by Martha Hix
Her mouth flattened. “You’re just plumb eaten-up with the self-righteous, aren’t you?”
“No, no, no, no, no!”
He recognized Geneviève Benoit’s voice. The former can-can girl at the Moulin Rouge in Paris rushed in. “Mon dieu! What is happening? My beautiful Garter! No, no! It is ruined. Monsieur Flic, whatever shall I do?”
“Don’t fret.” Wes got to his feet. “I’ll make certain this is all taken care of.”
Geneviève—better known as Jenny—was ever the distressed damsel, bringing forth the ancestral concept of courtly love. Wes had never been immune to the petite redhead, even before she attended “finishing school” in Gay Paree. What a woman! What a wildcat.
Jenny eyed the unkempt stranger. “My waitress said a woman was shooting a gun in my saloon. You, obviously. Why?”
The warrior woman nodded toward Wes. “This asshole let a murdering piece of shit get away!”
Jenny’s gloved fingers covered her lips. “’Tis no way for a lady to talk.”
“I’m not a lady.”
“’Tis not something to brag about.”
“Oh, shut the hell up, you old biddy.”
Wes had to chew the inside of his cheek, lest he loudly protest. The last way he’d describe the lovely French can-can girl? Old. And he wouldn’t allow anyone to be rude to her. “That’s enough!”
Jenny eyed the ruins of the saloon. “I am pleased my portrait isn’t damaged.”
All three eyed the suggestive painting above the bar. The portrait featured Jenny standing in a Victorian salon wearing an ostrich boa, a red garter, and slippers—one of which was propped on an ottoman. In the painting she also wore a tight-fitting, beige garment as a second skin. The bodice dipped into a V to accentuate her cleavage, her large breasts near to spilling. Not leaving a lot to the imagination, she’d cleverly covered enough to stay out of jail.
“Isn’t that something?” The tall blonde shook her head. “You called me down, when you let people see your nasty bits barely covered? Hypocrite.”
“The very nerve—”
“Don’t worry, Jenny love,” Wes interrupted, the endearment slipping out. He rushed to get by it. “I’ll make sure Miss...” What’s her name? He tilted his chin in the shieldmaiden’s direction. “Miss Bryn Hilde Eriksdottir of the Norse lands will—”
“That’s not me! I am Lisa-Ann Wilkins, thank you very much. I’m from The Divide in Kerr County, not some horse land. We raise sheep and goats.”
“I stand corrected.” He smiled at his success in pulling out the wild woman’s name and provenance. “Fear not. Miss Lisa-Ann Wilkins of The Divide will pay full restitution.”
“Merci, I am very—”
“Oh no,” the culprit broke in. “No way. I’m not paying a penny.”
Oh, yes, you will.
“You needn’t trouble yourself about tonight,” he said to Jenny. “Go home, get your beauty sleep. I’ll make certain this place is put to rights.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Flic. You are always the man to depend upon in this petite ville.”
“At your service, ma’am.”
Lisa-Ann made a face at him, saving a piece of it for Jenny Benoit, who twirled around and bustled away with a “Merci beaucoup, ma chou!”
Of course he would look out for her. She was Jenny. There was no other like her.
“Now, for you…” He pointed at the perpetrator. Standing to the top of his five-six, he took a good look at trouble somewhat under control. “What am I going to do with you?”
In the shadows of the saloon he couldn’t tell for sure, but her eyes were certainly blue, very blue, and very prettily on the verge of tears. Which, of course, didn’t match this wild woman. Wes didn’t crave it, not for even a split second, but Lisa-Ann Wilkins intrigued him with her mixture of spunk and vulnerability.
He felt certain this idiocy within him resulted from the overwhelming, intoxicating air. It reeked of bourbons and sour mashes, even Scotch whisky. Spilled alcohol soaked the sawdust and dirt on the floor, seeping between the wooden planks. Near drunk on it, he let himself believe that the rip-roaring girl from The Divide reminded him of another woman in his life. His mother.
They didn’t resemble in looks, of course. But Mother also had the warrior to her. She lived to stir up trouble, usually for no good reason. Such as the time when Wes’s father fell dead in this very saloon, trying to stop Estella Orrey-Alington from destroying the place.
