Her Cold Revenge

Chapter 2

A man, his fist up to pound the door again, pitched forward into Grace's room. He staggered a few steps and then clutched at the washstand to steady himself. Grace wheeled around to keep the gun pointed at his chest. Moonlight glinting through her small window illuminated the hard planes of the stranger's face and the jagged scar that ran from the edge of his mouth to his eyebrow, pulling one side of his mouth into a permanent smirk. She took an involuntary step back as his startled expression changed to a glower.

"What ya doing in my room?"

His slurred words and his eyes, glazed and unfocused, revealed the long hours spent in the bar below. Grace straightened to her full height, but the man still towered over her, his body leaning forward menacingly.

"You're mistaken. This is my room." Grace spat out each word, but she couldn't contain her trembling. Had Miz Bessie rented out this room to him? Or worse yet, made good on her threat to make Grace service paying customers?

The man's small bleary eyes conveyed his confusion. "I pay — hic — paid for thish." He shook his head. "Room at top of stairs."

No, it couldn't be. She had begged Miz Bessie for a little time.

A gleam lit the man's eye. "Musta paid for more than I thought. Come 'ere, lil darling." He staggered toward her, teeth bared in a jagged, mirthless grin.

Grace backed up until she bumped into the bed.

"That's it, girlie. You and me gonna have us some fun."

She stepped away from the bed, setting her jaw and berating herself for retreating. She gestured at him with the revolver. "Stay back."

The man halted, swaying back and forth. His uncomprehending eyes fixed on the Colt. He blinked several times. "That ain't what I think it is?"

Grace's teeth clenched so tightly she could barely force out the words. "I'm not afraid to use this." She dipped the revolver low enough to make the color leave his face, then moved her aim back up to his heart.

His low, throaty chuckle ended in a sneer. "Lil thing like you don't know how to use that."

Grace pitched her voice as deep and menacing as she could. "Get out."

The man stumbled to one side, but steadied himself again on the washstand. "Not before I get wh-what's on offer," he slurred, lunging toward her.

She sidestepped smoothly, and the drunkard crashed face first onto the wooden floor planks. She kept her gun trained on him as he lay in a heap, his breath coming in uneven gasps, but when he remained motionless, Grace nudged him with her foot. No response, no groan. He was out cold. She squatted beside him, uncertain what to do. She could try to drag him into the hall, but what if he woke and wanted revenge? Or worse yet, what if he was one of Miz Bessie's customers? In that case, she'd best leave now and not come back until she could pay her debts and then some. Miz Bessie would forgive anything if Grace waved enough money in front of her.

She gathered her belongings from the drawers, stuffing them into the saddlebag, and then collected her rope and the bow and arrows the Ndeh tribe had given her. She stepped gingerly over the man and headed out, feeling her way in the darkness as she crept down the back staircase. A few lamps still burned in the narrow hall and along the second set of stairs, making her descent easier, but she tripped on a loose carpet runner on the lower landing and barely managed to catch herself before she crashed into the door at the bottom of the steps. Turning the knob, she eased the door open a little and peered into the saloon. A few patrons were still hunched over the bar, backs to her, and close by two cowboys slumped over a table, too groggy to notice her. Grace waited until the barman turned to refill a glass, then tiptoed to the rear exit and slipped out into the darkness.