Much Ado About Marshals (Hearts of Owyhee) (2011)

by Jacquie Rogers

  The waist overalls—her dad had just received some from San Francisco’s Levi Strauss & Company—were the latest thing, even though men refused to call them fashionable. She recognized the brand because they were the only store-bought britches that had rivets to secure the pockets. Besides, quite a stir had erupted with the old biddies in town when Nellie Stevens bought a pair. And wore them.

  So maybe he had come from San Francisco, Sidney Adler’s home. That didn’t mean this man, who carried a knife inscribed with “MF,” wasn’t from there, too. In fact, she reasoned, that would further explain his knowledge of the real Mr. Adler.

  She picked up the bedcovers, intending to pull them over him again, when she spied a ragged, dirty paper sticking out from his back pocket. Her heart picked up its already quick pace. This could be it! This could be the decisive piece of evidence to prove that this man was an impostor, and his knowledge of Sidney Adler’s wound pointed toward the conclusion that this man was, indeed, the culprit who shot the marshal.

  One tug on the paper, and she knew she couldn’t get it out with all his weight on it. Of all the men to try to defraud the town, why did this one have to be so big? He must match the marshal in size. There was no alternative, though, she’d have to tip him on his side, a daunting task, indeed, for he almost certainly weighed twice as much as she.

  Moving to the other side of the bed, she determined she could pull him easier than she could push him. Grasping his belt loops and collar, she braced her knees against the bed and gave a mighty tug.

  But he didn’t budge an inch. So she grasped his collar again and, securing her hand in his front pocket—the rivets should hold his weight, she reasoned, even though her fingers were way too near his you-know-what—then placed her foot on the bed frame to bolster her leverage.

  She pulled hard. He did move a bit, but not enough.

  Still gripping his collar and pocket, she leaned back and put her other foot on the frame. Her mouth went dry when she heard voices coming from downstairs, but this important investigation must go on despite her misgivings.

  She hauled at him with every ounce of strength she owned. He tipped to his side, but she knew if she let go, he’d flop right back on the paper she so desperately needed to see. She’d have to give it another go in order to get him on his belly.

  So she pulled even harder. Maybe too hard. The big lunk rolled right over, knocking her to the floor, and he fell right across her chest, knocking every whit of air right out of her.

  And she couldn’t budge him.

  Cole entered Mrs. Howard’s boarding house, hoping breakfast would be finished and the boarders would be gone. No such luck.

  “Morning, Marshal,” they intoned.

  He nodded, feeling a little like a schoolmaster. “Morning.”

  Mrs. Howard turned from the sink, where she’d been washing dishes. “Want some breakfast? I still have plenty.”

  His mouth watered as the rich aroma of bacon reached his nostrils. “Smells good, but no, thanks. I already ate.” He hadn’t, but didn’t want to spend any more time with the townfolks than he had to. They were a sociable lot, and it would be too easy to become friends with them. “I’ll just check on the stranger and be on my way.

  Mrs. Howard smiled and plunged a pot into the dishwater. “Maybe another time, then.”

  “Much obliged.” His morning ride had loosened his joints some and had improved his attitude considerably. A man could lie around only so long, no matter what some damned quack doctor said. Still, he took the stairs at an easy pace. No use in pushing his luck, after all, and he hadn’t felt this good in weeks.

  A resounding thud shook the entire building and it came from the stranger’s room. He raced up the stairs as fast as his bum leg would take him and charged into the room.

  Sprawled on the floor was the miscreant, Miss Daisy under him. She must have a penchant for wounded men, he fumed, remembering her sweet taste on his own lips. He drew his Colt. “Get off her.”

  Miss Daisy huffed and pushed on the big man. “He… can’t.” She panted and relaxed. “He’s passed out cold. And, I…can’t…breathe.”

  Cole holstered his weapon. “And just how did you end up squished under him?” He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. Miss Daisy had some explaining to do.

  “Get him off me!”

  “Who is he?”

  “Oh, good grief,” she huffed. “I don’t know.”

  “Then why are you flirting with him?”

  “Flirting?”

