“When? Where?” Brows drawn low, he closed the distance and reached out a hand.
No. If he touched her, she’d give in to the wild sensations he caused. With a shake of her head, she stepped back but fought against reacting to the caring she saw in his dark eyes. “At rallies for women’s rights before Mama…” She swallowed against a too-tight throat. “Several years ago, in Massachusetts.”
“Tell me about that.” His gaze held hers. “I want to know more.”
Her heart rate fluttered at the intensity of his dark look. The memory of his mouth on hers was still new, and she fought against raising a hand to her tender lips. “Quinn, I—”
The door banged open and a lean man strode in. “Sheriff, you gotta hear… Oh, sorry, ma’am. Should I come back?”
With a last look at Quinn’s dear face, Ciara shook her head and turned to the man with a star pinned to his pocket. “Not at all, sir. I was just leaving.” This time, she escaped the office, and half-trotting and half-sliding, made her way down the earthen rise.
“Ciara.”
She ignored the command in his voice and kept walking, not daring to glance over her shoulder. If she did, she’d be lost.
****
Her stiff back soon disappeared around the corner of the barber shop, and Quinn slammed a hand against the door jamb. “Damn stubborn woman.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, Sheriff.”
Regret over his botched explanation filled his thoughts. Couldn’t she see what his statement meant? Quinn dragged a hand down his face and glanced at his deputy. “What’s this about, Bud?”
“Mulcahy’s back at the gold digs.”
“How do you know?” His thoughts reeled. His whole reason for taking this job was to settle this exact matter.
“Don told me about a drifter at the Red-Eye who complained about his poor luck. Sounded downright envious of the Irishman with fancy equipment who was mining sizable nuggets.” Bud clapped his hands together. “That’s gotta to be Mulcahy, right?”
“Sounds like.” He stared in the direction of the boarding house, tightness spreading through his chest. His allegiance to avenging his parents warred with wanting to protect Ciara from facing the truth about her father. “Bud, do me a favor? Make sure Miss Morrissey reached Belle’s safely. Then come back and we’ll figure out our next step.”
Ciara Morrissey might not accept his escort, but he’d be damned sure the woman was safe. When Bud’s footfalls disappeared along the boardwalk, Quinn turned and strode to the storage room to grab down his saddlebags. If luck was on his side, within a few days, he’d have the swindler Mulcahy in custody, and U.S. Marshals would arrive to investigate the stage robbery and judge’s disappearance.
****
Even though she knew Quinn was out of town, Ciara still looked for his familiar figure every time she walked through Bull City. Since her arrest three days earlier, she’d had plenty of offers of employment. The women had taken her message from the rally to heart. In addition to conducting tarot readings and providing instructions about medicinal infusions, she was finishing two hat orders, and Mr. Stanton at the Mountain Gazette was reviewing her proposal for a series of fashion articles.
None of her welcomed tasks took the place of being in Quinn’s company, even if their time together was spent sparring and arguing. She walked along the boardwalk, a bundle of large cards tied with a ribbon clasped to her chest. With one last glance up the hill toward the jail, she turned into Millie’s Café and spotted the young girl heading into the kitchen. “Morning, Betsy. Is Millie back there?”
“Morning, miss. She sure is.”
Ciara moved in that direction, nodding at several townspeople she recognized as she passed. Their responding acknowledgements lightened her step. At the last set of tables, she paused to allow Betsy, who balanced a large tray of laden plates, to pass.
“You hear Mulcahy’s back?” A gruff voice nearby spoke low.
Ciara stilled, the back of her neck tingling. Her father was here? In Bull City?
“He’d be a fool to come back to this town.”
“Grew a droopy moustache and dyed his hair brown, but it’s him. Been running a table at the saloon for the last two nights.”
Was this her father or the man who shared the name? Not wanting to miss any information the men might divulge, she moved closer and set the packet on a nearby table. “Here, Betsy. Let me help.” Bracing her stance, she held the tray while Betsy served the three men who’d stopped their conversation at the arrival of the food.
