El Paso

"No, I guess it is. Where rough men gather, stories are told. They grow with every telling. I try to keep my head down, not attract attention. Sometimes people recognize me. It was a while back and far away, Feleena. Mostly Arizona and California."

She slid a smooth arm over his shoulders where he sat. "Sinclair has traveled far. I wish to travel someday. Perhaps when I earn enough money, I will board the train for California or New York. See all those exciting places."

"I have no doubt you will," he said. "I'd like to watch you see them. You'd be a star wherever you were, I'm sure."

That earned him a kiss on the cheek, and he felt a charge exchange between them. She stepped back, her hand to her ruby lips, a look of shock in her eyes. "Sinclair... I..."

"Yes, I know," he said. "Should we be going?"

"Yes, we should. I shall grab my bag and we will depart. I will be dancing for you tonight, Sinclair."

They walked down to Rosa's, Feleena's little hand tucked into the crook of Sinclair's arm, and he felt about ten feet tall. She took him to the back door, opened it and took him to a little dressing room.

"Go find a seat, and I will be out soon," she promised. "You are the first man to have ever been in this room."

"Really? God, Feleena. I feel honored," he said.

She kissed his cheek, and he felt it again, as if some part of him connected to her is a way he had no name for and couldn't understand. He was half in a daze as he stepped through the curtain into the main room. He went to the bar and ordered, then surveyed the room.

He saw one of the men he had played poker with at a table, playing again, and he asked to join the game. The group invited him to pull up a chair, and he played idly, just talking to the men and waiting.

He had been there maybe 30 minutes, listening to the guitar music and speaking quietly, when he heard the music change. He looked to the curtain and saw Feleena peeking out. Her hand waved to him, and he lifted one eyebrow, nodding his head.

She came out, the silk of her skirt flowing like watercolor in the rain. She was on fire, the tilt of her hips, her flashing eyes, white teeth in her smile lighting up her dusky features, and Sinclair felt unable to move. Someone said something to him, jolting him out of his trance.

"You going to play or sit there catching flies with your mouth?" the player to his right asked, grinning at Sinclair's obvious enchantment.

Sinclair checked his cards and folded. "Eat your heart out, mister," a miner across the table said, obviously enjoying Sinclair's reaction. "A hundred cowboys have made a run at that little filly. The floor is littered with their broken hearts."

Sinclair believed every word as she worked the tables, coming closer to where he sat. She got plenty of tips, but she never allowed anyone to touch her. When she got to the table, she reached inside her blouse and stopped moving for a moment, doing something with her hands. When she began dancing again, she had zills on her fingers, and she wove a web of motion, the zills a counterpoint to the Spanish guitar.

The song finished and she leaned forward, her lips brushing Sinclair's cheek as he held up two silver dollars. She moved closer and allowed him to tuck them into the top of her skirt before moving to the next table.

Sinclair turned to the table with a triumphant grin on his face. His companions seemed to be in shock, and he felt pretty good about turning their kidding back on them.

"Damn, mister. You must have some serious charm for the ladies going," the man from the previous night mentioned. "She looks like she's dancing just for you, and it wasn't much different last night."

"You got a good horse?" the miner asked.

"I do," Sinclair replied. "Do you think I need one?"

"If she's got her eye set on you, it might come in handy."

Another player spoke up. "Never marry the most beautiful woman in town," he said. "There'll always be someone trying to take her away from you."

Sinclair laughed easily. "No danger of that. I've only laid eyes on her twice. I know my limitations. Should I saddle up my horse now?"

The men laughed, and the card play began again. Feleena took a short break, danced another round of the tables, then came by Sinclair's table. "Back door," she whispered as she passed.

Sinclair bid his companions a good evening, made his way out the front and around to the back of the building. Feleena was waiting for him. "You're ashamed to be seen with me," he said.

"Oh, noo, but if I would be seen leaving with you, there would be trouble for me," she said. "Other men would think they might have a chance to leave with me, and if I seemed to favor you more than I did, they would not tip as well. It is a... cómo se dice, balance."

He grinned. "I can see that. I was joking."

Her midnight eyes twinkled up at him. "Sinclair is not ashamed to be seen with Feleena?"

He laughed. "I would shout it from the rooftops. She's with me!"

He noticed that the knot was untied in her skirt, and her top was no longer a bare midriff. "Let us go to the Rocking Chair," she said. "We can dance together there."

