Wildfire in His Arms Read Free Page B

Degan paid up, then added, “I don’t consider your porch the street.”
    â€œFair ’nough.” The man relaxed now that Degan hadn’t taken offense.
    â€œBest hotel in town?”
    â€œThat’d probably be the International. Big brick building. Hard to miss if you keep heading into town. So you just rode in?”
    Degan didn’t answer. It annoyed him that one question from him tended to open the floodgates to his getting questioned in return. He understood it was a nervous reaction of intimidated people who hoped that if he was talking, he wouldn’t be shooting. He grabbed the bottle and headed to the door.
    The barkeep called after him, “You might check with our sheriff if you’re looking for work, mister. Folks bring their troubles to him first, but he don’t always have the time to help them all, even with eight deputies. This is a big town. Plenty folks round here could use a hired gun—if that’s what you are.”
    Degan tipped his wide-brimmed hat at the man, but kept on walking. He wasn’t looking for work yet. He had made enough money in the West that he could retire for the next ten years if he wanted to. But to do what? He’d been groomed to take over an empire, but he’d turned his back on that.
    This town was far too big for his liking, he realized, as he continued through it. He preferred small towns, where you could see trouble coming from a mile away. But he was just here for a bath, a bed, and a meal before he continued on to California, which is where he’d been headed when Zachary Callahan had tracked him down and offered him too much money to refuse merely to keep the peace for a few weeks.
    It wasn’t the first time he’d been overpaid. In fact, it happened more often than not. It was one of the benefits of having a reputation that preceded him. The only other benefit of that reputation was that he could get a job done without bloodshed.
    It used to bother him, a lot, that he made people so nervous. He used to assure people that they didn’t need to be afraid of him. That assurance only worked until they saw him draw his gun. And rarely could he pass through a town where he didn’t need to draw it for one reason or another—if people discovered who he was. So he’d stopped being sociable, stopped talking to people if he didn’t have to, stopped volunteering his name. Hell, half the time it didn’t matter if they knew who he was. He couldn’t even walk into a bank without all those in it dropping to the floor, thinking they were about to be robbed. Now that was annoying. Maybe it was time to go back East—just not home.
    Degan found the International Hotel easy enough, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to run into anyone he knew in the lobby.
    â€œWell, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Degan Grant!”
    Degan winced, hearing his name spoken so loudly. “Keep your voice down,” he said as he turned, but then he actually smiled.
    He hadn’t made many friends in the West, but he could count John Hayes as one of them. John was in his midforties now, but Degan had met him not long after he’d first come West five years ago.
    â€œWhat brings you this far north, Sheriff?”
    â€œIt’s US Marshal now.” John grinned.
    Degan raised a brow. “Does that warrant congratulations?”
    â€œIt’s letting me see more of the country than I ever thought I would, but, no, I wasn’t hankering for the position. I got talked into it by an old friend who’s a senator now. The railroads have been putting a lot of pressure on the politicians in Washington to clean up the West. They hired Pinkerton detectives years ago to deal with some of the train robberies, but it’s not enough. Now our government is taking action, too. But what brings you to Helena?”
    â€œI just finished a peacekeeping job in the territory.”
    â€œThen you