Nightwalker

Heather Graham

Nightwalker

For friends in Vegas,

Dan Frank, Adam Fenner, Shelley Martinsen

and Dick Martinsen,

and with special love for

Lance Taubold and Rich Devin

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Prologue

Nevada, 1876

Smoke from a dozen cigars and cigarillos filled the saloon, creating a gray mist that hung over the patrons’ heads. George Turner, a man with a curious mix of races running through his blood, was playing the piano. Milly Taylor, a soprano who survived by prostitution in this godforsaken hellhole, was singing about being in a gilded cage. The desert dust, which never seemed to really settle, joined with the miasma of smoke, and it was only the fact that the fiery red ball of the sun was finally settling that made it bearable to sit at the poker table.

John Wolf was holding a flush, aces high. He leaned back easily in his chair. There was a fair amount of money on the table, but if he appeared casual, it wasn’t just his customary stoicism that made him so.

He didn’t give a damn about the money at stake. He’d just returned from a trip that could change the lives of everyone around him. Now he was waiting for Mariah.

“I’ll see your dollar, breed,” Mark Davison said.

John didn’t bat an eye. He knew Davison was trying to rile him with the remark. The man should have known better. If there was anything John had learned from being raised between two worlds in this lawless sandpit, it was to control any outward display of emotion.

“I’ll raise you two,” Davison continued.

Davison was an ass, a would-be gunslinger.

He’d come from the East, with family money and an attitude. Whether he won or lost, he tipped the bartenders and the girls, so that, at least, was good. But he’d taken up with Frank Varny and his crowd, and that was bad.

“Two bucks,” Davison repeated. There was color in his cheeks.

“Two bucks,” John said, smoothly sliding the sum onto the pile.

He could tell by Davison’s expression that the other man had expected him to fold.

“This is a friendly poker game, fellows,” Grant Percy, the so-called sheriff said, fidgeting uneasily in his seat and folding his cards. He might wear a badge, but the truth was, Frank Varny owned the town.

He had muscled his way in, and he had kept his power in the usual way: by intimidation. You joined him—or you went out into the desert with your mule and pickax, and only the mule and pickax came back.

But today, John Wolf knew, things were going to change. Mariah would come, and whatever happened to him after that wouldn’t matter. She was the one good, honest human being he’d come across in his life, and he was going to give her the information she needed to ensure that the people here—not just the tribe but all the people in this town who’d suffered for too long under Varny’s corrupt rule—found life worth living again.

“I’m out, so lay down your cards,” Ringo Murphy, the fourth and last man at the table, said. Murphy was a wild card himself. He’d been an opinionated rancher down in Missouri, so the story went. Just a kid when his world had gone to hell. He’d become a sharpshooter during the War Between the States, and now that it was over, he was chasing a dream of wealth and comfort. He was gaunt but well toned, a fellow with a devil-may-care attitude, and he wasn’t quick to bend to any man’s brutal tactics. He leaned back in his chair with his guns visible, nestled into the shoulder holsters he wore. Names were etched on the barrels: Lola and Lilly. “Come on, Davison,” Ringo said impatiently. “I’d like to get back into this game.”

Davison was a lean man, as skinny as a string bean—letting his muscle come from the two Colts he wore holstered on his hips.

John was armed himself. Always. He, too, carried Colts. Six-shooters, each one double-barreled, providing him with an extra shot per gun. He also carried two knives, sheathed at his ankles. It wasn’t out of meanness. Out here, it meant survival.

“Call,” Davison said gruffly. John laid his cards on the table.

That was when the swinging doors to the saloon burst open. The sun was setting, painting the sky a deep red hue. Against it, a man was silhouetted in the doorway.

Frank Varny had come, just as John had known he would. But the timing was bad; Varny shouldn’t have made it in from his “office” in the hills until nightfall.

“Wolf!” he said, the single word sounding like a roar.

John didn’t twitch. He cursed silently and didn’t acknowledge the newcomer. He’d had it all planned down to a crossed T, but someone had betrayed him. Varny shouldn’t have known he was back. Not until Mariah had come.

