The Outlaw and the Runaway

by Tatiana March

  Mrs. Haslet stared at her. “Miss Celia! Your scar, it’s gone.”

  Celia lifted her chin. “Perhaps the Devil didn’t want me, after all.”

  “I never...” The thin woman cleared her throat and fell into an awkward silence.

  Mrs. Shackleton took over. “We didn’t believe what the bishop said. Not really.”

  “But you were too cowardly to say so?” Celia retorted.

  With a rustle of skirts, the two women scurried out, leaving their errands unfinished. Celia watched them go. Something swelled inside her, a new sense of confidence. When she had first seen Roy, she’d wondered about his secret, how he could face the world so unflinchingly. Whatever the source of his strength, she too possessed it now.

  She turned toward Mr. Selden. “I apologize for my sharp tongue. It seems that I have scared away your customers.”

  The neatly dressed old man took down his glasses. “They’ll be back. And it’s their own shame that chased them out.” He glanced between the aisles to make sure the store was empty. “It’s not my place to gossip, but we heard the bishop has been dismissed. He was caught embezzling church funds.”

  “I see.” Celia’s lips twisted into a rueful smile.

  “Everyone is ashamed of how they treated you. They are even prepared to forgive your father’s involvement in the bank robbery. They reckon he was left with no choice, having to secure your future. Only don’t go flouting his ill-gotten gains. That might put their backs up again.”

  Celia found no suitable reply and remained silent. They had sold most of the trade goods in the wagon to a storekeeper in the boomtown. With the elevated prices paid in such places, they had just over a thousand dollars left in total, even after having settled the doctor’s bill.

  The bell jangled again. Celia looked over her shoulder, saw Roy enter.

  Mr. Selden’s expression brightened. “Hello, stranger. Welcome back.”

  She moved to stand beside Roy. “Not a stranger. He’s my husband now.”

  “Husband?” Mr. Selden beamed. “You’d best introduce him, then.”

  Celia studied Mr. Selden carefully, saw no suspicion in his manner. Her nerves tightened. Was this how they would live from now on? Watching everyone, suspicious of everything, always on guard? Without thinking, she pressed the flat of her palm against her belly, as if to protect the unborn child she hoped might be growing there.

  Roy stepped forward. “We talked it through. I never knew my pa, so we’ve decided I’ll take Celia’s name, as a way of honoring her father. So it’s Mr. and Mrs. Courtwood. The given name’s Roy, but it’s best if you call me Courtwood.”

  Mr. Selden replaced his glasses, peered through them. “Son, I see you’ve given up your eye patch. It don’t look too bad. Not like the hollow of an empty socket.”

  “Celia prefers it uncovered.”

  She tugged at his sleeve. “What did you come in for?”

  “A crowbar. Couldn’t find the one in the shed.”

  They bought a large crowbar, and a few items of food. After they had paid for their purchases and were preparing to leave, Mr. Selden ducked beneath the counter. “Almost forgot. A letter came for you a few days ago. Mrs. Dudley at the post office wrote gone away on it and wanted to send it back, but I claimed it and kept it for you.”

  He handed her a small, worn envelope. It bore an official stamp of the Yuma Territorial Prison. As Celia studied her name and address on top, a hollow sensation knotted in her stomach. For instead of her father’s bold, ornate handwriting, the address was printed with the neat, regular letters that came from a typewriter.

  * * *

  Celia stood on the porch and waited while Roy levered away the boards at the entrance and unlocked the front door. The house smelled musty inside. She hurried through to unbolt the back door, flung it open and cast a forlorn look over the wilted flowers and the dried-up vegetable patch in the garden.

  While Roy unloaded the goods in the wagon, she settled at the kitchen table and took out the letter. Carefully, she tore the flap open and scanned the text. A wail of grief caught in her throat. Her father was dead. The letter was from the prison doctor. Her eyes fell on the final paragraph and she stared at it until tears blurred the words.

