Anna Finch and the Hired Gun Read Online Free Page A

aggravated stare with a measure of glee. “In fact, I’m sure it can be arranged, can it not?”
    “Yes,” the waiter said with effort. “Of course.”
    “Thank you,” the woman said. “You’ve done us a great favor. You see, we’re meeting someone and—”
    “What my wife means is lawmen are not people given to sitting by windows.” The man shook Anna’s hand, and she recalled where she’d seen him: the newspapers. She’d read about him somewhere and even cut out a photograph as a model for a character in one of her novels. He’d been a lawman in that story too. His name escaped her, however.
    “Old habits die hard,” he said with a shrug. “I do appreciate the favor. And you will allow us to buy your lunch.”
    “Oh, no,” Anna said as she gathered up her things and vacated the table. “It’s my pleasure. Really.”
    He tipped his Stetson and grinned. “That wasn’t a question, miss, so do enjoy yourself.” The gentleman spoke with the authority of someone who generally got his way. He glanced around. “You’re not alone, are you?”
    “Alone? Oh, no, I … That is, no. My friend, she’s, well …” Anna swallowed hard, suddenly flustered under his steady, all-male gaze. “Gennie’s been known to …”
    “Arrive slightly past the appointed time?” the lady offered.
    “Yes.” Anna slid a thankful look her way.
    “Well, then. That’s settled.” The man tipped his hat again, and the couple turned to take possession of their table.
    “She’s very pretty, Wyatt,” the woman said as Anna stepped away.
    Wyatt?
Anna glanced back to watch the older man fold his long legs under the table, his back squarely to the wall and his eyes on the only exit.
    “Wyatt Earp,” she whispered. “Oh my.”
    While dime novels painted the man as a hero, Anna’s impression of the legendary lawman Wyatt Earp, garnered from newspaper reports, was less than favorable. Looking into the man’s eyes and watching how he treated his companion made her wonder if he truly was the cold-blooded killer the papers said he was, bent on revenging his brother’s murder through the so-called Vendetta Ride.
    Stories of one death after another, all connected in some way to the Tombstone killing of Morgan Earp, had filled the papers foryears. Names like
Clanton
and
Ringo
, along with hints of things not reported by the law, were usually mentioned. Alongside the requisite photograph of the bullet-ridden corpse generally came a photograph of the one deemed responsible: Wyatt Earp and, on occasion, his old friend Doc Holliday.
    The same Doc Holliday the man at the river had mentioned. Coincidence? Perhaps.
    But perhaps not.
    And now Wyatt Earp sat just a stone’s throw from her, in the very chair she herself had occupied. Looking around, she noted that no one else in the Windsor seemed to realize a man of dubious reputation and some renown was in their midst. Anna tugged at the lace on her collar and contemplated the situation.
    Until this moment, her journalistic aspirations had been limited to reading the paper instead of writing for it. But the opportunity of a lifetime had just offered to buy her lunch.

    “Welcome back to Denver.”
    Jeb looked up to see Hank Thompson moving across the expensive carpet toward him like a tomcat circling a mouse. “I always figured you for the straight-arrow type, Hank, but this has all the marks of a decently aggravating practical joke.”
    “I assure you I’m quite serious. You look awful, by the way. You couldn’t have bathed before you came by? You’re more trail dust than skin.”
    Jeb shook his head, ignoring Hank’s jab at his appearance. “Youknow I’m not a man given to complaints, but I’m standing my ground on this one. You’ll just have to find another fool to put on …” He snatched the paper out of his pocket. “The ‘costume befitting a Roman gladiator.’ Didn’t they wear dresses back then?”
    “Togas, Jeb, and all the staff will be wearing them. Helmets