She hastily looked away.
The click of his gun cocking made her swallow hard.
He settled himself like a laying hen, on a half empty crate of canned peaches at her feet.
“Afternoon, ma’am.”
Christie swallowed hard.
The tall stranger striding toward her in the brown duster appeared far more dangerous than the robber under the counter. His blue eyes snapped as cold as spring water against his bronze skin. It was difficult to determine his features through the stubble on cheeks. But there was purpose behind his steady advancing swagger, urging her to take a step back.
The gun against her thigh held her still.
She managed a small frozen smile — a smile one might give when a rattler lay curled inches from your feet. Her heart raced so fast, she could barely breathe.
The stranger cracked a lazy smile. His voice held a raspy edge. “I’m looking for a no-account robber, by the name of Everett. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“He’s gone.” Christie attempted to swallow past the fear in her throat. “Out the back door.”
His cool gaze slid to the wide-eyed, silent McDermotts, then back to her.
Her mouth went dry.
He didn’t believe her.
He knew.
Somehow he knew.
A long moment of silence followed.
Christie wanted to scream, just leave, before you get us all killed!
Then, he tipped the edge of his grey Stetson and slanted a half smile. “Much obliged.”
When the door slammed behind him, she closed her eyes in relief. Then, very slowly, she backed away from the counter. She pressed against the ceiling-high shelves, attempting to put as much distance as she could between her and the outlaw.
He slithered out from his hiding spot, grimacing with pain, clutching the bleeding hole in his arm. “Gimme something to bind this up with!” he said, with a half-snarl.
Christie grabbed the first thing she could lay her hands on — the bolt of blue checkered gingham spread across the counter. She picked up the scissors with shaking fingers to cut a wide strip.
He wrapped it around his bloody arm, making a knot with his big yellow teeth. He pointed his pistol over her shoulder at the door. “Where does that go?”
“Rooms upstairs.”
“Seein’ as these buildings attach, that’ll do just fine. Looks like I’ll be stretchin’ my legs some.”
The door slammed behind him.
Christie flew across the room to throw the bolt. After, she sagged against the door, almost crying with relief. Good thing Leigh hadn’t come home last night. Waking to a robber racing through his bedchamber would have given him a terrible fright. The thought of it made hysterical laughter bubble up in Christie’s throat.
“You done good, Miss Wallace,” Mrs. McDermott said, coming out from behind the sacks of grain.
The boys emerged, laughing and talking all at once.
“Did you see that? He was near bleeding to death!”
“Them other outlaws just rode off and left him.”
“The Everetts was the ones who held up the stage near Carson City last month. I heard Pa talkin’ about it.”
Harley came bursting through the door, accompanied by a symphony of bells. “That was the most exciting thing I ever saw!”
“Well, don’t bust your britches wondering if we’re alright.” Mrs. McDermott took a half-hearted swat past his head. “If the shootin’s all done with, we best get that wagon loaded before your Pa starts to worryin’. Harley, get over to the post office and warn the sheriff where that varmint’s gone, then load that shotgun under the seat. It’s a long ride home.”
“The bounty hunter will get him. Mr. Pike says there ain’t none better than him. Nat Randall’s his name,” Harley said. “We saw him through the window of the saloon the day Pa and I come to the blacksmith’s. Elton says he’s like an old hound once he gets the scent. Learned his tracking from the Indians.”
Christie shivered. She could believe that. He certainly appeared uncivilized, from what she’d seen beneath the dust creasing his face.
No sooner had the McDermotts vacated the store than another cavalcade burst through the door.
Mr. Brooker, the postmaster, and deputy Carter, shuffled in, carrying Uncle Will on a plank.
“Uncle Will!” Christie rushed to his side. “What happened?” His eyes remained closed beneath the round spectacles, askew on his ruddy face. Christie examined him up and down, from his grey curls to the black boots on his feet. No sign of blood. That was good. Her gaze darted from one rescuer to the other. “Is he … ?”
