The Marshal's Surrender (Holidays in Mountain Home Book 3)

by Kristin Holt

  In the end, two bandits had survived, though seriously wounded. Both were secured behind iron bars, healing and awaiting the arrival of a pair of U.S. Marshals to transfer them to the State Penitentiary in Cañon City.

  Gus had seen to it they’d had the best of treatment from Doc Cheney and regular visits thereafter. The two varmints would regain their health, if Gus had any say in the matter. They’d stand up when sentenced in a court of law. And they’d serve their time.

  Death would be easier than they deserved.

  Everyone from the outlying areas had joined the folks who lived in town, congregating on the boardwalk and crowded on the snow-packed street, stretching for a full block in either direction from the jail-house. A few inventive souls had filled the buildings across the street, opened windows to the bitter chill and leaned out for a good view. A few rapscallion young men had climbed onto the icy roofs.

  Fools. No news was worth a broken neck.

  Gus stood atop a barrel to better see over the crowd, and to ensure they heard him. So many faces that had held hostility at the last town meeting in the Finlay home responded to him now as if he’d singlehandedly removed the threat from their midst.

  Though they’d believed him incompetent mere days ago, they now thought him invincible. A hero.

  The mood that Monday morning was darn near as jubilant as it’d been last Independence Day when the town had celebrated with a parade and dancing.

  The only dark spot in the festivities were the two members of Noelle’s family that hadn’t come into town.

  He swallowed against the grief rising in his throat and forced those thoughts away—there wasn’t a blasted thing he could do about it now.

  So, back to the Fourth of July his thoughts scurried.

  ‘Course, it’d been hot as the dickens on Independence Day, and this morning, the cold bit straight through his greatcoat, and every extra layer, including his Union suit.

  He couldn’t wait to get this meeting over with. He had a hot cup of Arbuckle’s waiting on him, and a comfortable chair beside the stove.

  “Quiet down.” He raised an arm, signaling for their attention. He couldn’t help but smile. Coming through on the other side felt far too good.

  Everybody ignored him. Instead of hushing up, some whistled, and others cheered. Ladies waved their handkerchiefs and men twirled their hats. Muffled applause—too cold to go without gloves, mittens, or muffs—filled in the background.

  Finally, finally, the revelry quieted.

  The sun shone bright from a near-cloudless winter sky, reflecting brilliantly off the blanket of snow. He squinted, taking in the hundreds of faces—people he knew well and some he didn’t. He was glad to see Mrs. Boczowski standing midst a circle of her friends, women who’d ensured she had clothing, shelter, food, and hearth. She’d be all right.

  Right in front of him, the Finlay family had taken the place of honor, his beautiful Noelle close enough to touch, and he ached to do just that. She wore a heavy, long winter cloak that covered her from nape to heel.

  He’d helped her into that cloak, right after he’d seen for himself that the wound on her neck had begun to close with the help of twenty tidy stitches.

  In comparison, his own injuries were too minor to mention. What was a nick to the shoulder or scrape to the ribs when set side-by-side with a knife wound to the neck?

  Noelle’s bandage was out of sight beneath her high-collared cloak, but he’d never forget it was there.

  Sure as her skin would scar as it healed, some memories would never fade.

  He’d be reminded every day of his life how close he’d come to losing her. Not something a man could contemplate for long without losing his sanity.

  He shook off the lingering regrets as the joyous mood quieted. All eyes had turned to him.

  He let a deep breath go, wishing all the tension away with it. The puff of breath, white in the bitter cold, reminded him how blessedly alive he was.

  “Seven men,” he shouted, enunciating with care, “of the Ruffian Gang are dead.”

  The announcement deserved solemnity—but it was also a cause for jubilation. The crowd erupted with more applause, whistles, and cheers than he thought possible from several hundred folk. Their response cheered him and he couldn’t help but grin. This day had been long in coming.

  He gestured for silence, and once the cacophony had quieted enough, he continued with more of what they already knew. “The two remaining marauders await justice in the jail.”

