Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  She snickered. “Once when I caught a flu. I got over it. And I still don’t know you. Tell me who you are.”

  Mentioning his name probably wouldn’t endear her to him, but he wasn’t looking for support or interest. He needed to get his message to Bart Quarles, his Pinkerton contact and the best lawman he ever had the privilege of working for.

  He sighed before revealing the fake truth he’d created when he took on this duty. It usually didn’t bother him, but with her, it stung like a bee’s venom in a tender area. Odd, he thought. What was it about this woman that makes me want to be honest? The gun close to his face probably had much to do with his pinch of conscience. That and she looked like the lady he wanted to share his life with.

  “I’m waiting two seconds,” she said, waving her shotgun. “Before I shoot you between the eyes.”

  She would shoot him, and everything he’d worked for this far on this case and in his life would be for nothing. He’d die undercover as Deadwood Dick, and his body would never return to his beloved land in Oklahoma. I can’t give up now, he thought. He closed his eyes and took a long inhale before answering with the name that still felt clunky on his lips. “Deadwood Dick at your service.”

  Chapter Five

  Tamar lowered her weapon and eyed the man warily. The infamous Deadwood Dick was in her office. Sure, there were several of them in the lore of the Wild West. Only one was still in circulation, or so everyone thought. The lamps in her office gave the tall man a bronze glow, which was much different from the description of the Deadwood Dick she’d heard about. “Prove yourself,” she said, barely getting the words out.

  He rocked on his heels, thumbs hooked in his coat pockets. A hint of a devil-may-care smile teased his lips and changed the shape of his face. Instead of fearsome and rugged, he looked inviting and charming. He looked like a good time and trouble wrapped up in barbed wire. Look, enjoy, but don’t touch, Tamar thought. She stared at his full lips, knowing he was saying something. His words hit her ears eventually. “Thieves don’t carry passports with stamps for all their crimes,” he said.

  “Deadwood Dick stutters,” she said evenly as she moved around the room still keeping an eye on the man. “And he is short. What are you, over six feet tall? Something’s not right.” Tamar knew her outlaws. “You aren’t him. Reveal who you are or you will be taken out of here with a bullet hole in your precious body.”

  “You know that more than one of us exists. I will not harm you.” He put his weapons on the counter where she could see them.

  “You will leave here with a hot piece of lead in your body. I need proof.”

  “Draw your shades,” he countered, leveling his gaze with hers and nodding to the windows. “And I will prove who I am to you.”

  She reached out and yanked the shades. The whirr of the shade dropping filled the office. “Done. Prove yourself.”

  Tamar saw a book sticking out of his coat pocket. “Hand me that book.” He dutifully filled her request as he deposited the book on the counter. She flipped the book over. The Bible. A thief with a holy book? Wonders never cease. She opened the cover and scanned the first page. “Amos is your real name. Amos,” she said, enjoying the crispness of the name on her tongue. The beautiful stranger had a real name. She wanted to press him for more details. Where was he from? Who were his people? What did he do? Who was he really? Was he married? Did he have children?

  All of those questions were silenced when Amos nodded and pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said with a slight embarrassment. “No one wants to be robbed by an Amos. But you can trust an Amos.”

  Tamar snickered. The man had some humor and some guts, she thought as he casually waited for her as if it was a normal and everyday endeavor for a known bank robber to stand in a newspaper office with a spinster. Maybe it was for him. But this was out of the ordinary. Her days in the office consisted of debating about bills, writing columns, arguing with the respectable members of the community who thought she pushed too hard and was too radical, and setting type.

  This was exciting, but she had a paper to put to bed. She had to put out the next week’s issue with the newest Booker T. Washington speech. Tamar moved behind the counter, swiped the money into her apron pocket, and slapped a piece of paper and stub of a pencil on the counter. “Write your message.”

  He scribbled out the message and reread it twice. “Done,” he said, extending it to her. Her hand shook as she accepted. “I’m not going to hurt you. Trust me, Tamar.”

  Jolted by his use of her name, she raised her head. Something about the way he said her name made it feel intimate. Her mind skittered around. She rarely heard a man call her anything but Miss Freeman. And this impressive man calling her by her God-given first name caused her mind to go tumbling. “You know my name,” she said with breathier softness than she desired.

  “I do. Who doesn’t know about the lady causing grief with her little newspaper?”

  She rolled her eyes. “This operation isn’t little. I have one of the largest circulations in Missouri and Kansas. I even have copies that go to the border to Oklahoma Territory.”

  “And you know my name,” Amos also-known-as-Deadwood-Dick said.

  “Yes, but who doesn’t?”

  Amos shrugged. He dropped his eyes to the roughhewn countertop and spun the pencil stub between his fingers. “Half poppycock, half-truth. Don’t believe everything you see in print,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

  Tamar watched him. She knew men who were liars, and he was doing the classic liar maneuvers of not looking her in the eye. She pressed on with her questions the way a good journalist would. “But you are a robber like Robin Hood?”

  “There’s no proof such a man ever existed. But I won’t deny you are an outlaw.”

