by Jill Gregory
Latherby steepled his hands. “Yes, Sheriff. The total will be quite a large sum. Kindly tell me what it is.”
Before Ethan had time to do more than pace a dozen or so times around the confines of the bleak little cell, he heard the key scrape in the lock.
“Maybe I can go home now,” Mills grumbled.
“Like hell. Sheriff, I just remembered something. That little witch who robbed me was at the Golden Pistol tonight. In one of the upstairs rooms—packing a suitcase! She must be leaving town. You have to get over to the Golden Pistol and place her under arrest. Right now, before she can get away.”
“The only place I’m going right now, young feller, is straight home and into bed!”
“Like hell. Latherby!” Ethan stuck out his hand.
The solicitor instinctively understood what he wanted. He dug inside his pocket and then placed a crisp hundred-dollar greenback into Ethan’s palm.
Ethan waved it under the sheriff’s nose. “Mills, this’ll be the easiest money you ever made. All you have to do is lock that woman up in this very same cell tonight and it’s yours.”
The sheriff snatched the bill from him. He studied it a moment, eyes blinking soberly, then he nodded. “Can’t turn my back on doin’ justice,” he mumbled.
Ethan Savage’s lips drew back in a sneer. He started toward the door, the sheriff and Latherby trotting after. Suddenly Ethan swung around. “Latherby, I forgot something.”
“My lord?”
“Token of appreciation for all the aggravation you caused me tonight.”
“Sir?”
Ethan’s fist swung out and connected hard with the solicitor’s jaw. The man went down with a thud.
Ethan rubbed his sore knuckles, a hard glitter in his bleary eyes. “Don’t thank me, Latherby. It was nothing.”
* * *
Josie had just fallen asleep on top of the bed, already dressed in her denim pants and flannel shirt so she’d be ready to move when the sun came up. She was dreaming of herself in a lovely open field, wearing a lavender dress, and in her dream she was opening the worn cloth pouch containing her brooch and her ring—but when she tugged at the drawstring the pouch was empty, and when she glanced up, there stood Snake right before her.
He was smirking at her in a way that made her want to knock the grin off his face, but also made her back up a pace. Then she saw that he held both her brooch and the ring in his grimy, nailbitten hand, and suddenly he was bending over a broken stone well, dangling them over the yawning black gap.
“You crossed me, Jo. You can say adios to these. And you’re going down into the well next...”
Her heart was pounding so hard, she could scarcely breathe. Pounding, pounding. Then she opened her eyes and realized with a raspy intake of breath that the pounding was coming from the hall outside. Someone was banging on the door.
“This here is Sheriff Mills. Open up in the name of the law!”
Jolting upright in the other narrow bed, Rose gaped at Josie through the darkness. “The sheriff! What’s he want with us, Jo?”
“Not us. Me,” Josie whispered. Trembling, she flung herself up from the bed and put a hand to her throat. Think, think hard. “That gunslinger must’ve sent him—Rose, don’t go to the door yet. Stall him.”
Rose nodded, her dirty blond hair straggling forward over her shoulders as she slid from the bed and reached for a wrapper. Josie was already tugging on her boots.
“Open the door or I’ll break it down!”
“Hold your horses, Sheriff!” Rose called out shrilly. “Can’t a body make herself decent?”
Josie grabbed up her valise and ran for the window. She stopped only long enough to hug Rose good-bye, then heard the sheriff bellow again, demanding that Rose open the door. On an icy rush of fear, she threw a leg over the sill. She scrambled onto the overhang and dropped her valise down into the alley. If she lowered herself over the edge, holding on with her hands and then dropping down, she might just make it without breaking an ankle. She could make a run for it.
Her grip slipped as she heard Sheriff Mills thunder into the room above her. Hands slippery with sweat, she couldn’t hold on. She fell from the overhang, smothering a cry of panic as she dropped off into open air.
Suddenly, instead of hitting the ground, she felt herself caught up by powerful arms.
