Jocelyn frowned at her dear friend. "You should have been the one to lie down, Vana, especially after that terrible headache you suffered this morning. There's certainly nothing wrong with me—"

"— that a little food and rest won't see to," Vanessa finished, her tone brooking no argument.

Jocelyn sighed. It was easier to give in to the count-ess when she got into one of her mothering moods, which she had been in ever since Jocelyn had suc-cumbed to that silly burst of emotion just after they were shown to their suite. She looked at Babette again, who was still flitting from lamp to lamp. There were six of them in this room alone.

The accommodations were very adequate, consid-ering what they had been led to expect: that most Western towns were small, their hotels even smaller. This being the first Western town they encountered, its large size was a welcome surprise, as was the se-lection of hotels they had had to choose from. The Grand was not on a par with the luxurious hotels on the East Coast, but it certainly tried to be. And they had been able to rent the entire second floor here, which was ideal for security purposes.


"Enough, Babette," Jocelyn ordered with impatience. "How much light does Alonzo's report warrant?"

The French girl grinned cheekily now that her stall-ing ploy was seen through. "Is not so bad. At least Alonzo, he say is only a matter of prejudice. The half-breed, he is considered the same as the Indian, and the Indian, he is treated with contempt and loath-ing."

"Contempt?"

"To hide the fear, you understand. The Indian, he is still greatly feared in this place. He still raids and kills and—"

"Which Indian — ah, Indians?"

"Apaches. We hear of them in Mexico, no?"

"So we did, but I don't recall hearing they were still so hostile."

"Is only Geronimo. Alonzo say he is a renegade with only a small number of followers who hide out in Mexico, but they raid this side of the border too."

"Very well, but Colt Thunder is not an Apache half-breed, he's Cheyenne," Jocelyn pointed out. "What did Alonzo learn of the Cheyenne Indians?"

"They are not known in this area."

"Then why would Mr. Thunder think I should be leery of him?"

"I believe you have missed the point, my dear," Vanessa interjected. "Prejudice is not particular. It sounds like all half-breeds are treated the same in these Western territories, no matter which Indian tribe they are associated with."

"But that's preposterous," Jocelyn insisted. "Not to mention unfair. Besides, there wasn't the least little thing contemptible about Colt Thunder. I found him very polite — well, mostly polite. And he was exceed-ingly helpful. Good Lord, in less than an hour's span the man twice saved my life." He was also impatient, short-tempered, argumentative, and stubbornly op-posed to having anything more to do with her, but that wasn't worth mentioning.

"Jocelyn, dear, we are all grateful to this fellow for his timely assistance. Indeed we are. But his feelings in the matter couldn't have been more plain this afternoon. He won't even talk to you."

"I understand that now. He behaved the same way this morning, as if I were committing some grave faux pas just by being in the same vicinity with him. It's so silly."

"He obviously doesn't think so."

"I know, and he thought he was protecting me by avoiding me in town, which is very commendable, but hardly necessary. I'm not about to let someone else's prejudices influence me. Nor do I give a fig for public opinion. If I want to associate with the man, I will. No one will tell me that I can't."

Vanessa raised a golden brow as Jocelyn's chin went up stubbornly. The duke had told her once, during their initial interview, that his duchess was of the sweetest nature, biddable, and flexible. Vanessa was in a position to know differently.

"Just what sort of association did you have in mind?" Vanessa asked reluctantly, afraid she already knew.

Jocelyn shrugged, though there was a definite spar-kle in her lime-green eyes. "Oh, I don't know.

Per-haps what we were discussing early this morning."

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

Chapter Nine

“I’ll get it," Billy called and bounded off the bed, where he had been stretched out watching Colt shave off the few errant whiskers that he was in too much of a hurry to pluck out, as was his custom.

But before Billy's hand touched the doorknob, he heard the distinctive sound of the hammer being pulled back on Colt's revolver and knew he had blun-dered once again. You just didn't open your door in a town where trouble was anticipated, not without finding out who was knocking first, or as Colt had done behind him, being prepared for any possibility. And Billy Clanton hadn't left town yet. Though it was unlikely he had tracked Billy down to this lodging house, it wasn't impossible.

