by Carol Arens
"She was shot to death in a bank robbery. It was a damned stray bullet. The thief's gun went off by mistake, he never even meant to hurt anyone. But Ma lay on the floor with a hole in her chest just the same."
"Oh, Zane, you saw it happen?"
"The sheriff pulled me off her body, all I took away was the ribbon from her hair."
So, that was the horrid story he had hung on to about the ribbon. She must have seemed a cold harpy to go on about it like it was some romantic thing to be written about and glorified.
"No wonder you treasure it so," she whispered past the guilty lump in her throat. "I'm sorry, Zane, I should have thought--"
"I should have told you." He kissed her shoulder in a seemingly unconscious gesture of affection. "Now you know my sorry past--no butterflies, no happy ends. Just an ugly career that lets me deal with my guilt."
"You shouldn't carry any guilt. You were only a child. The guilty one is the bank robber."
"Logically that's true. But the fact is, if my mother hadn't rushed forward to protect me she would have been well away from the bullet. I was playing in a spot where I was not supposed to play. She'd warned me not to stray from the edge of her skirt, but a customer had brought in a puppy and I ran over to see it."
"So now you have no peace unless you are capturing bank robbers." She reached up to stroke her fingers along his jaw.
"Now that you know way too much about me, I expect you will leave me at the next town."
"You wish it, Zane Coldridge." She turned in his arms and looked hard in his eyes. "One of these days you're going to see that butterfly moon and I want to be here for it."
"One of these days you're going to throw a dime novel in the trash. That's what I want to see."
"I'd never throw a book in the trash, even though dime novels might not be quite as gospel as I had once thought."
"Praise be, she's seen the light," he declared with a laugh.
"Just a glimmer of it, mind you." She snuggled into the warmth of his arms. "Speaking of seeing the light, you know you can still put bad guys behind bars in other ways than you do. Be a sheriff...or a lawyer."
"Couldn't stand wearing a suit and fancy shoes, practicing the law would make me a crazy man." He breathed out a long, hard sigh, rubbing the hair of his chest against her back. "A sheriff makes a tenth of what I do."
"Money can make life comfortable, Zane, but it can't warm your soul."
"I learned that a long time ago, darlin', but it can give you a warm place to sleep at night."
Missy wiggled out from his arms. She stood up and wrung the water from her hair.
"Warm and alone, Zane," she whispered then bent to pick up her shift. The short walk toward the fire seemed especially cold.
* * *
Missy sat beside the window of her second-floor hotel room staring out at the fog. The town of Foggy Johnson Creek certainly lived up to the foggy part of its name.
Whorls of white vapor pressed against the glass and made people on the sidewalk below look like ghosts wandering in and out of the lamplight.
She supposed there might be a Johnson or two in town, but what the folks of Foggy Johnson Creek called a creek was a broad body of water circling the town on three sides.
A soft knock on the door connecting her room to the one beside it made Muff jump off her lap and hit the floor with a puff of dust. Clearly, the animal was not meant to be a Western dog. Back home, in the manicured confines of the garden, he'd never gathered so much as a burr.
Before she could rise, the door swung open and Zane filled the door frame. He looked nervous, as though a single step into her room would land him on a bed of coals.
"We need to discuss business," he stated.
These were the first words he had spoken in nearly twenty-four hours, ever since she had left him to shiver alone in the creek last night.
She pointed to the rocking chair beside hers but he glanced at it as though it were a trap.
"Mercy be, Zane. I don't have an eternity rope to bind you to that chair. You are free to go back to your own room at any time."
"An eternity--?" He shook his head. Clean dark hair skimmed his shoulders, his black eyebrows dipped in
a frown. Crossing the room, he sat in the dainty seat
that appeared two sizes too small for him. "Darlin', last night I--"
"What kind of business?"
She wasn't ready to discuss last night, but still, the relief that crossed his face was disappointing.
"Hunting down Wage. It's time you earned your twenty percent."
"Are we hot on his trail?" All of a sudden her mood lightened. With the excitement of chasing the criminal, she would be able to set aside her emotional turmoil. It was purely distressing to find the man of her heart only to discover that he did not have one.
Well, he had one, of course, just not one he was willing to share with her.
"I've decided that we aren't going to chase him."
That, Missy knew, was no way to catch a criminal. Clearly, she ought to be the one in charge.
"It seems to me that he will get a good distance away if we don't," she said, allowing a note of disapproval to shadow her voice. "I won't earn a single penny sitting idly beside this window."
"That's why I'm the one in charge and you are going to do as I say."
She hesitated only an instant before replying, "Yes, of course." As long as it was logical and she had a worthy part in the plan. "What are we going to do?"
"We've already done it. We've gotten ahead of him."
"Cat and mouse and we are the cats!" The idea sounded adventurous, at least. "What if he doesn't come here? We could be waiting until I'm in my dotage and your mustache turns gray."
"Darlin', if you live to be a hundred you won't be in your dotage. But he is coming here, and soon. I've heard rumors, none of them indicate that he will be here."
"That makes no sense. I think you've been addled by spring fever." She leaned forward and pressed her fingers to his forehead, certain he had become delirious.
