by Pam Crooks
He stepped closer. She stood her ground, watched him come. “And you won’t, either.”
“No.”
He stood directly in front of her. She had to tilt her head back to meet his dark, shadowed gaze.
Lark thought of the decision she’d made, to leave him and return to her job in the morning. She thought of Catfish, who knew where she was, who would stop at nothing to find the buried loot, even killing her if she didn’t cooperate. She thought of Jo-Jo, too, his untimely demise, and how her fate could very likely be the same.
And then…Ross. His honor, his need for justice. Bounty hunter or not, he could do nothing else but see it done.
As if he knew the despairing trail of her thoughts, he opened his arms and took her hard against him. She soaked in his heat, his strength, his power, and wished to her very soul things could be different between them.
She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek into the solid bulk of his shoulder. “I’m afraid, Ross.”
His hand fisted in her hair; his arms tightened further still. “Me, too.”
Chapter Twelve
Using the light from a pair of lanterns behind him, Ross made a final check on the rope holding Jo-Jo Sumner’s body to his horse. Satisfied each knot would hold for the trip into Ida Grove, he turned his attention to the two women on the porch.
Chat was quiet for once. She stared wide-eyed at his cargo, having never seen a dead man before, their father excepted. Might have been easier for her if Jo-Jo had been a stranger, but the kid had gone to school with her before dropping out a year or two back. Didn’t matter that Jo-Jo didn’t have many friends; Chat knew enough about him for her shock at what he’d done to run deep.
Lark concerned Ross most. She stood at the porch railing looking grieved and miserable. Blood stained her dress. She’d wrapped Jo-Jo in a blanket out there by the river, then helped Ross drape him across the back of his horse before tying him on. She hadn’t taken the time to clean herself up afterward. Ross had decided she needed a good strong shot of whiskey before she did.
She drank the glass dry, and he figured the liquor mellowed her some. She still looked vulnerable, though, and his arms craved to hold her again, like he had this afternoon by the Maple. He wasn’t sure it did much good, but she seemed to have wanted the comfort from him, and he’d been quick to oblige.
Hell of a predicament he found himself in. This attraction for her—he had trouble separating her from the outlaw she’d once been and the woman she was now. A damned fine woman, too, and she fired up his blood. Made him think of things he shouldn’t.
The freedom to kiss her whenever he wanted for one, and that near the top of the list. Since she was on his mind just about constantly, that meant, hell, he could go on kissing her for a good long time. Holding her, too. Feeling those full breasts pressed against his chest…
Her slim body felt right against him. Like it was meant to be there.
He stifled a grim sigh, pulled himself out of the reverie and picked up the holster containing both his Colts. He’d already made sure each chamber was loaded. The lantern light glinted on the cold metal as he placed one in Chat’s hand.
“Keep this with you until I get back,” he said. “Don’t let it out of your sight.”
She nodded, though she held the weapon as if it was a piece of rancid meat. “Do you really think Catfish Jack will come?”
“We have to expect that he will,” Ross said.
“He could be watching us right now.” Lark accepted the weapon Ross handed her with an ease Chat lacked. The quiet huskiness of her voice reached out to him, but her attention centered on the yard beyond.
“Yes,” he said and recalled last night, before dinner, how the sorrel had suddenly gotten skittish in the corral. Ross was as certain as he could be it hadn’t been from a weasel as he’d first thought.
Ross studied the yard, too. The darkness where the lantern light failed to reach. This afternoon, he’d decided to wait a few hours before bringing Jo-Jo back into Ida Grove. Figured it’d be better to go at nightfall than to ride in at broad daylight with a dead body in tow. No one knew yet Jo-Jo was dead, and since he was paired up with Catfish, the outlaw would wonder why Jo-Jo hadn’t come back before now. Might be Catfish would ride out to have himself a look around Ross’s place, hoping to find a sign of Jo-Jo—or Lark at an inopportune moment.
Ross disliked leaving the two women home alone. Best he could do was to make sure they were armed and ready to defend themselves if they had to. He’d get back as soon as he could.
