Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  Ev studied the face and stature of each figure, marveling at the story that had come in the files that accompanied the picture. Kiera Elizabeth Alden, Boston heiress, ran away from home at age nineteen. Pinkertons followed her but had no contact at the request of Carlton Alden, her grandfather and guardian. The girl then disappeared from San Francisco where, according to the madam of a bordello, Miss Alden murdered one of the madam’s clients. Alden resurfaced in Wyoming approximately eighteen months back. Disguised as a man, she’d earned a living as a photographer’s assistant for a US government exploratory expedition of the Wyoming Territory. That’s when the second picture had been taken. Eventually her deception was discovered, and the expedition’s leader abandoned her in the mountains where Pinkertons once again lost track of her. The leader’s actions were criminal. Ev didn’t know if the man should be shot for his inhumane treatment of a woman or sheer stupidity. How anyone could imagine the youth in the photograph was male was beyond understanding.

  “You looking at those pictures of the Wildcat again?” Boyd asked. “I swear you spend as much time looking at the photographs as you do in the saddle trying to find her.”

  Quinn ignored Boyd’s jab and continued his examination of the photograph. He did a mental comparison with his memory of the Wildcat and her image in the photograph. Each was slim through the shoulders and pale skinned. Each had enchanting smiles that lit the eyes and identical delicate eyebrows. The only resemblance to the woman from the mercantile was the eyebrows. The Wildcat had a scar at her temple that didn’t show in either image. He hadn’t seen the mercantile woman’s hair color, but hadn’t needed to, once his suspicions were roused by her voice and Boyd’s comment. How many women in Wyoming would be picking up a package of silver nitrate, an essential chemical for photographic work?

  “Geezus in a dress,” cussed Quinn. “We let her get away again.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman from the mercantile is the Wildcat.”

  “The one just talking to Salter? Not possible.”

  “Boyd you said yourself she seemed familiar.”

  “And you said you didn’t know her.”

  “I didn’t. However, I recognized her voice and began to wonder. Look at these pictures and then think about that woman’s face.”

  Boyd took the photograph and gave it a long look. “Her face was shadowed by her hat, so I didn’t get a good look at her. Are you sure?”

  “I got a real close look when I bumped into her. I should have recognized her then.” Ev wasn’t about to admit that he’d been too dazzled by the woman’s green eyes to think, let alone make the connection between a rancher’s wife and a horse thief.

  He felt like a damn fool. One look into those endless green depths and he’d clean forgotten about the silver nitrate or the suspicions that prompted him to get in her way. His body had gotten hard, and his heart wondered if anyone so beautiful, delicate, and guileless could possibly be interested in a saddle bum like himself. The realization that she was anything but guileless left him feeling ill used. He shook his head at himself. What did I expect her to do? Waltz up to me, smile, and say, “Hi Marshal, I’m the Wildcat. Please arrest me.”

  “Guess we better get our horses.” The gunman man handed the photograph back to Ev and moved to the stairs leading from the porch of the mercantile.

  “Nope.”

  “No?”

  Ev tilted his head toward where Clem Salter and the gunslinger also watched the fading dust trail. “I’d prefer not to have them following. No sense in having a shootout over a piece like the Wildcat. Either of us rides out of here now, that gunslinger’s not gonna wait for Salter or his posse. Better leave after they bed down for the night.”

  “Good idea.” Boyd turned back and joined Quinn at the porch rail.

  The gunman eyed Quinn, who still juggled the earrings in one hand while he returned the photographs to his pocket with the other.

  “How much did that clerk get from you for those earbobs?” asked Boyd.

  “Two double eagles.”

  “You’ve been robbed, friend. Don’t know why you’d want them anyway, ‘less you got a woman pinning for you somewhere and you want to give her a present.” Boyd probed.

  “No woman and not a gift. These earrings are evidence.”

  “Evidence? You mean the Wildcat steals more’n cattle and horses.”