  “Well, darlin’, that’s how a woman usually ends up flat on her back underneath a man, yes.”

  “I’ll have you know—” She pushed on the large, limp body again and gasped for air. “I was investigating his identity.” She wrenched against him again. “I think he’s the man who shot you.”

  He gulped, remembering his close call with disaster when he’d figured she knew he was not the man she thought he was. Flirting or not, he had to take care of the miners, then get the hell out of town. He couldn’t let the alluring Miss Daisy divert him from his purpose.

  He pulled the man off her, but not without a painful strain to his newly healed wound, and hauled the stranger’s upper body onto the cot, face-first. As he reached to get a good grip on the fellow’s knees to get the rest of him on the bed, Miss Daisy jumped up and grabbed Cole’s arm.

  “Wait!”

  His mind jumbled for a moment. He had to stop letting her stir his brain into jelly and his other parts hard as a brick every time she touched him.

  “What?”

  “I have to see what’s on the paper in his back pocket.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, you oaf, it might tell us who he is.” She grabbed the paper, which turned out to be an envelope with a letter in it. “Hmmm. This is addressed to ‘Mr. Mike Flynn’.”

  Flynn. That name sounded familiar, and Bosco had said all along that he’d seen this man at Big Boned Bess’s.

  Miss Daisy took the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it carefully while Cole heaved the big fellow the rest of the way on the bed, setting his healing time back another week, from the stab of pain that pierced his groin.

  He had a hard time not staring at the front of her dress, thinking her breasts might burst forth at any time, and hoping they would. But he couldn’t think about that. His mission was to get rid of this stranger, and that’s just what he planned to do. But he couldn’t keep his eyes off Daisy. He wanted to kiss that sweet wrinkle in her brow and take the rest of the pins out of her tousled hair as he watched her study the paper. Again, he chastised himself to stop thinking about her that way before she hindered him even more than she already had. And got him hanged.

  What a fool he was. A man ended up in more trouble than anything else by getting all wound up over women. It had happened to him before and he’d never let it happen again. He cleared his throat. “So what does it say?”

  “Huh?” Her remote response led him to believe she was in the midst of making another silly deduction. But he had to admit, she was the cutest damned amateur detective he’d ever seen.

  “Oh.” She chewed her lower lip and flipped the letter over to read the other side, then handed it to him.

  He felt strange reading another man’s mail, but his own goals depended on getting rid of the man who claimed himself marshal. Worse, he knew the real marshal would eventually show up and then all hell would break loose. So he read the letter.

  February 10, 1885

  Dear Micky,

  I hope this letter finds you in good health and making money with your new freight company. Thank you for the gold locket. It goes nice with my Sunday dress and the Garden Club Ladies were jealous. I don’t understand the drawing on the back of your picture, though.

  Your sister is nigh to popping and she needs money. Last week that jackass of a husband ran off to Montana with a hussy from the saloon, just like your daddy did so many years ago. Now you are gone, same as him.
There’s a painted woman named Ginny who says you are her baby’s daddy. I said maybe so, but she ain’t getting any money from you.

  I am working hard as always just to make do, but now have to do for your sister, too. My bones are old and rheumatism is setting in my joints. I might have to sell the necklace for tonic.

  Regards,

  Your Mother

  He looked up at Miss Daisy, who stared at the mysterious Mr. Mike Flynn. “Well,” he said as he tossed the letter on the foot of the bed, “now you know who he is. Happy?”

  She smiled broadly—not just with her sweet mouth, but with emerald green eyes bright with excitement. He couldn’t figure why some lucky stiff hadn’t snagged her already. He’d be in a whole lot less of a fix right then if she were married with a batch of young ‘uns clambering on her lap.

  Which brought up another disturbing vision, a family of his own—Daisy as his wife, the mother of his kids. He shook his head and grimaced. He had to get out of Oreana, and the sooner, the better. The first thing he needed to do was ask Bosco about Flynn, just in case a tidbit of crucial information had been left unsaid, which, in Bosco’s case, was not likely.