It wasn't far, and the music was different, but Feleena was no less spectacular, and she stayed close to Sinclair, dancing twice with someone who asked her, but always only one dance, and interspacing several with Sinclair between them.

"You are a very gracious dancer," she said.

"I picked it up in the Army," he said. "The last six months I was in the capital, and there were social occasions where the officers were expected to dance with the ladies."

"You were an officer?" she asked.

"A very junior one, I promise," he said.

"You were very dashing in your uniform, I imagine."

They sat for a while, sipping whiskey, and Sinclair felt he should be getting her home. They walked toward her house, and he felt her warm little hand slip into his. It affected him powerfully, and she looked up at him, a question written on her gorgeous features. "It is permitted?" she asked.

He nodded, words failing. It became comfortable after a moment, and her constant chatter filled his ears and his mind. He realized he had never had so much fun in his life, or felt so alive. When they reached her door, she stopped and stood in front of him, very close. He imagined he could feel heat coming from her.

"Feleena... I... I'd like to see you again," he stammered. "When I come back, will you have dinner with me?"

"I will," she said. "I would like that very much. When do you feel you will return?"

"I'm not sure," he explained. "I'm hoping to pick up a shorthorn bull, and I also hope it will be in the next two weeks. If not, I'm coming back anyway, just to see you."

"I will be waiting," she said. She lifted her face to him, and he sensed she wanted to be kissed. He wanted to kiss her, badly, and he took her in his arms, kissing those plush red lips, never wanting the kiss to end.

It continued for an eternity, it seemed to him, and at last, she pulled away, breathless and flushed. "That... I feel... something... something happens when I touch you, Sinclair."

"I know," he replied. "I feel it, too. You are a special woman, Feleena. Two weeks from today, come hell or high water, I'll be standing here at five, waiting."

She reached up and caressed his cheek, her soft fingers trailing fire, it seemed, and she was gone, the door closing softly.

He stood there for a moment, unwilling to break the spell, end the moment. Finally, with a sigh, he turned and walked back to his hotel.

*****

The ride home seemed long, but Sinclair was in no hurry. His thoughts were full of the night before and the beautiful woman with whom he had spent it. He camped that night and made it to his place early in the afternoon. He spent the afternoon cleaning out one of the springs, building a wooden tank for overflow. Water was a precious resource, and the farther his cattle had to walk to drink, the more weight they walked off in the process.

He stayed busy for the next two weeks, just the normal upkeep of his house and the cattle occupying more time than he cared to think about. He was planning an addition to his house, and he cut and dragged the logs he would need to the site.

He would let them season for a while, then cut them square. As he was rolling the logs up off the ground so they wouldn't rot, he heard the sound of a horse approaching.

He looked up to see someone he'd met in Abilene, Kansas a few years before. He leaned on his cant hook and watched. The rider drew rein and looked around. "Nice place, Sinclair. You've done well for yourself."

"I'd heard you'd moved to Florida with your wife," Sinclair said. "Get down and stay for dinner, John."

John Wesley Hardin dismounted, and they took his horse to the stable. "I did," Hardin said. "I'm back to take care of a little business."

"With me?" Sinclair asked in some alarm.

Hardin chuckled. "No. My brother-in-law is in jail over in Gonzales County. I'm aiming to get him out."

"Are you getting him out with dynamite, or lawyers?" Sinclair asked.

"I'll try the lawyers first," Hardin said. "If I had been after you, I'd have laid out in the hills somewhere and bushwhacked you. Hell, even Hickok wanted no trouble with you when we were in Abilene."

Sinclair chuckled. "He let me keep my guns in town."

Hardin smiled. "Only three men I ever heard that about, and two of them are right here."

They had dinner and Sinclair invited Hardin to stay for the night. "You don't snore, do you? " Hardin asked. Both men chuckled about that, as Hardin had been accused of killing a man in Abilene for snoring.

"I might, but you'll be in the bunkhouse and I'll be in my bedroom," Sinclair said. "I doubt my lullaby will bother you."

Hardin left the next morning, trading Sinclair a .38-caliber, nickel-plated, blued hammer, trigger, and screws mother-of-pearl handled Colt Lightning for the hospitality, some supplies and a fresh horse.