  Your father died with a smile on his face. In his hands he clutched the letter in which you told him that you were safely settled and married to a horse wrangler.

  I have seen many men die—some from illness, some from injury, some at the end of a rope—and, Miss Courtwood, I can assure you of this: when your father passed away, he was at peace.

  With a sob, Celia pressed the letter to her chest. A sense of relief flowed over her, blunting the edge of her grief. Whatever happened, she could draw comfort from the fact that by marrying Roy she had eased her father’s fears for her future, had granted him his final wish.

  * * *

  Life became what they had always dreamed of. They shopped at the mercantile, went to church on Sundays. Neighbors greeted them in the street. Roy got a job at the livery stable, helping the elderly owner, Mr. Romney, who suffered from stiff joints. Slowly, acceptance grew around them, tentative and thin, but it was something they could build on.

  As the weeks went by, Celia became certain she was pregnant, and the news gave joy to both of them. And yet, at night, when they lay in bed together, Celia clung to Roy, trying to dispel the fear that haunted her.

  They had no means of knowing what had happened at the outlaw hideout. If there had been something in the newspapers, they had missed it while Roy lay unconscious. Was Dale Hunter dead? Had Mr. Smith resumed his respectable existence in Prescott? Did he know they had escaped? Was he looking for them? Did he know where to find them?

  One afternoon, while Celia was cooking supper, Mr. Selden hurried over to the house. Not pausing to wipe away the smear of dust on his spectacles, he stared at Celia as she faced him on the doorstep.

  “A stranger passed by the store.” Mr. Selden spoke with an uncustomary mix of urgency and doubt. “He was asking questions about a man called Roy Hagan who wears a black patch over one eye. I told him... I didn’t notice until after...he had a star pinned to his chest. He was a federal marshal. I hope I didn’t do wrong.”

  Celia’s mind shut down, as if her brain had suddenly ceased functioning. She could hear her own voice, dull and flat, like a machine talking. “No. Nothing wrong. Thank you for letting us know.”

  Slowly, she closed the door and leaned against it. For what felt like hours, she remained on that single spot, unmoving. Roy found her there when he came home from work. In the kitchen, the pot on the stove had boiled dry, the smell of burning vegetables thick in the air.

  “What’s wrong?” Frantic, Roy stared at her. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” She found her voice. “It’s not me. It’s you. The law is after you.”

  She told him about Mr. Selden’s visit, about the federal marshal.

  “Fine,” Roy said. His shoulders shifted in a small shrug that was exaggerated in its nonchalance. “That’s what you wanted all along. For me to turn myself in, so we can one day live without listening to every sound in the night, spending each day worrying that someone might come at me with their guns drawn.”

  “No.” She flung her arms around him, clung tight. She breathed in the scent of him, leather and hay and horses, so achingly familiar. Each evening, it marked his return from the livery stable. The prospect of him gone filled her with an aching loneliness she could not bear.

  “That was before I... I can’t...I can’t be without you now. We’ll pack up. We’ll go away. Right now. Tonight. You can harness the wagon horses while I pack.”

  Roy eased their bodies apart. “We can’t run. Not with you pregnant.”

  “Then you run, find some remote place to hide. I’ll join you after the baby comes.”

  “It’s not wh
at I want, Celia. It’s not what you want. Remember what you promised me. That you’ll have the courage to love an outlaw. Love him openly, and pay the price for it. Well, it seems the bill collector is knocking on the door.”

  Celia swallowed. “I’m not as brave as I ought to be. I don’t want to be alone. And I don’t want to have to deal with the scorn of the townspeople again. They’ll turn against me if they see you hauled away in iron chains.”

  “You won’t be on your own, Celia. You’ll have a baby. Our baby. Something to fight for. A creature more vulnerable than yourself to keep safe. And you’re stronger than you believe. When you think it through, your only crime is to love me. If people hold that against you, against the child, they’re wrong. You will face them with your head high and find some other place where you and the baby won’t be shunned because of me. You’ll have plenty of money, enough for a fresh start somewhere else.”

