The idea had taken little prompting. Baker had been so eager to brag to Cameron about capturing her, to turn over the gold she’d carried. He’d reminded Anna of a shaggy terrier she’d once had as a child, in the years before her father had turned her world inside out. After learning that a stick she retrieved would bring words of praise and petting, the dog had brought her pillows, an uprooted fern from the solarium, even, once, Grandmother’s cane. Grandmother had thumped the animal’s behind on several occasions before the animal learned that objects fetched had different outcomes.
But Judge Cameron had praised Baker effusively this time, particularly when he hefted the bag of stolen gold to test its weight. She could almost envision the lawman’s wagging tail. She wondered how he would have reacted to learn that less than a day later, she was given to Ned Hamby, taken far from here, then knifed and left to die. Or was Sheriff Baker in on it as well?
It hardly mattered now, six years later, in a place she’d be considered a fugitive if she were recognized. That was why Anna and Quinn had waited until nightfall to ride down the town’s main street, why she’d covered her distinctive blond hair with a long scarf, which she’d wrapped around her neck like the Mexican women wore their rebozos.
Though she had hated giving up her practical denim pants and button shirt, she’d changed before they’d come to town. She donned a loose white blusa and full dark blue skirt borrowed, like the scarf, from Catalina. A wool serape completed the disguise and offered warmth. Wearing men’s clothing in a town the size of Copper Ridge would provoke too much curiosity, and with her fine-boned, shapely figure, it was unlikely that she would be taken for a man.
Still, stealth and a safe distance gave them the best chance to safely reach the small adobe house that Ryan rented. There was no disguising Anna’s fair skin or her steel blue eyes. And this far west, the rumor of a strange white woman would spread through the town like fever. Likely, the few married white women would descend upon his doorstep, bearing curiosity and casseroles. The end results would be disastrous, if — or when — Judge Cameron found out.
Their luck held. As they wended their way down side streets, Quinn gestured toward the largest building in the town. Cool moonlight lit the Catholic church’s adobe exterior from without; the light of dozens of candles burning in the windows gave a contradictory impression of the warmth and the community within. The very facets of religion that Anna had so long shunned.
“Holy Thursday evening mass. Most of the law-abiding folks will be in church now, or their beds.” Quinn’s quiet explanation drifted just above the wisps of emanating hymn.
For a moment, her heart yearned to join the gathering inside, to lend her voice to Latin hymns she suddenly remembered. Long ago, hadn’t she read of churches offering lost souls sanctuary? But on the Arizona frontier, the only redemption available came behind bars in one of the territory’s hellish prisons, or worse yet, coiled in the end of a hemp noose.
The gallows stood, a grim reminder, not far from the church. Between the two lay a graveyard, fenced in iron spikes. Crosses rose up in the moonlight, along with clumps of wilted flowers. Beyond that graveyard lay another, excluded from enclosure. The markers there were mostly toppled, but Anna knew the area nonetheless. The final resting place of suicides, of whores, of outlaws, of men who’d been cut down from the gallows. As in life, the respectable kept addresses separate from the sinful, depriving them of the pleasures of decent company.
Anna shivered, suspecting that weed-infested plot — or one just like it — would be her final resting-place. With no known relations and her criminal background, she could look forward to an eternity planted beside the likes of Hamby and his ilk. The thought almost made her want to commit some crime heinous enough to deserve the fate.
As they rounded a corner, she tried to brush aside her morbid thoughts. But she recognized the staunch rectangle of the Copper Ridge’s jail ahead. Her memories of it did little to elevate her mood.
Quinn reined his mount once more so they would not pass the building. Glancing toward the darkened windows, he said, “Either Max is back at the saloons again, or we don’t have any paying customers tonight.”
She swallowed hard with the reminder that he was a lawman now, the kind of man who thumbed through wanted posters, who locked up criminals. Like her. She filled her lungs with cool night air, which soon hissed out through clenched teeth. He’d said he’d forgiven her; he’d claimed he understood.
And loved her.