The smoke in the air began to dissipate as most of the crowd scattered hurriedly, like dry leaves caught in a high wind, heading out the backdoor.

Even the bartender disappeared. Milly Taylor croaked out one last note, then froze, as her accompanist scrambled up the stairs.

Only John paid no attention to the other man’s arrival.

Frank Varny didn’t like being ignored. He strode across the room, so accustomed to being a law unto himself that he didn’t see the flicker of annoyance in Ringo Murphy’s black eyes.

Davison looked up nervously, though, barely noticing anything as he set his cards down by reflex alone.

John had won. “My flush beats your straight,” he said, and scooped in the gold dollars piled on the table.

“Good. Now the rest of us can get back into the game,” Ringo Murphy muttered.

“The game is over,” Frank Varny announced. By then, four of his henchmen had followed him into the saloon. They were all resting their hands on the guns holstered at their hips.

“Deal,” John told Grant Percy.

“Now, now,” Sheriff Percy said, licking his lips nervously. “Seems like Mr. Varny needs to have a word with you first, John Wolf.”

John looked toward the swinging doors and saw a tumbleweed dance by in the breeze that had suddenly lifted. He looked upward, not at Varny, but at the red sky that was darkening to crimson, deep as a dead man’s blood. From the corner of his eye, he judged where Varny’s men were standing.

Varny planted a fist on the table, leaning down. “You found the vein, didn’t you? Well, it’s my land. And it’s my gold.”

John stared back at him and smiled slowly. “It’s Paiute land,” he said calmly. He drew the cards toward himself and started to shuffle. “I brought a claim into Carson City, and I took ownership, on behalf of the tribe, of the land that once belonged to the Paiute nation, before you white men came and took it all away. Up in those offices in Carson City, they’re not afraid of you, Varny. They believe in something called the law. So now the claim is on Paiute land, my friend.”

Ringo Murphy let out a snort and stared from one man to the other. “What the hell? Are we playing cards here or not?”

“Shut your mouth,” Varny said. “We’re doing business here.”

“Get the hell out of my sight, Varny,” John said. “I told you, that gold is mine.”

It was amazing, John thought, that Varny didn’t die of apoplexy on the spot. He looked as if he was about to explode. “That’s my gold, and you’re going to tell me where to find it, you red bastard.”

“Is anyone going to deal?” Murphy demanded. “I would like to win my money back.”

“We’ll get right back to it,” John said to Murphy. He turned back to Varny. “Actually, I’m only half-red. My mother was white. She was working in this very saloon when she was captured, and she soon realized she had a better life as a Paiute captive than a white barmaid.”

“Barmaid? Whore, more like,” Varny spat out.

John looked evenly into the other man’s eyes. “Whatever she might have done in life to survive, she was a far better person than you. Hell, Varny, you murdering scum. That makes her pretty damn fine in comparison, no matter what the hell she did.”

Varny drew his gun, and his men drew theirs. Left with no choice, John Wolf rose, kicking the table over and using it for cover, as he drew, himself. He noticed Murphy drawing his own gun, evening the odds at least slightly.

As the shots began to explode and ricochet, the sheriff and Davison dived for cover, and Milly Taylor ducked behind the piano and screamed.

To John Wolf, the world seemed to slow down, letting him see every little detail of what was happening.

Murphy was good. Faster than lightning, even in John’s slowed-down view. As the sheriff threw himself under a nearby table for protection, Murphy held his ground, both guns blazing. John heard the sickening thuds as first one bullet struck home, then the other, as Murphy took out two of Varny’s men, saving John’s hide.

John Wolf took that in even as his own guns blazed against Varny’s other two thugs.

Another thud, and a spray of brilliant color as one man was struck in the heart. A moment later, the other took a bullet in the lung. Blood streamed across the floor, matching the sunset.

Varny’s men were dead, all four of them, but Ringo Murphy been hit himself. He looked at John before he died. “Sorry, partner,” he said, and fell. Hiding under a table hadn’t helped the sheriff; he was sprawled out under it now, his eyes glazed in death. It hadn’t saved the skinny fool from the East, either. Davison was bleeding out on top of the sheriff; his jugular had been hit, his geysering blood turning into a deep, dark river as it mingled with the dirt on the floor.

