Special Delivery

by Gini Rifkin

  Table of Contents

  Special Delivery

  Copyright

  Praise for Gini Rifkin

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication.

  Special Delivery

  by

  Gini Rifkin

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Special Delivery

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Gini Rifkin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Cactus Rose Edition, 2012

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-167-8

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Gini Rifkin

  THE DRAGON AND THE ROSE

  “Rifkin is immensely knowledgeable about the

  story’s time period.”

  ~RT Magazine

  “If you enjoy lyrical writing, a bit of magic, and medieval romance, I recommend this wonderful read!”

  ~Between the Lines

  “This is an ENCHANTING story!”

  ~Long and Short Reviews

  ~*~

  LADY GALLANT

  “A genuinely sweet romance married to an exciting

  war/espionage story.“

  ~RT Magazine

  “I highly recommend Lady Gallant to any fan of historical romance.”

  ~Long and Short Reviews

  ~*~

  IRON HEART

  “Iron Heart gives the classic epic adventures a run for their money.”

  ~Sizzling Hot Books (5 Hearts)

  “Rifkin weaves a tale of romance and adventure that could easily be shared around a blazing campfire.”

  ~The Romance Reviews

  “A wonderfully captivating blend of medieval history and fantasy!”

  ~The Medieval Chronicle

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the men and women who won the West, and the Native Americans who lost so much.

  And as always, my thanks to The Wild Rose Press and my editor, the amazing Amanda Barnett.

  Chapter One

  Clover City, Colorado—late summer, 1888

  Virgil Kincaid hadn’t always been on the shining side of the law. But he’d done his time and paid his dues, and working as the town marshal suited him just fine. It was regular pay and irregular work, and when a body was heading toward thirty he didn’t mind a day or two of boredom on occasion.

  “I’ll stand,” he said to the man dealing the cards.

  The job also gave him an opportunity to play a little poker now and again. He enjoyed gambling in one form or another. And the usual Saturday night game not only brought in a few dollars, it kept him in touch with what was going on in Clover City.

  Smiley Fontaine, owner of the local feed store, threw in his hand. “I’m out,” he said.

  “Me too,” put in Harry Whitcomb. “Gonna call it a night. I got supplies coming in at the hotel come morning.”

  Morgan Blackwell, the richest man in town, smirked and bit down on his cheroot. “That leaves just you and me, Kincaid. Whataya got, Marshal?”

  Virgil kept his expression even. There was no need for a man to gloat, especially when the pickin’s were this easy.

  “Four ladies and one gent,” he drawled and laid out his cards.

  “Damnation.” Morgan nearly bit his cheroot in half as he slammed down his cards and leapt to his feet. His right hand opened and closed a few times as if he itched to go for the revolver he wore at his side.

  “You’re the luckiest damn son of a bitch I ever seen,” he choked out. Everybody at the table knew what he really wanted was to accuse the Marshal of cheating. But a man would have to be stupid drunk to do that.

  “Always appreciated being lucky,” Virgil acknowledged, sliding the pile of money his way.

  A pair of soft arms ringed his neck, and a whiff of cheap perfume clouded around his head as Pretty Molly Malloy draped herself over his shoulder.

  “Need any help spending that tonight, darlin’?” the redhead whispered in his ear.

  “I believe I just might,” Virgil replied with a grin.

  ****

  “Get along, Tillie, old girl,” Mariah McAllister called to the stout little mare pulling the buckboard.

  It was past midnight, and although she was a full-grown woman, this was the latest she’d been out alone at night. She was dead tired and could hardly wait to get home.

  Thank the good Lord Mrs. Newsome was only suffering from false labor pains. If the baby really had decided to make an appearance tonight, Mariah didn’t know what she would have done. She knew what she was supposed to do, of course, but knowing and doing were two totally different things. It would have been her first delivery as a midwife and without her Dad’s help.

  Poor Mr. Newsome, he sure had been concerned. It was the couple’s first baby, and he had been in a righteous lather of worry when he’d come pounding on the door of the clinic tonight. With Dad taking on a miserable cold, one step away from pneumonia, it had left only Mariah to go check on their patient. She was proud her father had trusted her with the responsibility. Hopefully he’d be recovered when Mrs. Newsome’s time really came.

  With a sigh, Mariah wriggled around trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard wooden seat. No luck there. The darkness deepened to inky black, and although she could see lights in the distance, the town seemed miles away. What a long ride for nothing.

  All of a sudden, the horse snorted and sidestepped. She reined the mare to a full stop, and then leaned forward trying to see what had spooked Tillie. Squinting, Mariah finally detected something lying in the road. It was a man and he wasn’t moving.

  A shiver danced down her spine, and she glanced around expecting someone or something to jump out of the darkness. When nothing ominous reared its head, she set the brake, secured the reins, and slid from the wagon. Cautiously making her way forward, she crouched down beside the man’s form.

