The Coyote Tracker Read Online Free PDF Page A

with any hard-earned money in their pockets.
    Blanche strived for a higher paying clientele instead of the ragtag cowpunchers who had limited finances. Instead, she catered to the likes of property owners and the well-to-do, and possibly, if scuttlebutt were to be believed, politicians, bankers, and ranch owners. Her girls were clean, well dressed, and forced to educate themselves at least an hour a day. Josiah had no idea if any of the rumors about Blanche and her house were true—he’d only seen her once himself and had never had reason to do business with her or venture inside her place of business.
    Dressed in solid black from head to toe, Blanche was properly attired with a bustle and all of the accoutrements of fine and expensive women’s wear; the only skin exposed for all to see, and the sun to touch, was that of her face. And it was shaded by an overly large brimmed hat and a parasol held at just the right angle to confront the bright light of the day at its most direct touch. Still, there was no way the bright afternoon sun could hide her striking eyes that looked red from grief but were redder in an odd, permanent way, focused fully ahead on the simple coffin, showing little emotion or recognition of the crowd and their stares at all. There was no sign on Blanche Dumont’s statue-like face of shedding one single tear.
    It was, after all, the woman’s skin, more so than her occupation, that drew the stares from the crowd and had stopped them all cold in their tracks. It wasn’t as if she were the only woman in Austin whose trade was whoring . . . but she
was
the only albino woman in Austin, at least that Josiah knew of.
    Blanche Dumont’s skin was white as snow and just as fragile as an errant flake falling from the sky in South Texas, sure to melt before it hit the ground. She was a freak of nature, an oddity of certain beauty if one got close enough to see it. And she was a bearer of strong will, good business sense, and the ability, as it was told, to keep a secret when it was required. In her business, that was most likely a daily occurrence, and a requirement of lasting concern.
    She usually wore gold-rimmed glasses with soft green lenses to protect her sensitive eyes, but not today. The glasses were nowhere to be seen. It looked like she wanted to see the world clearly, and she didn’t care if the world saw her or not. Each step Blanche Dumont took forward was measured and direct. She almost looked like she was floating, a wraith with a ghostly face appearing in the midst of daylight, unconcerned about the realm of the living or any danger she might encounter.
    Josiah had no way to judge the woman’s state of emotion, having nothing to compare it to, but if he had to guess, he would say that Blanche Dumont was angry, maybe even enraged. Her hands were balled up into tight fists, and she never let her sight leave the coffin.
    Someone coughed, and the press of men, women, and children on the boardwalk brought a variety of smells to Josiah’s nose; most were unpleasant but no worse than riding behind a thousand longhorns. He wasn’t concerned about himself, but with Pearl and her comfort. He looked for a quick exit, but it was too late to flee, too late to backtrack and ease out the way they had come. Even more of a crowd had piled up behind them, effectively pinning them to the spot they presently stood in.
    It was only a matter of luck that Josiah could see into the street at all. He was a head taller than those in front of him, and he could crane his neck just right to catch a passing look at Blanche Dumont’s profile.
    At that moment, she flinched and turned her head, as if something she did not like, or feared, had caught her attention.
    It looked like she was staring directly at Josiah. They made eye contact, and at that moment, the keeper of soiled doves slowed her pace.
    Blanche Dumont’s chest heaved forward, and she arched her back straighter