Once an Outlaw

by Jill Gregory

  “Uncle Jake said he’d stop John Armstrong too,” the boy replied, more boldly. “And he’s a crack shot.”

  Clint threw Emily a long look, then straightened. “Glad to hear it. Looks like you’re protected from all sides, son.”

  Protected from what? Clint wondered grimly. But he didn’t want to question the child. He’d find out everything he needed to know from Emily Spoon.

  “Now that that’s settled,” she was saying, giving the boy a quick hug, “why don’t you finish feeding the chickens and let me find out what I can do for Sheriff Barclay. We want to be all finished with our work and cozy inside the cabin when the storm hits, don’t we? And Sheriff Barclay will want to be back in town.”

  “Okay, Em-ly. Clucker is prob’ly wondering where I went. G’bye, Sheriff.”

  “So long, Joey.”

  Clint waited as the boy trotted toward the barn. Joey turned and waved once, just as thunder rumbled in the distance. Clint lifted a hand with an easy smile, hiding his tension and the worry vibrating through him.

  “All right, supposing you tell me just who in hell this John Armstrong is?” he demanded as soon as Joey disappeared into the barn.

  Emily set the rifle down against the cabin door and plopped her hands on her hips. “It’s none of your business.”

  “After last night, it damn well is my business.”

  Her cheeks flushed a rosy pink. “If you were a gentleman, you wouldn’t bring up last—”

  “I’m a lawman, Emily. Never claimed to be a gentleman.” He strode right up to her, didn’t touch her, just stared down into her eyes. His voice was quiet, determined. “And when something’s wrong, it’s always my business.”

  “It’s nothing—nothing I can’t handle. We can’t handle,” she amended swiftly. Her chin lifted. “My family stands behind me on this.”

  “Look, you can barely tolerate the sight of me, and yet when you saw Armstrong in that hotel last night, you nearly knocked me over trying to keep him from spotting you. You went to … extreme lengths to make sure he didn’t recognize you,” he added dryly, noticing how those finely sculpted cheeks of her turned an even deeper pink than before. And how her lovely mouth started to tremble.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” he added softly, and the cobalt glint in his eyes made her suddenly grow warm all over.

  “Sheriff Barclay—”

  “Clint,” he interrupted. “After last night, I reckon you can call me Clint.”

  “Please stop talking about that,” Emily pleaded, desperate to change the subject. “I think it’s best if we both forget all about what happened last night. Every single part of it!”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  Her gray eyes widened and flew to his cool blue ones. Something in their glinting depths made her heart start to pound like a locomotive streaking down a greased track.

  “Tell me about Armstrong,” Clint persisted. He was desperately trying to keep his mind on business when all he wanted to do was reach out and stroke that mass of shimmering black hair. Why did she have to look so gorgeous this morning, in a plain white shirtwaist and riding skirt—she looked every bit as enticing as she had in that fancy gown last night. It was damned unfair, he decided bitterly.

  “Tell me why the sight of him spooked you like that,” he said more roughly than he intended.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Then get started.”

  “How … how did you find out… his name?” Emily couldn’t think of anything to do except stall for time. She didn’t want to tell Clint Barclay one single thing, not if she could find a way around it. “I… I’m sure I never mentioned it.”

  “No, you didn’t. But after you left last night, I tracked him down. He didn’t go far, just to Opal’s Brothel. It didn’t take long to find out who he was, but I didn’t learn much else—except that he gets rough with his women,” he added, his expression hardening.

  Emily froze at his words, her eyes pinned to his face.

  Clint continued grimly. “Apparently Armstrong was eliminated early from the poker tournament. He was in a foul temper. You don’t need to know the details,” he muttered, thinking of Lorelei and the bruises on her arms, “but I want to know what he has to do with you. And with that little boy. Is Joey your son?” he asked abruptly.

  He’d never intended to ask her that question, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. If she had a husband somewhere, or some other man in her life, he damn well wanted to know about it.

  She stared at him for a long moment during which Clint held his breath, watching conflicting emotions swirl across her exquisite face.