Lisa-Ann at last answered his basically rhetorical question. “I beg your indulgence. I am exhausted. Filthy. But I must stay diligent. Maybe you can direct me to the High Hopes Ranch, just in case Orville is there. If you will please unlock these manacles, I will be on my way.”
He shook his head. “Not so fast. You broke more than one law when you shot at Bellingham. You can get yourself cleaned up in my best suite.”
“Suite?”
“Exactly. The county jail.” Wes reached for the chain that connected the handcuffs and used his head to motion toward the street. “You, ma’am, are under arrest.”
* * *
How truly awful for Lisa-Ann Wilkins to see the inside of a jail for the first time. Built of adobe bricks, it had lots of bars and no comfortable place to sit or repose on, at least not for inmates. Cold and damp—that described it tonight. Cold and ugly.
Again, she eyed the ceiling, then looked at the section where the sheriff relaxed.
She always thought her first visit to a jail would be to see Violet Wilkins for the first time in almost fourteen years. Her mother. Incarcerated in East Texas, hundreds of treacherous miles away from the Hill Country. Convicted of murdering her bridegroom, incarcerated perhaps for life.
Having been confined for hours on the sprung springs of the “best suite” hereabouts, Violet’s daughter sat on an iron cot, massaging her upper right arm as best she could. That jackass of a sheriff had a lot of strength. When twisting her arm, he really aggravated her weakened shoulder.
A gust of wind rattled the jailhouse windowpane near the ceiling until she would have sworn it would shatter and rain glass on her head. Shivering, teeth chattering, she wilted back against the damp wall. She winced when her right shoulder touched the bricks. That jackass had the gall to abuse her wrecked shoulder and then to arrest her, even after she cooperated.
Welcome to another round of life isn’t fair.
Nevertheless...As her dearly departed grandmother used to tell her, “when you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.”
A clock somewhere struck midnight. The sound did little to mask the noises coming from an adjoining cell. Lisa-Ann tried to center her thoughts on that murky knot. Impossible. First off, insufficient heat radiated from the potbelly stove that dominated the area holding three cells and an office. Should she ask to get it stoked? No! Sheriff No-Name had chosen to ignore her, now that he had her trapped behind bars.
This is a real mess.
During cold nights in bygone days, Lisa-Ann would have stacked carefully chosen kindling and wood in the bedroom fireplace, enough to make a cozy yet lasting fire. She would cuddle Chuck close, appreciating his warm fur and the excellent fire. He would snooze as she relaxed with a book borrowed from the wealthy kinfolks over at the XO Ranch. Tonight, she didn’t even have Pepaw’s big old coat for comfort, the sheriff having snatched it away upon hauling her here.
The blanket his deputy provided before departing to clean up that saloon? Thin. She glanced from left to right, glad for the canvas strung over the bars between the cells for privacy. Oh, how she wished they were quilts, where she could borrow one.
Even if she had her spectacles, which she didn’t—they evidently fell out of a pocket at that tavern—she couldn’t see the prisoners on either side of her. Which was fine. The inmate on Lisa-Ann’s right sang a tune. This, after he’d given what sounded like an oratory about Pickett’s Charge. The cell to the left had remained quiet, except for ev
ery twenty or so minutes. As he had all evening, this one rose up to shout, “Hell's bells! You've gone and done it now, fool!"
“Pipe down, Hiram,” the sheriff ordered from his comfortable-looking chair, across the bars from Lisa-Ann.
Him. That aggravating, sawed-off, piss-poor excuse for Law North of the Pecos. What did that painted lady call him? Was it Fleak or Freak? Damn him for ruining the best chance she’d had for revenge since this hell began, in September of 1904.
It seemed surreal, how she had arrived, ready to settle the score with Orville Bellingham, only to have everything go wrong. How could Fleak O’Freak be so indifferent, after hearing her story? Sure, she had left out the worst parts, but still…
She should have known not to trust that sheriff person. Never had the law worked in the favor of anyone named Wilkins. She fought with the idea of acting sweet as pie to ask for the return of Pepaw’s coat. Granny Fan—God rest her soul—would have suggested that. Should Lisa-Ann? Her eyesight being better at a distance, she took advantage of her farsightedness to take a long look at her captor.
