Wanted!

by Pam Crooks

  “Think of Jo-Jo, Eb,” Catfish bit out. “He was a fine boy. He’d still be here if not for her and her bounty hunter lover. You know that, don’t you?”

  Eb’s expression contorted. “She’s caused folks enough trouble. She’s responsible for my son’s killing for sure!”

  Lark’s eyes closed in despair. Ross knew how much she despised bloodshed. To be blamed for Jo-Jo’s cut her deep.

  “We don’t owe her a damn thing, not after all she’s done.” Eb’s fury was fired up, now that Catfish had given him a good stoking. “We’ve been at this long enough.”

  “You sure have. Tracking her clear into Illinois, tasting dust all day, well, you deserve a little reward, don’t you?”

  The saloonkeeper glanced at the money again.

  “Make them drop their guns, Eb,” Catfish said, giving Lark a little shake in his frustration. “Else I’m going to kill her!”

  Ross had heard enough.

  “Do as he says, boys. Drop ’em,” he snapped.

  “Since when did we start taking orders from you?” Eb demanded.

  “Since Sternberg gave me custody of this woman, that’s when.” Ross ran a harsh gaze over the men. “Drop your rifles, I said.”

  “Ross, are you crazy?” Sam Allison demanded.

  Ross shot him a quelling glare, one that said he knew exactly what he was doing, and that he had the authority to do it. The man reluctantly obeyed. Another rifle dropped, another and another, until five weapons lay in the grass.

  Only Eb Sumner kept hold on his.

  “Now back off. Let me handle this without you,” Ross said. Still, the posse hesitated. “Go on.” After they complied, losing themselves in the cemetery shadows just beyond the range of lantern light, he turned back to Eb. “May as well get down off your horse and join us.”

  The saloonkeeper glanced at Catfish.

  “Do what he says, Eb!” the outlaw snapped. “We ain’t got all night to wait on you.”

  “He could be pulling a fast one.” But he dismounted and moved closer to Catfish, his rifle in both hands.

  Ross had each man in plain sight. Lark, too, most of all. “This woman means more to me than the money ever did.” The words flowed from him of their own accord. “I’m going to let you have it.”

  “Ross!” Lark hissed and gave a tiny shake of her head. “Don’t do it.”

  He ignored her. “The loot’s been buried so long, folks aren’t going to miss it anyway.”

  One of Catfish’s mismatched eyes narrowed. “You bluffin’ me, Santana?”

  “On one condition,” Ross went on. “You let Lark go. Once you do, you can load up the bags and leave.”

  Time ticked. Ross let it.

  “I don’t trust him, Catfish,” Eb said finally.

  “I’m not heeled, am I?” Ross held his arms out. “No one here is. What’s not to trust?”

  “You hand over the money. What then?” Catfish demanded. “You’ll just send this here posse to get it back again.”

  “No.” Ross shook his head. “I can get you to St. Louis. I’ll make sure you get on that ship south.”

  “Yeah?”

  The outlaw was tempted all right.

  “She’s no good to you. I am,” Ross insisted.

  “He’s just colorin’ his story to get you to believe him, Catfish,” Eb warned. “You know he is.”

  Ross reined in his frustration. Leveled the saloonkeeper with a hard look. “It’s me you want, even more than the money, isn’t it? I was the one who killed Jo-Jo. Not her. So let her go.”

  “She got us to the money, that’s all that matters. How long you going to keep arguing about it?” Seemed Catfish was feeling some frustration of his own with the man. “You want proper compensation for losing Jo-Jo or not? Here’s your chance!”

  “Just don’t feel right, that’s all.”

  “We’ll even help you load up the loot,” Ross said. “Lark knows how. She’s done it before. Isn’t that right, Lark?”

  He willed her to understand what he needed her to do. Her eyes darted downward to the canvas bags, then back to him, and she nodded ever so faintly.

  Just beyond her, Ross caught faint movement. Stirring from the sheriff. He needed medical attention, and the urgency in Ross increased tenfold.

