Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  “I lived off your charity.” She turned to go.

  He grabbed her by the arm. “That’s different.”

  “How is it different?” she expelled in exasperation.

  He shrugged. “You were a witness. I had a responsibility to look after you—keep you safe.”

  Something sank in the pit of her belly. “In other words, you didn’t want me there.” She sucked in a calming breath, realizing her voice was rising. The guests around them were beginning to stare. “You did it out of duty. Perhaps I should be grateful you didn’t marry me out of duty as well, like you did Heather.”

  He went perfectly still.

  She wished she could call the words back. But it was too late. If she were to explain herself, he might think she expected an offer of marriage—or worse, that she was a lovesick fool.

  His gaze narrowed. “Yes, you should be grateful. Because if I had married you, I’d march you home right now and wipe that sassy look off your face.”

  “I don’t doubt it at all,” she whispered back fiercely. “Since that’s your usual way of handling things—with violence.”

  “That wasn’t what I had in mind.” He crooked one dark brow. “But in my experience, a cold woodshed never tamed a woman like a warm bed.”

  She opened her mouth, but had no air to reply.

  Even if she could, it was too late.

  He was gone—striding across the room without looking back.

  “Oh my, he looks fit to be tied.” Mrs. Beaton hustled up beside her. “I hope my pressuring you to dance had nothing to do with it?”

  “No.” Christie said, finally finding her voice albeit a little squeaky. “I fear he’s angry with me.”

  “Angry with you?” Mrs. Beaton scoffed. “Whatever for?”

  Christie sighed. “I wouldn’t accept his money.” Of course there were other reasons, too delicate and private to mention. “I fear I’ve insulted him.”

  “Money!” Mrs. Beaton gave a depreciative wave with her fan. “Why didn’t you say so? My land! Mr. Beaton and I have scads of it. How much do you need?”

  Christie couldn’t help but smile at her ingenuous disclosure. However, it couldn’t detract from her embarrassment, finding herself financially deficient in a glittering room full of San Francisco’s elite. Her first instinct was to put the idea aside. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly take your money. The robbery has left me short, that’s all.” No need for Mrs. Beaton to know her own cousin had taken the money right from under her nose. “I’m certain I have enough to get by until I wire father.”

  “Nonsense!” Mrs. Beaton’s voice rose to soprano. “Of course you can. You saved my life. It’s the least Mr. Beaton and I can do.”

  “Well … it would only be a loan.” Christie hated to accept a dime, but what else could she do. “My father will reimburse you as soon as I get home.”

  “Don’t give it another thought.”

  “I must insist. I couldn’t take it unless you agree.”

  ”Very well.” Mrs. Beaton winked. “You drive a hard bargain. But if that’s what you want, that’s what it shall be.”

  Christie smiled in relief. “Thank you.”

  “My only condition is that you stay and visit us for a few days—unless you object to spending time with an old relic like me.” Mrs. Beaton’s eyes twinkled with devilment. “I’m not nearly as bossy as Mr. Beaton would have you believe.”

  “No, I mean, yes, that would be delightful.”

  “Bossy!” Mr. Beaton poked his head between them. “Of course she is. How do you think she contrived a crowd like this on such short notice?”

  • • •

  Mrs. Beaton’s offer turned out to be the answer to Christie’s prayers. She scribbled a brief letter to Leigh explaining her whereabouts, and a man was dispatched to fetch her trunk that very night.

  The Beatons made it their business to make her feel right at home. Mrs. Beaton pampered her beyond repair, assigning her personal maid, Gerta, to attend to Christie’s every whim in her large airy bedchamber on the second floor of their stately red brick mansion. The plush carpet rose as thick as summer grass beneath her feet. The eiderdown on the enormous canopy bed felt so light and fluffy, she might have been sleeping under a cloud.

  In truth, she was so tired at the end of each day it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d burrowed under a pile of leaves. Mrs. Beaton possessed a tireless constitution. She packed each day with events—shopping, luncheons, the theatre. Before Christie knew it, a few days had turned into weeks.

