So says a woman who has been thoroughly satisfied only hours past, Vanessa thought. But she didn't point out that Jocelyn's "need" would eventually be of a different nature, that once tasting the pleasures of the flesh, the body tended to demand more of the same.

She said instead, "If that one wants you again, my dear, I don't think you'll have much choice in the matter."

That prediction caused a tiny thrill in the pit of Jocelyn's stomach, but she staunchly ignored it. "Then I'll just have to make sure I'm never alone with him again. So you can stop worrying—"

"Madame!" Babette interrupted just then, so ex-cited she entered the room without knocking first.

"Alonzo, he insists I should tell you Monsieur Thun-der is about to have the western duel in the street. He says you would want to know this."

"To have the what?"

Vanessa made a tsking sound. "I believe she is referring to what that milliner in Tombstone called a showdown, my dear. Remember we witnessed. Jocelyn, don't you dare!" But the duchess had already run out of the room.

Chapter Twenty-five

Standing at the long bar, Colt finished off the whiskey in his glass and slowly poured another from the bottle he'd yanked away from the barkeep earlier. This being the third saloon he'd entered since he left the hotel that morning, by rights he should be drunk already. But he wasn't. His gut was too full of anger to let the whisky do its stuff.

Looking for a fight also tended to keep a man so-ber, and he couldn't deny he'd been looking. When the first two saloons had turned up nothing worse than dirty looks, he'd tried this one — and hit the jackpot.

Only it wasn't the jackpot he wanted. He'd needed a punching bag for his anger, not an invite to let some lead fly. It was just his luck that the only one to object to his presence with any degree of vocal belligerence was a young man who considered himself a fast draw. Whether he was or not, Colt had little doubt he could take him. It was the quiet ones you needed to worry about, not the show-offs.

It'd be over with already if the barkeep hadn't in-sisted, with a shotgun to make his point, that they take themselves outside to settle their differences. Colt claimed he'd finish his drink first. Riley, as his friends called him, was magnanimous once his challenge was accepted, and went outside to wait.

The kid was a so-called professional. Still wet behind the ears, but already a gun for hire. He worked for a local mine owner who'd been having some trou-ble with claim-jumpers. In the six months since he'd come to town, he'd already killed two men, pistol-whipped a few more, and forced all others to give him a wide berth. Story was, the mine owner didn't know how to get rid of him now that he was no longer needed.

Colt surmised that much from the bits and pieces of hushed conversation going on behind him. He also heard a number of disparaging remarks about himself, but nothing he hadn't heard before. He'd been called every foul, dirty name there was, so he had to be in a damned ornery mood to take exception to insults that were second nature to the white man when an Indian was around.

It was what he'd been looking for today, those in-sults. His mood was certainly ornery enough. But folks this far south didn't know what to make of him. They took him for a half-breed, but they'd never seen one so tall, or mean-looking, or with a Colt Peace-maker riding his hip. Things like that tended to make a man think twice before opening his mouth — unless he was a young kid with delusions of omnipotence who'd let a few lucky draws go to his head.

Colt had kept his antagonist waiting about ten min-utes now, which was why the customers remaining in the saloon were gradually becoming less wary of him. Riley's shouted "What're ya waitin' on, breed? Or has that red skin o' your turned yeller?" had drawn a few snickers from the room, but outright guffaws from the kid's two sidekicks, a couple of cowboys who had been egging him on from the beginning, and both had followed him outside.

Colt's eyes met those of the barkeep's. The man was slowly wiping a glass with a dirty rag. There was contempt in his red-rimmed eyes, mixed with a good deal of sneering pleasure, making his sentiments only too clear. He figured the taunt was true, that Colt would likely be begging for the direction of the back door as soon as he got up the nerve. He figured a half-breed wouldn't have the guts to face a man down, that it wouldn't be his style. Backstabbing and ambushing were all a breed was good for.

So let him think it. What the hell did Colt care what a barkeep thought, or any of them for that mat-ter?

They were all waiting to see him gunned down, hoping to see it. The loudmouthed Riley might be feared and despised in this town, but today he would be applauded if he managed to take down a presump-tuous breed.

