The saloon was doing a brisk business. It was a classy place with wooden floors and signs that said “No Spitting.” The tables had green felt tops, and there were some garish but intriguing paintings on the walls. A piano tinkled busily in the background, and the air was tinged with the smell of tobacco smoke.
Scanning the place, Macon spotted a tall fair-haired man sitting by a window, a half-filled bottle of whiskey on the table before him. The fellow looked as if he might be feeling sorry for himself, and Macon had long since learned that self-pity could loosen a man’s tongue. He made his way over to the table and smiled down at the man, extending a hand. “Macon Fairfax,” he said.
“Fairfax?” The name seemed to taste bad to the dandy, and Macon congratulated himself on his good luck.
“May I?” he asked, already drawing back a chair.
“Sure,” the drinker responded glumly, pouring himself another whiskey. He was wearing a bowler hat with his pin-striped suit, and it looked mighty silly, perched on the back of his head like that.
“Your name?”
“Fulton Whitney.”
Macon signalled for another bottle and laid a gold coin on the table, to let Whitney know he was no tinhorn just passing through. “You look like an unhappy man, Mr. Whitney.”
Whitney sighed melodramatically. He was obviously drunk, but he poured himself another glassful of liquor and tossed it back. “She’s the prettiest little piece of baggage in town, and I lost her.”
A whore in a short purple dress brought Macon’s whiskey and a glass, and when he paid her no attention, she flounced off, pouting. “Who is she?” Macon asked.
Whitney belched unceremoniously. “You wouldn’t know her, being a stranger in town. She’s the librarian—Miss Emma Chalmers.” He looked at Macon again, making a visible attempt to focus his eyes. “Did you say your name is Fairfax?”
Macon nodded. Emma, the saucy little chit he’d heard about from Callie Visco and followed down to the lake. He smiled at the memory of watching her take off her dress and wade into the water. “Yes,” he answered belatedly. “Macon Fairfax. I’m from Louisiana, and I’m looking for my brother, Steven.” He saw Whitney’s face change at the mention of that name. “He’s wanted for two murders, you see. I’d like to try to reason with him—and persuade him to come home.”
Whitney slammed a fist down onto the tabletop, making both bottles jump and clink together. “I knew it. I told Emma he was a good-for-nothing outlaw, but she wouldn’t believe me.”
“My half brother has a way with the ladies,” Macon admitted regretfully. “He’s probably cuckolded half the husbands in New Orleans.”
Whitney belched again. “Of course, if you found him, you’d take him back to Louisiana.”
“Dead or alive,” Macon agreed, sitting back in his chair and catching his thumbs in his vest pockets. “Miss Emma would probably come around to your way of thinking, once he was gone. A woman like that needs a man in her bed.”
Color flushed Whitney’s cheeks, and, just for a moment, his eyes focused clearly. “Yes,” he said, but he was speaking to some vision in his mind, not to Macon. “Yes.”
Macon would have bet Fairhaven that Whitney had a hard-on. Sure enough, he wheeled to his feet and the evidence was clearly visible against the front of his pants.
“Gotta go upstairs,” he blathered.
Macon smiled. “Before you do, friend, just tell me one thing, so we can both get what we want. Where do I find my brother?”
“He hired on with Big John Lenahan, as a foreman. He’s driving a herd north to Spokane.”
“Thanks,” Macon replied, pouring himself another drink. He watched as Whitney spun toward the stairway. Some whore, he figured, was about to have the town dandy pass out on top of her. And he’d probably be wearing all his clothes.
At his leisure, Macon finished his drink. Inside his head, he was seeing a few visions of his own. Such as Miss Chalmers standing in the lake, with nothing on but her camisole and those little lace-trimmed knickers that came just to her knees. He’d seen the shadow of her womanhood, at the junction of her thighs, and the hint of nipples pressed against muslin.
Something other than the desire for revenge moved inside Macon Fairfax in those moments—Iust. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, thinking of how it would have been to lay the saucy little redhead out in the cool green grass and have her. She’d be one of those that came, long and hard and with lots of noise, whether they’d wanted the taking or not.
