Once an Outlaw

by Jill Gregory

  “I’ve a good mind to follow that son-of-a-bitch and teach him not to pester my sister,” Pete growled.

  “Want some help?” Lester sighed. “I’ll do anything that’ll get me back in Emily’s good graces. It’s hell around here lately, with her being so silent and angry and all. I mean, Barclay wasn’t half bad during the holdup—he’s right smart, and he can sure shoot straight, but just because he plugged Jenks and got him to tell us where Emily was, he thinks he can come here anytime and make a nuisance of himself.”

  “Just what the hell does he want with her?” Pete frowned. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “What do you think he wants?” Lester exclaimed disgustedly, shaking his head.

  “I oughta horsewhip him.”

  “You reckon that’ll please Emily?” Jake’s voice sounded dry in the darkness. “It’s what she wants with him that has me worried.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Uncle Jake?”

  “Either of you boys ever notice the way she looks at him? Or the way he looks at her?”

  “No,” Pete and Lester answered in unison, sounding puzzled.

  “Well, I have.” Jake blew a smoke ring toward the sky and watched it rise and dissipate in the clear, cool air. “And I’m not a mite pleased about it. Matter of fact, it turns my stomach. But still…”

  “What are you trying to say?” Pete demanded.

  Jake’s gaze pierced each of them in turn as in the distance a coyote began to howl, followed by another, and then another. The mournful cries filled the night.

  “Either of you heard that girl crying her heart out these past few nights? Or notice how pale she looks? How sad?” he asked, sounding angry.

  “Yeah,” Pete sighed. “And I hate it. But that’s because she’s mad at us, isn’t it? And I figure she’ll get over it… sooner or later.”

  “She will, won’t she, Pa?” Lester asked sharply.

  “What she’s got, she won’t get over,” Jake muttered.

  A startled silence followed his words.

  “I was married to Ida for thirty years and she never got over it—no matter what I did, how many times I let her down, or did something that made her madder’n hell, she never got over it. She loved me, loved me till the end, till the day she died, even though I didn’t deserve it.”

  “What the hell are you saying, Uncle Jake?” Pete glared at him. “You’re not talking about Emily and… Barclay?” he asked in dawning horror. “You don’t think Emily is in love with that… that lawman?”

  Lester froze on the chair, staring at his father incredulously. “No, Pa, no, she can’t be.”

  “Hell, open your eyes. No sense pretending what’s there isn’t.”

  Pete began pacing back and forth across the porch, while Lester slumped lower in the chair. “Well, we gotta stop her. Change her mind,” Pete exclaimed.

  “Change the mind of a woman in love?” Jake gave a curt laugh. “You boys don’t know a damned thing about women. Besides,” he added slowly, looking at each of them. “Don’t you want her to be happy?” His tone was gruff. “To have a home of her own some day? A husband, children?”

  “Never thought about it much,” Pete muttered. He wanted to hit somebody. Somebody like Barclay.

  “Damn it, Pa, she sure as hell isn’t going to have those things with Barclay.”

  “Not at this rate.” Jake shook his head. “Did you see how she threw those flowers of his? And he’s so busy staring at her he can barely get the words out to apologize. Damn fool. Can’t he see that girl’s stubborn as a whole pack of mules? By the time he spits out what he needs to say and grovels enough to get her to forgive him, they’ll both be older and grayer than me—and I’ll be dead. Unless—”

  “Unless… what?” Pete asked uneasily.

  Jake Spoon took a long drag on his cigar, while both Lester and Pete stared at him.

  “Unless we give the danged fool some help.”

  “Now why would we want to do that?” Pete exploded. “Let him suffer. Let him go to hell!”

  “And what about Emily?” Lester spoke quietly. “You want her to keep suffering too?”

  Pete swallowed. He thought of his sister’s drawn face, how angry and quiet and miserable she’d been these past days. The way she’d wept in her room at night when the cabin was dark and still, a heartrending weeping no one was supposed to hear. Emily, who’d cared for Aunt Ida all alone while he and Lester had been on the run, and Jake had been in prison—Emily, who’d worked so hard to make this rough cabin into a home for them all.