He took his gloves from the saddle bag and pulled them on.
“Go on in,” he said, gesturing with his chin at the house. “Lock up when you do.”
Chat hooked her arm through Lark’s. His kid sister would do all she could to protect Lark, he knew. Same as he would.
“We’ll be fine, Ross. Try not to worry.”
He took the reins to Jo-Jo’s horse, climbed into the saddle of his own. Chat couldn’t know how much he would worry.
“Ross.”
He turned back toward the porch. Toward Lark. He heard the concern in her tone, the distress. She made a valiant effort to keep both from showing in her expression.
“Be careful,” she said quietly.
It was all he could do to keep from getting back down and taking her hard against him. Console her with a heated kiss. Hell, at the moment, he could use some consoling himself.
“First sign of trouble, you know what to do,” he said instead.
“Yes.”
Taking one of the lanterns, leaving the other for Chat, she opened the door. Once they were inside, Ross waited for the bolt to slide into place before he turned the horses and headed toward town.
Ida Grove had settled in for the night. The boardwalks were quiet, the streets empty, each business establishment closed until morning. Except for the steady clomp-clomp-clomp of the horses’ hooves, not a sound broke through the veil of darkness.
The advantage of waiting until nightfall to come into town. No one would get curious. Still, Ross avoided Main Street and used the side roads to get where he needed to go.
He pulled up in front of Sheriff Sternberg’s office and dismounted. He swept a slow glance around him, noticed Mrs. Kelley’s boardinghouse down the block. Noticed the row of windows on the second floor, too, and how lights shone through the curtains, an indication her boarders were still awake in their rooms.
Only one remained dark. Lark’s. It struck him, that lone dark window. Made him think how it symbolized her life, how Catfish Jack was a dark place in it, and how alone she must feel, having to fight him because of her past.
Except she wasn’t alone. She had Ross to help. Chat, too. And the sheriff, if Ross could convince him of her side of things.
Further down, the Hungry Horse Saloon stood silent, like the rest of the businesses on the block. Sunday night was the only night of the week the place closed early. That’s how the upright and God-fearing folks in Ida Grove wanted it, and Ross was glad there wasn’t a crowd around.
Wouldn’t be easy telling Eb Sumner about his boy. As far as Ross knew, Eb ran a respectable establishment. Had he known his only son had taken up with a known outlaw? If he did, well, he’d have to live with the repercussions from it.
Which brought Ross’s thoughts back to the purpose of his being here, at the jailhouse. He looped the reins from both horses securely to the hitching post and strode toward the door. A dim light burned in the window, but no sign of movement showed through the glass, and he guessed the sheriff had turned in for the night. Sternberg, a widower, kept a small apartment in the back, and it took Ross several firm knocks before he heard footsteps inside. The door opened, and the gray-haired lawman, a score of years older than Ross, peered out.
Ross had clearly roused the man from his bed. He stood in his stockinged feet with suspenders hanging past his hips. His trousers appeared hastily buttoned, since not all of them were, and he wore only his knit undershirt over his p
ortly belly.
“Santana?” He blinked in surprised recognition. “What’re you doing here this time of night?”
“Mind if I come in, Sheriff?” Ross asked.
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have good reason. Hell, yes, you can come in.”
Sternberg stepped aside, and Ross went in, taking care to close the door behind him.
The lawman had been one of the first to welcome Ross and Chat to Ida Grove. Of course, since Sternberg got wind of Ross’s former employment as a bounty hunter, he’d been quick to introduce himself, had even tried to hire Ross for a job now and again, but Ross always refused. Eventually, Sternberg learned to accept the fact Ross had hung up his guns for good. Learned to respect his privacy, too.
It’d been a while since Ross was in the lawman’s office, and he took a minute to look the place over.
