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THE COMPANY OF STRANGERS

Jantallian

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'If I'm standing in a crowd, call my name, call it loud,

don't go to strangers, woman, call on me.

Wave your arm in the air, let me know that you're there,

when in doubt, oh woman, call on me.'

J. J. Cale - Don't Go To Strangers

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1

At a window of the Central Hotel in Denver, a worried young woman leaned on the sill and gazed out into the main street. A frown creased her satin-smooth skin and the line of her jaw showed a distinct tendency to clench, despite the otherwise ethereal contours of her face. The fingers of one hand drummed absently as she considered her options and the task she had set herself. Independent and strong-willed though she was, she wished heartily she had some kind of reliable back-up - preferably young, good-looking and an excellent shot – but any kind of trustworthy support would be better than none.

She had considered going to the Marshall's office, but what could she tell him? That the letter she had received from her father was false? That there was no reason for him to linger in Denver once he had made the contacts in the wine business which he had planned? That the reason he gave for remaining could not be true because his business was importing fine wine from France and he would never consider buying up someone else's cellar? Her own instincts and knowledge of her father's business were not evidence a lawman could act on. She was alone, even though the street below was thronged with people walking, riding and driving with single-minded determination about their business. Not one of them had the least connection with her.

And then she drew in a sharp breathe. She could not believe her eyes! He must be a mind-reader to appear so promptly to her need.

The cause of this reaction was a lone horseman, who had appeared at the far end of the street, moving at a steady, mile-eating lope that his horse could keep up almost for ever. As he approached the congested centre of the town, his star-faced bay slowed to a walk. The horseman might once have been clad in blue denim, but he was now grey with dust from his hair to his boots and even his black hat and vest had assumed the same colour.

The young woman shook her head and chuckled with amusement.

Man and horse paused at the town water-trough, where the rider slid from the saddle with weary grace, gave the animal a slap on the neck which raised even more dust and allowed his mount a good drink. Once the animal's needs were satisfied, the man strolled over to the saloon opposite the hotel and flipped his mount's reins loosely round the rail, without tying them.

The watcher realised the rider was in much the same condition as the horse and chuckled again as he disappeared inside. No doubt he'd get round eventually to shedding some of the trail dust, once he'd stabled his mount and found a room – in the Central, she hoped. Still smiling to herself, she left the window and sat down at the desk, where she scribbled a brief note and sealed and addressed the envelope. She hesitated for a moment about how, when and where to deliver it. Better not to disturb a good drink! Later, perhaps, she would find an opportunity for such business. She smiled again as she lodged the note against the lamp on the desk. Meanwhile her own business was important and she had an appointment to keep.

Descending broad sweep of the hotel staircase a few moments later, she passed a new arrival, but it was not the man she had been watching. Parcels and luggage were being rapidly carried up by a succession of porters, as an elegant woman clad to the height of fashion, but completely in black, watched from the desk, where she had been signing the register. A widow, perhaps? Or was it just that the black set off to perfection her rich gold hair and magnolia complexion? The young woman herself was fashionably attired in a very well cut jade linen suit which exactly matched the colour of her eyes and the hat on her silver-blonde head could not be equalled in Denver, since it had been purchased on the East Coast. Nonetheless, she suddenly felt both immature and inadequate – not feelings to put her in the best of moods. She scowled and hurried on to her appointment.

When she returned in due course to the hotel, somewhat frustrated because she had not been able to gain anything from this appointment, she paused at the desk to look in the register. The name she was looking for was not there. Nevertheless, she was sure he would come. She was determined to make the most of the delay by bathing and changing into something prettier than the suit. It was sometime later, therefore, that she came back down to the broad lobby of the hotel, where there were numerous comfortable chairs and sofas for the relaxation of the patrons. Here she chose a secluded seat in the far corner, where she could easily watch the front door, the reception desk and the stairs.

