Lady of the Gun

by Faye Adams

  Cass's heart sank as she neared the form. It was Sheriff Jackson, and the whole right side of his head was caved in. "Oh, no," she breathed, swinging herself out of the saddle and ground tethering her horse. Rushing to the body, she knelt beside it and pressed her fingers against the sheriff’s throat in a frantic and hopeful search for a pulse. Closing her eyes, she sighed sadly at the firm, cool feel of his skin. "Damn, damn, damn, this is all my fault," she breathed, "If I'd gone to talk to Tylo myself, you'd still be alive." She straightened a bit, more certain now of Tylo's involvement in the massacre of her family. "You must have asked the right questions, Sheriff," she whispered. "If I'd done the asking maybe it'd be Mr. Hunt Tylo's body cooling under the late afternoon sun right now," she said through clenched teeth.

  It took some doing to get the heavy, stiffening body of the sheriff over the back of his horse, especially since the animal kept shying away from the smell of blood. "'Whoa, boy," she kept coaxing until the job was done.

  Finally, with her saddle blanket tied over the upper half of Jackson's body as he hung across the saddle, she started back toward town. The sound of the horse's hooves behind her, plodding heavily with the body, pounded against the earth like a steady heartbeat, a heartbeat that matched her own and caused the anger and need for revenge to burn hotter in her chest. "I'll finish this yet," she vowed quietly as she rode.

  Brett had found out where the Wayne ranch was by asking the blacksmith, and was readying his horse to make the trip when he saw Cass riding into town leading a horse behind her. It took him a second to realize the horse she led was carrying a body.

  A few of the townspeople also saw Cass and ran to see who she was bringing in. Brett heard Sheriff Jackson's name being spoken in hushed, saddened tones as he walked to meet her in the street. "Cass, what happened," he asked when he neared.

  Cass pulled her horse to a stop and looked down into the gray eyes of the marshal. "He's dead . . . and it's my fault," she told him stonily.

  A murmur of disapproval and anger floated through the crowd of people growing larger by the second. "Wasn't killing one man already today enough for you?" a voice from the crowd asked.

  Cass turned her head only slightly in the direction of the voice. This was what her life had become since the murder of her family. This was what it would be until she finished what she'd started. So be it.

  Brett watched Cass's reaction to the words. He could see the stern set to her jaw, the stiffness in her neck as she turned a bit. He could see the way her hands gripped the reins of her horse so tightly her knuckles turned white. But the thing that bothered him most was the death in her eyes. Eyes so beautiful the sky should have been envious of their color. Eyes that should have been turned up in sparkling laughter or drooping slightly in the loss of a tear. But he saw no possibility of those emotions in the eyes of the woman before him on horseback. He saw only the death there. The cold, harsh reality of human mortality and the frustration and anger that went along with it. "Bring him to the office, Cass," he told her. "We'll take care of things there."

  Cass glanced back down at the marshal. Was it possible she'd been kissed by this man earlier that same day? Had Ramsey Tylo really surprised her with his attentions? She'd been confused by the feelings Brett had caused in her. She'd been startled and a bit unnerved by Ramsey's unexpected behavior, but she had at least felt something. Now she felt nothing. Only a cold, stony emptiness and the need to finish the job she'd started. "All right," she answered, nudging her horse in the right direction.

  "Aren't you going to do something about this Marshal?" Jaybird Johnson asked from the crowd.

  Brett found the bartender among the onlookers. “Yes," he answered. "I'm going to find out what happened." He looked around at the people of Twisted Creek. For the second time in one day he was going to have to send one of them after the undertaker. Cass had been the direct cause of the first killing, and by her own admission, she was somehow involved in the second. No wonder some of these people didn't seem particularly fond of her.

  Finding a familiar face in the midst of the crowd, Brett singled him out. "Would you mind getting the undertaker?" he asked quietly.

  Bill Conroy nodded and turned away.

  Brett then scanned the crowd once more. "Go on about your business, please. I promise I'll get to the bottom of this."

  "Yeah, unless you're too busy getting to the bottom of Cass," another anonymous voice called from the back of the group.

