by Jill Gregory
“Sorry, ma’am.” He grinned at her, his eyes sparkling beneath the fuzz of white-blond hair, and then dodged toward his sister to grab the rag doll she held.
“Bobby! Sally! Goodness, that’s quite enough,” the mother exclaimed as the children began to tussle over the doll. “I won’t have you children disturbing people in Mr. Doily’s store.” She snatched the doll from them both and sighed. “I think you’d best go outdoors now and wait for me. Go on—scoot.”
Their spirits not at all dampened, the children raced for the door.
“Keep an eye on your little sister,” the mother called out harriedly, and blew a strand of brown hair from her eyes.
“I do apologize,” she murmured again as the door thumped shut behind the children. “I’m Margaret Smith and I thank you for being so understanding.”
Emily hesitated only a moment. “I’m Emily Spoon. Pleased to meet you.”
“Spoon!”
She’d hoped no one would notice or comment on her name, but that was not meant to be, Emily realized with a twinge of resignation. The frog-faced man stared hard at her.
“You related to them Spoons?” he demanded.
She flushed, but managed to nod with composure. “Yes. I am.”
“Oh. Dear me.” Margaret Smith’s pale blue eyes widened. “My husband did mention something about the Spoons …”
Her voice trailed off. The warmth had faded from her pretty, heart-shaped face. She nodded quickly at Emily and turned back toward Rufus Doily. “I’ll need two dozen eggs, Rufus, and three pounds of sugar. That will be all for today.”
The older woman had turned from the counter to survey Emily curiously. “My brother Syrus, may he rest in peace, was held up by the Spoon gang once. In Missouri. Well, they never were able to prove it was the Spoon gang, nor to find the gold and jewelry that was stolen from any of the stagecoach passengers, but he was told that it was the Spoons.”
She seemed to be daring Emily to answer her.
“I’m sorry … to hear what happened to your brother,” Emily managed to say stiffly. She wished the floor would open and swallow her, but she kept her gaze steady on the woman’s sharply piercing eyes.
“We have an excellent sheriff here in Lonesome now,” the woman added, her mouth pursing. “He takes very good care of our town and all the people in it. If the Spoon gang thinks they can get away with anything, they’re sadly mistaken.”
“There is no Spoon gang anymore.” Emily’s chin lifted. “There’s only my family. My brother, Pete, my uncle, Jake, and my cousin, Lester. We’re starting over. We’re starting a cattle ranch.”
“Well, ma’am, if that’s true, how come Slim Jenks told me that Sheriff Barclay already arrested one of the gang and threw him in jail?” Rufus Doily said.
“There was a fight, but it wasn’t my brother’s fault.” Emily glanced at the two women and at the storekeeper, her spirits sinking. None of them believed her. “We all want to make Forlorn Valley our home—and to live peacefully among our neighbors,” she added doggedly.
“Hmmmph.” The gray-haired woman was still studying her thoughtfully, her head tilted to one side. All of a sudden she gave a curt nod, almost to herself, and then, to Emily’s astonishment, she fixed the girl with a smile.
“I’m Nettie Phillips, Miss Spoon. I own the boarding-house down the street.”
Emily was almost too stunned by that smile to reply, but managed to murmur, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Phillips.”
Margaret Smith was gaping at Nettie in surprise.
“Let me tell you something, Miss Spoon,” Nettie declared. “My father was a preacher. He taught me early in life that everyone deserves a second chance. So I reckon that goes for outlaws too.”
“Your father … sounds like a wise man.”
“And as for you, why, I don’t suppose you were ever a part of their gang, were you, Miss Spoon?”
“No, ma’am, of course not. And please call me Emily.” She hesitated only a moment before continuing in a rush. “You should know that not everything blamed on the Spoon gang was their fault. Uncle Jake and the boys weren’t perfect and they did wrong, but they weren’t responsible for half the things people blamed on them.”
Nettie gave her another long appraising look. “Well, now, I’m sure you believe that’s true—and maybe it is. All I’m saying is that until proven otherwise, I’m prepared to give them a chance. And to give you one too. I reckon other folks in town will follow suit. It might take some time,” she stated, glancing at the young matron beside her, “but I think they will. Don’t you agree, Margaret?”