Ciara noted each man’s appearance, searching for individual details that might help Quinn. Funny how her thoughts shifted in that direction almost on their own. But Quinn was away, and she needed a plan she could carry out.
Would tonight finally be her chance to fulfill her promise to Mama?
****
The sun shot its last golden rays from the back side of the mountain when Quinn reined in at the jail and dismounted. Muscles strained and pulled in his tired body. He tied off Pepper and moved to the trailing horse. “Lean this way, Mulcahy.” With a grunt, he eased the bound man to the ground and steadied him. “Up the hill and inside the jail with you.”
“Don’t suppose you’d listen again to my explanation?”
“Nope. I’d just repeat the same thing, Save it for the judge.”
He led the prisoner through the door and glanced around. Bud must be making rounds. Good, maybe he could catch a few winks. Three days of riding had taken their toll more than he’d expected. Or maybe because he hadn’t rested well, worrying about Ciara and how she fared in Bull City. He turned toward the back door. “In here.”
They shuffled through the doorway and he guided the older man into the far cell. “O’Malley, I brought you a countryman. Patrick O’Malley, meet Shamus Mulcahy.” He closed the door with a loud clank.
O’Malley sat up, scratched at his curly hair. “Ah, sheriff, yer mistaken.”
“What do you mean?” Those were not the words Quinn wanted to hear after the trek he’d just endured through the rugged territory..
“This is not Shamus Mulcahy.” O’Malley jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“I’ll be knowin’ me own name, sir.” The prisoner grabbed onto the bars, shaking his head.
“Then this is not the man who ran the crooked poker game. That man had black hair and dark eyes.”
“Precisely what I’ve been telling this man for the past day and a half.” His hand waved in the air. “Same as I’ve been saying about the mining company. I’m thinking yer seeking my ex-partner, Sean Muldoon. Should never have trusted that shifty man.”
Doubt stilled Quinn’s hands on the metal door. Hadn’t Ciara mentioned this possibility? Could he have been wrong? But, this was the man he’d found at the end of Crazy Woman Creek. The man was in possession of mining equipment and had answered to the right name.
Fatigue pulled at his shoulders. He’d sort it out after he cleaned up a bit. Long strides took him into the storage room where he stripped off his dusty shirt and ran fingers through his hair. The trail back had seemed longer this time.
He reached for the pitcher of water and half-filled the washbowl. A quick sponge down would have to last him until he got back to Belle’s. The first splash of cool water on his face and neck brought instant relief. He reached for the bar of soap and lathered it across his chest, nostrils ticking with the scent of tropical spices. Amazing how a bit of soap and water made a person feel almost human again.
The door knob rattled and footsteps scraped on the floor. “Sheriff, you back?”
Swiping a towel across his torso, he stepped to the doorway. “Yeah, Bud. Just returned with a prisoner. Any news around town?”
“Been quiet. If you don’t need me, I’ll surprise Catherine by eating supper at home tonight.”
“Of course, Bud. Thanks for your hard work.” The picture of a hot meal on the stove and a woman waiting in a parlor appeared in his mind. The woman wasn’t
blonde like Bud’s wife, but red-haired like Ciara. Not as strange a thought as it would have been a week ago. With a shake of his head, he ran the towel over his hair. “I’ll be out on the streets within ten minutes.”
Two gunshots sounded from down the street. And Quinn tensed. “The saloon?”
“Sounds like.” Bud ran out of the office. “I’ll take the far side.”
Quinn tossed down the towel, followed him out the door onto the street, and grabbed a shirt from his saddlebag. He slipped his pistol from the holster, spun the cylinder to check all the chambers were full.
Gun drawn, Bud moved into the shadows of the building across the street. Quinn took the close side, moving with quiet steps along the boardwalk, keeping the saloon in sight as he approached. Probably a drunk letting off some steam, but he couldn’t be too sure. Underestimating the bad guy was a dangerous practice. He scanned the area around the Red-Eye. Usually the patrons exited the saloon. Why was this different?
Bud signaled he’d go around to the back door.
