Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  “What is it, Wilson?”

  “It has been … ” He took a deep breath and began again. “It has been quite an experience to serve you, sir. However, delivering this note as well as bringing Mr. Logan back here will be my last official act. I will be leaving posthaste, as young Master Pearce has done.” He bowed again and backed into the foyer.

  Aldrich sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. How could such a wonderful day go to shit so damned quickly? He shook his head. AJ could leave. Wilson could leave, too, and it didn’t matter. None of it mattered … as long as he got what he wanted in the end.

  Chapter 17

  “Did you see him? Talk to him? Is he all right?”

  Theo didn’t wait until Quincy brought the buckboard to a halt in the barnyard before she badgered him with questions. It had been three days since Eamon had left. Three days of not knowing if he’d found and killed Logan, or if Logan had killed him, and the not knowing tore her up inside. The recriminations she’d suffered after he first left had multiplied to the point where she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even hold a coherent thought in her head except for him.

  “Hold on there, Theo.” Quincy sawed on the reins and slowed the wagon down. “Let me stop first.”

  Theo backed up a couple steps and waited, although that wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted was to climb up in the seat, grab the reins from his hands, turn the buckboard around, and head back into Pearce. What she wanted … was Eamon.

  “I saw him.” Quincy jumped from his seat and started to lead the horses into the barn. “He’s … determined. Frustrated at the moment, but still very resigned to finishing what someone else started. We shared a cup of coffee at the White Palace Hotel—he’s staying there, by the way.”

  “I should go to him.” She followed him, catching every word he said over his shoulder. It wasn’t easy with the horse’s harnesses jingling and the creaking of the old wooden buckboard. “I should bring him back here with me. I should persuade him that killing Logan isn’t what he wants or needs to do.”

  Quincy stopped and turned around. Theo stopped as well and backed up a step. There was something on his face she’d never seen before—judgment. That pulled her up short. She’d never seen that look before. “You think it’s my fault he’s gone and not coming back.”

  “No, not that he’s gone, Theo. I know … I know how hard leaving must have been for him.” He took a deep breath, then unhitched the horses from the wagon. “But I also know that this is something he has to do. He’s not going to stop looking for Logan or stop calling him out. It’s a matter of honor now.”

  “Honor? How can it be honor to stand in the middle of the street and get yourself killed?” Theo threw up her hands in disgust and fear. “It’s foolishness and … ”

  “His choice, Theo,” Quincy said as he began removing the harnesses. He glanced at her as his fingers manipulated leather straps and metal buckles. “He could have stayed here on the farm and let matters rest, but what would that have done to him?” He hung up the harnesses, then grabbed a currycomb. He spoke while he worked. “Do you remember what he was like when he first came here? He rarely smiled, and when he did, it never reached his eyes. He didn’t speak very much either and he was so … unhappy. So filled with guilt, but over the weeks and months, he changed. He smiled more. He laughed. He even started singing!”

  Finished with one of the horses, Quincy led the gelding outside to the pasture behind the barn, but he never stopped speaking and his voice faded and swelled as he moved from one place to another. “You did that for him. You and Granny. The children. Marianne. I like to think even I had something to do with the change in him.” He began to groom the other horse, and once again, she lost sight of him except for his hat and feet. “I would hate to see him go back to being so unhappy, and that’s what would happen if he didn’t go after Logan. A man can’t live constantly looking over his shoulder, Theo, waiting for a bullet to end his life … or that of someone else he loves.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t go to Pearce, Theo,” he cut her off and she stiffened. He’d never spoken to her like this before either, his voice stern and commanding—the voice he used with the children sometimes. “Leave him be. I’m saying this as your friend. If you are there when he meets Logan, it’ll ruin his concentration and he’ll need every bit of it if he’s to be successful.” He paused in his actions and raised his head, his intent gaze connecting with hers. “As for him not coming back, as I recall, you told him not to.”

