Cold Night, Warm Stranger

by Jill Gregory

  "Ray Owen's dead," the tall man answered, shaking his head. "The Campbells killed him as they hightailed it out of town, right after he stopped 'em from running off with Nell."

  "Deputy?"

  "Resigned. Took himself off to Dodge. Guess he reckoned it was safer there."

  "Oh dear." Maura uttered the words without thinking, and everyone turned to stare at her.

  "My wife," Quinn said curtly. "Maura."

  "How do you do, honey." The woman smiled broadly, at the same time surveying Maura up and down. "I'm Edna Weaver. My husband, Seth, owns the bank. This here is Alice and Jim Tyler of the Crooked T Ranch. And you already met John Hicks, who owns the mercantile— and his daughter, Nell."

  "I'm very pleased to meet you, all of you."

  Maura smiled at each of them, relieved to see that after that initial inhospitable greeting, the inhabitants of Hope appeared friendly and decent after all. Edna Weaver, robust and well-dressed, with her bushy steel-gray bun and matronly olive-colored gown and shawl, had a smile that seemed to come straight from the heart. Her deep-set brown eyes were keen but also kind, and she sounded sincere in her welcome.

  John Hicks and the husky fair-haired rancher, Jim Tyler, both doffed their hats and nodded respectfully to her, while Alice Tyler, who looked to be no more than ten years older than Maura, offered her a quiet smile.

  "Are you only visiting Hope or will you be staying awhile, Mrs. Lassiter?" she asked in a soft voice. She was petite, with soft black curls that fell to her shoulders and wisped around her face, which seemed almost too small for her large yellow sunbonnet. She was pretty in the way of a simple, homespun doll.

  Maura opened her mouth to reply, but Serena Walsh cut in before she could utter a word. "They're settling here. On a parcel of land out by Sage Creek."

  John Hicks, Mrs. Weaver, and the Tylers all exchanged glances at this. For one awful moment Maura wondered if they were going to say the Lassiters weren't welcome. Perhaps the town was afraid of any man as proficient with a gun as Quinn was known to be.

  But before anyone could speak, Serena gave a taut laugh.

  "Yes sirree, folks, the great gunfighter Quinn Lassiter is going to become a family man and a rancher!"

  Quinn's eyes narrowed. He'd had enough of aimless chatter with the inhabitants of Hope, none of whom interested him very much. And Maura, despite the eager way she'd smiled at her new acquaintances, was looking decidedly peaked as they stood in the street.

  He'd noticed that his new wife never complained, no matter how long and wearying the journey, but he'd come to recognize a certain pinched look about her lips and a pallor to her skin that signaled her fatigue.

  "Time for us to be moving along." He shifted the satchel to his other hand, took Maura's arm, and nodded curtly at the little group of citizens. "Thanks for the welcome, folks."

  But as he steered her toward the livery at the end of the street, Serena followed. "Wait, Quinn."

  When they stopped and turned, she placed a hand on his arm. "If you two need a place to stay the night, I've got a fine room in my boardinghouse. It's yours, if you like. I'm not sure you'll find the cabin down at Sage Creek fit just yet," she added. "Last time when you rode down there, Quinn, you said it was in bad shape. Remember?"

  "We'll manage," Quinn said curtly. "But thanks for the offer, Serena."

  Maura barely had time to murmur hasty goodbyes before he was once more leading her toward the opposite end of town.

  "My land's only a little over an hour's ride from here. But if you're worn out we can stay overnight in the hotel." He paused as they reached a ramshackle building with shot-out windows, a charred roof, and a lopsided sign that read in faded black letters: glory hotel.

  "If it's all right with you, I've had enough of hotels to last me a lifetime. I'd much prefer to spend the night at Sage Creek."

  "You heard what she said? It might be in pretty bad shape."

  "I don't mind. I want to see it. I want to start settling in."

  They continued toward the livery in silence, but it felt to Maura like a companionable silence. She appreciated his not even suggesting they stay at the boardinghouse. She wanted to ask him how he knew Serena, for how long, and other questions about the Campbell gang, with whom he was obviously familiar, but this wasn't the time.

