The Talisman - Crisscross

by Shaunna Gonzales

Trish entered the livery, searching for the young cowboy's horse. She located Sheriff Tuckett instead. He looked up when she entered. Sheriff Tuckett claimed few, if any, defining attributes. He was a man of averages; average build, average height, and average perception of the obvious.

  "Lady, the Smithy's closed. There's been a murder. You'll have to leave." Tuckett pushed his hat back to a perilous angle.

  "Sheriff, I'm aware of the murder. That's why I'm here." She quickly and thoroughly checked the stalls for the animal. It wasn't there. She'd look for the man that spoke to Albert about Curly, but she hadn't seen his face and she didn't remember hearing a horse leave that morning. "I'm looking for a young cowboy that rode in here day before last. Have you seen him this morning?"

  "This is no place for a woman. I have no time to help ya find him." He looked her over. Trish cringed. She was dressed in what she had, Zelda's handoffs. The clothes Penelope had given her were blood-stained or destroyed by Zelda by now.

  "But--" she found herself stammering under his male-chauvinist glare. "It might be important to the murder."

  "I haven't the time for a busy body. Go back to your whore house and leave this to me." He removed his hat and used it to guide her out.

  Sheriff Tuckett would clearly be of little assistance in her efforts to find the truth. She needed to formulate a scheme of just how to investigate without his interference. She knew, deep in her gut, that Tuckett was a liability in this case. Trish left the cool semi-darkness of the livery to find herself face-to-face with Quinn.

  "Whoa. What brings ya here at this hour?"

  Trish shrugged. The morning nip in the air had recently fled under the bright sunlight. "I--" She avoided his gaze. What could she say, that she suspected him of murdering his brother? Instead, she scrambled for an excuse for being here. "I just came by to get my horse and go for a morning ride."

  Quinn's eyebrow went up. "Ya plannin' to ride without a saddle or a bridle and in that get up?"

  "No, of course not --" She started shaking, her knees growing weak.

  "Ya look plum upset. That Tuckett, he'd accuse his own mother of murder if he thought he could pin it on 'er." His gaze seemed to explore her deepest secrets, not just those surrounding the murder but her thoughts and emotions where he was concerned. Her stomach flip-flopped and her heart quickened in response to his nearness.

  Trish caught her breath. No, I can't fall for him.

  "Albert was kilt yesterday." He didn't suspect her. That was good. She altered her expression and tried to sound unruffled. He wasn't buying her story of planning to go riding, either. Nervous, she sidestepped away from him and in the process, slipped on a stout stick, twisting her ankle and almost falling.

  Quinn reached for her, catching her arm. A look of concern filled his eyes. "Ya okay?"

  Trish clamped a firm hold on herself, willing her heart and breathing to calm down and control the impetuous carnal responses of her traitorous mind. She needed to change her game plan. She bent down, rubbing her ankle for several minutes. Time was running out and she needed to find the murderer. The disgruntled cowboy's horse was gone and that meant the cowboy was too. She didn't have the time to hunt him down, or a helicopter.

  Quinn and Ace had had their showdown over a game of poker. Did that clear both of them? She wasn't sure, but she hoped so. And the man who knew about Curly? He couldn't know what had happened to her and yet she couldn't help wondering what he knew. If he'd been right and Curly had found gold, she had to find him, but who was he? She took a deep breath, calming herself.

  "I twisted my ankle pretty bad. Would you help me back to the saloon?"

  "Ya gotta get off it," he answered, scooping her up in his arms. Trish felt like the damsel in a dime store novel. She'd just been swept off her feet, by a handsome man at that. Erotic imaginations tempted her to relish his strength. She clamped her wild imaginings down. Sunday this would just be a dream, a memory of the past, roughly one hundred and thirty years in the past. She didn't have time. "Ridin' yar horse ain't the way yer dressed today. Ya look right invitin' this mornin'. To the saloon, ya say."

  "If it's not too much to ask." She smiled, relishing his compliment.

  "Not at all." Quinn turned and started toward the bridge and the saloon beyond. She used the quiet ride to finish banishing her less than appropriate thoughts and instead develop her plan for solving the murder. His footfalls on the wooden bridge jarred her thoughts to action.

  "Do you think you could help me convince Zelda to let me borrow her buggy? Of course, I'd need to borrow a carriage horse, too. Might you have one I can use?"

  "We're almost to the saloon. What do ya want with a horse an' buggy?"

  She smiled wryly, "A lady never tells her secrets."

  He set her on her feet. "Lady's needin' favors tell a feller why she's askin'. An' since I ain't a pack mule but a right busy man--"

  "I know." Trish adopted a seductive tone. She delicately rested her hand on his chest but stopped short of caressing his hard muscles. "And this lady appreciates your help. Carry me home and I'll explain?"

  Quinn took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. She persisted, doing her best to look coy. This time as he lifted her, it was without the swoop of the gallant.

  "Should toss ya over my shoulder," he complained pushing the saloon door open.

  "You wouldn't do that."

  "Oh no?" He set her down and picked her up, his shoulder at her midsection. Trish gasped, his shoulder pinching her ribs. "Guess ya want me ta take ya upstairs, too?"

  She wanted to thrash, but even her slight shifting caused discomfort, adding to the sick feeling that rushed in every time she smelled the foul saloon odors. Her feet bumped against her door before he opened it. He carried her across the room and threw her on the bed. For a split second she thought and even hoped he would pin her there with his kisses. He towered over her, his breathing rushed but not labored.