  “Miss Wallace will be badly in need of a holiday from you before long,” Mr. Beaton declared over breakfast one morning. “Give the poor girl some slack. What makes you think she wants to be dragged to every dog and pony show in the city?”

  Mrs. Beaton pierced him with a long glare from the other end of the impeccably decked mahogany table. “Don’t be such a miserable old fart.”

  “Did you hear that?” Mr. Beaton inquired in mock-grave tones. “How many husbands have to swallow that with their tea and toast?”

  “Really, I don’t mind,” Christie said. “I’m having a lovely time.”

  Mrs. Beaton’s laughter burbled like a fountain. “There! You see. Now where was I, yes, dinner at eight as usual. Be home early to change, my dear. The Gilberts and the Nasmiths are coming. And someone else, but I can’t think who … ”

  “Mr. Randall?” Mr. Beaton announced.

  Christie choked on her wine.

  “Ah, yes,” Mr. Beaton lifted his head from wiping his whiskered lips on his linen napkin. “He won’t be able to make it I’m afraid. Sends his regards however.”

  Her heart sank.

  “What a shame!” Mrs. Beaton declared with feeling. “We shall be uneven now. But I suppose he’s still after that Everett outlaw.”

  Christie hadn’t set eyes on Nat since the ball, but had assumed from brief snatches of conversation he was still in town. Not that she expected to see him, after the harsh words they’d exchanged at the Beaton’s ball. Still, it hurt that he hadn’t dropped by to ask after her welfare. Perhaps, it was for the best. If he had no tender feelings for her, it was better to cut the cord now before her feelings became further entangled.

  It had been foolish to wait—to allow the Beatons to talk her into accepting their hospitality this long.

  He wasn’t coming.

  It was silly to think that he would.

  What had she expected?

  That he might sweep in the door, drop to one knee and offer for her hand?

  It was over.

  It was time to go home.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The dinner was grand.

  The guests were grand.

  But then, Mrs. Beaton did everything in a grand manner. San Francisco was a sparkling lively place, and the Beaton’s mansion was at the center of it. But it wasn’t Dos Almas, and it wasn’t home.

  Wherever Christie looked, eyes seemed to be staring back at her, including the half eaten trout on her plate. Every face seemed to hold a secret smile. Are you waiting for him, they seemed to be saying, you poor lovesick fool?

  Perhaps she had been thinking of Nat when she dressed for dinner in the white tulle gown, when Mrs. Beaton’s maid wound her curls round her head like a crown, when she’d surrendered to him in her dreams the night before. It was hardly a crime—just plain silly. Why would he miraculously appear, after declining the Beaton’s invitation?

  It was foolish to imagine he would, but then remaining here in San Francisco these past weeks had been just as foolish. It was time to go home—back to Boston, and the people she held dear.

  The shuffling of chairs signaled the gentleman’s departure from the table.

  “Come, my dear,” Mrs. Beaton said taking her by the arm. “We’ll adjourn to the parlor. The men can have their nasty cigars.” When they reached the foyer she stopped. “Oh land! In all the excitement I forgot to tell you. Captain Jackson called this morning.” She hustled to the
half-moon table by the door. “He asked me to give you this letter.”

  Christie stared down at it with surprise. “It’s from my sister Meagan. But how did Captain Jackson come by it?”

  “He just returned from Sacramento. It seems he patronizes the same bank as you do. Isn’t that lucky?”

  “Yes very.” Christie smoothed it lovingly in her hand. Uncle Will must have forwarded it. Bless his sweet dear soul.

  “Well, I can see you’re itching to open it. Go ahead. Take it into the morning room and have a look see. You can join us later.”

  “Thank you,” Christie gushed. “I won’t be a moment.”

  “Take your time. I shan’t be starved for company. Lavinia’s tongue flaps like a sheet in the wind, and Frances, well you’ve met her. She’s bound and bent to disagree with every word. It will be my job to keep them both on the straight and narrow. But what are friends for? Join us whenever you’re ready, preferably before my eyes glaze over.”