“I…I certainly believe that Miss Spoon isn’t to blame for anything the men of her family have done.” The woman spoke cautiously, as if feeling her way along a treacherous and untried path. “But you see, my husband works at the bank. His father, Hamilton Smith, owns it,” she told Emily. Her cheeks flushed. “Naturally we have strong feelings about outlaws who steal other people’s money!”
“Naturally,” Emily repeated faintly.
Margaret bit her lip. “And yet… as Nettie has said—everyone does deserve a second chance … I suppose…”
Her voice trailed off. Abruptly she turned and began gathering up her parcels. She threw Emily one quick, searching glance, murmured “Good day” in the direction of both women, and followed Rufus outside as he carried the sacks of flour and sugar to her wagon.
“Bankers and outlaws don’t usually mix,” Nettie Phillips remarked baldly. “But give it some time. The Smiths are fair people, like most everyone in Lonesome. Margaret’s mother-in-law, Bessie, is one of my dearest friends. I’ve a hunch they’ll come around. So will most folks, I reckon—so long as your menfolk abide by the law.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.” Emily felt a rush of gratitude toward this woman, the first person in Lonesome to show her any hint of welcome. “They’re finished with their old way of life. So thank you for your kindness.”
“Pshaw.” Nettie waved a veined hand in the air. “Are you planning to attend our town dance?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. I only noticed the posters today.”
“Everyone will be there. And at the box lunch social two weeks from now.” The woman waggled a finger at her. “Attending both would be a mighty good way to meet just about everyone in Forlorn Valley.”
“I’m not sure we’re ready for that yet,” Emily murmured, but Nettie shook her head.
“Think about it.” She turned back to the counter and began rummaging through the pages of Godey’s Lady’s Book. “It will go a long way toward showing that you’ve got nothing to hide, that you want to be a part of this community.”
Rufus Doily came back in and stalked behind the counter. “Anything else, Nettie?”
“Just a bolt of that nice gray silk in the window, Rufus.” She turned and winked at Emily. “I’m going to make myself a pretty new shawl to wear to the dance.”
Emily had much to think about as she waited for Rufus to cut the bolt of silk and tally up Nettie Phillips’s bill. The woman nodded to her as she left, and Emily watched her go out into the street, feeling hopeful for the first time since she’d discovered that Clint Barclay was the sheriff in Lonesome.
Maybe things would work out yet.
Despite what Clint Barclay had to say about it.
By the time the storekeeper finally got around to waiting on her and filling her order, Emily was pondering the idea of attending the town dance. It would be a perfect time to begin meeting people, showing them that the Spoons were just ordinary citizens looking to become part of the town, not hiding out, not plotting bank robberies or stage holdups or murders.
And it would also be the perfect time to show off her new dress: her very first creation. If people noticed, someone might even ask her to make a dress for them for that box lunch social in two weeks, she thought excitedly.
Especially one of those silly girls setting their cap for Clint Barclay.
How iron
ic, Emily thought, as she paid for her purchases, that the sheriff himself might play a part in boosting her plans for a dressmaking business.
“Guess I’d best carry these out to your wagon for you,” Rufus Doily grumbled as he surveyed the sacks of flour, coffee, sugar, the parcels of canned goods, cheese, dried figs, eggs, and beans.
But when she went outside with the storekeeper, clutching an armload of canned goods and a bag of penny candy, she saw that though the wagon and horses had been hitched to a post in front of the mercantile, Pete and Uncle Jake were nowhere to be seen.
“Thank you, Mr. Doily,” she murmured as the storekeeper dumped the heavy sacks in the back of the wagon.
“You’re welcome, Miss Spoon—I reckon,” the storekeeper spat the words out reluctantly, frowning as he stamped back inside.
Emily was too preoccupied by the fact that Pete and Uncle Jake were missing to even notice the cowboy who had stepped onto the boardwalk behind her and stopped short when the storekeeper spoke her name.
She deposited her bundles and shaded her eyes, peering up and down the street.
There was no sign of them.