Milly Taylor wasn’t dead, though. She had wilted against the piano and was sobbing. The wall was blown out behind her. Varny had been hit in the right arm, but he was still standing.

Now it was just the two of them.

They stood in the midst of the carnage and stared at one another.

“You’re a lucky son of a bitch,” Varny said. “Your buddy there took down Riley and Austin. Without him, you’d be dead. You couldn’t have shot all four of them.”

“The world is full of what might have happened,” John said softly.

Varny grinned slowly. “I’m going to kill you, you know. Thing is, why the hell are you holding out? Give me the gold and I’ll let you live. Are you going to give me some cock and bull about your father’s people? You said that it was your land now. So which is it? Misplaced heroics or personal greed?”

John shrugged. “Misplaced heroics? Those who came here first, my father’s people, they need it. They’ll share. And you, you already have more than any man needs in a lifetime. You know, there’s a rumor out there that you have Indian blood, too.”

“The hell I do.”

“Thank God. The Indian nations don’t need your kind.”

Varny knew how to hold his temper, and he grinned, even if there was a tic at the vein in his throat. “What about your white half, boy?”

John hiked a brow slowly. Boy? “Well, Pops, my mother is dead. And what folks she had, I never knew about. But this isn’t about red or white. It’s about greed. Yours. You’ve managed to cause a hell of a lot of trouble since the Paiute War, kidnapping women from the villages, discarding them like garbage. And when their husbands, fathers and brothers have come after you, you’ve managed to shoot them down or get them hanged. All you’ve wanted for as long as I’ve known about you is gold. Paiute gold. And you’re not going to get it. This land—and any gold that’s on it—is the tribe’s now.”

Varny’s eyes filled with rage, but he kept his distance. John couldn’t be sure, but he thought Varny might be out of ammunition. It had been hard to count when a half-dozen guns were blazing, but if Varny carried the old army Colts he always had, he was most probably out of bullets.

Then Varny smiled coldly. “I’ve got something you want as much as I want that gold.”

John didn’t allow any sign of wariness to show on his features. He waited. What the hell did he have to lose at this point? Things hadn’t gone the way he’d expected, but now it was down to Varny and himself. He might die, but he would take Varny down with him if he did.

“Did you think I’d play all my cards so quickly?” Varny asked. He never looked away from John. “Tobias! Get in here!”

Tobias was a big man, like some corn-fed Nebraskan. He didn’t look happy as he came in, straw-colored hair flying, denims held up by suspenders.

But that didn’t give John pause. What caused his heart to skip a beat was the fact that Tobias was dragging a terrified captive.

Mariah.

She was in deerskin and moccasins, her hair braided, as befitted a Paiute maiden. But her eyes were bluer than a clear sky at noon, and her skin was as pale as porcelain. She was one of those rare creatures who found happiness and harmony wherever she went; she adored her Indian stepsiblings as much as she had loved her white father, before he died and the Paiute took her in. She was a voice of sanity and peace, and Varny must have grabbed her as she had hurried here to meet him.

“I’ll kill her,” Varny said flatly. There was no emotion in the man’s voice at all. “I’d have fun with her first, except she’s such a timid little mouse, and that’s no fun at all. But who knows? I might give it a try. I actually prefer my women wild and wicked, like Milly over there, but I’m willing to put up with a lot for that deed and that vein of gold. Then again, there’s nothing like blowing off someone’s kneecap. That would hurt like hell, and I’m betting it would get you to talk.”

The first thought that occurred to John was that he would do anything, anything at all, to save Mariah’s life. He would give up all the gold in the universe, salvation for the world, just to see her free. He should drop his weapons and give Varny everything he wanted.

But it wouldn’t help. Varny was going to kill them both, possibly torture them both, no matter what he said to the contrary, once he had the gold.

“Well?” Varny pressed.

It was amazing, John thought, that Varny hadn’t realized the truth about the gold.

“Don’t give him anything!” Mariah cried, fighting the hold Varny’s lackey had upon her. “Don’t give him anything at all.”