Every day seemed like an eternity that week, but they passed, and before Sinclair realized, he was on his way back to El Paso.

The ride took forever, it seemed, but he had time to check into the hotel, get a bath and dress in his town clothes. At five, he was standing at Feleena's front door, a bouquet of wild flowers he'd stopped and picked in his hand. He felt very nervous, for some reason, but he squared his shoulders and knocked.

He heard movement inside, and in a minute, the door opened and he was looking at that dusky angel. Her face lit up with a beautiful smile, "Sinclair!"

He felt himself wrapped in her arms, her hair in his face and the jasmine scent of her filling his mind. She raised her face, which had been nuzzling into his chest, and he could tell she wanted to be kissed. He wanted to kiss her, in the worst way, so he tasted those full juicy lips, his heart beating wildly.

Feleena was hardly able to contain her excitement at seeing him again. She had been thinking of him since he left, hourly, it seemed, and she felt completely at home in his arms.

"I... I brought you some flowers," he managed to stutter.

She looked. "Oh, they are very beautiful," she said. "We must put them in a vase." She led him inside and found a small glass vase, dipping some water into in from a large olla by the door of her kitchen. She placed it on the table in the entry. "They will brighten up the room every time I enter," she said. "Sinclair is hungry? Shall we go?"

The dinner was pleasant, and the company better, Sinclair thought. Feleena was quite entertained, as well. This handsome quiet man was outside her experience. She knew he owned a ranch, but he was far from the usual cowboy and ranch owner she knew. He had manners she knew weren't learned around a campfire, he held her chair for her, opened doors and was solicitous of her comfort and feelings. He spoke English in an enunciated and correct way and he was always neatly dressed when she saw him.

Truthfully, he made her heart pound a little. Feleena had been the object many men had desired, but she rarely felt any way about the numerous men who swirled around her. She knew she was beautiful and desirable, but she desired very few men she had met. Sinclair was different. She found herself wanting to impress him, very much, and when they kissed... her body reacted in a way she had never experienced. There was a stirring in her loins for something...

Sinclair, in turn, had never experienced anything quite like the impact Feleena had on him. Back in Washington and New York, dancing attendance on the wives and daughters of generals and senators, he had been impressed with their grace and beauty, but he always felt they were acting. Feleena had a gentility that was unconscious, just part of who she was.

He almost felt he had known her before in some other place or time. They were completely comfortable with each other, both feeling the attraction, the ease, talking and laughing the night away. Feleena was not working, but she was happy to devote herself to Sinclair, taking him to a small festival at another place and dancing only with and for him.

*****

Over the next six months, Sinclair spent more time in El Paso than he did at his place. They became an established couple, and people nodded and smiled at this beautiful young pair, so obviously in love. Sinclair was deeply in love, and it was obvious that Feleena felt the same. The only bone of contention between them was Feleena's dancing.

"How can you feel this way," she asked after he brought it up. "This is how we met. You knew I was a dancer before we ever spoke."

He chuckled. "Yes, I'm very well aware of that. It is, however, one thing to admire a beautiful dancer, and quite another to admire the eyes of other men on your girl."

She smiled up at him. "I am your girl? Somehow, you have neglected to ask or inform me."

"Feleena, will you be my girl?"

She snuggled against him. "Oh, yes, may I?"

"I want nothing more."

"Well, dancing is how I live, Sinclair. There are few occupations available for women. How should I live if I don't dance?"

"I don't have any answers about that, and I'm not trying to dictate what you do," he said. "Can we both think about that? Maybe we'll come up with something."

"Yes, I will contemplate. You do the same. Now, I wish to do something outside."

Sinclair laughed, stood and took her hand, pulling her to her feet and kissing her luscious lips. She molded herself against him for a continuation of that kiss, then danced away to find her shoes. After banging them against a support beam to ensure there were no scorpions inside, she was ready to go.

They strolled down the boardwalk, she went into the general store and he smiled as she haggled with the shopkeeper over a blot of material she wanted. The rapid-fire Spanish had him struggling to follow, but Feleena evidently got the price she wanted, because she bought it. They spent a pleasant day and she wanted to go home for a nap before her shift at Rosa's that evening.

Sinclair walked her home, then went to run errands himself. He stopped at the grain elevator and arranged for a wagon-load of grain for his horses and the two steers he was fattening. He would drive in and pick it up the next time he came.

