“My deputy,” she said emphatically, “was most helpful last night in facing down that lynch mob.” It seemed best not to mention that the prisoner nearly escaped before they could lock him up. “I believe the two of us make a formidable team.”
Scooter beamed. “I believe we do too, Sheriff.”
The mayor scoffed. “A mule team, more like it.”
The smile left Scooter’s face. “Like Grandpappy always said, one must sometimes let turnips be pears.”
Forehead furrowed, Troutman stared at Scooter for a moment before tossing a set of keys on the desk. “Those are for upstairs.”
She’d forgotten that the job of sheriff included living quarters.
He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a check. “That’s the first and probably last month’s pay.” He slapped her salary onto the desk. The check was made out for forty dollars. “I’ll see that a check is issued for your…eh…deputy.”
“Where’s the rest?” she asked. The usual pay for sheriff was two dollars a day.
“The rest?”
“I happen to know that’s less than customary pay for sheriff.”
“That’s because you’re less than a man.” He whirled about and left the office, slamming the door shut behind him.
She banged the desk with her fist. “Ooh, he makes me so mad.”
The mayor did, however, do her one favor. He made her more determined than ever to show him and his cronies she could do the job she’d been elected to do. Even if it killed her.
Deputy Hobson gave her a sympathetic look. “I don’t think you’re less than a man.”
He looked and sounded so serious, she couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you, Scooter. I appreciate that.”
* * *
Rick paced back and forth in his cell like a caged animal. He still couldn’t believe he was behind bars. Again.
To make matters worse, he had been put there by a lady sheriff and her overzealous sidekick. The lady’s knowledge of guns would probably fit on a three-cent postage stamp with room to spare. Yet after he’d overtaken her deputy, she’d clobbered him over the head with the butt of her Colt like nobody’s business.
How could such a small package be so lethal? Never had he felt more mortified—as if the egg-sized bump on the back of his head wasn’t bad enough.
He still couldn’t believe it. He was no lightweight. Had in fact fought off half a dozen thugs during a prison riot. Yet one pint-sized woman had gotten the best of him.
The memory made his head pound harder. Gingerly, he reached back to finger the sore lump. Cripes! Why did she have to earn her bread as a sheriff at his expense?
He turned stiffly, almost stumbling in the confines of the tiny space. He was better suited for the great outdoors than an iron cage. If he ever got out of this mess, he’d be tempted to spend the rest of his life avoiding anything with a roof over it.
He whirled about and punched the wall, but all he got for his effort was sore knuckles. Even the narrow barred window that looked out on an empty field offered no chance of escape. After spending five years in prison, he swore off confinement forever. Yet here he was less than six months later, behind bars again. And he had only himself to blame.
Of all the stupid, idiotic… Shaking with fury, he tried to think. He’d escaped a hanging, but no man was that lucky twice. If he didn’t find a way out of this mess, he would soon be keeping company with the daisies.
His thoughts interrupted by raised voices, he turned to stare out the open door leading to the sheriff’s office. All morning long, he’d watched a parade of disgruntled citizens storming in and out of the office. Now, he studied the lady sheriff seen in profile. Like it or not, she was his best chance of getting out of there alive. She might be his only chance.
He tried reconciling the woman currently holding her own against a group of combatant citizens with the one he found stranded in the middle of the Texas wilderness. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her, but how could he not? It hadn’t been an easy morning. Even now, he could hear a group of angry protestors outside demanding a new election.
No sooner had the mayor left than members of the town council arrived, insisting upon her resignation. She might not have the experience or knowledge required of a lawman, but she sure did know how to hold her own against those blathering council members.
No slack showed in her rope, that’s for sure. Instead, she let each unwelcome visitor have his or her say before pointing them firmly to the door. In some cases, she even ordered her eager deputy to bodily escort the person out. He couldn’t help but admire Miss Sheriff Lockwood.
It helped that there were no architectural nightmares on her head today. Instead, she wore a sensible high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. The hat was bound with a band that sported a brave red feather standing as stiff and straight as the lady’s back. The whimsical feather offered a strange contrast to the serious-looking Colt hanging at her side.
What she lacked in skills, she made up for in sheer determination. Or maybe it was mule-headed stubbornness. Whatever it was, he intended to use it to his own advantage…if only he could figure out how. Winning over a woman like that wouldn’t be easy. She wasn’t the kind to fall for charm or flattery. What then?
He was still considering the problem when she appeared in front of his cell. She stood facing him, feet apart, hands at her waist, blue-green eyes focused directly on him. She looked formidable enough, but how far would that get her should she confront a real outlaw?
“You’ll wear out your leather pacing back and forth,” she said.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Deputy Hobson said you wanted to see me.”
He stopped pacing and faced her square on. His gaze lingered on the red feather in her hatband before dropping down to take in the rest of her. Hard to believe that such a dainty woman could deliver such a lethal blow. His still-throbbing head might never be the same.
They measured each other like two poker players in a high stake game. “My horse…”
“He’s at the stables,” she said. “Took him there myself. I’ll see that the county foots the bill.”