  “Take that knife from her throat, Catfish.” The outlaw was on the verge of caving in. Ross had to keep talking to push him over the edge. “The bags are roped up and ready to tie to your saddle. Let’s do it and get it over with. Posse’ll be losing their patience soon.”

  “All right. All right.” Catfish slid his tongue over his bottom lip, and at last, the blade eased off Lark’s throat. He backed up with her to where his rifle lay in the grass, bent and scooped it into his hand. He straightened, let Lark go at the same time he pointed the barrel at her back.

  “Start loading the loot, Red,” he said, sheathing the bloody knife into the leather at his waist. “Never shot a woman before, but I’d be happy to make you the first if you try anything slick.”

  The light breeze played with the curls against her cheek. She dared to face him. Ross marveled at her courage, considering the firepower aimed her way.

  “You were always fast on the trigger, Catfish,” she said, cool as ice. “I remember that about you.”

  “Do you now?”

  “You were strong, too. Stronger than me, for sure. Those bags are heavy. They’ll be hard for me to lift, but I’ll do it for you. Just so you know.”

  A faint smile appeared on the outlaw’s mouth. The flattery she used to soften him up.

  “Not too late to come with me, Red, honey,” he purred.

  She stepped back toward the money.

  Ross gauged the distance to his Winchester, half-hidden in the dirt.

  She tucked both hands around the first bag’s handle.

  “I don’t think so,” she murmured.

  She swung the canvas hard against Catfish Jack’s rifle and knocked the piece right out of his hands.

  Ross dove for his Winchester, aimed and pumped the trigger, then rolled back onto his feet, shouldered Lark into her uncle’s half-filled grave and fell in with her.

  From somewhere, another shot exploded.

  Men yelled. Startled horses whinnied. Hoofbeats pummeled the ground, the posse storming in to help.

  And then, that quick, it was all over.

  Sternberg held himself up on his elbow, his bloodied hand clutched to his ribs. The other held a revolver, and Eb Sumner lay writhing, his knee blasted useless.

  “Damned if I’ve ever shot one of my own men before, Eb, but you had it coming,” Sternberg declared in disgust.

  “Sheriff, you all right?” Joe Rinehart rushed toward him. The rest of the men scrambled off their mounts.

  “Hell, no, I’m not all right,” he snapped. “Get me to a doctor.”

  Joe looked rattled. First time the Ida Grove lumberman had ever witnessed a shoot-out, for sure, and this one cost him his nerves.

  “Give me a hand, Gil. Sam, you going to just stand there?” Joe called.

  “Tom and William, keep an eye on them two hoodlums,” Sternberg ordered and winced as he struggled to his feet with the help. “Not that they’re going anywhere.”

  Ross had to agree. Catfish especially, dead with a pair of Ross’s bullets locked deep in his chest.

  “Holy hellfire,” Lark breathed. She pushed against him, as if just realizing where she was. “Holy hellfire!” She bolted out of the grave and batted at the dirt clinging to her skirts. “Of all the places to throw me in, Ross!”

  He followed her out. “Would you rather have gotten hit?”

  Her glance swung to Catfish, and she shuddered.

  “No. Of course not.” She leveled him with a somber look. “The setup was flawless, wasn’t it? You got everything you wanted. Catfish. The money.” She cocked her chin up. “Me.”

  Ross braced himself against all that had to come next. “Yes.”

  “And now it’
s all over.”

  A raw ache began to form in his gut. There was no going back from here on out, but God, he wasn’t ready to lose her. Even with all the planning, the need for his justice satisfied…he’d never be ready.

  “Yes,” he said again.

  The sheriff shuffled toward them, one arm around Joe Rinehart’s shoulder. The man bled justice. Despite his injury, he still had a job to do.

  “I appreciate what you did to help us bring Catfish down, Miss Renault,” he said.

  “You sound as if you’re surprised that I would.”

  He grimaced, from pain or from the bluntness of her words, Ross couldn’t tell.

  “A forked road, I’m afraid. You could’ve gone either way on it. I wasn’t sure which one you’d choose.”

