by Jill Gregory
After losing his own parents to a murderous outlaw gang when he was nine, a gang that left him and his two brothers orphaned, he had no sympathy for those who broke the law and terrorized others. The outlaws who’d killed his parents all those years ago had never been captured and made to pay for their crime, but he’d spent his life bringing other lawless men just like them to justice. He’d worked hard trying to make the West safer. Using his gun, his wits, his fists, and his own strength, he’d dedicated himself to protecting people from the human vultures who roamed this land.
But Emily Spoon didn’t see things that way. Her loyalties were firmly entrenched with those on the wrong side of the law.
“No, Lester—don’t.” She grabbed her cousin’s arm as he finally gained his footing and tried to stagger toward the sheriff. “Just stand still a moment. Lean on me.”
“Dizzy,” he muttered. “Otherwise I’d give him what he deserves…”
Noting his glazed eyes and battered face, Emily’s stomach clenched. She threw a helpless glance at Pete, watching wrathfully from behind the bars, and then turned her frustration on Clint Barclay.
“See what you’ve done! He’s hurt!”
“If you ask me, he’s damn lucky. I could lock him up too.”
“Oh, my, aren’t you the soul of kindness.”
Barclay folded his arms across his chest. “Come back tomorrow with the money, Miss Spoon. Better yet, send your uncle instead—with the deed to the ranch.”
“Go to hell!” Pete yelled from behind bars.
“You … want to see … my pa, you’ll have to … go to him,” Lester said in a thick tone.
Clint’s dislike for both of the Spoon boys was growing by the moment. They didn’t strike him as being low-down-mean and brutal like the Duggans, or like some of the gunmen he’d encountered over the years, but they were hot-headed, arrogant, and full of themselves—and he had no patience to deal with rough young pups who needed to learn manners and respect for the law.
“Miss Spoon, allow me to get the door. It appears your cousin needs to rest a spell.”
He had to admire the way she looked at him. As if she’d skewer him alive if she could and leave his heart for the buzzards.
Miss Emily Spoon had spunk—and just as much arrogance as her brother and cousin. But she was a lot nicer to look at, he had to admit, his gaze flickering over her lush figure and that luxuriant cloud of hair. For a moment he wondered just what it would feel like to tangle his hands in those dark velvet curls that so enticingly spilled down her back and framed her face.
Or to kiss that wide, pretty mouth.
He wondered if she’d taste as good as she looked.
Whoa. Clint drew in a deep breath and dragged his thoughts back to business. This was no ordinary woman, to be admired, enjoyed, perhaps squired to a picnic or church social, he reminded himself grimly.
She was a Spoon.
But he noticed that when Lester leaned on her while they made their way to the door, it was all she could do to support him and he gritted his teeth.
“Want some help?”
“Not from you,” she returned scathingly.
Fine. She didn’t want his help, he wouldn’t offer it again. Even if her damned cousin fell flat on his face in the middle of the street.
As they brushed past him going out the door, he caught the scent of lilacs drifting past. Nice. Real nice…
But nothing that ought to make a man’s blood surge through his veins, he admonished himself, startled by his own heated reaction.
It wasn’t exactly sultry French perfume, like Estelle over in the saloon wore, or that musky, oily rose scent that enveloped most of the other saloon girls at Coyote Jack’s.
This was clean, soft, pretty. Like her, Clint realized, grimacing.
Next thing you know you’ll be following her, he thought.
But he didn’t. He stood still and watched the two of them stagger out of the jailhouse and down the boardwalk toward their horses. Lester Spoon was mighty unsteady and the girl was struggling to help him. Frowning, he wondered how they were going to make it home.
Then he reminded himself it wasn’t his job to make Lonesome a soft, welcoming place for outlaw families. Or to see they got safely back to their dens.
He stalked back into the office and slammed the door, trying to block out the memory of the distress he’d seen in Emily Spoon’s eyes when she’d spotted her brother in that cell and the way she’d fretted about her cousin.