  Celia frowned. “I know...I know... But why allow us to be separated? Why not escape? If the outcome is that I’ll have to find some other place where I can raise our child free of prejudice, why don’t we both go and seek a new start?”

  Roy shook his head. He spoke softly, a wistful expression on his face. “Sometimes it’s good to live for the moment. But sometimes it is better to look ahead, think of the future. And do you really want a lifetime of looking over your shoulder, of never sleeping at ease, of being suspicious of every stranger, of having to lie to our child? You said it yourself when we returned to Rock Springs. Let’s face it now and get it over with.”

  On and on, they argued, neither of them convincing the other. Twilight fell outside. They went into the kitchen, threw away the burned supper and had some bread and cheese instead.

  “Go,” Celia said to Roy as darkness fell outside. “Go now. Go, and write to me, and I’ll join you as soon as it is safe to travel with the baby.”

  Roy rose from his seat, knelt beside her chair and wrapped his arms around her. “I want one more night with you. We’ll decide in the morning if I should go, or stay and pay whatever price the law wants to extract for my outlaw past.”

  * * *

  Celia awoke to a loud banging at the front door. Beside her, Roy lay with his eyes open, already in full awareness. “They are here,” she whispered. “Go out through the back door while I delay them.”

  With a faint smile, Roy shook his head. He’d never intended to run, Celia realized. Her eyes roamed over his features as she recalled all the dangers he had warned her about. What if they pinned other crimes on him? If the judge was a cruel, unjust man? How long would he be away? Would he survive the dangers in prison?

  Feeling helpless, Celia watched as Roy got out of bed, pulled his trousers on and headed down the stairs. She swung her feet down, bundled herself in a wrapper and hurried after him.

  Roy had already opened the front door, and in the thin dawn light Celia could see a small man standing on the porch. Behind him, a lathered horse was puffing and heaving, evidence of how hard the man had ridden to get there.

  Eyes wide, she watched as Roy closed the door again. When he turned, he was holding an envelope. Not daring to ask, she waited. He tore the flap open, pulled out a folded sheet of paper. A slow smile spread across his face.

  “So that’s what the president’s signature looks like.”

  He handed the piece of paper to her. She read the words out loud. “Certificate of Pardon... For services to the United States Government and the Territory of Arizona... Chester Arthur, President of the United States... Dale Hunter, Deputy United States Marshal...”

  Stunned, she looked up. “Dale Hunter lives. He did it. You’re free.”

  “No,” Roy said, still smiling. “I’ll never be free again, and I don’t want to be. I’m tied to a wife and child. A house that is a home. A town filled with people willing to call me a friend.” He moved closer to her, drew her into his embrace. “For the first time in my life, I belong. I’m no longer alone. I love you, and I’ll live with you, and when I die I’ll be buried beside you. That’s all a man can dream of. A place to lay down roots, to make a life. An honest life.”

  Epilogue

  The sun was setting when Celia came home from the mercantile. In truth, her wages from the two hours she worked every afternoon made little difference to their finances, but she enjoyed being a part of the community, building up friendships.

  As she rounded the corner, she spotted the post office messenger stepping down from the porch of their house. Thank heavens she no longer needed to fear every letter or telegram. However, even after three years of peaceful living, her hand instinctively settled over the bump at her waistline in a protective gesture. This time, Roy was convinced it would be a boy, but secretly Celia hoped for another girl.

  At the front door, the succulent scent of roasting meat greeted her. One benefit of marrying an outlaw, Celia thought wryly. A man used to living alone knew how to take care of the necessities, including cooking.

  “I’m back!” she called.

  “In the kitchen!” Roy called back.

  The sight that met her sent a wave of joy through Celia. Freya, dressed in a clean dress, her golden curls shining in the evening light, was sitting on the kitchen table. Roy was bent over the child, with both of them peering into a leather pouch.

  As Celia stood watching them, Freya lifted one clenched fist and spread her fingers open. A cascade of gold coins fell with a tinkle back inside the pouch.

