Lawman in Disguise

by Laurie Kingery

  By an effort of will, Daisy kept a skeptical look from her face. Even if he was sincere in his offer—which she doubted, for why would a stranger concern himself with the state of her barn roof?—he must realize there was no feasible way for him to complete the task. It would be a while before he was fit enough to climb up onto her barn roof and repair it. And even then, he’d need to stay hidden, not be working up there in full view of anyone passing by.

  “Mmm,” muttered the doctor. “I’d best get on with it, I suppose. Miss Daisy, would you be able to fetch me some clean water, please?”

  “Of course. I set some to boil when I sent my son to fetch you, then took it off the fire so it could cool down when I saw that you’d arrived. And there’s a spare cot in the tack room—I’ll bring out some bedding for it.”

  “Excellent,” Dr. Walker stated. “I didn’t like the idea of him lying in the dirty straw with these wounds.”

  Daisy was grateful for an excuse to get some fresh air before she helped the doctor, even though she had a feeling Nolan Walker would use the time to ask some pointed questions of the stranger in her barn.

  She wondered if Thorn would give more answers to the doctor than he’d shared with her. Men tended to do that—hide more troubling details from her, as if she wasn’t strong enough to handle the truth. As if she hadn’t dealt with an abusive husband, and then the shame of a jailed husband while raising her son on her own. She was stronger than most folks realized. Strong enough to deal with this new complication in her life.

  Much later, when the ordeal of cleaning out the wounds with carbolic acid and bandaging them was over, the doctor gave Thorn a dose of laudanum, instructed Daisy about his care and then departed, promising to check on him tomorrow.

  Back in the house, she scrambled the eggs and set a plateful in front of Billy Joe. Then she loaded up a second plate with eggs, a thick slice of fresh bread and some of her preserves.

  “Is that for Mr. Thorn?” Billy Joe asked eagerly. “I can take it to him, Ma!”

  “Call him Mr. Dawson, honey. And no, I need you to stay put and eat your supper,” Daisy ordered.

  Billy Joe pouted. “But I thought you wanted me to help take care of him. Wasn’t that what you said?”

  “I do. And you will. Don’t forget what we agreed,” she reminded him. “You’re to look after Mr. Dawson while I’m at work.”

  Her shift as cook at the hotel restaurant lasted from dawn until suppertime. She got only half an hour for a break after the midday crowd thinned out. She usually sat down on the back porch and ate whatever could be spared from the leftovers on the stove, while Tilly Pridemore, the waitress, kept an eye on the dining room.

  “I’ll rush back here during my break,” Daisy told her son, “and check on Mr. Dawson then. But you’re responsible for seeing to it that he has whatever he needs the rest of the time.”

  “I know, Ma.” Billy Joe rolled his eyes. “You already tole me a hunnerd times.”

  “I don’t like that tone, young man. Remember our deal? You promised to be on your best behavior. Have you changed your mind?” Please, no, she prayed. I need this chance to get through to him.

  Billy Joe was a good boy at heart—she knew that as surely as she knew her own name. But even good boys could be persuaded to make bad decisions, especially when their friends were leading the way. If Billy Joe was busy looking after their houseguest, it would keep him away from his troublemaking friends, which had to be a good thing. It might even help her boy learn some responsibility.

  “No, ma’am,” Billy Joe said meekly. “I’ll look after Mr. Dawson real good, I promise.”

  “And you won’t go wandering off with your friends and leave him alone?”

  “No way! Not when I can stay here and talk to Mr. Dawson about outlawing.” He looked far too excited at the idea, and Daisy winced. Was it foolish of her to leave her son alone with a man who would fill his head with tall tales that would glamorize the wild life of an outlaw? No, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that Thorn would do that, not after he had already acknowledged that it wasn’t good for the boy to admire outlaws as he did.

  “Just see that you don’t bother Mr. Dawson when he’s trying to rest,” she said. “He’s going to need time to heal.”

  “Maybe he’ll heal real slow,” Billy Joe said hopefully. “Then he can stay for a long time. I want him to stay and teach me stuff!”

