A Wanted Man

by Linda Lael Miller

  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 ga
zed 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.

  And he knew, without looking back, that she watched him until he was out of her sight.

  Lark stood outside long after Rowdy had gone, crying like a silly schoolgirl.

  He'd said he believed her, when she told him she wasn't a whore, but now she feared he didn't, any more than Autry had. She was a plaything to him, an amusement, not someone he'd listen to or confide in. Not someone he'd trust—

  Or love.

  She sniffled. Dried her cheeks with the back of one hand.

  Rowdy was an outlaw—it was just awful enough to be true.

  One of these days he'd leave Stone Creek for good.

  And she was in love with him.

  Desperately, irrevocably in love.

  Knowing this, the future sprang up stark ahead of her, dark and empty and endless. She'd be like Mrs. Porter in a few years, bravely pretending she wasn't alone, surrounded by unseen mementos of Rowdy, as real as Mr. Porter's coat, and books lying open everywhere, and the stub of his cigar in the ashtray on his desk in the study.

  She'd remember the way Rowdy was with his dog.

  The way his mouth quirked up at one side when he wasn't inclined to smile but couldn't help it.

  She'd remember how he'd pulled that wagon to the side of the road, on the way to Sam and Maddie's place, and again, on the way back, and brought her into a whole new realm, a whole new sense of herself as a woman. He'd awakened an unquenchable passion inside her, another reality, another existence she hadn't dreamed was possible.

  And it would all be wasted.

  She'd have nothing tangible, though.

  No coats or books or cigar stubs.

  Heading back toward the house, where Gideon and Pardner were waiting for their supper, Lark made a strangled little sound, meant for laughter, but too raw in her throat to be anything but sorrow.

  She wouldn't even have her bloomers, with the tear in the seam, to remember Rowdy by, because he'd burned them.

  Wadded them up, with her blood-stained dress and her camisole, stuffed them into his stove and let the flames take them.

  He might as well have thrown her on the fire, too.

  All the things she hadn't quite dared to hope for had gone up in that blaze.

  All the dreams, budded tight but straining to bloom.

  With a last sniffle and a lift of her chin, Lark went inside the house.

  She made a supper of scrambled eggs and toasted bread.

  Gideon woke up long enough to eat, thank her and then immediately fell asleep again.

  She served Pardner the leftovers—having barely touched her own food—and washed the dishes.

  And when Mai Lee came, kindly circumspect, with knowing in her eyes, Lark greeted her warmly.

  "Mai Lee stay with boy," the woman said. "You go home." She fluttered her hands, like the wings of some tiny bird. "Mrs. Porter ask, where Lark? Where Lark?"

  "How is she?" Lark asked, remembering the incident in the cellar and the strong dose of laudanum her landlady had taken later. "And Lydia—"

  "Lydia fine," Mai Lee said, bending to inspect Gideon, who hadn't stirred at her arrival. She had a lidded basket over one arm, and took out strips of cloth and ajar half-filled with some strange-colored poultice, probably intending to change the bandages Hon Sing had applied after surgery. "Mrs. Porter, she—" Mai Lee paused, searching for some elusive word "—walk-sleeping."

  Lark, in the process of putting on her cloak and trying to ignore Pardner's mournful aspect at her going, stopped. "Mrs. Porter has been sleepwalking?"

  Mai Lee nodded. "Find in cellar, hour ago. She digging in floor, with kitchen spoon." More fluttering of hands followed. "Digging. Digging. I stop her. She not know Mai Lee."

  Lark frowned. "Did you ask Hon Sing to examine her?"

  "She not let," Mai Lee said, without rancor. "Say heathen."

  "I'm sorry," Lark said. Pardner whimpered and tried to squeeze through when she opened the door, perhaps wanting to walk her home as he'd done for Lydia, but more likely in an attempt to follow Rowdy.

  She patted him on the head. "No," she said, gently but firmly. "You have to stay with Gideon."

  Pardner sat down heavily and gave a low, mournful howl.

  Suddenly Lark felt tears threatening again. Because she wasn't the only one who'd be left behind when Rowdy went away—Pardner would be, too. As ferociously as he'd protected Gideon at the Cattleman's Hall the night before, and the trip to Stone Creek from Haven notwithstanding, he was an old dog, graying around the muzzle.