“Ohhhh!” Her lips parted in shock. A jolt slammed through her as she was scooped up, caught against a wide, muscled chest. She stared into the fierce dark countenance of the man whose pocket she’d picked twice this very afternoon.
“Ma’am,” he said with dry mockery. “May I have this dance?” Then his face broke into a demonic grin that froze Josie’s blood.
“Let me go!” Wildly, she began hitting him over the head with her fist.
The blows narrowly missed the still oozing wound on his temple, and at any moment Ethan expected to have blood trickling once more down his face.
“Why, you little bitch,” he muttered, setting her on her feet so sharply, her teeth rattled. One strong arm imprisoned her waist, pulling her so tight against him that she could scarcely draw breath. He pinioned her hands, halting the rain of blows.
Josie gasped as she struggled to free herself. He was all hard muscle and strength. He smelled of liquor and male sweat and there was a reckless, dangerous glint in his eyes that frightened her more than her fall from the overhang, though she would rather have eaten bullets than admit it.
“Mills!” he shouted toward the open window. “Down here. Come and get her.”
Jo gasped, wriggling frantically. Uselessly. “You can’t let him lock me up. You’d be signing my death warrant—you don’t understand—”
“You don’t understand, lady,” he interrupted with a heartless laugh. “You’ve caused me a hell of a lot of trouble. Now it’s your turn to lie in a jail cell and stare at the bars.”
“I know what trouble is, mister, believe me, I do—I’m no stranger to it. But there’s a reason why I took your things.”
“Savage, you got her? Good work. I’ll be right down,” the sheriff called, leaning out the window.
“Please!” Jo begged, staring up at the gunslinger with wide, beseeching eyes.
The moon shimmered over her white upturned face. It wasn’t all that cold a night, but she was shivering in his arms. He was aware of how soft her body felt pressed against him, of her small, high breasts, the curve of her thighs. She felt helpless and sweet. Yet he knew she was anything but sweet.
Still, the appeal in her face went beyond words—it reached deep inside and clutched at his heart. Or would have, if Ethan had let it for one minute.
“You’re going to pay, lady,” he said harshly, putting a hand to her hair and forcing her head backward so that her white throat above the collar of the flannel shirt was exposed and vulnerable. “Now where’s my money and my pocket watch?”
“In my valise. Over there. You can have them back.”
“Damn straight I’ll have them back.”
“And whatever else you want. I’ll do anything, I’ll pay you double what I took... but please don’t let the sheriff lock me up. I’d be a sitting duck.”
“For who? Who the hell is after you?”
She didn’t answer, just licked her lips. Nice lips they were, too. Lush and generous, the color of rosebuds. Another lawman’s after her, he decided. Someone more intimidating than old Mills. Her shivering grew worse after he asked her the question. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Brilliant eyes, he realized now. Mesmerizing. They were a clear, wondrous violet, like the wild flowers that grew in the glade beyond the pond at Stonecliff Park.
“I’ll do anything,” the girl whispered again just as Sheriff Mills stomped out of the Golden Pistol’s back door and approached them, his weary face tight with impatience.
Suddenly an idea penetrated Ethan’s bitter, half-drunk haze. “Anything, eh?” he repeated, and then chuckled long and low.
Josie stared at him fearful
ly. That chuckle sounded almost demented. “Yes, anything,” she heard herself vow, but the words seemed unwise the moment they’d left her lips.
“Fine. Then you’ll marry me. Tonight.”
Now she knew he was demented. Loco. She struggled again to get away as Sheriff Mills reached toward her and she heard the clang of handcuffs, saw the silver glitter of them in his grip.
But as the sheriff reached for her wrist, the stranger shoved her back and placed himself between her and Mills.
“Hold on a minute, Sheriff.”
Josie’s legs shook.
“Huh?” Mills grabbed at his hat as a gust of wind whipped through the darkened alley.
“The manacles can wait until I’ve had a chance to speak to... the lady.”
“So now she’s a lady. You called her a dirty thief. Savage, is this the woman who stole your money and your watch or not?”