  Her brow arched. “Really?”

  “You’ll have to come with us, I’m afraid.” He hesitated, sent Ross a weary glance. “I’ll do all I can, of course, but…”

  His words trailed off. He didn’t need to say more.

  “Certainly, Sheriff,” she said with more courage than Ross could muster for himself. “I’d like a few moments, though, to—to say goodbye.”

  He managed a nod through his pain. “We’ll be waiting.”

  Boot steps scuffed the grass, then faded away. Ross ignored the muted voices of the men around them.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said. He hated feeling this desperate, but his world had turned upside down from his own doing. How would he survive without her?

  “Why?” she asked coolly. “I’m going away. There’s no place for you in my life anymore.”

  His fists clenched. “I’ll hire the best lawyer this side of the Missouri. We’ll get the robbery charge dropped. We’ll—”

  She shook her head sadly. “Don’t you see? I have to take the consequences for what I’ve done. No one will ever be sure which road I’m on otherwise. Everyone must know I’ll always take the straight one.” She regarded him, again with that cool look he’d come to dislike. “Including you.”

  “Lark.” He reached for her, to take her into his arms, but she jerked back.

  “No. If you touch me, if I let you kiss me—oh, God. I couldn’t bear it.” She squared her shoulders, hung on tight to what was left of her composure. “Goodbye, Ross.”

  She pivoted away from him, took one step. Two. Unexpectedly, she turned back. “You did just fine tonight, you know. With one eye. Your aim was true.” Her mouth softened. “You’re still an expert bounty hunter, Santana.”

  And because she’d closed her heart to him, she disappeared into the night.

  Epilogue

  Anamosa, Iowa, State Penitentiary

  8 months, 11 days later

  “Renault. Someone here to see you.”

  Matron Wood never called any of the female inmates by their first names. Lark had found it difficult to get used to the burly woman’s brusque manner, but she hardly noticed it now, her surprise was so great.

  “To see me?” she asked.

  “Anyone else around here with your name?”

  She hardly noticed the sarcasm, either. She couldn’t imagine who’d come to visit her, or why, and she set down her paring knife, gave her hands a quick dip in the bowl of water and potato peelings, then dried them on her apron.

  Rising from the table she shared with three other women, kitchen workers like herself, she tried not to speculate. Removing her apron and laying it beside the bowl, she tried not to hope.

  Yet she did both.

  She avoided the curious glances of the other inmates and hurried after the matron, already departing the room. Lark did her best to tidy the wild wisps which had escaped their pins. She fanned her too-rosy cheeks, flushed from the hot ovens. By the time they reached the Visitors’ Room, she’d straightened her collar and smoothed her skirt and tried to look far more composed than she felt.

  She stopped short at the sight of the dark-suited man staring out the window. He was too well-dressed, not as tall, certainly not as broad, than the one she’d hoped to see. And when he turned to face her, confirming that he was who she thought he was, she still couldn’t stop a flabbergasted gasp.

  “Mr. Templeton!”

  “He says you weren’t expecting him. You want to talk to him?” Matron Wood demanded.

  Lark’s jaw had fallen. She closed it again.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll be watching through the window. You can have one hour with him. No more.” With that, Matron Wood closed the door.

  He hadn’t changed since Lark saw him last. Every hair was still perfectly combed on his head, his suit was pressed and impeccable, his expensive shoes shining, without a speck of dust. She could even detect the faint scent of starch about him, as she always could.

  But she’d never seen him so ill-at-ease.

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you refused to see me,” he said quietly.

  Lark was nearing the end of her term here in Anamosa. Throughout the long, lonely days of her incarceration, never once had she blamed him for his disappointment in her.

  She only blamed herself.

  She drew in a breath. “Mr. Templeton, please.”

  “My behavior that day at the bank was inexcusable. I never gave you a chance to explain yourself when I knew, I knew, your reputation was flawless. I saw it every day that you were in my employ.”