"It does if he planted those rumors himself, or paid someone else to do it. No doubt, he expects me to be looking for him in Omaha or Lincoln." Zane looked away from her and out the window. He peered through the fog where the Farmers' and Merchants' Bank of Foggy Johnson Creek was barely visible through the mist. "This is a thriving little community and that bank has got to be as ripe as a peach ready for plucking."
He stared silently at the building across the street. "He'll be here, and soon. Mark my words."
Chapter Eleven
By noon the following day, fog continued to lick at Missy's window. She tapped her fingernail against the glass.
Zane had assured her that watching the bank was crucial since Wage was certain to scout the area before committing his crime.
Crucial but tedious. She had worn her vision out staring at the foggy street while Zane lurked behind buildings and haunted dark corners of saloons.
Surely she could be of more benefit lying in wait near the bank doors than she could be in this room, watching like a sleepy-eyed owl unable to resist a fit of yawning. All she needed was a suit of feathers to make the look complete.
Besides, she had things to do. Muff needed a trim. Who was to say that she wouldn't meet the wily bank robber in the mercantile while she purchased a pair of scissors?
She had promised herself to send a wire to her family. Even bank robbers visited Western Union.
One never knew! It was certain that the criminal would not come knocking at her hotel door.
Zane would not be pleased if she went out. He had given a stiff-as-starch order. She was to sit at the window and watch.
He must realize by now that she was not good at sitting and even worse at obeying orders. Chances are he never really expected her to stay in the room, anyway.
Missy bounded from the wing chair. She plucked her feathered hat from its peg by the door and secured it with a long pearl-tipped pin.
If s
he didn't locate Wage, she would simply come back to the room, take up her boring position beside the window and Zane would never know the difference.
If she found the thief, he would be so pleased that he wouldn't care.
"Be a good boy, Muff, and I'll bring you a rawhide strip to chew on," Missy said, closing the door behind her.
Filled with a fine sense of adventure, she fairly flew over the hall carpet and floated down the staircase. Owls, after all, had wings as well as eyes!
* * *
Out on the boardwalk, Missy curled her chilly fingers deep into the pockets of her blue gingham skirt. Clearly, this town was cursed with perpetual fog. During the time that she had been here, not even a tickle of sunshine had pierced the gloom. It was no wonder that the folks she had encountered this last hour had greeted her with frowns.
Earlier, looking out of her bedroom window, she hadn't guessed how cold it would be without a coat. Fog gathered in doorways and whirled in milky swirls about lampposts left burning, even during the day. It penetrated her dress and made her feel as damp as a workday sponge. The jaunty feather on her bonnet sagged with pearls of moisture clinging to its tip.
The misery would have been worthwhile, worthy even of a full chapter in her journal, if she had caught a glimpse of Wesley Wage. But the only thing that hiding in an alcove for forty minutes and staring at the bank door had earned was a chill that made her bones clatter.
Nearby, through the window of Hanraty's General Store, she had spotted a welcoming fire. A shivering spy would be useless, so she had gathered up her sodden skirt and crossed the road. She spent a penny on a treat for Muff then joined a pair of shoppers at the stove with their backsides toward the heat.
It had been fascinating to learn from her fellow heat-gatherers that the town had, indeed, been cursed with perpetual fog. Zane would claim that the fog was a natural occurrence, due to the river, but it appeared that the good folks of Foggy Johnson Creek would never believe that their founder hadn't cursed them.
This would make fascinating reading.
Now, out once more in the elements, she hurried two blocks toward the telegraph office where she would spend the rest of her money on a message to her family.
She wouldn't reveal where she was, of course. An exotic torture could not make her hint at her latest adventure or that her partner was a darkly handsome bounty hunter. She wouldn't give away that he had captured her heart and her body as easily as if it had been the subject of a broadsheet.
That information would send her entire social circle into a dead faint and keep their tongues busy for months to come. All that Mother and Edwin would need to know was that she and Muff were safe and that life went on with boring predictability. Suzie, naturally, would know better.
Across the street and two doors down, Missy spotted smoke curling out of the chimney of the telegraph office. She dashed across the dirt road and up the steps.
Warm air washed out to greet her when she opened the door.
At the counter, a tall, broad-backed figure waited for the clerk's attention. She choked down a gasp and closed the door in the second that the man turned.
Zane! Of all the places in town, and all the minutes of the day, he had to be here, now!
Missy lifted the mucky hem of her skirt and dashed down a small alley between the telegraph office and a bakery.
He couldn't have seen her; she'd closed the door before he'd fully turned. Still, it wouldn't do for him to find her away from her assigned post at the upstairs window.
Rounding the corner, she ran behind the row of buildings. Soft earth muffled her footsteps and fog concealed her. Even so, she glanced behind, dreading pursuit.
Out of breath, she came to a familiar building, the Foggy Johnson Livery. She recalled a dry gully near the back stable door with brush growing alongside. It would make a perfect hiding place. If Zane caught her she could simply say that she was checking on the horses.
She crouched low in the shrubbery, thinking of a way to explain how she could be checking on the horses while hiding in the bushes. It didn't help that the newly sprouted leaves did not fully hide her blue gingham dress.
