Heart of Thunder (2 page)

“Stop it, woman!” he shouted. “I warned you this mornin’ that I was runnin’ out of patience. You either start actin’ more friendly, or I ain’t gonna be responsible for my temper.”

Samantha stared, aghast, but held her tongue. His outburst made her wary. He was such a large man. He made her feel much smaller than her five feet four inches. And she could well believe he was capable of violence. What chance would she have of defending herself against him? And what on earth had she ever done to make this man think she wanted to court?

He was glowering at her, waiting for her to answer him. She frowned. How could she get rid of him? Oh, Lord, why didn’t Adrien come? He could stop this.

“Mr. Peesley—Tom—why don’t we discuss this on the way down to the lobby?” Samantha smiled warmly, hoping he would not be suspicious of her sudden change in attitude. “You can escort me to the restaurant where my friend, Miss Allston, is waiting for me.”

But he shook his head stubbornly. “We’re stayin’ right here until we get this settled.”

His obstinacy infuriated her, and she forgot to be wary. “How can we settle anything when you won’t
listen?
” she asked heatedly. “The plain truth is that I don’t like you. In fact, you have pestered me so much that I’m actually beginning to
dis
like you intensely. Is that clear enough for you, Mr. Peesley?”

In two long strides he was towering over her. Samantha gasped as he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Her head flew back, and she found herself staring up into his angry eyes.

“You’re lyin’,” he growled ominously, and shook her again. “I know you’re lyin’. Why?”

Tears stung her eyes. “Please. You’re hurting me.”

He didn’t loosen his hold. “It’s your own damn fault.”

He brought his face close to hers, and she thought he was going to kiss her. But he just looked into her eyes, shining then with tears. He seemed to be willing her to say what he wanted to hear.

Less harshly, he said, “Why can’t you admit you feel the same way I do? I knew you were for me the moment I saw you. I’ve had my women and left ’em. I never wanted to marry any until I saw you. Is that what you’ve been waitin’ to hear, that I want to marry you?”

“I…” She started to deny it, but thought better of her temper—and his. She pushed at him, struggling to get out of his grip, but he didn’t budge. “Let go of me!” she demanded.

“Not until you answer me.”

Samantha wanted to scream, to swear, but ladies didn’t swear. That had been drummed into her during the last few years. Ladies might swear in their minds, or, if they were alone and it was absolutely necessary, they could utter a mild curse. But never, ever in public. It was a pity, because Samantha had a few choice names for this oaf. She knew some pretty shocking words, words she had picked up from her father’s
vaqueros
on the
ranch. They had spoken freely, unaware that the English miss was quickly learning Spanish.

Most of their words had meant nothing at her young age. Once she had asked Maria what a
puta
was, and Maria had slapped her. She hadn’t spoken to Maria for a week after that, and she never asked her the meaning of a word again.

Later, she went to an Eastern school, where the girls talked openly and descriptively about sex and men, when an adult was not around. They were quick to answer all her questions and not at all shocked—well, maybe only a little—by Samantha’s vocabulary of words forbidden to ladies.

This man was making it very difficult to remember that she was a lady. She would give anything for a gun, she told herself. But her derringer, which was in her purse on the writing desk, would do no good. With only one bullet, it was suitable for city travel, where a single shot would bring help. No, she needed the gun in her bedroom—her six shooter.

“I’m waitin’, Missy, and I’m gettin’ damn tired of waitin’,” Tom growled.

Samantha took a deep breath to keep from shouting. “You want answers, then you give me one first. Whatever did I do to make you
assume
I cared for you?”

He frowned. “That’s a fool question.”

“Humor me.”

“What?”

“Just tell me!” Samantha said, exasperated.

“Well…you know. The moment you seen me you was all smiles, battin’ those pretty green eyes at me. You were the most beautiful gal I’d ever seen. I knew right then you were for me.”

Samantha sighed. Lord, she would never smile politely at another man again.

“Mr. Peesley, a smile does not necessarily indicate affection,” she said. “I smiled at everyone that day, simply because I was overjoyed not to have to look at
another stagecoach for at least a few weeks. I was delighted that the journey was over. I smiled at
everyone
. Do you understand?”