  “Very happy,” she answered, halfway surprising him since he’d forgotten the question. “Even though he did match the description you sent in the telegram, I wasn’t fooled for a moment. But I bet he can tell us just who shot you, although he won’t, of course, because it was him.” She sashayed over to the mirror. “Turn around.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not gentlemanly to watch a lady fix her hair, and I need to set myself to rights before I go back downstairs.”

  “Uh, I gotta go.”

  She flashed him another ‘come here’ smile. He hastened his retreat, certain she had no idea how she affected him, and not trusting himself to be alone with her for another second. He bounded down the stairs, disregarding the dull pain that penetrated his thigh with each footfall.

  One thing bothered him. Shouldn’t Flynn have been awake, or at least stirring? He’d have to ask Bosco just how much laudanum he’d given the poor sap, because they might need to do something to rouse him before he croaked. What that would be, Cole didn’t know, but while he wanted to get Flynn out of the way, he sure as hell didn’t want to be party to a killing, intentional or otherwise.

  Meantime, he had to somehow throw Gib Rankin in jail with his brother, and then find out who and where the judge was that could throw away the key. One year in prison, and those two would forget all about their sluicing operation on Sinker Creek.

  The door to the marshal’s office stood wide open, with Forrest Gardner sitting at the desk, aiming his broom at hapless passersby. “Hands in the air!”

  Cole dutifully raised both hands. “You got me, son, fair and square. Now what do you plan to do with me?”

  The boy frowned and lowered the broom handle. “Don’t rightly know, sir, but the first part worked real good.” He stood. “I swept the floor and the boardwalk, and I, uh, kept your chair warm.”

  He was a cute kid, and Cole didn’t want to see him down in the mouth after doing all the dirty work. “Put the broom back in the corner, junior deputy. How’s the prisoner?” Porker must have gone to sleep, finally, because the only sound was Bosco’s gawd-awful snoring.

  “Oh, a man came and got him. Said he was taking the prisoner to breakfast.”

  Cole sprinted the four strides to the jail room and through open cell door, coming to a halt beside the empty cot. Sure enough, no Porker. Damn, damn, double damn! Gib had come for his brother, all right.

  But it wasn’t really the boy’s fault. Cole swore under his breath again, and slammed the cell door—now he’d have to catch the bastard all over again. He quieted himself to speak to the boy. “Your next job is patrol.”

  Forrest perked up, eyes bright. “Patrol?”

  “Yup.” Cole took off his hat and hung it on the hook. “You have to walk around every block in town except around the Branded Horse. I already gave Bosco that job.

  “Am I supposed to arrest bad men?”

  “No, you report your suspicions to me, fast as you can.”

  “Do I get a badge?”

  Cole let out a sigh. Somehow, somewhere, he’d get this boy a badge, even if he had let the prisoner walk right out of jail. A ten-year-old boy couldn’t be responsible, in fact, he’d probably done the right thing, or else he could’ve got hurt. “Yup. Might take a day or two, but you’re still my official junior deputy.

  The dog bounded outside, but the boy stopped in the doorway. “I’ll see you at my house at noon.”

  “No, you won’t.” The last place he wanted to be was in the middle of Miss Daisy’s family. Having Forrest hang around was even getting to him—Cole liked the kid, and that was one more tie he’d have to break.

  “Yup, Mom’s expecting you. She was up at six this morning fixing up a special spread, so you’d better be there.” He shook his head slowly. “She gets powerful fierce when we ain’t at the table on time.” He put both hands on his rear. “Course, I don’t ‘spect she’d whup you, but still…”

  Cole got the message. Much as he thought better of it, one dinner couldn’t hurt, and then he’d let Mrs. Gardner know that he wouldn’t be taking his meals there anymore. A good excuse would surely come to him in the next four hours, although spending time with Miss Daisy was awfully inviting, and exactly why he shouldn’t go. “I’ll be there. You better start your patrol.”

