A Stone Creek Collection Volume 1

by Linda Lael Miller

  Lark bit her lip. “After my mother died,” she said, smoothing Gideon’s blankets gently, “I was inconsolable. My grandfather was lost in his own grief, and he wouldn’t have known what to say to me, anyway. But the night after her funeral—” she paused, aware that Rowdy was listening intently, and straightened her spine “—well, I would have sworn Mama came and sat on my bed. I didn’t see her, though—I wish I had.”

  Gideon looked somewhat mollified. Then his gaze shifted to Rowdy, standing behind Lark. He changed the course of the conversation. “Did you find Pa? Did he—?”

  Lark felt the swift tension in Rowdy’s body, even though they weren’t touching, perhaps because some unseen, mystical factor of their lovemaking still connected them. She looked back at him just in time to see him shake his head, not in denial, but in warning.

  The reminder was sobering. She might have shared her secrets, but Rowdy still had plenty of his own. She’d bared her soul to him; he’d told her nothing at all.

  No, he’d undressed her and put her in his bed. Later he’d returned and ravished her so completely that her body still pulsed with the aftershocks of truly cataclysmic satisfaction. But he’d made no promises, certainly. And he’d withheld the truest part of himself from her, for all the physical intimacy they’d shared.

  “I’d better go out and make my rounds,” Rowdy said, suddenly uncomfortable. “If Lark—Miss Morgan—wouldn’t mind staying with you for a while…”

  Lark nodded. “I’ll stay,” she said. For Gideon’s sake, Rowdy Rhodes, not yours.

  “Obliged,” Rowdy said, as though they were two polite strangers, almost colliding on a sidewalk, then cordially sidestepping each other. As though they had not been lovers only a few hours before. “I’ll get back as quick as I can.”

  Lark nodded, a little tersely.

  Gideon closed his eyes and drifted back into the solace of sleep, perhaps hoping to find his lost sister, Rose, waiting there.

  Bent on going out, as much to escape any questions she might ask, she suspected, as to fulfill his duties as town marshal, Rowdy crossed the room, strapped on his gun belt, reached for his hat and coat.

  In a moment of stark clarity, Lark recalled what he’d said, after she’d recounted the events leading up to Gideon’s near-fatal shooting, and how, in the midst of the chaos, someone had called out the name “Willie.”

  I’ll kill him, Rowdy had vowed.

  Lark rushed to catch him before he went out the door.

  “You’re not going looking for the man who shot Gideon, are you? Not yet—not without Sam and a posse?”

  Rowdy eyes were blank, veiled from within. He’d closed himself off to her, stepped behind some invisible barrier, through which she could not pass. “He’s one man,” he said grimly. “What do I need with a posse?”

  “It’s almost dark, Rowdy. At least wait until tomorrow!”

  “I mean to ask some questions of the folks that were at that dance, among others.” His jaw tightened. “Just the same, if I happen to run across the bastard, I might just have to invoke Rhodes Ordinance.”

  When I need a law, I just make one, he’d told her the day of the blizzard.

  That was Rhodes Ordinance.

  Lark gripped Rowdy’s arm. “Don’t take the law into your own hands,” she whispered. “Promise me you won’t!”

  “I can’t make that kind of promise,” Rowdy said.

  “I’ve lied every day of my life since I was fourteen years old, and I won’t do it anymore. If I find Willie—or meet up with Autry Whitman—well, the truth is, I don’t know exactly what I’ll do, but I’m sure as hell going to do something.”

  Lark clung to Rowdy. She felt Pardner press between them, squirming to be noticed.

  “Stay here with us,” she said to Rowdy. “Just for a little while. I’ll make some coffee, find something to fix for supper…”

  Rowdy smiled almost imperceptibly and placed a light, tantalizing kiss on her mouth. He would share himself with her only when they made love, she realized, and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.

  “I’ll be all right,” he said.

  “You won’t. Autry is vicious, Rowdy, and, worse, he’s a coward. And the man who shot Gideon must be an outlaw, or he wouldn’t have done anything like that.”