  Theo sat heavily on a bale of hay and plucked at her split skirt with numb fingers, her vision blurring as tears made focusing difficult. “I only said it because I didn’t want him to leave.” She wiped at her eyes, removing the wetness that never seemed to be far away, though how she had any tears left was beyond her comprehension. “I thought if he loved me like he said he did, he would stay.”

  “He does love you.” He laid the currycomb on the shelf, then sat beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders. She felt the comfort one friend had for another, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t Eamon holding her. “He has for a long time, honey, but sometimes … ” He heaved a sigh. “I know you don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t. If he loved me, how could he leave?” And with that, she buried her face against his chest and burst into the sobs she’d been holding at bay.

  • • •

  Eamon left the shot of whiskey on the table untouched, and exited the Cattleman’s Saloon through the back door. Frustration and anger made the muscles in his back and shoulders tense. Three days and he still hadn’t found Logan.

  The outlaw hadn’t sought him out either, despite the messages Eamon had left all over Pearce. Word had spread among the townspeople though, creating an almost carnival feel. Curious gazes followed him now wherever he went.

  Was that why Logan hadn’t approached him? Afraid that a confrontation would be witnessed? Was someone hiding him? Or had he left town? If anyone knew of his whereabouts, they weren’t sharing the information with him, though he supposed he understood why. No one really knew Eamon MacDermott or why he was looking for Logan.

  He untied Traveler’s reins from the post, but didn’t mount up. Instead, he led the horse down the alley between the saloon and the building next door. He’d return to the spot outside of town where he’d camped his first night, get in more practice shooting at the tin cans he’d found and set up there. He could use it. His hands were still sore and stiff from his burns, despite the healing cream Granny had repeatedly massaged into the damaged skin. Later, when the sun went down, he’d try his luck again, visiting the same brothels and saloons he’d already been to three times.

  He felt it then. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up, and his stomach churned. He drew air into his lungs, certain beyond doubt that Logan stood behind him. Logan was quite capable of shooting someone when his back was turned. The man had no scruples.

  Eamon took another deep breath, dropped Traveler’s reins, and turned slowly, his hands relaxed at his sides.

  “Heard you was lookin’ for me, MacDermott.” Logan leaned against the wall of the saloon as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but looks were deceiving. He was nervous. Eamon could hear it in his voice, see it in the tenseness of his body. Any closer and he might have smelled it, too.

  For the first time in three days, he smiled as he gave Traveler a slap on the rump, making the horse race from the alley. Once Traveler cleared the passageway, he stopped and waited, as he’d been trained to do, and Eamon focused his attention on Logan. “Just giving you the opportunity to finish what you started. A chance to try to kill me again … if I don’t kill you first.”

  “Think you’re that good, do ya? I seem to recall the last time we met, you froze. Your pistol never even cleared leather.”

  Eamon let the reminder pass, refusing to allow Logan to rattle him, his gaze intent on that damned face, the one that haunted his dreams for far
too long. He forced himself to relax his shoulders. His hand twitched though, aching to feel the solid grip of his pistol, and his heart pounded much too fast, but he was ready … to either kill Logan or meet his Maker. One way or the other, this would end. “Try me.”

  “You sure you want to die today, MacDermott? What about that sweet woman you been fuckin’?” He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “Sure wouldn’t mind gettin’ a taste o’ her m’self.”

  Anger rushed though him, and Eamon tensed as Logan’s grin widened. For that statement alone, he deserved to die, but he recognized what the outlaw was trying to do—make him lose control to the rage sweeping through him. He took a deep breath and refused to rise to the bait. He needed to remain calm and keep all his attention on his enemy. To lose focus would mean his death. “You started the fire.”

  Logan laughed but admitted nothing as he moved away from the wall and took his stance, his legs spread, his hands down at his sides, close to the holsters tied to his thighs.

  They stood not more than fifteen yards away from each other, absolutely still. A gust of wind whistled through the alley as the sun ducked behind a cloud, shrouding the passageway in gray shadows for what seemed an eternity but was truly only a moment or two. The sounds from the crowd gathering in the street dimmed to a low hum that buzzed in the background.