Ethan surveyed her, from the tousled mass of chestnut curls to the scuffed boots on her dainty feet. He nodded, no expression showing itself on his swarthy face. “It’s her. But I might change my mind about pressing charges.”
He dragged Josie along with him through the alley, out of earshot of the sheriff.
“Wait there and I’ll let you know,” he commanded over his shoulder, and Josie realized he was still drunk enough not to know or care that he was making enough noise to wake half the town.
She glanced helplessly at her valise, still lying where she’d dropped it in the dirt, with the brooch and ring inside. She didn’t like having it out of reach. She didn’t like anything that was happening to her.
“You can’t possibly want me to marry you,” she insisted, drawing a deep breath, trying to steady her shaky nerves.
“You’re wrong, lady. I do. Seems I need a wife. I need one bad.”
“Why me?”
“You’re as good as any. Better than most, I’d say, since you’ll make my dear old father spin in his grave.” He gave a hoarse laugh and raked a hand through his hair, looking suddenly weary and half beside himself with anger—or was it grief? Josie couldn’t tell which. And then, as she started to back away, deciding he was crazed, he gripped her arm again and jerked her close.
“Not so fast, angel. How about it? You come to England with me and be my sweet little bride—and I’ll see you’re well taken care of. You’ll live the high life, with servants, pretty clothes, all the baubles you want. Isn’t that what a woman like you dreams of? You won’t have to steal, and you’ll have all the spending money you could want. But...”
His voice harshened and so did his grip, pinching her flesh. “After six months, it’s adios. You get the hell out. I’ll settle a fair amount of money on you, enough to set you up so you won’t have to rob anyone else for a good long time, and then we get a civilized divorce and you get the hell out of England, out of my life, and never come back.”
“So very romantic.” Josie bit her lip, trying to stall for time, trying to think. She guessed it was the liquor talking. Why would any sane or sober man want to marry the woman who’d robbed him?
“Romantic,” he sneered. “Don’t think so. Strictly business. Something tells me you’re not the romantic type anyway. You like money? I’ve got some—and I’ll pay you to be my wife for six months. Yes or no?”
He was swaying on his feet, and Josie instinctively found herself steadying him. “You don’t even know what you’re saying,” she managed to gasp on a half-hysterical laugh. “Or what you’re doing.”
“The hell I don’t. I need a wife, and you’re the one I picked. I’ll bring a damned two-bit low-class vulgar thief to England and introduce her to all the swells! Lord, that’s rich!”
He gave a shout of laughter. “It’s the only way I’ll go back. I swore I never would, swore I’d never marry, and now, if I have to—”
He broke off, and Josie realized he hadn’t meant to reveal this much. “If you have to, you’ll marry a low-class thief? To prove what? To who?” she asked desperately.
“That’s none of your business. You either marry me tonight—right now—or I turn you in to the sheriff. You’ll sleep in a cell. Hell, you’ll rot there.” He stared down into her eyes, his own blazing with contempt and triumph. “So, lady, take your pick. Me—or that cell.”
Mills marched toward them, his face wrathful, before Josie could speak.
“Well?”
“Leave her be, Sheriff. This lady’s going to do me the honor of becoming my wife.” His laughter rang out again so harshly that goose bumps prickled Josie’s flesh.
“I didn’t say...” Then her protest died on her lips as he turned those ice-gray eyes on her once more.
“Then say.” His tone was low and warning, cutting in its impatience. “One way or the other, you damned hussy. Answer right now.”
He was crazy. But she had to say something before Mills snapped those manacles on her. “Yes. Yes, of course,” Josie heard herself murmur. “I’m going to marry him.”
Never mind that I already have a husband—one who’s hunting me down like a rabbit at this very moment. Now I’ll have two. Neither of them worth a damn.
The sheriff stared at each of them with utter fury and disgust. “Damned if I know what the hell is going on here, Savage—but I’m going home. Unless,” he added sarcastically, glowering up at the taller man, “there’s something else I can do for you tonight?”
“Matter of fact, there is.” Ethan was already weaving his way down the alley, dragging Josie with him. He scooped up the valise on his way, but never slowed.