Macon’s groin tightened painfully. God, what a sweet triumph it would be to have Emma and make damned sure Steven heard every detail.
He sighed. He was going to have to be patient, that was all. Once he caught Steven—and he wasn’t fool enough to think he could do that on his own; he had half a dozen men camped outside of town—he could turn his attention to the little hellcat he suspected his brother loved.
There was one redheaded whore in the place, seated on top of the piano with her bare legs dangling, and Macon crooked a finger at her. She smiled and wriggled down from her perch, then sidled toward him.
Emma paced her room, full of fear and confusion. She had to find Steven, had to know if he’d really killed his own nephew, and some woman named Mary McCall. And she had to warn him.
She took a divided riding skirt from her armoire, together with a long-sleeved blouse made of lightweight flannel, and changed her clothes. She pulled on tall boots and bound her braid up in a coronet to keep it out of her way. Then she took thirty dollars from the secret drawer in the bottom of her jewelry box and crept down the back stairs.
She didn’t go into the kitchen until she was sure Daisy wasn’t there. When she did, she stayed only long enough to collect an apple and a thick slice of bread. She chewed on the bread as she progressed to the mud porch, where an old coat that belonged to the gardener hung on a peg. Come nightfall, it would be chilly out. Tucking the apple into the pocket, Emma put on the coat and hurried down the back steps.
It was beginning to get dark by then, but she tried not to attract attention as she walked toward the main part of town. Reaching the livery stable, she hastily rented a pinto mare and a saddle from an addlepated stablehand named Henry.
Emma was not an experienced rider, and it was a measure of her desperation that she was willing to let Henry hoist her up into the saddle.
“I hope you ain’t goin’ out of town, Miss Emma,” the middle-aged man said. He had a big belly and thick, uneven features. “There’s Injuns and outlaws out there.”
Emma suppressed a shudder. She couldn’t think about the dangers; Steven’s life probably depended on her reaching him in time. “Just see that you don’t tell anyone I’ve been here, Henry. No one, do you hear me?”
Henry nodded reluctantly. “Yes, ma’am, but I think—”
A thought occurred to her. “I’ll need a gun. Do you have one?”
“Just a little pistol for shootin’ rabbits,” Henry answered. “But you don’t want to handle no gun—”
“Yes, I do,” Emma insisted, ferreting in her coat pocket for the money she’d brought along. She held out a five-dollar bill. “Here, Henry. That’s what I’ll give you for the use of your pistol and a handful of bullets. And I’ll return the gun to you when I get back.”
Henry’s small, colorless eyes widened at the proposition. “And I’d get to keep the five dollars?”
Emma nodded. “Every cent. What do you say, Henry?”
He couldn’t seem to look away from the money. Five dollars was a lot to him, probably more than he earned in a week. “Miss Chloe wouldn’t like this none,” he fretted.
“Miss Chloe doesn’t have to know,” Emma said. She felt guilty hiding things from her guardian and best friend, but it was plain in her mind that Chloe would never allow her to go chasing after Steven if she had any idea that was what Emma meant to do.
Overcome by temptation, Henry turned and hurried back into the stable. A few minutes later he returned, carrying the pistol in a holster
. It was smaller than the gun Steven carried, with a shorter barrel.
Emma handed over the five dollars and strapped on the gunbelt, just as she’d seen Steven do. Then she rode out, taking care to go the long way and avoid the central part of town.
The trail was well marked, for two hundred cattle don’t pass by without a trace, and by nightfall Emma was well on her way.
She had to stop when she could no longer see, and she and the pinto mare took refuge in a copse of cottonwood trees. She didn’t build a fire, and had only the apple she’ tht along for supper. She shared that with the horse and spent a miserable night sitting bolt upright, waiting for the sun to rise.
The moment it did, Emma was up and mounted. When she reached a small creek, she stopped to wash her face and hands and water the horse. By the time she reached the Snake River, she was ravenous, but there was nothing to do but go on.
She hoped Chloe and Daisy weren’t too worried about her—in her hurry, she’d failed to leave a note behind—and prayed she wasn’t being watched, even then, by Indians or outlaws.