  “Aw, hell.” He raked a hand through his hair and spun toward his uncle. “If it’ll make Emily happy,” he choked. “Tell us what we have to do!”

  LINT BARCLAY, YOU HAVEN’T heard a word I’ve been saying.” Nettie Phillips poked him in the arm as all around them, chattering people laughed, drank lemonade and elderberry wine, and watched the dancers doing a country jig across the Mangleys’ candlelit parlor.

  “I asked you why you don’t just go over there and ask Emily Spoon to dance,” Nettie said as the sheriff turned distracted eyes upon her.

  “Any fool can see you’re going to burst if you watch one more cowboy take her for a whirl around the floor.”

  Her words penetrated the dark hell of Clint’s thoughts. He tore his gaze from the sight of Emily dancing with Fred Baker and glowered at the frank-talking woman beside him.

  “She doesn’t want to dance with me.”

  “How do you know if you don’t ask?”

  “I did ask. Twice.” Clint’s lip curled dangerously. “She told me no. Then she danced with Homer Riley and Doc Calvin. Then she disappeared with a bunch of ladies, gabbing all the while about muffs and parasols. Then she danced with Hank Peterson and Chance Russell. She wouldn’t even talk to me.”

  “Serves you right,” Nettie told him as Agnes Mangley bustled by, making a beeline for Carla and Lester Spoon, huddled in a corner whispering to one another as if they were the only two people in the house.

  “You kept that girl in the dark, after all, when you could have saved her a lot of grief if you’d only told her what was going on. Oh, she told me about it,” she added airily at his startled glance. “Poor girl needed someone to talk to.”

  Of course, Nettie reflected, Emily hadn’t exactly confided everything to her—she hadn’t come out and said she was so in love with Clint Barclay she couldn’t see straight—only that she planned never to speak to him again—but her feelings for the sheriff were plain as day, at least in Nettie’s opinion. She hadn’t even planned on attending the Mangleys’ party until Nettie shrewdly pointed out that if she didn’t come, it would look like she was avoiding him, since the Spoon men and the sheriff were all guests of honor. Did she want to let Clint Barclay know that he could scare her away from attending parties and town functions and dances just because he would be there? Did she want the man to think he had even a thimbleful of power over where she went and what she did?

  That had done the trick and Emily had changed her mind about the party. Now the rest was up to Clint, Nettie thought, as she glanced sidelong at the handsome sheriff who had done nothing but scowl and toss back whiskey and prowl the Mangley house like a hungry, restless cougar since the moment Emily Spoon and her family arrived.

  “Men,” Nettie said pointedly. “You always think you know best for a woman, insead of letting her decide for herself. One of your more foolish and irritating traits, if you ask me. The smart ones learn from their mistakes. Why, my Lucas learned the hard way the first month we were married that…”

  Clint heard no more as Nettie rattled on—his attention was caught by the sight of Emily being brought a glass of lemonade by Cody Malone.

  Was there a man in the room she hadn’t spoken to, danced with, smiled upon—except for him? He doubted it. And he doubted his own ability to survive this night without hitting someone.

  Trouble was, she wouldn’t even give him a chance to explain or to apologize. A chance to even
hint at what was in his heart. It was driving him crazy. Feelings he hadn’t ever thought he’d feel tormented him. Jealousy, loneliness, despair. Over a woman.

  Not just any woman. The one woman he’d discovered he needed in his life was the one woman who wanted nothing to do with him.

  Well, I reckon we’ll just see about that, he decided, his jaw tightening. He didn’t give up when he was on the trail of some low-down smelly outlaw, or a gang of wily scavengers like the Monroe gang or the Barts—he wasn’t about to give up on the woman he loved.

  That he loved her Clint could no longer deny. That he wanted her in his arms and in his bed and in his heart for the rest of his life was an indisputable fact.

  That he’d win her over was an iffy matter. No one he’d ever met had a temper and a will and a knack for holding a grudge like the enchantingly hot-tempered Miss Emily Spoon.

  As if she felt his gaze burning into her, Emily looked up at that moment, across the room, and directly into his eyes.