Emily eyed Coyote Jack’s Saloon, with its boarded-up windows. Would they dare go there, after all the damage done in the fight?
Then she saw the smaller, plainer sign for the Wagon Wheel Saloon next door to the hotel and immediately headed that way.
But as she neared it, she heard quick footsteps behind her and suddenly felt someone grasp her arm. Taking her by surprise, the man pulled her clear away from the street and around the corner of the saloon before Emily could even cry out.
“How dare you!” she gasped as she faced him in the garbage-strewn alley. But the scruffy-looking cowboy with the dirty, wheat-blond hair and pale green eyes didn’t look the least bit apologetic. His lip curled as he eyed her with distaste.
“Shut up. You’re one of them Spoons, aren’t you?”
“What business is it of yours?” Emily shook free of his hold, trying to contain the fear pumping through her. “Keep your hands off me. And get out of my way!”
But as she tried to step around him and return to the boardwalk, the cowboy gave a jeering laugh and blocked her path.
“You’re prettier than your kinfolk, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t know who you think you are, mister, but you’d better let me pass!”
“Not yet, missy. Not till I’m ready.”
Emily went white with anger as he looked her over with cool insolence, his gaze lingering on her breasts.
“I’m warning you. If you don’t step aside right now, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Again, that hateful, jeering laugh, full of malice. He grabbed her again, one arm snaking around her waist, pulling her close. “You going to shoot me? Ha-ha-ha. It sure don’t look like you’re packing a gun. What’s your name, honey? I bet a pretty gal like you has a real pretty name.”
Emily struggled against him as the heavy odor of hair pomade and sweat invaded her nostrils. But squirm as she might, she couldn’t break free. “Help!” she shouted, as loudly as she could. “Hel—” But the word was cut off as he clamped a hand over her mouth and, with an oath, pushed her against the saloon wall.
“This is between you and me, Miss Spoon. I got a score to settle with one of your kinfolk. Pete Spoon interfered in my business the other night in Coyote Jack’s saloon. He stepped in between me and a certain little gal who works there and I figure I owe him.”
Terrified, Emily fought against his restraining hands, but he held her fast, his hand covering her mouth. “He even tried to steal a kiss from her. So I need to teach him a lesson. How about I steal one from you? And you tell him all about it.”
Emily kicked his shin as hard as she could and shoved against him with all her might, but he just grunted, and his grip on her tightened cruelly. “Now that wasn’t nice, missy. Don’t try to act all innocent and upset—a slut like you, trash, from a family of white-trash outlaws. Bet you’re used to kissing a lot of men. You ought to be real good at it. Let’s just see—”
He dropped his hand from her mouth, and before Emily could scream, he clamped his lips down upon hers in a wet, greasy kiss that tasted of bacon fat and onions. Revulsion pounded through her, unlike any she had ever known, even worse than when Augusta Wainscott’s weasely son, Hobart, had caught her alone in the green sitting room and tried to fondle her. She fought wildly and as he shifted his stance to keep ahold of her, Emily finally had her chance.
Her knee shot up hard between his legs, a maneuver Pete and Lester had taught her years ago, and the cowboy gave a choked scream of agony. He released her and slumped backward, rigid with a pain that made his eyes bulge and contorted his face.
Emily started to dodge past him, but his arm lunged out and snagged her wrist. “Not… so fast, you… bitch!” he panted, dragging her back.
Suddenly she sensed someone behind her—someone closing in fast. A man wrested the cowboy away from her and shoved him backward. With her heart in her throat, Emily saw it was Clint Barclay. He stepped swiftly between her and the cowboy whose face was now white with pain.
“What the hell are you doing, Jenks?” the lawman demanded in a coldly furious tone.
Danger emanated from him. But for once the anger underlying his steely control wasn’t directed at her or someone in her family. Emily couldn’t help the stab of relief that went through her, even as she rubbed at her sore lips, trying to erase the taste and wetness of the cowboy’s filthy kiss.
“I didn’t… mean nothing, Sheriff,” the man bit out. “I was just getting to know Miss Spoon here—”
“Didn’t look like the lady cared to make your acquaintance.”