  “Teach you stuff?” Daisy echoed, aghast. “Such as what?”

  “Like how to do a fast draw,” Billy Joe told her, in a tone that indicated the answer should have been obvious to her.

  “What makes you think he’s a fast draw?” Daisy asked. Had Thorn Dawson been boasting of gun-slinging skills to her impressionable son? Wounds or no wounds, he’d be out of her barn tonight if that was true!

  Billy Joe shrugged. “Ma, an outlaw has to be a fast draw,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “I’ll just bet he’s good at it, that’s all. Fast as lightning. You can tell.”

  They’d do better to hope the man would heal as fast as lightning—and go on his way before anyone else found out he was here. Mr. Prendergast, the hotel proprietor, wouldn’t tolerate even the slightest hint of a scandal when it came to the people he employed. If he found out she was harboring a fugitive, she’d lose her job, and then how would she support herself and her son?

  “Ma?” Billy Joe said, interrupting her thoughts. “You sure you don’t want me to take that plate out to Mr. Dawson? I’m all done with my supper, see?” He gestured to his plate, which he’d emptied while she’d been woolgathering. The boy always shoveled down food as if he thought it was going to try to run away from him. And he was always hungry for more. Keeping him fed only got more challenging the bigger he grew—and the challenge wouldn’t get any easier now that they had another mouth to feed. She’d just have to take it one day at a time.

  “No, I’ll do it,” she insisted. She could tell that the process of cleaning and bandaging his wounds had been painful and exhausting for Thorn. The last thing he needed was an excitable boy bouncing around him, trying to pump him for exciting stories. Picking up the plate, she headed for the door. It was dark now, and she carried a lantern to light her way into the dark barn.

  She found Thorn Dawson asleep in the stall on the cot, covered with the spare blanket she’d brought out. He didn’t stir when she set the dish of food on a bale of hay and softly called his name. The laudanum must have taken effect faster than she’d expected, on top of the exhaustion the man must already have been experiencing.

  He was sleeping on his side, his ribs rising and falling with his soft, regular breathing. Seeing his features relaxed in slumber, Daisy found it impossible to believe this man could be an outlaw. But appearances could be deceiving, couldn’t they?

  It would be best if Thorn left as soon as he was physically able, as he’d said. But she shouldn’t be thinking of him by his first name, Thorn, as if he were a friend. He should be strictly “Mr. Dawson” to her, even in her thoughts, Daisy told herself. She didn’t know him, not really. And she saw no sense in trying to get to know him when he would just be on his way as soon as he recovered. She’d treat him with courtesy and with simple Christian compassion—no more than that. But no less than that, either. Not when she’d decided that it was her Christian duty to care for him.

  He’d said he hadn’t done the shooting and wasn’t really an outlaw, after all. Why, if either of the wounded bank employees took a turn for the worse and died, she could be sending Thorn Dawson to the gallows, even though he wasn’t the man who had shot them, Daisy realized. A judge might be so bent on making an example of Mr. Dawson that, innocent or not, he’d pay the ultimate price for another man’s actions. She shuddered at the thought of Thorn Dawson with a rope around his neck.

  No, she had to help him, even though it would be hard. It was the
right thing to do. Blessed are the merciful, Jesus had said. So she was doing the right thing, wasn’t she? She could urge him to turn himself in once he was healed and ready to leave, couldn’t she? Sighing at the complexity of the question, Daisy left the barn and returned to the house.

  * * *

  He’d thought at first she was a dream, a vision conjured up by the effects of the laudanum, which fogged his brain and made opening his eyes wider than slits seem impossible. But he’d been aware of her presence and had even stolen a peek when she turned to stare at his wounded leg and shoulder, both now all properly cleaned up and bandaged.

  Daisy. He’d heard the doctor call her that. The name suited her. Thorn could see that she’d been a beautiful woman once—and could be again, if someone cared enough to look after her. That careworn look would fade, he knew, with the right man at her side. Evidently, Billy Joe’s father hadn’t been the right man, not by a long shot, but Thorn could tell Daisy Henderson was a good mother to her son.