  She forced her thoughts forward—toward her new home.

  Quinn had arrived in Hope a short time before the stagecoach rolled in and had already corralled Thunder at the livery, paid the owner to see to his feed, and arranged to purchase a wagon and a team of good sturdy horses.

  While Maura waited on a bench inside the barn, he finished paying the man, a hulking red-haired fellow named Jethro Plum. Then he tied Thunder behind the wagon, set her valise and his bedroll and saddlebags inside, and came to fetch her.

  Another silence fell as they left Hope behind and headed north toward rolling sage-colored hills. The horses clip-clopped along through tall grama grass while sunshine dappled the ground and the March wind blustered down from the mountains, still smelling of rain. The land was vast, intimidating, yet beautiful with its dark buttes and golden-green prairie. Rangeland glistened beneath the rich golden sunshine, stretching as far as the eye could see, some of it flat, some winding through hills and mountains. She saw a herd of antelope on a gray bluff, but they disappeared in the blink of an eye. A russet fox slithered through the tall grass to her right, and high above, a meadow lark circled and chattered, seeming to lead the way.

  Wild, spacious country, Maura thought in awe—country not for the timid or the weak—country as wide and grand as the great soaring blue sky that dominated everything below.

  "How long has it been since you've seen your land— and the cabin?" Maura ventured at last, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.

  "Nearly two years." He held the horses steady as a jackrabbit scooted across the trail. "I looked the place over after Sam Gable gave me the deed." He glanced at her. "The cabin had already been abandoned for some time, but it was built sturdy enough. I reckon we can clean it up and make do for now. And I'll add on some by fall."

  Possibilities twirled through her mind. A small, tidy house. Curtains at the windows. She'd embroider some samplers to hang on the walls, and perhaps some bright, pretty pillows to make the sofa and chairs more comfortable. She'd plant a garden as soon as the weather warmed. And if there were wildflowers growing nearby, she'd set some in a bowl every night on the table as a centerpiece.

  By the time the baby came, she'd have sewn yellow curtains for the nursery, and a soft baby quilt—and perhaps there'd be a rocker so she could sit with her child, hold him or her, sing songs as the night stars popped into the Wyoming sky....

  Her fanciful daydreams ended when the wagon rolled over a rise and started down the slope toward a long, tree-sheltered valley.

  It was a lovely spot. For miles in every direction there were open fields of grass and Indian paintbrush. The cabin was a tiny speck in the center of the wide, deep land. Enchanted, she held her breath as they drew nearer and the wagon jolted over rocks and brush. What could only be a creek—Sage Creek—glittered beyond the cabin, sheltered by a long creekbank studded with newly budding cottonwoods and quaking aspens.

  "How beautiful..." she murmured, but her voice died away as the wagon rolled closer and she saw more clearly. There were only two other small buildings besides the cabin—a crumbling shed and an unpainted barn. No corrals, no outbuildings. And she'd seen no sign of cattle.

  Desolation in the midst of open, gorgeous country, with blissful quiet enveloping everything—save for the chirping of the birds. The Laramie Mountains towered protectively in the distance, dwarfing the lonely wood structures nearly hidden in the midst of rugged, rolling land.

  She hadn't expected much, but as they approached the cabin disappointment trickled through her. The place couldn't have appeared more unwelcoming. Its two small windows were both boarded up. The chimney was crumbling. Old dead weeds choked th
e exterior, and nearly blocked the door. It looked more like a shanty than a ranch house.

  A cave would have been more inviting, Maura thought, her eyes taking in the sad unpainted wood, the missing plank across the slanted roof.

  The prospect of sleeping within that bleak little building filled her with misgiving.

  But she steeled herself as Quinn halted the team and climbed down from the wagon. It might be crude, it might be filthy, it might appear uninviting right now, but it was hers. Hers and Quinn's, however long he might stay. With a good scrubbing, some repairs, some paint...

  "Doesn't look like much, does it?" Quinn helped her down, his hand lingering for a moment at her waist as he set her upon the hard, weed-strewn ground.

  "It looks...very nice."

  "Yeah, if you're a raccoon or a snake, maybe."