  But as he excused himself from Nettie and started purposefully across the room toward her, she turned away and immediately disappeared behind a knot of people.

  Clint walked faster, his eyes searching the crowd, and all the while he was completely unaware that he was the object of much attention and conjecture by several other guests at the party.

  Hamilton Smith and Hoss Fleagle watched open-mouthed as Clint approached the Spoon girl yet again.

  “You see what I see, Ham?” Hoss shook his head in disbelief.

  “You mean the way Clint keeps looking at that gal? And chasing after her?” Ham sighed over the rim of his crystal goblet filled with elderberry wine. “Mighty sad sight. All these women in town hankering to get him to pop the question, and the one girl he’s trying to talk to keeps dodging him like he was a cow pie in a basket of cookies.”

  “If I ever look that lovesick, shoot me and put me out of my misery,” Hoss exclaimed.

  And Doc Calvin happened by just then and added his two cents: “Clint’s a goner,” he muttered sadly.

  Several of the other townspeople had taken note of the sheriff’s apparently doomed fascination with Emily Spoon as well, but many of the citizens of Lonesome had not even noticed—another development had commanded their full attention. The Spoon boys had suddenly replaced the sheriff as objects of adoration and potential matrimony among the single women of Lonesome. Thanks to their efforts to thwart the plot against the Mangleys, and incidentally saving the lives of Hamilton and Bessie Smith as well, Pete and Lester Spoon were no longer considered outlaws but were hailed as heroes, slapped on the back, welcomed into every conversation. They were congratulated and complimented, their every utterance listened to with bated breath, applauded, repeated around the room as if it were a nugget of infinite wisdom.

  Even Jake Spoon, who stood with his hands in his pockets, hugging the wall, on the outskirts of the festivities, was eventually captured by the throng, hustled to the center of the parlor, subjected to toasts made in his honor, with Agnes Mangley extolling his courage, and every man in the room wanting to pump his hand.

  The young women who had previously had eyes only for Sheriff Barclay suddenly were swarming over Pete Spoon like honeybees over a jar of jam. And several had tried to catch Lester’s eye, in the hope he would escort them in to supper or ask them to dance. But Lester Spoon seemed mesmerized by Carla Mangley, and she by him. The most astonishing thing about the entire party was the way Agnes Mangley raised toast after toast to the Spoons, fawned over them, insisted they sit beside her, and looked upon Lester’s captivation with Carla with obvious favor.

  The outcast outlaws of the Teacup Ranch had suddenly become the darlings of Forlorn Valley society. But despite the entire town becoming wholly caught up in this phenomenon, once Pete, Lester, and Jake finally managed to escape and meet in the hallway behind the wide oak stairs, they wasted no time thinking about their new status as heroes.

  They quickly got down to business.

  “Anyone seen Emily?” Jake demanded. “She was right next to the widow Mangley when I saw her at the supper table, and she and that Margaret Smith were talking about some dress or other she wanted Emily to sew, but then she disappeared!”

  “She’s in the garden,” Pete said. “All by herself. Lester and I saw her slip out and go around back.”

  “She’s sitting right there on the swing, in the dark, no doubt mooning over Barclay,” Lester snorted. “No one’s around, so if we’re going through with this, now’s the time,” he added.

  “But where’s Joey?” Pete asked.

  Jake grinned. “In the kitchen. He and Bobby Smith swiped a plate of oatmeal cookies and they’re hiding out in the pantry eating them all.” He guffawed, despite the seriousness of what lay before them. “I told him to stay put—that I had a special job for him to do. So how’s about I go get him now—and you boys do your part?”

  “Fine by me. This is the only part of this whole damned scheme I’m going to enjoy,” Pete said with relish.

  “Me too.” Lester nodded at Tammy Sue Wells, who glided slowly by, her glance shifting from him to Pete, her hips swaying as she walked. He waited until she slipped into the dining room before continuing. “I’m still not so sure this is a good idea.”

  Jake’s deep-set eyes fixed themselves first on his son, then on his nephew. “If it works,” he said gruffly, “I’m not going to like it any more than you do. But it’s what makes Emily happy that counts.”

