The Cattleman Meets His Match

by Sherri Shackelford

  Desperate children forced into desperate measures.

  But what punishment did they deserve? John clenched his jaw. It wasn’t for him to decide.

  A flash of yellow caught his attention. Half immersed in the mire, a rag doll lay forgotten. He pinched its yellow yarn braid between two fingers and held it aloft in the moonlight.

  Above him, the shouting man worked his way down the rope. The sheets held firm and a grudging admiration for Miss O’Mara filtered through John’s annoyance. She tied knots like a trail boss.

  “Well, mister,” the man demanded, his breath a fog of alcohol fumes. “Where’d them little thieves go?”

  What now? If his brothers were here, they’d shove John aside like a pesky obstacle. They’d take charge and assume he didn’t have anything to offer. Like a herd of stampeding cattle, they’d wrestle all of the decisions—right or wrong—out of his hands. When his brothers were around, he never had to bother with taking responsibility.

  John squinted into the darkened alley.

  The inebriated man shoved him. “You deaf? I asked you a question.”

  John clenched his jaw. The sooner he put Miss O’Mara out of his thoughts, the sooner he could continue his journey. Heaven knew he hadn’t even proved himself worthy of caring for a herd of cattle. A motley group of pickpocket orphans and a beautiful woman with fiery red hair were problems well beyond his limited resources.

  Miss O’Mara and her charges were knee-deep in calamity and sinking fast. Moira required someone with the time, focus and connections to unravel her difficulties. Someone with the resources to steer her charges toward a respectable path. A hero. She’d gotten him instead. Maybe she’d have better luck down the road.

  The drunken man took off in the direction Miss O’Mara and her charges had escaped. John snatched the man’s arm and pointed the opposite way. “I’d check down there.”

  * * *

  Moira heard the cowboy’s betrayal and her heart lodged in her throat. She tugged on Hazel’s arm and quickened her pace. With each pounding step her lungs burned and her vision blurred. What did speed matter when they were running blind? They’d be caught again for certain.

  A hand tugged on her sleeve and tears of defeat sprang in her eyes. She yanked away. She wasn’t giving up. Not yet. The fingers kept a brutal grip.

  “Miss O’Mara,” the cowboy spoke near her ear. “Let me carry Hazel. We’ll make better time.”

  “No. You betrayed us.”

  Moira stumbled and the cowboy steadied her with a hand cupping her elbow.

  “I didn’t. Look around if you don’t believe me.”

  At his calm reassurance, she slowed and glanced behind them. The alley was empty. No one pursued them.

  While her exhausted brain grappled with the realization, the cowboy knelt. With childish faith, Hazel clambered onto his back. The little girl wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in his neck, effectively forcing Moira to follow. They ran another two blocks, her hand clasped in his solid grasp, before he halted.

  The cowboy jerked his head toward a closed door. “In there.”

  Frightened and weak with hunger, Moira instinctively reacted to the innate authority in his tone. She tore open the door and guided the others inside.

  The pungent aroma of animals assailed her senses. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light and she noted Dutch doors lining either side of a cavernous center corridor. The cowboy had led them into the livery.

  Horses stamped and snorted at the disturbance. The girls whispered together and Moira quickly shushed them. Their footsteps sounded like a stampede and their raspy, labored breathing chafed her taut nerves. She crept across the hay-strewn floor behind the cowboy, her index finger pressed against her lips for silence.

  The cowboy gently lowered Hazel and propped an empty wooden saddle rack before the exit. Walking the aisle, he peered into each stall in turn, pausing before the third. He swung his arm in an arc, motioning them forward.

  While the girls scurried inside the empty stall and huddled in the far corner, Moira bent and clutched the stitch in her side. In an effort to calm her rapid breathing, she dragged a deep breath into her tight lungs. The stall wasn’t much of a hiding place, but at least they weren’t out in the open anymore.

