Once an Outlaw

by Jill Gregory

  It turned out Ratlin was getting out nearly the same time—and was headed for Denver. He was looking for some men to help him and some old pards with a job. A job that involved some citizens of a town named Lonesome—and murder.

  Uncle Jake had told her how he’d tried to steer clear of Ratlin—the man was dangerous, he’d killed a guard and let another prisoner take the blame—but just before they were both released, Ratlin had cornered him and pressed him to join him and his pards. He’d said they needed some hard, experienced men, who knew how to hold up a stage and get clean away.

  Men like the Spoon gang.

  He’d promised Jake big money—and he hadn’t been willing to take no for an answer. Jake didn’t want anything to do with Ratlin or his scheme—he’d never been involved in any killing and, besides, he’d sworn to go straight for good after Aunt Ida died—but he knew that even if he forced Ratlin to back off and leave him out of it, the plan would go forward. People were going to die.

  Unless he found a way to stop it.

  Going to the law had been hard for Jake—but in this situation, with lives at stake, he’d had no choice. Reluctantly, disgustedly, he’d sought out a federal marshal after his release from prison and told him what he knew, which wasn’t much. There was nothing the marshal could do without proof or specific facts regarding the crime, things Jake didn’t know.

  He’d thought that was the end of it, but the marshal had come up with a plan. A daring plan Jake reluctantly accepted. He’d stalled on giving Ratlin an answer in prison, but now he’d let him know the answer was yes. He and Lester and Pete would pretend to go along with Ratlin and his cohorts—and all the while, they’d be working with the law, with Marshal Hoot McClain in Denver, setting a trap.

  Listening to the explanations, Emily learned that only slowly, gradually did the Spoons find out who was going to be killed, when, and why. Frank Mangley, the man behind it, wanted absolute secrecy, and they hadn’t known the exact details until only a few days before the actual holdup. At first they’d had no idea that Jenks was one of Ratlin’s old pards. They’d guessed, but hadn’t known for sure, that the Mangley women were the targets.

  The night of the fight in the saloon, Jenks had been trying to intimidate Florry Brown, after he’d let something slip to her about Carla Mangley never getting a chance to marry Sheriff Barclay, even if she caught him, because she’d be dead. Horrified, Florry had demanded to know what he meant, and Jenks had realized he had to scare her into keeping quiet. That was when Pete had stepped in and earned Jenks’s enmity—and Florry’s gratitude.

  But it had taken time and a lot of reassuring coaxing to get her to tell him what she’d heard—and it hadn’t been enough. According to the law, in order to make sure Ratlin and his pards were locked up for what they planned to do, they had to be allowed to do it, to get caught in the act.

  So the Spoons had continued to meet with Ratlin and go along with the plan. And in the end they’d learned all about how Frank Mangley had grown tired of sharing the profits of his Leadville mine with his brother’s widow and daughter. How he’d found a rich new vein, one worth five times the value of the original one—and he didn’t care to share it with his sister-in-law. He’d known that if something happened to Carla and Agnes, he’d inherit their shares of the mine. It would all be his.

  So he’d decided to kill them both in a stage holdup, making their deaths look like a random act of violence visited upon an entire stagecoach full of people—just a holdup gone bad. No one would suspect that the two women were the targets—no one would possibly suspect that the wealthy and respectable businessman who owned and operated one of Colorado’s most lucrative silver mines was involved in any way.

  Oh, yes, she’d heard all the explanations, the details. It turned out even Lester buying Carla Mangley’s box lunch had been part of their effort to set the trap. No one knew exactly when the women were going to return from Denver—and Marshal McClain needed to prepare. It was a long shot, but Jake and the boys had decided that Pete would buy Florry’s box and concentrate on getting as much information as he could from the saloon girl on the day of the social, and Lester would bid on Carla Mangley’s box and get a chance to draw her off alone. In the course of general conversation, Lester would try to get some hint from Carla as to when she and her mother were planning to return, information he could pass along to the marshal in order to get a jump on Ratlin.