“Tell me where I can find a justice of the peace.”
* * *
The groom wore a sneer. The bride wore pants. The justice of the peace, half awake and with his boots, trousers, shirt, and waistcoat pulled on hastily over his nightshirt, mumbled his way through the vows, while his wife, the witness, at the last minute whisked a handful of faded daisies from a vase on the whatnot shelf and thrust them into Josie’s hand as a makeshift bouquet.
Josie peered dazedly at the wilted flowers, then at the flabby jowls of James Ezekiel Collins, the justice of the peace. His words droned in her ear. She felt as if she were floating in some dim and disturbing dream. The little parlor felt very warm and close after the chill breeze of the night. There were doilies on every crowded surface, atop the piano and the tables. Fussy fringed pillows were mounded on the sofa, the heavily patterned wallpaper was barely discernible for all the silver and gilt-framed watercolors displayed upon it, and the occasional tables, dresser, mantel, and whatnot held dried flower arrangements and little carved animals and collections of china plates.
She felt as if she were being smothered by all this furniture, all this warmth and closeness, even by the odor of the fried chicken and onions that Mrs. Collins had apparently cooked for dinner and that still lingered in every dark, crowded corner of the parlor. She couldn’t breathe.
There was only one consolation. A judge’s house was the last place Snake would come looking for her—if he was looking at all. She was safe for the moment.
Golden lamplight reflected upon the hard planes of her new groom’s face. His eyes were beginning to lose their overbright luster now, and the liquor was slackening his muscles, but there was still about him an air of dark, reckless energy even more intense than what she’d glimpsed this afternoon. Of course, he hadn’t been drunk this afternoon. He hadn’t had bruises on his face, or blood on his vest—and he hadn’t been possessed by this driven fury. He’d been angry, true, but not like this. Nothing like this.
Josie was already plotting her getaway. He’d pass out soon, surely, and she could run off. Why should she keep her vows to a man who’d forced her into this marriage, no less than Snake had forced her into the other one?
At least she was legally married to Snake. This man didn’t have a clue that the ceremony being conducted for his benefit was nothing but a useless farce.
The moment he falls asleep, I’ll make a dash for it.
But suddenly J
ustice Collins’s droning voice—asking her if she took this man to be her husband—was interrupted by a furious knocking at the door. As Josie’s heart thundered in her chest, Mrs. Collins admitted a harried-looking little man with a swollen red bruise on his jaw.
“No one invited you,” the bridegroom snarled.
“Trust me, my lord, you don’t wish to go through with this.”
“The hell I don’t. You said I needed a wife. I’m gettin’ me one.” Ethan spun back toward the justice, his expression grim. “Go on, get it over with.”
Poor Justice Collins threw a glance of horror and dismay first at Josie, pale and disheveled in her flannel shirt and jeans, and then at the tall angry man beside her. Josie almost felt sorry for him, he looked so confused.
“You sure you want to go through with this, little lady?”
“I do.”
“There. She said it, we’re done.” Ethan seized his bride by the arm and started toward the door.
“Sir, you haven’t taken your vows yet!” the justice exclaimed.
Ethan froze. He turned back, scowling. “Haven’t I?” He searched his memory. “Well, then, what the hell are you waiting for? Hurry up or I’ll start shooting at your feet, you old windbag.”
The wife gave a screech of terror, and Ethan threw her a cool glance. “Sorry, ma’am. Don’t normally cuss in front of a lady.”
Josie swore the smile he gave her would have melted coal. Mrs. Collins sank down in a chair as if her legs had been knocked out from under her.
“Do continue, James,” she croaked out.
“My lord.” The little Englishman could contain himself no longer. “You are making a grievous—”
In less than the blink of an eye, Ethan drew his Colt .45 and pointed it straight at the balding little man. “One more word out of you, Latherby, and it’ll be your last. Savvy?”
Swallowing hard, the Englishman nodded.
Ethan holstered the gun and nodded to the justice, whose face was now sheened with sweat.