“But your smile for me was special,” he protested doggedly. “I could tell.”

Damn. She would have to be blunt.

“I’m sorry,” she said tightly. “But you were mistaken, Mr. Peesley.”

“Call me Tom.”

“No, I won’t,” she snapped. “How can I make you understand? I have no wish to know you. I am in love with someone else, the man I came here with. Mr. Allston.
That
is who I am going to marry.
Now
will you let go of me and leave?”

Instead of being outraged, Tom Peesley laughed. “Now I know you’re lyin’. I’ve seen you with him. He pays more attention to his sister than he does to you.”

That hurt, for it was absolutely true. “That is none of your business. It is him I love.”

Her insistence was making him angry. “I’d kill him if I really believed that.”

And then, finally, came the kiss. Samantha was unprepared for the brutal assault. Crushed in his arms, she tasted her own blood where he bruised her lips against her teeth. The scream of outrage that tore from her was trapped in her throat.

And then he suddenly set her free, but for a moment she was too numb to realize it.

His tone was icy. “I can be a tender lover, or I can make you suffer. I almost killed a gal once who got me riled. And that’s what you’re doin’, Missy. You’re gettin’ me riled with your teasin’.”

She should have been frightened, but she wasn’t. She was furious. She had never been treated that way before, and she would not stand for it any longer. She slapped him, using enough force to send a lighter person flying across the room. It didn’t move Tom Peesley, but it did stun him. It was the last thing he had expected,
and it left him standing there open-mouthed with shock as she whirled around and ran into her bedroom.

Samantha slammed the door. There was no lock, though, and she didn’t know whether Tom Peesley would give up or follow her. Dashing to her dresser, she dug through the top drawer for her revolver. In a moment, with the pearl-handled weapon gripped firmly in her right hand, she felt herself in control at long last.

She could use the gun. Oh, how she could use it. Manuel Ramirez had made certain of that. The oldest of her father’s
vaqueros
, and Maria’s husband, Manuel was stubborn—often reminding Samantha of herself. When, at twelve, she had insisted that she no longer needed an escort, that she could ride the range alone, no one had been able to persuade her otherwise—except Manuel. He had threatened to shoot her beautiful white mustang if she dared go out alone without first learning to shoot. So she had learned to shoot, not only a handgun but a rifle, as well, and she became expert at both. After that, no one worried when she took off for a whole day, or even spent the night on the range. They knew she had all the protection she needed in her swift horse and the Colt she wore strapped to her hip.

Unfortunately for Tom Peesley, he had decided to follow Samantha. He opened the bedroom door, and his eyes widened at the sight of the Colt revolver pointed at his chest.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re gonna do with that, Missy?”

“Force you to leave.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it, Mr. Peesley,” she said very calmly. “In fact, I can swear to it.”

She grinned for the first time. She was in charge again, and it felt wonderful.

Only Tom Peesley didn’t know it yet. “I’m only gonna tell you once, gal. Put that gun down.”

She laughed, moving the gun playfully, flexing her
wrist so that the barrel made several half-circles, drawing a wide target from his left shoulder, down his belly, up to his right shoulder, and back again. Her laughter echoed in the large room.

“I am quite a good shot.” Samantha’s eyes were bright with laughter. “After what you’ve put me through, I really would like to show you.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said with total confidence.

Her amusement faded. “Why not? I should shoot you for mauling me. Or for being in my room without an invitation. But I won’t. I’m going to advise you nicely just to leave. Of course…if you don’t
take
my advice, then I’m going to take a chunk of skin off your inner right thigh.”

Her matter-of-fact tone threw Tom Peesley into a rage, and he took a step toward her. But he got only as far as that one step before the gun exploded.

He bent to clutch at his inner right thigh, just inches from his groin. Blood squeezed through his fingers. The bullet had struck right where she said it would, going through him to imbed itself in the door. He stared at her in disbelief, then lifted his hand to stare at the blood.

“Do you need another demonstration before you leave?” Samantha asked softly.

Acrid smoke burned her eyes, but she held her gun steady, pointing it at Peesley. He hadn’t moved from his aggressive stance.