  Logan blinked. Eamon remembered that from the first confrontation he’d had with him. The moment before he drew his pistol on that long-ago day, he had blinked. Twice.

  He waited, his breath stuck in his lungs, muscles tense, every beat of his heart thumping in his ears. His focus narrowed until all he could see was Tell Logan. Outlaw. Murderer. Soon to be dead man.

  Logan blinked again.

  Eamon pulled his pistol from its holster and fired, but Logan was fast. The outlaw pulled his pistol from its holster and fired a split second before he did, but his speed did not equal accuracy. There was no pain—at least, not yet—although he’d been shot, the bullet piercing the muscle of his left arm.

  Logan’s eyes opened wide before he looked down at the blood blossoming from the wound in his chest. He crumpled to the ground, almost in slow motion, the surprise registering on his face becoming permanent in death.

  Eamon clamped a hand over his wound and walked toward the man lying in the dirt. He kicked the gun from his lifeless hand, and just to be certain, bent down and touched his bloody fingers to the man’s neck. No pulse. No sign of a heartbeat at all. Tell Logan was truly dead.

  He felt no elation, but a deep sense of justice filled him and the guilt he’d carried around with him for so long finally lifted. Still, his stomach churned, threatening to rid itself of the breakfast he’d had earlier. He’d never killed another man like this before. A wave of dizziness made him pitch forward a little, and he sat heavily on the ground, his arm now throbbing where Logan’s bullet had found its mark, the pain blooming as blood stained the sleeve of his shirt.

  At least he hadn’t been shot in the chest again. His heart still beat.

  With shaking hands, he took the neckerchief from his neck and tied it around his arm, using his teeth to hold one end while he tightened the knot, then rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet. He looked toward the street and the crowd of people gathered there.

  Sheriff Call moved away from the crowd and approached him. He looked at the dead man on the ground, then at Eamon as he lifted the brim of his hat with his fingertip. “Mighty fancy shootin’, MacDermott. Glad to see you’re still standin’.”

  Eamon acknowledged the statement with a nod, then said, “Make sure the bounty goes to Theodosia Danforth out at Morning Mist Farms.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll take care of it.”

  Eamon walked away, his legs a little wobbly. He edged through the crowd, turning this way and that, every bump against his arm a new experience in pain.

  Despite his suddenly dry mouth, he whistled and Traveler trotted toward him.

  “Mister, you know you’re bleeding?” A young man, perched at the top of the column that supported the second-floor balcony of the saloon, stated the obvious as Eamon grabbed Traveler’s reins. No more than twelve or thirteen, his eyes were alight with wonder at the spectacle he just witnessed—and from a great vantage point at that. “I can take you to Doc Foster’s. It isn’t far from here.” He shimmied from his post and landed on his feet. Dust plumes rose up to coat his shoes. “Might wanna do that before you fall down.”

  Eamon glanced at his arm. Despite the neckerchief, blood still oozed from the wound, soaking the cloth. Bright red droplets plinked to the dirt from his fingertips. No wonder his mouth was dry and little spots floated before his eyes. He’d lost some blood. Maybe a lot of it.

  “Lead the way, son.”

  • • •

  Hell and damnation!

  Aldrich spit in the dirt and cursed his luck, which had been with him just a little while ago when word had spread through the town that Logan and MacDermott were finally meeting, not in the middle of Main Street as he had hoped, but in an alley beside the Cattleman’s Saloon. He’d been at the sheriff’s office just down the street when an older gentleman reported what he thought was a gunfight. He and the sheriff had jostled their way through the crowd, arriving just in time to see both men draw. Logan had been a little faster, and for a moment, elation had zinged through Aldrich, but that triumph hadn’t lasted.

  Although the outlaw had fired first, he hadn’t killed MacDermott. Instead, his face still contorted in an expression of surprise, blood soaking the front of his shirt, Tell Logan lay at the sheriff’s feet, dead.