  “No, according to the files I received these earbobs actually belong to her. I thought the woman in the mercantile might have got them from the Wildcat. I didn’t realize ‘til just now that she was trading with her own earrings.”

  Boyd snorted. “Where’d a desperado like the Wildcat get something that valuable?”

  “Inheritance. The Wildcat’s not who she appears to be.”

  “Shee-it. I know that. Every wanted poster I’ve seen of her makes her look like a gun-toting madwoman. One look at her photograph and you can see she’s sane. Knows she’s a pretty little thing too. You saw how she manipulated Salter by just blinking her eyes.”

  It shamed Ev mightily that those eyes had lured him into staring when he should be more discreet and a whole lot less fascinated. The more he stared the more his body reacted to the look of her. Luckily, he’d gotten himself under control and turned aside before she found him staring.

  “No, I mean she really isn’t an outlaw. At least she didn’t start that way. She’s a socialite by the name of Kiera Alden who ran away from her home in Boston.”

  “You’re kidding. How does a city-bred woman become a criminal like the Wildcat? Unless maybe she isn’t.”

  “I’m pretty certain she’s not as bad as she’s been painted. Regardless of what I believe, there’s witnesses who’ll swear to murder, the arson, and the horse-stealing, and that makes it my job to arrest her.”

  “Maybe, but what kind of criminal orders packages of silver nitrate and pays for it with family heirlooms?” wondered Boyd. “If stealing doesn’t bother her, why not just take the package and run? She can’t be a thief.”

  “Because there are witnesses who might stop her. You and I were in the mercantile when she was.”

  “True, but if she wanted to steal the parcel, she could have come back later when no one was around. Instead she uses those to pay.”

  Ev tucked the earrings into his shirt pocket then shrugged “She’s a woman. Who knows why they do the things they do? ‘Sides, why don’t matter. If you break the law, you pay the consequences. If you’re accused, you go on trial until your guilt can be proven.”

  But Boyd’s doubts only echoed what Ev thought all along. Doubts about the Wildcat’s guilt lingered, nagging Ev into wondering exactly who and what kind of woman she was.

  Chapter Three

  As the moon emerged from its cloudy curtain, Boyd held his gelding to a walk beside Ev’s big bay “I thought you said they were going to head west.”

  “Are all of Big Si’s hands as talkative as you?” asked Quinn for the umpteenth time, wishing he’d left the man behind at Brown’s camp. Boyd’s interest in Kiera Alden was clear from the sheer number of questions he asked. However, Ev hadn’t figured on holding conversation for days on end with a man who was more of a greenhorn than Ev expected of a hired gun. Which—much though Ev might wish otherwise—made him think having the other man ride along could be more help than hindrance. Of course, without someone to show him how to go on, Boyd just might hurt himself.

  “Nah. I’m just curious by nature.”

  “Could you be curious and silent?”

  “Sure, when the occasion calls for it, but this isn’t one of those occasions.”

  “Says you.”

  “Yes I do. Now tell me why we’re going east, if you think the Wildcat is headed west?”

  “‘Cause even though Clem Salter and his buddies are snoring, someone else who isn’t might have seen us leave and could tell the Salter posse which way we went. We’ll circle back around west soon enough.”

  “D’you think the Wildcat
will thank us for keeping the reporter and his friends off her trail?”

  “Doubt it. She’s gonna be spittin’ mad when we clap her in irons. The fellas who didn’t catch her aren’t gonna matter much.”

  “Too bad. If she was grateful, she might be more cooperative.”

  “Woman like that isn’t a biddable woman, so she isn’t the kind you want being grateful or cooperative. She’ll cooperate you right out of your weapon then turn it on you. B’fore you know it, you’ll be taking the manacles off of her and putting them on yourself. Then she’ll throw away the key.”

  “That’s a pretty sad way of thinking about women. ‘Sides, didn’t you say the Wildcat was raised genteel?”

  “Don’t generally think that way about women myself. But the Wildcat’s not just a woman.” Ev refused to think of her as some young lady who’d gotten herself into trouble. “She’s a suspect in a murder investigation, and I’m going to treat her like one until I can question her. You should too. Safer that way.”

