Tom's Angel Read Free

make them appear grander, while others made no beans about what they were. Gray had become up the predominant color, as weather and sun had taken their tolls on unpainted lumber. Occasionally, a hitching post or a boardwalk out front of the saloons broke the monotony.
    A row of crib houses , where the cheaper whores plied their trade, stretched from Main to Rusk on Tenth Street. Each crib, barely wide enough for a door and one window, appeared to be about a dozen feet deep. Tom cringed, thinking about the women who rented these shacks and what they did there for twenty-five cents.
    Tom had never felt the urge to visit one of the “soiled doves,” as the newspapers called them, even in one of the nicer “sporting houses” in Denver. Why any man would want to share intimacies with a woman he could only pity and despise went beyond Tom's comprehension.
    If Kincannon really did live in the Acre, what did that say about his daughter, Rosalie? Tom shook his head. Amos would bust a gut if Miss Kincannon turned out to be a whore.
    Not many cowboys in the Acre at the moment. They swarmed into town after driving their herds in from the Chisholm Trail, collected three or four months' pay, then spent it all in one night in the Acre, trading weeks of backbreaking work and eating dust for one night of drunkenness and pleasure.
    Tom's idea of pleasure ran a mite different. A Colorado sunset. A newborn calf or colt. Fire in the hearth after a long day's work on the ranch. Now, that was real pleasure.
    There ...on the right...the house after the last dance hall. On the front of the house hung a sign that said, “William Kincannon, Esq.”
    Tom tied his rented horse to the front porch support, stretched his back, wiped sweat from his brow with one sleeve, then knocked on the door. He heard nothing inside. After a moment, the door cracked open an inch. He couldn't tell who might be behind that door. He reached for his hat and dragged it from his head, ran his fingers through his damp, tangled hair, and nodded at the unseen resident.
    “ Morning. I'm Tom McCabe. I've come to escort Miss Kincannon to Denver.”
    “ Mr. McCabe, did you say?”
    A woman's voice. He still couldn't see if she was old or young, the person he'd come to escort or her mother. Hell, he didn't know anything about this woman.
    “ Yes, Ma'am. My father is Senator Amos McCabe. William Kincannon sent a wire, asking that an escort be sent to take Rosalie Kincannon to Denver. Am I at the right house? The directions I had—”
    “ You're at the right house.” The door opened a bit wider. “But I can't let you in right now, Mr. McCabe. I'm...that is...my father is not at home presently. It would not be proper to ask you in while I'm here alone.”
    Proper? Concerned about being proper, living here?
    “ All right, Ma'am. When should I come back?”
    “ My father should return around two o'clock.”
    “ All right, then. I'll be back about two.” He nodded, replaced his hat and turned to leave.
    “ Mr. McCabe?”
    Glancing back, his breath caught in his throat. Rosalie Kincannon had come out on the porch. Long, shiny hair, as dark as a blackbird's wings, curled and nestled about her shoulders. Her eyes made it difficult for him to think straight for a moment. Just what color they were, he couldn't rightly say, but they made him think of the mountains at dusk. Incredible eyes. Focused on him.
    “ Ma'am?” He finally remembered his manners and jerked his hat down again.
    “ Thank you for coming. You...that is...I am most grateful. You cannot imagine how much I appreciate your father's generosity in sending you to escort me to Denver.”
    “ My pleasure, Ma'am.” Truly. “I'll be back at two. Is there a hotel nearby?” He glanced down the street. “A fairly nice one? Where I could clean up a little?”
    “ Not here. You don't want to stay here.”
    The way she said it made him feel cold in spite of the sun blazing down on his head and shoulders. She hated this