jensen lost his virginity to a young man working in the same brothel. Many of the details of that night have faded from his memory, but Jensen remembers the man’s clear blue eyes and crooked smile, the way he’d prepared Jensen thoroughly, all the while laying sweet kisses on his chest to ease the discomfort. And Jensen recalls his encouraging manner when he rolled over and allowed Jensen to return the favor-with Danneel’s guiding words, of course.
Since then Jensen has enjoyed his partners more often than not, despite the limited time he spends with each one. There’s nothing to fear from sex itself-not the way he prefers it-but Jensen has begun to dread the lonely aftermath.
With J.D. leading their troupe, Jensen and Danneel are in control of who they choose to sleep with. Sex is a perk, but not a requirement. The two of them bring in enough money without it.
“Have you seen him this morning?” Danneel asks.
“Jared? He’s not staying in the hotel.”
“Does he live here?”
Remembering the figure in the shadow of the boarding house, Jensen shakes his head.
“But he’s competing today, right?”
“I hope so,” Jensen says. Honestly he’s been trying not to think about it. Nerves have a nasty habit of souring his stomach. “We only spoke once! Maybe I’ve imagined the connection between us. I mean, what could he want with a man like me? A man who’s barely a man?”
“Stop,” Danneel says, covering Jensen’s shaking hand. “You’re irresistible, sugar. Hell, if you wanted me, I’d never let you go.”
“If you wanted someone as dull as me”-Jensen’s smile returns-“I’d happily be yours.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” she tells him, returning to her food. Jensen’s tempted to swipe another piece of bacon, but his appetite has deserted him. “I saw the way Jared was looking at you in the saloon. That man would happily bend you over the nearest hitching rail and-”
“Danni!” he hisses. “Not here.”
Although now that she’s said the words, Jensen’s picturing the scene. Rough hands turning gentle, hot sun on their backs. Sweat pooling on the back of his neck and a cool tongue relieving the heat.
Jensen cuts those thoughts short before he’s forced to deal with a hard cock in the middle of the dining room, crossing his legs to discourage any blood flowing in the wrong direction.
No sense letting any of that go to waste before tonight.
Danneel convinces Jensen to take a stroll with her after breakfast. Arm-in-arm, they could easily blend in with the regular townsfolk-no feathers, lace, or rhinestones-if not for the low murmurs that trail them along the street. They turn heads, incite whispers, generate excitement.
“Oh, in here!” Danneel spins him into the quaint little emporium just beyond the hardware store.
“Planning to spend your own money for once?” Jensen teases.
She winks. “You never know.”
Jensen circles one of the cases admiring the emporium’s collection of ornate knives and scissors. He and Danneel are the only customers in the shop, alone but for the girl at the counter. She has a wide, sunny smile and laughing eyes, red hair that even Danneel might envy, and skinny shoulders. Instead of a dress, her clothing reminds Jensen of something a young woman might wear if she worked on a farm, but her shirt and pants are pressed and clean.
“You’re part of the show, aren’t you?” she asks cheerfully.
Danneel looks up from the bracelet she’s been examining-a thick silver band with a bright blue stone set in the middle. It’s too big for her, an elegant man’s trinket, but Jensen’s eyes are drawn to the bracelet when she sets it down.
“I was watching when you rode through town yesterday,” the girl admits. “Most excitement we’ve had around here for a long time.”
“That tends to happen,” Danneel tells her. “What’s your name?”
“Charlotte, but my folks call me Charlie. This is their store.”
Danneel sashays up to the counter. “Pretty name. I’m Danneel, and that’s Jenny.”
Jensen huffs. “Danni…”
She waves off his protest, her brown eyes warming to the girl. Jensen’s all too familiar with that look.
“If this is your family’s store, I bet you know just about everyone in town.”
“Lived here all my life,” Charlie offers openly. “Ten years ago there were only a few farms and a couple of cattle ranches to the North. Now there’s a railroad coming, wagon trains rolling through and picking up supplies, trading old heirlooms for money to buy crop seeds and guns.”
“Do you know anything about the tall, handsome gunslinger that’s staying here?” Danneel presses. Jensen almost tells her to let it go, but Charlie’s eyes go wide.
“My pop said he’s dangerous,” Charlie drops her voice as if someone might overhear, “but he’s come in a few times. Seemed like a nice fella to me. Mr. James, the man at the hardware store?” Charlie leans forward. “He said the man was a bounty hunter.”