  Christie broke the seal before reaching the morning room door. She hastened to the writing desk by the window, unfolding the parchment as she went.

  Dearest Christie,

  I must assume you did not receive my last letter, since I’ve had no reply. Doctor Turner has asked me to marry him. To you this must seem very sudden, but to me it is a natural and blissful event. Father is being very stubborn and will not give his blessing.

  I fear we must elope. When Father told me of your telegram, that you would be delayed, I knew that I must write. Not to shock you, I hope, but to seek your advice, as you have always been more successful at dealing with Father’s rages than I.

  Your loving sister,

  Meagan

  Christie dropped the parchment in her lap.

  Mrs. Beaton discovered her some time later in the very same spot. “No, no, don’t get up. They’re gone, and not a moment too soon. Frances was being particularly obstinate and disagreeable, and Lavinia hasn’t the stamina these days to put up with it, not after nursing the twins with the shingles and finding a hair in her soup. I feared I might be called upon to judge a round of fisticuffs.” Mrs. Beaton stopped to draw breath. “What is it, my dear? You look a fright.”

  Christie blinked in an attempt to clear the amazement from her brain. “My sister is threatening to elope.” Her voice sounded hollow and distant even to her own ears.

  “Is that what she wrote to tell you? No wonder you look so numb.” Mrs. Beaton took the chair next to her, folding her hands in her lap. “Gotten herself into a pickle, has she.”

  Christie raised her eyes with a start. “No! I mean, at least I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “No, absolutely not.”

  “Seventeen, didn’t you say? Hmmm, old enough to know her own mind, but too young to realize where it will take her. Who is this man she’s bent on running off with?”

  “Doctor Turner.” Christie took a long shuddering breath. “A close family friend—very close.” Her voice trailed off.

  “I assume your father has declined his consent and that’s why they’re bent on running off.”

  Christie nodded.

  “What do you suppose his reasons are?”

  “I can think of several.” The shock of the letter began to seep away. Christie drew a long fortifying breath. “They were presented to me quite clearly when I told my father I might marry him.”

  “Ohhhh, I see.” Mrs. Beaton made an effort to compose her scandalized expression. “Well, that does complicate matters. Does your sister know of your feelings for this man?”

  “I have no feelings for him,” Christie said firmly, smiling to reassure her. “I mean, I thought I did once, but I was wrong. I realized that when I came to Nevada.”

  “I should say so,” Mrs. Beaton expelled stoutly. “This Doctor Turner sounds like a proper philanderer, if you ask me—dallying with one sister after another. Thank goodness you didn’t marry him! More’s the pity for your sister Meagan.”

  “Yes.” Christie drew herself up in indignation. “Had he not kissed me, I would have never thought to extend our relationship beyond friendship. If anything, he is a very fickle man.”

  “Which makes him a very poor candidate for a husband.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Not to worry. I’m certain your sister won’t do anything rash. She’s written to you for advice, hasn’t she? That’s a good sign.”

  Christie wasn’t so certain. Meagan was prone to eruptions of spontaneous rebellion. Christie had always put it down to her being the middle child. If Meagan disagreed with their father, she thought nothing of telling him so to his face. Eloping would be the perfect way to assert her independence once and for all—in this case, with permanent and disastrous results.

  Oh!

  Why must she be so far away when Meagan needed her most? But then, if she hadn’t come west, she might be married to Robby herself right now. Coming west had saved her. Unfortunately, Meagan was in danger of making the same mistake.

  There was nothing else to be done.

  She must return home—at once.

  • • •

  Good place for an ambush—a long stretch of lonely road with just enough tree-cover to hide in.

  Cecil hunkered down over his horse trying to get warm. Waitin’ was the hardest part. With Billy gone the only thing keeping him company was his growling stomach. If that stage didn’t come along soon he was liable to eat himself from the inside out.

  This was all Flossie’s fault!