“We were just having some fun—”
“That’s your idea of fun?” Clint shoved him again and the cowboy went down, sprawling in the garbage of the alley.
Clint glanced at the woman behind him. “Are you all right?”
“You ought to clean up the riffraff in this town, Sheriff,” she whispered shakily.
Humiliation was bursting through her. Once free of the Wainscott household, she’d thought she’d never again have to put up with the kind of treatment Hobart Wainscott had meted out to his mother’s servant girls. And she’d tried her best to put it out of her mind. But this pale-haired cowboy with his insulting words and nauseating lips had brought it all back to her with repugnant clarity.
She was shaken, sick to her stomach, and wanted only to get away.
The knowledge that Clint Barclay had witnessed her humiliation only made it worse. She whirled around and darted back to the planked boardwalk, her knees trembling beneath her skirt.
When she got there she saw Pete sauntering out of the Wagon Wheel, looking pleased with himself.
“Em, guess what? I just signed me and Lester up for that poker tournament on Friday. Should be a real easy way to win us some fast cash. Then we’ll celebrate at the town dance, all of us—” Pete broke off after one glance at her white face.
“Emily! What happened?”
“It’s n-nothing.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. You’re pale as a sheet. Tell me right now—did that sheriff come after you—did he give you a hard time—”
“No … no … it wasn’t anything like that.” She swallowed as she saw the cowboy—Jenks, the sheriff had called him—limp out from the alley. Clint Barclay followed close behind, his lean features hard and unreadable in the golden Colorado sunlight.
She grabbed Pete’s arm and drew him away, toward the horses and the wagon, talking rapidly to distract him. “I was worried, that’s all. I didn’t know where you were…”
If Pete knew what had happened with Jenks, he’d either break every bone in Jenks’s body or challenge him to a gunfight. And they couldn’t afford any more trouble, certainly not trouble like that.
“Didn’t Uncle Jake tell you I went over to the Wagon Wheel?” Pete shortened his long stride, matching his steps to hers. “When w
e finished loading the lumber in the rig, he said he’d just wait for you outside the mercantile.”
“He wasn’t there. That’s why … I came looking for you …” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the unsteadiness of her voice. Jenks had disappeared, but Clint Barclay remained on the boardwalk near the saloon. “I thought you might be at the Wagon Wheel… and I was worried that you’d get into some trouble,” she said hurriedly.
At that moment she spotted her uncle. “Thank heavens—there’s Uncle Jake now.”
But her relief turned to puzzlement as she saw that her uncle was coming out of the telegraph office. Pete turned to look, but he was too late to see Jake tuck a paper into his shirt pocket as he closed the door behind him.
Emily saw, though, and despite the turmoil churning through her, she wondered what he’d been doing. She couldn’t think of anyone he’d send a telegraph message to—or anyone who would send one to him …
Jake caught sight of them, lifted a gnarled hand in greeting, and headed at an easy amble toward the wagon.
“All set?” The elder Spoon glanced closely at both of them as they reached the wagon. “What’s wrong?” he asked sharply. “Emily girl, you look weaker’n a squeezed-out rag.”
“That’s what I told her,” Pete chimed in.
“It’s nothing. Uncle Jake, what were you doing at the telegraph office?”
He glanced at her from beneath his eyebrows, then shook his head. “Just jawing with the fellow who works there while I waited. Come on, it’s time we headed back.”
Emily glanced over her shoulder. Barclay hadn’t followed them to the wagon. Good. The last thing she wanted was for Uncle Jake and Pete to learn what had happened.
Pete helped her onto the seat, then jumped into the back with the lumber and supplies. As he and Jake began discussing the upcoming poker tournament, Emily scarcely heard.
She was thinking about Uncle Jake at the telegraph office. Something in his explanation didn’t ring true—he wasn’t a man who went out of his way to chat with strangers. And what about that paper he’d tucked into his pocket?
Something wasn’t right. But she forgot about the paper as the wagon rolled through town and she spotted Clint Barclay. Two women, who appeared to be mother and daughter, had waylaid him on the boardwalk. They wore large, elaborate hats, fancy-trimmed gowns, and gushing smiles.