“Do you know where he’s from?”
“Kansas, at least I think that’s what Pop told me.” Charlie’s voice gets louder as her excitement returns. “Said he was responsible for shooting a whole bunch of men there, but I don’t know if I believe that. Rumors, you know? Never know what’s really true, do you?”
Apparently nothing, not even talk of killing, dampens Charlie’s disposition. If anything, the chance to gossip has made her even more lively.
But Danneel’s smile has faded. She looks at Jensen, but he steps away, desperate to avoid whatever she’s going to say. They’ve come across a few bounty hunters since coming West. Most aren’t what Jensen would call decent folk-posters say ‘Dead or Alive’ but it’s easier when a bounty isn’t breathing to fight the whole way back-but a few go about their business without upsetting the people around them. Jensen barely knows Jared, but he’d put money on the gunslinger belonging to the latter group.
His eyes fall on the bracelet again. Jensen leans down to study the craftsmanship, the shine of the polished silver, and wonders where it came from; who sold it; where they were heading. The vivid blue of the turquoise is like something out of Jensen’s dreams.
“I remember the man who brought us that bracelet,” Charlie says once she notices Jensen’s interest. Danneel has moved on to the jars of sweets on the counter. She cares about her figure, but not enough to pass up candy when it’s right under her nose. “It was a few years ago. He told my mother that he’d had to sell just about everything he owned to make it out here, but he didn’t care.”
The question comes out before Jensen is aware of his need to ask. “Why not?”
Charlie’s smile turns fond. “Love,” she whispers as if afraid someone might overhear. “He said he made a mistake by letting the man he loved come West without him.”
Danneel says something to Charlie, but Jensen is struck by the story, a rush of overwhelming hope rising in his chest. He’s never felt its like before, but it’s wonderful. Jensen’s life is too fluid to allow for much sentimentality, and he’s never minded until now, leaving that space in his heart open. He imagines the strength of the devotion that traveler possessed, to follow his love into the unknown no matter what he gave up.
Charlie doesn’t know the rest of the story-the man passed through town without much fuss-but Jensen refuses to think that he might not have made it to his love. He thinks about it as Danneel pays for a small palmful of candy, smiles as they make their way back to the hotel to prepare for the competition.
Jensen puts Charlie’s gossip out of his head; he’s not willing to risk his connection with Jared over a few rumors told by a shopgirl. He intends to have Jared, so long as the other man feels the same way. And maybe, after tonight, his heart won’t be so empty anymore.
~~~
Jensen knows nothing about Jared’s abilities with a revolver beyond that it looks mighty appealing holstered at his hip. He envies Jared’s gunbelt, studded leather buckled temptingly around his waist, and he’s overcome by a sudden fluster watching Jared’s fingers dance over the ivory handle of his Colt.
He was pleased to stroll out of the hotel a few minutes ago to find Jared inspecting his gun while he stood in a line with all the hopefuls who’d shelled out one dollar for a chance at small-time glory. The other men (and a handful of women) standing around Jared are varied in their appearance. Amateur shooters whose gunbelts fit awkwardly around their waists; a woman polishing the barrel of a shiny two-shot Derringer; a wet-behind-the-ears kid wearing a waistcoat and fancy shoes, spinning the chamber of his Colt impatiently while he waits. Jensen won’t need to watch the competition to know that the chamber on the kid’s gun is likely to fall out before he gets a shot off if he keeps fiddling with it.
Jensen tosses Jared a wink to show his favor before joining Danneel, twirling a parasol over his shoulder as he steps out into the midday sun. It won’t do to let his skin freckle or burn on what could be an important day.
He’d appreciated the way the green cotton flattered his complexion that morning, so he chose to wear his newest dress to attend the shooting exhibitions. Danneel selected the fabric for the corset: a forest green satin stitched over with gold blossoms and pale green foliage. Fine black lace sewn at the bottom and top to accentuate his hips and bustline. The boning on this corset is not as restrictive as his others; comfort is essential when he expects to be on his feet for much of the afternoon. His skirts are of a matching green satin gathered with black bows, lace peeking out between the ruffles.
Altogether, Jensen feels softer, more sensual than the night before.
Danneel leans over to whisper in his ear. “Jared can’t stop looking at you. I told you that shade would work wonders!”