  After the boy left, Cole’s first urge was to drag Bosco out of bed and ask him why the hell he’d let Gib walk out of the place with Porker. But it was only eight o’clock, and Bosco’d barely had four hours of sleep, since he’d hung around the Branded Horse until closing. Besides, it wouldn’t do a lick of good—Porker and Gib were long gone, and Bosco probably wouldn’t have been much good, anyway.

  Cole flopped into the desk chair. Hell, he couldn’t court a beautiful woman who struck his fancy, even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.

  Sometimes, life was a lonesome existence.

  Daisy had hoped the freight wagon would arrive before noon, but it didn’t. Now she’d have to change into her Sunday dress for dinner with the blasted dirt farmer, then after she got rid of him, find some excuse to change back into her old dress. The fingerprinting kit came with carbon dust, and she sure didn’t need black blotches all over her best outfit.

  Nevertheless, she put on the green silk that matched her eyes so that she didn’t raise suspicions with her folks. She pulled back her hair and pinned the chignon, giggling when she realized it was slightly off-center. And that was exactly where it would remain. For good measure, she loosened a few strands by her temples.

  Downstairs, her mother handed her a vase of spring flowers.

  “Set this in the center of the table, dear. Oh, and Doc’s in town. He came into the store this morning,” she said as she disappeared into the kitchen. “No, Grace, I’ll check the pie!”

  “Is he coming for dinner?” Daisy had to raise her voice so her mother could hear in the other room.

  “No, he has things to do. Besides, this meal is for you and Patrick Dugan to get to know one another. Your father says he’s a nice boy, and industrious, too.”

  Daisy didn’t want to talk about the industrious Patrick Dugan. Or think about him. She had bigger, more important things on her mind—like solving crimes and convincing the marshal to propose to her before her folks married her off to some boring dirt farmer. “We better have Doc look at Mr. Flynn first thing.” She moved a pitcher of milk and placed the bowl beside it.

  Her mother stuck her head out of the doorway. “Oh, who’s that?” Then disappeared again.

  “The stranger who came to town and had the accident.”

  “Is he not doing well?” Her mom’s distant voice seemed more interested in the food she was preparing than in Mr. Flynn’s problems.

  “He’s still not awake.” She walked into the kitchen so she wouldn’t have to talk so loud. “I dosed him w
ith laudanum last evening, but he should have awakened by now according to the label.”

  Her mother plopped the potato she’d just peeled into the pot and glanced at Daisy. “Was he in pain?” She grabbed the salt shaker from her sister. “I’ll do that. Like Cyrus says, we don’t want to kill a prospective suitor.”

  “He hadn’t come to yet,” Daisy went on, ignoring her mother’s battle to keep Aunt Grace from cooking. “But I figured when he did, he’d be in lots of pain and we’d all be in bed, so I gave him a good stiff dose—you know, trickling it down his throat.”

  “Daisy Marie Gardner, you didn’t!” She sprinkled salt on the spuds and put the pot on the stove.

  “I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “I’ll have your father send someone to fetch Doc after we eat.”

  “I’ll do it now,” she offered as she inched toward the door.

  Her mother brandished a wooden spoon. “You, young woman, will stay right here and entertain my future son-in-law.”

  Chapter 7

  Daisy finished setting the table, all the while wondering where on earth Sarah was hiding herself. Probably dawdling again. That girl could fool around more than anyone she’d ever met, and managed to be late everywhere she was supposed to go. Daisy pulled the curtain back and peered out the window for the dozenth time. Still no Sarah.

  Near panic, Daisy swore silently. She simply could not withstand the onslaught of yet another unwanted courtship without reinforcements. Besides, with Sarah’s beauty, Mr. Dugan would most certainly be drawn to her, and Daisy would be spared. After all, no man in his right mind would prefer Daisy over Sarah, with her blonde curls, womanly curves, and huge blue eyes. Daisy’s own auburn hair and plain looks would work to her advantage, for once.

  Someone rapped on the door, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. This Dugan fellow was five minutes early! She checked to make sure her chignon was still slightly askew as her mother nearly flew from the kitchen. “Daisy, go in the sitting room, and I’ll ask our guests to chat a bit before the meal’s on. You’ll have to do the honors because I’m still cooking.”