Crossing the river was terrifying for both Emma and the horse, but they made it to the other side and rode on. In the late afternoon, she spotted the smoke of a town full of chimneys. She spurred the tired horse to move faster.
Rileyton was a bustling little place with a general store and a small restaurant. Emma took the horse to the livery stable and left it there to munch happily on fresh oats. Then she smoothed her hair, which had long since fallen from its coronet but was still loosely braided, and walked into the restaurant.
Delightful smells assailed her, causing her stomach to grumble. A hefty dark-haired woman in a gingham dress and an apron eyed her suspiciously.
“You won’t get nothin’ to eat in here unless you pay first,” was her cordial welcome.
Emma was too hungry to quibble. “I’ve got money,” she said, taking out another five-dollar bill to prove it.
Instantly, the woman smiled, revealing big, snowywhite teeth. “Well, you just sit right down, Missy. What’ll you have?”
Emma ordered the fried chicken special, and she consumed every bite on her plate. When it was gone, she ate a piece of cherry pie and drank a cup of coffee with lots of sugar and cream. Walking out the door, she almost collided with none other than Joellen Lenahan.
“What are you doing here?” Emma demanded.
Joellen looked fresh as a spring wild flower in her white, gauzy dress. “I might ask the same question of you,” she said stiffly.
Emma sighed and looked ruefully down at her dirty blouse and skirt, and the old coat. She was glad Steven wasn’t there to see the contrast. “I’m in town on business,” she said.
“You’re chasing Steven Fairfax,” Joellen corrected her smugly, folding her milky white arms across near-perfect breasts. “It won’t do you any good. Once Daddy gets here, I’m going to tell him Steven and I spent the night together. He’ll horsewhip Mr. Fairfax plumb to death when he finds out.”
Emma swallowed, telling herself to remain calm. “You spent the night with Steven?” For all her efforts, the words came out squeaky.
Joellen nodded triumphantly. “It was very romantic. Just the two of us, all alone, wrapped in a canvas coat. Of course, the inevitable happened.” She paused to sigh. “In the end it all went wrong, though. Steven Fairfax is a brute, and you’re welcome to him.”
Emma wasn’t sure whether she believed Joellen’s story or not, and for all practical purposes, it didn’t rlly matter. She could think of nothing now but finding Steven and warning him that his half brother meant to take him back to New Orleans, dead or alive. Everything else was secondary to that. “Thank you,” she said, making her way toward the livery stable.
“Wait!” Joellen called after her. “You didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”
Emma didn’t look back. “Good-bye, Joellen,” she replied.
The rancher’s daughter ran up beside her. “You mustn’t leave, Emma,” she pleaded. “Daddy can’t get here for a few days because he’s branding and the boardinghouse is an awful place, dreadfully boring—”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t have time to stay and keep you company, Joellen. I’m sorry.”
“I lied,” Joellen spouted, still shuffling alongside Emma. “Steven didn’t make love to me. In fact, yesterday he spanked me, right on the main street, in front of everybody.”
Hiding a smile, Emma stopped and faced Joellen. “What do you want from me?” she asked reasonably.
“I want you to stay here until Daddy comes and gets me.”
Incredibly, it was hard to refuse Joellen. She was a brat, but she was also very much a child, despite her womanly face and figure. “I can’t,” Emma said quietly. “It’s really important that I go on.”
Joellen drew herself up, obviously incensed that someone had dared to turn down one of her requests, and turned to march regally away. Emma hoped the girl would be safe at the boardinghouse, if bored, and continued on to the livery stable.
The little pinto horse, whom Henry had told her was named Smiley, was rested and ready to go. After buying more apples at the general store, along with a box of matches and a blanket that she rolled up and tied behind her saddle, Emma set out on the trail of the herd again.
Emma and Smiley rode hard, but by sunset there was still no sign of the drive. Emma was sorely dreading the prospect of another night on the cold ground, with nothing but apples for supper, when she spotted smoke wending from a chimney off to the west.
Hoping to find friendly settlers, she turned Smiley in the direction of the smoke.