  Brett suppressed the urge to rebut the statement. Obviously, his behavior with Cass earlier had been quickly reported from neighbor to neighbor. Ignoring the whispers that floated through the crowd, he turned and headed toward the sheriff’s office. "I deserved that," he told himself when he was out of earshot of the crowd.

  He was still mentally kicking himself when he reached the office. Cass had left the sheriff’s body tied to his horse and gone inside. He took a look at the body before heading following her." When he opened the door he saw her standing in front of the woodstove staring down at the coffee pot.

  “I made him his coffee this morning," she said softly when she heard the door open and close behind her.

  Brett crossed the room to stand next to her. "What happened?"

  Cass turned slowly to face the marshal. "It's my fault he's dead," she said in a monotone.

  "You didn't kill him," Brett told her.

  "No, but I might as well have. I sent him out to the Lazy T to question Hunt Tylo." She turned abruptly and slammed a clenched fist against her gun belt. "Damn it, I should have gone out there myself. This is all my fault."

  Brett took a step closer to her. "'Would you stop being so quick to accept the blame for this? We don't know what happened, but from what I could see, he died of a severe head wound, not a bullet."

  "So?"

  "So his horse could have been spooked by something. He could have fallen and hit his head on a rock."

  "There were no bloody rocks where he fell."

  "His horse might have kicked him. I've seen it happen before."

  Cass snorted in disbelief. "After questioning Tylo about the massacre of my family, Jackson just happens to fall off his horse on his way back to town?"

  “Maybe" And how do you know he ever made it to the Lazy T?"

  "I know."

  “Cass, listen to me. Even if you're right there's no proof."

  "So you're going to do nothing?" she asked snidely.

  Brett straightened at her tone. "I'm going out to the Lazy T first thing in the morning to question Hunt Tylo myself. And I’ll have you show me where you found Jackson's body. After that, I'll decide what else needs to be done."

  Cass snorted again. "You can wait until morning to talk to Tylo if you want to. I'm going to go talk to him now."

  "Like hell you are," Brett told her. "It'll be dark soon, and you're going nowhere but home."

  "Hah," Cass argued. "I'll go where I want, when I want, and no one can stop me."

  "I can," stated Brett in a quiet, threatening tone. “In case you've forgotten, I'm the law around here. You will do as I say."

  Cass took a step back. She waited to see if he'd make a move toward her.

  "You're going home," he told her. "Nowhere else."

  Cass raised her chin slightly in defiance.

  Brett knew that as soon as she left his office she'd go directly to the Lazy T, ignoring completely his order to go home. "I'm taking you home," he finally said.

  Cass closed her mouth and clenched her jaw. This marshal, this man, was proving to be an irritating obstacle. "Fine," she answered shortly.

  “Fine," Brett repeated.

  The ride to the Wayne ranch would have been almost pleasant for Brett if Cassidy had chosen to be friendlier. He knew she was completely aware of his reasons for accompanying her. Her safety was his uppermost concern. But despite this, she rode silently beside him, looking neither left nor right, giving no explanation of their surroundings. Nor did she let him know when they'd crossed
over onto Wayne land.

  "Is that a river in the distance?" Brett made an attempt at conversation.

  Cass turned her eyes toward the aspen and willows that lined the river and indicated its location. "Yes," she answered.

  "The Losee?" he tried again.

  She nodded.

  "Is it a boundary to your property?"

  Cass turned her head slightly to look at him out of the corner of her eye. "No."

  Brett grimaced at her one-word answer and gave up trying to talk. Her demeanor left no room for doubt about how she felt about his presence at her side.

  Soon a little house, a barn, and some outbuildings were visible in the distance. As they grew closer, Brett could also see the remains of a burned-out structure. A stone fireplace and foundation were barely discernible in a stand of trees not far from the small house that now existed. He felt a wash of pity flow through him as he realized it had to be the home that the murderers had burned down during their raid. His eyes darted to Cass's profile as she rode closer to her home. Not once did her eyes stray to the burned remains of what had once been her home.

