Quinn stared at Trish. Was she really what she seemed? Or was she guilty of Albert’s murder? And if she was, what did he intend to do about it? Would he turn her into the law or take the line to his own hands? If she were guilty of the crime, how did she do it? And why? Could she be selling herself to Albert? No, that didn’t feel right. He knew Albert. Albert was a good man. He wouldn’t hire services, not with Lucinda in his life. But could she have struck him in anger? No, for now he had to assume that she was not guilty.
The woman had to be insane. He watched her expression vacillate between confidence and questioning concern. It seemed that a battle raged within her. He sensed his feelings for her alter. This wasn't a physical desire laced with his need to have her, but respect that continued to grow from the day they had met on the Pass Creek Trail. This woman survived due to the wide variety of surprises in her considerable arsenal of female stratagem. Yet her ploys did not all consist of womanly wiles but an almost uncanny ability to fight like a wolf over its prey. Just as she had fought for her virtue and survival, she fought for the truth now.
"Ya sure ya want to do this?"
"Yes. You get the buggy and Zelda will help me get ready. Actually, it wouldn't hurt if you came along-- but on my terms."
"It's a dangerous game ya play, Trish." Quinn left her room wondering just how her hand would play out and yet knowing he had to cover her back. He walked with purposeful stride toward the livery.
Sheriff Tuckett sat on Carl's front porch, smoking. He casually tipped his hat.
"Quinn, sorry for your loss."
"Whatcha gonna do about it?"
"I'll telegraph the circuit judge just as soon as I know who dun it."
"Ya mean ya don't have a clue?"
"How am I supposed to know? For all I know, you killed him and when Carl stumbled in on your mess, ya told him a yarn."
"That ain't no way to conduct an investigation, accusing Albert's family."
"Are you denying it?"
"Yes," Quinn answered emphatically, bristling. "And I'll not have you spreading such lies around. It ain't right, or maybe ya need a reminder of good manners?"
"Is that what you call the beatin' you gave Albert yesterday? A reminder?"
Quinn felt his anger boil. Tuckett needed to remember that the badge on his chest wasn't a license to slander. He needed proof to accuse a man of murder. Did the man have any idea of how to find it? Quinn fought to curb his outrage.
"I did no such thing."
"He told you not to bring more whores to town and you fought. Is that it?"
"No. I didn't and I wouldn't raise a hand against my brother, but you on the other hand seem to be needin' just that."
Tuckett stood, throwing his smoke down. "You wouldn't dare. I wear a badge now."
"A tin star ain't gonna stop me."
The memory of the night he had last confronted Tuckett flashed through Quinn's mind in the moment it took to draw his knife from its sheath and sink it deep in the beam high over Tuckett's head.
Tuckett slipped the buckle of his gun belt loose, but instead of dropping it, he swung it, catching Quinn on the cheek. Quinn blocked Tuckett's second swing, wrapping the leather around his forearm, yanking it away. Blood oozed from the fresh cut. Tuckett fought dirty, flinging a handful of dirt in Quinn's face. Dust rose from the ground at their feet. Quinn dodged Tuckett's intended blow to his face. He sidestepped and landed a blow to Tuckett's chin. Quinn took a hit to his ribs, arching sideways. An answering punch to Tuckett's gut sent Tuckett's subsequent blows wild. An uppercut landed on Tuckett's chin, a stiff jab to his gut.
Quinn held the advantage of reach and experience. His fists remained constant as Tuckett's blows slowed until, at last, he sagged to his knees. Quinn hoisted Tuckett to his feet by his collar.
"Ya learnt yer lesson, or do ya need some more learnin'?"
Tuckett raised his hands in surrender. "No more."
Quinn dropped him to the ground and retrieved his knife. His strides to the livery belied the sharp pain in his side. Moving the buggy to where he could hitch Albert's buggy horse left him breathing hard. He wouldn't give Tuckett the pleasure of knowing he'd been injured. The low-down dirty yeller belly didn't deserve the pleasure.
Quinn would have normally basked in seeing Tuckett lick his wounds but after this fight, he drove the buggy to where his horse stood tied near the fight scene. He took a shallow breaths to steel himself and climbed down to tether his horse to the rear of the buggy. Sending a sneer Tuckett's direction, he reined the buggy horse toward the saloon and his feminine cohort.
Quinn didn't want either of the women to see him in pain or exhibiting the slightest weakness. He went straight to Pierre.
"What can I help ya with today?" Pierre asked in greeting.
"Ya got some bandages?"
Pierre eyed him ruefully.
"Just bring 'em." Quinn followed Pierre to the back rooms and eased himself onto a chair.
"Whatcha gone an' done now?"
Quinn pulled his shirt out. "Nothun', don't want the women folk knowin' 'bout this."
"Fight over 'em again, did ya? I swear ya got a blind spot for the ladies. Why ya bring 'em here ifn yer sweet on 'em?" Pierre returned with a torn sheet in his hands.
"I don't got no blind spot." Quinn pulled off his shirt and gently probed his side. His own touch caused him to wince.
"Got a plum nasty bruise growin' there." Pierre tore the sheet into long strips before he tore off a smaller section and went to the bucket of water standing near the door. Quinn examined the bruise as best he could while Pierre submerged the cloth, wrung it out and handed it to him.
"Damn Tuckett, one lucky punch an' he broke my ribs." Quinn laid the cool, damp cloth on his skin.
"Ya been coughin' blood?"
"No."
"Good."
The sound of feminine voices drifted to them. "Do me a favor, Pierre? Keep 'em busy while I doctor this." Pierre willingly obliged, leaving Quinn to his own devices. Sparing himself only the slightest of pain, Quinn wrapped the torn sheet tight around his ribcage. He had his shirt on before Pierre's line of defense fell.
Chapter 27
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 34