  “I can be pretty vicious myself if the situation calls for it,” Rowdy said, gently removing her hand from his arm. A cold wind blew in around them, through the partially open door. “And I can handle any outlaw. I know how they think, Lark. I know the places where they hide, everything they’re afraid of, how to track them.” He paused, looked away for a moment, then met her gaze again. “After all, I’m one of them.”

  Lark’s mouth dropped open.

  Rowdy smiled again, his eyes bleak, and went out the door.

  Pardner tried to follow, and Rowdy sent him slinking back inside, dejected, with a stern word. The animal plopped down in front of the stove, with a disconsolate little whine low in his throat.

  Lark shut the door, leaned against it, pressing her forehead into the wood. Rowdy was an outlaw?

  That couldn’t have been what he said—she must have misunderstood him. He was the marshal of Stone Creek—Sam O’Ballivan and Major Blackstone thought highly enough of him to give him a badge. And he was too strong, too honorable, too good to be a criminal.

  Surely she’d heard him wrong.

  * * *

  JOLENE’S SALOON WAS CLOSED for business, that being Sunday, but Rowdy found a side door and went in anyway.

  All the tables were empty, but Hon Sing was standing on a chair in back of the bar, swabbing down the long mirror with water that smelled pungently of vinegar. Hearing Rowdy enter, or maybe just seeing his reflection in the glass, he turned, paused in his work.

  “Boy has fever?” the Chinaman asked.

  Rowdy shook his head. “Gideon’s doing all right, thanks to you.”

  Hon Sing dropped the rag he’d been using into the bucket set among the whiskey bottles and dingy glasses under the mirror and stepped down off the chair. Came around to stand facing Rowdy.

  “You not come for whiskey,” Hon Sing said solemnly.

  Again Rowdy shook his head. Took a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his trail coat and extended it to the Chinese doctor who’d been reduced, through circumstance and casual prejudice, to washing mirrors in saloons and cleaning up after whores and gamblers and drunken cowboys.

  Hon Sing just looked at the paper, puzzled.

  “It’s the deed to the place behind the jailhouse,” Rowdy said. “I’ve already signed it over to you and your wife.”

  Hon Sing blinked, and his hand shook as he took the deed, examined the writing on it, which was probably incomprehensible to him, as highly educated as he undoubtedly was. “Too much,” he said warily, though a light of cautious hope glinted in his eyes.

  “You saved my brother’s life,” Rowdy replied.

  “Seems to me, he and I got the better end of this trade.”

  Almost reverently Hon Sing tucked the document inside his black cotton shirt. And he smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and bowed his head slightly.

  Rowdy inclined his own head in response. “I’m grateful, Hon Sing. Truth is, I wouldn’t have let you stick those needles in Gideon, let alone cut on him, if Lark hadn’t stepped in.”

  “Miss Morgan fine woman. Good to Mai Lee. Good to Hon Sing.” The Chinaman paused, frowned. “Very afraid, though.”

  Rowdy nodded. He knew now, at least, who Lark feared and why. From what he’d seen of Autry Whitman, not to mention the man’s reputation, she’d had good reason to be scared.

  He’d deal with Whitman, that was a grim certainty. Right now, though, it was Willie he wanted to find. It was a common name, Willie, but he’d heard it in the bathhouse behind this same saloon, the first day he was in town, and he remembered the man it belonged to. He also remembered that Hon Sing had been present, summoned by Jolene to empty dirty bathwater through the flo
orboards.

  “Do you recall those two cowpokes, or drifters, who came in when my dog Pardner and I were here? One of them was called Harlan, and the other was Willie.”

  Hon Sing hesitated, then nodded decisively. Smiled, probably at the memory of Pardner sitting in soapy water up to his chest. “Hon Sing remember,” he said, and instantly sobered a little.

  “Do you know anything about them? Last names? Whether they work around Stone Creek someplace or were just passing through?”

  “Not work,” Hon Sing said, pondering. “Drifters. But Hon Sing see before.”

  Rowdy hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. Waited, because he knew there was more. He could practically see the gears turning in Hon Sing’s mind as he weighed the implications of speaking or remaining silent.

  Hon Sing looked around, probably on the alert for Jolene and then hurried behind the bar, returning with what looked like a ledger book.

  “Jolene write names,” he said, in an anxious whisper.