Her eyes flashed with her fury and her hatred, which only seemed to amuse Varny—and appeal to him.

“Maybe the lady isn’t so boring after all,” he mused.

With only split seconds before the choice was no longer his, John weighed his options. And they were few. No aid was coming. Ringo Murphy was dead on the ground, and he was the only fool who would have dared to help.

How good was he? John asked himself. He could take down Varny, but could he do that and save Mariah? Maybe. If he tried negotiation, if he stalled, if Varny was the first to draw…

No help, no hope.

He drew.

He fired like lightning; both guns blazing. One bullet for Tobias, one for Varny.

But Varny was fast, too.

John’s bullets struck both men, but Varny hit John in the chest, dead center, as well. Oddly, he didn’t feel pain. Just the punch of the bullet, and then…cold.

Cold like ice.

They always said this kind of death was instantaneous.

But it wasn’t. He was aware of far too much as he died.

He saw Mariah’s face, her mouth the O of a silent scream, as he fell. He tried to say what he needed to tell her, but didn’t know if his lips moved, didn’t know if he made any sound. He wasn’t sure it mattered.

At least she was free. She would live. He tried again to tell her the things she needed to know, but he couldn’t tell if she understood him or not.

But death trapped the final words in his throat, and death came with its white light, then darkness, and after that he was aware of nothing more, not even the ever-present dust as it sifted down and mingled with his blood as his life ebbed away.

1

Tension was high around the table, but then, there were thousands of dollars strewn out across the board, represented by colorful plastic chips.

Because this was Vegas, where men and women could rise like meteors to the top of the world, then plummet to the bottom just as quickly.

Jessy Sparhawk could feel the pressure, could feel the eyes of the other gamblers on her.

Some people were playing big money.

Others—idiots like herself—were taking a desperate, edgy, ridiculous chance, playing to beat the odds. To defy the gods of Vegas, who always proclaimed that the house won.

Oh, yes, she was an idiot. Why in God’s name had she taken the last of her savings to the craps table? She worked in Vegas, she had grown up out here. She’d seen the down-and-outers. She’d seen the poor, the pathetic, the alcoholics, the junkies, all trying for a big win when they knew the law of averages.

“Ten, baby, roll a hard ten” a man called from the end of the table. He wasn’t one of the down-and-outers. He was a regular all over town. She had seen him over at the Big Easy, and he had a deep Southern accent, but one with a Texas twang. His name was Coot Calhoun. All right, so his real name probably wasn’t Coot, but that was how he was known. Nice man. He’d inherited one of the biggest oil fields in Texas. She liked him. He had a wife named Minnie—though Jessy was doubtful about that name, too—who he genuinely loved, and he tipped well because he was generous, not because he was expecting any favors.

“I’m trying, Coot, I’m trying,” she assured him, praying for a hard ten not for Coot’s sake but for Tim’s.

She was here, gambling at the Vegas Sun, because she wasn’t allowed to gamble in the casino where she worked, which usually didn’t bother her, since she wasn’t a gambler. The Sun was owned by a billionaire who had been in the casino trade a long time. Her own Big Easy was owned by Emil Landon. A rich man, yes. A very rich man. But he hadn’t been at the casino game long. Even though she wasn’t a gambler, she knew the games. She’d been a dealer, a hostess, a waitress, a bartender, a singer, a dancer—even an acrobat for a brief period of time. She knew Vegas in and out, backward and forward, and she had learned long, long ago, not to gamble, because the house always won.

“Baby, baby, baby, bee-you-ti-ful baby, do it. Hard ten,” another man called. He was young. Drunk. Probably had too much money on the board, and definitely had too much alcohol in his system.

She was aware of so many people watching her. It had been kind of fun at first, but now she felt the tension. Even Darrell Frye, one of the Sun’s pit bosses, was watching her with a measuring stare, as if afraid she was on one of those long rolls that totally outweighed the odds.

“Ten, ten, ten,” a nearby woman repeated fervently. She was haggard looking, thin, and her dress had been stylish twenty years ago, back when she had been pretty. Now her features bore the weight of time, but she offered Jessy a smile, and Jessy smiled back.