The small room contained only a desk, a couple of chairs, a wood-burning stove. Main thing he noted was the pair of empty jail cells. Sternberg took enforcing the law seriously, and folks in Ida Grove knew it. He’d been the only sheriff the town ever had. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. If a stranger rode into town, Sternberg knew about it, one way or the other. If a man took an inclination to get rowdy or break the law—didn’t matter if it was big or small—he knew he’d pay the price eventually if he didn’t have the sense to go into someone else’s jurisdiction.
Sternberg was one hell of a good sheriff. Call it a bounty hunter’s intuition, but Ross trusted him.
The lawman padded over to his desk, pulled out a chair. “Have a seat, Santana. You want coffee? Pot’s cold, but I’ll make a fresh one if you’re in need of it.”
“No, thanks. I’m not staying long.”
The chair remained empty. Sternberg studied him. “Saw Chat yesterday. At Doc Seeber’s.”
“So I heard.”
“Everything all right out your way?”
“Been better.”
But then, he’d never had Lark with him before. If he didn’t include the trouble she was in, she’d be the most “right” thing that had happened to him in a good long while.
“I’m listening.” Sternberg took the chair and sat himself in it, then leaned his elbows on the desk. The top, Ross noticed, was polished and cleared of clutter. Sternberg kept the peace in Ida Grove. No crime meant no paperwork to do.
“I’ve got Jo-Jo Sumner outside,” Ross said. “He’s dead.”
Sternberg’s attention sharpened. “What happened?”
“I killed him. Self-defense.”
Thick brows shot up. “He came at you first?”
Ross nodded grimly. “Drunk and shooting wild.”
“What the hell for? He wouldn’t have had a rat’s ass chance with you.” The lawman stared hard at him. Ross could almost see his mind churn to determine the motive. “This have something to do with Chat? She’s about his age, isn’t she? Did he get too forward with her?”
“Chat has nothing to do with it. He was working with Catfish Jack.”
“Catfish Jack!” Ross figured it took a lot to stun the sheriff. The news did a fair job of it. “You know that for sure?”
“He told me. Before he passed on.”
Sternberg angled his head away with an oath. “Which means the son-of-a-gun is still around.”
“Right under your nose, it seems.”
The gray head whipped back. “I’ve already turned over every damned stone I thought he might be hiding under, Santana. I’ve got my feelers out, don’t think I don’t.”
Ross held up a hand. “Easy. I’m not implying you’re not doing your job. He’s a sly cuss. Slyer than most.”
The lawman seemed appeased by that. He crossed his arms over his chest and eased back in the chair. “What do you know about him?”
“His name’s Jack Friday. I tracked him clear to Canada a while back, but the arrest went bad.” Ross hesitated. He didn’t like drawing attention to himself, but the truth helped make his point. He tapped his eye patch with a finger. “His shotgun was responsible for this.”
Sternberg let out a low whistle. “I’ll be damned.”
“He got away right after. Far as I know, he’s been on the run ever since.”
“You think he found out you were here, wanted to settle the score between you and used Jo-Jo to help him do it?”
“I know he did.”
Ross kept his features impassive. He had no intention of revealing Lark’s secret—her association with the outlaw and why he’d hunted her down.
He preferred instead to let Sternberg think it was Ross Catfish wanted. There was truth in it, besides. More important, it would help distract the lawman’s thinking and keep him off her trail.
“Hell of a story, Santana.” The sheriff scratched his chin. “Strangest thing about that Renault woman, though. You heard he attacked her in her sleeping room? Without provocation?”
Ross’s mouth curved into a cold smile. “Hasn’t everyone?”
“Now she’s gone. Not a sign of her since. It just don’t fit.” The sheriff locked his gaze on Ross. “Any idea why Catfish would do that to her?”
“I want to find him. Bad.” Ross held that gaze, saw the shrewdness in it. “When I do, we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“There’s still reward money out for him.”
“It’s not about the money.”
Sternberg continued to regard him for a long moment. “No, I don’t suppose it would be.” He sighed, got to his feet. “We’ll work together on it. I won’t have it any other way.”