  Too bad the double-crossing Cliff Cox had been fatally wounded. The traitor had died within minutes of Gus finding him. He would’ve preferred to have seen Cliff stand before the judge, the filth of his crimes bared before the law. Gus would have built the gallows with his own two hands and celebrated the day Cliff hanged.

  But it wasn’t to be.

  “Jedediah Smythe, the man his gang called ‘Boss,’ is among the dead.” He paused in his announcement and sought Noelle’s upturned face so near. His heart swelled with the odd, disquieting combination of love and panic he’d come to associate with her.

  The brave, resourceful, fool woman had freed herself. She hadn’t truly needed his kill shot after all.

  Doc Cheney had said so. Her first shot to Smythe’s gut had lodged in his chest, likely piercing his lung and nicking the heart. He’d have died from that first desperate shot.

  Every time he replayed that brief moment, he saw Noelle’s beautiful face.

  He’d turned his derringer from his own temple to fire upon Jed Smythe. Without pausing to slow his breathing, without excruciating aim, without waiting for absolute stillness between beats of his own heart.

  Noelle’s beautiful face. Mere inches from the center of Smythe’s forehead.

  He wanted to vomit.

  It all could have gone desperately wrong, so fast. He’d never forget. Never. As long as he lived.

  “Rumors,” he bellowed, forcing his emotions deep so they couldn’t wobble his voice, “abound, so I’m here to set them straight.”

  The crowd had remained quiet. Only the cries of a few babies, chatter of young children upon their fathers’ shoulders, and fussing of little ones were heard.

  The time had come to confess all. His shame, regret, and ownership of the whole mess.

  The good people of Mountain Home deserved to know.

  Somehow, his gaze landed on Sheriff Liam Talmadge, the old man who’d retired not long after Gus had taken a deputy position with him. Gus had come to town, with high hopes.

  Instead, he’d brought evil upon the heads of these good people.

  “I’ve heard tell,” he continued, “the Ruffian Gang descended upon Mountain Home for this reason or for that, but the truth is this: Jedediah Smythe built his gang from the dregs of men. He came to Mountain Home hunting me.”

  A few murmurs spouted in little pockets of disturbance. Women’s bonnets rippled in the crowd as wives turned to husbands.

  He had to voice the truth. Let them vote. Let them decide.

  He held up a hand, gesturing for silence. “I made my share of enemies in Connecticut, as a U.S. Marshal, guarding and protecting federal judges. One of those many enemies was Jedediah Smythe—an attorney.”

  Surprise punctuated their mutterings, giving rise and excitement to the ripple of conversation scattering throughout the crowd.

  A stiff, chilly wind skittered through, but Gus barely acknowledged it.

  He pressed on. “One of Smythe’s clients, whom I saw imprisoned for crimes against a federal judge, happened to be his half-brother. For reasons I cannot fathom, Smythe blamed me for that criminal’s death while incarcerated.”

  He sighed. This wouldn’t be easy. Truth be told, the only easy day had been yesterday. “Jed Smythe is not my only enemy.” He paused, giving them time to recognize the weight of this disclosure. “Residents, fine people of Mountain Home—if he followed me here, others will also.”

  He let that sink in, drew a deep breath, then two. Tr
uth of that statement registered on many faces. More men than he’d counted on looked away, hiding their expressions behind brims of their hats. Women who’d been smiling not five minutes before now turned their attention to their little ones.

  Truth was a hard pill to swallow.

  Having a former United States Marshal as their Sheriff wasn’t so illustrious and wonderful. They’d all fully supported Talmadge’s retirement a year ago, but that had been before they’d seen the elephant, so to speak.

  Despite the uncomfortable shifting of the crowd up and down the street, his attention focused on Noelle, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She reached for him.

  She closed her gloved fingers around his, lending him strength he didn’t deserve. Her affection, her very life lent him strength to say what he must. He covered their joined hands, beyond grateful for this strong woman’s support. She wanted him.

  Him.

  With his broken-down, hand-me-down heart. With his lawman’s past, the likelihood of others coming and wreaking more of the same havoc.

  She still wanted a life with him.

