"I told you, after you—"
"What? Strangle you? Yeah, keep pushing me and I might do exactly that. The paper..." He was six steps away. Five.
The saddlebag tumbled from Amanda's suddenly slack fingers. It fell to the floor at her feet with a heavy thump. Any courage she may have felt evaporated like steam when she saw this large, burly man stalking toward her. In her life, she'd never seen a sight so menacing. The hand not clutching the paper lost all its strength, and dropped limply to her side.
And that was when she felt it.
Her heart stuttered, her breath caught. Six months ago, she wouldn't have believed herself capable of contemplating what she was about to do next. She was contemplating it now, though, and contemplating it hard. She was also shaking like a leaf. But that was something she would have to get over in order to find Jake. And she had to find him. Surely this man could tell her where he'd gone, or tell her someone who could—or, at the very least, give her a hint as to what direction Jake had set out in! She was sure he could. That knowledge pumped through her, bolstering her courage. Not much, but a bit.
He was four steps away her now. Three. In a fraction of a second, he would be almost on top of her.
There was no more time to think. As it was, Amanda barely had time to react. Tossing the crumpled newspaper to the floor, she slipped her hand inside the pocket of her skirt. Her fingers wrapped around the butt of the pistol. Her arms felt liquidy as she aimed it—accurately, she hoped—at the man's barrel chest.
The clerk froze. His eyes narrowed until the angry brown depths were barely visible in the meaty folds of his face. Of course, there was no need for Amanda to see his eyes to know where his gaze was resting: on the pistol. She could feel his attention perk, feel the fury rolling off of him in tangible waves.
Though the gun trembled in her hand, her aim never wavered. She was glad the clerk's che
st was so big; it gave her more of a target. At this distance, she would have to work to miss him. He must have been aware of that fact as well, for he didn't move an inch.
His gaze shifted past her, scanning the small foyer. Though noises sifted out from a room off to the right, the foyer itself was empty. No help would be forthcoming unless he hollered for it, and he didn't want to do that. It would be embarrassing to be caught on the business end of a pistol as it was; it would be downright humiliating to have anyone see that the pistol in question was being held in the hands of a woman!
His hands came up, meaty palms out. "Listen, lady, I don't want trouble. Put that thing away."
"After you tell me where Mr. Chandler went."
His tongue darted out to moisten his fleshy lips. "I already told you. I-don't-know."
"And I'm telling you, I-don't-believe-you." It was true. Amanda hadn't believed him from the first; she believed him even less when she saw the way his cheeks took on a splotchy red hue. He was lying, she was positive of it. Goddamn him! He knew which direction Jake had headed out in. He knew! Yet he wasn't telling her. Well, she'd just see about that! A surge of anger tingled through her. It felt nice and warm and soothing as it overrode her fear and fueled her determination.
"Which way did he go?" she asked, surprising even herself at the calm, demanding tone that echoed in her ears. Her voice was low. It didn't shake, didn't waver. It was amazing what a little desperation did to a body. "You saw him leave. I know you did. All I want to know is what direction he was heading in."
The man's hands dropped to his sides, his palms slapping his thick hips as he shrugged. "Why do you care? Christ, lady, the guy's a breed. A nice white woman like you shouldn't care—"
Amanda stared at the man, stunned. Good God, she thought, how did Jake put up with this everyday of his life? What gave complete strangers the right to judge him on sight and deem him lacking? It was annoying, frustrating, infuriating. It was so damn unfair! The anger pumping through her was reflected in her tone. "You bastard! That... breed, as you call him, is more man than you'll ever be. And I care where he went—enough so that I'll do whatever it takes to find out what direction he rode out in." The click of the hammer being jerked back was loud and ominous.
The lump in the man's throat, almost concealed beneath the layers of sagging flesh that spilled over his collar, rose and fell in a dry swallow. He glanced at the dining room, frowned, then returned his attention to the woman. "I... well, yeah, I... tell me something, honey. Do you—er—know how to use that thing?" He nodded to the pistol.
Amanda's smile was cold and forced. The gesture didn't reach her eyes, which remained frosty and determined. "No. But I'm a quick study. And I think you'd make a nice, big target to practice on. Don't you agree?"
"Hell, no!"
"Then tell me which way Mr. Chandler went!"
The clerk clamped his teeth together and glanced guiltily away. Grudgingly, he said, "I can't. He paid me not to."
"And I'll pay you with a bullet... somewhere, if you don't. It's your decision." Her pause was short and tense. "Just so you know, I doubt I'll be able to kill you with my first shot."
The man's gaze shifted back to her. His lips pursed with indecision, and his attention volleyed between her eyes and the gun—the aim of which was now steady and true. With a sly glance, he measured the distance between himself and the dining room door. The golden brow Amanda arched convinced him that she could squeeze off a shot before he had time to pick up one heavily booted foot.
Three hours, Amanda thought as she watched the fat man wrestle with his decision. Jake was already at least three hours ahead of her. And counting. If this man didn't answer her soon she just might be tempted to put a bullet in him out of spite!
The clerk must have sensed her thoughts, for his expression became guarded. Plowing his fingers through his thinning black hair, he shook his head and muttered, "East. That breed of yours rode out heading East, just after dawn." His eyes shimmered a warning not missed by Amanda. "Now put that gun away and get the hell out of this hotel. Before I yell for help. I'll warn you, lady, the guys in Junction don't look kindly on white women who take up with breeds. They won't go as easy on you as I have."
Amanda thought of the two slimy men from last night. She shivered and, nodding, bent to retrieve her saddlebag. The gun stayed in her hand. She didn't uncock it. If Jake had taught her nothing else, he'd taught to be prepared for anything. He had also taught her not to trust anyone but herself; his leaving this morning without a word had driven home that lesson.
Her eye on the clerk, Amanda backed toward the door. The barrel of the pistol stayed trained on the him, though she was careful to conceal it against her side as she passed the door leading into the dining room.
It was awkward balancing the saddlebag and holding the gun while she turned the cold metal doorknob, but she managed it. A blast of cold air wafted over her back, stirring the wispy hair that clung to her neck and cheeks. The clerk, she noticed, hadn't budged an inch, but continued to watch her with a brooding glare.