The bottle skittered away from Quinn Barclay’s fingers, teetering like a drunken cavalryman. Before he could coordinate a second grab, the tart in his lap lunged across the scarred tabletop and captured the all-but-dead soldier. She splashed the last of the watered-down rotgut into Quinn’s glass while he tugged the bodice of her dress even lower and nuzzled the top of a breast.
Sabrosa? Picante? Rica? What the hell was her name? Didn’t matter. The scent of roses came nigh to smothering him, but the Tejana was soft and warm and willing.
The grulla gelding beside Quinn snuffled at the overfilled glass, then curled his lip and shook his head, shuffling backward to plant his rump against the plank wall. Quinn chuckled against the dove’s skin. Bull’s-Eye never had been able to hold his liquor.
Bottle in hand, What’s-Her-Name tried to wiggle to her feet.
Quinn cinched her waist with one arm and snatched the bottle’s neck with the other. Raising the empty above his head, he waggled it at the bar. “Cal!” The gravel in his throat lent a growl to his tone. “Can’t have a proper wake without whiskey.”
The barkeep waved another Tejana to the back of the dim room. They huddled for a moment before the second dove—older, ridden harder, and trying to spill plumb out of what little she wore—sashayed over with a refill.
She stopped just beyond Quinn’s reach. “Cal, he says you can have this as soon as you take el caballo outside where he belongs.”
Quinn cut a glance at the corpulent cuss. Cal set to polishing the dingy mirror as though three hundred pounds of elbow grease would make a difference. “Darlin’, Bull’s-Eye belongs wherever I am.” He lurched for the booze.
Whipping the rotgut behind her back, the dove shimmied up against Quinn, molding her assets to his side as she leaned close and whispered. “But he cannot go upstairs with the three of us, guapo. The room, it is too small.”
Now that argument bore some ponderation. Quinn hadn’t quite sorted everything out when the batwings flapped open and a familiar form stalked in amid a swirl of El Paso dust.
The girl in Quinn’s lap shoved from his embrace and scrambled to her feet. Both doves flew, taking the firewater with them, dammit.
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