Stepping on the balls of his feet, Quinn moved to the side of the saloon’s swinging doors and listened. No music or laughter sounded from inside. Not good. His gut tensed, but he inched forward and angled his head around the doorway. “Gibson, you okay?”
“Yeah, shooter’s contained.”
Quinn slipped through the door and glanced around the room.
“Drifter lost his grubstake and the stupid fool took a couple potshots. A couple of fellas knocked him out.” He waved a hand toward the corner, where several men straightened chairs and gathered strewn playing cards.
Bud slipped in through the back door and walked to the body slumped in a chair.
Like a collective sigh had been exhaled, the saloon girls emerged from behind the counter, and the other customers rose from their hiding places. Within a few moments, activities shifted back to normal. Quinn relaxed his stance, slipping his pistol back into the holster. He watched Bud rouse the semi-conscious man and march him past. “Full jail tonight.”
“Looks like. Hope this is the total of the night’s excitement.”
Another problem averted. Quinn stepped out and breathed in the cool night air. As many times as he’d drawn his weapon in the line of duty, he still needed a couple minutes to let his heart rate return to normal. The drone of crickets and the warble of a meadowlark lulled him.
From down the alley came the sound of footsteps on the outside stairs to the hotel. Because the cadence of the steps was slow and hesitant, Quinn’s curiosity kicked up. A hotel guest would be moving with more confidence. With two long strides, he reached the side of the saloon and looked across the alley.
Just in time to see a familiar, auburn-haired female slip in through the second-floor doorway.
Concern for Ciara’s welfare revved his body back to full alert. Why was she sneaking around? He moved through the alley and climbed the stairs. When he leaned his head into the hallway, he spotted her at the far end, a hand on the doorknob to the last room. The moment he opened his mouth to call out, the door opened and a man yelled, “Hey, get in here.”
“Don’t grab me.” Her body fought against the man’s hold, and her feet kicked wrinkles into the carpet runner, and then she disappeared inside.
Quinn’s heart clamped. Damn. In an instant, his pistol rested loose in his hand, and he eased along the wall. Who was in that room and why would—
With a rattle, the door opened. Ciara jerked into the hallway, her body arched and an arm twisted behind her back.
Instinct pushed him into a crouch, a shoulder wedged against a door jamb. What was she doing? “Ciara?”
Her head whipped to the side. “Go back, Quinn.”
In a blur, a brown-haired man stepped into sight, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her backward, a gun pressed against her chest. “Stay back, or I’ll shoot the sneak.”
A hostage? What had she walked into? He scanned the hall for a more advantageous spot. A low table topped with a vase of flowers about ten feet away offered the most cover. Who was he dealing with? “I’m Sheriff Riley. Let the woman go and we’ll talk.”
“Wrong. Go back down those stairs, and she’ll be released at the edge of town.”
No way was he allowing Ciara out of this hotel. By now, Bud was at the other end of town with the drunk from the saloon. He’d have to figure this out on his own. Best to keep the stranger talking. “Ciara, are you all right? Who is this man?”
“He claims he’s Shamus Mulcahy, but I know bet—” Her words ended with a yelp of pain.
At her shrill cry, something deep in his chest twisted. He had to get to her, to rescue his special woman. “Hey, leave the lady be.” Quinn tensed, fingers gripping the pistol until they ached. Again, her words verified what O’Malley said. Two men using the same name. So maybe the man in the jail shouldn’t be there.
He’d worry about that later. Now he had to get Ciara safely away from this culprit. He crept closer. His boot pressed on a squeaky floorboard that gave way, tipping him off balance. At the last moment, he lunged to grab the table and drew a bead on the man’s foot at the side of Ciara’s skirts. He squeezed the trigger.
Two shots rang out, the percussion reverberating against the walls. A flash of heat stabbed his right side, flattening him with a grunt.
Ciara screamed his name and footsteps pounded.