Colt drained his glass again, then, to match actions to feelings, tossed it to the barkeep. Unprepared, the man dropped the one he'd been cleaning to catch it. Satisfied to hear the glass break and the man snarl, Colt shoved away from the bar and headed toward the entrance. Chairs toppled over in the customers'

haste to follow him, but feet came to a skidding halt when he paused just beyond the swinging doors to locate his quarry.

Shade had enticed Riley across the street, where he was lounging against a hitching rail with his two friends. The covered boardwalks on both sides of the street were already filling with eager spectators drawn by Riley's earlier taunt.

The young man had to be nudged to notice Colt's arrival, and he grinned before straightening, making some comment that brought chuckles from his friends. He then walked toward the center of the wide street, slow confidence in his stride.

A muscle jerked in Colt's jaw as he ground his teeth in disgust. He wondered if the good townsfolk would call for a lynching if he happened to kill their resident asshole. Probably. Fair fight or not, white folks didn't like seeing a half-breed defeat one of their own.

At the moment, he didn't particularly care, but he had no intention of killing the kid when this wasn't the kind of fight he'd been courting. Someone else could have that distinction. Of course, if the show-off died accidentally by getting in the way of one of his bullets.

Colt tipped his hat back until it dropped behind to hang from the neck strap. He'd once had one pushed forward into his eyes by the wind, at just the wrong moment. He'd be dead now if the other guy hadn't been such a lousy shot.

"Now what're ya waitin' on?" Riley called impa-tiently from his position in the middle of the street.

"You that anxious to die?"

Riley thought that was funny. So did his friends. So did a number of spectators.

"That ain't no bow an' arrow you're packin', breed, or ain't ya noticed?"

This time the kid bent over double, he laughed so hard at his own sally. There was backslapping and eye-wiping going on on both sides of the street as just about everyone present joined in his humor — except the Spaniard.

Colt noticed Alonzo as he moved out into the street, then the Scot standing with him. So some of her peo-ple were present. It made no difference. They were merely spectators like the rest. And yet his eyes sud-denly ^scanned the covered boardwalks — and found her, that bright beacon of red hair hard to miss as she ran toward Alonzo.

Shit! Now he was pissed, well and truly pissed! He wondered who he had to thank for her presence, and when she stopped by the Spaniard, he knew. The look he gave the swarthy man promised retribution, but Alonzo, reading that look correctly, merely shrugged.

Looking at the duchess was out of the question. Colt gave his attention back to Riley, his indifference gone, his anger on the edge of exploding. If she tried to interfere…

Jocelyn was about to do just that. She took in the situation at a glance, understood that the two men standing out there in the street were at any moment going to start shooting at each other, and she couldn't allow it to happen. She knew firsthand how skillful Colt was with his revolver, but what if his young op-ponent was as equally skilled? She couldn't take the chance.

But as she lifted her skirt to step down into the street, Alonzo caught her arm and whispered near her ear, "If you distract him now, he is dead. The mo-ment his eyes turn to you, and they will, the young Riley will take advantage and draw his weapon. Had you come sooner you might have stopped it, but now is too late."

"But…" She bit her lip in indecision, staring at Colt. How could she watch and do nothing, when he might be wounded or worse?

But it really was too late to interfere. Even as she looked toward Colt's opponent to assess his readi-ness, the young man was reaching for his gun.

It all happened so fast, it was no wonder the spec-tators were collectively drawing in gasps of awe.

Colt's gun was already in his hand and aimed at his opponent. The young man, his hand only just grip-ping his own weapon, still holstered, stared incredu-lously and didn't move so much as another inch.

He looked rather sick. He obviously wasn't sure what to do now, whether to concede the fight or to take his chances and still draw. It was the silence of Colt's gurs that made him so undecided.

Colt wasn't waiting for him to make up his mind. With slow, purposeful strides he closed the distance between them until the nozzle of his Peacemaker came to rest against Riley's trembling belly. Riley had bro-ken out in a sweat by then, afraid to look down for fear he would see the trigger being squeezed, afraid to look anywhere but into those hard blue eyes that had never wavered from his.