She began to tremble, remembering how his face had burned with hatred just a few short weeks ago, imagining their love-making and his sweet words all a ruse. Was that it? Was it all some clever plan to lure her here, where he could hold her in his jail, maybe even watch her swing from those gallows so conveniently nearby?
She blinked back tears and cursed herself for her suspicions. Stupid, to believe he could have orchestrated everything just to arrest her. Ludicrous, to think that he would have bothered riding back to rescue her from Hamby if all he’d wanted was to see her dead himself.
Shaking off her misgivings, Anna straightened in the saddle just as Quinn pulled his horse to a stop in front of a small, adobe house.
“Home,” he told her, in a voice that suggested he was glad to see it. Home for him would mean a change of clothes, decent food, and probably another weapon, not to mention a bed both soft and clean.
Its proximity to the jail disturbed her, though she supposed that it made sense.
“Get down. I’ll take you inside. Then I’ll walk the horses back to the livery stable. I imagine Stan Roberts — the fella who boards Titania for me — has been wondering where I’ve been.”
He had friends here, of course. She wouldn’t be the only one for him to count on now. Perhaps he’d talk about her to them. But friends could be loose with other’s secrets, just as they so often compromised their own.
Titania nickered restlessly, no doubt impatient for a meal of grain and hay. Quinn tied her, along with the bay, onto the porch rail. Anna was grateful when he helped her from the saddle, for the wide and unaccustomed skirt caught on the horn when she tried to dismount.
They stepped up onto the porch, and Quinn unlocked the door, then ushered her inside the darkened room. At her hesitation, he whispered sharply. “Get in there, before someone sees you.”
She acquiesced, hating the near-blackness that lay beyond the moonlit rectangle from the door. Only Quinn’s presence convinced her to take a few steps farther.
Until she heard the unmistakable sounds of a gun cocking and whiskey-roughened words, “Stop right there — before I kill you both.”
* * *
Quinn stiffened at the voice’s hard edge. Startled as he was, he nearly missed recognizing the familiar Texas accent.
“Max?” he called, irritated by the scare. “Max Wilson? What the hell are you doing skulking around my house in the dark?”
“Quinn?” Max sounded even more surprised than he. “That’s you, Quinn?”“Exactly who were you expecting?”
“Wait a — wait just one danged minute, so I can light this lamp.”
A match flared, and for just a moment lit Max Wilson’s freckled face. In full sunlight, his skin looked like a wildcat’s, the freckles blending into mottled coppery spots.
The match traveled downward to light a kerosene lamp on the table. He replaced the globe, then turned up the wick to increase the light. The house’s interior looked about the same as always, housing an oak table with a pair of chairs, a small stove, and few mismatched furnishings, including an iron-framed bed in the corner. A rumpled bed, as if his deputy had been asleep there.
Mindful of prying eyes, Quinn closed the door behind him. Anna glanced uneasily toward the blocked exit and backed a step closer, so that her shoulder blades leaned against his chest. He imagined that she’d bolt and run with little provocation.
“Will you lookee here?” Max asked, staring at both Quinn and Anna. “You’ve come back from the dead.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked Max.
As Max laid his gun on the table, his brown eyes gazed at Quinn. “Judge Cameron said he had it on good authority you was dead. Said the town charter called for me to take your place, no election or nothin.’ Then Mrs. Harris said that now I’m sheriff, I could rent this place, get out of that flea-bitten boardinghouse for good. I only just moved in. Hadn’t even gotten a chance to sleep here yet.”
“Good,” Quinn muttered, hoping Max hadn’t yet found the money and extra gun he kept hidden beneath one of the floorboards.
Cameron must have been talking to his boys, Quinn realized, since he had it on such “good authority” that he’d need a new sheriff. But he didn’t mention that to Max. Instead, he explained. “One of Hamby’s gang shot me near the canyons west of here, then left me for dead.”
“You got shot?” Max asked.
Quinn nodded. “In the shoulder. This woman saved my life.”
Max jerked a nod at her, then went on with his questions. “How would Cameron know about you bein’ shot?”
