She could feel the heat of Nat Randall’s gaze as she followed the sheriff to the cell. But she kept on walking. When the sheriff opened the door, the smell of sweat and urine was so overpowering, she had to lift one gloved hand to her mouth to stop from gagging.
“On your feet, Hank!”
Christie’s legs grew weak.
The outlaw swaggered toward the iron bars.
Her heart pounded like a runaway horse. For a second, her mind went blank. She’d had such a brief glimpse of the outlaw’s face before he covered it with his kerchief. Was it enough to identify him? If they were brothers, it was likely they’d have similar features. What if she identified the wrong man? It might hurt the sheriff’s case.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
“Brought me dessert, did you sheriff? Well, I’m much obliged.” Hank’s gaze licked over her with hungry concentration.
Christie recognized the eyes, but not the face. This man was darker skinned with a thick black beard and full laughing lips. His wide girth and meaty hands gave him the look of a caged bear. He appeared to be favoring one arm as though recently injured. “I was holding out for that apple puddin’ you were promisin’ me, but she’ll do just fine.”
Christie let out the air she’d been holding in a soft whoosh. “It isn’t him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” She turned on her heel, trembling with relief.
“Hey! Where are you goin’, sweetheart!” The prisoner called after them. “Don’t I get a little kiss first?”
Christie fled through the open doorway on shaking limbs.
She emerged to find Nat standing by the window, his carefully controlled features blank.
Her panic eased. “It wasn’t him.” She searched his face for disappointment, but found none.
His gaze shifted past her to the sheriff. “Maybe you didn’t get as good a look at him as you thought.”
“I saw him as clearly as I’m seeing you right now,” she said with firm assurance. “I’ll never forget that face.”
“The mind’s a funny thing.” A hint of a smile touched the edge of his lips. “It can play tricks on us sometimes, especially in a situation like this.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my mind, or my eyesight!” How dare he presume to tell her what she saw! She knew what she saw, and when that man materialized she would identify him.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Wallace.” The sheriff hung the ring of keys on a hook behind his desk, then saw her to the door. “I’ll let you know if we need you again.”
She gave a curt nod before sailing past Nat. She emerged from the jailhouse gulping for air. Though her attempt at justice had failed, she felt an immediate sense of relief, as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
The orange skies had turned to indigo, sprinkled with a million glittering stars. Piano music and laughter drifted on a faint breeze. Uncle Will must be home by now, wondering where she was.
She hurried across the street, anxious to put as much distance as possible between her and the jail, all the while remembering Nat Randall’s face—his unreadable expression—the note of satisfaction in his voice. Had he known it was the wrong man all along? He knew the Everetts better than anyone. He’d have known which one he was chasing into the mercantile that day.
She stopped in her tracks.
Yet he put her through that terrifying charade for nothing. Had it been a test to see how reliable a witness she was? If she’d identified the wrong outlaw, her credibility would be ruined. Wouldn’t he love that, since he was bound and bent she wouldn’t testify.
Well of all the … It was all too clear—his impassive manner, the fact that he hadn’t tried to stop her from identifying the prisoner, as though he’d wanted to demonstrate to the sheriff how ineffectual her testimony would be.
She’d a good mind to march right back in there and tell him exactly what she thought! But she’d likely find him tipped back in his chair, laughing.
Incorrigible rascal!
Ohhhh!
And to think she’d actually feared for his safety—almost begun to mourn his passing. Well! That was the last time she’d spare an ounce of compassion for him. A man with such a dangerous mind and questionable character deserved no sympathy.
She reached the mercantile still huffing. Unfortunately there was no one to share her troubles. It was as silent as a confessional on Monday—no light upstairs, shining from the parlor window where Uncle Will usually sat in the evening to read his paper. Not a sound.
Where could he be? He’d left for the Sutton’s ranch shortly after ten. She’d expected him home for supper.