Without his duster, Jared’s full build is on display, and Jensen’s mouth suddenly goes dry seeing the width of his shoulders barely contained in a dark blue shirt-such strength apparent in every part of his body. Jared’s features are shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, but Jensen knows he’s watching.
Though Jensen’s supposed to be mingling with the crowd to encourage betting, he’s staked out the best view from which to watch the competition. Seems as if the entire town has turned out for today’s events, including whole families carrying blankets and picnic baskets. Good numbers mean good business for the local merchants; they might remember the favor when J.D. and Misha go to restock supplies before the troupe heads out of town.
There’s a smirk on Danneel’s face when Jensen claps demurely as Jared’s turn comes in the first challenge. Rather than set up a simple shooting gallery in the open space between buildings, Morgan has assembled a number of trick-shooting events during their travels, each one meant to test the best guns in the West. He’s gained renown for his ideas; men have traveled to meet Morgan’s company in order to compete.
The first event is hardly a challenge for Jared, though a number of participants have already failed. The gunslinger shoots an apple off the ‘head’ of a carved wooden man with a single shot. Morgan’s best gun needs three bullets. Applause echoes between the false-fronts lining this end of the main street. Jared turns to the crowd gathered behind the shooting line and acknowledges them with a curt wave.
Morgan steps up between Jensen and Danneel. “This one gonna be a problem?”
Standing beside Danneel, Stephen nods. Without any riding events today, Stephen and his cousin are on hand to make sure the afternoon runs smoothly.
“Could be,” Stephen says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You want me to fix it?” Meaning he’ll track Sheppard down and enter him in the competition. As ruthless as Sheppard is with money, he’s deadlier with a revolver.
Before Morgan can answer, Jensen snags his elbow and draws him into the shadow of the hotel. The plumage in his hair whips around his forehead, and he brushes it away with an angry hand.
“I won’t have you rigging this one,” Jensen hisses.
“That man’s gonna cost us money!” Morgan argues, because if there’s one thing he hates, it’s letting good coin slip through his fingers.
Jensen doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll reimburse the pot.”
“So that’s what has you so distracted,” Morgan muses. “He means that much to you, huh?”
Jensen scowls, knowing it does his appearance no favors but trying not to care. “Do I need to have a reason?” He rarely asks for favors, but Morgan owes him more than one.
Reluctantly, Morgan concedes (placated, no doubt, by the promise of a profit no matter what), sending Stephen away to help set up the next challenge. Jensen returns to Danneel’s side, wrist fluttering as he tries to cool himself with his peacock-feathered fan, but it’s not enough to counter the effect Jared has on him. He’s never backed a shooter before-never cared one way or another-but he can’t stomach the idea of Jared losing due to Morgan’s interference.
Turns out, he has nothing to be nervous about.
Jared obliterates a line of whiskey bottles by using a small hand-mirror to shoot over his shoulder. Jensen’s never seen anyone hit all six bottles with one round of bullets. The townsfolk are whooping and cheering, louder each time a bottle shatters. Jared’s precision is astounding, and quite arousing; he’s confident in his skill, a man whose reputation is apparently carved into tombstones throughout the territory. Not for the first time, Jensen wonders what happened in Jared’s life to bring out those abilities.
Men in want of a reputation are cocky and extravagant. Men who’ve earned them rarely boast. It’s no question to which category Jared belongs.
For the final challenge, Jared’s bullet demolishes the tip of a corn-cob pipe at twenty-five paces. By then, the competition is down to only Jared and a former soldier turned ranch foreman, but Jared’s the only one able to shoot the pipe’s tip clean off. The breath rushes out of Jensen’s lungs; he requires a moment behind his fan to compose himself before he’s able to cheer along with the rest of the crowd after the final shot.
The next few minutes are chaotic. Morgan is the first one to reach Jared’s side-no doubt he’s aiming to hire the gunslinger after that performance-and folks are clamoring for his attention, all looking to hear the tale of how he learned to shoot. They’re eager for a story they can set among their dime-store yarns of lone gunslingers and Wild West heroics.
Jensen’s eyes meet Jared’s for a brief moment (being tall has its advantages). There are butterflies tickling his stomach. From a hidden pocket in his skirts, he pulls out a piece of paper rolled neatly and fastened with a black ribbon. As Jared sweeps by, caught up in the surge of the crowd as they carry him towards the saloon, dozens of voices shouting for the honor of being the first to buy him a drink, Jensen slips the note into the gunslinger’s large hand.
He hopes it’s enough.
part two.