Damn. He levered himself up on an elbow, gritting his teeth at the fiery pain. He touched his side, and his hand came back coated with blood. Not good. He laid back and inched two fingers into his hip pocket until he pulled out a bandanna. With that clamped over his side, he rolled to his knees. Sweat beaded on his face, and he pulled shallow breaths through his opened mouth. He had to get to her. Ciara? He tried to form her name, but his mouth was too dry. Then he slumped to the side and blackness descended.
****
Would he ever wake? Ciara perched on a chair and dabbed a wet cloth on Quinn’s fevered face. Under her breath, she hummed an old lullaby that her mother used to sing when Ciara was a child. Anything to make up for what she’d done.
With jerky moves, she dipped the cloth in a bowl of water and wrung out the excess. She should never have gone to the hotel to confront the imposter. This time, her impetuousness had brought harm to another, to the man she held dear in her heart. The town had seemed empty in his absence, and yearning for his return filled her until she ached.
With gestures well-practiced over the past three years, she moved the cloth over his jaw and pressed it along his neck to his upper chest exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. His golden brown and muscled chest. Her fingers trailed along the taut plane, his crisp chest hair tickling her skin. A gasp escaped. “Oh my stars.” She jerked back her hand.
Chalk that action up for one more transgression. Forgiveness for causing his injury didn’t matter. All she wished for was to see his dark eyes open and hear him say something infuriating. Then she’d know he would live.
Doc Anderson stepped through the curtain and slipped his fingers over Quinn’s wrist. “Any change?” He pulled out his pocket watch and focused on the timepiece.
Over the past few years, Ciara had seen enough doctors perform the same action and waited until he looked up. “None in the past half-hour. He mumbled something but I couldn’t understand his words.”
“The first few hours are the worst. That’s why I gave him a good dose of laudanum.” He patted her shoulder and chuckled. “Quinn’s strong. He’ll be just fine.”
“Thanks, Doctor. I’m clinging to that.”
“His deputy’s outside and wondered if he could come in.” Doc jerked his head toward the waiting room. “Feels like he let the sheriff down.”
A sentiment she knew well. “Tell him he’s welcome here. Quinn can use any and all support.”
Doc walked to the curtain and held it aside.
Bud Forrester entered, pulled off his hat revealing reddish hair, and walked to the side of the cot. “Ma’am.”
“De
puty.” She looked up and offered a wan smile. “Doc says he’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, the sheriff’s tough. I just wanted to see for myself.” His fingers worked the hat brim in a jerky circle. “Kinda in the habit of going over the policing matters with the sheriff.”
“Oh.” Of course, others who’d known Quinn longer would want time with him. Loosening her grip on his hand, she started to rise. “Would you like a few minutes alone?”
Bud held out a staying hand. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ll tell you, and you can give him the message when he wakes?”
“I can do that.” Relaying a message didn’t come near repaying Quinn. She wet the cloth again and draped it over his forehead, doing what she could to break his fever.
“Quinn, this here’s Bud and I got some news.” He stepped next to the cot. “Joe brought me a wire that said the U.S. Marshals will be here tomorrow. So, don’t be a-worrying about searching for the circuit judge or the stagecoach robbery.”
At the word “stagecoach,” Ciara realized she hadn’t thought of her lost possessions in days. Her time had been occupied with finding a job—and with the man before her. Her heart pinched at the thought of how important the lawman had become in only a few days.
“They’ll transport the prisoners, so don’t you be worrying about that. I’ve written out a disturbing the peace complaint on the drunk, and Gibson will fill me in on damages.” For a moment, his fingertips lingered on the rough blanket then pulled back into a fist. “But what are you charging the second Irishman with You never did say.?”
Her hand stilled, and she studied the deputy. “Second Irishman?”
Nodding, the deputy pulled up a chair and sat. “Sheriff rode out to Crazy Woman Creek and brought back that swindler who sold shares in the gold mine last spring.”
Her father? Here in Bull City? She expected excitement to beat within her chest at the news. Her sole purpose for traveling across the country was about to be fulfilled. But her thoughts were only on the man whose fever wouldn’t break and who lay too still on this cot.
Dreams of Gold Page 8