  He should have killed her when he had the chance. If it weren’t for that fancy-pants Wallace he might have. So much for her lovin’ Billy. The lying bitch! Her tears had dried real quick with a new shoulder to lean on.

  He should have killed them both. But after waitin’ for hours under Flossie’s bed upstairs in the dancehall, he’d fallen asleep. When he woke, they were goin’ at it like jackrabbits. He couldn’t pull his gun from its holster with the bedsprings bouncing off his head. One of them higher bounces must have knocked him out cold.

  By the time he regained his senses, they was gone. Not just gone from the room, but gone from the dancehall for good.

  That crack on the skull had taught him a lesson—it was a damn sight more fun in a whore’s bed than under it. Not that he’d been in too many. But with a little money he was going to change all that.

  Yes siree, he planned to do some sportin’ of his own, once that stage came along.

  It wouldn’t be easy, all by himself. Might take some shootin’—maybe killin’. But killin’ was better than starvin’ to death.

  • • •

  The jolting and swaying came to an abrupt halt—a signal they were sweeping into the next station.

  Mrs. Shanks and her sullen-faced daughter filed out of the stagecoach as soon as it stopped.

  Christie held her seat, anxious for the journey to end, yet relieved for a brief moment of clemency from the older woman’s austere stares. It seemed a woman traveling alone garnered much attention, even in this wild place. There would be much of that when she got home.

  In the meantime, hopefully her telegram would arrive in time to stall Meagan from attempting anything rash. How frustrating, to be so far from home with Meagan in peril—on the verge of making such a disastrous mistake. If only she’d returned home earlier. If only she’d known what a womanizer he was—switching his affections from one sister to another without conscience. Obviously his affections weren’t genuine.

  Christie tapped her fingers on the seat, peering under the rolled leather curtain of the stagecoach window, at the clapboard structure beyond. Only the odd streak of paint remained on the once white, two-story building. The long barn beside it looked equally bare. Nothing new here. Another hastily cobbled together building where fat, greasy steaks were slapped down in front of hungry passengers with bitter black coffee to wash it down.

  Four or five station-keepers and hostlers came rushing out to unhitch the team of six horses. The conductor and driver had already clambered do
wn. They stood by the station door conversing, while removing their buckskin gloves.

  Christie leaned her head back on the black, leather seat and closed her eyes. Perhaps this was the Shanks’ stop. Perhaps they wouldn’t come back. But then she’d be left to her own thoughts—a dangerous prospect at best. A soft sigh slipped past her lips. How she missed Mrs. Beaton’s lively chatter and her unfailing optimism—just when her own was beginning to slip.

  But that was over.

  No more fairy godmother.

  She was on her own.

  So she’d best pull up her socks.

  The click of the latch on the stagecoach door snapped her eyes open.

  She shifted to a more upright position, lifting her gaze to nod politely at the new passenger. But to her consternation, she found herself staring into the deep blue depths of a pair of familiar eyes.

  Her jaw went slack.

  Her heart banged in her chest like a giddy drum.

  Nat.

  What in the devil was he doing here?

  He settled back in the seat across from her like he owned it, tipping his grey Stetson with one knuckle, while folding his arms across his chest. A half-wry smile played about his lips. “Afternoon.” His tone came so casual and his glance so bland, he might have been speaking to a stranger.

  Christie regarded him steadily for a moment, before inquiring in an equally casual tone. “Good afternoon, Mr. Randall. What brings you here? Have you lost your horse?”

  “He’s catching up with me in Sacramento,” he drawled.

  Christie lifted a speculative brow. It was too much of a coincidence that he should board the very same stage as her to rest his tired backside. Had he come to say goodbye—see her off? Well, it was a bit too late for that. After weeks of silence, she had nothing to say.

  How had he known how to find her? He must have called at the Beatons and discovered her whereabouts. If only he’d come a week earlier. If only—oh, what was the use? If never was. Her train left tonight. Whatever might have been was lost. She couldn’t delay her departure. Meagan needed her. Her father needed her.