Christie hung her shawl on a hook at the back door, then walked to the small room that served as a kitchen. The chicken and dumpling stew Mrs. Tilley had made sat bubbling on top of the woodstove. Christie shoved two more sticks of cedar into the firebox then put the kettle on for tea. After she made her way upstairs to light the lamps.
Once she’d set the table, she strode to the parlor to fill the chalk pipe Uncle Will smoked after dinner. Though his worn leather armchair was empty, Christie felt cozy and secure surrounded by Aunt Cora’s pretty blue wallpaper. She barely remembered Aunt Cora, except that she was short in stature and smelled of peppermint. She must have possessed a sturdy nature as well, to have survived such rugged surroundings.
By the time Christie had eaten her supper, drank her tea, and done the washing up, her anxiety had increased.
Uncle Will was well overdue.
She wandered restlessly about the parlor, smoothing the doilies on the back of the furniture, straightening the pillows. But soon the curved, cornucopia legs of the sofa looked like leering smiles. The tick of the clock over the sideboard echoed like a heartbeat.
She had to find Leigh!
There was little hope of her locating Uncle Will alone in the dark. Chances were Leigh was down at the saloon. She hated to go against Uncle Will’s wishes, but it couldn’t be helped. Surely he’d forgive her under the circumstances. After all, it was her reputation at stake. If she chose to tarnish it to save his life, it was no one’s business but her own.
She dashed downstairs before she could change her mind.
Grabbing her shawl and bonnet, she tied the latter under her chin on the way out door. There was no need to fuss. She’d be in and out so fast, no one would even know she was there.
Her disaffection for Leigh intensified as she made her way down the deserted street, castigating him with every step she trod. When she passed Doc Richards emerging from the hotel, rather than stopping to chat, she offered him a hurried good evening and marched right on.
By the time she entered the saloon, her sense of propriety had fled along with her good humor. The clink of glass and the hum of conversation punctuated with the odd whoop of merriment barely registered. All she could think of was tearing a strip off of Leigh.
She spotted him immediately.
He lounged at the back of the room, cigar in one hand, a fist full of cards in the other. A half empty tumbler of whiskey rested at his elbow.
Flossie lay draped over his shoulder like a feathery shawl, a sensual smile curving her lips.
Christie made a beeline across the room.
She halted directly in front of him, where he couldn’t fail to notice her. “You need to come home, right away.”
The other three men at the table looked up from their cards, but Leigh barely spared her a glance. “Not on you life, darlin’. I’m winning.”
Christie clinched her fists, resisting the urge to give him a sound cuff side the head. “I’m worried about Uncle Will. He should have returned from the Sutton’s hours ago.”
“He must be having a visit,” Leigh drawled. “They probably invited him to stay on for the night.”
“But what if he isn’t staying the night?” Christie enunciated each word for the sake of clarity. “What if he has had an accident?”
“Don’t be such a
fusspot.” Leigh scowled, before returning his attention to his cards. “Sit down and have a drink. Flossie! Go and fetch us another glass.”
Flossie didn’t hear. She was staring across the room as though in a trance, cheeks flushed as pink as her frothy fan.
Christie followed the direction of her gaze to the end of the bar.
Nat Randall stood with one spurred boot balanced on the brass foot-rail, conversing with his partner Holt.
The two might have been alone in the room for all the attention they paid anyone else.
Hopefully, they were discussing how they’d apprehend the two Everetts still at large. The idea of one Everett languishing in the Murdock jail while the others roamed free was unsettling to say the least, especially if they decided to come and rescue their brother. Christie shivered at the thought.
“No thank you.” It was all she could do not to give Leigh a good shake, but what was the use? No amount of shaking would make him see reason. His liquor-soaked brain was focused on the large pot of money in the center of the table. Clearly, she was wasting her time.
She turned on her heel to leave him to his vulgar pursuits.