  He simply wouldn't be able to keep up out there on the trail.

  It was all Lark could do, in that moment, not to drop to her knees on the kitchen floor, wrap her arms around Pardner and weep wretchedly into his ruff—weep for both of them.

  You can be my dog, she told him silently. When Rowdy goes, and Gideon is off to college, you can be my dog.

  Pardner looked up at her, his brown eyes luminous with sorrow.

  He knew what was coming as well as she did.

  Swallowing her heart, which had surged up into the back of her throat and swelled there, hurting as if it would surely and literally burst, Lark closed the door between herself and Pardner and hurried through the darkness, headed home.

  And a fancy carriage, drawn by six matching horses, stood directly in front of Mrs. Porter's house.

  -18-

  Lark stopped, staring at the carriage from just outside the golden cone of light from the nearest streetlamp.

  It was precisely the sort of vehicle Autry might have hired; as strenuously as he guarded his pennies, he loved to make a show of wealth and, by extension, power.

  She slipped up closer behind the carriage, noted the mud on the sturdy wheels and the doors. Could such a rig be had in Flagstaff, for any price?

  Lark was debating between summoning up the courage to go into the house and fleeing wildly into the night when a man stepped out of the shadows, near Mrs. Porter's front gate, and cleared his throat.

  He was tall and slender, dressed in livery and a top hat. Lark didn't recognize him; she was still poised to bolt, but curiosity stayed her.

  "May I help you?" he asked.

  "Do you work for Autry Whitman?" Lark countered, backing up until she bounced off Mrs. Porter's picket fence.

  The man chuckled. "No, madam," he repl
ied. "I'm in the employ of Miss Nell Baker."

  Lark let out the breath she'd been holding, swayed slightly with the heady relief of drawing another. "You've come for Lydia," she concluded aloud, and felt the backs of her eyes begin to burn.

  The coachman studied her for a long moment, then nodded. Of course he would be reticent concerning his mistress's business in Stone Creek; he didn't know Lark from Adam's third cousin, Bessie Sue.

  "I live here," she explained, with a nod toward the big house behind her, and then felt utterly foolish for saying something so inane. What did Nell Baker's carriage driver care where she resided?

  The combination of relief—this carriage hadn't brought Autry Whitman to Stone Creek, as she'd first feared—and sadness, because Lydia would soon be going away, left her dizzy-headed.

  He smiled benignly and with some amusement. "Then you might want to go inside. It's cold out here." He gave a shiver. "Not at all like Phoenix."

  "You could come in, too," Lark suggested, suddenly sorry for the man. "I'll put on a pot of coffee, or tea, if you'd prefer, and you can warm yourself by the stove."

  "And get a flaying from Miss Nell for not staying with the coach?" the driver replied. "No, thank you."

  "Is she—Miss Nell Baker, I mean—is she.. .unkind?"

  The man frowned. "Unkind?"

  Lark hesitated. "I'm Lydia's teacher, you see," she said. "And I've become quite fond of her. So, naturally, I'm concerned with—"

  Just then Mrs. Porter's front door banged open, and a woman appeared on the porch, more shadow than substance, but sturdily built and with imposing posture.

  "Evans!" she called. "Who are you talking to out there? Why are you dawdling? I require your assistance to bring my niece out to the carriage!"

  Lark opened the gate, moved cautiously up the walk.

  "I'm on my way," Evans said, hurrying past her and on toward the house. "And I was speaking to Miss...?"

  "Lark Morgan," Lark said, reaching the bottom step, looking up at Nell Baker. "Lydia has been my pupil at Stone Creek School, and I board in this house."

  Nell Baker stepped forward, into the light of the moon and the faint reach of the streetlamps. She was plain, with quick, dark eyes, her hair pulled severely back from her face. Her dress was black bombazine, and her aspect precluded nonsense in any form or fashion. "Are you the one who looked after my niece when she took ill? God knows, it couldn't have been that trollop, Mabel, though she did show the grace to inform me that poor, foolish Herbert had managed to turn himself into a block of ice."