by Clari Dees
Who was she? He’d not seen her before. And he’d seen every female in Little Creek. Or maybe it only felt that way because he was the newest single man in town. He certainly hadn’t lacked for dinner invitations since arriving.
He was at the barn door before he realized his feet had followed her. He paused as Franks’s voice rumbled in response to something the woman had said. His job as Little Creek’s new marshal did not include following the first attractive woman that caught his attention. His feet stepped closer to the door. As marshal, however, it was his job to follow up on suspicious activity. He would just verify that Franks knew who she was before he left. If the horses knew who she was, then surely Franks knows her.
He ignored the logical thought, as the voices inside the barn grew more distinct.
“You is gonna spoil that hoss, missy!”
“Don’t try to fool me, Franks. I know Abe is your favorite. I can’t spoil him any more than you’ve already done.”
The woman was gently running a brush over the black horse as Wyatt slid into the shadows inside the barn door. Was this the same woman who’d tried to snap his head off outside? Her prickles had disappeared, and there was a smile in her voice.
Franks chuckled. “Abe don’ agree with you none. He dun say he is de mos’ abused hoss on de place.”
Their banter sounded like an oft-repeated ritual. Now that he knew she had told the truth, he could leave. But his feet continued to have a mind of their own and stayed put.
“You’re both telling tall tales. Speaking of tall tales, some saddle tramp just made Abe dump me at the gate and accused me of being a horse thief. Have you seen any drifters hanging around? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before, but the way my head was spinning from bumping that gate, I could be wrong.”
Franks sounded choked when he spoke. “Real tall fella?”
Wyatt had to swallow a chuckle of his own.
“Yes…” She straightened slowly, watching Franks as she exited the stall. “Do you know who he is?”
“He’s helpin’ out ‘roun’ here for a while,” Franks hedged, avoiding her eyes and looking straight into Wyatt’s.
Wyatt laid a warning finger over his lips and moved on cat’s feet to stand behind her. He’d learned a thing or two about dealing with Apaches in his years as a cavalry soldier.
“Franks, do you know anything about this man? What if he’s an outlaw on the run or something?”
Franks’s dark eyes snapped. “Now, missy, I’se seen a lot of things in my time, and I knows how to read a man. I likes what I sees in this un. Just cuz you is upset over comin’ off old Abe don’ mean you can go accusin’ people a bein’ outlaws. Yo mama dun raise you better’n that!”
Wyatt decided it was time to announce his presence before she accused him of any more crimes. “Hear, hear.” The violence of her startled jump almost made up for her attack on his character.
She spun around, grabbing her head as she blinked rapidly. When she looked up at him, surprise widened her brown eyes, and she backed away. “Sneaking around, scaring a person out of their wits, doesn’t speak too highly of your character, Mr….”
The prickles were back in full force. But he hadn’t become a captain in the U.S. Army Cavalry because it was easy. He could handle prickles. “Wyatt Cameron, Marshal of Little Creek, at your service.” He doffed his hat and dipped his head in a small nod.
She stared then blinked like a sleepy owl. “The marshal?” Her eyes narrowed. “Where’s your badge?”
He pointed to the vest he’d discarded earlier when he’d gotten warm in the barn. It lay over the edge of a stall, a five-pointed star glinting dully in the shadowy structure. “And might I add, you don’t seem too witless to me, ma’am.” He had a few prickles of his own. He also had years of military strategy and Apache fighting up his sleeve. Keeping the enemy on the run prevented them from launching a successful attack, even if the enemy was only a single diminutive female. Because a female on the run couldn’t chase him.
“Witless? What…? What are you talking about?”
“You said I scared you out of your wits, but I think you’re just mannerless not witless.”
“Mannerless…?”
If the confusion on her face was any indication, his military strategy was working. But never before had he had the desire to laugh when trading fire with hostile natives. “When a gentleman introduces himself, a lady is expected to reciprocate the gesture.”
* * *
There it was again! The tone that made it sound as if he was talking to a simpleton!