  Emily remembered how Carla had made a point of asking her to tell Lester she’d be returning on Tuesday. Apparently her cousin had done his job all too well—somehow or other the girl who had everything money could buy had become infatuated with a shy, awkward outlaw who couldn’t remember his own name around a pretty woman.

  Well, I hope they’ll be very happy together, she thought grimly, as she stared into the pot of bubbling stew. And the same for Pete with his Florry.

  She, on the other hand, was determined never to trust any man again. Particularly drop-dead handsome sheriffs who wooed a girl with kisses and lovemaking in the dark, all the while hatching any number of plots behind her back, plots that involved her very own family—but no one seemed to think that should matter to her…

  The one thing she’d asked Uncle Jake to explain had been the paper she’d seen him slip into his pocket the day she’d seen him come out of the telegraph office. It turned out that had been a message from Marshal McClain—insisting that Lonesome’s sheriff, Clint Barclay, be informed of what was going on and that his help be enlisted. But Uncle Jake admitted he’d put off telling Barclay anything until the day of the box lunch social—at that point, the planned holdup was imminent and he couldn’t wait any longer.

  So Clint had known since the picnic. He’d known when he came to the ranch and dragged her into the barn and tackled her in the hayloft. He’d known when they’d made love.

  He’d been intent on distracting her that night, on preventing her from trying to follow Uncle Jake and messing up all their plans.

  Oh, how she wished she could take back that night. She wished she had fought Clint Barclay off, insisted he keep his hands to himself, shown him that she was invulnerable to his touch, his voice, his kisses…

  Instead she acted like an idiotic lovestruck fool who’d melted into him like a candle lit from both ends—given herself, heart and soul, to a man who didn’t trust her or respect her—much less love her—enough to let her in on the truth.

  Love her enough? He didn’t love her at all. He hadn’t said it, not once. He’d told her plain as day in the line shack that he had no intentions of settling down, no desire for marriage.

  Which was fine with her, because neither did she. Ever. With anyone, Emily vowed, giving the beef and vegetables and potatoes in the simmering pot one last vicious poke with the spoon.

  Her spine stiffened as she heard Uncle Jake, Pete, and Lester ride up, heard them talking to Joey out at the pump. When they stomped in, she was composed and calm, her chin notched high as she set bowls of stew around the table.

  “Smells mighty good, Emily girl.” Uncle Jake gave her a cautious smile from beneath his craggy brows as she marched to her seat beside his and sat down.

  Emily picked up her spoon and began to eat.

  “Yes, ma’am, it surely does,” Lester chimed in heartily.

  “After a hard day on the range, it’s sure good to come home to your good cooking, Sis.” Pete offered his most winning smile.

  Joey glanced from one to the other of the grown-ups at the table as a tense silence fell.

  Uncle Jake cleared his throat. “You boys going to that there party tomorrow at the Mangley place?” He had adopted Lester’s hearty tone.

  Pete and Lester said they were.

  “Emily? How about you?”

  Emily kept eating.

  “Emily—”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Oh, Sis, come on. You have to go.” Pete broke a biscuit in half. “I hear it’s going to be some fancy party—and it’s in our honor. Mrs.
Mangley thinks we’re all heroes for saving her and her daughter.” He gave a hoot of laughter. “Bet you never thought that would happen, did you?”

  “No, I can’t say that I did.” Emily continued eating her stew, not looking at him.

  “Can I go too?” Joey asked eagerly.

  “You sure can,” Uncle Jake assured him. “You and me and Emily will all go together.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “It won’t be the same if you’re not there, Emily.” Lester’s voice was low and full of misery. Sadness flickered in his eyes as he gazed at her across the table. “Besides, Carla told me especially that she wants you to come.”

  Everyone turned and stared at him—even Emily. His ruddy cheeks turned ruddier.

  “What in blazes are you looking at?” He swallowed. “I… I happened to bump into her in town this morning,” he said defensively, but he dropped his spoon on the floor and then banged his elbow on the table as he reached down to get it.

  “We only talked for a minute,” he growled.

  “A minute. Ahuh.” Pete chuckled as he swallowed a mouthful of stew. “Then how come Florry told me she saw you two spooning in the alley outside the hotel? For a lot more than a minute.”