  Maura couldn't help but smile. The gunfighter's hand was still cupped at her waist. He seemed to have forgotten that as he stared down at her, his eyes glinting beneath the brim of his hat.

  "You look tired."

  Maura shook her head. "Only a little."

  "Maybe we should have stayed in town. Gotten a fresh start on this place in the morning."

  "No." Without thinking, she touched his sleeve. "I'm glad we came here tonight," she said impulsively. "Something feels right about this spot."

  He released her then, pushed his hat back, stared around at the open beauty surrounding them. "Yeah, it's pretty enough, I reckon—if you don't count the cabin," he agreed dryly.

  "Once it's cleaned up and painted and the weeds are pulled, it won't be so bad. And I can already imagine it with lace curtains at the windows, and a garden right over there, and perhaps we could have a porch here in the front where we could sit outside at night with the baby and watch the fireflies in the summertime..."

  His face changed. It tightened, and the easy smile left his eyes. Her portrait of domesticity made him feel like he was choking. He'd rather face ten outlaws in a showdown than...curtains.

  "Yeah, sure. A porch. And a garden. Whatever you want, sweetheart. Just don't expect me to stick around to watch anything grow." He scowled. "Or to sit on your porch and gaze at the stars. I'll be coming and going as I please, once I've got the ranch going."

  "That's just fine. Fine by me." Maura tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Make yourself scarce as you like. It'll mean more peace and quiet for me.

  Instead of lightening, his scowl deepened. He turned abruptly and stalked toward the cabin door. "Might as well see how the old place—"

  Then he froze. "Someone's been here. Recently."

  "What?" Maura stared as he knelt down, studied the ground, the crushed weeds.

  He straightened and shot her a warning look. "Wait here." It was a command, a command that made her heart jolt into her throat.

  "Don't follow me. Don't move."

  His gun glinted suddenly in his hand—she'd never even seen him draw it—and then he eased open the door and disappeared inside.

  Chapter 13

  It was incredible how suddenly the air had changed, had become charged with danger, the wild, peaceful beauty shattered as if by a cannon blast. Maura's heart thudded as the seconds ticked by and Quinn made no sound and did not reappear at the door.

  What if there was someone inside, and they shot him? Or stabbed him? What if at this very moment he was lying on the floor, bleeding to death...

  "It's all right." He slipped out of the cabin, a thoughtful light glinting in his eyes. "No one's here now, but someone's obviously been here within the past day or so. Looks like they cooked a can of beans on the stove. Come on."

  "But where are we going?" She tried to sound as calm as he did. "I thought we were staying here tonight." The thought of journeying all the way back to Hope made her shoulders sag with disappointment, not to mention exhaustion.

  "Until I find out who's going to show up here, I want you out of the way."

  "Can't we just start getting the cabin cleaned up and when he comes back, tell him that he'll have to find another place to bed down?"

  Quinn's lip curled. "He might be the kind of hombre to shoot first and discuss property ownership later. Get in."

  He hoisted her into the wagon with no wasted motion and came around the other side. "Once you're settled in a safe place, I'll keep a lookout for him."

  "And then?" she asked warily as he flicked the reins and sent the horses trotting briskly toward the cotton-woods that bordered the creek.

  "Then I'll run him off."

  "You won't shoot him or anything, will you? I mean, it might be someone harmless, someone who thinks the place is abandoned—which it was—and that no one will mind if he spends a few nights there."

  "He's going to find out differently."

  She didn't like the sound of that. "Promise me you'll give him a chance to explain before you...before you—"

  "Blow his head off?" he supplied helpfully.

  "Exactly." Maura gulped. "There will be enough to do in the cabin from what I can see without having to mop up blood and bury a corpse as well!"

  He laughed at this, but it was a harsh laugh. "You're too softhearted for the West, Maura Jane," he said as he halted the horses beneath a cottonwood, well hidden from the cabin by a stand of trees and rock. "You'll have to toughen up some."

  "I'm plenty tough," she assured him. "Living in

  Knotsville with Judd and Homer Duncan wasn't exactly a tea party."