  Suddenly—and quite illogically—he wondered what it would be like to be that right man for her, and for her boy. But there was no way that could happen. Not with him living a lie, pretending to be one of the Griggs gang. And not even as his true self, an officer of the law, constantly gone on missions to keep the peace.

  He’d been so proud, so happy when he’d become a Texas Ranger. He’d been confident that his work would help make Texas a better, safer place. But he wasn’t a Texas Ranger anymore, he reminded himself. Not officially. There were no Texas Rangers—they had been disbanded when the carpetbaggers’ government took over the reins after Texas’s defeat in the War Between the States, and E. J. Davis, the new governor, had set up a new police department. The State Police were largely despised as tools of the Reconstruction government. Moreover, most of the men were motivated by greed rather than by an honest desire to serve, which meant that far too many were open to bribes and other dirty dealings. Instead of acting as an effective force against the growing lawlessness in the state, they were, in fact, part of the problem. But a Ranger leader whom Thorn respected, Leander McNelly, had encouraged him to join the State Police, anyway.

  “Better times are coming, Dawson,” McNelly had told him. “This carpetbag Federal government won’t keep Texas under its thumb forever, and when it loses its grip, we’ll want to be able to start the Rangers up again. So go ahead and join the State Police if they’ll have you, and you can be our eyes and ears till those better times come. This way there’ll be at least one officer that’s not corrupt.”

  The State Police had accepted his application, either because they were too disorganized to investigate his background and realize he’d been a Texas Ranger, or because there were others doing the same thing. It was a living, Thorn supposed, but it was quite a comedown from the real thing. Instead of keeping bandits out of the state, they were used as instruments to keep the conquered Texans afraid and compliant. It had been a relief when his division had been tasked with bringing down the notorious Griggs gang, and Thorn had agreed to go and join the gang to report on their movements.

  So now I am a Ranger in disguise, disguised further as an outlaw, he mused. It was enough to make his head ache, trying to remember who he really was.

  What he did know was that Daisy Henderson was a lady, as well as a kind and generous woman, and he was in no position to court her. But perhaps he could do some good while he stayed here, even if that “good” consisted only of providing temporary mentoring to a boy sorely in need of a father’s guiding hand.

  Thunder rolled overhead, and a moment later rain began to patter on the roof overhead—or what’s left of it, he thought, as several drops found their way onto his head from above. Yes sir, if he stayed here, he was going to have to find a way to fix that roof for Daisy Henderson.

  Groaning with the effort, he raised himself off the cot and dragged it to the side a few inches so the rain fell next to him, rather than on him. In doing so, he found the cloth-covered plate of food she’d left on the bale of hay, complete with a fork to eat with.

  “Well, that’s a mighty fine reason to get out of bed,” he murmured, as the scent of the eggs and the sight of fresh bread and a little heap of preserves met his nose and eyes and set his mouth to watering.

  As he pulled the plate onto his lap and put a forkful of eggs into his mouth, Thorn blessed Daisy Henderson for her kindness. And he vowed that he would never do anything to make her regret it.

  * * *

  Inside, Daisy was still trying to satisfy the curiosity of her wakeful son and prevent him from going out to the barn to check on their “guest.”

  “So did the doctor have to dig a bullet outta Mr. Dawson, Ma?” Billy Joe inquired. “Do ya think he might give it to me, if he did?”

  “Dr. Walker gave the bullet from his shoulder to Mr. Dawson,” Daisy told her son patiently, while hiding her dismay at his eagerness for gory details. She knew the boy would think Mr. Dawson had a greater right to the bullet than he did. “The leg wound was just a graze, as he’d thought.”

  Billy Joe’s face fell. “But do ya think he’ll let me look at the bullet? I’d give it back, honest! And maybe he’d let me see his gun? Or I could—”

  Daisy had had enough of this conversation. “The only thing you’re going to do tonight is head straight to bed. We’ve had enough excitement for one day and my shift at the restaurant starts at 6:00 a.m., you know, even if you get to sleep later. Settle down now and close your eyes.”

  “Okay, Ma,” he muttered.