  “You think she’ll shoot before we get around to asking questions?”

  “I would.”

  “She ain’t you.”

  You can say that again—and again and again. No, the Wildcat was all woman. He’d seen that right off. During that tussle a month ago and again when he’d gotten a good look at her in the photographs provided for identification by Pinkertons and the government’s survey team. Disguised as a man, she’d worked as one of the team’s photographers—lord knew where she learned that skill—and how anyone could be fooled into thinking she was male was beyond knowing. She’d walked so close to him in the mercantile that he could smell how soft she was, like fine cotton drenched in sunlight. And wasn’t that just about the stupidest thing a man could think. That a hardened criminal smelled good. Who cared what she smelled like, certainly not Evrett Quinn.

  • • •

  The rising moon gave just enough light for Kiera to place her saddle and bags on the ground in the shadow of a deep, rocky overhang. She unstrapped the buffalo robe she used as a bedroll and spread it out foot end toward the fire Muh’Weda was building. Five days on the trail and one more to go before she could rest her aching backside on a bed of soft furs at the Shoshone community on the shores of Lake Yellow Stone.

  “You found us a good campsite.” She had her back to her friend.

  “You’d have found it if you were the one looking. I’ll take the horses to the creek for a drink then hobble them for the night.”

  Without turning around, she nodded. She didn’t have to look to know that Muh’Weda had left. The man had taught her how to walk silently at all times. Because of other lessons from the Shoshone she felt secure being alone in the wilderness as she’d never felt in either San Francisco or Boston.

  She knew how serious her situation was, given the number and types of her pursuers. She couldn’t stay in Wyoming. The Shoshone, Muh’Weda and his family in particular, had been good to her. She wouldn’t bring trouble to them, not when she could prevent it. She’d miss her friends almost as much as she disliked cities. However, she had little choice.

  To Big Si, Muh’Weda was just another Indian, and the rancher couldn’t identify Kiera’s friend as the specific Indian who’d taken the horses. So Muh’Weda could safely remain with his people. She, on the other hand, could be identified. So she’d have to hide in the mountains. She knew the country from her stint as photographer for the US Geological survey, and soon as winter set in, which it did early in the high country, she’d be virtually impossible to find, especially if she wintered in Smoke Valley. Come next spring, she’d make her way up the divide and disappear into Canada. Well, that was the future, best to concentrate on what had to be done now. Since they seemed to have eluded her pursuers that meant putting supper together.

  The camp was sheltered on three sides, so it would shield their fire from sight and hold the heat. A stream trickled a few yards away. A deer path wandered up and around a gentle slope on the north side of the site, giving easy access to the top of the overhang. As it was his turn, Muh’Weda would spend the night there on watch for pursuers and other potential threats. Still, Kiera doubted she’d get much rest. She hadn’t slept well since she’d escaped from her grandfather more than three years ago. Convinced he’d find her and have her hauled back to Boston, she rarely relaxed, always searching her surroundings for someone who might be following her. Now she knew for certain entirely too many people were looking for her. No, she wouldn’t get much rest tonight.

  She removed beans and bacon from one of her saddle bags. Muh’Weda had the pot warming over the fire. She sliced pieces off the bacon slab, tossing them into the pot. When the bacon had sizzled a few minutes, she added water and beans. Then she returned the remaining bacon to her saddle bags and knelt to look for her hairbrush. While she was searching, she heard the small crack of a broken twig behind her. Casually she reached to where her rifle lay beside her saddle.

  She could use a knife and trap well enough to feed herself. However, she couldn’t hit anything in motion or hit a target farther than three feet away. The only reason she carried firearms was to frighten away predators, animal and human.

  Another sound, like the scrape of a boot over rock. Whoever it was sure was noisy.

  Her hand tightened on the rifle.

  She pivoted on one knee putting the firearm to her shoulder and taking aim as she moved. “Hold it right there!”