  “Freya,” Celia blustered. “What on earth are you doing?”

  The child looked up, blue eyes shining. “Play with Papa’s money.”

  For an instant, the surge of emotion kept Celia silent. How could happiness be so complete? Perhaps unhappy years taught a person to appreciate good fortune all the more when it finally arrived.

  When Freya was born, she had blue eyes. But according to the midwife, all babies had blue eyes. Anxiously, they had watched the child grow. More than two years old now, they knew Freya had not inherited the distinctive feature that had caused Roy so much grief.

  “Do we have enough?” Celia asked, indicating the money pouch on the table.

  “A mite over three thousand dollars.”

  She pursed her mouth. The exact amount was three thousand two hundred and seventy-one dollars, and Roy must be aware she could name the figure without counting. “But is it enough?” she pressed him.

  “Jones, that newcomer from the East, is offering four thousand.”

  With a sigh, Celia stepped closer. Ike Romney, who owned the livery stable where Roy worked, was getting on in years and wished to sell the business. Ever since Roy received his pardon, it had been his dream to buy out Romney.

  Dipping her fingers into the pouch, Celia stirred the pile of gold pieces inside. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I could have done better, but it is difficult to make money without access to the ticker tape. Not getting instant stock quotes means I’m missing out on the best opportunities.”

  The child grabbed a handful of coins and tossed them in the air with a squeal of delight.

  “Freya, don’t throw Papa’s money around,” Celia scolded.

  “It’s Mama’s money, too,” Roy commented, ruffling his daughter’s hair with one hand while collecting the scattered coins with the other. “And it just might be enough.”

  “Enough?” Celia stared at him. “But how can it be, if Jones is offering more?”

  “Ike Romney has no place to go. Jones is living at the boardinghouse, and he wants to take over the rooms at the back of the livery stable. Romney will let me have the business for three thousand, provided I employ him part-time and let him live there.”

  “Employ him?” Celia lifted her brows. They both knew Ike Romney suffered from arthritis so badly he could barely get around. Memories of her father’s illness drifted through her mind. Just like her father, the poor man had littl
e hope of finding any other employment. “Of course,” she said with a gentle nod.

  Roy spoke quietly. “In truth, it would be more like a pension. But a man has a right to feel valued. And Romney has no family. This way, he can remain part of the business and know he won’t be turned out to die alone.” Roy looked up, his blue eye bright, contrasting with the opaque white of his blind eye. “Romney just wants to belong. And every man has a right to that. To belong.”

  “I understand.” Celia gave a wistful smile. “And considering I have nursed two dying parents, I can handle taking care of a cranky old man when the time comes.” Her attention fell on the telegram peeking out of Roy’s shirt pocket. “I saw the post office messenger. Is it not from the stock exchange?”

  “It’s from Dale Hunter.”

  “Dale Hunter!” Celia gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. Memories of that horrible day in the canyon filled her senses—the heat and dust, the sound of gunfire, the smell of blood.

  Since Roy’s pardon, Dale Hunter had never contacted them, but they had heard gossip about him—a Deputy US Marshal who had been left for dead in the desert, buzzards and coyotes fighting over his carcass, tearing out pieces of him.

  Roy pulled out the telegram and glanced at it. “He’s leaving the Marshals Service to become a rancher. He has one final job to do, here in the Arizona Territory. He is letting us know that he plans to stop by and say hello.”

  Celia swallowed. “I wonder... How badly is he scarred...? I mean...” She made a small, helpless gesture with her hand. From the bleak expression on Roy’s face, Celia knew he understood. They had both been ostracized because of physical flaws. Had the same fate befallen their friend?

  “I don’t know.” Roy gave a hesitant shrug. “I’ve seen his name in the newspapers, but there has never been a photograph. His high-born mother expected him to move back East and marry a debutante and live off the family fortune, but it seems Dale would have none of it. I believe it caused a rift between them.”