Presently her vigil was rewarded, but in a way which startled her. The man came suddenly down the staircase, even though he was not registered to stay in the hotel. And he had certainly shed the trail-dust. In fact he had changed so completely she was not sure for a moment that it really was him and not a total stranger. She'd never seen him in formal clothes – a good broad-cloth long coat, embroidered vest and a clean, white shirt with a narrow neck-tie. It looked as though he had a new hat in his hand, too. She stared, puzzled. It was perfectly all right for her to dress up to meet him, but she could not imagine him doing the same for her.

The explanation was not long coming. The man picked up a newspaper from one of the side-tables and dropped into a chair near the door, although he did not have time to do much reading. The young woman was only a few feet behind him, when there was a little stir amongst the people frequenting the lobby. They were all looking towards the staircase, where the elegant woman, whom she had seen arrive, was just descending. She was wearing a different, but equally figure-hugging outfit, black again with touches of cream which matched her complexion. She was clearly used to the tribute of people's admiration and paid no attention to it, but made straight for the reading man. She whisked the paper mischievously out of his hands and tossed it on the floor.

"My dear Jess, you've cleaned up quite nicely!" she purred in a rich, contralto voice as he got swiftly to his feet.

His voice was a low growl, intended for her ears only as he replied: "Someone frog-marched me into a rather luxurious bathroom, if you recall!" The young woman, however, had very sharp ears and she knew that tone and the challenge underlying it. The man moved towards the elegant blonde, but checked for a fraction of a second. The young woman behind him saw the cloth of his jacket move because his shoulder-muscles hitched momentarily as if he was uneasy about something.

"Is something the matter?" the blonde enquired, sensing the hesitation and clearly affronted by it.

"Some unfinished business," he replied obscurely. "Nothing that won't improve by keeping." He offered the woman his arm and the two strolled out of the building and disappeared in the crowd.

The young woman stood quite still, so still in fact that a man who had just entered the hotel almost cannoned into her. His brown eyes opened wide and she heard a sharp intake of breath as he looked her up and down in bewilderment and no little admiration.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am!" He had already removed his hat and now gave a courteous bow. She smiled and bowed back and was about to turn away when he reached out and touched her arm. "Pardon me," he said again, "but I must ask – are you Armand Picard's daughter?"

"Why, yes, but -?" She was surprised and, since her self-esteem had just taken quite a battering, flattered that someone knew who she was. She looked more closely at the young man, who was certainly worth a second look. He was tall and well-built, his brown hair and eyes softening an appearance which would otherwise have bordered on the ruthless. Although well under thirty, he had a confident air of command and an extremely courteous manner. Her mind flicked back momentarily to another and quite different encounter with an unknown young man, but she pushed away memory and concentrated on the present. Perhaps this one could be of some help to her instead.

"You won't remember me," he was saying, "but my father and yours were business partners several times. I saw you once, back east, at the New Year's ball." He paused, before adding ingenuously, "I've never forgotten it."

"Why, thank you!" Chantal Picard was quite accustomed to young men metaphorically falling at her feet – well, most of them, anyway! Thick, gold lashes swept down over the brilliance of her eyes, as she smiled just a little at the compliment.

"My father is Emory Turner" the young man continued. "I am his eldest son, Richard – although most people call me just Rick." He hesitated a moment and then continued tentatively, "I know this is very sudden, but, perhaps, if you have no other engagements, you would do me the honour of having supper with me this evening?"

It seemed too good to be true. "I've just visited your father's offices, Mr. Turner," she told him. "I have a problem with which I hope he might be able to help me."

"I'm sure he would be enchanted, but he's out of town, at our residence. Perhaps we could discuss it over our meal? I may be able to help and if I can't, I'm sure he would be delighted to have you as his guest for a while." The irony of this was not to strike her until some time later. Meanwhile, dining with a personable young man would prove a good antidote to both her feeling of isolation and to an unreasonable sense of rejection.

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There were plenty of eating places in Denver. One or two of these were both sophisticated and expensive. Tables could even be reserved in advance. It was the most unlikely of co-incidences that the first person Chantal saw as Richard Turner escorted her to her seat was the blonde woman from the hotel. She could not see who she was dining with, because whoever it was sat with their back to one of the pillars, but it was a table for two and there were no prizes for guessing who the second person was.