  "Spill it, wench." His voice lacked any anger. "Whatcha wantin' with a horse and buggy?"

  Her decision wavered. What if she was wrong? She couldn't tell him.

  "I ain't at yer beck an' call." He turned on his heel and left her room, closing the door behind him.

  Trish lay still. Had he just thrown her? The stench of sick-sweet iron drifted to her.

  "Ugh," she grimaced and remembered the blood-soaked clothes she'd stuffed under her mattress. Holding her hand to her nose, she pulled the clothes out. Where would she put them? She should really burn them, but she ought to give Lucinda the button to Albert's coat. The button. She quickly searched the pockets. She looked at it again. It was too small for a heavy coat. She stuffed the clothes back in their hiding place and hobbled to her door, pulling it open.

  "Quinn!" No answer. She hurried to the banister and leaned over it "Pierre, is Quinn still here?"

  "What did ya do?" Zelda asked in amusement from her room. "Chase the best John ya had away?"

  Trish spun to see Zelda, as close to fully dressed as Zelda ever was, seated on her bed. She wasn't alone. A boot, attached to a decidedly masculine leg reclined in her one chair just out of view.

  "Whatcha needin' now?" Quinn drawled. "I ain't been outta yer sight but a minute an' already yer hollerin' for my return."

  Trish felt a flush of embarrassment eek across her face. Undaunted, she moved to Zelda's door, pushing it open further. She couldn't allow herself to be bested by him.

  "Ya forgot somethin', cowboy. An' I think yer gonna want it."

  Zelda and Quinn exchanged looks. Quinn didn't move.

  "You want it or not?" She sauntered to her room with a slight limp. She stopped just inside, her back to the door and waited until she heard him behind her. Sure she had his full attention, she pasted her most seductive smile in place and turned on him. He leaned against the door jam.

  "What ya got?" His expression seemed reserved, almost skeptical.

  "I'm surprised at you, Quinn. You know we women are full of secrets. Maybe you like being told 'n
o', but I don't believe that's like you." She'd had her fun at flirting with him for the moment. He had risen to the bait. It was time to switch to being serious. She sat on her bed, trying to appear confident. "I'm going to tell you why I want that buggy but only if you can keep a secret." She waited for him to lower his chin as if almost nodding his agreement. "I'm going to Milton Moore's to ask him if I can work out of his saloon."

  Quinn looked stricken. "Trish, he don't need no bar maid any more than Pierre. Ya claim you ain't a whore, but that's about what yar soundin' like yar gonna do. Ya can't," his stoical expression brought her up short.

  "Yes, I can. I don't plan to take the job, but I need to try this. You can be there to watch my back." Zelda appeared at Quinn's shoulder, intent on the conversation.

  "It's not your back that'll need watchin'." He obviously wasn't pleased with her plan.

  Trish dropped her chin, looking up at him with a coy smile. "True, would you blame Mr. Moore?"

  "No. But there will probably be more than one man at Moore's saloon. There usually is."

  "That's why I need you. Zelda, I need your buggy and a promise, too." Zelda pushed Quinn into the room and shut the door.

  "There's plenty of pokes to go around, but why go to Moore's when you're welcome here?"

  "I'm not really going to go to work for him. Quinn, you know he's threatened Albert. I think he killed him." She measured their responses. Zelda looked unconvinced with a smirk on her face while Quinn remained unaffected. It was a long shot but more of a lead than the mystery man that had spoken of Old Curly. Besides, if she found him, what would he know of Curly's murder? She couldn't think about that right now. "And I think I can prove it."

  "How?" Zelda asked instantly.

  "With this." Trish brandished the bone button she'd found.

  "Where did you get that?"

  "The door of the livery."

  "How do you know it belongs to Moore?" Quinn sounded doubtful.

  "I just have to see if this button matches his. But I have to get close."

  Quinn reached for the button. "If the button belongs to the murder, let me…"

  She yanked her hand back. "My clue, my investigation."

  He stared at her in disbelief. "There's gotta be another way for you to do this, Trish."

  "If there is, I don't know what it might be."

  "Let me confront the man."

  "No," Trish snapped. Her breath came in raged gasps. Trish sat straighter, gathering her wits. "I can do this. I want to do this. Can I count on you both?" Neither spoke, the silence thick with tension. A pair of magpies squabbled in the nearby tree. "All I'm asking for is your promise to keep this a secret. If I'm wrong, no harm done. If I'm right, we can take our findings to the judge. Agreed?"

  Both of them stared at her in disbelief. Why couldn't they believe her? Why couldn't they trust her that she knew what she was doing? Vance may have thought she was crazy a time or two, but he usually supported her in her decisions. Life and pursuit of her dreams in the twenty-first century was so much more clear-cut and simple. Of course, it helped that Vance's dreams ran in tandem with her own.

  At last, Zelda nodded.

  "Good, I need to look my best. Will you help me?"

  Zelda nodded again. Quinn scowled, looking out the window. "Ya shouldn't get involved. I don't need a woman fighting my battles."

  "I'm not fighting any battle. I'm just trying to find who killed Albert." Trish's thoughts flashed to Vance and their most recent verbal clash. He had used a similar claim to not need her fighting for the training service with a supporting avocation. Vance had conceded only after Trish reminded him, "I'm just trying to use Yedi's stud service to support our dream."

 

  Chapter 25

  Present Day