  Even in the half-light of dusk she recognized the man with the battered tan hat from the mercantile at Brown’s camp. He had his six-shooter drawn halfway out of its holster and was a lot closer than he should have been. Which meant it was pure clumsiness on his part that she’d heard him at all.

  “You draw and you’re dead.” With her rifle pointed at the man’s chest, she spoke loud to make certain that he knew she meant business. She also hoped Muh’Weda would hear her and come running.

  The man lifted his hand away from his holster. “Now, don’t go doin’ anything both of us will regret, ma’am.”

  Muh’Weda will be back soon; all I have to do is keep this unwelcome guest too worried to jump me while I wait.

  “Set yourself down right there and don’t say a word.” She gestured with the tip of her rifle to where his feet were planted.

  In that instant, a hand came around from behind her, ripping the rifle away before she could tighten her grasp. She started to turn but stilled when she heard a click and felt a cold circle of metal press into her nape. Fear slithered down her spine.

  “Boyd, get over here and put those irons on her.”

  The deep fluid tones sent an entirely different sensation cascading through her. I recognize that voice? “No … ” she started to protest.

  “Don’t talk. I sure don’t want to shoot you, Wildcat, but you’re as good to me dead as alive, so I’d cooperate if I was you. Now sit down and put out your hands.”

  Lord have mercy, the marshal and his partner had caught her. Guess I won’t have to worry about that anymore. However, she was worried about Muh’Weda. Where is he? Have they hurt him? Didn’t matter. He wasn’t here, and Kiera had little choice but to cooperate. She lifted her arms straight out.

  Boyd moved quick, pulling a set of manacles from inside his shirt. In moments, he had them locked onto her wrists.

  Only then did the gunmetal lift from her nape. She heard a small shuffle then dusty brown boots and denim clad legs moved past her to stand beside the man called Boyd. She looked up at the men. Quinn still wore the blue flannel shirt and leather vest she’d seen him in at Brown’s Camp five days ago. Even covered in trail dust, he was a sight to make a woman’s heart beat faster. The younger one, Boyd, couldn’t meet her gaze. The marshal dismissed her with a brief glance. He shouldered her rifle and holstered his gun.

  She had to get them to let her go. If she could just make them listen to her explanation. “You’ve got this all wrong.”

  “I don’t know of a criminal who doesn’t believe the law ha
s got it wrong.” Quinn barely glanced her way then faced Boyd. “Better get her feet hobbled before we turn in. I’ll go settle the horses.”

  More fear slipped down her spine, he wasn’t going to listen. With that thought, anger took over from fear. She didn’t care how much of an eyeful he was. He passed judgment on her without ever hearing her side of the story. Beneath all that long lean muscle must beat the soulless heart of an ogre. He was lucky he walked off in the opposite direction from which he’d come or she would have stuck out her foot and made sure he fell flat on his face as he passed. She could have grabbed his pistol while he was down—what she’d do with it she wasn’t certain, but he didn’t know that. The chain linking her two iron cuffs was long enough for her to move her arms with very little discomfort. She wondered what Marshal Holier-Than-Thou Quinn would have done when she held his own pistol on him. Which gave her an idea for how she might get out of this situation, since Muh’Weda obviously wasn’t coming back soon. That worried her more than being locked in irons. He wouldn’t desert her, so what had happened to him? If these two galoots had hurt her friend in any way, she would make certain they paid—and paid dearly.

  Boyd approached her with a rope in one hand, an apologetic look on his face. “I’m sorry Ma’am, but Quinn’s right. We have to hobble you. Can’t have you mobile enough to get on a horse and ride out of here. I’ll need to remove your moccasins.”

  He knelt before her.

  Kiera nodded but made no move to take off her footgear. “Wait, please.”

  He resumed standing. “What for?”

  “First I … I, uh need to, uhm … ”

  “Oh, yeah. You probably do. I’ll escort you to the creekside. I won’t leave you alone, but I will turn my back.”