Pete Spoon’s voice barreled at him, hard and low.
“You ever touch my sister again, Barclay—you’re going to pay.”
But before Clint could reply, his attention was drawn to the window, and what—or more precisely, who—he saw bearing down at him, headed straight from Hazel’s Millinery to his office door.
“Damn. No!” He yanked the shade down and wheeled away from the window. Little beads of sweat popped out on his brow.
“They coming back?” Pete demanded.
Clint barely heard him. All he knew was that Agnes Mangley and her daughter, Carla, were swishing up the street in yards of bustled muslin and lace and hats with bird’s nests in them.
Coming his way.
And Clint knew why.
Swearing under his breath, he sprinted toward his desk, grabbed the keys from the drawer, and rushed back to twist the lock on the office door. Hooking the key ring on his belt he dove toward the back door, ignoring the incredulous stare of Pete Spoon from behind the bars. Just in time he dodged out into the alley, faintly hearing the loud rap on his door and shrill calls of “Sheriff! Yoo-hoo! Sheriff Barclay!”
He nearly tripped over a pile of discarded trash, righted himself with an oath, and sprinted down the alley faster than a jackrabbit, making a beeline for the one place he’d be safe from any or all of the matchmaking ladies in Lonesome—the one place no respectable lady would set foot—the back door of Coyote Jack’s saloon.
MILY GRIPPED THE KNIFE TIGHTLY and hacked away at the five potatoes on the counter before her, then dumped the slices into the simmering pot of beef stew on the stove so forcefully that boiling water splattered. Behind her at the kitchen table, Uncle Jake was blowing smoke rings into the air as he and Joey played gin rummy, both of them yammering over the intricacies of the game. But she barely heard a word—her mind was too full of the image of Clint Barclay’s arrogant face.
I wish I could dump him into a pot of boiling water, she thought savagely.
From the moment she’d returned from town she’d been unable to think of anything but that horrible scene in his office.
Why didn’t I bring the rifle along, aim it at Clint Barclay’s broad chest, and order him to let Pete out of that cell?
Because then you’d have been breaking the law and he’d have tried to lock you up, a small sane voice from within admonished her, but she just scowled and wished she’d done something more useful than slapping Barclay’s face.
The man seemed invincible—nothing seemed to penetrate that cool, iron calm of his, the impression he gave of being able to handle anything that came his way. He’s solid, she thought suddenly, rock solid. She had to admit that wasn’t a bad quality in a man. But it was in a lawman, she told herself. Especially a lawman trying to drive your family out of town.
She remembered the way he’d gripped her wrist when she’d tried to slap him, remembered the heat of his touch on her skin, the strength in his grip. He’d clamped his hand around her tight enough to prevent her from slapping him twice and from jerking free, but not enough to hurt. Even angry, she reflected, frowning, he’d thought to temper his strength.
Doesn’t anything shake him up, make him lose control? she wondered. Not that she wanted him to, she told herself. But it was maddening to confront someone so in command of himself, someone who never lost his temper enough to give anyone an edge.
She, on the other hand, had the Spoon weakness for flying off the handle.
How can you criticize Uncle Jake
and Pete and Lester for their tempers, when you can’t even control your own? she thought in frustration.
“That stew smells mighty good,” Jake said from the table behind her, interrupting her thoughts, and Joey chimed in too.
“Smells mighty good,” he repeated. Then his small voice exclaimed, “Gin!”
Jake chuckled. He pushed two marbles toward the boy. “You beat me, son. Good for you. You’re a real fine card player.”
“Mr. Spoon, can we play again?”
The eagerness in Joey’s voice made her pause in the midst of chopping carrots to glance over her shoulder. Joey’s normally pinched little face had lost its tautness for once—his eyes sparkled as Jake handed over his cards and the boy carefully began to shuffle them as he’d been taught.