  Lester sighed resignedly. Pete rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment, wrestling with the strong, contradictory emotions tearing through him.

  “Oh, hell,” he said at last, taking a deep breath. “If it makes Emily happy, I’d eat a mountain of tumbleweed. So let’s quit jawing about it and just get it over with.”

  His body tensed and straightened as he spotted Clint Barclay, a cigar stuck in his mouth as he leaned against the wall of the parlor, his hard gaze scanning the crowded room, no doubt looking for Emily.

  “I want to do the honors,” Pete told Lester. “She’s my sister.”

  “I’ll flip you for the privilege,” Lester quickly countered.

  Jake pulled out a coin.

  “Heads,” Pete said. The cousins watched intently as Jake tossed the coin, caught it, and turned it over in his palm.

  “Heads,” the older man announced.

  As Lester swore under his breath, a cold smile touched Pete’s lips. His gaze shifted again to Barclay and he started forward.

  “Let’s go.”

  INT’S HURT? WHAT DO YOU MEAN he’s hurt?” Emily jumped off the swing, her heart suddenly hammering, and peered at Joey through the moonlit darkness.

  “I didn’t see him, but Uncle Jake said you should come quick—he’s in the jail—hurt bad.” The boy was nearly hopping with excitement, his little face flushed his arms waving. “Hurry, Em-ly! Uncle Jake said hurry!”

  Emily raced around the house and up the darkened street toward the jail, fear tearing through her like ripping needles. All evening Clint had been trying to approach her, trying to dance with her, and she’d been avoiding him—outright dodging him as she tried to convince herself she needed to banish him from her life for good. And now he was hurt—what if he’d been shot, what if he’d been stabbed what if he didn’t survive?

  She clutched her skirts in one hand and ran along the deserted main street, her feet flying along the boardwalk. Tinny piano music and raucous shouts came from the saloon as she flew past it toward the dim outline of the jail-house, illuminated in a silvery glow by stars and moon. She reached the building, gasping for breath, pain and fear clutching at her heart as she burst inside.

  Clint’s office was in shadow, the oil lamp turned low. At first she couldn’t see much of anything except Clint’s desk, the bookshelves, the metal bars of the cells glinting just beyond the office.

  “Clint! Uncle Jake!” Panic-stricken, she peered through the gloom. “Clint, where are you?”

  She moved
forward, stumbled over the leg of a chair, and righted herself. Then she saw him.

  He was in the jail cell—sprawled, arms akimbo, upon the cot.

  “Clint!” Running to him, her heart in her throat, Emily felt a terrible fear descend upon her. What if he was dead, what if she was too late …

  “My darling, what happened to you?” she cried in a broken whisper as she bent over his prone form.

  He groaned, stirred. He was alive.

  “Thank God,” Emily breathed. There was no blood upon his white linen shirt, no wound that she could see. Kneeling beside him, she took his hand, pressing shaking fingers to his pulse.

  That’s when she heard the jail door clank shut and a key scrape in the lock.

  She twisted around and saw Pete in the shadows, gazing at her. Lester stood just behind him.

  “Quick, he’s…” Her voice faded as she suddenly wondered why they had shut and locked the cell door. “What are you doing?” she gasped, as a horrible idea occurred to her.

  “Pete—Lester—open that door.”

  “Sorry, Sis. Can’t do that.”

  “Don’t be mad,” Lester muttered.

  She sprang up and ran to the bars, grabbing them, shaking them. “You open that door this instant. He’s hurt, he needs help, you need to go fetch Doc Calvin—”

  “He doesn’t need a doctor, Em. I just coldcocked him, that’s all.” Pete shrugged, trying not to look pleased with himself as he turned away.

  But Lester’s expression was somber. “He’ll come around soon enough, Em.” Sighing, he followed Pete to the door.

  “Where are you going? You can’t leave us here—”

  “We’ll be back for you in the morning,” her brother promised.

  “In the morning? No! Stop! What do you think you’re—” She broke off as the door slammed shut behind both of them and the next thing she knew another key scraped in another lock. The door to the office, locked from the outside.