  Even with her father laid up in his bed, suffering pain of a broken arm because he’d followed Gus into the fray to rescue his daughter. Because her papa had dared defy the villains who hated Gus. The villains who’d forced him to hold the hanging rope taut.

  She wanted him anyway.

  Even though her elder brother, Luke, had taken a bullet in the thigh, and lay at home convalescing. Gus had witnessed the agony of that slug’s removal, the copious blood lost, the pain Luke had endured, and the abundance of Effie’s tears.

  He’d known then, in the Finlay kitchen, that his heart was well and truly Noelle’s. Any hold Effie had held over him belonged fully in his past. Yes, he cared about her. She was part of the Finlay family, a chapter from his youth, a friend.

  Noelle had set him free.

  A man could not recognize the weight of a life-altering miracle and hesitate to act accordingly.

  He’d do the right thing.

  Both for the town that relied on him for law and order, and for the gal his one-woman heart had chosen.

  A squeeze to her fingers, strong and certain, cradled within his own, and he felt more grounded, more certain than ever.

  “By the grace of God, we lost not a single soul.” He still couldn’t believe the odds had been wholly in their favor. “Every loss of life was among our enemies.”

  He scanned their faces, noting most had returned their attention to him in full. “I cannot guarantee those odds next time. I’m astonished we came through with only two wounded—and while Noelle’s father and brother are wounded, they have an excellent chance of survival. Pray for them.”

  Murmurs skittered through the crowd. It was old news, the status of Phil and Luke. Word like that—and good news of no deaths among their own—traveled fast, right along with the word of a town meeting and seeing the villains laid out. Everybody knew details before they’d arrived this morning.

  But he had news they couldn’t already know, because he’d told no one. Yet.

  “In light of the terrors visited upon this valley and its residents, I resign as Sheriff of Mountain Home.”

  He’d barely announced ‘resign’ when the hubbub escalated. Cries of “no!” mingled with a burble of murmurs so intense no one could’ve heard him, even if he’d tried. So he waited.

  And stood, in amazement, at the negative response from the crowd. They didn’t like his intention to resign.

  He glanced at Noelle. Her expression evidenced love, respect, and trust. This amazing woman, he believed, would follow him, no matter where he went.

  Joy swelled.

  Regardless of what happened with his employment, the big, empty house few could afford to buy from him, he’d be perfectly O.K. as long as Noelle was at his side.

  “You can’t resign!” This from old Liam Talmadge, who’d last worn the badge. “Your petition is denied.”

  A dozen men bellowed their affirmative, “I second the motion.”

  The two deputies, Murphy and Dillinger, standing together on the boardwalk off to the side bellowed, “we second the motion too!”

  “The only way,” Talmadge yelled, “to leave the post of Sheriff of Mountain Home, is to die wearing the badge, or find someone better qualified and much younger to pass it on to.”

  Chuckles danced among the throng. Applause peppered the air. Ladies waved their hankies.

  “You ain’t leavin, son, ‘til you find someone better for the job than yourself.” Talmadge thumped his cane on the boardwalk beneath h is feet. “If you want out, I suggest you start lookin’ for a replacement.”

  Gus couldn’t help it—he laughed. He’d been prepared for the worst, to be run out of town on a rail, a posse of angry residents intent on doing him harm close behind.

  He’d been the reason for the raids, after all. The reason Mrs. Boczowski’s home had burned to the ground. The reason Elias Kennedy’s milk cow had been slaughtered.

  Having spent most of his savings on that big, fancy house the mayor had sold him, he didn’t have the money to compensate those folks.

  Maybe he ought to give his house to Mrs. Boczowski. The big, empty mansion would more than compensate—he hoped—for her burned-out cabin and lost possessions.

  Drawn to Noelle, he sought her take on all this. Her smile, so bright, so filled with joy and contentment, sealed up the cracks in his heart and applied relieving salve to his smarting pride.

  “All in favor,” Mayor Abbot hollered, from his perch on a wagon bed across the street, “of denying Sheriff Rose’s resignation, say aye!”