Meri straightened to her full height, glaring at the man towering over her. She wasn’t short at five foot seven, but this man, his shoulders nearly as broad as Franks’s and standing several inches taller, made her feel unusually small. Now that he’d removed his hat, she could finally see his features.
She sized up the irritating stranger. Thick wavy brown hair glinted with cinnamon highlights and framed a nicely put together face. Smiling hazel eyes were set under arched brows of the same brown hue as his hair. Sun-bronzed skin stretched over high, sculptured cheekbones and directed her eyes to a nose that looked to have been broken once. Firm lips tucked up at one corner in a lopsided grin set off a very determined chin.
Glancing down, she noted a red neckerchief, faded blue shirt belted into dusty brown canvas duck-cloth trousers and well-broken-in boots. All of which clothed a broad shouldered, lean muscled form. Hearing a chuckle, her eyes snapped upward to find a full-blown smile showcasing pearly white teeth. Feeling a blush burning its way up her cheeks, she frantically tried to recall what had been said. Now was not the time to be distracted by a handsome face.
“I said, when a gentleman introduces himself, a lady is supposed to reciprocate.” The dimple winked at her again, highlighting his smirk.
Meri was growing tired of that smirk. “Well, there’s your problem—you’re not a gentleman!” Spinning around, she faced Franks who hastily straightened grinning features. “I thought you said he was ‘helpin’ out’ around here?”
Franks hearty laugh boomed out. “He’s helpin’ out cuz his horse is here, but he is de new marshal shore ‘nuff.”
The marshal stepped into her field of vision. “And don’t let me catch you trying out that stunt you pulled with Abe on my horse, or I really will run you in for horse theft. That is, after I get done pickin’ you up off the ground when he tosses you on your head.”
Her back stiffened at the insult. “I’ve never met a horse that could toss me on my head!”
He cocked his head, frowning slightly as if searching his memory. “I seem to recall you being tossed not more than a few minutes ago and by a horse, too, if my memory serves me correctly.” A twinkle lit the hazel eyes, and Franks chuckled.
“Abe didn’t toss me! You startled us!” Meri fought the urge to stamp her foot. She had no idea why they thought this was so funny. Gritting her teeth, she looked at Franks and scraped together the ragged remnants of her dignity. “Thank you for the use of Abe. I can see you’re busy, so I’ll run along.”
“No need to go runnin’ off in such a all-fired hurry. I was hopin’ to sit an’ chat a spell.” Franks’s eyes glinted with suppressed laughter as he glanced between Meri and the new marshal.
“I’m supposed to meet Faither at the mercantile. He’s probably waiting on me.” Meri planted a quick kiss on Franks’s cheek and beat a hasty retreat down the aisle to the livery entrance.
“Bye, Miss Meri,” said Franks.
“Good day, Miss Meri,” echoed the marshal.
Meri froze momentarily before turning slowly. “A gentleman does not call a lady by her first name unless given express permission. The name is Miss McIsaac to you!”
Wyatt grinned. “See, that wasn’t so hard was it?”
Meri huffed disgustedly and dropped the haughty tone. “What wasn’t so hard?”
“Acting like a lady and introducing yourself.”
The man was as annoying as
a splinter in a wool sock. “Don’t you have work to do, Marshal? Or is harassing people your only job?”
Hooking his thumbs behind his belt, he rocked back on his heels. “I’ve already apprehended a dangerous horse thief this mornin’. All in all I’d say not a bad day’s work, Miss McIsaac.”
Meri shot a quick glance at Franks. “I said you didn’t know enough about him. When the town council learns how delusional he is, they’ll fire him on the spot. He’ll have so much time on his hands you can put him to work mucking out all the stalls. He should be good at it, judging by what he’s shoveled out since I arrived!”
Taking advantage of the instantaneous silence, she spun on her heel and marched out of the barn, biting back a victorious smirk of her own. Finally! The last word!