She had barely taken a step when a voice boomed from the door. “Where are you, Wallace? You cheatin’ son-of-a-bitch!” A dusty cowboy with scraggly brown hair hanging out from behind his dirt-crusted hat advanced across the room. His spurs jingled like a rattlesnake warning his victim. His hawk-like nose appeared overly large above the wild green eyes bulging from his face.
Christie didn’t take the time to examine him further. Her eyes fixed and held on the long barreled pistol clutched in his fist.
The ruckus around them stilled.
Then the room began to buzz, as though in anticipation of the confrontation to come.
Mr. McNally, the proprietor and bartender, stood with both hands braced on the bar. It was hard to tell whether he was getting ready to jump over it or duck under it.
Leigh held up both hands, his voice edged with panic. “Hey now! Steady, Harry! There’s no need for name calling. Why don’t you put down that gun and pull up a chair. We’ll have us a nice talk.”
“Time for talkin’s done,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “The way I see it, you got two choices. You can hand over the money you cheated me out of for that good for nothin’ mine, or you can say yourself a quick prayer.”
“Now slow down.” Leigh’s gaze shifted from the pile of money on the table then back to the barrel of the gun pointed directly at his chest. He cracked one of his slow charmer smiles. “Now, I didn’t know anything about that mine. I won it at cards, same as you. I swear to God. But, if you want your money, you’ll have to wait until this here game’s over.”
“I ain’t waitin’ upon your luck!” Harry waved his gun at the table. “Hand over my money or I’m goin’ to blow your sorry ass all over this saloon!”
Christie began to offer a silent prayer then abandoned the idea when her mind drew a blank. She had already given up pickles for Leigh, and in a fit of blasphemous panic promised to consider her father’s scheme. A night of sleepless soul searching had taken care of that. But in all fairness, she had only promised to consider it. What could she give up next—lemons?
It was unlikely that God dealt in produce. She might better ask for the strength to help Leigh out of this mess.
Her gaze flew to Nat Randall.
Chapter Five
Leigh’s face paled. His gaze shifted around the saloon, as though searching for a quick exit.
Harry’s eyes remained as hard as flint. “You salted that mine as sure as I’m standin’ here.”
“Now let’s not be too hasty,” Christie said, taking a step forward from behind Leigh’s chair. “I’m sure my cousin didn’t mean to cheat you.”
Uncle Will had told her about salting. The culprit sank a shaft then dumped a load of rich ore down it to fool the buyer. Sometimes they melted silver dollars to sprinkle by the side of the mine above the ground. My word! If Leigh had really done that—made a complete fool out of the man and stole his money, no wonder he wanted to shoot him.
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.” If only she could think of one. Leigh was always looking for a way to make a fast dollar, so it was likely the man was telling the truth. She searched her mind frantically for a plausible excuse.
The stench of sour beer and stale cigars grew stronger.
A glass clinked.
Her blood rushed in her ears.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nat Randall push himself away from the bar. He sauntered toward the table looking as calm as you please, but the hand resting on the butt of his Colt told another story.
Harry must have seen him coming. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in an awkward dance, his gaze darting nervously from Leigh to Nat.
“Killing him might make you feel a whole lot better, but it’s not going to get you what you want.” Nat positioned himself between Christie and the gun. “If I were you, I’d holster that Peacemaker and sit myself down to see how this card game ends.”
Harry lowered his gun a few inches, to eye the cash in the middle of the table. “What if he loses?”
Nat shrugged. “Then I guess you’ll have to shoot him.”
Leigh made a loud choking sound in the back of his throat.
Christie opened her mouth to protest, but Nat cut her off. “You’ll have to settle it outside though, since neither one of you will have the money to pay for the damages.”
Harry lowered his gun, then slowly dropped it back into its holster.
Christie went weak with relief.
The poker players continued their game as though nothing had happened. Harry leaned against the stout beam running up from the floor beside the table, with his arms crossed in front of his chest to wait.