  “I beg your pardon. What—” Tamar asked with huffing defiance, her grip on the weapon loosening. He took advantage of her righteous anger and slight pause. He grabbed the gun out of her slackened grip and spun her around in one quick maneuver. Before she knew it, her back was nestled against his hard, very hot body. She resisted, struggling against his vice-like grip.

  “Don’t fight me, Tamar. It only makes things harder,” he said in a whisper that caressed her ear. His words silenced her as the reality of his words set in.

  “What things are harder, mister?” she asked.

  “You have a lot to learn, Miss Tamar.” He laughed, a gentle chuckle that pulsed with desire and humor. “And I wish I could teach you.”

  “You are incorrigible and a thief. Let me go,” she said with a fierce determination that did not betray the part of her that wanted him to continue to hold her and press his body against hers.

  “Not yet,” he said. He rested his head on the curve of her neck and inhaled deeply before kissing the shell of her ear. “I shouldn’t do that.”

  “You should not.” Tamar faltered to find the words. One minute, the man had her bristling in anger. The next, she was wrapped in his arms, blazing with desire and want and ready to beg him for more kisses. “You are a horrible man to keep me this way.”

  “I am,” he said with a heavy, tortured sigh. He put an inch of distance between them, and she missed the tight connection they shared. “I am a bad man. Now would an outlaw allow himself to be called those things and take no retribution? You should be more careful with that counter and at whom you point your weapon.”

  Tamar thinned her lips and shook her head with vigor. “I don’t work under the threat of a gun held by any man, including you.”

  “This is not a threat. I’m preventing my own murder by merely holding your weapon. You shall receive it back when we are completed. Now will you do what I asked?”

  “I don’t help outlaws, thieves, or gamblers.”

  “Only harlots and the brokenhearted can receive your help? I am only interested in your printing press. I have no other interest in you. I am a desperate man, but not so desperate to take advantage of a woman.”

  “Y
ou and every other man in the damnable state have no interest in me,” she muttered.

  “Don’t compare me to any other man. I have a vested interest in you, Miss Tamar. Will you help me?”

  Tamar shivered. The man knew how to coat his words with honey and clover so they would be appealing and easier to swallow. “I shall do this under duress. Your ad will run in the morning, I promise.”

  He let her go, slipping his arm from around her. “Here,” he said, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket. “This is the message I need to send.”

  “This ad is nonsensical,” she said, drawing his attention away from her. “I’m still true. Still faithful. Still on the straight and narrow.”

  “Everything between lovers may not make sense.” He stilled her hand. “You’re not going to change the writing. It must run as is.”

  “No, we run what you request. You forgot one part.” She snatched a pencil and started to scribble. “Who is the lovely lady on the receiving end of this?”

  He walked to the door, pocketing her weapon. “I follow up on any promise made to me. I will be back.”

  “May I have my gun?”

  “Tomorrow or later,” he said with a nod. “We both have something to look forward to. And the woman’s name is Ada.” Then she watched him disappear into the night.

  Chapter Six

  If Tamar wasn’t so mad about losing her gun and having to do a new press run, she would have jumped the outlaw’s bones. She realized that in the early morning as she pushed out the new copies, handed them to her delivery boys, and staggered to her house. She fell into bed, still clothed in her ink-streaked gown, and had restless dreams about kissing and touching the man known as Deadwood Dick.

  “It is enough to make a woman go mad,” Tamar huffed now into the silence of the back room of the newspaper. Even after she’d woken up, her imagination had continued to work, filling in the gaps of her conversations and thoughts with images of his lips and his hands caressing her. A woman like her should not entertain any thoughts about these things. Her right mind knew that, but the desire, long trapped underneath logic and activism, had sparked to life. What am I going to do with that, and with whom? That outlaw isn’t coming back.

  A hard thump jolted Tamar out of her contemplations. She turned to see Delilah hovering in the doorway. The glowing smile her sister normally carried was replaced with a somber glower. “Lazy bones, you have a crowd awaiting your presence. They’ve been waiting for two hours. Where have you been? You usually wake up with the roosters.”

  Tamar hid her embarrassment with the drop of her head, her eyes focused on her shoes. One interaction with a handsome fugitive, and she was acting like a lovesick woman who lacked common decency and common sense. “Who has whipped up such a tizzy in my office?” she asked, brushing past her sister.

  Delilah grunted. “That man who came in yesterday. He’s been here since I opened.”

  Tamar’s heart skipped five beats. She swirled around the room, searching for the mirror. How did she look? All this concern for an outlaw, she thought, hastening to the front of the office. The delight on her face melted away when she caught a glimpse of the man waiting for her. It wasn’t the outlaw. It was the Herculean-sized Pinkerton agent with the broken heart.

  Bart nodded at her. “Good morning, miss. Clearly, I’m not who you expected.”

  “Certainly, you are.” The lie tasted like rust on her tongue. Bart wasn’t the man she was hoping for. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, although all is well here. No sign of troublesome meddlers who hate my work.”

  “Yet. The day and the week are still early.”

  “It must be horrible to see trouble and criminality at every turn.”