He thought Colt would lash into him again as he had last night when Billy forgot to lock the door of the room they shared, but he was obviously in a better mood this morning. "Go ahead," was all he said after Billy hesitated at the door. "Just stay out of the line of fire.'.'

Billy swallowed once at that advice before unlock-ing the door and swinging it open wide, keeping himself behind it. When he had been on his own, he hadn't worried about such things, hadn't looked for danger around every corner. To do so was a lesson

Jessie had taught him, but one he had conveniently forgotten this trip west. It was a wonder he had survived to get this far.

But this was one time caution was apparently un-necessary. There were two men out in the hall, nei-ther of them young Clanton, and both immobilized by the clear view they had of Colt across the room with a gun trained on them, wearing nothing but his pants and his knee-high moccasins. That Colt immediately turned to slip the gun back in the holster hooked over the washstand made Billy wonder, until he too recognized those red jackets. The men still hadn't spoken, however, even though they were no longer Ipoking down the barrel of a Colt.45, but that was understandable. The gun might have startled them, but a glimpse of Colt's back when he turned to put it away had rendered them speechless.

It wouldn't do for Colt to know that, though. If anything could make him spitting mad, it was having his scars looked at with horror. Jessie said it had a lot to do with pride in that he didn't want anyone knowing about the kind of pain he had to have suf-fered to have a back that looked like his did. Whatever it was, Billy knew how defensive-mean he could get if he detected even the slightest empathy coming his way.

He'd rather be hated than pitied.


Billy stepped out from behind the door, forcing the two men to look at him instead of Colt. Dredging up his manners, he asked pleasantly, "Can we help you with something, gentlemen?"

The taller of the two was Billy's height but looked more Colt's age, with chestnut hair cropped short and eyes about the same shade. He was still disconcerted by what he'd seen when he answered with the ques-tion, "I say, you wouldn't happen to be Colt Thunder, would you?"

It was asked so hopefully Billy couldn't help grin-ning. "Afraid not."

The two redcoats glanced at each other, their dis-comfort palpable, but then the taller man said, "Didn't think so, but — well, never mind, then." He leaned to the side to get another glance at Colt before straightening and saying with more force, "We've a message for your mate, if he's Mr. Thunder."

Billy's grin widened. He couldn't resist repeating the way he knew Colt hated being addressed. "Mr.

Thunder, they're here for you."

"I heard, but I'm not interested."

Billy swung around, no longer amused, to see Colt shrugging into his shirt. Colt might not be interested, but Billy was damn curious, knowing full well who the message had to be from.

"Ah, come on, Colt, it's just a message. It wouldn't hurt you to at least hear it."

Colt came forward, his expression inscrutable, though Billy recognized the subtle signs of impatience when he saw them. Colt hadn't bothered to button his shirt, just tucking it into his pants. That both pants and shirt were black might account for the two Englishmen taking a wary step back when Colt filled the doorway, but it probably had more to do with his intimidating height and size.

"Let's hear it," he demanded curtly.

The taller fellow cleared his throat, still apparently the spokesman for the two. "Her Grace, the Duchess Dowager of Eaton, requests the honor of your—"

"The what?" Colt interrupted at the same time Billy swore, "Christ, an English duchess!"

Colt gave Billy a sharp look. "What the hell's a duchess?"

"You mean you don't. no, of course you wouldn't. how could you—?"

"Just spit it out, kid, before you choke on it."

Billy flushed, but he was too excited to be subdued. "A duchess is a member of the English nobility, the wife of a duke. The nobility of England have different degrees of importance — barons, earls, and such. A comparison would be your minor chiefs and war lead-ers. But you can't get any more important than a duke or duchess, unless you're a member of the royal family."

Colt frowned, but directed the expression at the two messengers. "That right, what he says?"

"Close enough," the spokesman replied, deciding estate size and degree of influence weren't worth mentioning when all he wanted was to get out of there. "But as I was saying, Mr. Thunder, Her Grace requests the honor of your presence this noontime at the Mais — Maisy—"