“You haven’t been paying much attention, have you, Max?” Quinn asked. “You’ve seen the way he runs his district.”
“I suppose he has his sources.” After hesitating for a moment, he frowned. “Guess this means back to the boardinghouse for me. Don’t get me wrong, Quinn, I’m mighty glad to see you back and in one piece. It’s just that — It’s just that I was thinkin’ how a woman might take a shine to marryin’ a fella with a neat little place like this.”
“I thought you were through with women.”
Max shrugged, then smiled at Anna, his wavy red hair a tousled nest from sleep. “I s’pose I might say the same of you.” He stuck out a thick-fingered hand. “Max Wilson, ma’am. Pleased to meetcha.”
Anna hesitated, then accepted the handshake. “Miranda Flynn. It’s good to meet you, too.”
She hadn’t missed a beat, as if the skill of lying, once mastered, was easy to resume. Clearly, she’d decided not to so quickly entrust Max with her tale, but then Quinn had always known that Anna was no fool.
Max wasn’t a bad fellow, but he rarely thought beyond the surface. To him, a deputy’s salary and a warm, dry bed were reason enough to go along with Cameron’s rules. Or almost enough, as Quinn had discovered after the fiasco with Max’s runaway mail-order bride. The humiliation and loneliness had driven him back to the bottle. Even now, months later, Quinn still smelled the whiskey on his breath. But that was the way it always was with Max, a stretch of months or even years before some setback sent him careening off the wagon. Quinn had heard he’d been fired several times from other deputy’s positions during his lapses. No, Quinn wasn’t about to trust their safety to anyone who could be bought with a bottle or a swirl of petticoats.
He needed a story, then, and quickly. He wished he’d imagined this possibility earlier, so he could have thought of one, or better yet, consulted Anna. Clearly, this was her area of expertise.
Settling for the first lie he could think of, Quinn said, “Miranda, honey, you have to get used to your new name. Miranda Ryan, from now on. Max, you surprised me, being in here. I should have introduced you to my wife.”
“You — your wife?” Max stammered, and Quinn could have sworn he saw his deputy go green as he appraised Anna anew. Despite the disguise of the scarf and serape, she was clearly beautiful.
He felt Anna’s body tense. His lie must have surprised her, too.
Quinn nodded, warming to his story. “Swung through Mud Wasp on the way here and got hitched. Miranda was widowed by uh — Joe Flynn, a rancher.”
“Never heard of him.”
Anna recovered enough to be of help. “We were just getting started when — when the outlaws came. I — I still can’t bear to speak of it.”
She turned to face Quinn before laying her face on his shoulder, where she expertly feigned tears. Or maybe they were real. He had no idea how she felt about the idea of posing as his wife.
Nails scratched at the door, and Notion whined to join them. Quinn let the dog inside, before he raised a ruckus. Once in, the animal sat beside his mistress and nosed her hand for a pat.
“If you don’t mind, Max, Mrs. Ryan and I would like some privacy.”
“I imagine so.” He started gathering his clothes and personal items. “Dang, Quinn, that’s a hell of a black eye.”
He glanced at Anna, who busily studied some spot near the ceiling. Then for Max’s benefit, he shrugged. “Fell off my horse when I was shot. It’s looking better now.”
Seeming to accept that, Max continued. “Folks is sure gonna be surprised to hear that you got married.”
Once again, Anna added to their story before he could think of what to say. “Please, Max. I — I haven’t been a widow long, and I’m a little worried about what Joe’s people might say if they hear before I tell them. Do you think it would be too much to ask for you to wait a bit before you mention me to anybody?”
“We’d be much obliged,” Quinn added, grateful for her quick thinking.
Max’s gaze slid uneasily from one of them to the other, then settled on Anna for several silent beats.
Anna flashed Max a dazzling smile. “I hate putting you to all this trouble. I’ll tell you what. As soon as we’re settled in, I insist you come for dinner. I’ll even bake my specialty, apple pie, to celebrate.”
Max grinned back at her. “I’ll look forward to it, ma’am, and until you give the word, my lips are sealed.”