  “It’s my job, ma’am.” Bart slapped the day’s paper on the counter and pointed to the ad encircled in red pencil. “Just like this is my job. Who submitted this?”

  Delilah snatched the copy and read the ad aloud. “I guess Ada has her choice of suitors.”

  The man cut his eyes sharply, his fingers rolling a cigar tightly before shoving it into his mouth. “I know. I don’t take kindly to another man intruding on my affections.”

  “And unfortunately, we cannot disclose the name of the man who wrote these notes. It’s private.”

  “So it was another man,” Delilah said in a hushed voice. “You have competition.”

  “Delilah, hush.” Tamar swatted her sister on the bottom and pushed her to the desk. “She has an overactive imagination and too much time on her hands. Man or woman, I cannot tell you who wrote that. Our submitters require secrecy, and we hold that in high regard.”

  “This is a police matter.”

  “And you are not the police. Pinkertons haven’t been sworn into duty or action here in Kansas City.”

  “Ma’am, let me make this clear and polite. I need the name of the man who submitted this. Do the community a favor and take this menace to society off the streets.”

  “You assume that you know who he is.”

  “I have an idea. An outlaw charmer who has vile intentions.”

  “He is not vile. He is a gentleman. Amos. That is all I can tell you.”

  “Amos?” The large man stroked his chin. “Amos. Tell me a last name. I can have you arrested for impeding an investigation.”

  “You cannot arrest me. You have no right.”

  “I have all the right in the world.” He placed his badge on the table and leaned onto the countertop. His impressive bulk cast a shadow on her, and his silence was meant to intimidate and frighten.

  “You’ve practiced this, haven’t you?” she said, a slight smile tipping her lips. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “I am a Pinkerton, but I am still a sheriff in this state. I can create jurisdiction and cause all types of headaches for you and the smart one.”

  Tamar’s body tightened at the threat. “Leave Delilah out of this.”

  “I will,” Bart said with a steely edge. “All you have to do is give me the slip he used to write out his notice. Otherwise, your hopes for your sister to go to Howard and become an asset to the race will vanish.”

  Tamar studied the badge and the thinly veiled threat before sliding open the counter drawer. Out of the clutter popped the most recent notices. She rummaged through the drawer until she found the familiar handwriting and name. “Happy now?” she asked, slamming it on the counter.

  The man nodded in appreciation before tucking the slip into his jacket pocket. “I understand your anger. Does he visit often?”

  “No.”

  “I assume he will be back since payment was not rendered. May I leave a response to the person who wrote this?”

  “You have a tendency to do what you want.”

  Bart smiled widely, revealing a gap in his teeth. He could have been a gorgeous man if he smiled more and threatened less. “I do. I certainly do,” he said, opening his vest and placing a bullet on the desk. “This is for him.”

  “A bullet? What does this mean?” she said, picking up the object and scrutinizing it.

  “It will be the bullet that I put in him if he does not follow my wishes.” With a solemn nod, he left the building. Tamar pocketed the bullet, an icy shiver of terror running through her veins. She was now mixed up in dangerous business.

  • • •

  Amos entered the Advocate office and placed Tamar’s gun on the counter.

  “You again.” She closed her book and put it to the side before glancing at him. “If you knew better, you would stay away.”

  “If I knew better, I wouldn’t have come here at all. I came to return this to you.”

  “Thank you. I never thought I would see her again.”

  “You can’t have it until you make a promise. You won’t turn this gun on me again.”

  She nodded. “Accepted. I won’t. May I?”

  Amos passed the gun to Tamar. He avoided her question but not her gaze. He looked directly at her when he spoke this time. “Is this husband of yours comi
ng through this evening?”

  “My husband is a fiction,” Tamar said, noting how his shoulders fell, the deepness of his eyes, as they were intent on her, and his wide, pillow-soft lips. “But people will be stopping in to see me.” She maintained late hours and had few people stop in during the day—and even fewer in the evening. Her sisters were occupied, Priscilla with her husband and Delilah with her correspondence studies, and she doubted either would check up on her.

  He moved around the counter to where she stood. “How does this work?” he asked, pointing to the printer resting in the corner.

  “It’s temperamental at times. And this—” She hit the machine. “This is one of those nights where Old Bertha decides what she will and will not do for me.”

  “Do you mind?” he said as he headed to the printer.

  Tamar sifted through the contents of her mail, seeking one last letter to the editor. The majority of the letters were for farmers looking for field hands, and single women—the never married, widows, and divorcees—seeking a man to till the soil and warm their beds. The lonely want ads gave her a boost in revenue, and she saved those in a pile for her sister, the resident matchmaker who, thanks to her diligent efforts and love-addled brain, had created ten marriages, a few discreet clandestine relationships, one divorce, and four babies. Politics and the upliftment of the race were Tamar’s issues, always featured prominently in the issue. The biggest story thus far was her opinion on the lawlessness of the West and the men (and a few women) behind it. Checking her running total, she had four people who agreed with her and no disavowals.

  “I don’t agree with you,” he said, staring at the piece of equipment. “She is feisty, but you need to warm her up a bit.”

  Tamar puffed out an exasperated gush of air. “I guess you have practice with ornery women.”