“Knocked out cold,” the deputy declared, nodding his auburn head. “Come morning, he’s going to have a lump the size of a road apple on the back of his head.”
“We’ll send the Doc over when he gets here,” Mr. Brooker said. “He went out to the Sutton Ranch to set a leg this morning. Hasn’t come back.”
“Please, follow me.” Christie directed them with a wave of her hand. “There’s a cot just inside the storeroom.”
“We thought it best to bring him back here where it’s quiet. The post office is off limits for now.” The deputy puffed out his thin chest. The extra air had the effect of lowering his voice. “And I’m sure you’ll appreciate the fact that I’ve got some investigating to do. I expect the sheriff will want a statement from you and your uncle once he comes round.”
“Yes, yes of course, whatever we can do. But what about the man they left behind? He might still be on the roof.”
“I’ll have a look, but I expect he’s long gone. It might help if you could give me a description.”
“I only saw his face for a second!” she blurted in utter frustration. Why weren’t they trying to catch him? “He’ll be the one jumping from roof to roof with a bandanna over his face.”
“No need to fret,” Bill drawled. “The sheriff’s getting a posse together as we speak.”
Christie nodded, turning her back on him.
If the outlaw wasn’t out of town yet, he soon would be.
Uncle Will’s rescuers filed out.
Christie set about making Uncle Will comfortable, removing his boots and placing his spectacles on one of the shelves above his head.
Only after she’d fetched fresh water from the well and pressed a cool cloth to his head did she remember Leigh.
Where on earth was he?
Didn’t he realize what happened?
Or did he simply not care?
Lately his drinking and gambling was getting out of hand. If only she could make him understand how much Uncle Will needed him! But he didn’t seem to want to listen. She was at her wits end.
Well.
Today was the last straw.
She had to do something. If Leigh didn’t straighten up, she was going to stop covering for him. That was all there was to it.
There’d been no sign of his reckless nature when he lived with her family in Boston, attending college.
Perhaps her father’s sternness had kept him in check. No one disobeyed Ian Wallace without repercussions. She was living proof of that. In the Wallace household, his word was law. He was a man of high principles and even higher aspirations. When he wanted something, he found a way to make it happen. If talking wouldn’t bring you around, his actions soon would — or so he thought.
Sending her to Nevada was meant to achieve what his ceaseless preachment had not. But she wasn’t about to give into her father’s bullying. She could be just as stubborn when she wanted to be. If he thought to force her to marry Cavanaugh, he had another thought coming. If only there was a way to change her father’s mind — a way to keep him happy and honor her daughterly duty?
A low groan brought her back to
the present. Uncle Will’s eyelids fluttered opened. “Leigh!” He lifted a hand to the damp cloth on his forehead, blinking as though trying to focus. “Ah lass, it’s you. I dinna remember what put me here, but whatever it was has addled my noggin.”
“There was a robbery at the post office.” Christie squeezed his other hand. “Don’t you remember? You were hit over the head.”
“I canna recall.” He attempted to raise himself on one elbow, then winced from the effort, sinking back on the cot with a groan.
“Don’t move. Just rest for now,” she soothed. “There’s nothing to worry about. Leigh and I will mind the store.”
“Leigh! Where is he? Is he here?”
Leigh usually ran the errands in the morning.
Uncle Will hadn’t said a word, but Christie knew by the set look of his usually gentle features, he was ready to wallop the daylights out of his son.
“I’ll send him in as soon as he’s free.” After I’ve given him a sound dressing down, she added silently.
Uncle Will closed his eyes.
Christie left him to sleep.
She busied herself straightening the bolts of fabric back on the shelves and refilling the jars of halfpenny candy along the counter, all the while rehearsing the stern speech she intended to deliver to Leigh should he venture to amble his useless body home.