It was quiet behind the barn. Ace and Daisy had been the only guests when Zane had checked them in the day before. Her heart beat too loudly against her ribs, her breathing sounded like a windstorm and the snort was likely to bring the stable keeper running.
The snort! She hadn't snorted.
Warm breath puffed against her neck. A soft muzzle nipped at her hat. She whirled and fell hard on her behind.
Looking up, she stared into the face of a plain brown horse. It had average brown eyes, an everyday brown coat, a black mane and tail that one saw dozens of times a day, and a brand that marked it as belonging to the Green Island Livery.
"Number Nine!" Missy stroked the long jaw. She stood up and inspected the animal for injury or mistreatment. "You look half well kept, at least."
Number Nine swished his tail and whickered.
"I know," she whispered, plucking a burr from his mane. "It's a horrible thing to be kidnapped, especially by such a loathsome criminal, but really, you were better off. The other horses at the livery probably drowned."
Number Nine was saddled and in hiding. Clearly Wesley Wage was about to commit a crime.
"Is my journal still in your saddle pack, or did that wretch toss it out?"
Missy opened the flap and felt inside. The journal was there! She longed to take it out and make sure it was intact, but she needed to get the horse out of the shrubbery. If Wage couldn't find his mount, it would certainly complicate his crime.
The back door to the livery was only a few yards beyond the shelter of the brush. She would put Number Nine inside with Ace and Daisy, then hurry back to the telegraph office and alert Zane to what she had discovered.
Life, as she had long believed, was a wonderful adventure.
"The wretch, my dear Miss Devlin, got a respectable laugh out of your drivel," a voice stated, too close to her ear. "It made for an amusing evening in my bleak little hotel room."
Not again! Missy turned with the speed of a cornered slug, buying time and trying to devise a plan to, this time, keep her rented horse.
Clearly, physical confrontation was not an option. The man, although slim, was bigger than she was. And mean, Zane had said so.
She faced him with the smile she had learned as a toddler on her mother's knee, the social smile that hid a woman's feelings when confronted with someone who was, most honestly, creepy.
How did a man keep his skin so pasty white while traveling the prairie? Vampires who scoured the forests of Transylvania and lurked in the pages of the many books she had read would not look more undead than he did.
Lacking, though, was the strange allure of the undead. This man's hairline grew well back on his head. Black pinwheel curls made his flesh seem paler than could be healthy. His cheeks had no muscle tone; they sagged into jowls that tugged his mouth down in a pout and made his lower lip protrude. His narrow nose, pinched tight at the nostrils, made his breath hiss in and out of his face.
Only years of practice kept her smile in place before his pompous smirk.
"Oh, mercy, you gave me a start!" She couldn't pretend that she didn't recognize him. He had called her by name. But he didn't need to know that she and Zane were a team, soon to put him behind bars and happily claim his bounty.
Missy fluttered her fingers at her throat. She wrinkled her brow and sighed, presenting the image of a wounded bird or a crushed flower.
"Truly, sir, you thought my work was drivel?" she asked.
"Drivel in the truest sense. Really, Miss Devlin, your prose shows that you are quite naive."
He took two steps forward, close enough so that she smelled the odor of his breath; mint, covering alcohol. A true illustration of his character, she determined. As sometimes happened, the guise of a gentleman covered an unprincipled individual.
"Drivel in what way?" She casually picked up
Number Nine's reins while her brain whirled. She needed to stall until she thought of a brilliant escape plan. "Can't you be more specific? Surely you found something of value in it?"
"It was good for a laugh." He stared down his razor nose at her.
"Well, a writer takes her critiques where she can find them." She sighed, lifting her bosom. Men were usually distracted by that. "Thank you for yours, Mr.-- I'm sorry, I didn't get your name when we last met, things being as they were."
"Where are you going, Miss Devlin?" He grasped her elbow, halting her first step toward the livery. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, "You very well know my name. You and your paramour have been a thorn in my side for some time now, but I believe I've just gained the upper hand."
"I can't imagine what you are talking about." She turned and snatched her manuscript out of the saddle pack then thrust it at Wesley Wage. "Is this drivel or is it funny? Since you seem to be a literary expert as well as a horse thief, you owe it to me to point out where I went wrong."
Good, his hands were now occupied with holding her manuscript. She turned. She would mount Number Nine while his attention was riveted on her book.
"You really are rather fetching, Miss Devlin." He dropped her journal. It fell open in the dirt, creasing the pages. "But I have pressing business to attend to and I'm sure you know what it is."
His hand shot out, reaching for Number Nine's reins. Missy whipped them behind her back and tangled them in her fists.
"Not with my horse, you don't!"
He only laughed and circled his arms around her. Tugging her tight to his tailored vest, he attempted to uncurl the leather straps from her clenched fingers.
"What a pet you are," he mumbled. Heat and mint brushed her ear. "I can't imagine what to do with you while I make good on my business."
Missy lifted her knee and drove it into his soft crotch. His breath whooshed out of his lungs and he groaned, but his fingers dug into her wrists with a strength she would never have guessed at.