  Jake guffawed and Joey asked what spooning was. If Lester had been pink before, he now turned scarlet.

  “Florry, eh?” Lester’s chin jutted out. He jabbed a finger at his cousin. “You should talk then. You sure are seeing a lot of her lately.”

  Pete grinned and winked at Joey. “Why shouldn’t I?” he said. “No law against spending time with a pretty woman, is there?”

  “Is that why Sheriff Barclay keeps coming to see Emily? He wants to spend time with a pretty woman too?” Joey piped up.

  Emily choked on a green bean.

  “Well, is it?” the boy persisted as Pete got up and smacked her on the back and the coughing subsided.

  “I reckon,” Uncle Jake said tautly. But Emily shook her head.

  “No, Joey, he comes by just to make a pest of himself.”

  “I thought you liked Sheriff Barclay,” the boy said. “I do. The other day, when you wouldn’t come out to talk to him, he talked to me instead. And he taught me how to whistle. All kinds of whistles. How to sound like a bird, how to whistle for a horse, how to whistle if you’re in trouble…”

  His voice trailed off as Emily’s spoon clattered into her bowl. “Tell me about school, Joey. Did you learn to spell any new words this week?”

  “She doesn’t want to talk about Sheriff Barclay, pard,” Pete told the boy.

  “Why not? He likes to talk about her. When he was teaching me to whistle, he said—” He clapped his hand over his mouth suddenly and looked at Emily. “I forgot. He wanted me to tell you something.”

  “Never mind, Joey,” she said, a smile pasted on her face. “Eat your stew. I’m not the least bit interested in hearing what he had to say.”

  “But he said it was impor-ant. Very impor-ant that I tell you. And I clean forgot,” he exclaimed in dismay. “Listen, Em-ly, he said he was sorry. Very very sorry.”

  Emily felt her stomach churning. She’d eaten the stew too quickly—she was going to be sick. “Using a child to … to … relay his stupid messages to me,” she managed to choke out. “It’s despicable.”

  For the first time since the men had come into the cabin, she looked at Uncle Jake. “I want you to tell him to stop coming here, to stop using this innocent boy to try to salve his sorry excuse for a conscience.”

  “Maybe you ought to tell him yourself, Sis,” Pete suggested. He was looking out the window, in the direction of a rider approaching the cabin. “Unless I’m mistaken the sheriff is paying you another call.”

  “Want me to get rid of him for you, Emily?” Lester offered, pushing back his chair, but Emily, to everyone’s surprise, shook her head. She rose from the table and squared her shoulders.

  “No. I’m quite capable of getting rid of him myself.”

  Her face was pale, but she wore an expression of grimmest fortitude. As her family and Joey watched, she stalked toward the rifle, grabbed it, and as Clint rode up to the front yard she marched through the parlor and out onto the porch.

  As he swung down from his horse, she saw something that made her go still as stone. Tall, dark, muscular—as gorgeous as ever in a fine blue chambray shirt and dark pants, the man coming toward her clutched a thick handful of flowers, brilliant in the falling dusk, their stems tied together with a pink ribbon.

  For a moment something fluttered happily within her, but Emily squelched it immediately. A whole meadowful of flowers wouldn’t make up for what he’d done.

  “Don’t come another step closer,” she warned, leveling the rifle at his chest.

  Clint paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing, appraising. Silhouetted against the distant mountains, he looked every inch as rugged as they did. And just as imposing. But Emily held the rifle steady.

  “These are for you,” he said evenly.

  “I don’t want them.”

  “Emily—”

  “Get off my land. You’re trespassing and I have every right to shoot you if you don’t leave—now.”

  He surveyed her, his jaw clenched. “Shoot me if you want, Emily, but I reckon I’m not leaving here until I give you these flowers.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? Don’t come another step!”

  But to her dismay, he started forward again, his blue eyes coolly fixed on her.