The flame from a kerosene lantern cast him in light and shadows. Taking bites from an apple and holding a folded newspaper aloft, he sat at a rolltop desk on the far side of the jail. He wore black—all black. “Dark” described him, from his olive skin to his shock of raven-black hair. A hank of that hair dipped over his brow, and he sported a not-too-thick, not-too-thin mustache with ends that tipped up at his strong, square jaw. He might be short, but he had a well-honed manly shape to him: broad at the top, narrow at the behind. The truth of it was, she found his appearance appealing.
If a woman were after the defender-of-the-law sort of suitor, there sat her swain.
Another fierce blast of wind rattled the window. Lisa-Ann gathered the thin blanket as best she could around her hunched shoulders. Damn, it was cold!
Sheriff What’s-His-Name looked warm as toast. Cozy things surrounded him: wall-to-wall books, that inadequate stove, a divan, and two pots of greenery. He had made nary a motion to go to any other den—or sty!—he might call home. Did that mean he lived here?
That’d be just my luck.
If anything good deserved a thought, it had to do with the pitcher, bowl, and soapy rag that the deputy supplied before taking off to clean up that floozy’s saloon. At least her face didn’t have all that grime anymore.
Oh, for a hot bath and a warm featherbed!
Sounds rang out from the awakening inmate to her left. “Look out, look out! Damn you, soldier—I need my rifle! Meade. That’s Gen’al Meade. I mean it. That’s Meade waitin’ for us on Cemetery Hill! No, that’s not him. Shit, son! That’s the Grim Reaper!”
“Don’t fret yourself, F.M.,” the sheriff ordered. “You’re drunk, and I won’t have cursing in this jail, especially not in front of a la— Just hush.”
Obviously he’d started to say “lady.” Lisa-Ann stuck her tongue out. Of course he didn’t see her. He hadn’t glanced her way, not even once.
As she pulled her overactive tongue back into her mouth, it was as if she could hear Granny Fan: It marks you as common, sticking your tongue out at people, not to mention that awful cursing. Really, my darling, we may not be gentry, but we do have our pride. You are too good for such immature behavior. She and her grandmother were never at odds, although Lisa-Ann had stretched the boundaries, a lot of it picked up in the sheep-shearing barns of Kerr County.
That meant talking her way out of the temptation to curse to these jail walls. “Sheriff, if you’re still after the whole story, I’m ready to talk.”
He continued to ignore her, so she let fly with, “’Beg pardon, sir. I didn’t catch your name. Didn’t that Jenny person call you Fleak, or was it Freak?”
Nothing.
“It’s more than Chuck that brought me here. Don’t you want to know why I’m gunnin’ for Orville Bellingham?”
“Hush. You’ll disturb the other guests.”
“Guests? Now that’s rich. Disturb them? One is snoring and the other is a blithering idiot. You asked my reasons for breaking the law. I’m ready to talk. Please.”
“Save your strength for Judge Hanson.”
“Isn’t that just lovely,” she groused, her already squat opinion of lawmen sinking to its lowest depths.
Ever since her mother got sent to the penitentiary in Huntsville, Lisa-Ann distrusted the long arms of the law and never once had anyone done the first thing to change her mind. Get on with it. He’s the law, and it’s going to take the law to get me out of here.
Hoping against hope that they weren’t broken, she asked the sheriff, “Where are my eyeglasses?”
He lobbed the apple core into a refuse bin, then turned the page, and lifted the newspaper again, obscuring his face. “I have no idea.”
“They fell out of my pocket in that saloon. I need my eyeglasses. For close-up.”
“You should have thought of that before you took the law into your own hands.”
Ooh, he was aggravating. “I haven’t eaten all day and it’s midnight,” she pointed out. “I’d like some supper. Please.”
“What about that apple I gave you?”
The thing sat untouched at the end of the cot. “That’s no meal.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get tonight.” Putting the newspaper down, he stood to head for the divan that sat opposite his desk. “I will not leave you alone, not to fetch supper for either of us. Go to sleep so I can get a few minutes of shut-eye, myself.”