  “No,” she said at last, with a shake of her head. “Joey isn’t my son.”

  An odd relief gripped him. So there was no husband …

  Not that it matters, Clint thought harshly, suddenly, steeling himself as she turned, paced across the porch and back. He tried like hell not to stare at the gentle sway of her hips beneath her riding skirt.

  “Joey’s mother is my friend. A dear friend. Her name is Lissa McCoy.”

  There seemed no point in trying to keep the story a secret any longer. From the way Clint Barclay was making himself at home on her front porch, he didn’t appear to be going anywhere until she satisfied his damned lawman’s curiosity.

  “Lissa is a widow, and she worked in the boarding-house where my aunt and I used to live.” Emily took a breath. “At one point she was betrothed to John Armstrong. Then she found out what he was really like and she … she broke off their engagement.”

  A slow drizzle began—heavy gray drops plunking down upon the weeds and grass of the yard and upon the porch—striking her cheeks, dampening her shirtwaist. But Emily hardly noticed. She was seeing Lissa’s frightened, tear-streaked face that night she’d sent John Armstrong away. She was hearing Lissa tell her in a voice that throbbed with fear how Armstrong had warned her he would never let her go.

  A distant slash of lightning lit the sky. “Are you sure you want to hear all this?” she asked, glancing up. “The storm—”

  “Just tell me, Emily,” Clint replied in a voice so calm that some of the turmoil inside her began to ease. “I want to help.”

  She glanced toward the barn. There was no sign of Joey yet. He was safe and dry there, no doubt chattering to Clucker while he played a game of solitaire. She’d have to keep an eye out for him, but in the meantime she could tell Clint Barclay about Armstrong. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing. If Armstrong showed up again in Lonesome, Clint could warn her …

  The rain was falling faster. “Come inside then.” She turned abruptly, picked up the rifle, and went through the door. He followed as a harder downpour began to lash the earth.

  Never had she thought she’d invite a lawman—particularly this lawman—into her home. She suddenly didn’t know whether to treat him like a guest or an intruder.

  “Would you… like some pie—or some coffee?” she began doubtfully, but Clint shook his head. At her gesture of invitation he took a seat—choosing the armchair where Uncle Jake liked to sit.

  This isn’t right, Emily thought. He shouldn’t be here. I’ll tell him the story quickly, ask him to let me know if Armstrong comes back, and then he’ll leave.

  She slipped onto the sofa and smoothed her skirt, wondering if Clint Barclay sensed the same heat and tension between them that she did. Better not to think about that—better to just tell him what he wanted to know quickly—so he would leave.

  “From the moment Lissa ended her engagement, her entire life became a kind of hell,” she said, looking at Clint with eyes tinged with sadness. “Armstrong always had a temper—which is something those of us in the Spoon family know all about,” she added ruefully, “but Lissa had no idea that Armstrong’s temper was violent, or that it was fueled by a mean streak. He’d show up, demand to see her, and knock down anyone who tried to get in his way. He pushed me into the wall once when I wouldn’t let him inside the boardinghou
se.”

  She saw Clint’s eyes turn to chips of blue ice and continued quickly. “But he saved the worst of his violence for Lissa. He struck her on more than one occasion. Other boarders had to come to her aid, force him to leave. One day he caught her outside as she was returning from an errand—he beat her horribly. She had a black eye and bruises on her throat because he tried to choke her.” Emily’s fingers clenched around her skirt at the memory.

  “I begged her to go to the constables, tell them what was happening, but she was afraid, afraid that would anger him even more. The final straw came just before I left the boardinghouse to come west—to meet Uncle Jake and the boys.”

  A shudder ran through her. “Armstrong climbed through her bedroom window in the middle of the night, while she and Joey were both asleep. He began beating her, and Joey tried to stop him.”

  “Go on.” Clint spoke tensely.