  A tumult of ayes swept through the crowd with the rumble of thunder.

  Emotion rose so thick, so intense, Gus nearly lost his lid. Men wearing tin stars did not weep like little girls.

  “Those opposed to denying the resignation, say nay.” Abbot’s tone of voice held a double-dose of accusation for any who’d dare send their lawman-hero skedaddling.

  More than a few men replied with a vehement, “Nay!”

  “Duly noted,” the mayor stated. “The ayes have it.”

  More applause, cheers, and whistles. Gus laughed—so stunned by the overwhelming show of support, now that folks understood what having him around meant.

  “August Rose,” Mayor Abbot intoned, “your petition to resign from your post as Sheriff of Mountain Home, Colorado, is hereby denied.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  On Christmas Eve, Gus knocked on the Finlay’s front door. Midday sunlight filtered through the snowfall, a portent of lousy roads on his way home, so he’d tucked Beau away in the barn.

  With luck, he’d arrived early enough he wouldn’t intrude on everything Christmas.

  Even though Noelle had invited him to join the family, he couldn’t see himself pretending to enjoy it.

  August Rose and Christmas didn’t get along.

  “You’re staying for Christmas,” Caroline Finlay informed Gus when she answered the door, “and that’s final.”

  Not exactly the quick in-and-out visit of Phil and Luke Gus had planned on, but by the light dancing in his would-be mother-in-law’s eyes, he recognized her genuine affection for him.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Finlay.”

  “You’re to call me Mother. Or Mama if you’re particularly affectionate.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you mumbling, son? You must learn to pronounce your words clearly. Mother.” Her grin nearly had him chuckling. “Try again.”

  “Mother.”

  “Much better.”

  He’d only stopped by long enough to check on Noelle’s father and Luke. He’d heard Luke had taken ill with a high fever. He’d needed to see for himself.

  Thank God, the rumors had been exaggerated. Yes, Luke had suffered a fever, but nothing more than what Doc assured was therapeutic. Luke was on the mend, already up and about, a week after the shoot-out.

  Phil Finlay would take longer to heal. It’
d been a bad break and the man might never have full use of his arm again.

  Meeting the older man’s gaze, seeing the agony of the broken bone in his eyes, knowing he’d brought on the injury by not insisting he stay behind, was painful.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes ma’am.”

  “Take off your coat right now. Get yourself into the parlor. It’s time to open our gifts.”

  Panic seized him hard.

  Christmas. And presents. He’d never had anyone to buy for, and received so few gifts on the holiday throughout his life, it had never occurred to him to think about it.

  Even for Noelle.

  He bit back a curse. None of this was going well. He remembered why he detested Christmas. This was not his holiday.

  The house was filled to capacity. Every married sibling had come home for Christmas with his or her spouse and children. The house smelled wonderful. Roasting ham, potatoes, something laced with cinnamon and sugar.

  It smelled like a real home.

  Nothing like his empty, cavernous, dusty house.

  He really ought to sell the monstrosity. Or marry Noelle and fill the house with children, one by one.

  He’d wanted a family when he’d bought the house…though he’d thought he wanted a family with Effie.

  Funny, to look back on that dream, and realize what he’d desperately wanted—Effie as his bride—was no longer the dream he desired.

  Now, all he wanted was for Noelle to accept him, wed him, and make their house a home.

  She knew all about real families. She’d grown up with an abundance of love, siblings, laughter, and parents who’d shown her by example what it meant to be part of a family.

  She’d know exactly what that big house needed. If she’d have him, she’d turn his house into a home.

  He found himself ushered into the crowded parlor, surrounded by every last Finlay. To his surprise, he found it blissfully sweet.

  He sought and found Noelle, sitting on a kitchen chair set near to her father’s side. The old man had his broken arm elevated on pillows as he reclined on a sofa.

  Noelle’s smile warmed him clear though. She looked radiant in a deep purple silk blouse, a cameo brooch at her throat, closing a little stand-up collar that covered her injury. He’d never seen this fancy blouse before, and he found he didn’t want to look away.