  “Everyone who bathes. Everyone plays poker.”

  Rowdy took the book, laid it on top of the bar and opened it. Ran his finger down pages of names—coming across that of the mysterious Mr. Porter numerous times, up until about two years back.

  Impatient, and worried that Jolene would appear and hand Hon Sing some grief for giving Rowdy access to her private records, he flipped forward until he saw his own name. Grinned slightly at the terse connotation added beneath it.

  “And dog.”

  Below that were the two Rowdy sought—Harlan Speeks and Willie Moran.

  Rowdy closed the ledger, handed it to Hon Sing, who quickly put it back in its normal place. “Is Jolene around?” he asked.

  Hon Sing looked worried. “In back,” he said. Then he patted the deed, standing out against the fabric of his shirt, and smiled very slightly. “Jolene in back, with womans. I get for you?”

  Rowdy stopped the man with a glance when he would have rounded the bar to head off on the errand. It would be a while before Mai Lee and Hon Sing could grow a garden on that acre, and the house was still uninhabitable. He didn’t want Jolene to get her hackles up, thinking the help had betrayed her, and give Hon Sing the boot.

  “You’ve done enough,” he said. “And I’m much obliged. Best you get back to washing down that mirror, though.”

  Hon Sing nodded, climbed back up on the seat of the chair he’d been standing on earlier and commenced to swabbing again.

  Rowdy made for the back of the saloon.

  Heard Jolene’s cackle before he spotted her, through the doorway of a cramped, dirty kitchen. She and two of her girls were seated at a cluttered table, smoking cheroots and swapping yarns.

  Rowdy’s entrance caused a little stir.

  Jolene immediately sobered and sent the scantily-clad girls scurrying for the back stairs.

  “Both of them are available for a price,” Jolene said, cocking a thumb toward the steps. A mingling of stale perfume and body odor made the room rank. “Which one do you want?”

  “Neither,” Rowdy said. He was standing up and dressed, in contrast to the last time a conversation between him and Jolene had taken this turn, and he felt no compunction to hide his distaste. “I don’t use the services of whores.”

  “Just schoolmarms,” Jolene said shrewdly.

  Rowdy felt the familiar muscle bunch in his jaw. It was the curse of the Yarbros, that muscle, the one part of his body he couldn’t control.

  Jolene grinned lasciviously. “Whole town knows the high-and-mighty Miss Lark Morgan was all night in your place,” she said. “And I’ll wager when she leaves, she’ll be wearing different clothes than she had on yesterday. Oh, I could make me a fine dollar if I had that bit of baggage in my stable—but she’s all yours, isn’t she, Marshal Rowdy Rhodes?”

  As much as Rowdy would have liked to claim Lark for his own, he knew he couldn’t. He was wanted, an outlaw chasing outlaws. One of these days the past was bound to catch up with him, and he had a gut-clenching hunch it would be soon.

  Lark deserved a good husband, a home, children of her own.

  With a price on his head, he couldn’t give her those things.

  And there was one other thing he knew for sure: he wasn’t about to discuss Lark with Jolene Bell or anybody else.

  “I came here to ask about a couple of your customers,” Rowdy said, taking some satisfaction in the look of irritated disappointment on Jolene’s face when he didn’t take the hook. She’d been hoping he’d let something slip about Lark, who’d probably stirred up a lot of speculation in Stone Creek, even before he came along to complicate matters. “I’m looking for Harlan Speeks and Willie Moran.”

  Jolene’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want with them?”

  “You know damn well what I want with them,” Rowdy said. “The man who shot my kid brother was called Willie.”

  “Every third boy in this town is called Willie,” Jolene asserted. “It’s right common.”

  Rowdy acknowledged that with a terse nod. “It’s also a place to start.”

  “I reckon you could ask the folks who were at the dance,” she said.

  “I can,” Rowdy answered, “and I will. But right now I’m asking you.”

  Jolene sighed. “You can’t say where you heard it. Harlan’s all right, but Willie’s got himself a nasty temper, especially when he’s been celebratin’.”

  “Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me,” Rowdy said.