  Emily bit her lip, forcing herself to continue. “Joey was only trying to help his mother, but Armstrong knocked Joey down, kicked him. Then began hitting him. Joey was screaming, crying—Lissa tried to pull him away, to shield him, but Armstrong was like a crazed man. He … he started to choke her—he was actually trying to kill her—and I believe he would have killed Joey too.” Emily’s own hands clenched into fists. Even the memory of that night left her shaken. “Thank heavens Mr. Dane and Mr. Puchinski, two of the other boarders, heard the commotion and broke into her room in time …”

  Her voice trailed off. “As soon as I heard the noise, I knew it was him. I grabbed Aunt Ida’s derringer—the one Uncle Jake gave her before he went on the run—and I rushed downstairs, but Armstrong was gone by the time I reached Lissa’s room. He got clean away.” She lifted her gaze to Clint’s face. “But Lissa knew—and so did I—that she and Joey would have to leave Jefferson City before he came back again.”

  “I wish I’d known about this last night.” Clint spoke in a low tone that was no less furious for all its quietness. “I’d have given a lot to get my hands on him.”

  She was startled by the anger in him, an anger clearly directed at John Armstrong.

  “There was nothing you could have done,” she pointed out wearily. “Lissa isn’t even here to accuse him of trying to kill her and—”

  “I didn’t say I’d arrest him, Emily, I said I’d like to have gotten my hands on him.”

  She stared at him as the import of his words hit her. She felt a shock at the blazing fury in his eyes. “I don’t have much use for men who hurt women,” he added shortly.

  “It’s better this way,” she said after a pause, then jumped as another flash of golden lightning streaked across the sky, followed shortly by a growl of thunder. The storm was moving closer, swooping down from the mountains. “It’s Joey who needs to be protected now. Lissa is on her way to San Francisco to find a new home for them both—somewhere where Armstrong will never find them. When she’s ready, she’ll send for him or come for him—but in the meantime, I’m keeping him safe. The last thing I want is for Joey to ever have to see John Armstrong again—or even to find out that he was right here in town last night,” she said fiercely. “Ever since that night he’s been frightened of nearly everything. Until recently, he’s barely spoken, barely smiled. He’s just starting to lose the fear. Thanks to Uncle Jake, he wants to learn how to ride, he goes to the barn himself to do the chores—you saw him—he helps me in the garden now, and we even talked about having a picnic down by the stream. That’s the first time he’s even thought about venturing so far from the cabin.”

  Suddenly she noticed that while she’d been talking the sky had turned an eerie greenish-gray The charcoal clouds roiling above were thicker and more ominous than before. The next slash of lightning brought her to her feet.

  “I need to get Joey.” A sudden knot of worry twisted through her stomach. “I’m surprised that the thunder hasn’t already frightened him into coming back—”

  “Let me.” Clint reached the door before she did. “It’s raining pretty hard already.”

  He was out the door before she could protest, sprinting across the porch, down the steps, and toward the barn. A moment later he disappeared inside and from the cabin door, Emily watched anxiously for him to come out with Joey. But he didn’t.

  She started across the porch, hugging herself, but at that moment, Clint emerged from the barn.

  “He’s not there,” he shouted.

  The knot of worry tightened and Emily raced down the steps. There was steady, drumming rain now, and it matched the hard beating of her heart as she darted toward the barn to look for herself. Clint was already circling the structure, scanning every direction, when she dashed out again, white-faced, fighting panic.

  “Joey!” she shouted into the wind. Lightning zigzagged across the sky and, involuntarily, she cringed. The bolt of thunder that followed shook her to the core.

  “Joey, where are you?” she screamed.

  “Joey!” Clint’s deep voice carried even over the rising wind. There was no sign of the little boy, not in any direction Emily looked. Had he somehow come around to the kitchen door, slipped in without her hearing him? Had he overheard them talking about John Armstrong?

  Her throat constricting, she raced around to the kitchen door. To her dismay, it was ajar. But even worse was the deck of playing cards lying beside the vegetable garden, being thrummed into the earth by the driving rain.

  Her hands flew to her throat. “Oh my God.”

  Dashing inside the cabin, she called out frantically, “Joey, where are you?”

  He’ll be in the back bedroom, she told herself as fear clawed through her. He’ll be huddled under his bed or in a corner, sobbing and terrified, because he heard you say that John Armstrong was in town.