As he made his way back to the hotel, he recognized Hardy Clinton approaching. He was with another man, older and much larger. He had a military demeanor, and looked as if he were quite impressed with himself.

He said something to Hardy, and Hardy nodded and answered. As they drew close, Sinclair moved close to the street on the boardwalk so they could pass. Instead, they stopped a few feet away. The older man looked Sinclair up and down.

Sinclair stopped. "May I help you gentlemen?" he asked.

The older man spoke. "I hear you've been seeing a certain young lady here. Do you know who I am?"

Sinclair sighed. "My ignorance is appalling. Do you want to tell me who you are, because I didn't ask."

"I'm Captain Clinton," he said.

"Unusual first name," Sinclair said. "My compliments."

"It's a military rank," Clinton said.

"You seem to be out of uniform, Mr. Clinton," Sinclair remarked.

"The army of the Confederacy no longer exists," Clinton said.

"I see. Yes, I heard about the surrender at Appomattox, Mr. Clinton."

Clinton's face turned red. "Captain Clinton," he insisted.

"I'm not in the military, and as you aren't either, I believe that makes you Mr. Clinton," Sinclair said, "and who I'm 'seeing' is none of your affair."

"You talk brave with that gun on your hip," Clinton said. "I wonder how brave you'd be if you took it off? I've heard you're a gunfighter."

"No, just a simple rancher," Sinclair said. "I see you're wearing a gun, as well, as is your son." Sinclair was feeling it, his senses took on that preternatural sharpness and he became aware of everything around him in sharp focus, time slowing and every sound magnified. "If you are interested in how brave I am, we can walk back to the elevator, leave our guns with Edward there and step around back. How brave are you, CAPTAIN?" He put a sarcastic emphasis on that last word.

He saw it in the man's eyes. He was huge, probably six-four and must have weighed 250 pounds. There was a little extra weight around Clinton's middle, but he was plainly a strong man, and confident in his size.

"It would be my pleasure to teach you a lesson," Clinton said.

"Dad..." Hardy started.

His father shot him a glance. "Stay out of this, Hardy," he said.

They walked back to the elevator without speaking, and Sinclair explained the situation to Edward. "I'm being taught a lesson in manners," he said.

Edward chuckled. "Good, you've always needed a lesson or two. I'll hold your guns."

Sinclair bought a thin pair of leather gloves, then looked at Clinton. He gestured at the back door. "After you."

Once outside, Hardy stood waiting. Clinton took up a fighting stance, and Sinclair smiled inwardly. He knew if Clinton was an experienced fighter, he was in trouble. He was two inches shorter than Clinton and probably sixty pounds lighter. He knew there was a reason pugilists were divided into weight classes, but he did have an advantage.

It was unlikely the good Captain had ever been in many fights. His sheer size would dissuade most men. The few he'd had; he would likely have just quickly overpowered his adversaries by size and strength. Sinclair was very strong, deceptively so, light on his feet, and he'd been in dozens of fights.

He drew on his gloves and stepped forward. "You can walk away, you know," he said. "You're going to regret this."

He saw a hint of doubt in Clinton's eyes. He was too confident, and it shook the big man a little, but he laughed it off. "I've never lost a fight," he said.

Sinclair shrugged. "Start when you're ready."

Clinton reached back somewhere into Mexico and shot out a looping right hand that would have decapitated a mule. It was badly telegraphed, and Sinclair ducked, shooting out a left jab that caught Clinton in the mouth, bloodying his lips and making him stagger.

Sinclair stepped quickly forward, delivering a left hook to the liver that froze Clinton in his tracks for a moment before he crumpled to the ground, writhing in pain.

Sinclair stepped back. Hardy gaped at his father, plainly stunned to see his invincibility crumble to dust. "You can walk away," Sinclair said to the man on the ground.

Clinton staggered to his feet. "Like hell!" he bellowed, and rushed Sinclair, trying to get his hands on him. Sinclair stood his ground, and as Clinton reached out, seized his left arm, spinning and using the big man's momentum to throw him over his hip. Clinton thudded into the dirt, flat on his back, every hint of breath expelling in an explosive gasp.

Sinclair dropped on Clinton, his right elbow finding that same spot, driving home that viscous liver shot again. Clinton wailed with what little breath he was able to draw in, again writhing in pain like a worm on a hot sidewalk.