  Jolene looked uncertain. “Last I knew,” she said, “they were sleeping in the barn out at the Franks place, the pair of them. Doing a few chores to earn their grub.”

  “Thanks,” Rowdy said, turning to go.

  “Rhodes?”

  He stopped, looked back at Jolene. Waited.

  “I seen your face once before. On a poster that come across Pete Quincy’s desk, back when he was still marshal. I used to look at them, when I could, to make sure I wasn’t harborin’ no outlaws, either at my poker tables or upstairs with my girls. I just don’t need that kind of trouble. Anyhow, I don’t recollect the name on that poster, and it sure as hell wasn’t Rowdy Rhodes, but it was you, all right. You tread light around me, Mr. Town Marshal, and you won’t have no cause to worry. You bother me, though, and you’ll have worries aplenty.”

  Rowdy stood absolutely still. He didn’t deny anything Jolene had said—that would only have aroused her suspicions further—but he didn’t confess, either. “Thanks for the information about Speeks and Moran,” he said, and then he left.

  Went straight to the lean-to, back of his place, and saddled Paint.

  He was just leading the horse out into the dusky gloom of nightfall when he realized Lark was standing a few feet away, clutching her cloak around her and watching him. Her long braid rested over her right shoulder, and he felt an unholy need to unplait it and comb his fingers through.

  “Is Gideon all right?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Rowdy put a foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle.

  Lark looked up at him. “You’re going after Willie, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Rowdy said. “If I’m not back by morning, see if you can have Gideon moved over to Mrs. Porter’s. Take Pardner along, too, and ask the man over at the livery stable to put up Gideon’s horse. I’ll settle up with everybody when I get back.”

  Her throat worked visibly. “Rowdy—”

  He resettled his hat. “I’ve got to go, Lark.”

  She stepped directly in front of Paint, took hold of his bridle strap. “Gideon needs you. Stone Creek needs you. And you’re chasing off on some—on some vendetta—”

  “Lark,” Rowdy said reasonably, but with an edge of temper, “taking a horse into a public building is against the law, and so is shooting somebody down in the process. I’m still the marshal. And even if Gideon hadn’t been the one to take the bullet, I’d be making this ride.”

  “At least tell me where you’re going, so I can tell Sam,” she insisted. “You
may need help, Rowdy, even though you seem to think you’re invincible!”

  Rowdy nodded. “I’m not invincible,” he said. “And I’m not the man I made you think I was, in there in that bed today. For now, let’s just leave things at that.”

  “Rowdy, what are you saying?” She put the question tremulously, and let go of the bridle strap. “That I shouldn’t care what happens to you? That you didn’t mean any of the things you told me?” She paused, and her chin wobbled as she gazed up at him, moonlight catching in the tears glazing her eyes. “Oh, I know you didn’t say you loved me. I didn’t expect that, didn’t even hope for it. But your body said plenty, Rowdy. It said plenty.”

  Rowdy tried to rein the horse around her, but she moved again, forestalling him. “I’ve made love to a lot of women,” he told her, hating himself for the coldness in his voice, underscoring the lie he was about to tell. “I reckon my body ‘said’ pretty much the same things to them.”

  She gasped, and even in the thick twilight, he saw her face go paler than exhaustion had already made it.

  He’d hurt her. He’d probably lost her, which was an ironic insight, considering that he’d never had any real claim on Lark Morgan, even when she was pitching beneath him, clawing at his back like a wildcat and sobbing out his name.

  It was hard, treating her this way. But in the long run, it was all for the best.

  He had nothing to offer Lark, save the tenderness of his lovemaking and a whole lot of trouble and heartache. Precisely because she’d touched him so deeply, in places even Chessie hadn’t been able to reach, and because he had to keep her safe, he needed to set her away from him.

  Trouble was, he didn’t know if he could do that.

  Even then, with the ride to the Franks place ahead, and Pappy and the train robberies and all the rest of it, he wanted to stay. He wanted to tell her everything—about Chessie and the baby, about his years as an outlaw, all of it.

  He wanted to stay.

  And that scared him more than anything else that might lie ahead.

  “I’m going, Lark,” he said, more for her sake than his own. “Step aside.”

  Her spine went rigid, but she moved out of his way.