Oh, Lord, I hope he doesn’t teach the child to cheat, or Lissa will never forgive me, Emily thought suddenly, but aloud she merely said, “One more game, you two, and then someone needs to set the table and someone else needs to tend to the chickens.”
“Already?” Joey sighed.
“Once dinner is over and all the chores are done, you may play one more hand—if Uncle Jake agrees.”
“Do you, Uncle Jake?”
Despite her distraught state, Emily’s lips curved up in a smile. Uncle Jake. The boy was warming to her uncle nicely. Jake noticed it too, and winked at her from the table.
“You bet, son.” He took a drag on his cigar and puffed out another smoke ring. “I need a chance to win back my marbles, don’t I?”
She tossed the carrots into the stew, added a can of green beans, and gave everything a quick stir with a spoon, then slipped off to the back bedroom.
Lester was rolled up in his bunk against the far wall, eyes closed. Gently, she touched his shoulder.
“Are you all right, Lester?”
“I reckon.”
His voice sounded fuzzy.
“I’ll bring you some stew in a bit. Don’t try to get up.”
“That sheriff sure hits hard,” he muttered. “But you wait—next time I’ll be the one to knock him flat on his back.”
“There won’t be any next time,” Emily said quickly. “After tomorrow, you’d best stay away from Barclay—and that goes for Pete too. And double for Uncle Jake,” she added, as Lester pushed himself up to a sitting position.
“Did you tell Pop yet about Clint Barclay being the sheriff here?”
“No, not yet.” Emily paced around the room, her anxiety mounting again. “I’m waiting until Joey goes to bed. I don’t want him getting upset when Uncle Jake explodes.” And he would explode, she knew, her brows knitting.
“Lester.” Abruptly, she returned to her cousin’s side and gazed at him imploringly. “Promise that you’ll help when I have to keep him from riding into town and shooting Clint Barclay!”
“Pop won’t go flying off the handle.” Gingerly, he touched a finger to his swollen jaw. “Maybe he would have before. But he’s different since prison. He knows how to hold his temper better.”
Emily hoped he was right. It was true that her uncle didn’t drink liquor the way he used to, as much or as often, and his temper was steadier, less likely to erupt over small matters.
But this was no small matter.
“I hope you’re right,” she said uneasily. “But if he starts to get all riled up—especially since now Clint Barclay has locked Pete up in jail—then I expect you to pitch in and help me settle him down before he does anything foolish.”
“Don’t worry, Em, I’ll help you. Not that I wouldn’t like to see Barclay get what he has coming,” Lester added darkly.
Unexpectedly, Emily felt the sting of tears behind her eyes.
“Em, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s … nothing.”
“You can tell me,” Lester said quietly. “Come on—you hardly ever cry.”
“I’m not crying.” She blinked back the threatening tears. “It’s just that when we came here, and I saw this cabin, this land, I… I thought we’d be staying, I really did, but now …”
Lester struggled to his feet with an effort and went to her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Em, it’ll be fine. It’s not as if we have to mix much with the sheriff—or the town, either, for that matter. We’re all the way out here on our own place. We’ll get the ranch going, and everything will work out.”
But Emily was thinking also of her dressmaking business. She needed the goodwill and patronage of the women of Lonesome. She’d been counting on her knowledge of society fashions to attract their interest in the gowns she planned to sew. But if the women of Forlorn Valley feared or disliked her and her family, who would want to purchase dresses from her?
No one.
The thought frightened her. Because if she couldn’t make a go of her dressmaking business, then everything would depend on the success of the ranch. And if that failed…
She couldn’t bear to think about that—about the possibility that Pete and Lester might go back to holdups and running from the law—that they’d all be separated, and would lose this land, this chance for a fresh start. She’d wind up a servant again, toiling for another tyrannical socialite like Augusta Wainscott.
She never wanted to go back to that.
You’ll simply have to make the dressmaking a success—enough of a success to support the whole family, if necessary.
Just because the Spoons were at odds with the sheriff of Lonesome didn’t mean they had to be at odds with the entire town, she reasoned. But doubt gnawed at her.