  She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the top of his tousled head, and was rewarded with a grin. She was glad that at twelve, Billy Joe wasn’t yet too old for such motherly attention, and she hoped he never would grow too old to enjoy a mother’s kiss. He also wasn’t too old to try to break the rules, if he thought he could get away with it. She wouldn’t put it past her son to sneak out to “check” on Thorn, so she’d have to sleep with her ears open for the telltale creak of the floorboards.

  She started for the door, then had a thought. “Billy Joe, if you want Mr. Dawson to remain safe, you can’t be telling all your friends that he’s in the barn—not even one of them, you hear?” It was clear to her from her son’s startled expression that he had been thinking about doing just that—putting Thorn Dawson on display in their barn for an audience of his admiring pals. “You tell anyone, and the next thing you know it’ll be all over town and the sheriff will put Mr. Dawson in jail.” And her reputation would be in tatters while her job would be long gone. But she couldn’t expect her son to fully understand that, or why it would matter.

  “Of course I won’t tell anyone, Ma. Mum’s the word,” he said, shutting his mouth and turning an imaginary key in an imaginary lock there.

  “Good boy. I love you, Billy Joe. Good night.”

  “Love you, too, Ma. Good night.” He shut his eyes, and a moment later his regular breathing told Daisy that her son had surrendered to slumber.

  But it was a long time before she slept. She couldn’t quite get Thorn Dawson’s face out of her mind, nor the change his arrival had made in her humdrum existence. It would not be a change that lasted very long, she knew. As soon as he recovered, he would ride out of Simpson Creek and out of their lives, and her dreary life would go on as before. It was the same return to humdrumness her son was dreading, she realized with a pang.

  At times she wished her life could be less dreary, she admitted, but all the changes she had ever pondered making in her existence meant the chance of danger. And she’d never considered exposing herself and her son to danger worth the risk. They faced far too much danger already. If she could just keep herself and her son safe and secure, then she wouldn’t dare dream of asking for anything more.

  Chapter Three

  After waking briefly when dawn light began to steal through the hole in the roof, Thorn had dozed again, only
to be awakened by the arrival of breakfast. Based by the light angling through the battered roof, it seemed to be a few hours later. His plate of food was not delivered by Daisy Henderson as he’d hoped, but by her eager-eyed, energetic son, who brought his own breakfast with him. “So ya won’t have t’ eat alone, Mr. Dawson,” he explained.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Ma’s been at the hotel restaurant workin’ for least an hour now,” Billy Joe responded. “She has to get up afore the roosters t’ fix breakfast for the hotel guests and anyone else who happens to come into the restaurant. She left us menfolk our breakfasts on the stove and a note that I was to bring yours to ya soon as I got up.”

  Thorn suppressed a smile at the boy’s labeling himself as a man. Without a father or older brother to look up to, Billy Joe probably did think of himself as the man of the house.

  It was hard to be disappointed that Daisy hadn’t brought it, given the presence of this cheerful boy, who obviously thought eating with Thorn was a high privilege. But had she chosen Billy Joe to perform the task because she was in a hurry, or because she was avoiding Thorn?

  “Your ma’s a good cook,” he murmured, savoring the taste of the crisp bacon and the perfectly scrambled eggs, despite the fact he’d had the same for supper. “The hotel’s mighty lucky to have her working for them.”

  “She’s been the cook since mean ol’ Mrs. Powell died,” Billy Joe informed him. “Before that she was a waitress there, and we didn’t ever think she’d get to be the cook, ’cause it seemed like Mrs. Powell would probably keep the job until she was a hunnerd,” Billy Joe reported. “But she died, and that was good, ’cause a cook makes more money and we needed some more of that around here.”

  “You sound pretty glad that the woman died,” Thorn commented drily.

  Billy Joe had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m glad Ma got the job, but I’d have been just as glad ’bout that if Mrs. Powell had quit or moved away or somethin’. I’m not glad she died.” He paused, then added stubbornly, “But I ain’t all that sad, either. She was old and mean, and she treated my ma bad. I don’t like anyone bein’ mean to Ma.”