Crossroads (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Book 8)

By Logan Winters

When a wealthy rancher mistakes K. John Landis and a cantankerous ex-saloon girl for an honorable couple and offers them the opportunity to make some much-needed money, the pair jump at the chance.
Now, in charge of the rancher’s flighty daughter and playing the role of doting husband, Landis is dragged down into the violent underworld of Crossroads. He had feared leaving town without a nickel in his jeans, now he fears he might never leave again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Sep 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310325489

Logan Winters

Logan Winters is a pseudonym of Paul Lederer, a prolific wordsmith whose stand-along westerns can also be found under the names Owen G. Irons and C. J. Sommers. Paul is a native of San Diego, California, and attended San Diego State University before serving for four years in an Air Force Intelligence arm. He has traveled widely through the US and Europe, Asia and the Middle East.An enormously gifted writer, his work as also appeared under such names as Paul Ledd (the SHELTER series) and Warren T Longtree (the RUFF JUSTICE series). Under his own name he wrote the bestselling INDIAN HERITAGE series.

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The Home of Great Western Fiction!

When a wealthy rancher mistakes K. John Landis and a cantankerous ex-saloon girl for an honorable couple and offers them the opportunity to make some much-needed money, the pair jump at the chance.

Now, in charge of the rancher’s flighty daughter and playing the role of doting husband, Landis is dragged down into the violent underworld of Crossroads. He had feared leaving town without a nickel in his jeans, now he fears he might never leave again.

CROSSROADS

By Logan Winters

A Piccadilly Publishing Western No 8

First Published by Robert Hale Ltd in 2015

Copyright © 2015 by Logan Winters

First Smashwords Edition: September 2016

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: Ben Bridges

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author.

Chapter One

Crossroads, New Mexico, was what the town was called. K. John Landis came upon it in the middle of the heated day, afoot. His pony had gone down under him the day before and he had been walking ever since, his saddle carried across his shoulder. The day was not only devil hot, it was windy and dust clouded the skies. K. John walked on with his head down, his hat tugged low, looking only for a place in the shade, a place to rest his weary legs.

The town of Crossroads, he found, was short on shade. There was a saloon, of course, farther down the rutted, hard-packed street, but K. John hadn’t even a scattering of change in his pocket, and he would not go in without money to stand like someone cadging drinks. His legs were now growing rubbery; he had walked a heck of a long distance. And his shoulder hurt from the weight of his saddle. The hand holding it there was cramped and painful. K. John wanted only to sit down—and then he saw his opportunity.

Next to the saloon was a general store, and through the sift and whirl of the dust, K. John squinted at it. An awning stretched out, shading the plank walk in front of the store. The door to the premises was in the center of the building. It stood open now as two men strode out with various goods and stowed them in the bed of a wagon that stood to the door’s right with its two-horse team looking weary and dissatisfied, their heads bowed out of deference to the sand that blew.

At the far end of the walk, just across the alley from the saloon there was room to sit. In fact, someone else was already sitting there in the heat and blow of the day. Bowing his head lower, K. John walked that way. He threw his saddle to the ground and sat down in the ribbon of the shade cast by the awning. It did almost nothing to cool him, but he was grateful for the chance to rest.

‘What do you want?’ the person next to him demanded, and it was only then that K. John realized that it was a young woman sitting there beside him.

‘To sit here. I’ve just walked most of fifty miles, and I mean to sit here.’ K. John answered wearily, but without belligerence. He didn’t have the strength to take offense at the woman’s sharp tone. He wanted water, but he would find that later. Even in the poorest of towns a thirsty man can find water somewhere. Perhaps when the sun went down he could find a cool place to sleep.

For now he was content to sit quietly on the plank walk. His feet, in his worn-down-at-the-heel boots, were heated and sore. It was good to get off them for a while. Despite his troubles he counted himself lucky. The last time a horse had gone down under him he had found himself alone in the trackless red desert where things like shade and water were only a dream.

‘Who are you?’ the woman snapped. ‘I don’t know you! What’s your name?’

He was surprised that the woman who didn’t seem to care for his company hadn’t simply got up and gone about her business. He had thought she might be waiting for the men who were loading the wagon, but just then the men began pulling away from the store. The front door banged shut, the proprietor wishing to keep the dust out. The wind seemed to have lessened some, and the dust was settling to the earth.

He canted his head and looked up at the woman. Not very old—little more than a girl, in fact—she was wearing a sort of brown dress, which gleamed a purplish color where the stray sunbeams caught it. She also wore a pair of purple boots, which caused K. John to smile. Her hair was dark and glossy. Now slightly disarranged by the wind, a tendril of it dangled past a small pink ear. Her eyes, dark green, were still fixed expectantly on him.