  "Then why are you so damned worried about a stranger? Strangers spell trouble. That's lesson number one. Remember it."

  Her eyes flashed as he helped her down from the wagon for the second time. "You were a stranger when you showed up in Knotsville."

  His silver eyes shone in the fading afternoon sunlight. "See what I mean? If you'd steered clear of me then, we wouldn't be in this fix right now."

  She averted her face, pretending to look out over the creekbed, hoping he couldn't see that he'd hurt her feelings.

  "Hold on. Guess I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He cleared his throat. "It came out wrong. Just...forget I said it."

  "No. You're right." She turned slowly back toward him, lifted her eyes to his face. "I should have steered clear of you. I made a terrible mistake."

  "I've made worse."

  "Worse? What could be worse? We're married and there's a baby coming and you—"

  He scowled. "Go on. I what?"

  He was watching her face, his eyes intent, fastened upon hers as if he were trying to see into her mind clear down to her soul.

  "You don't want to be here with me any more than you'd want to be in a rattlesnake pit!" she burst out.

  "That's not exactly true." He reached out a big hand and smoothed a wayward strand of hair back from her cheek. He found himself staring into those soft, dark, troubled eyes of hers, unable to look away.

  "You're a lot nicer to look at than a rattlesnake. And you don't bite. Right now," he went on, and for some reason his hand stroked down her cheek, an infinitely gentle caress, "I don't much mind being here at all."

  "You don't?"

  Before he could answer, they both heard the sharp snap of a twig.

  Quinn released her in a flash and spun around, shielding Maura with his body even as he drew his Colt and aimed.

  "Freeze!" he ordered.

  The buckskin-clad figure on horseback ten feet away gave a startled yelp and gaped at him.

  "Get down off that horse—real slow," Quinn barked. Behind him, he heard Maura's fearful whisper.

  "Don't shoot him—he's only a boy."

  The youth on the horse swung out of the saddle a bit too hastily for Quinn's taste, but he made no move for the six-shooter slung in the holster on his hip. He looked all of seventeen, tall and stringy, with dark chestnut hair cut raggedly beneath his hat, narrow rebellious blue eyes, and a square, clean-shaven jaw that jutted out with both pride and stubbornness.

  A kid all right, Quinn thought, taking his measure— lean, gawky, a
nd out to prove something to the world— and probably to himself, he thought, remembering a time when he had needed to do the same.

  Matter of fact, the look he threw Quinn was sullen and angry enough to curdle milk, but there was wariness beneath it, and an edge of painful bravado beneath the cockiness of his voice.

  "If the woman wasn't here, I'd have shot you dead!" the boy thundered. "The only reason you're still breathing, mister, is because I didn't want to take a chance of hitting her."

  "The only reason you're still breathing is because she told me not to shoot you." Quinn shifted his Colt a notch so it was pointed at the boy's shoulder instead of his heart. "Toss your gun on the ground nice and easy."

  "I won't." The boy gritted his teeth. "If I do that, what's to stop you from shooting me down? I'd sooner throw myself off a cliff than give you my gun, mister, so forget about it."

  Quinn fired into the dirt. The bullet pinged an inch from the youth's booted foot. He jumped back.

  "Drop your gun," Quinn ordered again.

  "No, Quinn—don't shoot at him again!" Maura pushed around Quinn to get a better look at the boy. "What if you miss and accidentally hit him? Anyone can see he's not an outlaw."

  "Maura, get back and stay out of this—"

  "No, I won't. Why don't you just talk to him before someone gets hurt?"

  "Better listen to the pretty lady, mister," the boy advised with a cocky grin, "if you know what's good for you."

  Quinn snorted contemptuously, half inclined to nick the kid, just to teach him to be so damned cocky. Especially when he was the one facing the business end of a gun.

  "I'm waiting."

  Beneath Quinn's ominous stare, the boy's grin slowly faded, replaced by a grimace. If the expression in the youth's eyes could have killed, Quinn knew he'd be six feet under. But just the same, the boy at last heaved a sigh and tossed his gun down on the ground.

  "Now what?" He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and glared.

  "Supposing you tell me who you are and why you've been trespassing on my property."