But as she cleared the doorway, she heard Franks speak. “Hoo whee, Marshal, you dun riled her up sumpin’ fierce! Her mamma would’a warshed her mouth out with soap for dat!”
Color flew high in her cheeks as she continued her march away from the livery stable, followed by the irritating sound of the marshal’s laugh. Franks was right. Her mother wouldn’t have been happy about the last comment she’d let fly. Catriona McIsaac had always admonished that just because ranch life could be crude and dirty, one’s speech didn’t have to be crude and dirty. Meri let out a deep breath as her shoulders slumped. She should not have lost her temper, but—honestly! The man had called her a horse thief! Between that, her lately volatile emotions and…and those unnerving eyes, it had been like waving a red flag at a bull, and she’d attacked.
Something Mrs. Van Deusen had said earlier flitted across her memory, stopping Meri in her tracks.
“…the new marshal has arrived, and you have to meet him. I’ve told him all about you.”
No! Oh, no, no, no!
Mortified consternation swamped the last dregs of temper. She should have never left the ranch this morning. Faither had better be done with his business, because she wanted to slink out of this town as fast as possible. Mrs. Van Deusen could find some other unsuspecting female to throw at the new marshal. Meri wanted absolutely no part of him! Not that he’d want anything to do with her after this morning. It was going to be hard enough to come back in for church services, to say nothing of the picnic.
Dread slithered down her spine, and she groaned. Just the thought of sitting in the same church building with that man made her feel queasy enough maybe she’d just stay home from church for a while. She definitely wouldn’t have to feign not feeling well! And who needed a picnic, anyway? Staying away from town was sounding better all the time.
Crack!
The sound of a gunshot slammed into her ears. Meri’s heart stopped as the direction of the gunfire dawned on her.
She broke into a dead run.
Chapter Two
Wyatt examined the repaired holster before strapping it around his waist and holstering his pistol. “Looks good, Franks. I figured I’d have to replace the whole thing, but I can hardly see where you fixed it. Thanks.”
Crack! The gunshot interrupted Franks’s reply.
Wyatt pivoted toward the barn door, wishing for his rifle from his office.
“Wait! You might need dis.” Franks tossed a rifle to Wyatt, a second rifle in his other hand.
“Thanks.” Wyatt snatched the rifle out of the air and sprinted out of the barn, hearing Franks pound the ground behind him.
As they turned the corner onto the main street, Wyatt dodged the running figure of Miss McIsaac. Where did she think she was going?
“Stay back!” He barked as he passed her. He spared a split-second glance over his shoulder, pleased to see her slow down. Good. He didn’t know what was going on, but the fewer spectators he had to deal with the better.
A man jumped astride a horse to ride away from the bank, throwing hot lead around and forcing curious onlookers to scurry for cover. Wyatt threw up his rifle, slamming the butt of the gun into his shoulder. As he laid his finger against the trigger, someone ran between him and the mounted gunman. He jerked the barrel of the rifle up and held his fire. He had no clear shot, but the shooting horseman needed to be stopped before someone was killed.
Wyatt pulled his pistol and fired twice in the air, aiming far above innocent heads. The bullets came nowhere near the gunman, but he sank his spurs into the horse’s sides as he yanked violently on the reins and plunged down an alleyway.
The shooting stopped, and heads poked out of doorways like so many prairie dogs. “Anyone hurt?” Wyatt shouted as he ran toward the bank.
“No. But I think the bank’s been robbed.” An unidentified voice yelled back.
Wyatt slammed the bank doors open, Franks and several other men hot on his heels. No one was in the front room, but the door to the office stood open, and the banker was slumped on the floor just inside it. He moaned and tried to sit up as Wyatt entered. He gave the banker a quick glance then looked around the office.
“Franks, help him.” He pointed to the banker and moved to a second man lying motionless and bleeding on the floor beside the massive desk.
There was blood on the floor around the white-haired man’s head and more blood staining his side, but he was breathing. The wound on his side was bleeding freely, and Wyatt pulled off the red neckerchief he wore, wadding it up and pressing it against the wound to staunch the blood. “Somebody fetch the doctor!”