It wouldn’t hurt to begin with her father’s tardy speech. After an afternoon spent shopping, she and her sisters were often lined up in her father’s study before dinner to listen to him recount the virtues of punctuality. A week later, when he received the invoices from their purchases, they’d be marched right back to the very same spot to listen to the evils of wasteful spending. She knew each of these recitations by heart.
When Leigh finally did appear, she was caught at a disadvantage, sitting on one of the brine filled barrels with vinegar dripping off her chin. All she could think of was her father’s pickle speech. He’d warned her many times about her preference for sour things. ‘A sour belly makes for a sour girl,’ he’d say. Then he’d ban all pickles from the table for a week.
“Into the pickles again, I see,” Leigh drawled with his usual coaxing smile. “If I could scare up a lemon, you’d likely go wild.”
His way of placating her, no doubt. Leigh was a first-rate charmer with an eye for the ladies, including any of Delia Parker’s girls residing above the saloon. His smooth complexion and clear hazel eyes turned many a female head, especially when the sun lit his dark golden curls.
But Christie was immune to his charms.
He was like a brother to her, therefore opened to the same censure and criticism as the rest of her siblings. Being the eldest, she’d had plenty of opportunity to offer gentle guidance when required.
Having finished her pickle, she rose from the barrel to wipe her fingers on her apron. “Where have you been?” Her gaze grazed his lanky frame, bedecked in a single button frock coat and equally immaculate grey trousers. She placed her hands on her hips, giving him the sternest glare she could manage. “Don’t you realize what’s happened?”
“Of course, I do. It’s all over town. But there’s no need to get all twisted out of shape. From what I hear the Everetts are partial to robbing stages. Now that they’ve got what they want, they won’t be back.” He closed one eye in a long exaggerated wink. “Though the excitement has brought a bloom to your cheeks I see. I do like a girl who knows how to produce a proper blush.”
“Will you be serious?”
“I am serious. You’re a tad thin, but the prettiest gal Murdock has ever seen. All the young gents are frothing at the mouth to give you a twirl at the barn raising.” He flashed a bold grin. “I recommend you take advantage of it before they figure out what a stick in the mud you really are.”
Heat suffused her cheeks. If she was reserved and conservative, it was only because she’d never had the luxury of being otherwise. Playing mother and nursemaid to her two younger sisters since their mother’s death had left no time for selfish pursuits. Coming to Nevada was the closest thing to freedom she’d known. And she planned to make the most of it. But that didn’t include relinquishing good manners and breeding. “Is that all you can think of — dancing! Uncle Will was almost killed!”
“What?”
“That’s right, thanks to you and your irresponsible behavior, he was at the post office when it was robbed.”
“Son of a gun!” Leigh’s face lost all color. His eyes clouded with something akin to guilt. It was gratifying to see he felt some shame for his feckless behavior. After all, it was his fault Uncle Will had been at the post office in the first place. If Leigh had gone to place the order as he should have, it might not have happened. “Where is he? Is he alright?”
“He’s had a nasty blow to the head, but I’m sure he’ll recover. He’s sleeping in the storeroom.”
“Thank goodness!” Leigh headed that way.
When Doctor Richard arrived an hour later, Leigh was still sitting on a chair by his father’s side.
Christie smiled. It was pleasing to see this protective side of Leigh. Perhaps he truly loved his father after all.
Aunt Cora’s death last month had been a blow, but certainly no excuse. Postponing studying law to return home to help his father must have made him resentful. Being packed off right along with him had certainly made her so, until she recovered from the shock and realized what a gift of freedom had been bestowed on her.
Nevertheless, it was time for Leigh to buck up and move on.
“You’ve got a skull as hard as a rock, Wilfred Wallace,” the doctor said, rising from his chair. He shook his graying head, winking at Christie. “But I knew that before you were lambasted with that pistol. Next time, keep your head down and your mouth shut.”