  The cowboy returned a moment later with an enormous hay bale and tossed it onto the ground. He came back twice more in quick succession. Understanding his intent, Moira yanked on the bale wire, grimacing as it dug into her palms. Each bundle must weigh a hundred pounds, yet the cowboy showed no signs of strain.

  He returned again with a stack of burlap feed sacks draped over his arm. “Cover yourselves with these and don’t make a sound. If he searches the building, don’t move, don’t talk, don’t even breathe.”

  “Wait,” Moira called in a soft voice. “Why are you doing this?”

  He hesitated and she sensed a war raging within him.

  During their escape from the brothel, she’d noted his lean, muscular build and caught a glimpse of his square jaw. In the milky light of the stable, she made out the dark hair curling from beneath his hat and the raspy-looking whiskers darkening his jaw. He had an aristocratic face with deep-set eyes, a patrician nose, and lips that qualified as works of art.

  He was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. If only she had her sketch pad. He’d make a superb subject. Like a hero in a penny awful rescuing the damsel in distress, he had the sort of face that inspired romantic dreams.

  Moira mentally shook the wayward thoughts from her head. Dreaming of a happily ever after was like building a house on a shifting sandbar. She’d seen too many people caught by the enticing trap, starting with her own mother. Over the years she’d guarded her heart well, and she wasn’t about to weaken her resolve for a chiseled jaw.

  A muscle worked in John’s cheek. “Keep your head down. I may have to cause a distraction. Whatever you hear, stay out of sight unless I tell you to run.”

  His voice was rough and uneven and the look in his eyes did nothing to reassure her. Moira had effectively trapped them in a corner.

  She swallowed around the lump in her throat. She’d entrusted their lives to a stranger, albeit a handsome stranger. “What’s your name?”

  “John. John Elder.”

  Oddly comforted by the harmless name, she nodded. At least he hadn’t replied with something like Deadly Dan or Killer Miller.

  Searching for an innocuous rejoinder, she blurted, “I’m Moira.”

  He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half grin that sent her heart tripping. “Nice to meet you, Miss O’Mara.”

  Her cheeks burned beneath his reference to her earlier insistence on his use of her formal name. She might have been a touch rude, but there weren’t exactly rules of etiquette for a brothel escape.

  She cleared her throat. “You never answered my question. Why are you helping us?”

  He stared into the distance. “Because it suits me for now.”

  “What happens when it doesn’t suit you?”

  “I guess we’ll find out when that happens.”

  Her stomach dipped. For a moment she’d thought he was different. That he was actually helping them out of the kindness of his heart, out of Christian charity. Turned out he was like everyone else. He obviously had an ulterior motive. Maybe they were an amusement, maybe he was bored, maybe he’d flipped an imaginary coin and their predicament had come up tails. His motivation didn’t really matter.

  Whatever the reason, he’d cease helping once they ceased serving whatever purpose he’d assigned them. People only cared when they needed something.

  With a last appeal for silence, John stepped into the corridor and slid the door closed behind him.

  Finally grasping the gravity of the situation, the girls rem
ained unnaturally quiet. Moira flopped into position. Blood thumped rhythmically in her ears. She rubbed her damp hands against her thighs, then tugged her too-short skirts over her ankles. The dress was a castoff from the foster family she and her brother, Tommy, had lived with before Tommy ran away. Mrs. Gifford had recycled the expensive lace at the hem for her own purpose and left Moira with her ankles showing.

  The cowboy probably thought... Moira fisted her hands. Why waste her energy worrying about what Mr. Elder thought of her clothing when they were still in peril? She’d heard Fool’s End was dangerous, but every one-horse town she’d passed through had been dangerous.

  She should have heeded the warnings this time.

  Normally she’d never go out after dark, but she’d waited two hours for Mr. Grey, only to be told that he didn’t know anything about her brother Tommy.

  Tears pricked behind her eyes. Another dead end, another disappointment. After four years, she was certain this time she’d finally catch up with him. A maid from the Gifford house who remembered her fondly had discovered the charred bits of a telegram in the fireplace of Mr. Gifford’s study. Piecing together what few words she could read, Moira had made out the names “Mr. Grey” and “Fool’s End.” The sender’s name had been clear as well: Mr. Thomas O’Mara.

