Page 73 of Native Hawk
Chapter 22
Catalina thought it was probably a good thing she didn’t have a gun. She would have shot the broken-nosedbastardowhere he stood. And then the sheriff of Paradise would have hanged her for murder.
As it was, Catalina was being restrained by Miss Hattie, who had a steely grip on her arms.
“Where is she?” the brute demanded again, growling like a pig hunting fortartufi.“Where’s my Jenny?”
“She is not yours, youfiglio di puttana!”Catalina yelled at him.
“Hush!” Miss Hattie hissed.
The madam might share Catalina’s sentiments, but she never liked to anger customers, no matter how rude they were.
“Now, mister, to be fair,” Miss Hattie said in diplomatic tones, “the last time you visited us, you got a little rough with Jenny.”
“She’s mine!” he bellowed. “Where is she?”
“Gone where you will never find her,bruto!”Catalina spat.
Miss Hattie gave Catalina’s arms a jerk. “She ain’t here, mister. You’re gonna have to mosey along.”
Catalina was incredulous. “You will just let him go? After what he did to Jenny?”
“I didn’t do nothin’ to Jenny,” the man said. “If she said I did, she’s lyin’.”
“I saw her!” Catalina shouted. “You ripped her dress. You cut her lip. You striked her in the face.”
Miss Hattie intervened. “You should prob’ly just get out o’ town before word starts spreadin’.”
“Jenny belongs to me,” the man insisted. “I had her first.”
Catalina bit the words out between her teeth. “Yes, you had her first. I saw the sheets. You hurt her so badly, there was blood everywhere.”
Miss Hattie flinched at this revelation.
The man spat on the floor. “Don’t you know nothin’, whore? That’s just the way it is.” Then he yelled, “Now tell me where Jenny is! Jenny!”
His roar brought the upstairs ladies drifting timidly out of their bedrooms.
Then the man whipped aside his coat and pulled out a pistol. He shook it toward the balcony. “Jenny? Where are you, girl?”
He fired off a shot at the ceiling, chipping the plaster and setting off a spate of shrieks.
“Jenny! I know you’re here!”
He fired again, clipping the wood railing of the balcony and sending the ladies diving for the floor.
“Someone better tell me where she is,” he threatened, “or I’m gonna start shootin’ whores—startin’ with this one.”
Suddenly, Catalina found herself staring down the barrel of his gun.
In the next instant, before she could even gasp, there was a loud crack.
For a split second, Catalina thought she’d been shot.
But then she saw the pistol fly out of his grip into pieces and hit the wall as if by magic. He recoiled and cursed in pain, shaking his hand.
From upstairs, she heard Drew’s familiar voice. “You’d best get the hell out o’ Paradise before I get a bead on somethin’ more than your trigger finger.”