“Here’s the thing. My horse doesn’t take kindly to being cooped up for long periods of time. You could say he’s a restless sort.”
Her eyes shimmered with light from the barred window. “Kind of like his owner,” she said.
“Maybe. That’s why I named him…Spirit.” Actually, his horse answered to the name of Killer, but that hardly seemed like a name that would win a lady’s heart. “Would it be possible to arrange for him to be exercised?” It was his experience that most stable owners kept horses confined. When Rick escaped—if he escaped—he wanted his horse in tip-top condition and ready to run and run hard.
“I can ask,” she said.
An idea suddenly occurred to him. “Perhaps you could ride him.” Having his horse hitched in front of the sheriff’s office instead of the stables would be mighty convenient when he broke out of jail.
“I don’t see how.” She indicated her office with a slight toss of her head. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Most of which will probably have to be done on horseback.”
Her gaze sharpened. “You want me to ride your horse in an official capacity?”
He shrugged. “That hobby horse of yours is a joke. Been my experience that two things command respect—an accurate shot and the right mount.” His gaze dropped to the Colt at her waist. “Ride my horse, and you’ll be halfway there. You’ll also be doin’ me a favor.”
He could practically see the wheels turning in that pretty head of hers. “Is he easy to ride?”
“Easy as they come. Long as you keep him between you and the ground, you shouldn’t have any problems.”
She laughed, a sweet musical sound that made him smile. “Okay, I’ll thi
nk about it.”
Any hope he had scored points with her was dashed the moment her smiled faded and a scowl took its place.
“Guess you’re wonderin’ how a man accused of killin’ could be so concerned about a horse.”
“That’s not what I was wondering,” she said. “But now that you mention it…”
He arched a brow. “Like I told you before, I didn’t kill nobody. And while we’re here jawin’ away, the real killer is on the lam.”
Today, her luminous eyes were more green than blue, allowing him to clearly see the doubt in their lively depths. “You were caught at the scene of the crime going through a dead man’s pockets.”
“I admit things look bad. Had they shown up moments earlier, they’d have found me searchin’ his room.”
“For what?” she asked.
“For whatever I could find.”
She frowned. “You also tried to escape. That hardly sounds like the actions of an innocent man.”
“Never said I was innocent. All I said is I wasn’t a killer.”
She lifted her chin. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see if the bullets in the victim match your gun.”
“Well, now, ma’am. That would be a trick, since the murder weapon was a knife.”
Her reddening cheeks were the only hitch in her staunch demeanor. “So if you didn’t kill him, then who did?”
“You’re the sheriff,” he said. “You tell me.”
Fifteen
First thing the following morning, Amanda and Scooter walked the short distance to the hotel. Dressed in dark trousers, a boiled shirt, vest, and wide-brimmed hat, Scooter didn’t look like a baker boy today, though he still smelled of hot cross buns.
“This is so exciting!” he exclaimed. “We’re doin’ real detective work. Like one of those whatcha call ’ems? Pinkertons.”
She heaved a sigh. As much she appreciated her deputy’s enthusiasm, she needed him to clamp a lid on it. Whooping with glee while snapping handcuffs on a prisoner was unprofessional, to say the least. But that’s exactly what he’d done earlier while detaining a rowdy drunk.
“Scooter…I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. I really like your zeal for law and order…”
“Why, thank you, Sheriff. That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”
He wasn’t making it any easier for her, but still, she plunged on. “When you have a certain authority as we have, it’s important to maintain a”—she searched for the right words—“respectful demeanor.”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “Nothing worse than disr’spectful demons.”
“Demeanor,” she said. “It’s how we conduct ourselves.”
“Don’t you worry. From now on, you’re gonna see all the demeanor I have.”
“That’s good,” she said, relieved that he didn’t take offense. “I’m glad we had this little talk.”
“Oh, me too, me too,” he said. “So what are we lookin’ for at the hotel?”
“The murder weapon.” The one thing that bothered her about Rennick’s case was that no knife was found. She’d questioned several of the witnesses, and no one could tell her what happened to the weapon.
“Also, we’re looking for anything that can tell us who the victim was. Where he came from…what he was doing in Two-Time.” After searching the victim’s room, they would check out Rennick’s room.
Scooter scratched the side of his head. “Do we need to know all that stuff? I thought our job was to arrest the suspect and let the court handle the rest. Don’t we have other outlaws to catch?”
“Yes, we do. But as sheriff, I will have to testify during the trial.” It still galled her that she’d made a mistake regarding the murder weapon. Looking like a fool in front of a prisoner couldn’t be a good thing.
Scooter accepted her explanation without comment, and they walked the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.
“Has room 108 been cleaned?” she asked the sleepy-eyed clerk behind the front desk after requesting the key to the suspect’s and victim’s rooms. She had sent strict orders that both rooms not be disturbed until she said so.
The man yawned, his horseshoe mustache quivering. He then unfolded himself from a chair, reached for the keys on the wallboard, and tossed them onto the counter. “Are you kiddin’? No one will touch it. Say it’s haunted or somethin’.”