“Perhaps your left thigh now, only a little higher?” Samantha continued.

“You god damn—”

The weapon cracked again, and Tom howled with pain as the bullet tore the tender flesh high on his left thigh.

“Do you understand that I am quite serious, Mr. Peesley? I want you out of my room. And out of my life. Or would you rather bleed more first? Maybe you would
like to keep one of my bullets as a memento? Say, in your right shoulder?”

He glared at her as blood poured down both his legs, spreading darkly over his light gray pants and down into his boots. She could see he burned to get his hands on her, and thought he would probably kill her if he did.

“I’m losing patience, Mr. Peesley,” she said coldly.

“I’m goin’,” he replied gruffly, and turned away. He left the bedroom, stopping at the door to the hallway. She followed him from a safe distance, the gun trained on his limping form. When he continued to stand in the doorway, she said, “Do I have to escort you out of the building?”

His back squared stubbornly as she spoke, and he swung around to face her. Bullet number three slammed into his right shoulder and threw him back against the door.

“Now!” Samantha shouted above the echo. Her eyes were running with tears from the smoke, and she was furious that he had made her go so far. “Go!”

He did. Finally he was ready to retreat. Samantha followed him down the hallway, oblivious to the commotion there. Guests had gathered at the sounds of gunshots. She marched behind Peesley, past the guests, to the back of the hotel. The back stairs were on the outside of the building. She waited impatiently for him to open the door, and while he fumbled with it, she got too close to him. As he started down the stairs, he swung his left arm backward and tried to knock her down. But before his fist could touch her, she put her fourth bullet through the thick muscles of his upper arm.

Though the rest of his face was contorted with pain, there was black rage in his eyes. His hand stretched out toward her, blood dripping on the wooden landing. There was no strength in the wounded arm, but the fingers still reached for her.

Samantha grimaced and stepped back. “You’re
loco!
”
she gasped, her stomach turning at the sight of all the blood seeping from his arm, his shoulder, his legs. He stood there, a big ox who didn’t have sense enough to give up.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she whispered urgently. “All you had to do was
leave me alone
. Damn you! Will you go? Will you just go!” she pleaded.

But the stubborn fool took another step toward her and his outstretched fingers touched the front of her taffeta jacket. Her gun exploded once more, and she choked back a sob. The fifth bullet entered his shin. She didn’t know whether she had been able to miss the bone or not, her hands were trembling so by then. He stumbled backward, then lost his balance on the edge of the stairs and tumbled down the long flight.

Samantha stood at the top of the stairs and looked down at Tom Peesley as he landed in the dirt. She held her breath, waiting. Would he move? She didn’t want him dead. She had never killed anyone, and she dreaded the notion.

He moved. He even managed to pull himself to his feet and stand up, wavering a little and staring up at her. He knew as well as she did that there was only one bullet left. Was he wondering whether he could stand another bullet? Would he follow her back into the hotel and try to kill her? She guessed what he was thinking.

“You fool!” she yelled down. “Don’t you know I could have killed you at any time? With only one bullet left, I will be forced to. This last bullet is for your heart. Don’t make me use it!”

He stood there for an eternity, debating. Finally he turned and limped away along the back of the buildings.

Samantha didn’t know how long she waited there after he was gone from sight. Though it was not cold, she began to tremble. At last she stepped back into the hallway, turning red when she saw all the people facing her at the end of the corridor. With a small cry of shame,
she ran back to her suite, slamming the door on their curiosity.

She rushed into her bedroom and threw herself on the bed, pouring out her frustration. “Damn you, Tom Peesley. I hope you bleed to death!” she cried, completely forgetting that she didn’t really want him to die.

But Samantha would have been even more mortified had she known that a tall, dark stranger had witnessed the scene on the landing.

Chapter 2

T
HE hotel where Samantha Kingsley had her suite was in a new part of Denver, on the edge of the city, where constant expansion was the rule. At the front of the hotel was a street crowded with stores, several saloons, two restaurants, two smaller hotels, a meat market, a bank, and even one of the new theaters. But at the back of Samantha’s hotel was open country, land still waiting for Denver to claim it.