Uncle Will attempted a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “Dinna lecture me, you old fart. I was only doing my civic duty.”
“Next time, let the law take care of it. That’s why we elected them.”
“Has anyone ever told you — you have the bedside manner of a jackass?”
Knowing how much the two old friends enjoyed arguing — especially over checkers, Christie jumped in to end their bickering. “Is there anything more I can do to make him comfortable?”
“No, he’ll be fine.” Doctor Richards followed her out of the storeroom. But as soon as they were out of earshot, his voice turned cautious. “Wake him every few hours. If he doesn’t respond, send for me right away. I’ll be back in the morning to look in on him.”
“When do you think he can be moved upstairs?”
“Tomorrow. In the meantime, nothing stronger than water and a bit of broth.”
Leigh emerged from the storeroom directly after she’d walked the doctor to the door. “I’ll fetch you a plate of supper from the hotel and bring back a jar of chicken broth for Pa.” He charged out the door without waiting for an answer.
Hours later, Christie paced in front of the mercantile window, grinding her teeth. Leigh was likely at the saloon. She’d a mind to march right down there and haul him away from the card table by the ears. But respectable young ladies didn’t venture into the saloon. It was a rough place, according to Uncle Will, full of cowpokes, miners, and drifters. He’d warned her never to go there, for any reason.
Since the jar of chicken broth wasn’t about to grow legs and walk over on its own, she had little choice but to go to the hotel herself. Uncle Will employed a housekeeper to tidy up and do the cooking, but today Mrs. Tilley had the day off.
Christie sighed. There was no help for it. She’d have to close the store and go herself.
Very quietly, she peeped inside the storeroom.
Uncle Will lay as still as a stone.
She locked the door, then stepped out into the warm evening air. A burst of red on the horizon was al
l there was left of the setting sun. A strong scent of sagebrush hung in the air. The milder scent of pine tickled past her nose as she strode along the sidewalk, past the hastily erected buildings of the infant town.
Laughter and music spilled out into the street under the door of the saloon. Christie gathered her white silk shawl around her shoulders.
A wave of homesickness washed over her. Life was so different here — so isolated, if not wholly uncivilized. If you walked ten paces past the boundary of Murdock, there was nothing but wilderness. It was half day’s ride to the nearest ranch, and those were few and far between.
It made her lonely just to think of it. Murdock only claimed seventy-five inhabitants, ten of which were the postmaster’s children.
The violence of the robbery reinforced the town’s pitiful lack of resources. How could one sheriff, a half-witted deputy, and an untrained posse apprehend three desperate outlaws in the vast emptiness beyond? Isolation put them at a disadvantage.
The money was good as gone.
Christie shivered, quickening her pace down the empty wooden sidewalk. Well, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She might as well put it right out of her head. She’d told the deputy all she knew. Right now, Uncle Will needed that chicken broth.
As she passed the dressmaker’s, she spied the figure of a man in a fringed buckskin coat veering toward her from the direction of the saloon.
Her boots tapped louder on the planks as she hastened toward the hotel.
His strides seemed to lengthen.
Her heart thumped as loud as her feet.
When he halted directly in front of her, it raced like a thoroughbred out of the gate.
“Evening, Miss Wallace.”
“Good evening,” she answered politely, moving to brush past him.
But to her consternation he stepped directly into her path, leaving her no choice but to stop. “I suspect you don’t recognize me, since I’ve shed several pounds of dust and had a close shave. The name’s Nat Randall. We met this morning at the mercantile.” Christie blinked in the gathering darkness through the tunnel of her bonnet, attempting to focus on his face. His hair, from what she could see of it under his grey felt hat, was ink black and curled at the nape of his neck. His fine features and high cheekbones above his straight nose appeared as hard and uncompromising as his tone. The only flaw was a faint half-moon scar from the curve of his bottom lip to the apple of his chin. He was handsome, she supposed, in a rugged sort of way.
Time After Time Page 113