  A name and a location weren’t much to go on, but it was all she had. Tommy must have forgiven her for the trouble she’d caused if he’d contacted her. She’d stolen Mr. Gifford’s watch, and in her cowardice, she’d let her brother take the blame. He’d run away that same evening and she hadn’t seen him since. There was no doubt in her mind the telegram had been for her. She doubted Mr. Gifford burned his own correspondence.

  She’d considered posting a letter to Mr. Grey but then quickly dismissed the thought. Letters were impersonal and mail service unreliable. Instead, she’d set off almost immediately. Yet her arrival today had been too late. Tommy was nowhere to be found.

  Mr. Grey had denied knowing anything about Tommy or the telegram, but something in his denial didn’t sit right with her. On her way back to the hotel, not two blocks from her destination, some drunken fool had nabbed and locked her in that second-story room with four other girls.

  Children.

  She hadn’t seen a one of them before that moment. Yet they’d formed an instant bond against a mutual enemy. Moira shuddered at the implication. She might be naive, but she knew a brothel when she saw one. If they were discovered, there’d be no escaping unscathed the next time.

  Keeping her expression neutral, she passed each of the girls a sack. The less they picked up on her terror, the better. Being afraid didn’t change anything anyway. It only made the waiting more excruciating.

  Together they huddled silently in the deepest recess of the darkened stall, barely concealed behind the stack of hay bales. Hazel crawled onto her lap and Moira started. The frightened little girl had clung to her since her kidnapping. Had that been only a few hours ago? It seemed like an eternity. Hazel burrowed deeper. Unused to such open displays of affection, Moira awkwardly patted the child’s back.

  Tony took Hazel’s cue and clustered on Moira’s left side, Sarah on the other.

  Darcy sat a distance apart, wrapping her arms around her bent legs and resting her chin on her knees. “This is stupid,” she announced in a harsh whisper. “You should have waited until I thought of a better plan.”

  Moira pursed her lips. At fifteen, Darcy was the oldest of the girls—and the most sullen. The only words she’d uttered in the past two hours had been complaints or criticisms.

  Darcy snarled another gripe beneath her breath.

  Since they were all terrified and half-crazy with hunger, Moira bit back an angry retort. “We’re here now and we’ll have to make the best of it.”

  Darcy scowled but kept blessedly quiet.

  For the next several minutes they waited in tense silence. As time ticked away, the air beneath the burlap sacks grew thick and hot. Sarah shifted and coughed. Footsteps sounded from the corridor and Moira hugged Hazel tighter.

  “Can I help you, sir?” an unfamiliar voice spoke.

  “I’m looking for a gang of thieves.”

  Moira immediately recognized the second man as her kidnapper. His raspy voice was etched on her soul.

  “Five of them,” the kidnapper continued. “A bunch of girls. One of them picked the wrong pocket this time. Stole Mr. Grey’s gold watch.”

  “Why didn’t he nab the little thief right then?” the first man spoke, his voice tinted with an accent that might have been Norwegian or Swedish.

  “Because he didn’t notice his watch was missing right off.”

  “Then how does he know who done took his watch?” The Norwegian sounded dazed.

  “Because we got three reports of the same kind of thing.” The kidnapper’s voice raised an octave. “An orphan girl comes in begging for change or food, and the next thing people know, their watches and money go missing.”

  “Well, I’m plum confused by the whole thing. Is it one girl you’re after or five?” The Norwegian sputtered. “Did all five of them pick Mr. Grey’s pocket? What’d she look like? Wait a second. What did they look like?”

  “Well, let me see here. Mr. Grey seen a girl with red hair just before—” The kidnapper huffed. “Never mind. It ain’t your business. Have you seen them or not?”

  Moira’s blood simmered. Why that low-down, no good, drunken...