  “Do you think I’ll let a little thing like a rifle keep me away from you? We need to talk—”

  Emily pulled the trigger, shooting into the dirt at his feet. Surprise glinted in his eyes, but he never faltered. He merely set his jaw even tighter and kept walking. Swearing under her breath, Emily once again fired at his feet.

  “Don’t think you’re going to make me dance unless it’s with you,” Clint told her, still advancing.

  “Stop!” she gasped and leveled the rifle at his chest, but he just vaulted up the steps and took hold of it with one hand, easily wresting it from her. Never taking his eyes from her face, he set the rifle down against the porch rail and then planted himself in front of her.

  “Here.” Gently he grasped her hand and pushed the bouquet of flowers into it. She tried to pull away, but he held her easily, carefully, touching her as if she were as fragile as the blossoms he’d brought for her. He shifted closer to her as the faint shadows of nightfall crept over the land.

  “I want you to have these. Emily …”

  Clint’s voice faded. It was the first time he’d seen her since the day he and Pete and Jake had found her at Bitter Rock, and for a moment, her loveliness snatched away all the words he’d wanted to say. His breath was trapped in his lungs. Damn, she was even more beautiful than he remembered, and what he remembered had been keeping him up nights. Her midnight hair, tossed by the wind, cascaded in a riotous tumble around that delicate face, and the plain gray gown she wore only emphasized her vivid beauty. He gazed at her hungrily, longing to touch her, longing to feel her soft, slender form nestled against his. He fought the urge to catch her up in his arms and carry her into the barn, up into the hayloft, and make love to her all over again, until all the hurt and pain between them was wiped out by the passion.

  But since Jake, Pete, and Lester Spoon were all filing out onto the porch, followed by Joey, that didn’t seem like it was going to happen anytime soon.

  “Let me go!” Emily hissed at him, and wrenched out of his embrace.

  “You heard the lady.” Jake’s raspy voice filled the night. “Back off, Barclay.”

  “The hell I will.” Clint glared at all three Spoon men. “Stay out of this if you know what’s good for you.”

  “You’ll leave my sister the hell alone if you know what’s good for you,” Pete exploded.

  Clint clenched his fists and Lester and Pete both started toward him, but Emily sprang forward, getting between them.

  “That’s enough. I won’t h
ave this, do you hear me? What kind of an example are you setting for Joey?”

  All the men fell silent. Clint’s gaze searched her face and for one shattering moment her resolve faltered. She fought the urge to run to him and throw herself into his arms. Then she found her backbone again and drew herself up straight and tall.

  “Go away,” she commanded him icily. She hurled the flowers as far as she could, over the porch railing, into the grassy yard. They landed with a soft thud that made his mouth tighten.

  “And don’t come back,” she added between clenched teeth.

  With that she flung an angry look at Jake, Pete, and Lester, grabbed Joey by the shoulders, and propelled him inside the house.

  The moment the door was closed, she leaned against it, as the lump in her throat grew hard and tight, as sorrow and loneliness and despair rose in her like floodwater.

  She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t.

  She took a deep breath—and burst into tears.

  “Em-ly!” Joey ran to her and hugged her legs. “Don’t cry,” he begged.

  With an effort, she managed to swallow her sobs. She sniffled and gasped, muffling the sounds of her grief as much as possible. She didn’t want any of those men standing out there in the night to know that they’d reduced her to tears—least of all Clint Barclay.

  She took a long steadying breath and fought back one last sob. Kneeling, she put her arms around the boy watching her so anxiously.

  “I’m b-better now. There’s n-nothing to worry about.” Somehow she managed a watery smile. “Let’s clear the table and you can h-help me wash the dishes.”

  “Okay, Em-ly.” He threw his arms around her neck. “But just tell me—are you crying because you’re mad at Sheriff Clint or because he brought you those flowers?” he asked.

  Emily’s heart split in two. “Both,” she whispered desolately. Then she stood up, squared her shoulders, and blinked back a fresh batch of tears.

  The thunder of Clint Barclay’s horse pounding away from the ranch dwindled, leaving silence between the three men who remained on the porch. Jake lit a cigar, Lester threw himself glumly into the porch chair, and Pete stood scowling into the darkness.