  But Joey wasn’t in the back bedroom, or in any of the rooms in the cabin—he was nowhere to be seen.

  “I’ll check the shed,” Clint said grimly.

  Emily stood in the parlor for a moment, shock and horror washing over her. Then she rushed outside, straight to the corral, placing her hands on the split rail fence.

  “Joey!” she screamed into the wet gusting wind that swirled around her. “Joey!”

  It was there that Clint found her a moment later, unable to discern whether it was tears or just rain that streamed down her cheeks. She jumped when he seized her by the shoulders and lifted wide, panicked eyes to his face.

  “He’s gone, Clint! He must have heard us talking … oh, God, where did he go?”

  “Poor kid must have run away.” His face was taut. “Go inside. I’ll find him.”

  Find him? With terror pounding through her like an iron hammer, Emily turned toward the open Colorado wilderness, scanning the wild land in every direction, the hills and buttes and canyons, the dipping, meandering curves of the valley, the creek …

  The creek. A fresh terror filled her. She bolted toward the creek bank, but Clint caught her and swung her around.

  “I’ll go. Get inside,” he ordered. “If he isn’t down there I’ll…”

  “Don’t you dare tell me what to do!” Her voice throbbed with fear and with fury. “I’ll be damned if I’ll stay here while you go and look for him!” She shook him off and started to run once more, but he seized her again, this time by the shoulders. He spun her around and gave her a shake as rain poured down around them.

  “The storm’s only going to get worse, Emily,” he shouted over the wind. “You’re already soaked. The boy will be fine, I’ll see to that—”

  “You’ll have to hogtie me to keep me from searching for him!” she shouted back. She pushed him away. “He’s my friend’s son, he’s my responsibility! I promised Lissa I’d keep him safe!”

  Her voice cracked and unbidden tears sprang from her eyes. Furious, driven by terror, she dashed them away and gazed into Clint’s eyes, her own filled with a desperate determination. “I have to find him!”

  As the rain streamed down the brim of his hat, Clint studied the soaked, beautiful girl
before him and saw the frantic fear that gripped her. There was no way Emily Spoon would wait and pace helplessly in the cabin while he rode out looking for the boy. Arguing with her was useless. And a waste of time.

  “Then we’ll both search for him.” He grabbed her arm. “Come on!”

  But there was no sign of Joey along the creek bank, and Emily stared at the churning water in terror.

  He might not have come this way, she told herself, and realized it was a prayer. Please don’t let him have come this way.

  “He could have headed in any direction.” Clint pulled her away from the creek. “Let’s go—we’ll cover more ground on horseback.”

  “And if we split up,” Emily called out as she started at a run for the barn.

  Joey was out here in this storm, probably thinking John Armstrong knew where he was—believing that the man of his nightmares was after him.

  Why, oh why, had she spoken Armstrong’s name aloud when Joey was anywhere around? What was she thinking?

  You were thinking about Clint Barclay, that’s what, she realized with a rush of guilt. Distracted by Clint, she’d been careless and stupid. It was her fault Joey had run away. Her fault.

  My God, what if I don’t find him—what will I tell Lissa?

  The rain fell in torrents, the wind screamed in her ears, and Emily raced for the barn, every bone in her body shaking with despair.

  EROCIOUS AS A WOLF, THE STORM snarled across the foothills and tore through Beaver Rock. The wind and sideways-slashing rain drowned out Emily’s voice as over and over she called Joey’s name. She didn’t know the region well—she’d only ridden out this way once before with Pete—but she did recognize the steep ravines that bordered Beaver Rock, the wild and craggy trails strewn with rocks and mountain ash and brilliant purple columbine. In the midst of the storm, a savage beauty gripped this wild stretch of the foothills, but she saw nothing of the rain-drenched wild roses or bluebells, of the beauty of white fir trees or snowberry shrubs trembling in the wind. She saw only the driving rain, the harsh and treacherous hills, the dangerous ravines, where a little boy could be roaming, dwarfed by the huge rocks, terrified and alone on those slippery slopes…