  No wonder Tillie had shied. On the dusty road, near the man’s left shoulder, there was a large black patch. An acrid smell rose sharply in the air—blood. Palpating the man’s throat, she felt for a pulse. It was weak and thready.

  She made to rise and retrieve her Daddy’s black bag from the cart, but the fellow reached out with surprising strength and snared her arm.

  “Who are you?” he gritted between clenched teeth as he held her at his side.

  “I’m Mariah McAllister, Doc McAllister’s daughter, and I think you’d better just lie still while I get some help.”

  “There’s no time, miss.”

  His British accent was unusual in these parts, and even in the limited light she could see his foreign looking clothes were high quali
ty, the stitching sure and fine. What would an Englishman be doing in Clover City? If she couldn’t keep him alive, they may never know.

  “My boot, woman,” he said with a grimace of pain.

  “What about your boot? Is your foot injured too?”

  “Pull it off,” he groaned. “Pull it off and hand it to me.”

  She stared at his feet. “Which one sir? I don’t understand.”

  “Right one,” he wheezed. Then his head lolled to the side.

  No longer able to feel the pulse in his neck, she slapped at his cheeks trying to revive him. There was no response…heaven help her, he was dead.

  She rocked back on her heels, stunned and frightened. Somebody had killed this man and it hadn’t been that long ago. She glanced around in fear before returning her gaze to his feet. There must be something mighty important about that boot to be the last thing on his mind before he gave up the ghost.

  Crawling sideways in the dirt, she grabbed hold of his right foot and yanked, tugged, and twisted until the footwear finally came loose. Gingerly, she reached inside and skimmed her fingers across the still warm leather. Nothing. Then she felt it, paper thin and wedged up along one side. It was a letter.

  ****

  “Marshal. Marshal. Open up, please. It’s me Mariah McAllister.”

  She stopped knocking, pressed her ear against the door to Virgil Kincaid’s living quarters, and listened for signs of life. She got more than she bargained for. Moans and groans of a particular nature issued forth from the room and a vision of what was going on assaulted her mind.

  For quite some time she’d had a longing for Marshal Kincaid, and in her dreams, it was her making those noises. Heat seared her face then spiraled lower, making her shift her stance and squeeze her thighs together.

  Who was with him? Probably Pretty Molly. The whole town knew the girl also had a craving for the lawman, and Molly did more than just dream about these kinds of things.

  Embarrassed, but seeing no other alternative, she knocked all the louder. A noise like a growl sounded on the other side of the barrier before the door was wrenched open.

  “What?” Virgil shouted.

  At his verbal attack, she took a step back. Then her gaze took in every inch of him. His long brown hair was tussled, his mouth—as if recently put to hard use—was exceptionally full, and his breath came too fast for normal. The marshal was dressed in only denim trousers, and Mariah couldn’t stop staring at his bare torso—a muscular, trim, broad-shouldered torso. A spattering of dark hair dusted his chest and V-d downward. Her gaze followed the hazy trail south, passed his belt to his slim hips and other interesting regions.

  Coming to her senses, she forced herself to remember why she’d come calling. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s trouble on the southbound road.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Virgil’s eyes narrowed, but his stance remained annoyingly nonchalant.

  She glanced around him and spotted Molly half-clothed sitting on the settee by the woodstove. The girl appeared a tad bleary-eyed, but not drunk enough to miss what was being discussed.

  “Could we speak in private,” Mariah requested.

  Virgil let out a big sigh of annoyance, indicating his uncooperative mood.

  Oh for goodness sake, a man was dead, and the town marshal was being peevish about having his romantic interlude interrupted. She grabbed hold of his belt, tugged him forward into the alleyway, then reached around and pulled the door shut at his back.

  “Hey,” he sputtered. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to tell you,” she snapped back, “there’s a man lying dead on the road about two miles from town.”

  That seemed to get his attention.

  “Who is he?”

  “How should I know? He’s a stranger and dressed to beat the band.”

  Virgil choked out an expletive. “What were you doing out there?” he asked, as if it were her fault the man was dead.

  “I was coming back from the Newsome’s farm. Their baby’s due quite soon you know, and Mrs. Newsome was having pains. They started yesterday afternoon, but her water hadn’t broken yet and—”

  “Gees…spare me the details. I get the picture.”

  She clamped her mouth shut. When she was nervous she tended to talk too much. And standing in the moonlight with Virgil Kincaid half-naked and smelling like whiskey and wayward thoughts, she was nervous indeed. The light from the full moon played upon the contours of his body, accentuating every perfect muscle as well as every scarred imperfection. He rubbed his hand across his bare chest in an absent-minded way, making her want to follow suit. Fighting the urge, she balled her hands into fists and held her ground.