After a half an hour or so, she found the homestead. It was a tiny log cabin, but there were chickens in the yard and a good-sized barn towered out back. Two little girls in pigtails and calico pinafores ran to greet Emma.
“You a man or a woman?” the smallest one asked. Her nose needed to be wiped, and her face was covered with dirt and freckles.
“She’s a woman, silly,” said the older child. She was almost an exact replica of the other little girl, only taller. “Look at her braid.”
“She could be an Indian,” was the staunch argument.
“I ain’t never seen a redheaded Indian, and neither have you,” came the reply.
Emma smiled. “My name is Emma Chalmers.”
“I’m Tessie,” said the bigger child, “and this is my sister, Sallie Lee.”
Wearily, Emma got down from the saddle. There was still no sign of an adult, and she began to wonder if the little girls were alone. “Is your mama around?”
“We don’t have no mama,” said Tessie. “We got a pa, though. He’s out huntin’ rabbits.”
Emma felt uneasy. “When will he be back?”
“When he gets a rabbit,” replied Sallie Lee.
“Do you think I could water my horse?”
“Sure,” said Tessie generously. It was plain that she was delighted to have company. “There’s a creek back behind the barn, and we got a privy, too, if you need it.”
Emma smiled. “Thank you.” She took two apples from her pockets and extended them.
The little girls didn’t look as if they’d suffered privation, but their eyes lighted up when they saw those shiny red apples. They accepted them eagerly, with loud thank yous, and polished the fruit on their pinafores. They were chomping happily when Emma led the pinto away toward the creek.
While Smiley was drinking at the crystal-clear brook, which was down a slight hill and hidden by trees, Emma heard a gunshot in the distance and smiled. Sallie Lee and Tessie’s pa had just caught up with a rabbit, she guessed.
She went back to the cabin to wait.
Not long afterward, a man of medium height and build appeared in the clearing, carrying a rifle in one hand and a rabbit in the other. He was wearing rough-spun trousers, a shirt that had probably been white once, scuffed boots and a floppy leather hat.
“Pa, this is Emma,” Tessie ran to tell him.
“She gived
us apples,” Sallie Lee shouted.
He looked at Emma from beneath the brim of his battered hat and smiled. When he got closer, Emma could see that he had friendly blue eyes and an abundance of brown hair. “Jeb Meyers,” he said, by way of introduction. “I’d offer my hand but—”
Emma looked at the rabbit and the rifle and smiled back, even though the sight of a dead animal made her slightly sick. “Emma Chalmers,” she said. “I was wondering if I could spend the night in your barn.”
“You’ll spend the night in the house,” he said, striding on toward the cabin. “I’ll sleep in the barn.”
Liking Jeb Meyers as much as she liked his children, Emma followed him back toward the cabin. He put his rifle away, then went down to the creek to skin and clean the rabbit.
When he returned, Emma was sitting in the tall grass with Sallie Lee and Tessie, showing them how to weave a daisy chain. Since there weren’t any daisies, they were using butter-gold dandelions.
“Is your wife away?” Emma asked pleasantly, when Jeb crouched beside her to have a look at the chain of yellow, spiky blossoms. She hadn’t wanted to quetion the girls, thinking that would be slightly unfair.
“Bethie died last January,” Jeb answered hoarsely, averting his eyes for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” Emma replied.
Jeb watched her for a few seconds, then said, “Thanks. Now, I’d better get that rabbit on the fire, if we’re going to have supper around here.”
“I could help,” Emma volunteered.
“Do you know how to cook?”
Emma sighed. “No,” she confessed.
Jeb Meyers laughed at that. “Well, then,” he replied, “you’d better go right on with what you were doing.” He walked away toward the cabin.
Sallie Lee put a ring of dandelions on top of her head and thrust back her shoulders. “I’m the queen of Montana,” she said.
“You ain’t queen and this ain’t Montana,” Tessie pointed out.
Emma laughed and hugged them both, but a corner of her heart was bruised for these children, their affable father, and their lost mother. She wondered what Bethie Meyers had been like.
Emma and the Outlaw Page 20