“Nice” was going nowhere. “Do you live in this jail?” she asked, trying a practical slant.
“No.”
“You must be tired. You’ve missed your own supper. I am obviously not leaving. You should go to your home. Think how a hot bath would be tonight. Just relax into a tub of water with someone to scrub your back. What more could you ask for?”
“I’ll leave after Deputy Ogle returns from Jenny Benoit’s saloon.”
In hindsight, Lisa-Ann did feel bad about tearing up that tavern. Truth to tell, she had this peculiar, nagging urge to know more about the sheriff. She kept thinking about the person who might scrub his back. Who was she? What did she look like? What the dickens difference does it make, who scrubs his back? I’ll be moving on, the very minute I spring free of this jail.
“You wouldn’t happen to have another blanket, would you, Sheriff?”
“No.”
“In that case, I’d like my coat back.”
“That thing will not be allowed to foul the air within these walls.” He turned another page, but lowered the newspaper to his lap. “I take it you’re cold.”
“It would be a lie to claim otherwise.”
Wordlessly, he went to a hall tree, removing a black fringed jacket. He turned to walk toward her cell, so she rose from the cot. Meeting him at the iron bars, she said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Think nothing of it.” He turned, returning to the divan.
This jacket smelled delicious, all suede and sheriff. He wore some sort of frou-frou powder, as her late grandfather called bay rum and other store-bought fragrances. She resisted the urge to bring the coat to her nose.
“Thank you.” She shrugged one arm into the jacket, then the other. “I do appreciate your kindness.” Don’t go away. Talk to me. Hear me out. Let me out!
He ignored the comment.
“Would it be too much to ask for a sarsaparilla?”
“It would.”
“You said earlier that I could have a bath,” she pointed out, inhaling the scent from the lapel. He’d smelled like this in that saloon, but she’d been too upset over Orville slipping away to appreciate anything pleasurable. “You said that you—”
“I didn’t promise anything.”
“Yes, you did. You said I could have a bath, once we got to this ‘best suite.’”
He shucked his boots and stretched out on the divan, covering himself with a blanket. “Your bath will hav
e to wait until I can get a lady to supervise it.”
“Who would that be—your wife maybe?” Could anyone blame her for her curiosity about this guy? He looked fairly young to be a full-fledged sheriff, and he really wasn’t all that butt ugly, outside of her distaste for his line of work. Whoa. Married or unmarried, good-looking or not, he’s not for me.
Thankfully, he hadn’t picked up on her nosiness. He did say, “How do you plan to pay for your bath?”
“Pay?” That perked Lisa-Ann up. Warmed her up, too. A tad too much. “You expect me to pay for a bath? You let a murderer get away and have me incarcerated against all that is right. I would sit in this cell for five years without bathing, rather than to pay you five cents for some slop of water.”
“That’s your decision to make.” He snapped the blanket beneath his chin. “You’d best get some sleep. You’ll need your rest for when you speak with the judge.”
“When will that be?”
“Saturday at the earliest.”
“Saturday? That’s a whole week from now! What’s the wait?”
“Judge Fleming Hanson rides the district circuit. Saturday is his day in Lubbock County.”
Her fingers curled around the bars. “Saturday won’t work. Even if I weren’t on Orville’s trail, I can’t leave Priscilla ’til then.”
“Priscilla?”
“Yes. My horse.”
“Where is this horse?” he asked.
“At the livery stable. Her time was up at midnight.”
The sheriff plumped his pillow, adjusting his neck on it. “She’ll be fine. John Vinson won’t turn her out into the night.”
What did she need to say to get her jailer to understand? “As cold as it is, and since I didn’t have feed for her, I had to leave her at the livery stable. I couldn’t just tie her to some hitching post on the street. I left her on blind faith, really.”
“Leaving her was the sensible thing to do. She’ll be fine.”
“Really, I had no other choice.” The only thing Lisa-Ann could think to do was to keep talking. She had begun to feel desperate about Priscilla. She was not young, that once-majestic palomino.