Chantal was glad her own table in the restaurant did not require her to pass them. She sat down and concentrated her attention on a charming young man who did not show any sign of going off with sophisticated older women.

The sophisticated older woman, meanwhile, was regarding her dining companion with a mixture of irritation and chagrin. Although he was perfectly attentive to her needs, he seemed to be about as accessible as the top of the Rockies – and as cool. June Dark thought with an inner sigh how much easier it would be to play this scene with Slim Sherman, who genuinely liked her and could be relied upon to show it in the most charming manner.

"It ain't my fault he busted his ankle!" This uncanny reading of her thoughts made her revise her opinion of her companion's sensitivity.

"That didn't make any difference," she retorted. "You're here because we all trust you not to kill Jim!" Her breath caught as she recalled the risk her husband was taking in relying on Jess Harper's gun-skill.

"Not actually to kill him," he corrected with a wry grin. "I'll do my best."

June knew this was true. He had supported and backed-up her husband, to the extent of putting his own life on the line to save Jim when the Reeves brothers were gunning for him. Once Jess had taken to someone, he obviously gave them his total loyalty and commitment. He just didn't accord her such trust, nor the admiration and flirtation to which she was accustomed. June could not figure out why. After all, he had angled shamelessly for that kiss when she and Jim had left Laramie – turning on a devastating combination of challenge and appeal, almost as if he were mischievously bent on proving he could manipulate her instead of the reverse.

She decided on a direct attack. "Are you always this reserved when you're in love?"

His eyes narrowed for a second, then he said quietly: "Yes." He seemed to be thinking something over, but she had no idea what it was.

She tried again. "In that case, Jess, if this is going to work, you are going to have to do some acting!"

"If this is goin' to work, you're goin' to have to remember it is just an act."

"And you don't trust me to do just that?"

There was a pause. "No."

"Why not?"

"Let's just say you're a mite too fond of trailin' scalps in the dust behind you," he told her drily. "You ain't includin' mine among them."

"Really? Why would I want to?"

"You don't have to want to," he said shrewdly. "It's just a natural habit. An' I don't like bein' a habit, either!"

This conversation was veering so far from the kind of relationship they were supposed to be impressing upon the social scene in Denver that June almost despaired. But too much was at stake. "All right then, I'll remember exactly how nasty you were when I was in Laramie and you can pretend I'm someone you –"

She stopped abruptly as she saw real anger flash into his eyes. It was gone in a second, replaced once more by the cool control she had been trying to break through. She was not sure what she had said to trespass upon his feelings, but whatever it was, he had shut her out even more effectively than before. She might just as well have been in the company of a total stranger. Without any calculation, she said with a desperate half-sob, "Jess, I'm sorry! But we have to go through with this and it has to look real!"

He drew a deep breath and said, "Talk to me about your husband."

"About Jim?" She was utterly confused.

"Yeah, that one. He seems to be the one thing we both agree on."

"Agree?"

"Yeah. I admire him and you're in love with him. Seems likely to make us both talk a lot pleasanter."

June looked at him then with eyes which had seen so much hurt to the man she loved. Just for a moment, she felt he understood such a tie, the pain and the passion and the risks that each of them was prepared to take for the other. In a way it was a mark of respect or perhaps of shared experience.

"Alright." She drew a breath and focused inwardly on the man who was risking so much because of the integrity which underpinned his belief in justice. And she looked across the table at the man who was willing to risk everything to support that commitment.

The change in her face was visible, not least to the young woman who, despite the attractions of her escort, could not entirely detach herself from her own feelings. Richard, 'please, call me Rick', Turner was no substitute, but he would have to do. Chantal resolutely put her attention to captivating him and securing his support for the quest she had undertaken. As yet, she had no idea of the way in which this was drawing her into peril. If she had, she would not have backed down.