  Virgil took her by the arm, bringing her back to reality.

  “Wait here,” he ordered, escorting her over to the buckboard. “I’ll just be a minute and we’ll go back out there and try and figure out what’s going on.”

  Left to her own devices, she climbed aboard. As she sat waiting, she heard Molly’s angry voice stab through the closed door of the marshal’s private quarters. His sparse accommodations were located on the backside of the jailhouse, just down the street from the saloon.

  She jumped when the door burst open, and Molly appeared, her face a storm cloud ready to break. As she flounced by, she glared up at Mariah, tossed her red hair in a dismissive manner, and wobbled into the night on her high-heeled shoes.

  Fully dressed now, Virgil followed right behind the irate girl. Black shirt, black hat, a Colt revolver strapped to his narrow hips, he slammed the door shut and near leaped up onto the wagon seat. Without asking, he gathered the reins and coaxed Tillie into a trot. Mariah knew the little mare was tired, but she seemed to find new enthusiasm under the Marshal’s masterful hand—who wouldn’t?

  ****

  Virgil’s mind was in a whirl. Damnation, what the heck was going on? This sounded like a case of murder. Big doings for Clover City, and the last thing he needed. He’d had enough of intrigue while living in big cities like San Francisco and New York, and several hellholes in between. Or maybe he was just getting soft, only good for breaking up bar fights and squabbles over fence lines. Yet, as much as he hated to admit it, he was a little intrigued by this turn of events. He was also intrigued by the woman at his side.

  He sneaked a glance at Miss Mariah McAllister. She sat straight and prim and quiet as a mouse, all the words previously stampeding from her mouth roped and tied. And with all that dark hair and creamy skin, she sure was easy on the eyes.

  More than once, he’d taken a notion to ask her to join him for dinner. But being Doc’s daughter, he figured she was probably destined to be with someone more cultured. Oh, he’d filled many an hour reading and learning, but being able to quote Shakespeare didn’t make a fellow a gentleman. In most folks’ eyes, money and a mile long family heritage certified a man of good breeding, and made him a candidate good for breeding.

  He shifted in his seat, ignoring the urge to adjust the fit of his pants. His blood was still running high from his interrupted romp with Molly. She was a nice distraction. Didn’t ask for much and seemed to understand their little tête-à-têtes were not heading in any particular direction. He supposed he would always keep things that way. Although, on occasion, in the wee small hours of the morning, when the bed was cold and the fire turned to ash, settling down with a wife and kid skittered across his mind. Then with the coming of the dawn, those lonesome and foolish thoughts generally disappeared.

  “He’s just up ahead,” Mariah said.

  The sound of her voice broke the illusion he was out on a pleasant jaunt with her rather than trying to find a dead body.

  “I see him. Whoa, now,” he called and brought the mare to a halt.

  He handed the reins off to Mariah. Unfortunately, any expectation the woman might stay in the wagon didn’t last long. She hiked up her skirt and scrambled down to the ground, nearly reaching the man before he could.

  “Stay by the w
agon, will you,” he ordered, bending over the body. “I’m trying to look for evidence of what happened here.”

  “He was shot twice, in the back. You can see the exit wounds on his chest.”

  Virgil straightened and aimed one of his best glares in her direction. She didn’t cower, didn’t give an inch, but at least she had the good grace to look contrite.

  “I can see he’s been shot,” he said with a scowl. “I thought maybe there’d be footprints or hoof marks that could help narrow down who did the shooting. Looks like the area’s been stomped flat by a pair of size five ladies’ shoe.”

  “Size six actually.”

  He snatched off his hat and slapped it against his thigh in aggravation.

  “Well I’m sorry,” she huffed. “When I got here he was still alive, and my first thought was to try and save his life—not save the surrounding area for a murder investigation.”

  Ignoring her explanation, he stood staring down at the dead man. A pack of coyotes started singing in the nearby valley.

  “Help me get him in the buckboard.”

  “What?”

  The yips and howls grew closer and louder.

  “If we leave him here, there won’t be much left of him come morning. You take his feet.”

  To his surprise, Mariah squared her shoulders and readily stepped up to help. He expected his suggestion to elicit a bucket-load of female shock and indignation, but she offered nary a complaint.

  “What’s with the missing boot?” he asked as they struggled with the task. “Did you take it off of him?”

  “Yes.” She panted with exertion. “It’s in the buckboard. He kept insisting I do something with his right boot. It was his last request. And by the way,” she added, “he spoke with an accent like that Englishman who came to visit Morgan Blackwell a while back.”

  They hoisted the man into the wagon, and Virgil grabbed up the boot to examine it.

  “I already found it,” she offered.

  “Found what?”

  “The letter.”

  “What letter?”

  “The one hidden in the boot.”

  He tossed the footwear back in the buckboard and held out his hand.