Page 54 of New Storm Rising
“I just arrived yesterday in this lovely little shithole of a town to take up my post. This fine morning, I take a stroll down the main street to check on my new territory, and what do I find?”
Silence. Absolute silence.
“I find four guys running down the street in nothing but their butt wrappers!”
Clink. Clink. Clink.
“Now, I’m a liberal sort of man, usually. But when someone forces me to look at hairy, half-naked men at ten in the morning, before I’ve even had my morning whiskey, I’m gonna bepissed.”
“Yeah?” one of the thugs drinking whiskey at the bar shouted. “And why should we give a shit whether you’d be pissed or no—”
Bam!
Smoke rose into the air from the revolver’s muzzle. All the layabouts and crooks in the saloon stared at the splintered half of the whiskey bottle in the drunken thug’s hand.
“That’s why,” Sheriff Gallagher informed the thug, striding past him without even glancing in his direction. Reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, he flipped a coin onto the counter. “Whiskey. No soda.”
“Y-yes, Sir!”
The lawman received his drink and, taking a sip, let his gaze sweep across the room. “Do you knowwhat elseI found on my stroll through town?”
To judge by the looks on people’s faces, they hoped, whatever it might be, it didn’t involve them.
“I found the east wall of my prison—in pieces, scattered all over main street. Do any of you want to explain to me how exactly that happened?”
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The jingling of the spurs sounded again as the sheriff stalked through the saloon, glancing this way and that, sending shivers down the back of every man present. Every man but one, that is.
“…three hundred, three hundred and ten, three hundred and twenty…”
Apparently, Mr Rikkard Ambrose enjoyed counting poker winnings just as much as I. Ah, we were truly meant for each other!
“You there!” Gallagher’s eyes narrowed as he whirled around. “Yes, you in the tattered old tailcoat! What’s your name?”
“…three hundred and twenty-five dollars and seventy-six cents.” Slowly, very slowly, Mr Rikkard Ambrose looked up from his money to meet the sheriff’s eyes. “My name is Ambrose. Mister Rikkard Ambrose.”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Now, why does that sound familiar?”
I smirked.Probably from your worst nightmares?
“What are you smirking at, young lady? Who are you, anyway?”
“Oh, me?” I blinked up at the lawman innocently. “I’m just a visitor to this lovely little town. No one special.”
“Hm…” Narrowing his eyes, the man stared at me. Behind him, I could see a poster with the words “Wanted: Dead or Alive” visible in big, bold letters. “Where have I seen you before?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“AndI,” an ice-cold voice cut in, “would not suggest saying anything more to my wife. Not unless your tone of voice becomes a whole lot more polite, at least, sheriff.”
The two men’s eyes clashed in a contest of wills. On the one side, a gunman whose eyes were as deadly as his hands. On the other, a business mogul who needed no hands, or even eyes, to kill. All he needed was the victim’s name, whispered in the right ear.
I felt heat surge to my face as I watched him.
Heck, why is that so sexy?
It had to be the Wild West air. Or…I was just naturally attracted to merciless megalomaniacs.