  Another thought jerked her upright. A watch. Four years ago a pocket watch had set off a chain of events that had changed her life forever. It was somehow fitting a timepiece had been at the center of this evening’s troubles.

  Would John Elder protect them if he thought they were thieves? Who else would help them if that vile man spread lies to cover his foul deeds?

  “I ain’t seen nobody,” the Norwegian replied.

  A scuff sounded, as though someone had opened a door.

  “Now you’ll have to leave,” the Norwegian ordered. “That’s a paying customer and you’re not.”

  “Hey,” the kidnapper snapped. “Ain’t you the fellow from the alley?”

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  Moira started. John Elder was the “customer” who had come through the door. He must have escaped through the back and circled around front.

  “The name is John,” her rescuer answered, sounding bored and a touch annoyed. “And I already told you where to find the girls.”

  “Except I didn’t find them, did I?” The kidnapper cackled. “Maybe you’re saving them for yourself.”

  Moira’s heart hammered so loudly and she feared they’d hear its drumbeat thumping through the slats in the stall door. She’d misjudged her reluctant rescuer once already tonight. Or had she?

  “Look yourself,” John replied, his annoyance apparent. “They’re your problem, not mine.”

  The horse in the neighboring stall whinnied and bumped against the wall. Moira stuffed her fist against her mouth. Itchy hay poked through her clothing and she resisted the urge to scratch. A moment later the footsteps paused before their stall. The door scraped open. She held her breath and prayed.

  An eternity passed before the door slid closed once more. Moira heaved a sigh of relief, then offered a silent prayer and a couple of promises concerning future atonement for good measure. Another few seconds and they’d be safe.

  Sarah stifled a sneeze. The sound was faint and muffled, but it might as well have been a shotgun blast. The door scraped open once more.

  “Hey,” John called. “What did you just say to me?”

  “Back off,” the kidnapper snapped. “I didn’t say nothing.”

  “I think you did.”

  Boots scuffed in the dirt and Moira winced at the sound of flesh hitting flesh. She whipped the bag from her head and sat erect, swiping
her tangled and static hair from her eyes. From her vantage point, she watched as the cowboy spun the kidnapper around. John was obviously diverting the man’s attention.

  Setting Hazel aside, Moira leaped to her feet. She’d best spring into action before John Elder decided that rescuing a bunch of orphans no longer suited him. She snatched a pitchfork from the corner and charged, jabbing her kidnapper in the backside. Yelping, the man sprang upright, his hands clutching his back pockets.

  The kidnapper whipped around with a snarl and her stomach clenched. Roaring in fury, he hurtled across the distance. Moira quickly sidestepped, then stumbled.

  A glint of light reflected from a star on the kidnapper’s lapel. Moira blanched.

  Had her past finally caught up with her?

  Chapter Two

  Fear spiraled through Moira’s stomach and shot to her knees, weakening her stance. She’d gone and done it now.

  The cowboy was easily two paces behind the kidnapper. Feinting right, she swept the handle around and batted her attacker’s legs. The man staggered and his arms windmilled. His left hand smashed against a hanging lantern. Glass shattered and sparks showered over the hay-strewn floor. Like a wild animal set loose, brilliant orange flames spread across the dry kindling. Astonished by the sudden destructive force, she staggered back a step.

  In light of this new threat, Moira tossed aside the pitchfork and stomped on the rapidly spreading danger.

  “Get back!” John hollered.

  The kidnapper’s face twisted into a contorted mask of rage.

  He pointed at Moira through the growing wall of smoke separating them. “It’s fitting you’ll die in fire, you little hoyden.”

  With another shouted curse he pivoted toward the exit. Midstride, his right foot caught the curved tongs of Moira’s discarded pitchfork. The handle sprang upright and ricocheted off his forehead. The kidnapper’s expression morphed into a comical mask of astonishment before going slack. He stumbled back a step, jerked and collapsed. A soft cloud of hay dust billowed around his motionless body.