“Of course.” Ross couldn’t ask for anything more than that. “But if I get to him first, I’ll handle him…as circumstances warrant. Agreed?”
For the first time, the lawman appeared amused. “Just keep it within the line of the law, Santana.”
Ross had no intention of making a promise he might not want to honor. “I’ll try to remember that.”
He glanced out the window, to the pair of horses tied to the post. He had a job left to do. An unpleasant one, for sure. Dreading it, he frowned.
“Jo-Jo Sumner was trouble from the day he was born,” Sternberg said, seeming to know Ross’s thoughts. “But Eb’s going to take it hard to hear he’s dead anyways.” He padded out from around the desk, headed toward his apartment. “Let me get my boots on. I’ll go with you to tell him.”
The distant clomping of horses’ hooves alerted Catfish Jack he wasn’t alone.
His ears pricked at the sound. Strained to figure its location.
He didn’t move. The sound grew louder and with it, his sense of dread.
He’d gotten to know this part of Ida Grove since he started hiding out in the back of the Hungry Horse. Knew folks’ comings and goings. Knew the routine of the businesses in the district, too. When they opened in the morning. When they closed at night.
Real unusual for someone to ride down the street this late.
His mind worked through the possibilities. Only one person it might be, but even then, it just didn’t figure right.
He’d wanted Jo-Jo to stir up a little trouble for Wild Red today. Catfish decided to lay low, keep his watch on the boardinghouse, just in case she came back. The kid had been quick to oblige, but he should’ve been back by now. Hours ago. From sunup to sundown, the kid hung on Catfish like black on a spade flush. Wasn’t like Jo-Jo to stay away so long. Besides, he kept his horse in the livery, the opposite side of town. Wouldn’t make sense for him to go from this direction.
Whoever was out there, and their reason, meant trouble. No other explanation for it. Sheer willpower kept Catfish from creeping out from his favorite spot here beside the saloon to have himself a good look-see.
Wasn’t long before he could tell those horses were coming toward the Hungry Horse. Two of them, far as he could tell. They weren’t in no hurry, either.
Real odd they’d come this way. Eb Sumner closed up a while ago. Place was dark as a lobo’s cave. Anyone could see that it was.
Catfish
hurriedly crouched behind a wooden barrel. The thing was near overflowing with a week’s worth of trash. Stank to high heaven, but at least the horses wouldn’t pick up his scent.
He dared a glimpse around it. They showed up then. Silhouettes in the street. Two men walked alongside, reins in their hands. They talked low, too low for him to hear what they were saying. The shadows made it hard to see who they were, though, and he stared hard to figure—
Catfish went cold.
Ross Santana.
It’d been five long years since Catfish had been this close to him. Still tall, still lean, just like Catfish remembered. Still moved real easy, too. Deceiving a man like himself about how fast he could be, especially with a gun in his hand.
The bounty hunter came close to arresting him that day back at the Turf Club. Catfish would never forget how close. Even now, he could smell the cunning on him.
Catfish recognized Sheriff Sternberg, too. The lawman had been nosing around, asking questions about him, and now the two of them together like this—if Catfish could have squeezed into the bottom of that stinking barrel, he would have.
Both men tied their reins to the post, stepped up to the boardwalk. Their boot heels on the wooden planks sounded loud. Hollow.
Ominous.
One of them pounded on the saloon’s door. Took a while before Eb Sumner shuffled out to see who was there. Santana said something, and Sumner let them in, then closed the door. The silence returned.
Catfish licked lips gone dry. He’d give his best shooting iron to know what Santana and the sheriff were saying about now. He dragged his gaze back to the horses and noticed the wrapped bundle hanging over one of the saddles. Damned if those weren’t legs hanging down the side with boots attached to ’em.
Jo-Jo.
Catfish broke into a cold sweat. Stupid kid went and got himself killed. And that explained everything. Catfish didn’t bother to think what fool thing Jo-Jo did to get Santana to shoot him for it. One thing had to be, though.
The kid had gotten too close to Wild Red. Santana had made him pay the price for it.