  "'We're almost there. You can go back to town now," Cass said without looking at the man she'd felt next to her every step of the way home. Some time since she'd seen him in the morning, he'd bathed and put on clean clothes. His dark hair glistened in the sunlight that crept under the brim of his hat, and the fresh, clean, manly scent of his body had assaulted her nostrils during the entire ride.

  Brett continued along beside her. "I'll see you safely to your door."

  Cass let out her breath slowly. "Fine," she answered.

  As they neared the house, Cass heard a commotion coming from the backyard. "What the . . . ?" Speeding up her mount, she steered him toward the noise, Brett following close behind.

  The sight that met them as they rounded the corner of the house took Brett completely by surprise. A small Chinese man in a long garment was chasing a huge chicken, which seemed to be chasing a large yellow cat. The man shouted at the top of his lungs in a foreign tongue, his long pigtail flapping behind him as he ran. The cat kept running around in large circles, stopping briefly beside trees, bushes, and fence posts, only to have the chicken catch up and begin pecking him fiercely on the head. The entire scene was being watched, and cheered on, by an old, balding man who hopped barefoot in the dirt outside the back door of the house.

  "Soony, catch that damn chicken!" shouted Cass when she saw the melee.

  "I'm trying, Missy Cass. Pork Chop won't leave Mirabelle alone!" the Chinese man shouted back.

  "Uncle Darby, don't just stand there. Do something!" Cass yelled at the old man.

  "I am. I'm bettin' on the chicken," the old man answered gleefully.

  "Uncle Darby!" Cass shouted threateningly as she jumped from her horse and joined the chase.

  "Oh, all right," grumbled the man, and he took up the rear.

  Brett watched the ensuing scene with laughter bubbling up inside him. Cass took the lead, trying to catch either the chicken or the cat, chasing them around and around a tree in the center of the yard. The old man rounded the tree once, then stopped to catch his breath.

  "Climb the tree, Mirabelle!" Cass shouted at the cat. "Soony, grab that chicken! I swear I'm going to fry him for dinner!"

  Brett felt himself start to laugh out loud. He hadn't seen anything so funny in a long, long time.

  Cass heard Brett laughing and glowered at him. "You big jerk, get down and help!" she yelled in his direction.

  Brett pointed innocently at himself. "Me?" he answered.

  Cass rolled her eyes and took off again after the two wayward pets.

  Brett jumped down from his horse but didn't really know where to enter the chase. The cat, darting haphazardly from one spot to another, didn't give much clue to the course the chase was going to take from one moment to the next. It was all Brett could do to stay out of the way and hold his sides laughing. Mirabelle chose that moment to get acquainted. Taking a flying leap, she threw herself onto Brett's chest, clawing furiously for a good grip of his shirt and taking a large amount of flesh along with it"

  "Ouch!" yelped Brett, trying to pull the frightened cat from his chest. Then before he could save himself, his vision was blocked by flapping wings and chicken feathers. The cat released its death grip on his chest and jumped to the ground in terror. Pork Chop tried to follow, but Brett managed to grab her by one leg. She began to furiously peck his hand trying to escape. "Ow! Somebody come get this chicken before I wring its neck," he threatened.

  Soony ran as fast as his legs could carry him and grabbed his precious pet from the fingers of the stranger. "Don't kill Pork Chop. She's a good chicken. She just doesn't like cats," he explained.

  Brett rubbed the tiny peck wounds on his fingers and looked down at his bloody shirt. The cat had done worse damage than the chicken.

  Cass had stopped running when Mirabelle leaped onto Brett's chest, and she now found herself in the center of the yard, staring at the wounded marshal. The whole thing suddenly seemed hilarious to her. Her face split into a grin and her chest started to heave with laughter. Soon she was guffawing loudly, tears filling her eyes and running freely down her cheeks. Finally she had to sit right down in the dirt, she was so weak with laughter.

  Brett looked indignantly at the hysterical young woman. "I don't see what's so funny," he told her, pointing to the bloody marks on the front of his shirt. "That damn cat nearly tore me in half. And look at my fingers!" He held his hand up for Cass to see the angry red marks along his knuckles.