Quinn shook Max’s hand before he left. The door closed and they heard him step off the porch.
“That ought to buy us maybe two days’ silence,” Quinn said, “if we’re lucky.”
“Two days will have to be enough for this charade, then,” Anna told him, “because I’ve never baked an apple pie in all my life.”
* * *
The typewriter was the only thing of value that remained to Horace. Tomorrow, he would have to sell the horse and saddle to settle up accounts with the doctor and the undertaker, but still, he refused to part with the gleaming, black contraption. Plenty of times, he’d been tempted to trade the Remington to buy more blankets or perhaps a better stove, comforts to help ease his father’s passing. But neither buffalo robes nor the finest radiator would have kept Papa alive, and now Horace was glad to have the machine’s noisy, plinking keys for company. Glad especially to have the gift of seeing Papa’s story neatly typed.
Horace reread the pages by the light of a kerosene lamp. He should put it out and save the last few drops of fuel. Behind him, the moon had risen high in the single, dirt-grimed window, and he needed desperately to sleep. But fatigue had pushed him past the point of caring whether the kerosene ran out now or the next time he needed light. Instead, the article he’d spent his evening writing held his full attention.
Despite the chill of the bunkhouse, a measure of internal warmth expanded as he read his work. He knew it was good. Well-written, clear, and utterly damning, his account of the acts that had driven Papa to his grave would ruin Cameron once it was set in print. For although the U.S. marshal had ignored his telegram, the editor of the Territorial Gazette had not. Instead, he’d offered Horace his first freelance assignment and the hint that he might be inclined to permanently hire such an “intrepid young reporter.”
Horace didn’t feel intrepid; he felt sick. Sick with grief for Papa, whose husk lay sheltered only by a thin-walled coffin in the cold, cold ground. Sick with anger at Cameron and with himself, for waiting until it was too late to fight in earnest. But mostly sick with fatigue, which made him feel so brittle that he might snap to pieces like loose fingers of tree bark.
He would post his article right away, before his anger faded. No, he could be honest with himself, at least. He had to do it before his fear awakened, before he found some excuse to go on as he had. Keeping to his safe and stagnant job as county clerk, living the bare
bones of a life from Cameron’s scrap heap.
A shadow played across the paper from something framed by the ill-fitting window. He turned his head enough to catch movement in the corner of his eye. But thick dirt hazed the figure, and he was left with nothing but an impression of its bulk.
A horse. It could be his horse, escaped from its broken-down enclosure and hungry for an extra measure of grain.
After putting out the lamp, he grabbed a jacket and headed for the door. If his mare ran off, he’d have the devil’s own time catching her without another horse to ride. Best to lure her now with the dregs of the remaining oats before she gave up and grazed elsewhere.
He lifted the latch to go outside, but strange sounds stopped him. First a scraping, then loud crackling just outside the old bunkhouse’s only door. In a moment, he smelled smoke, and he realized a fire was burning just outside. He cracked open the door, where flames blazed high and hungry, curling right up past the lintel toward the roof. As he slammed the door against the heat and smoke, his mind struggled to make sense of what was happening, to process the barrel that had been shoved against the door and lit, to comprehend the fact that someone meant to do this; someone meant for him to die. Before he could react, to shout or run toward the window to escape, the glass exploded inward and some fiery missile landed near his feet. As it shattered, liquid flame splashed across the floor and licked his pant legs, caught and fed upon the blankets on his bed. And on the pile of papers next to his typewriter.
“No!” He couldn’t let the story burn, couldn’t let it go! He reached for the papers, only to see them curling, blackening, with thin, glowing ribbons at the outsides. Gone — destroyed, as he would be if he did not get out now — and if he burned, Papa’s story, like the papers, would crumble into ash.
Grabbing up the typewriter, he held it to his chest and faced the window. The curtains his sister had sewn in a pathetic bid to add cheer blazed brilliantly. He sucked in a breath and choked on thick, kerosene-rich smoke. Choked and coughed until his watering eyes refused to open, until he dropped the typewriter and crashed down on his hands and knees.
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