  Aldrich backed away from the crowd at the end of the alley and watched a young man lead Eamon MacDermott up the street, toward Dr. Foster’s home office. Frustration rippled through him. MacDermott, though wounded, would live to see another day.

  He swallowed his disappointment and forced himself to think of another solution. He could hire another man willing to do his dirty work and kill MacDermott, but that would take time and it was time he couldn’t afford. The need to have Theo and her farm had become all encompassing. Hell, he hardly thought of anything else now. He could lay in wait on the road to Morning Mist Farms and shoot MacDermott from the shadows. That would solve his most immediate problem, but in truth, he found pulling the trigger and shooting someone distasteful. That’s why he had kept Logan on his payroll for so long. The outlaw wasn’t squeamish at all about killing anyone, which had been one of the few things he’d liked about the man.

  A sigh escaped him as he found himself alone in the street, in the same position as before, his gaze intent on the former Marshal’s back. He hadn’t even noticed when the crowd dispersed or when Logan’s body was taken away, so lost was he in his own thoughts.

  Still, there might be a chance, a slight one, but one he had to try, while MacDermott was otherwise occupied. If he could get to Theo first, before MacDermott—

  He hurried up the street to collect his buggy … and the justice of the peace, who just happened to be on his payroll.

  • • •

  Less than an hour after the young man brought him to Doctor Foster’s home office, Eamon sported a clean, white bandage around the upper part of his arm to hide the multitude of thick, black stitches that had closed the wound and finally stopped the bleeding. The bullet had gone clean through, which, in Doctor Foster’s opinion, was better than being lodged in the muscle or bone. Eamon replaced his ruined shirt with a clean one he’d pulled from his saddlebag while Doctor Foster gave him instructions on how to care for his injury. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate it.”

  “Nice to finally meet you, MacDermott.” The doctor extended his hand after he opened the front door. “Wish it were under better circumstances.” Eamon clasped the hand he offered and shook. “Give my regards to Theo.” Doc Foster grinned, showing pearl-white teeth beneath an impressive handlebar mustache. “And the rest of her clan.”

  Eamon simply nodded as he stepped down the porch stairs, untied Traveler’
s reins from the hitching post in front of the doctor’s house, and climbed into the saddle, already feeling a pull on the stitches. If he wasn’t careful, he’d rip them out. Theo could fix it, though. Or Granny. And maybe even Gabby could learn something.

  A sigh escaped him at how easily Theo’s name came to mind, but she hadn’t been far from his thoughts at all—no matter how hard he tried. He missed her—missed all of them—but her most especially. The way sunlight played on her whiskey-colored hair, bringing out the burnished reds and golds, the way her smile lit up her entire face and made the corners of her eyes crinkle. The way she loved him.

  He nudged Traveler forward and rode west, toward the Rockies and Paradise Falls on the other side of the mountain range. He hadn’t progressed very far when he came upon a river. He dismounted and led the horse closer to the water’s edge.

  As Traveler drank, he hunkered down and picked up a small, flat rock, one of a thousand littering the bank. He threw it, making it skim across the surface of the water, but his thoughts weren’t on the rings left in the rock’s wake—they were on Theo, as they always seemed to be. What was she doing right now? Training the horses? Comforting the children, her soft touch taking away whatever ailed them? Laughing with Granny or Marianne or Quincy? Forgiving people and teaching them that their lives were worthwhile?

  “What do you think, Traveler? Did she mean it when she said don’t come back?” The horse finished drinking, then shook his head, flinging droplets of water at him. “Well, that’s no help.”

  With a sigh, he hefted himself into the saddle, careful of his wounded arm and lightly nudged the horse’s sides. Traveler didn’t move. He tugged on the reins, again lightly, and once again, Traveler remained still except for shaking his head and nickering. “What is wrong with you?”

  In answer to his question, the horse turned his head and just looked at him, his expression very much like the one Nessie wore the first time he tried to milk her so long ago, a combination of exasperation and humor.