  Cass just kept on laughing. The more put out Brett looked, the funnier the situation became, She didn't know or care whether or not anything was truly funny. Right now it seemed hilarious, and she needed this. After the horrific day she'd had, she needed to sit in the dirt of her own back yard and laugh until she cried. She let herself fall backwards to lay flat, staring up at the sky as she laughed. Oh, how she needed this.

  Brett walked over to where Cass lay and looked down at her. "I'm certainly glad you're enjoying this," he said, which sent Cass into another fit of choking giggles.

  Darby took hopping steps to Cass's side. "She's always been a bit strange," he said to Brett, as though in explanation.

  Cass laughed even harder.

  Brett shook his head and held out his hand to Darby. "Brett Ryder," he offered.

  Darby shook the proffered hand. "I'm Darby Wayne, Cass's uncle,"

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne."

  "Just call me Darby, Marshal. Everybody does."

  "Yes, sir, Darby."

  Cass's fit had begun to subside a bit as the two men made their introductions. She felt as though a huge knot of tension had started to relax in her chest, and knowing what she still had to finish, she relished this momentary respite. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and listened to the sounds around her as hiccups jerked her frame every few seconds and the remnants of a giggle escaped her lips now and then. A few peaceful moments passed before she sat up.

  "Where's Mirabelle?" she asked, looking around the yard.

  Brett glanced around them. "There she is.” He pointed toward the bam where the cat had stretched out lazily in the doorway, looking none the worse for wear despite her ordeal. "Damn cat," he fumed.

  Cass smiled widely. "Mmmm," she murmured noncommittally. "Looks like Pork Chop has calmed down too,” she said. Pushing herself up to her feet, she brushed the dirt and dust from her trousers. "Is dinner almost ready, Soony?” she asked.

  "Just about, Missy Cass."

  "What are we having?" Cass was suddenly famished.

  "Roast chicken."

  Cass turned to Brett and surprised him by smiling. "Sounds good, don't you think? Why don't you stay for dinner, and we'll see what we can do about cleaning up those scratches for you," she said as she turned toward the house.

  Chapter Five

  “Those aren't so bad," commented Cass as she watched Brett washing off the scratches Mirabel
le had planted on his chest. "You're nothing more than a big baby, complaining the way you did," she finished.

  Brett had been standing with his back to her, watching her reflection in the mirror. Turning to face her, he smiled. "You really think so?"

  Something in Brett's smile caught Cass off guard. She'd been teasing him, unaffected by the fact that he'd removed his shirt to minister to his wounds, but now, in the breadth of a second, something had changed. Her gaze traveled a path over his chest, taking in the strong curve of muscle covered by a shadow of softly curling hair that narrowed as it trailed downward, seeming to point to a different, lower part of his body. Letting her eyes fall, she stared at the floor. "Dinner's nearly on the table," she told him quickly.

  Brett read the thoughts flitting through Cass's mind and felt a rush of desire course through his body with the force of a tidal wave. Standing perfectly still, the damp washcloth hanging limp in his hand, he whispered roughly, "Cass?"

  Cass couldn't raise her eyes to meet his. He made her feel things that were unfamiliar to her. Just the sound of her name on his breath sent sizzling little tingles skittering along her flesh. She remembered the way his kiss had felt and tasted earlier that day and wondered why this man had managed to start a wild fire inside her as no other male had ever done. "Come and eat . . . as soon as . . . you’re through here," she told him without looking up. Turning on her heel, she left the doorway of her uncle's room, not giving Brett another chance to speak.

  Brett felt confused by Cass's reaction to him. Sighing, he turned back to the mirror and dropped the washcloth into the basin, glancing up at his reflection as he did. She's a strange one he decided, remembering the way she'd responded to him in the sheriff’s office. She'd poured herself into his kiss, giving back as much as she'd received, yet, now she blushed and stammered because he'd faced her with no shirt. Shaking his head in wonder, he reached for the clean shirt Darby had left for him; his own was snagged and spotted with blood from the cat scratches. Pulling Darby's shirt on over his shoulders, he headed from the bedroom to eat dinner.