Thanking him, she grabbed the keys and headed for the stairs, Scooter at her heels. “We’ll check the victim’s room first,” she said.
As they approached the door at the far end of the hall, Scooter pulled out his Colt.
“Just to be on the safe side,” he assured her.
A maid spotted the weapon and scampered away like a scared rabbit.
Scooter frowned. “Wonder what got into her?”
Amanda glanced at the gun in his hand but said nothing. Instead, she stooped to insert the key into the lock and turned the knob.
The room was in shambles. Turned upside down more like it—Rennick’s work? Or someone else’s?
Scooter holstered his gun. “Holy smokes! It looks like a cyclone hit.”
Dried blood spotted the carpet, leaving a metallic scent in the air.
“Check under the mattress,” she said. He hesitated, and she laughed. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“Heck, no.”
While Scooter tore the bed apart, she dug through the clothes in the drawers and wardrobe. Not much there. A pair of trousers and shirts, long johns and woolen socks. Just clothes, nothing personal. No photographs or letters. That alone was odd. The man’s past was as nonexistent as his future. It sure did seem that the victim was as much of a puzzle as the suspect.
She looked behind the picture frames on the wall, checked the bedside table, shook out the draperies, and peered under the chest of drawers. All she found was dust balls and a two-inch peacock feather.
She held the iridescent feather in her palm. “Find anything?” she called.
“Nope.” Joining her, Scooter stared at her hand.
She rolled her eyes in jest. “Oh no. Don’t tell me. Your grandfather had a saying for this too.”
Scooter grinned. “One must walk a long time behind a duck before one picks up a peacock feather.”
Amanda laughed. She couldn’t help it. Wisdom probably lurked beneath those words somewhere, but for now, it remained a mystery.
“Are we done here?” he asked.
“Yes, we’re done.”
Slipping the feather in her skirt pocket, she turned slowly, scanning the room from baseboard to ceiling. What did Rennick do with the blasted knife?
* * *
The odor of hay, manure, and the warm smell of horse flesh greeted Amanda at the stables. She remembered Mr. Rennick’s horse well. Next to Molly, he looked like a giant.
Normally, the horses stood quietly in their stalls, but today, restless movement greeted her from all sides as she walked down the center aisle of the barn. Some horses pawed the ground. Others snorted or whickered.
Next to her, stable owner Gabby Jones shook his grizzled head. Bits of hay stuck to his shirt and trousers, making him look like he’d swapped clothes with a scarecrow. He gestured to the stall holding Rennick’s black gelding.
“That dang horse is riling up the others. He won’t settle down.”
So Rennick spoke the truth. “His name is Spirit, and he needs exercise.”
“His name is mud, and I’ve got a policy that goes like this—if you don’t do somethin’ to calm him, I’m drivin’ him out of town and lettin’ him go.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Try me.” The stable owner spit a stream of tobacco juice on the dirt floor and stomped off.
Amanda hadn’t made up her mind whether to take her prisoner up on his offer, but now
it seemed like she had no choice. A domesticated horse loose in the wilds had little if any chance of survival.
She walked to Spirit’s stall and spoke softly over the half door. “It’s okay, boy.” Her thoughts traveled back to the day she first met Rennick. How well she remembered this horse. One moment, the steed seemed perfectly passive; the next thing she knew, he’d turned into a fiery demon with thunderous hooves that barely touched the ground.
Now, he hardly resembled that same horse. Instead, he seemed almost spiritless as he knocked against the wooden dividers, tail swishing and hay rustling beneath his hooves.
Moving slowly, she slid into the stall. The horse froze in place, facing forward, ears pinned back. For the longest while, neither of them moved. Finally, she reached up to rub her hand along his slick neck. He still didn’t move his legs, but his muscles quivered beneath her tentative touch, and his ears twitched. Finally, he pressed his soft nose into the palm of her hand.
Standing two hands taller than her pony, Spirit had clear eyes and a shiny coat, both signs of good health. He also emitted an earthy smell. She fed him an apple and reached for his bridle, hanging on a nail.
“Your owner doesn’t like being locked up either,” she whispered. Spirit and his owner were two of a kind in that regard. How else were they alike?
“You wouldn’t hurt anyone, would you?” How about his owner? Rennick continued to insist he was innocent, but was he? Had he not tried to escape, she might have given his claim of innocence more credence. Only a man with something to hide would try to run. Or at least that’s what she believed.
Talking softly, she slipped the bridle over Spirit’s head and led him out of the stall and into the bright sunshine. Almost immediately, Spirit perked up. His ears pricked, and he held his head high.
Around and around the building they walked. Only after making certain the horse wouldn’t bolt did she saddle and mount him. The ground looked so far away. She closed her eyes. Okay, I can do this. Just don’t look down.
Eyes open, she stared straight ahead and gently squeezed her legs against the horse’s sides. Spirit moved forward, and she held onto the reins with a white-knuckled grasp.
A Match Made in Texas Page 9