  “But I never told you about what I’d done, and I should have. It wasn’t fair that you had to learn from Ollie. I mean, Catfish Jack. I could have spared you the shock if I’d only told you the truth.”

  “Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  Lark blinked. Had he heard anything she’d said? “It is I who must ask forgiveness of you.”

  He smiled a little smile. “It seems we have a different perspective on who was wronged more, doesn’t it?” His smile faded; admiration took its place. “We heard what you did to bring Jack Friday down.”

  She recalled the sordid details from that night in the cemetery. Could her reputation drop any lower?

  “We all did,” he said. “The whole town of Ida Grove. Ollie printed the story in the Pioneer. Several times, in fact. Mr. Santana insisted upon it.”

  Her surprise overpowered the tiny lurch in her heart from hearing his name. Ross? Who detested gossip? Used Ollie’s newspaper to spread some of the most notorious gossip the little town ever had occasion to relish?

  About her?

  “You’ve become somewhat of a legend, Miss Renault. A heroine in the truest sense.” His smile returned.

  Lark regarded him with grave uncertainty. It was all more than she could comprehend.

  “Which brings me to the true nature of my visit,” he said, assuming the businesslike efficiency she’d always remember about him. “I’ve been in conference with Sheriff Sternberg. He told me you wished to make restitution to the victims of the Muscatine heist with compounded interest.”

  “Yes,” she said carefully. “I discussed the matter with him at length.”

  After her arrest. Before her trial and sentencing. The lawman had promised to look into the matter.

  “That’s one of the reasons why I’m here. To assist you.” He opened a leather case placed near the window. He retrieved a ledger from inside, laid it on the plain wooden table—the only piece of furniture in the Visitors’ Room except for a pair of matching chairs—and opened it to a marked page, filled with rows of names that spilled onto the following page, and the one after that.

  “This is a list of all the people who had funds in the county treasury the night of the robbery. Also, the amounts due them, which they were paid shortly after the money was confiscated.”

  Mr. Templeton dipped into the bag again and removed a stack of bank drafts. And finally, her shiny Victor adding machine, all the way from Ida Grove.

  Lark tried not to look confused. “And what will we do with all this?”

  Mr. Templeton tapped the names on the ledger page with
a perfectly-groomed fingertip. “Pay them the interest.”

  Her glance skimmed the pages of names—oh, God, there were so many—and she endured the first stirrings of panic. “How could I possibly pay all these people interest? I have no money, except for my account at your bank, and that’s a fraction of what I’d need.”

  “But you do have money.” He showed her another page in the ledger, this one blank except for three posted deposits, made, she noted, by Ross Santana.

  “Reward money,” Mr. Templeton said in reply to her confused glance. “The bounty he received for capturing Catfish Jack, for recovering the Muscatine heist…and for your arrest.”

  Her brow knitted. “I don’t understand. How can his money help me make restitution of the interest?”

  “He refused to accept the rewards for himself. He claims the money is yours as much as it is his because you helped him close the cases. He has directed me to see that the funds in their entirety are given to the Muscatine Treasury depositors instead—as interest.”

  Her mind spun. From Ross’s generosity. At the opportunity he’d given her—as well as the robbery victims.

  “There won’t be enough, however, to pay the full amount due,” he said. “I’m prepared to offer you a loan so that you can.”

  Her spirits—just raised from what Ross had done—deflated again. “I’m not prepared to take out a loan. I have no means to repay you.”

  “Yes. You do.” He leaned toward her. “By coming back to work for me as the best bank teller I’ve ever had. I’ll simply deduct a portion of the loan out of your earnings each week. You’ll have enough to live on afterward, not extravagantly, but comfortably. Please, Miss Renault.”

  Never in the days since her arrest did she think she’d hear the words Mr. Templeton was saying now, nor did she dream that he’d ever want her to work for him again, and holy hellfire, she was tempted to go back.

  But there was Mrs. Pankonin’s jealous animosity to consider. Georgiana Schwartz and Rachael Brannan and the rest of the Ida Grove gossipmongers who would only resent her return to their town.