Two Brothers by Linda Lael Miller Page B

second-floor landing, Aislinn collided full speed with an immovable object—Eugenie. The older woman, the sentinel, struck a match to the wick in a brass wall sconce.
    Her gray hair was wound into a bristly plait and dangling over one shoulder, and she was clad in a high-necked nightgown and a plaid wrapper. Her eyes pinned Aislinn to the wall as effectively as a spear.
    “I have to go,” Aislinn gasped.
    Eugenie took in the ridiculous dress for a second time, slowly. “I don’t reckon I need to ask where you’re headed, but I sure as hell want to know why you’re headed there, and in such a getup as that one.”
    “I’ve got to see for myself that Shay’s all right. That’s all. Billy Kyle swore to kill him and I’m sure he’s in the Yellow Garter, and I heard shots—”
    “I won’t let you do it,” Eugenie said. “He’s a grown man, Shay is, and a United States marshal to boot. He’s fought his own battles for most of his life and he can fight them now. Fact is, he won’t thank you for interferin’.”
    “I have to go,” Aislinn repeated, and moved to step around Eugenie.
    The other woman swore quietly. “Just hold on for a minute, then. I got somethin’ you’ll need.”
    Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was an instinct forself-preservation, but Aislinn waited while Eugenie went back into her bedroom, returning only moments later to offer a small object in one extended hand.
    Aislinn accepted the tiny pistol shakily.
    “It’s loaded,” Eugenie said. “If you have to use it, step in close and make the shot count. You only got one bullet.”
    Aislinn didn’t ask any questions; she just took the pearl-handled, nickel-plated derringer and sped down the steps, through the lobby. The dance was over, and the music was only an echo. The night clerk looked at her with popping eyes, and if he said anything, she didn’t hear. She was outside, racing down the wooden sidewalk, her whole being attuned to the cacophony belching out of the saloon, like smoke billowing from a corridor to hell.
    The street was empty, except for horses tied to various hitching rails, and a drunk sleeping in a trough, up to his chin in water. Reaching the Yellow Garter, Aislinn took a deep breath, prayed that God would look after Thomas and Mark if anything happened to her, and burst through the swinging doors.
    She was well inside, and ankle-deep in filthy sawdust, before her eyes adjusted to the brighter light and the blinding sting of burning tobacco. Cowboys and gamblers looked at her with scurrilous interest, but she paid them little mind.
    Shay was in the middle of the saloon, engaged in a game of pool, his pistol lying close at hand on the table’s edge. His opponent was a man she didn’t recognize, tall and thin and pockmarked. His holster was empty but his firearm, like Shay’s, was within easy reach. Billy Kyle sat on the floor, his back to the bar. He was handcuffed to the boot rail, red-faced and rumpled, and even from a distance, Aislinn could see both his temples throbbing with fury.
    She hardly dared to look at Shay again, for she couldalready feel his gaze boring into her, every bit as ill-tempered as Kyle’s was, but she made herself meet his eyes. She’d pegged his expression just about right, which was no consolation, of course. She’d been rash, and made a terrible mistake because of it.
    Laying down his cue stick, his blue eyes narrowed, Shay took in the borrowed dress, the derringer and her face, in a slow, scathing sweep.
    “Maybe the little lady would like a dance,” a hapless cowboy speculated, swerving in Aislinn’s direction.
    Shay never looked away from her, although he recovered his pistol with an unerring motion of one hand and slipped it back into its holster as easily as if it were slathered in bear grease. “Anybody moves,” he said, in a deathly quiet voice that nonetheless seemed to carry to every part of that godforsaken monument to sin and depravity, “I’ll plug ’em.”
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