A commotion sounded at the office door. “Faither! No!”
The piercing cry pulled Wyatt’s eyes up. Miss McIsaac sank to her knees on the other side of the bleeding man, her face a mask of disbelieving horror.
“Is this your father?”
A silent nod was his only answer as her eyes frantically ran over her father’s form. Her hand gripped a tiny hideout pistol. Where had that come from? More important, what had she planned to do with it? Take on the bank robber herself? Probably. “If you’ll put that gun away, I need you to hold this while I check on the banker.”
Miss McIsaac looked at the pistol as if seeing it for the first time, blinked, then tucked it away in a pocket. She looked back at him, shock darkening her eyes.
Wyatt grabbed her unresisting hand and placed it over the bloody neckerchief. “Hold this down as tight as you can. It’ll slow the bleeding. The wound doesn’t look too bad, but he’s got a gash on the back of his head, as well. Looks like he hit it on the desk when he fell.”
Her face drained of color, and he heard her breath hitch in her throat. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?” He deliberately forced a hint of scorn into the question.
It worked. The muscles along her jaw clenched as she took a deep breath, and when she spared a glance at him, some of the spark was back in her eyes if not in her voice. “I don’t faint.”
She might be foolhardy, but she was tough, too. He disliked leaving her with her wounded father, but he had a gunman to follow before he got any farther away. He pushed to his feet and took a last look at her lowered face as she focused determinedly on her hands. Her lips were moving soundlessly, but she was keeping steady pressure on the makeshift bandage.
“Doc’s comin’,” someone cried from the back of the crowd.
Relieved, Wyatt went to try to glean information from the banker.
* * *
Wyatt wondered if he smelled as rank as the men wearily riding alongside him. Then again maybe the odor came from himself alone and not his companions. Three days chasing an elusive quarry wasn’t conducive to rest, much less keeping clean, and he would dearly love a bath, food and sleep; not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately it might be a while before he was able to acquire any of them. The townsfolk were going to want to know the results of the three-day chase. Returning to town with nothing to show for the posse’s efforts but weary horses, weary bodies covered in trail dust and a glaring lack of a culprit and loot was not an auspicious beginning to his career as Little Creek’s marshal.
In the minutes following Mr. McIsaac’s removal to the doctor’s office
while men had scrambled for horses, Wyatt had fired questions at the assembled crowd. The banker had been too shaken up to give any helpful information, and none of the onlookers could add anything to what Wyatt had seen himself as he was running toward the bank. Armed with this pitiful lack of information, but a veritable arsenal of assorted firearms, Wyatt and the hastily assembled posse rode out of town, hot on the trail of the bank bandit.
Following the tracks of the fleeing horse and rider until night had forced a halt, they’d made a cold, dark camp lest the bandit had circled around to take a few shots at them in the glow of a campfire. Canteens of water and strips of jerky had provided their meal before they’d taken turns standing guard or grabbing a few hours of sleep. As soon as the sky had begun to lighten, they’d continued their pursuit, but had lost the trail when it had merged with a sea of tracks left by a passing cattle herd being pushed toward the Denver stockyards.
Splitting up the posse, they’d spent the rest of the day cutting for sign on both sides of the cattle trail. They’d even caught up with the herd, but the drovers had denied seeing either hide or hair of anyone but themselves and the posse.
Another day of tedious searching for sign had ended in failure when a heavy rainstorm had rolled through leaving them wet, cold, tired and discouraged. Wyatt had hated to head back empty-handed and without any idea of the whereabouts of the bandit, but washed-out sign, dwindling supplies and a dispirited posse had left no other option.
Twilight descended as they rode into town, and Wyatt thanked the men for their participation before the posse broke apart, each man heading for his own home while Wyatt continued toward the livery. His horse deserved a good feed and some rest. It had been a hard ride for them both.
Franks met him at the front doors of the livery. “From de looks ob things, I specs you dun lost dat fella.”