Nat took Christie by the arm, spinning her toward the door.
“What are you doing?” She attempted to pull away, but his grip was too firm.
“Protecting my witness,” he said low against her ear.
“I am not your witness,” she said, biting out each word distinctly. “I’m Sheriff Brimley’s witness. I thought you didn’t want me to testify?”
“I don’t. Just the same,” he drawled. “I think it’s time you ran along home.”
“I’m not leaving without Leigh!” She jerked her arm from his grasp. The coldness in his blue eyes made her want to cringe, but she held her ground. “You have no right to tell me what to do! I’m not your witness. I’m not your anything.”
A muscle worked in the side of his cheek, drawing her attention to the half-moon scar below his lip. He looked angry enough to spit, but his tone remained calm and detached. “Suit yourself.”
His cool acceptance took her aback. She watched him walk away with a mixture of anger and uncertainty churning in her breast. For a moment she just stood there staring at his retreating back. Then she collected herself. Why did he always make her feel so childish—so foolish? It was silly to let him affect her in this way. She was a grown woman. She could make her own decisions. She didn’t need his protection.
She marched back to the table to stand behind Leigh with a protective hand on the back of his chair. Every so often her gaze strayed to the bar. Nat never looked up—never looked her way once. It was as though he’d already forgotten the confrontation, or no longer cared.
More cards were dealt.
“I’m out,” Owen, one of the Sutton Ranch hands, announced.
“Fold.” Mr. Brooker threw in his cards.
Leigh sat as somber as a judge. “Hit me again.”
The dealer smoothed his bushy red mustache with slow deliberation, then tossed a card at him.
Leigh added it to his hand. A slow triumphant smile curled his lips. “I believe my three aces beat your two jacks.” He reached for the pot with both hands. “Another game, gentlemen?”
Harry pushed away from the beam. “I’ll take that.”
“Now ho
ld on.” Leigh lifted his hands just high enough to gesture above the money. “There’s a lot more than two hundred dollars here.”
Harry’s mouth flattened. His eyes narrowed. He flexed his right hand before drawing it slowly toward the butt of his revolver.
“Give it to him,” Christie gritted against Leigh’s ear.
Leigh shot her a pained look.
“All of it, now!”
He sighed, then very slowly, lifted his hands from the money.
When Harry was gone, he turned to Christie with a broad cocky grin. “See, nothing to worry about. You best toddle on home now. Morning comes awful early and the mercantile is busy as all get out with the barn raising.”
It was all she could do not to reach over and strangle him where he sat. Instead, she sent him a look of pure disgust before turning on her heel and marching for the door. She should have taken Nat’s advice and left Leigh to fend for himself. The ungrateful lout! It was a waste of time worrying about him. He was like a cat; no matter how bad the situation, he always seemed to land on his feet.
Ridiculous!
Perhaps that was why Uncle Will never got worked up over Leigh’s wild existence—he’d witnessed Leigh emerge unscathed too many times.
Christie halted just as she reached the middle of the dark, dusty street. Uncle Will. She’d almost forgotten him. But what could she do? Perhaps Leigh was right. Perhaps he’d stayed the night at the Sutton Ranch. At any rate, she couldn’t go looking for him in the dead of night on her own.
She had little choice but to go home and pray for his safe return. She certainly wasn’t going back to the saloon to waste her time pleading with Leigh to help her.
She was through with him—at least for tonight. He’d promised to escort her to the barn dance, and she wasn’t about to let him weasel out of it.
• • •
As it turned out, Christie’s instincts were correct. Uncle Will had been in trouble, delayed by a broken axle on his supply wagon. But, thankfully, by the time she returned to the mercantile, he’d arrived home safe and sound—no thanks to Leigh—useless reprobate.
At least he didn’t attempt to wriggle out of escorting her to the dance on Saturday. In fact, he seemed to anticipate the festivities as eagerly as she did.
Loving the Lawmen Page 34