‘My name is K. John Landis,’ he said, and she turned her head away.

‘Did you say Cajun?’ she asked.

‘No, I said K. John—K, like in K, and John like in John.’

‘Why?’ she asked, without looking back.

‘Why? I don’t like my first name, that’s all. Haven’t you ever heard of a man going by his initials?’

‘You could just use John, couldn’t you?’

‘I could, but do you know how many men named John there are wandering around?’ He was ready to explain his choice of names, but she was obviously through listening to him. ‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked.

‘I’ve no place to go,’ she said, without embellishment.

K. John nodded, not understanding. For himself, he considered that he was still running in luck, having even found this town. Come tomorrow he could find some sort of labor, whether it was sweeping out a store or shoveling the manure out of a stable, and make at least enough to feed himself. If he kept his ears open, he could probably find a job on some small local ranch eventually, the way men wandered around from job to job out here. He again looked at the woman, who now definitely seemed worried. For a woman life was different, much more difficult. A woman needed more than water and a pile of hay to sleep on.

‘Well, where did you come from?’ he enquired, taking the chance that she would answer him. He looked again at her face and at her dress, which he now saw had lace along its hem, five inches or so of which was torn free, dangling.

‘Right there,’ the girl said, just when he had figured she was not going to answer. She tilted her head toward the saloon where now three men exited, talking loudly about the lack of water on the range and someone called Red.

‘What do you mean? You work there?’

‘I did,’ she said, ‘until this morning, when my boss got a little difficult.’

‘I see,’ K. John said.

‘No, you don’t!’ the girl spat, and fell silent again.

K. John shrugged and leaned back, resting his hands on the warm boards to brace himself. It seemed the girl had had a falling-out with her employer at the saloon and had come outside to sulk, nothing more. K. John watched the settling dust, the bits of paper and debris drifting down the street.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked the girl. He thought she was going to decline to answer, but she turned those green eyes to meet his and answered.

‘Flower.’

He thought about making an answer, but decided to remain silent. She had questioned him about his name, but he didn’t think he should do the same. Had he ever met anyone named Flower before? He didn’t think so. He knew that a lot of saloon girls used assumed names, so he supposed that Flower was an adopted name. K. John sat forward again, hands dangling between his knees.

‘Why don’t you go away?’ Flower asked him.

‘I’ve nowhere to go, either. If I had even a nickel I’d go into the saloon and get a beer, that’s for sure.’

‘I wouldn’t!’ she flared up. ‘I wouldn’t go back through that door for all the money ... for all the money in the world!’

Her bitterness seemed extreme. Maybe whatever trouble she had had with her employer was worse than K. John had believed. ‘You must live somewhere,’ he said, and her eyes flashed.

‘I did! In there.’ Her head again tilted toward the saloon where two trail-dusty men were entering, slapping their hats against their jeans.

‘And you won’t go back in, not even to get your clothes or whatever else you’ve got in there?’

‘No,’ she said definitely. ‘I did have a nickel or two. I would have loaned you one, but I’ll not go back into my room.’

‘That doesn’t seem the wisest way to go about things,’ K. John said, and was immediately sorry he had spoken. ‘I mean, if you have a little money, you’re certain to need it. I’ll tell you what,’ he finally offered, ‘if you like, I’ll take you in or go by myself.’

‘No,’ Flower said, flatly. She looked K. John up and down from the top of his battered Stetson where a few curls of dark hair escaped, down to his faded blue-and white-checked shirt with one elbow out, dusty jeans and down-at-the-heel boots, not missing the Colt revolver with its chipped walnut grips that rode on his hip. She seemed to hesitate for a moment and then said, ‘I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.’

K. John shrugged again and then left the girl to her own thoughts. He had been in a lot of bad places in his time and had never been afraid to enter a room simply because someone might not like him. Why would anyone want to test him? Then again he considered he might not be getting the entire story from Flower, and he might be walking into a hornets’ nest without knowing what he was getting into, or why.

K. John’s eyes lifted as a tall man in a gray suit crossed the street directly toward them. The man wore a western hat, which he held on against the still-gusting breeze.

His face was square, tough looking. He wore a long dark mustache and polished boots.

K. John asked Flower, ‘Is that your boss?’ and she lifted her eyes toward the approaching man. She shook her head.

‘No, I don’t know who he is. I’ve seen him in town, but not often.’

‘He’s got his eyes on us—or on you, more likely.’

‘That doesn’t mean I know him,’ Flower said.

However, the man seemed to know