“Don’t look so glum,” Lester pleaded. “Honest, Emily, you don’t know how bad Pete and I felt having left you and Aunt Ida to fend for yourself all those years. We want to make it up to you.”
“It wasn’t so bad, Lester,” she lied. “Not for the most part.”
For a moment her mind drifted to the Wainscott household. She could still hear Mrs. Wainscott’s thin, waspish voice, pecking at her, scolding and demanding, continuously finding fault. And she could still remember what it was like scurrying up and down the stairs with armloads of linens and towels and buckets and brooms. She could remember the smell of lemon polish and beeswax and how it felt to endlessly dust and scour and scrub and sweep—three storys, each and every day. The ache in her arms by midafternoon, the rawness of her hands.
Then caring for Aunt Ida at night.
She saw Lester watching her and, pushing the difficult memories aside, summoned a smile. “It’s over now,” she said firmly. “It’s all in the past. Lester, this is our fresh start.”
“Damn right it is.”
Emily thought of the tall handsome sheriff with those cynical storm-blue eyes. “And no one is going to ruin it for us,” she muttered.
“Em-ly?” Joey hovered in the doorway. “Uncle Jake says that in another minute the stew’s going to be all burnt up.”
Oh, Lord. Emily spun around and dashed back toward the stove, thankful she didn’t intend to earn her living in a kitchen.
Fortunately, the stew was only simmering wildly and everything tasted just fine. And after a dinner of hearty stew and thick sliced bread and warm apple pie and coffee, after she’d tidied the kitchen and tucked Joey into bed, and picked up her needle and thread to finish stitching the curtains, she waited until Lester had stretched out on the horsehair sofa, and Uncle Jake had added logs to the fire before sinking down on the armchair with a block of wood and his knife, before she told him the name of the sheriff who had locked Pete up in Lonesome’s jail. The sheriff who wanted to see the deed to their ranch.
The sheriff who wanted to drive them away from his town.
“Clint Barclay!”
Jake Spoon’s thick raspy voice sounded even thicker and raspier than ever as the name exploded from his lips.
“Naw! That… can’t be.” His brows clamped together as Emily bit her lip. “Emily girl—are you sure?”
Filled with dread, she nodded. “I didn’t know his name until today, Uncle Jake—”
“Uncle Jake!”
“He locked me up and now he’s locked up Pete! I’ll be damned if I sit here like an old woman while he goes after my family one by one!”
Lester staggered to his feet but Jake was already at the door.
It was Emily who darted after him and grabbed his sleeve.
“No, this isn’t the way. It will only—”
He whipped around to confront her and her voice trailed off at the fury in his eyes.
“Let go of me, girl.”
She almost cringed before that harsh voice. His eyes were cold, slitted, mean, so unlike the eyes of the uncle who had taken her and Pete in when they were children not yet even ten years old, and along with Aunt Ida had promised to keep them, raise them, love them as his own. This was Jake Spoon the outlaw, robber of stagecoaches. Murder shone from his eyes.
“Pop, come on now, you just stop and think. I told Emily you’d changed and she thought so too, but now—”
“Clint Barclay, Lester!” Jake snarled.
Then his gaze at last truly focused on his niece’s distraught face. He saw the tears shining in those wide eyes, the trembling in her lip, and suddenly the violence died out of him as quickly as it had sprung up. The red blinding rage receded, and he gripped the slender hand clutching at his sleeve.
“Emily, don’t look like that,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not… goin’ nowhere.”
Relief flooded her so powerfully she could barely speak. “That’s good, Uncle Jake. It’s… it’s not the way … to handle this.”
“You’re right. Lester, so’re you.” He nodded at his son, but it was Emily he smiled at. His lips almost cracked with the effort but he did.
“You said before … the sheriff wants twenty dollars to cover that fine for fighting.”
“Yes.” Emily moistened her lips. “And he’s insisting on seeing the deed to the ranch.”