“Get on with it,” someone else insisted. “Just roll.”

She did. To her horror, the dice bounced off the table.

“Hey, it’s all right, just a game,” said a deep, smooth, masculine voice.

She looked up. The man who had spoken was several people away to her left, and she had noticed him earlier. He was the kind of man it was hard not to notice. He wasn’t typically handsome, and certainly not a pretty boy, but he had what she could only call presence. Tall, with broad shoulders, he managed to be simultaneously casual and elegant, and rugged on top of that.

She flashed him a smile. He wasn’t drunk; he had been sipping the same drink since she had started watching the table. She was five-ten and wearing heels, but he towered over her by several inches. His eyes were so dark that to call them brown would be an injustice. His hair, too, was almost ebony, and the striking cut of his cheekbones made her think there had to be Native American blood in his background, and maybe not far back. He was simply striking, dressed in a white pin-striped shirt open at the neck, a nicely fitted jacket and black jeans. He hadn’t been risking big money, but he had played as if he knew something about the game, and he’d been playing the same money since she first noticed him. And he seemed to be watching for more than just the roll of the dice.

He lifted his glass to her and looked over at the dealer as he tossed out two hundred-dollar chips. “Hard ten for me and for the roller,” he said.

“You don’t need to—” she began.

“Jessy, just roll, sweetie,” Coot called to her, then turned to the croupier as he picked up two chips himself. “My money is on the little lady. Throw this on the hard ten, one for me, one for her, please.”

His hundreds went down.

More chips were thrown down on the hard ten, plenty of them for her, and she knew that she was blushing. “Thanks,” she murmured, looking at the man who had started it all. The pressure was really on now. A so-called “hard” bet paid really well.

But there was a lot of money to be lost if she failed.

Her handsome benefactor said, “Don’t worry. It’s going to be a hard ten. And if it’s not, it’s all right. I never put down what I can’t afford to lose.”

She wished she could say the same thing. But at this point, she was desperate. If she didn’t come up with the money, she couldn’t pay to keep Timothy in the home. She could see Mr. Hoskins’ face now, as he calmly told her, “I’m sorry, Miss Sparhawk, but there’s nothing we can do. I’ve been as patient as I can, but if I don’t have that three thousand dollars by tomorrow morning, you’ll have to find another facility.”

She hated Hoskins. He was a thin-lipped, nose-in-the-air jerk, but he only ran the Hawthorne Home; he wasn’t the one who spent time with Tim. And Tim loved Jimmy Britin, the orderly, and Liz Freeze, his nurse. And Dr. Joe, who was a wonderful man, who worked at the home in order to be able to afford to donate his time at several local shelters.

A hard ten. If she rolled a hard ten, two fives, she made not just her own hundred-dollar bet, but…ten times that hundred. Plenty of money to keep Timothy where he needed to be.

She swallowed hard and rolled the dice.

“Hard ten, hard ten!” It became a chant.

She had never seen dice roll for so long on a craps table. A four and a three…and groans went around the table, because a seven meant that she would crap out. But the dice were still rolling….

A five and a three.

A five and a two.

A five and…

A five. A hard ten.

The screaming and shouting was deafening. Hands clapping, high fives all around. She wasn’t sure who picked her up and swung her around, but she didn’t protest that any more than she protested the hugs and backslaps that came her way, or even Coot’s enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. She was simply too stunned.

The one man who didn’t grab her or go insane was the tall, dark-haired stranger. He just watched her, pleased, and yet somehow grave.

Jessy couldn’t believe the number of chips coming her way.

“I’m cashing in,” she told the dealer.

He gave her an odd look. “You’re still rolling,” he reminded her. “If you leave, these folks will lynch me. Don’t pass the roll. Go until you crap out.”

She glanced to the side, looking for the dark-haired stranger.

He was gone; of course. He wasn’t rolling. Still, she missed him. And she had the oddest feeling that things weren’t going to go right, now that he was gone. And she was right, because it wasn’t long until she crapped out. Still, as she collected her chips, which were still worth far more than the three thousand dollars she needed, everyone regaled her as if she were a celebrity. She thanked them, then turned, eager to escape as quickly as possible.