Bullets Over Bedlam Read Online Free PDF

turned and strode out of the yard, latching the gate and mounting his horse.
    When he rode back to the main drag, he stabled the grulla and, his saddlebags over his shoulder and his rifle in his hand, went looking for the quietest hotel in town.
    He found it on a side street—two stories of sun-blistered pine, only three horses and a mule tethered to the hitch rack, and two middle-aged men in conservative suits sipping beers on the porch. The place was as dark as a funeral parlor, only one downstairs window softly lit.
    As Hawk strode toward a spot at the hitch rack between a horse and a mule, he stopped suddenly, then wheeled, raising his rifle one-handed. His neck hairs were prickling, as though someone were watching him . . . following him.
    His gaze swept the opposite side of the street, where a few shanties and a couple of wood-frame shops hunkered in the sage and broom grass, starlight smeared in their windows. Hawk eyed a rain barrel near the left front corner of one shanty. A sudden wind gust swept dirt along the street. Behind the hovels, a cat moaned.
    Otherwise, nothing moved. The only sound was the cat, the muffled din of the reveling ranch hands, and the desultory voices of the two men on the hotel stoop.
    Inside, Hawk asked the white-haired gent behind the desk for a room and signed the register.
    â€œFor only one extra dollar, I’ll send a girl up.”
    Hawk squinted at the bug-eyed oldster in his crisp white shirt and hand-knit vest, a bow tie snugged against the old man’s turkey neck.
    The night clerk shrugged, and his swivel chair squeaked. “I gotta compete with the hotels on Main. I can send for a girl from Miss De Voe’s across the way. Like I said, it’s only one extra dollar, and I hear tell those gals really know their work.” He closed a moth-wing lid over one bulging blue eye. “Not a one over eighteen!”
    Hawk plucked the key from the register book. “Next time.”
    He mounted the stairs at the rear of the lobby, found his room, washed, undressed, climbed into the brass-framed bed, blew out the lamp, and let his head sink back on the pillow.
    He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he opened his eyes. He’d heard something.
    The lamp was lit, casting soft yellow light and shadows. Warm, sweet breath pushed against his face. He jerked his head back, snapped a hand toward his gun belt coiled over a bedpost, clawed the Russian from the holster, and clicked the hammer back.
    A woman laughed and leapt back from the bed. “Easy, lover! It’s me, Saradee Jones.”
    She laughed again. When Hawk’s eyes focused, he saw the heart-shaped face framed in billowing, copper-colored hair.
    The heart-stopping, high-breasted, round-hipped body, clad in only a dusty trail hat and a flimsy chemise . . .

4.
    NIGHT VISITOR
    H AWK blinked at the gorgeous, near-naked woman standing before his bed, her full red lips stretched back from her teeth, blue eyes flashing devilishly in the lamplight.
    He had to be dreaming. His senses were as keen as a cougar’s. No one could sneak into his room, light a lamp, and undress without him hearing.
    Saradee Jones stepped toward the bed, putting her bare feet down softly, gently shoving his cocked pistol aside with the back of her left hand and then sitting down beside him, making the bedsprings squawk. She’d been reading his mind. Her tone was vaguely cajoling.
    â€œYou must’ve been riding hard, last few days. Didn’t think I could sneak into your room, much less light a lamp while you snored like a drunken sailor.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek. “You’re getting careless, Mr. Hawk.”
    Hawk pushed her back with one hand, aimed the cocked Russian at her with the other. “What the hell are you doing here?” He scowled, brows beetling. “How in the hell did you get in here?”
    â€œSkeleton key.” She hefted her magnificent breasts. “The old